Transporte Colectivo

I just spent a tranquilo afternoon at el Museo Sumaya, a small museum with excellent exhibits (an impressive collection of Rodin sculptures currently on display) in an upscale plaza surrounded by shops and cafes in the southwest of the city. This is the pleasant wealthy side of Mexico City. But now it's time to leave the quiet air-conditioned building and find my way home, which means another adventure on el sistema del transporte colectivo.

Everyone talks about the city's excellent Metro system, which is quite extensive and efficient (see www.metro.df.gob.mx/red/), but it's the zillion beat up, broke down, battered and busted microbuses that fly through the streets picking up passengers at the flag of an arm, dropping them off without fully stopping, radios blaring, "Christo es mi salvador" signs above their reaerview mirrors, that really make for a true DF experience.

Walking out of the plaza, I'm immediately assailed by the sounds and smells of the city's constant throb of traffic. There's a long cue at what appears to be a major bus stop so I dive in and start watching for my blessed Ruta 111 bus - the only bus I have any idea where goes from here. It's hot and I forgot to put on sunscreen so I inch my way toward a bit of shade ready to dart out with my arm waving if I see my bus. And eventually there it is: dart, wave, hop on, hand the driver 2.50 pesos (about 25 cents) and join the crowd.

Fortunately, the bus stops at a major intersection and a slew of people disembark, leaving me a seat. Wow, this must be my lucky day! I'll be home in 20 minutes and get to enjoy the ride without swaying and falling into people the whole way. (I have yet to figure out how the rest of the riders remain upright and in place, seemingly impervious to the constant lurching of the buses.)

But of course my beginner's luck was only that. The bus is soon at a standstill in traffic, hot sun beating on my back and car fumes spewing in through the open windows, Mexicans slumped around me patiently dozing or chatting. I take a look around. A woman sits with her baby on her lap and chats with the bus driver. The baby is wearing an Elmo bib...no wait, he's actually dressed in an entire Elmo sleeper, the kind with feet that zips up the front, complete with large plastic Elmo eyes on the hood and everything. Ah, globalization.

The bus seems to be in typical microbus condition. It looks about 20 years old, though it could be much newer, aged by constant wear and abuse. The rubber matting on the floor is ripped up, the plastic seats are battered, graffiti on the windows and inside walls, some random wires hanging down from the ceiling where lights use to be. One half of the large front windshield is splintered in every direction like a giant spiderweb. Naturally, it's the half in front of the driver.

Not that the physical condition of the bus matters too much to the passengers. It will get them where they need to go, eventually, and that seems to be enough. Of course we're not moving now, haven't been for about 10 minutes. As we sit at a standstill a man steps on board and begins a sales pitch for some weird little plastic keychains he's selling. He starts pontificating about being drug-free for two years, thanks to the salvation of Jesus. Ah yes, this is familiar. There must be an international association of public transportation drug-rehabilitated, born again vendors of small kitchy plastic things. You see them in the New York subway, on the Tube in London, and apparently here in Mexico City microbuses as well. They do get around.

A middle-aged woman on the bus watches the vendor intently. Is she listening that carefully to his story, perhaps identifying with his experience, empathizing deeply. Or just trying to get a better look at that plastic birdie keychain? He reaches the climax of his story and expertly begins demonstrating the chirping sound the birdie keychains make. We're soon engulfed in a cacophony of screaming birds, and I'm wondering how long he'll work this particular bus. The woman buys a screaming birdie, and the vendor hops off, headed for the long line of backed up buses behind us.

Ok, we're through that. Is this light ever going to change? Is it even working? It's been 30 minutes and we've moved about 200 feet. We're caught in the construction underway on the massive highway that runs around the city, Periferico. Overwhelmed by the clog of millions of cars, the city is building a second level, elevated on large concrete stilts above the main road. It's oddly futuristic and Alberto's mom doesn't trust it.

A woman selling something called YogIce hops aboard and makes a quick sale to the woman with the baby Elmo. The bus lurches forward trying to squeeze through a space far too small for it. The driver is creative, I'll give him that. Traffic seems to be moving under its own independent direction. There is a pattern I begin to realize, it just has nothing to do with the changing colors of the traffic light. I thought Mexicans just ignored all the rules, but in fact there is a rhythm, a flow as Alberto says. I just can't possibly figure out how you figure it out and join in correctly. Same with the microbuses - I've found no system of bus routes, schedules, maps. People just tell you which one to take and then you tell the next person who asks. It defies every ounce of my type-A gringa desire to organize, control, direct. But, it works.

The YogIce woman hops off as the bus somehow squeezes through the impossible space (Mexican physics at work again). We lurch forward and are free, moving with the flow. I finally arrive home at 3:30 for the meal that was suppose to be at 3:00. The family is just gathering to set the table. I'm right on time.