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Altar at “Transportes San Miguel” bus terminal, Dallas, Texas
Photo by Jesús Chairez
Café conLeche
Busing it to México with St. Toribio
as my co-pilot
By Jesús Chairez
The week after Thanksgiving, the beginning of the 2012 Christmas holiday season, I again traveled to Mexico, but this time I trekked in a way I thought I never would – by bus.
I had never considered traveling to México from Dallas by bus because of the news I kept hearing about how dangerous traveling in México is, especially along the Frontera. But being on a fixed income I could not afford another round-trip airline ticket after having flown to Puebla City the month before to take some things to a friend from Dallas who had just gotten deported. Being that I had promised friends to housesit for three weeks in San Luis de la Paz, Guanajuato, while they traveled to Italy, I had to go.
I could just kick myself in the butt because I wouldn’t be having a bus travel headache if I would stop calling friends in México when I have been drinking. I really need to check into seeing about a computer interlock device: the one I must blow into when using my computer, and if alcohol is detected, my Skype won’t work.
I calmed my nerves by telling myself that I wouldn’t have a problem traveling along the border of México because the evils that befall bus travelers only happen to Central Americans as they travel through and while leaving México – not Chicanos.
In the past, I would just make flight arrangements into México by booking my flights via the Internet on American Airlines and I would fly over the border towns. But looking for a bus in Dallas was sort of complicated because as a first-time bus traveler I was not familiar with any of the small bus companies that traveled to México from Dallas. Each bus company has their specific state and city destination and I was at a loss where to begin since San Luis de la Paz is located almost smack dab in the center of the United States of México.
My research consisted of doing things the old-fashioned way: driving up and down Jefferson Boulevard in Dallas’s barrio, Oak Cliff. I drove around and wrote down bus company names and phone numbers off buildings – some companies listed their destinations on the building, some didn’t.
Once I got home with my data, I found that online information about destination cities and departure times to México did not exist. For even if the bus company had a website, it didn’t list any detailed information, just a company name, address and telephone number. I wondered, how do I find the bus going in my direction without calling every Mexican bus company in Dallas?
The friends I would be housesitting for always flew or drove their car when visiting family and friends in Dallas so they were of no help – they didn’t know. Though I didn’t know anyone in Dallas to ask who travels by bus to where I wanted to go, I did finally remember a couple Dallasite friends of mine that now live in the neighboring town I would be visiting, a smaller town named Mineral de Pozos.
I knew from visiting my friends annually in Pozos that they always used the bus to travel from México to Dallas and back. I e-mailed my friends for advice and they said that they always travel to and from Dallas without having to transfer, by using Transportes San Miguel, a bus company I had missed.
I looked up Transportes San Miguel on the Internet and though they did not have a website, I did find a directory that listed their address and telephone number. I called and was informed that they have one daily departure to my destination seven days a week and that I had to make a reservation at least a day before I wanted to travel, so I made my reservation.
There are no shuttles to the bus company like there are for the airport, and not wanting to take a taxi, I asked a couple of gringo friends to take me to the bus station. As we arrived at Transportes San Miguel my friends immediately asked me if we were in the right location. Seeing the place for my first time, I myself had to wonder – for the place looked more like an old WW II vintage airplane hanger than a bus depot.
As I was getting my luggage out of my friends' car they kept looking at me with uneasy faces and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?” And without showing a face of hesitation, I said yes. My friends began to drive away slowly, and all the while they continued to glance at me like they hated to leave me behind – almost like saying, this is your last chance.
Before going into the office to buy my ticket I looked at the only bus parked at the station; it looked fine and clean but it did look dated. I couldn’t help but look at the tires to make sure there was enough tire tread to make it to México. Though it looked okay, I was sure it was going to be nothing like the first-class buses I use when traveling in México: a bus with a steward, roomy seats and Internet.
After inspecting the bus, I walked into the office and told the lady, in English, that I had called and made a reservation to San Luis de la Paz the day before. With a face that looked like she hoped I spoke Spanish she said, “Que? Well, why not Spanish?” I mean, I was in Oak Cliff, a community of Dallas I considered a faraway suburb of México. So from that moment on, just like being in México, I began to speak only Spanish.
The lady confirmed that I was on the list and said the total was $95, cash only, which was three times cheaper than flying. The lady hand-wrote my ticket and as I was about to walk away from the ticket window, I noted that I was assigned an aisleseat. I had failed to tell the lady that I wanted a window seat because I wanted to look out. So I turned around and kindly asked for a window seat.
The lady took my ticket back and scribbled out my old aisle seat. As she was about to begin assigning me a new seat by a window, I interrupted her and further requested that I not be put too near the restroom. I explained I didn’t want the door opening and closing, nor the smells, to keep me awake.
She smiled at me, but also gave me a little look that I think she thought I was being a little too high maintenance. She assigned me a window seat by scribbling over the old ticket number and writing my new seat number over the scribble. She then took the lined spiral notebook she was keeping track of customers and pulled out some whiteout correction fluid. And like a skilled painter, she brushed out my name on the old seating position and wrote my name next to the new seat number she had just assigned me.
As she made the changes in the notebook, I thought, whiteout correction fluid? I didn’t know they made that stuff anymore, much less used it. But then I looked through the glass of the pay window and looked around the office and saw that there were no computers in the place. Everything was done the old-fashioned way: paper, pen, scribble, and whiteout correction fluid.
As I was walking out of the office, other people had also started arriving and they too only spoke Spanish; it was already feeling like México and I had not even left Dallas. The other bus travelers, like me, were dark-skinned and also appeared to be low- to moderate-income working class Mexican folks.
When traveling by airplane there are always, migrantes fresas, but there were none in this crowd; migrantes fresas means “strawberry migrants,” a term used to light-skinned wealthy Mexicans coming to live in North Texas; these people would never travel cross-country by bus.
I couldn’t help but notice the large volume of luggage and boxes the other travelers were taking with them. Well, it was getting close to Christmas which is why there was so much stuff. Though there were numerous sizes of luggage, there was no Samsonite or Louis Vuitton in the mix. Like my bag, the luggage were off brands bought at Target or one of the local weekend Mexican flea markets and now overstuffed. Or maybe the other travelers were like me – not wanting to draw attention to themselves with expensive items, in case some bandits did stop the bus.
I was sort of surprised to see a few large white plastic tub containers, those I see in the aisles of Wal-Mart being used to transport personal items – plastic tubs too big and too heavy to take on an airplane without having to pay extra. I noticed that it didn’t matter if the container lids didn’t lock for they were all skillfully sealed and held together with duct tape to make sure the items would make their way to their destination.
Like at the airport, though I had a ticket, I would have to wait awhile before I could take my seat. So with time to kill I walked across the terminal to the huge altar that was set up for prayer and meditation. The altar was so beautiful I took a picture of it and checked in with it on Facebook: status was a bus station, traveling to San Luis de la Paz, GTO.
The altar reminded me a lot of México because there are always altars to saints in public spaces. Like in México, this altar had Christmas lights, decorative plastic banners, flowers and burning candles. The area for the altar was big and had enough seating for like eight people: if this altar had been enclosed, it would be considered a chapel.
There were several saints placed on the altar – most of the saints were repeated in various sizes in folk art media; evidently the altar was ever changing and a work in progress. It changed and grew every time someone added a saint to the altar before they got on the bus or possibly after making the trip to Dallas. There were pictures of Jesus Christ and several pictures and statues of la Virgen de Guadalupe, the patron saint of México. There were also several size pictures and statues of San Judas, the saint of lost causes, a saint revered by some criminals and drug users. There were also other saints on the altar that I was not familiar with. The altar area was tranquil and beautiful and I thought this folk art altar was superior to those sterile chapels at the U.S. airports or hospitals.
Because I was sort of anxious about traveling along the border of México by bus, I did think about prayer – but to which saint? Though I was raised a Catholic I had not practiced Catholicism in years.
Before my meditation was over, I got a bing on my iPhone, a comment to my posting of the picture of the altar. A gringa girlfriend of mine in México City said she saw Saint Toribio Romo on the altar. I asked, where was he on the altar and what were his energies? My friend identified the saint and she said that Saint Romo is the saint of border crossers. I thought great and hoped he could work a miracle for me since I was going the other way – into México.
As I was finishing my mediation at the altar I could see it was time to get on the bus, not because of a PA system announcement, because there wasn’t one, but by seeing people climbing into the bus and having their large luggage placed in the luggage compartment.
Though it would take longer to travel to México than my usual 2-½ hour air flight, so far it was not bad for having saved $300. Seats were OK, but reminded me of my dad’s comfy TV chair: worn and comfy.
Like clockwork, and not Mexican time, we leave the bus station at 4 P.M. sharp. As we were leaving Dallas and traveling south on U.S. 35 towards Laredo I noticed that the bus was half full and once we left the bus station people moved around to the empty seats they wanted – so now I know: the next time don’t make fuss.
I fell asleep right away and woke up as we were making out first stop in Waco. Though we exited the freeway we didn’t go into town to any bus terminal; we just stayed on the service road. We stopped at a taquería next to a gas station and picked up a couple of people and got right back on the freeway. We did this very quickly, no waiting for future passengers, just off the highway and on again, all in a matter of minutes. We did this all along the way, Temple, Austin, and San Antonio, always stopping at a taquería beside a gas station or a gas station that had a taquería inside.
Though our stops were quick, there were a couple times we stopped not only to pick up passengers, but also long enough to stretch our legs. The driver would announce we all could get off at the store if we wanted to eat and drink something and use the bathroom. Though the bus had a toilet, it was obvious that seasoned travelers didn’t use the bus restroom and would get off these stretch-your-legs-stops with their own toilet paper in hand.
I didn’t carry my own toilet paper because it was something I wouldn’t need since I have a policy of fasting the evening before a long trip and pigging out once I got to my destination; nothing goes in, nothing is coming out. Anyway, being seen carrying a roll of toilet paper off a bus is just too much information; can’t these women hide the roll underneath their rebozo? Before leaving our stops, the bus driver would always take a head count to make sure no one was left behind. That was good to know for I was always afraid of being marooned at a taquería along the highway.
After our last stop in San Antonio, I dozed off again and when I woke up, it was night. The evening wasn’t too dark because the night sky was clear and the ground well lit by a bright full moon. I gazed at the moon and noticed that it was surrounded by what looked like a giant smoke ring, something I had never seen before. I took it as a sign from the heavens that my trip was being safely guided to my destination. Funny how I, too, look for signs from God, something I picked up from my Catholic abuela and mother: they would always claim they had seen “a sign” from God when they were expecting good fortune.
Though the moon gave a bright light, I wasn’t sure how far we were from the border until I saw the helicopters shining their lights down to the terrain: I knew then we were close to the border for the bright big search lights were looking for border crossers.
When I first saw the helicopters I couldn’t help but think about my neighborhood in inner city Old East Dallas – helicopters shining their lights down on the streets in search of a criminal, someone who had just robbed a convenience store. But in this case, there were no convenience stores around, just grass and brush and those conducting the search were not the police, but the Border Patrol.
We make it to Nuevo Laredo, México, and the trip didn’t seem to take that long. It happened quickly and my butt was not too numb from sitting so long – the bus stop breaks helped with that. I had misgivings as I was getting close to the border. Though I didn’t have to deal with the Border Patrol, I knew it was time to deal with Mexican immigration and customs officials. I always hate dealing with people of authority, like the police, immigration and customs officers in the U.S. or México for I never know how many hoops I have to jump through. Often I am selected and over-searched and asked lots of questions, so border crossings always give me the jitters. Maybe it is because of those jitters that I get stopped so often?
We didn’t have to wait long to cross the bridge into México: we passed all the cars and got into a special bus lane. Being that it was 11 P.M. we were only the second bus in line and the other bus was leaving as we pulled up to the immigration office.
Though I wondered how all the immigration and customs routine was going to work, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by looking like an amateur so I thought, “Don’t ask questions, just learn my way in crossing the border via the bus by looking, listening and following fellow passengers.”
We parked in front of the immigration office and an officer got on the bus and in Spanish gave us instructions as to what was required in visiting México. Being a by product of total assimilation, with English only while growing up, I didn’t understand everything the Immigration officer was saying, though I understood enough to know that the officer asked that all Americans had to get off the bus to get a visa in order to continue their travel into Mexico.
As the immigration agent got off the bus to go into his office, I followed and I thought it strange that I was the only person that needed a Mexican visa, but then again, I was the only American. I walked into the immigration office and handed my U.S. passport to the immigration officer who greeted me. As the officer was looking at my passport, she asked me a question that I have never been asked when traveling into México by air: she asked, “Do you now have or have ever had Mexican documents and do you have them with you now?”
And I said yes, and as I gave the officer my old Mexican documents that I had when I lived in México City and I mentioned that they had been canceled.
After the immigration officer reviews my documents, she says they have expired, but they have not been canceled. This statement struck terror into my heart because the two other immigration officers who were just standing around in the small office for a routine entry into México had now walked over to me, and they too were also examining my old expired, not canceled, Mexican documents. Apparently immigration officials in México, like in the U.S., don’t like foreigners not following their immigration laws – expired and not canceled sounded like a fine to me, or so I hoped.
The immigration agents are now telling me that I cannot continue further into México until I get my immigration papers cleared up at the immigration office in Nuevo Laredo. My heart was beating fast and I tried not to look too nervous. Are these guys for real, in not letting me, an American, cross into México? I knew better than to try to pull an “I am an American" card for I was at their mercy, but I had to wonder if this was just a story to get me to pay a mordida, a bribe. And if they wanted a mordida, it appeared it would be expensive because I wasn’t dealing with a traffic cop. I was dealing with three immigration agents who were saying I had a problem entering México.
The immigration officers were now telling me to spend the night in Nuevo Laredo because I had to go to the immigration office in the morning. I had been horrified to think I would be left behind at a taquería when making stops along the highway and now I was even more horror-struck to think the bus would leave me behind at the border of México. I just wanted to get into a fetal position – but I knew I just couldn’t just lose it.
As I thought about what to do next, I stared out the open door of the immigration office: I could see the International Bridge and I thought about just getting my things off the bus and walking back across the bridge and going back home. But then I remembered Saint Toribio Romo, the patron saint of border-crossers, so I said a short silent prayer to Saint Romo that consisted of, HELP, I need ya now. I had come too far to go back home.
As I finished my prayer to St. Romo, one of the immigration officers takes my U.S. passport and scans it in their reader and says, “Look, he has come and gone numerous times since his Mexican documents expired.” He said, “Let him through,” and the two other officers say, “LET HIM THROUGH?” He said yes, and then they all agreed and asked me that if anyone asks, they did not know I had, nor had they seen my expired documents. I said fine, deal.
They handed me my U.S. passport and my old Mexican papers and I was told to hide the expired documents and not show them to anyone else. Since I had told them I was also going to México City, the officers highly recommended that I go to the immigration office there to have my documents cancelled. I said OK, I agreed to whatever they said.
They gave me my visa to enter México and I finally had a good and calm feeling – Saint Toribio Romo had my back. I got on the bus and all the people were staring at me like, FINALLY.
As I sat in my seat it felt good to finally have the immigration issue behind me. As I got in my seat and got comfortable, I looked out the window, and saw the immigration officers looking at the bus as we began to slowly drive away – and I sort of hid behind the window shade, not wanting them to see me, afraid they would change their minds and stop the bus and make me spend the night in Nuevo Laredo.
But we didn’t leave the immigration officials in the dust like I had hoped – we only traveled like two bus lengths before we stopped again. For now we had now stopped in front of the customs office that was the next building over and in the same parking lot.
A customs officer got on the bus, and in Spanish, she says, welcome to México and instructs us as to who would have to pay a duty for goods being brought into México. The agent said that any new items, even Christmas gifts, that had a value of over $300, had to be claimed and a duty paid.
The customs lady also said that if we didn’t pay the duty for any required item and that item not claimed was found in our possession it could get confiscated. So all those claiming any items for duty had to get off the bus with the item and with receipt and follow her. Well, as a favor for my friend that had recently gotten deported, I was carrying a new Nintendo game to give him, his Christmas gift.
I got the gift and followed the agent and again, I was the only one getting off the bus. At this moment I realized that though I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by looking like an amateur in asking questions, I was looking like an amateur anyway because I was the only one always getting off the bus to deal with government officials – I was learning.
In the customs office I showed the agent the game and the receipt for $350 and she barely looked at the game and receipt and said it was OK and didn’t charge me anything. And I thought, no wonder no one got off the bus, they know better.
As I started to walk out of the office, the customs agent stops me and says wait, you have to push the button, and I thought “What button”? The customs lady was pointing to what looked like a miniature traffic light that had a green and a red light, no yellow.
Since I was the only one that had gotten off the bus the agent said I had to push the one and only button on the contraption. The agent said, that if I got the green light everyone on the bus could go, no searches. But if I got the red light, everyone’s luggage had to be taken off the bus and everything searched. I thought oh my God, and clutched my pearls.
Before pushing the button, I hesitated for a moment for I was thinking, “Saint Romo, are you still around?” I pushed the button and I got the green light. The agent said we could go and I hurriedly walked out the customs office and across the parking lot. As I climbed back on the bus, the passengers were again giving me stares, you know those stares of, “It’s him again.” I wanted to say, “Shut up, I got the green light,” but I didn’t say anything: these people had no idea of the mental torture and anguish I had just gone through to cross the border.
As we were leaving I sure hoped that this time we would travel more than two bus lengths and make it out of the parking lot. I found the whole experience with the immigration and customs agents exhausting so I fell asleep right away for it was now way after midnight. I woke up like almost 7 A.M. and I could see that the sun was coming up and we were surrounded by farmland. I looked around the bus and I could see that some people had gotten off the bus and I had not even noticed.
At 9:15 A.M., my prayers had been answered. I arrived in downtown San Luis de la Paz, Guanajuato. Though I had not eaten since Tuesday evening I was fine and thought that it was terrific that I had left Dallas at 4 P.M. on a Wednesday and had arrived at 9:15 A.M. Thursday morning. I was ready to eat some tasty Mexican food for I was now starving.
As I got off the bus to claim my luggage, I again found myself at another nontraditional bus terminal. In front of me was my bus company, located in a building that looked more like a public storage structure than a bus terminal – and it was closed.
No problem, – I would just call my friends to pick me up. I pulled out my Mexican cell phone, the cell I use to make calls in México. I turned it on – nothing happened. I had forgotten to power my Mexican cell phone before leaving Dallas. There was no place to make a call or to power my cell at a local business nearby because they too were closed; it was still too early for small-town San Luis de la Paz to be awake. A couple of taxi drivers stopped and asked if I wanted a ride and I thought yes, but I didn’t know the address or how to get to my friends house, so I just let them go.
As I thought about what I was going to do next, I got an idea, a revelation. Not wanting to drag my luggage around with me as I looked for a payphone, I turned on my Dallas cell phone and tried to call my friends to pick me up. I had never called my friends from my cell phone; I always used my computer to Skype them. When calling my friends, I kept getting a Mexican prerecorded operator message saying something to the effect: fool, you are not using the correct sequence of numbers to complete your call. Damn international calls.
I thought great, I am really in a jam after having just traveled 17 hours and I can’t make contact: I am going to starve to death on the sidewalk. Then I got a bright idea: turn on the data feature on my iPhone, get on the Internet and use Skype to call. So I Skyped my friends and I said hello, and before I could say anything they asked, “Are you here already?” Already? How can 17 hours on a bus be already? This wasn’t the time to have a debate so I said, “Yes, I am here now, pick me up – I am hungry.”
As I waited to be picked up, I knew that traveling from Dallas to México by bus would now be my new way of traveling internationally: for it was cheaper than flying and it was safe. Though I had a somewhat uneasy experience crossing the border, nothing seriously bad happened to me or anyone else, no one got on the bus and kidnapped anyone nor were we hijacked, and no one had gotten robbed either – I was now a seasoned bus traveler and Saint Toribio Romo had my back.
