August 31, 2010
It was an interesting journey back to Oaxaca from Mexico City, where my plane from Houston landed.
So often, here in Latin America, as I sit in a bus, taxi or collectivo I think, "I'm glad I'm not driving.” That night, as I took that six and a half hour journey from Mexico City to Oaxaca, it was raining. . .still. . .again . . .almost continually since the wet season began at the beginning of July.
Being raised on the west coast of British Columbia, and having travelled many times through the interior mountain ranges, and the great Canadian Rockies, I’m accustomed to signs indicating the possibility of rockslides. But, until this recent trip from Mexico City to Oaxaca I’ve seen only one rockslide, the remnants of Alberta’s famous Franklin Slide of 1903.
I’m glad I’m a fatalist because the stones, rocks, and boulders that littered the highway as the bus slowly twisted its way around the mountain curves, only fascinated me. I felt no fear. Sometimes it was impossible to avoid the debris, and we drove through it. Sometimes there was only one lane and the bus had to stop and wait for oncoming traffic. On occasion work crews with flashlights guided us through.
I was oh so glad I wasn’t driving. And I knew only fate and good luck would bring us safely into the Oaxaca bus terminal