Getting Lost in Mexico (in my 15th summer)

 I've told this story many times over the years and to many different people. But I've never actually taken the time to write it down. Well...now's that time! So first some backstory...

Where I went to elementary and secondary school, everyone knew that if you took three years of Spanish in middle and/or high school, you would be eligible to participate in "The Mexico Trip" (what I would today call a "Short-term Travel Study"). It was basically 10 or 12 days in Mexico, starting in Mexico City, having a short homestay in Guadalajara, and then a few final days in Mazatlán. This was a program that had been set up and run since the 1970s and into the late 1990s. And it was always run by the Spanish teacher(s) -- not an EF Tour or other tour guide-led type of program. The Spanish teacher was the tour leader.

I had two older siblings that participated in one in the late 1970s and, although I was a baby when they did, I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity too. So when it came time to choose electives in middle school, I chose Spanish. And I kind of sucked at it. I didn't understand a verb tree or conjugating verbs, but I could memorize words and did my best and passed the classes each year. Plus, the Spanish teacher I had in middle school, Mr. Nelson, played guitar and we sang songs in Spanish. It was not bad.

Fast forward to the end of ninth-grade, and I had saved a little and begged my parents to go on it for the previous year or so. It just so happened that my brother was serving an LDS mission in Mexico at the time. He suggested that after I finish the trip, that I could stay with a host family until my parents drove down to pick him (us) up a couple months later. My brother said I'd learn Spanish, and would get to see all sorts of neat things -- like a real local. My mom thought this was a great idea. I was like, "sure...I guess..." 

The problem was, the trip ended in Mazatlán, Sinaloa, and my brother was serving in the Torreón, Coahuila area: 500km away. And this was the 1980s, so flights were not an easy (or cheap!) thing. We barely had enough money for me to do the trip, let alone take another flight. Did I mention this was my first international flight?

But, my brother, ever the optimist, said, "He can just take the bus. It's cheap and easy! And when he gets to the station, he can just call this number, and we'll drive over and get him!" Easy-peasy. So, he arranged with the family -- who were apparently happy to host me -- and my mom discussed it with Mr. Leyva (the Spanish teacher). He agreed and said he'd make sure I got on the correct bus in Mazatlán.

The trip was great. I got to see Teotihuacan and the Ballet Folklórico in the Palace of Fine Arts...the homestay was neat, and the waves at Mazatlán were incredible. I also had a romantic encounter with a gal from the big city who heard about the trip from her Spanish teacher and came along with her mom. We reconnected a few years later and that spark was still there. And her mom loved me. It could have probably went somewhere, but timing was wrong. Anyhow, I digress...

So, we get to Mazatlán, and it's my 15th birthday. The group sang happy birthday and I got a slice of cake at the then-unknown Senor Frogs. The next day, I said goodbye to my new girl-friend, and me and Mr. Leyva took a cab to the bus station. He bought my ticket for me, we found my bus, he talked to the driver a little, and said, "Okay kiddo. This bus is going straight to Torreón, so just stay on the bus until the driver gets off." I nodded and handed the bus driver my suitcase.

Yes, I took a suitcase. It was the only suitcase we had in the family, and I didn't yet know about travel packs...Incidentally, I used the same suitcase for my first trip to Europe a few years later. And then never again. Carryon size backpacks are the way to go! 

I climbed on board and took my seat. The bus ride from Mazatlán to Torreón is like 14 or 15 hours. Even today. And I knew I was in for a long ride. I tried to stay awake, but the swaying of the bus over the mountains and sun going down, well...I just fell asleep. And then, suddenly, I jolted awake, scared I might have missed the stop. I looked at my watch, and it had been like 12 hours. So I thought we had to be close. I remember thinking, "Phew! Woke up just in time". But it was dark on the road. Pitch black for the next hour or so, and then we pulled into a big bus station.

Everyone got off the bus, and so did the bus driver. So, I followed, retrieved my bag from the under-storage of the bus, and wandered into the bus station looking for a phone to call my brother. I found a payphone and as I put my pesos in and started to dial, I noticed the bus driver getting back on the bus and pulling away, but didn't think anything of it. I had done exactly what Mr. Leyva said. And it was like 4am.

Anyway, I called the number my brother gave me and, when a sleepy voice answered, I said, "uhh..Elder Allen, por favor". All I heard was, "juihunbounwwwbcw" and click. "Well that was weird," I thought. So I dropped a few coins into the phone and tried the number again: "Elder Allen, por favor". Same response: "jijfknjfnonoienf;w" and click again. Now I started to doubt myself. Did he give me the wrong phone number? Are they saying they'll come and get me when they wake up? It is 4am , after all. So I wandered over to the buffet and spent almost all my remaining pesos on some rice and beans, sat down in a chair, and ate my "breakfast".

An hour later or so, I thought I should try again, and as I was walking up to the phone, I saw a plaque that said something something Durango, MX. And I thought, does that mean I'm in Durango? Is that the name of the station? So I went to a ticket counter, mustered up the courage and, in my best Spanish, asked, "estoy in Torreón?" The clerk just stared at me. So I asked again. He just looked at me and pointed to the bank of telefonos internacionales where a lady was just setting up. I was like, okaaaayyy...

Slowly, I wandered over to the lady -- who I now know was the operator for any long distance calls -- and asked, "Estoy in Torreón?" to which she replied, "no. osongoinonwq Durango". And my heart stopped. She was saying I am in Durango! Barely 15 years old, in a foreign country where I don't really speak the language, in the wrong city, and with a freaking suitcase! Instead of thinking, I should just call my brother via the international phone I was like, I need to call Mr. Leyva. He will know what to do!

So, luckily, I had taken the stationary from the hotel in Mazatlán, and it had the hotel's phone number on it. I showed the lady, paid her the pesos, and she showed me to a booth. I picked up the phone and the hotel staff answered. I couldn't remember Mr. Leyva's room number, so I asked for mine (we shared rooms, and I was with a couple other guys). Justin, my "friend", answered sleepily. "This is Casey. I need to talk to Mr. Leyva. Can you go get him?"

"Mr. Leyva's in another room." click. Did he hang up on me?

I paid the lady the last of my pesos and had her dial the number again. This time, I asked the hotel for "Mr. Leyva's room, por favor", and they connected me. As soon as I heard his voice, I burst into tears: "Mr. Leyva, I'm lost, and I don't know where I am, and....." just crying. He calmed me down and I told him that I got off the bus when the driver did, but then I remember the bus pulling away, and I had tried my brother's number, but no one answered...

"Is there anyone there I can talk to?" he said. I motioned to the operator and she came into the booth and I gave her the phone. She was speaking sooooo fast, and smiling. She handed me the phone back, and Mr. Leyva said, "Okay kiddo. You got off at the wrong spot. You are in Durango. You still had about four hours left on the bus. The driver got off to use the bathroom. You'll need to buy a ticket to Torreón"

I burst into tears again, "I just spent my last pesos to call you...I all I've eaten is rice and beans...I have a $20 traveler's check, but no one accepts it here..."

"It's okay, kiddo," he said. "Let me talk to the operator again".

I leaned out of the booth and motioned for her to come over again. She took the phone and smiled as she was talking to Mr. Leyva. Then she motioned me to the phone.

"Okay. She will buy a ticket for you and make sure you get on the right bus. She will make sure the driver knows. I will call your brother and let him know".

"Thththththank you..." I managed.

"It will be okay, kiddo". Click.

The very nice operator then walked with me to the ticket counter and bought me a ticket. She pointed to the schedule board and I saw the bus to Torreón would be leaving in a half hour. She bought me a fresh juice and beans, and I waited next to the phone booths until she motioned for me to follow her. We wandered to the bus platform and she talked with the bus driver. He nodded knowingly and smiled at me. I gave him my suitcase to store in the under storage, and climbed aboard.

Waving to the operator lady as we pulled out of the station, I vowed to myself to never fall asleep on a bus ride ever again.

And I haven't. Well, I almost drifted off one time in Europe, but was awakened loudly by the group...but not since then. Ever.

Several hours later, I saw a big sign arching across the road that said, "Bienvenidos a Torreón".

That must mean I'm in Torreón? I though to myself.

As we pulled onto the platform in the largest bus station I had ever seen, everyone exited, including the bus driver. I sat still, unsure of myself. Was really getting off, or it was just a bathroom stop.

The bus was empty except for me, and the bus driver came back on and motioned for me to exit. I shook my head, no. He said, si, si...ees ok.

With more than a bit of trepidation, I walked off the bus. He gave my suitcase and smiled. I looked around for a phone.

Then he hooped back on his bus, closed the door, and pulled away. My heart sank.

Not again.

Then, across the station, I saw this extra tall white guy (my brother is 6'6"). "Cam!" I screamed. I dropped my bags and ran to him, tears streaming down my face, and gave him a big hug.

"Get off me, fag" he said, jokingly (it was the 80s, okay?)

We wandered back through the crowd to pick up my suitcase, hopped in the back of the host family's pick-up truck, and drove to their house for lunch.

There would be many more crazy adventures during that summer. But I didn't know it at the time...