Tough Decisions with Bad Language

When you speak little to no Spanish, something as simple as a trip to town alone can leave you with a difficult decision: Is it better to hitch-hike out of town or walk 18 km back to the lake with about an hour and a half of light remaining in the day? Already doubting my failed language skills, I opt for the walk and start my journey.

The miscommunication was simple. At 2:00 in the afternoon, I caught the Cambi from the rustic lake village into Santa Maria proper. A Cambi is a 15-passanger van that acts as a bus system between small villages. I planned to use the internet for the first time since my arrival in Mexico to write a quick blog post and send hellos and well wishes to my friends and family. The driver was insistent, because today was Sunday, the last ride down to the lake was at 5:00. Of course, I deducted this information from hand gestures and understanding words at a 1:10 ratio rather than any direct form of communication. I had three hours in town to experience Mexican life before heading back to the encampment of my artesan friends.

The day was successful. I found an internet cafe and wrote my salutations. I walked around the town and took pictures. I found an old church and watched four kids play futbol in the courtyard. Old men napped in the shade. Youth flirted near the tiendas. At 4:45 I made my way to the Cambi stop, not wanting to be stranded in town for the night. I sat in the shade of an orange tree and watched a wasp fight some ants for a bit of fallen candy.

At 5:10 the Cambi showed up, dropped off a van full of people and parked in the shade. I collected my belongings and prepared to leave. The driver, an older man with a large cowboy hat and mango stuffed in his button-up shirt pocket, got out of the Cambi and walked over to me. He started talking to me in what appeared to be harsh words. I gathered enough to realize my error. His last ride from the lake to Santa Maria ended at 5:00 and he was done working for the day. I wondered what my options were before he made it clear to me. "Go to the corner and hitch a ride." "Great, thanks for the tip. I think Í´ll walk." I started out, wondering how much I should tell my parents and feeling unjustly frustrated at the Cambi driver.

The first 3 km were easy and flat. I walked a trail that sat closer to the fields of tequila plants than the road and enjoyed the rural scenery at my slow pedestrian pace. Occassionally, I would happen upon a group of drunk city folk who insisted on cat-calling and offering cervezas in broken English. As much as I would have liked to join them, my light was waning and I had a long way to go.

At kilometer three, the road winds back and forth down a very steep decline. One side of the road is a rock wall heading up, the other is a steep drop through Mexican vegetation heading down. With little or no shoulder, I keep my ears tuned to traffic noise and switch sides of the road accordingly. Most of the traffic is leaving the lake for the night so my chances at catching a ride, should I want it, appear very slim. At some point, the lake peeks into view and gives testimony to the fact that I am still very, very far away. I walk on, avoiding eye contact with the passing vehicles and realizing how strange it is for anybody to be walking this road, yet alone a sunburned guera like myself.

After nearly an hour and a half of walking, an SUV passes me and slams on its breaks. By this time, it is just past 7:00 and the sun has all but set. A woman driver asks me if I am going to the lake and if I would like a ride. "Sí, muchas gracias." I crawl over her grade-school daughter to the middle of the back seat. The driver´s mother is in the front seat and her two children are in the back. The front seat is talking rapidly in Spanish and I understand nothing except that they are talking about me. Suddenly, the girl next to me, about six years old, lets out a frustrated sigh and turns to me.

"War gon?" She is speaking English to me at the prompting of her mother.

"El lago," I respond in Spanish and apologize for my lack of language skills.

"War fom?" Ah, where am I from?

"Los Estados Unidos" I respond to follow with, "...err, Norteamericano...a." I remember reading somewhere how insulting it is to Mexicans when North Americans refer to themselves as the United States.

More Spanish from the front seat and rapid protests from the daughter. I gather that the woman driver wants to know where to drop me off and the daughter is now refusing to act as interpreter. I answer ther restaurant closest to my encampment and the woman seems satisfied with my response but continues to harrass her daughter.

Finally, as we arrive and the car slows, the little girls asks me, "Cun you nundstan me?"

"Yes," I answer her in English, "You speak English very well." She beams a toothless smile at me while I thank the mother driver for taking pity on me, shortening my long walk by nearly 10 km, and returning me safely to my friends. "Gracias," I say. I really have to get this Spanish thing under control, I think, as I walk into camp and to the relieved smiles of my four worried friends.