Two years later, I woke up early in the morning to follow an address written on a scrap of paper. It led to a small bus station where I found La Divina Concepción, the mini-van that would take me to Santa Catarina Juquila. As our young driver pulled out of the station, with our luggage piled high and his girlfriend at his side, I knew there was no turning back from this journey toward the mysterious, miraculous Virgin. Windows wide open, mariachi music blared and saints jostled from the rear view mirror as La Divina Concepción navigated the broken roads that led away from Oaxaca City.
Halfway through the trip we stopped for lunch at a comedor called Juquilita. Without a menu, I pointed to someone else's stew. I winced at the fate of the chickens that raced around my feet, at least I knew it would be fresh? I sat silently with the other passengers, eating caldo, tortillas, and that beverage I never drink at home but always tastes like nectar when I'm abroad, Coca-Cola. We were on a pilgrimage, and without the language to discuss it, we watched out for each other, with smiles and nods and little gestures like passing napkins and bottles of chile.
It took several hours to wind up the narrow road into the mountains, avoiding donkeys, chickens and falling rocks. Hawks soared in the sky, jungle plants and desert plants intermingled in every shape and shade of green. Nestled in my seat next to the window and behind the driver, I felt safe and happy riding along with my temporary Mexican family. I can't believe it, I thought, as I gazed out at the clear blue sky, this journey is actually going off without a hitch.
And then...
No comments:
Post a Comment