The Return of Alma Grande (Big Soul)

A quick shout out to my buddy Vince for reminding me that I had a blog... Life is like driving an old pick-up truck on an dusty country road while you listen to George Jones...

Things change, people change, we change, you change, I change, pocket change and exact change or something like that, is how the old adage goes. I resist change as much as I can, I like the grooves that I have worn in and the comfort of the routine and the familiar, but life isn't like that, I learned. Life is like that shady card dealer at the casino that deals you a hand you didn't want but you have to play regardless. Sometimes the hand you have is a winner, a real peach, but most times the hand is what you play and how you play it. You gotta play the hand you're dealt, so I'm trying really hard to play that hand (maybe even double down) and at the same time look for my own deck of cards. Ok so I'm getting carried away with the gambling analogies but who cares, its my blog anyways. So in the midst of all this change, I turn to the familiar and that is my memories and experiences and sometimes the memories and experiences of others. One such memory comes to mind of change and how it creeps up on you. I have this friend I have known for a long time, his name is Vince and there this one time, that the moment of self awareness and conscious growth played itself out in all its grandeur. You have to realize that Vince was the city slicker fresh from the gritty streets of Carson, California back in the early 90s when I met him. As a college student I joined the friendly neighborhood chapter of MEChA at Pima Community College, mainly to socialize with other like minded individuals who obsessed with Aztec and Mexica antiquities and the Chicano Movement. His expertise was spinning the vinyl and he had that LA attitude that is a common characteristic among his ilk. Through the years, I would counter his big city ideas with my hillbilly philosophy and desert barrio notions.

His idea of culture was graffiti art, raves, techno music (and what eventually would become EDM). His idea of progress was skyscrapers, highways, and creating maps with highways and surface streets. My idea of culture was the rustic nature of the old pueblo with its adobe heritage and the bygone era of the ranchos of Tucson and surrounding areas. At the time, all I listened to were Tejano and Oldies along with classic rock. How we were friends, eludes me...to this day, even...I jest of course. Until one day about 8 years later, I was in my late 20s and I was room-mates with some friends I met in college in an awesome house that my friend Salomon owned in the Tucson Mountain foothills. Vince was one of the room-mates. At the time I didn't have a car, so I was able to catch a ride with him from time to time. The house was just out of the city limits and the road leading to the subdivision was a beautiful cactus lined two lane road that seemed to disappear into the golden, purple sunset that sank into the mountains ahead. Well it just so happened that the sun was setting and I was riding shotgun in his truck. We were talking about work or something to that effect. Then it slowly dawned on me, the surroundings that were taking place and how Change and Impermanence truly works in its ironic clockwork regularity. My senses were picking up on all the stimuli that were present in that truck. First I noticed that he was listening to the soundtrack of Swingers, “ok that made sense”,I thought to myself. He knew just about every line from that movie featuring twentysomethings and the single scene in LA., but it was the specific song that was playing...George Jones' “She Thinks I Still Care”

… Aha! I thought to myself...I quickly made some more observations. Wait a minute, he was driving a truck, he usually drove cars (a Lebaron convertible, and a blue japanese deal I think it was a toyota), but the truck he had recently purchased for his fledgling DJ business for loading his speakers and equipment. Still, he was driving a Pickup truck... so I began building my case...The road, a desert country backroad with cactus silhouetted by the stereotypical southwestern sunset! Change had truly come to Vince and his cityslicker ways, had George Jones replaced Morrisey and Depeche Mode? Was the LA skyline gobbled up by the quaint Tucson mountains and those pesky saguaros? There was no escaping now... So as he was singing the last bars the George Jones song about heartache and sorrow, I turned to him and asked him, “Hey Vince, did you ever see yourself here, 8 years ago?” He looked straight ahead at the road, and replied, “What do you mean,man?” and so I proceeded,

“Well, did you ever picture yourself driving a pickup truck, on a desert country road into the sunset while you were listening and singing to George Jones?”

His face went pale, a bead of sweat ran down his forehead and he looked into rearview mirror, could this be? Had this truly come to pass?

He turned around at me and with a look like that of seeing la llorona and in a gutteral tone he yelled, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

Evenings in the desert are enchanting moments of natural beauty, the coyotes are looking for their dinner, the bats usually come to fly in the night sky and the saguaro blossoms open up to pollinate. But that night, the howl that came from my friend Vince was emitted and broadcast into the outer regions of the galaxy, the realization that one can't control to any certain degree, the circumstances in our lives. That was powerful lesson as well a good laugh. To this day I don't think he's totally recovered from his moment of self awareness. But its all good, Change is good, I guess...

The Eye of The Tiger!

I don’t exactly remember the score that fateful night of our football game against Flowing Wells High but we were losing and doom was on the horizon. You couldn’t find a more dejected and pitiful group of football players anywhere that night…anywhere. We sucked and we knew it and to make matters worse we knew we could beat them. As we filed into the locker room, some of us were tired and downright pathetic, a feeling of apathy soon came over the team as we settled into some uncontrollable funk. Yeah that lasted about ten seconds, as we learned in the following minutes we were going to be exposed to the most rousing halftime speech ever. The kind of halftime speech that tears at your soul and reconstructs every priority and belief you ever had. The person who was going to deliver those words was Mr. Rasool.

A few words about Mr. Rasool, he was the coolest cat at Marana High School, I mean the man was our Free Enterprise Teacher and I learned more about myself and my identity as a young Chicano during my sophomore year. On the exterior he was the consummate professional in his slacks, dress shirt and tie sometimes with a blazer sometimes without. He was also the sponsor for the Karate Club and his classroom was adorned with Japanese tapestries of tigers and posters of his Master from the Dojo he belonged to. He was also the Junior Varsity Football Coach and practice was not just a bunch of meatheads lollygagging on the grassy field, there was serious philosophy and knowledge being passed on every afternoon. Coach Rasool, as we affectionately called him, represented all the positive measures that young men seek as they transition from boys to young men. He was our Mr. Miyagi and Malcolm X. On some days in his Free Enterprise class he would wear his dashiki and bring in his African drums and play for us, on those days he made me proud of who I was and my background and I thank him for that. As a football coach he wove in ancient Shinto and Zen thought into our strategies and so when he coached it was like you were learning the ancient art of zen football.

That night at the football game against Flowing Wells, he was Tariq Rasool the man. We were in the locker room for about 10 seconds sitting down and it seemed we were basting in our self pity. We were really overwhelmed but we couldn’t seem to pull it together. Maybe collectively we were waiting for a pat on the back and some words of encouragement and maybe a few words on how the line has to open up for the halfback or how the corners had to run to the ball. Perhaps the special teams weren’t forming the wedge the right way. We were expecting the routine speech and maybe we could chalk up the loss to being outmanned.

The coaches walked in one by one first Coach Robinson, then Coach Patterson, and last was Coach Rasool. Coach Rasool paced for a few seconds with an angry frown on his face. The other coaches stood there in solidarity with Coach Rasool looking down at the ground also pissed of as all hell. We were not going to get our pat on the back, nor were we going to receive any advice on running the Slot Left Sally play, or the Flea Flicker.

“I’m losing my wife over you guys!!!” were the first words out of his mouth. For those of you who have ever played organized sports, you know that is not how most halftime speeches go. As he said those first words he high stepped down the lockers causing every player to strap their helmets as if Coach Rasool was about to open a can of Whup Ass!

“I’m losing my wife, because I spend all my free time with you guys! Every night I am with you guys. Look at you, you look pathetic, you’ve already given up!” Speaking for myself, I felt responsible for his possible break up, maybe it was that missed tackle or maybe I should have blocked that pesky tight end who somehow got by me. Either way I was sure that was why he was going through marital turmoil. As I looked down the row of football players I think they were all thinking the same thoughts. He had our attention now…

“I thought that maybe she didn’t understand why I would want to invest so much time with you guys. Now I don’t know!” that really hurt, the guilt soon poured into every sweaty pore of my skin.

“The worst part is that you can beat these guys! They aren’t quicker than you, they aren’t stronger than you! They sure as hell aren’t smarter than you! So what the hell is wrong?

Yeah he was right! They weren’t smarter than us! I could be a lot quicker off the snap and they didn’t call me the Xav Monster for nothing. Collectively we all sensed that same feeling of resurgence, of our impending second wind. All the while he walked by us with a sense of urgency and his drill sergeant like approach with sensei stylings was lifting the spirit within us. He mentioned we needed to get our eye of the tiger back, he was the only one who talked about the eye of the tiger without sound corny nor cheesy. Soon he was giving orders and giving us hope that we might win after all. By the end of the speech we had come together as a team and were bursting at the seams ready to show those pesky Cabs how real men played football.

We lost the game that night. I think it was by a touch down or a field goal, but it was what most people call a moral victory. And in a sense it fit the title of a moral victory. He gave us a glimpse into the life of an adult other than our parents. As students, teachers are these exotic animals that you only see in schools and you never stop and think about what they go through and the travails that they face on a daily basis. Sometimes the ingratitude and the age appropriate defiance takes a toll on many teachers. I know its wrung me out to dry several times. But there is payoff. The payoff is when those students come to you a few years later and thank you for what you did to motivate them in their academic undertakings or maybe because you were there to lift them up when they needed it.

A few years later, I ran into Coach Rasool at a supermarket I was working at while I was a freshman at the University of Arizona. Right away he recognized me and asked me how I was doing at the U of A. I beamed as I told him that one of my first essays in college was an essay about that memorable halftime speech.

He laughed and said he wanted a copy of that essay. I told him “Of course,” and he walked to his car with his cart full of groceries to take to his family. I shook my head as I remembered his famous quote from his Free Enterprise classes “TANSTAAFL – Folks its simple There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch!” Everyone must sacrifice something, just make sure that sacrifice is worth it.

King Tano

A lot has happened since the last post in this blog… Today my father would have been 68 years old, today or maybe this past weekend I would have gone to my folks’ house and I would have shown up for some strawberry or cherry cake with strawberry ice cream after a sumptuous dinner prepared lovingly by my mom. I would probably have some gift that would be utilitarian as well as have some sort of aesthetic value to it, he liked anything I gave him. But I know that he would greet me with that big grin of his and give me a big hug and any doubt about his relishing his day would disappear.

Cayetano M. Teso left this physical plane almost 6 months ago and I miss him dearly. At times I can still hear his words of wisdom and encouragement through out the day. This was the guy that showed me about staying true to your word and about never having any hate for anybody. He taught us to treat everyone with the same respect but to understand that we were not going to be treated in the same way. He was soft spoken in big crowds, but when there was a good time to be had, there was my dad right in the thick of it. I was amazed at his musical talents as a little boy, he knew how to play the guitar and play it well. The countless family parties always ended up with my Nino Chuni, Tio George, and countless other tios, tias and primos singing corridos, rancheras, and the classic Mexican standards late into the night. As a young man my dad earned his nickname of “El Mariachi Con Tenis” (The Mariachi with Tennis shoes) as this streetwise kid crooning with the guys. He was cool according to my older cousins, he had a cherry red camaro that he drove around and this killer GMC truck that was the envy of the barrio. My dad was a hard worker as well, he worked for 40 years as a construction worker mostly as a cement mason. Everywhere we drove around he would critique all of the curbs around town and let you know what was exceptional work and what was shoddy workmanship. I still drive by the house where my brother and I helped him with a retaining wall he was building for a pair of nuns who lived near 5th and Helen. Everytime I drive by and my son is with me I point to the wall proudly. He was a master in his trade. He woke up at 4am every morning and was back at home at 5pm with goodies in his lunchbox to share with me, my brother and my sister. He usually showered right away since he was always returning home with cement on his work boots and pants and then lay on the floor reading the newspaper as we were walking on his back (yeah I was much smaller then :) ). Then he would tell us that if we pulled out all of his gray hairs he would give us a nickel a piece...he ended up with a full head of white hair.

He was also the techie of the house as well. I still remember when he bought a satellite dish and we were installing it trying to figure out the coordinates of the each satellite by aiming at the sky trying to find Galaxy 1 or Morelos 3. He loved the things of yesteryear, such as a 66 thunderbird he bought from the next door neighbor or the vintage radio he got as a gift from my Tia Juana.

I do remember looking through his 1959 school yearbook from John Spring and in the index where they had the student's picture pages, they also included the nicknames of all the students. They don't do that anymore, but I found it so cool that my dad's nickname was King Tano when he was young. I approached my dad a while back and I asked him why the nickname, he answered that a teacher once showed him a region in Italy that was named Teso (not sure if it was a mountain range or not) but then she added that Tano may be in fact be a king of some far off land to the delight of my dad's classroom the nickname came about. My dad was truly a king and a laborer, a musician and a loner, the mechanic and the humble tinkerer. My dad was all of these things and more. He was my confidante,he knew when I was down and somehow knew what to say to make me feel better. I miss him. I miss telling him about my accomplishments and his gentle reassurance when I failed, I miss him yelling at me for making boneheaded mistakes and I miss him trying to teach me how to play the guitar. I miss how excited he would get when the clouds would roll in and how pissed off he would get as if the clouds had some beef with him. I miss how he would tell off the supervisors at any construction company he didn’t get along with. I miss how he would stand up against anybody if he felt that they were trying to belittle us. I miss how he would buy a Mad Magazine every month because I would ask and he always ended up reading them as well. I miss how he got excited whenever he bought a record and I miss how he went above and beyond to keep the magic of Christmas going on and on and on. I still see him in my dreams, he’ll crack a joke and he’s always laughing. When he died I thought his image would slip away and I was so scared it would. But it’s only gotten stronger. Happy Birthday and oh yeah Sapo Verde to you Tano!

Building the lodge

A week before my son was to begin his first day of first grade, I asked him what other things he wanted to do before school began again… I was expecting some new movie that he wanted to watch, due to the fact that we saw just about every movie about superheroes and wizards this summer. He grinned at first and thought about the possibilities and then he looked me in the eye and said, “Let’s finish the lodge, papa…”

Earlier this summer after having been laid off, I had tons of time to spend with my son. We had gone out to Marana by the Santa Cruz looking for some willow to build a sweatlodge in the back yard, it is our second lodge at the house, the previous fell into disrepair when we were the owners of a rambunctious dog. Although my son had been to several medicine meetings, I knew that he was ready to learn about ceremony so we set out to scout some willow in late June but to no avail. Defeated by the glaring sun and the oppressive heat we sought refuge at my parents’ home in Avra Valley. Smart choice, I was able to catch up with my dad and visit with my mom when she arrived home. I also got a chance to ask my dad about plants and I left with some nopales to plant and a few mesquites to add my modest sustainable urban garden.

Some time passed and other priorities came and went, so when I asked him what he wanted to do to close out the summer I was pleasantly surprised. It seemed as if though the time that he relished with me was in the prospects of building that lodge. I went outside and checked the skies, according to my calculations we had about two hours to go the river and cut down some willow. I also looked at the transportation and remembered that I had a minivan so I was going to have to strap the willow to the top. Well it’s not exactly a pick up but its all I have and it will have to do, I thought to myself.

Today is a good day to build a lodge…

And so we set off to find the spot where we had noticed several willows growing by the river’s edge. There was no barbed wire so access was relatively easy, my son’s excitement grew by leaps and bounds. I parked the minivan and took out a pouch of ceremonial tobacco and gave some to my son and I instructed him to thank the willow for allowing us to use its branches to make the lodge. I had been waiting for this day and it seemed so natural to share this moment, now I had to tell my son that we were going to work hard and that he needed to focus and think good things because we were in the homes of many of our animal relatives. It seemed like the world around us became alive at that very moment.

We sought out a big willow and my son was quick to note that there were lots of ants nearby so we helped each other out by alerting each other when we were standing on ant hills. We came across some bees as well, just picture a papa bear and his cub pawing some trees and that was pretty much us. I was impressed with the agility of my son as he carried the branches from the ravine back to the van…we were actualizing a rite of passage and he knew it. Actually I always talk to my son about the red road being similar to the learning that a Jedi goes through, not that I was ever taught by a Jedi, but If I had I think it would be a lot like what I learned from my elders. And that is a good thing.

Just as we were cutting the last branch it was as if the spirit of the river had summoned the clouds to replenish her banks with the beautiful jade waters that ran through our lands. I also remembered that we were parked near a huge steel utility pole so I didn’t want to risk lightning striking near our location. I bundled the willow poles and tied them across the roof of my van to deliver to our house.

The following morning my son and I began the building of the lodge, I played some peyote songs and began smudging the site where the lodge was to be built as well as myself and mijo. Knowing I would need the help of a good friend I called my compa Abie and soon we were digging holes and placing the poles to give shape to the lodge. Of all the summer time activities I took part in this summer this was the most rewarding.

The lodge still needs some last details, and I may have to visit the river to cut some more willow and a lot of our grandfather stones need to be retired, but the fire pit is ready and soon beautiful songs and blessings will emanate from the lodge that my son and I built.

On the night before his first day at school, I asked him what he was going to share with his teacher and classmates as to what he did over summer vacation and he responded “I built a sweatlodge with my papa!”

Attaboy!

The Real Desert Storm

El Chubasco that’s what my parents call the annual desert tradition of the Monsoons. “Ahi viene el chubasco!” my dad would shout outside the house as he started running to the house in celebration. Those words were magic to my ears and the anticipation would mount for the first rumble of the clouds and the electricity that was to flow everywhere. I had the fortune of growing up in Avra Valley and I believe that it is the one place in the Sonoran Desert where the summer storms put on their most striking and bombastic performances, I will admit though, I am very biased.

Near our house off of El Tiro and Trico-Marana, there are several washes that empty out into the nearby floodplains and when these filled up the runoff would create streams and several ponds in our backyard. Where we lived it was not very developed and we were literally in the middle of the desert. Our neighbors who had moved had left a concrete pool adjacent to our house and that meant exploring for tadpoles once those storms arrived. My brother and I would spend our days playing in the small pools and visiting with some of the vegetation that would sprout after the rains came.

In the afternoons, once the sun went down, you could listen to the frogs starting to come out of their desert hibernation. Soon the front porch came alive with those little frogs trying to figure out their bearings. I loved it as a child and I eagerly watched them as they migrated across our porch towards the puddles and streams. Those summer days beat anything BBC could produce...hands down. My friends were all of the creepy crawlies who lived in the desert and there was definitely a synergistic relationship there.

Another tradition is the loss of power due to lightning strikes, floods, microbursts and any other natural calamity that is associated with the monsoons. We had two swamp coolers that were pretty much useless once the monsoons came, so we usually slept outside weather permitting of course. On those nights that the power went out, we all sat outside and listened to the chorus of frogs, coyotes, and owls as it floated through the dew laced leaves surrounding our house. As a family, those times were wonderful as my mom would tell stories of storms in her native Durango, Mexico and my dad being his goofy self would start singing El Chubasco a norteño hit by Carlos y Jose making the rounds in those days.

On a spiritual level I have one memory or was it a dream?...of going to the door and having the wind slam the door against the house and being engulfed in an electric blue waves of swirling currents, it was all very dramatic indeed. It was a moment in time that has had a lasting impression. At that precise moment it was as if the universe had connected with me in a state of clarity and consciousness that to this day has been impossible to recreate. I was only five years old.

Several years ago I was at a house party in El Paso, Texas and I saw a magnet on the host's refrigerator that had a Tucson Lightning scene and immediately the memories rushed back, I pointed to the magnet and proudly proclaimed, "Hey! that's my hometown!" to which another guest commented to the effect that I was lucky not to live there anymore based on the picture...he didn't get it. Because of that scene, I wanted to return to my land even more so. Some people don't know the meaning of that...of being tied to the land that is.

So now I watch the news to see if the controls of the sun have been set, is the humidity level climbing? Was that a cumulonimbus clouds I saw? The faint whiff of wet creosote sends flashes of genetic memory racing through all of my senses. Ahi viene el chubasco... I’m just waiting for the chubascos to come to bring some relief and to also reconnect with our desert family…it’s been a long time.

Support Your Local Merchants!

I’m in a race against time…I have made it a point to visit all local merchants before they are replaced by huge corporate conglomerates who could care less if this is Phoenix, Tucson, Flagstaff or even Yuma. So far, the race has been somewhat disappointing, because after some visits, Ceci (my better half) and I have noticed that some of these places have closed or are on the verge of closing. Hmmm …I can see it now, all owners have placed posters of Ceci and myself as the dreaded Grim Reapers of local businesses. Anyways, it could be that we are just late in the game and some merchants got tired of waiting for us…I would like to believe the latter.

There are some restaurants that out of curiosity I would take Ceci to when we first started dating only because I was curious of the establishments. One was Gus and Andy’s on Oracle Road. When I was growing up, and we made the long trek to Tucson every weekend from Avra Valley, I often wondered about Gus and Andy’s and Ye Olde Lantern or even the Ports O’Call restaurant that lined Oracle Road near the Grant Road Intersection. So after visiting Gus and Andy’s back in 2004, a few months later we learned that it closed. We thought well at least we got to visit it before they closed down, our next spot was the Pack’em Inn on Drachman and as you can guess that spot closed down the following year, as did Ye Olde Lantern the next year after that. I never got a chance to visit the Ghost Ranch Lodge whose Georgia O’Keefe logo graced the Miracle Mile Strip in both good and bad times. All of these places were icons of my childhood and reminiscent of the midcentury Tucson when Miracle Mile was the entertainment hub of Tucson.

So in 2006 we visited friendly Saguaro Corners on the far east side, and we were able to put another feather in our hat, albeit a smoky and outdated feather. To this day it has not closed or at least to my knowledge it hasn’t closed, but the Tack Room went out of business as did other countless iconic restaurants. Now don’t get me wrong I enjoy the occasional In n Out burger, or to peruse the shelves of Barnes and Nobles and Borders, who also had to close many of their national franchises, but you can’t beat the charm of local businesses like Bookman’s and my new favorite, The Book Stop on Fourth Avenue. So now instead of feeling guilty about not making it to some of the ancient businesses in Tucson before their last gasp, I feel we need to support some of the new local businesses who have found a niche in our fair city.

For instance there is a spot called Martin’s Comida Chingona whose name alone warrants a visit and according to the reviews the food is great. A few weeks ago, we visited the Barrio Grill and I liked the warehouse feel, definitely will continue patronizing it over the busy BJ’s Brewhouse. Beyond the eateries and the bookdealers, I am very saddened by the lack of a Drive In Theater. We need one if only because as the father of a six year old and a two year old it was nice to go to the movies pull out the folding chairs and watch the movies under the stars without having to worry about whether or not your toddler was aggravating the other patrons. If you ever see the van I drive around town, you will notice my “Save the De Anza!” bumper sticker. Rumor is that some nostalgic folks like myself have saved a few of the screens and plan to open another drive in some time in the future. Only time will tell…

Mexico City Blues - First Installment

The pilgrimage of a lifetime…that was what my trip to Mexico City back in 1997 was supposed to have been. I was to walk the Avenue of the Dead in Teotihuacan with the spirits of my ancestors and contemplate the precious knowledge of the Mexica people. I was familiar with Mexico having spent most of my summers in Cd. Juarez (back when it was relatively safe) and in Durango where my mother was originally from. In fact I had lived in Cd. Juarez for a year while I worked and attended school in El Paso. So going to Mexico City to explore the museums and all of the historical and archaeological sites did not faze me, it had in fact reinvigorated me. It had been one year since I had returned from Texas to Arizona, and I was already getting the itch to travel, to get back on the road and experience life in the megalopolis of DF (Mexico city being the national capital is often referred to DF much like Washington DC is referred to as DC).

At the time I had reconnected with a good friend of mine, Ben. He had been one of the students I had mentored in a local youth leadership program that I had volunteered for as a college student in 1993. Upon my return to Tucson, he was running the same program I was a part of and doing a great job of mentoring high school students as well as teaching them the ropes of being an agent of social change in the Chicano community. We made great plans to visit DF and since he had family there, it seemed natural to take on this venture and tour the motherland.

In 1997, I was working side by side with Ben at Chicanos Por La Causa (a statewide Community Development Corporation), I was the Special Events coordinator and he was the Youth Programs Coordinator. I was working part time and going to school, so I didn’t have much money. We looked into how much flights were running back then and it was out of our reach. We decided to rough it and take the bus from Nogales all the way to Mexico DF. That was fine with us, we were young bachelors with no commitments and it would give us the opportunity to view the landscape with the salt of the earth, our Mexican brothers and sisters.

Our day of departure came and as usual when it comes to traveling days, everything was chaotic… We had just been paid and I had no time to deposit the check, I’m telling you this trip was financially spontaneous, despite our grand schemes and designs. So on the way out of town we stopped at his bank and deposited at the ATM. Back to this later…

His brother drove us to the bus depot in Nogales, Sonora and we bought tickets for the Elite bus line, First class, destination La Ciudad de Mexico, Tenochtitlan, Mexico city, DF. And off we went, it was around 6pm and things were looking good, there was a scheduled stop in Hermosillo, Sonora around 10pm. Time to settle in and take in the landscape were the only items on my agenda. We arrived in Hermosillo and after a half hour break we were off again.

I’m the kind of traveler who stares out the window, I look at the mountains noticing any geographical anomalies, I observe the trees and try to discern if what type they are, deciduous or not. Hmmmm…It was night time so I was looking at the silhouettes of the mountain peaks as the moon presided over the night time sky holding court with the millions of stars that were luminous in the heavens.

Midnight came and went and I was still entranced with the landscape illuminated by the moonlight, soon I would be in Tenochtitlan marveling at the sculptures created by the hands of the Toltecatl, the people who create beauty. Soon I would be walking down the causeways that were now main thoroughfares that Cortes and Moctezuma had both greeted each other upon the arrival of the so called conquistador. My imagination ran wild anticipating the future itinerary I was about to embark on.

We had just passed Navajoa, Sonora not too far from the Sinaloa – Sonora state border when I noticed the bus slowing down. I was in the front row seat by myself and Ben was across the aisle from me and he had fallen asleep. Thinking that it might have been a toll booth, I didn’t think much of it until I looked again and saw shadowy figures running near what appeared to be a concrete barrier. Upon further observation my eyes had deceived me! It was not a concrete barrier but a pair of sawhorses with grey blankets drape over them. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two men remove the blankets and another man approached the bus from the median simultaneously waving a pistol in the air, motioning the bus driver to get off the freeway onto the sandy shoulder and pulling a ski mask over his face…

Great, I thought…this is going to delay us. Then I started thinking about the possibility that we may not make it out of there alive…at all. At the same time Ben was starting to stir as did most of the bus. Parents were trying to calm their children and themselves down. Ben leaned over and asked what was going on and I told him that we were getting pulled over by some bandits. Luckily the bus could not make it past the sandy shoulder so at least we were within visibility of any nearby traffic that would be passing by any minute. So we held on for the inevitable, I had some extra cash that I stuffed into my sock and as I looked back towards the rear of the bus I noticed many others trying to do the same.

So there we were…on a bus that was precariously leaning to the right and waiting for the perpetrators to climb onto the bus. The guy with the ski mask and the gun was the first to climb aboard, he barked out that he was passing a cap and we were to place any valuables into it, like some sort of demented church collection basket. As the cap went around he started taking wrist watches off men and women and to one woman in particular, he ripped a pair of ear rings off her ears since she did not want to part with them. He exited quickly because one of his henchmen called him outside and it was at that moment that Ben leaned over and proposed an action plan.

“Hey Teso, you know that we have to do something about this,” Ben said trying to convince me that the Aikido lessons we had endured from one of our mentors Luis Angel had prepared us for this very moment. “Teso, did you notice how he climbed aboard?”
I had noticed that as he climbed aboard he had his hands extended with the gun out and not close to his chest and to top it off there was a divider between the steps and the front row of seats behind the divider. Basically he was extending his piece out into a blind spot for him, a big no no.

In those few seconds we hatched a plan to disable the perpetrator relieve him of his gun and save the busload of people. Ben and I retreated to our seats as the assailant approached the bus again. Time seemed to stand still, I was directly behind the bus driver waiting, waiting… he climbed up the stairs but this time he held with both hands close to his chest. I looked at Ben and we knew that our plan wasn’t going to work, the assailant went to the back of the bus and took a lady out of her seat and as he was about to get off the bus he looked back and saw me. I knew that I stood out like a sore thumb, it was written all over me…hey I’m a chicano! Look at me I’m from the US! I looked over at Ben and gave a look that must have said, “Nice knowing you bud.”

So this guy had a gun aimed at us as we stood by the door outside of the bus, he went straight for my wallet but only found my debit card and nothing else. He then started yelling at the lady standing next to me, “ Andale pinche vieja, que tienes en esa bolsa? (c’mon stupid woman, what do you have in that purse?)” The lady began explaining that she had just come from knee surgery and that the only things she had in her purse were make up and other items of no value. The jerk then took his pistol and with the butt of the piece smacked her with the gun against her head. “Callate el hocico, pinche vieja! (shut up! Stupid woman!) Upon seeing that I reached down to my sock and pulled out the 70 pesos (at the time that was about 10 US dollars) and handed it over to the bastard and told him to leave her alone.

He took the money and as he looked up ready to give me the same treatment something caught his eye. Apparently he saw another vehicle coming up, he turned to his buddies and they ran into some nearby bushes. It’s amazing how things work out, and the cosmic timing and the sense of humor it seems to have, well in my life anyways. I helped the lady onto the bus that seemed about to tip over at any second and I told Ben that the guys had taken off and that another bus was fast approaching our bus. During all that time the bus driver was no use, I don’t know about now, but back then the buses didn’t carry radio or CBs, so there was no way to communicate for help. Ben and I decided that it was time to take a risk and flag down the other bus. The bus driver opened the door and we jumped off and began running along the shoulder of the freeway.

As I ran trying to reach the asphalt I tripped and fell. Ben turned around sensing that I wasn’t running behind him and yelled out, “Hey Teso! Are you okay man?” I got up and yelled out I was fine. So there we were two guys running from a bus that was stranded in the sand by the side of a freeway running toward the other bus. Can you picture that? Now imagine you are the driver of the approaching bus, what would you think? Well the driver began to slow down and was in the process of making a u-turn, when all of a sudden our bus driver was running behind us yelling for us to get back to the bus and he was going to flag down the driver.

We returned to the bus and shared with the rest of the passengers what was going on, we let them know that the other bus was coming and help was on the way but that the bus was close to tipping over. We also explained that the assailants may be nearby so if they were to get off there was that risk. Practically all of the passengers chose to get off preferring to run the risk of coming face to face with the bandits then to be in the bus as it teetered on the shoulder. Ben and I got off the bus and began to help the passengers off the bus. It was like straight out of a movie, old ladies where thanking us for doing something about the situation. And I kid you not, there were nuns on the bus who gave us blessings as they got down off the bus.

So there we waited for the bus to come. The assailants never did come back and with the exception of the lady whose earrings were ripped off and the lady who received a blow to the head, we escaped unharmed. But now with hope that many of us would be able to continue on our respective journeys, the driver of the other bus had the gall to say that there wasn’t much room on his bus and that we would not be able to get on. Upon hearing that, all of the ladies damn near kicked his ass, they were about to lynch him. Finally he relented and took the women and children in his bus to Culiacan, Sinaloa, the rest of us would have to wait for the next bus, which wasn’t too far behind. During all of this the other bus driver had been resting in a compartment near the luggage and awoke to mayhem…well at least he said he had just woken up.

And this was the first few hours of my pilgrimage…things couldn’t get any worse, right?

Join me in the next episode, “Tenochtitlan or BUST! Or How We Shook Down Televisa For Some Airplane Tickets!”