noviembre: En ruta

Oh, public transportation. I am greatly enjoying my extensive use of public transport here in Cuernavaca. Not only is it cheaper (versus the initial investment of a car, the insurance and maintenance costs of a car, constantly increasing gas prices, and the parking fees), public transport is also a quirky system with more idiosyncrasies than your favorite TV character. To enlighten you about the “ruta” (bus) system here in Cuernavaca, and to share some personal experiences, here are some of the things I’ve learned while riding the bus.

Careful who you trust.
People here are incredibly quick to help, but also slow (if not all-out resistant) to tell you that they don’t know the location of somewhere in the city or route to get there. As a result, it is best to ask more than one person when needing directions, or ask a trusted individual like the bus driver or a police officer.
For our year here in Mexico, both Sarah and I packed light and now are getting bored with the four or five solid colored shirts we have and jeans that are starting to sag off our butts. So, we went shopping. What should have been one LONG bus ride on Ruta 9 (or a short taxi ride) turned into 4 different bus rides that all in all totaled the time we would have taken in the Ruta 9. First, we asked a bus driver if he went to a certain location. He said no. However, a passenger was sure that we would be taken a couple blocks from there, so Sarah and I hopped on board. Well, the “helpful” passenger was mistaken and didn’t really know where we were going. So, we hopped off that bus, which counts as ruta #1 for the morning. From there, we took another ruta that definitely would take us where we were going. Well, our destination wasn’t visible from the bus, so we missed our stop and hopped off once we realized we went way to far. That makes ruta #2. Then we asked a different bus driver if his bus would take us there, he said no, but told us to hop on – he would take us to the stop where we could pick up the correct bus. Ruta #3. Finally, we get on the right bus… which slowly crawled its way through the labyrinth of Cuernavaca through different neighborhoods and side streets until eventually… we arrived. Confused, laughing uncontrollably at our dumb gringa predicament, and shrugging our shoulders at yet another example of an inevitably humbling experience of living in a foreign country... but we arrived. Chalk them up, 4 rutas to get to one place. Gotta love it.

So this is what whiplash feels like.
I have heard several people describe the ruta drivers as a bit oblivious to us passengers and Mexicans often liken our poor selves to animals being carted around instead of the human beings that we are. It is the most stop-and-go driving style I have ever encountered, buses lurch forward, stop abruptly, and grind hard on the gears with ever movement. Not to be critical, but these drivers lack… finesse. And sometimes I just have to roll my eyes and curse in English under my breath as I get whipped back and forth along a less-than-smooth ride.

Well if I can’t afford going to a concert, a concert will come to me.
Local musicians find haven in cozy cafes, street corners, theater venues… and buses. I find that there is quite an interesting mix of people that find their way onto the bus to entertain the passengers and ask for a few pesos in return. Sometimes they are children, sometimes older. Sometimes they play guitars, sometimes they play a piece of wood with a plastic hair pick. Sometimes they sing traditional Mexican tunes, sometimes they shout loudly as they wander in and out of a few different keys. My personal favorite is the musician that walks on the bus with a stereo and a few CDs to sell. After a few seconds, the track is changed to the next song, normally it is a mix of everything from club Reggaeton to classic Mariachi tunes, and 10 pesos (roughly a dollar) is the asking price for such a CD. Not a bad deal, eh?

Just keep on rolling.
We are so preoccupied with safety, possibly as a result of the American addiction to lawsuits and liability issues. However, Mexicans have a little less concern in that regard. Be it drivers or passengers, there is a skill of the public-transport veteran that I am trying to acquire. It is, in my opinion, one of the small steps that I might make that gets me farther from “foreigner” and closer to “pseudo-Mexican” – this is the ability to get on the bus and get off the bus while it is still moving. Bold strategy, Cotton. I love watching a public transport pro grab the handle by the bus door and swing inside as the ruta cruises by. Graceful? Yes. Ballsy? Yes. Safe? Well… maybe not. Against my own better judgment, I’m working on my own skill to do the same. Call me silly or death defying, I just want to fit in.

Schedule, schmedule.
In Madison, we used the bus schedule to know exactly when and where the bus we needed would pick us up. Sometimes a few minutes early or late, but fairly reliable. Here, well, what can I say? We’re in Mexico. Time is relative and rutas make their way along their route at whatever break-neck or painfully-slow pace they want. While waiting on the corner, sometimes I see a pack of rutas with multiples of the same number driving by. Other times, I wait for what seems like an eternity with not a ruta in sight. There is less predictability here, but it is just another thing that I am starting to love about this whole journey of mine. I’m learning to be flexible because Mexico isn’t going to change, but my lifestyle can. I just have to be patient, hop on, sit back, and enjoy the view.