It's Friday evening here at UMAR, and you can practically smell it. All the teachers have had their last classes, and all pretense of working has been abandoned, here in our little corner of the campus. An impromptu game of office football (soccer) has sprung up, with a ball of paper held together with tape. A cluster of French teachers discusses their weekend camping trip to Cangrejos, a beach a couple hours from here. Not far in the distance, the students have gathered at one of the larger intersections of the pathways, and we can hear the lightness in their voices as they discuss which club, which party, which clothes.
We are all waiting for seven o'clock. That's when we can punch out, when the buses and taxis arrive to take the students away; outside the gate there's almost certainly three or four trucks and cars with amplifiers bolted to their roofs, ready to begin blasting advertisements for local clubs, their eternal promises of fun and frolic. One of them, Litros, is having a foam party tonight, where they will fill the dance floor with bubbles, and this seems to be the club of choice for most of the kids. Even so, they will be there at the gate, with their speakers and billboards, their pretty girls handing out flyers and somewhat disturbingly insisting you will have a good time.
But it's relatively quiet in the Centro de Idiomas; even the shrieks and shouts of the football game are muffled by the jungle. The sun still grazes the tops of the trees, but here, under the canopy, it is definitely twilight. Crickets have begun their nightly symphony, the iguanas and lizards seem to have disappeared to whatever safe nook they wait out the cool of night in, even the flowers seem still and peaceful and ready to rest. In less than an hour, we will give the jungle back to them for the weekend; only those few professors who live on campus will remain, and most of them will leave too, to visit family or go to a beach or whatever.
And I will leave, and happily enough. Home, slowly, (still have water in my carburetor), a gentle putt-putt down the hill to my home, which feels more so everyday. Later, many of us will meet again at the Dublin, where Richard may convince me to try my hand at darts again, and Alex the bartender will likely make those tiny margaritas with the rotgut tequila that only a few hardened regulars drink, which is why he gives it away to us, and Angela will probably watch whatever sports happen to be on the flatscreen, and Gary will flirt shamelessly but charmingly with whoever happens to be around, and later, perhaps, we'll all go to a new club, opening tonight, the owners a married couple, he's American, she's Mexican, who have treated us well at their little cafe, and are now embarking on bigger ventures.
Somewhere north of here, the global economy is melting down, and the impacts of it will surely reach deeply into Huatulco. But for now, it's only Friday evening, and it's time to go.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
The beaches and bahias of Huatulco, San Agustin
All the beaches of Bahias de Huatulco are beautiful, and they all have their own particular characteristics and quirks. Yesterday morning, as often happens on the weekends, I got a message from Rob and Anita, two Americans from Albany, New York, who live here most of the year with their son, Robbie: “San Agustin, 12ish ne1?” They are great organizers, these two, the same ones who got us together to go rafting a couple of weeks back. So I called for directions, talked to Anita, was offered a ride in the back of their pickup, but I wanted to take mi moto; it was a glorious day, and while it knew it was relatively far out (about 25km), I’d also been wanting to go for a longer ride than to Super Che and back. Anita told me to go past the airport and then left at the next intersection (directions in Huatulco tend to be just that simple) onto a dirt road. “Is it passable by scooter?” I asked. “Well, it’s a bit bumpy, but sure,” she said.
Round about noon I met up with Gary, my very English English teacher colleague and friend, who happens to be bike buddies with me as well. He has the same model Zanetti, purchased the same day from Super Che, only blue. It was a lovely, early Sunday afternoon ride through mountains, surrounded by jungle, even less traffic than usual, the highway much better maintained than the streets of Crucecita where we live. Passed the airport after about 25, 30 minutes, found the turnoff to San Agustin. Dirt, yes. Road is a more generous term for what we found. More like a collection of potholes, bumps, rocks, and deep, straggling runnels strung out in a twisting line through hilly jungle. Gary, showing an unexpected lust for adventure (having got lost [through no fault of his own] in the jungle for two hours just the day before), said, “Let’s just start and see how far we get.”
Which we did. If the picture of my scooter isn’t clear, let me tell you that what we have are street bikes. Our suspensions basically consist of one big spring between the seat and the rear wheel, which, like the front, is very small, hardly big enough to go over a golf hole let alone the divots and cracks on this road. So after about 10-15 minutes, we’d barely covered a kilometer, with 6 or 7 more to go, when Rob, Anita, and their truck packed full of people, bags, equipment and Chester the dog come rattling up behind us. The group is understandably amused, although Anita does apologize, claiming the road was much better during the dry season, which it probably was. Then they tell us about the river. Apparently, to get to San Agustin, you must also ford a small river, which at the end of the rainy season, we are told, is a couple of feet deep. Our engines are about 5 inches off the ground.
Mark, a retired expat who’s lived here for years, tells us there’s a safe place we can leave the scooters, and then hop in the truck for the rest of the way. It’s another of kilometer of bumps and weaving, but we make it to a little store, not much more than a shed with a log bench, where we park and take a break. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the idiocy of taking our 90cc street bikes down this road, but I can’t help feeling a small amount of pride in having made it as far as we did. And truth be told, it was far more comfortable than the back of the truck; at the very least, on a scooter, you can drive around many of the worst holes and bumps. In a truck, you can only go over most of them, and if you happen to be squeezed with five other people and a frisky young dog into an unlined bed, you may start thinking it wasn’t so bad on the scooter.
Nonetheless, we all made it at last (the river turned out to be only 20 feet across or so, and not as deep as we’d been told, and thus mildly anti-climactic. Still would’ve swamped our engines), and as usual, worth the journey. A long, breathtaking curve of pale sand, scattered with bits of white coral, lined with palapas (beach restaurants), bordered behind those with jungled hills, all of it enclosing blue, crystalline water punctuated by a couple of small, rocky islands. But the most notable feature of Bahia de San Agustin is under the water: a coral reef that covers most of the sea floor and stretches almost to the beach, thus making it perfect for snorkeling. The locals take care of their reef; if someone is foolish or careless enough to actually stand on it, they quickly and vehemently yell at them to get off. It’s a community; behind the palapas are small homes, where it seems many of the owners and workers live. Mark told us they’d only gotten electricity in the last year or so, and all the drinking water has to be trucked in still.
We went to a palapa called Charly’s, where its namesake greeted us warmly, sat us down at tables under a thatched shelter with two hammocks strung from the side posts. We nearly had it all to ourselves. At a rough estimate, there must be at least thirty palapas on San Agustin. Most of them were closed, and of the handful that were open, none of them were full. Which is nice if you’re the visitor, but it’s easy to see that it’s bad for the locals, who are probably waiting anxiously for December and January when business picks up again.
Most of us headed straight for the water, cool at first, but warm and embracing after a few seconds. The tide was just coming in when we arrived, which seemed great initially; the low depth meant we could snorkel very close above the reef, but several of us independently discovered that in certain parts, as the waves pull back, you can get stranded in mere inches of water above the coral, with no way off but to wait for the next good wave and hope it lifts you up and not slams you down. This is the part where I’d love to detail all the fish I saw, but the only ones I could positively identify were the puffer fish. Most were colorful, many were flat and wide, some small and darting; a few tiny, vibrantly blue fish flickered in and out of holes in the reef. The coral itself was mostly a dark red or brown, greenish in the light in some places, and deceptively smooth-looking, rounded and curving over the floor. The water itself was the clearest I’ve seen yet; though all the beaches here are clean and swimmable, some are better than others for snorkeling, either because of reefs like this one, or, especially at the end of the rainy season, worse due to sediment and runoff (it should be noted that there’s virtually no heavy industry anywhere near Huatulco, and it’s sparsely populated. Runoff here means only dirt; while it can certainly turn the water of the bays cloudy and murky, there’s no need to be wary of it).
After we’d all trickled (literally) back to the tables, talk turned to lunch. There was a general consensus about fish, so we ordered two grilled “gallo.” A long time later (the coals weren’t ready yet), they appeared on our tables, nicely seasoned, firm flesh, reminiscent of tuna, fresh caught, with strangely small sides of rice and vegetables. There was a bit of grumbling when we got the bill later; 450 pesos per fish is a little high for Huatulco, but I do still think in American standards, and $45 for a fish large enough to feed 4-5 people is not a bad deal.
Later, some of us went out on Mark’s boat, cruising around the bay, where they caught sight of sea turtles and dolphins; a few of us, myself included headed back into the water for more snorkeling. By the time the boat returned, the sun had begun to set. Because of where Huatulco is in Mexico, the bottom of the curve eastward, and the position of the bay on that coast, I had the rather mind-twisting of sitting on a Pacific beach, looking out over the water with the sun setting behind me. It just didn’t seem right somehow, although still pretty. But no one wanted to drive that road in the dark, least of all me and Gary, so we settled up pretty quickly, shoehorned ourselves back into the truck and headed out.
The return was uneventful, retrieved our bikes, waved goodbye to the others, jounced our way back to the highway, and with the minor exception of a few thousand bugs dying by being crushed into our faces and chests, made it back to Crucecita without incident. At my apartment, I showered off the dust and insect guts, had a small sandwich, and went to bed early, with that pleasant tiredness of adventures survived, and a head full of new memories.
Round about noon I met up with Gary, my very English English teacher colleague and friend, who happens to be bike buddies with me as well. He has the same model Zanetti, purchased the same day from Super Che, only blue. It was a lovely, early Sunday afternoon ride through mountains, surrounded by jungle, even less traffic than usual, the highway much better maintained than the streets of Crucecita where we live. Passed the airport after about 25, 30 minutes, found the turnoff to San Agustin. Dirt, yes. Road is a more generous term for what we found. More like a collection of potholes, bumps, rocks, and deep, straggling runnels strung out in a twisting line through hilly jungle. Gary, showing an unexpected lust for adventure (having got lost [through no fault of his own] in the jungle for two hours just the day before), said, “Let’s just start and see how far we get.”
Which we did. If the picture of my scooter isn’t clear, let me tell you that what we have are street bikes. Our suspensions basically consist of one big spring between the seat and the rear wheel, which, like the front, is very small, hardly big enough to go over a golf hole let alone the divots and cracks on this road. So after about 10-15 minutes, we’d barely covered a kilometer, with 6 or 7 more to go, when Rob, Anita, and their truck packed full of people, bags, equipment and Chester the dog come rattling up behind us. The group is understandably amused, although Anita does apologize, claiming the road was much better during the dry season, which it probably was. Then they tell us about the river. Apparently, to get to San Agustin, you must also ford a small river, which at the end of the rainy season, we are told, is a couple of feet deep. Our engines are about 5 inches off the ground.
Mark, a retired expat who’s lived here for years, tells us there’s a safe place we can leave the scooters, and then hop in the truck for the rest of the way. It’s another of kilometer of bumps and weaving, but we make it to a little store, not much more than a shed with a log bench, where we park and take a break. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the idiocy of taking our 90cc street bikes down this road, but I can’t help feeling a small amount of pride in having made it as far as we did. And truth be told, it was far more comfortable than the back of the truck; at the very least, on a scooter, you can drive around many of the worst holes and bumps. In a truck, you can only go over most of them, and if you happen to be squeezed with five other people and a frisky young dog into an unlined bed, you may start thinking it wasn’t so bad on the scooter.
Nonetheless, we all made it at last (the river turned out to be only 20 feet across or so, and not as deep as we’d been told, and thus mildly anti-climactic. Still would’ve swamped our engines), and as usual, worth the journey. A long, breathtaking curve of pale sand, scattered with bits of white coral, lined with palapas (beach restaurants), bordered behind those with jungled hills, all of it enclosing blue, crystalline water punctuated by a couple of small, rocky islands. But the most notable feature of Bahia de San Agustin is under the water: a coral reef that covers most of the sea floor and stretches almost to the beach, thus making it perfect for snorkeling. The locals take care of their reef; if someone is foolish or careless enough to actually stand on it, they quickly and vehemently yell at them to get off. It’s a community; behind the palapas are small homes, where it seems many of the owners and workers live. Mark told us they’d only gotten electricity in the last year or so, and all the drinking water has to be trucked in still.
We went to a palapa called Charly’s, where its namesake greeted us warmly, sat us down at tables under a thatched shelter with two hammocks strung from the side posts. We nearly had it all to ourselves. At a rough estimate, there must be at least thirty palapas on San Agustin. Most of them were closed, and of the handful that were open, none of them were full. Which is nice if you’re the visitor, but it’s easy to see that it’s bad for the locals, who are probably waiting anxiously for December and January when business picks up again.
Most of us headed straight for the water, cool at first, but warm and embracing after a few seconds. The tide was just coming in when we arrived, which seemed great initially; the low depth meant we could snorkel very close above the reef, but several of us independently discovered that in certain parts, as the waves pull back, you can get stranded in mere inches of water above the coral, with no way off but to wait for the next good wave and hope it lifts you up and not slams you down. This is the part where I’d love to detail all the fish I saw, but the only ones I could positively identify were the puffer fish. Most were colorful, many were flat and wide, some small and darting; a few tiny, vibrantly blue fish flickered in and out of holes in the reef. The coral itself was mostly a dark red or brown, greenish in the light in some places, and deceptively smooth-looking, rounded and curving over the floor. The water itself was the clearest I’ve seen yet; though all the beaches here are clean and swimmable, some are better than others for snorkeling, either because of reefs like this one, or, especially at the end of the rainy season, worse due to sediment and runoff (it should be noted that there’s virtually no heavy industry anywhere near Huatulco, and it’s sparsely populated. Runoff here means only dirt; while it can certainly turn the water of the bays cloudy and murky, there’s no need to be wary of it).
After we’d all trickled (literally) back to the tables, talk turned to lunch. There was a general consensus about fish, so we ordered two grilled “gallo.” A long time later (the coals weren’t ready yet), they appeared on our tables, nicely seasoned, firm flesh, reminiscent of tuna, fresh caught, with strangely small sides of rice and vegetables. There was a bit of grumbling when we got the bill later; 450 pesos per fish is a little high for Huatulco, but I do still think in American standards, and $45 for a fish large enough to feed 4-5 people is not a bad deal.
Later, some of us went out on Mark’s boat, cruising around the bay, where they caught sight of sea turtles and dolphins; a few of us, myself included headed back into the water for more snorkeling. By the time the boat returned, the sun had begun to set. Because of where Huatulco is in Mexico, the bottom of the curve eastward, and the position of the bay on that coast, I had the rather mind-twisting of sitting on a Pacific beach, looking out over the water with the sun setting behind me. It just didn’t seem right somehow, although still pretty. But no one wanted to drive that road in the dark, least of all me and Gary, so we settled up pretty quickly, shoehorned ourselves back into the truck and headed out.
The return was uneventful, retrieved our bikes, waved goodbye to the others, jounced our way back to the highway, and with the minor exception of a few thousand bugs dying by being crushed into our faces and chests, made it back to Crucecita without incident. At my apartment, I showered off the dust and insect guts, had a small sandwich, and went to bed early, with that pleasant tiredness of adventures survived, and a head full of new memories.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The University
Universidad del Mar, my new home. Or it feels like that anyway, since I spend and will spend a lot of time there. It's a beautiful campus, its position in the jungle maintained daily by a team of groundskeepers, who can be seen trimming, cutting, sweeping, painting, and hacking with machetes in a truly Sisyphean effort to keep the bushes, shrubs and trees from overwhelming the buildings completely. Amongst the flora, our fauna consists of black and white iguanas, assorted smaller lizards, giant hornets, innumerable spiders, rumors of scorpions (haven't seen any myself), ants in the billions, and birds, who are mostly seen as flashes of color and movement in the foliage. The buildings themselves are mostly made of thick stone and concrete, whitewashed or painted a pleasant orangey color, with terracotta tiled roofs. The paths are an oddly-patterned concrete, gouged in lines to resemble cobblestones, which at first I assumed had some practical purpose for drainage, but after splashing through many puddles during the first rain, I abandoned that theory and have decided it's purely decorative, because it's not exactly easy to walk on.
The classrooms have high ceilings and louvered windows that we never close, cooled only by two fans whose effective reach is straight down in a three-foot radius. The teachers stand on a low cement stage before the whiteboards, which, while it may make it easier for the students to see, does seem a little strange when you're the one standing there. In a perfect example of the university's rigidity, the student's desks are bolted to the floor in narrow rows, making it difficult to move around and monitor conversations and discussions. For all of that, my students are (mostly) interested and attentive, energetic and inquisitive, which is all a teacher can really ask. We are still getting to know one another, after a week and a half, though a few have already distinguished themselves, either by their preparedness and interest, or, in one notable case, severe truculence (but what can you do?).
Most of the teachers in the Centro de Idiomas have their offices in a pleasantly curved building, but mine is in the computer building next door, one of the few on campus that has air-conditioning. At the moment, I have it to myself; I will share it with Angela, our lone Aussie, whose paperwork has not been fully processed yet and will hopefully begin next week. There's a lot of us: a handful of English, a few Canadians, five or six Americans, a cadre of French teachers and one Chinese teacher who, for unknown reasons, is the only one who lives on campus. It's a good group, generally lively and playful, and conversations take place in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, with the occasional phrase in Chinese.
The university's administration has honed its bureaucracy to a dull, implacable edge. There is a form for everything, incomprehensible and contradictory instructions for becoming a fully legitimate employee, unnecessary journeys (in this age of information technology) to various offices to present the same documents, delays for signatures and signatures for delays, and proctors who prowl the grounds in hopes of catching us outside our classrooms or in the act of negligently leaving a fan or light on somewhere. But, I am assured, if you keep your head down, nod and smile, the situation is no more than a minor irritation, and as I have only one more trip to make (registering at the hospital for medical insurance) much of the stress and frustration of the last couple of weeks is behind me for good.
All in all, there's a feeling of relaxing around the campus as we settle into the new year. The girl in the library who makes copies no longer seems on the verge of tears all the time (all students need literally hundreds pages of copies of workbooks and texts for their classes), the shuffling of students from this class to that has died down, routines are becoming established, even the lizards seem to scuttle more slowly across the paths. There may be more shoes ready to drop somewhere, but for now, todo bien.
The classrooms have high ceilings and louvered windows that we never close, cooled only by two fans whose effective reach is straight down in a three-foot radius. The teachers stand on a low cement stage before the whiteboards, which, while it may make it easier for the students to see, does seem a little strange when you're the one standing there. In a perfect example of the university's rigidity, the student's desks are bolted to the floor in narrow rows, making it difficult to move around and monitor conversations and discussions. For all of that, my students are (mostly) interested and attentive, energetic and inquisitive, which is all a teacher can really ask. We are still getting to know one another, after a week and a half, though a few have already distinguished themselves, either by their preparedness and interest, or, in one notable case, severe truculence (but what can you do?).
Most of the teachers in the Centro de Idiomas have their offices in a pleasantly curved building, but mine is in the computer building next door, one of the few on campus that has air-conditioning. At the moment, I have it to myself; I will share it with Angela, our lone Aussie, whose paperwork has not been fully processed yet and will hopefully begin next week. There's a lot of us: a handful of English, a few Canadians, five or six Americans, a cadre of French teachers and one Chinese teacher who, for unknown reasons, is the only one who lives on campus. It's a good group, generally lively and playful, and conversations take place in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, with the occasional phrase in Chinese.
The university's administration has honed its bureaucracy to a dull, implacable edge. There is a form for everything, incomprehensible and contradictory instructions for becoming a fully legitimate employee, unnecessary journeys (in this age of information technology) to various offices to present the same documents, delays for signatures and signatures for delays, and proctors who prowl the grounds in hopes of catching us outside our classrooms or in the act of negligently leaving a fan or light on somewhere. But, I am assured, if you keep your head down, nod and smile, the situation is no more than a minor irritation, and as I have only one more trip to make (registering at the hospital for medical insurance) much of the stress and frustration of the last couple of weeks is behind me for good.
All in all, there's a feeling of relaxing around the campus as we settle into the new year. The girl in the library who makes copies no longer seems on the verge of tears all the time (all students need literally hundreds pages of copies of workbooks and texts for their classes), the shuffling of students from this class to that has died down, routines are becoming established, even the lizards seem to scuttle more slowly across the paths. There may be more shoes ready to drop somewhere, but for now, todo bien.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Yo quiero mi moto
I love my scooter. It may be the greatest thing I have ever owned, absolutely, no kidding. At first, after arriving in Huatulco, I had assumed I would get around by walking, bus, or, since they're so cheap, taxi. But the buses only run to the university twice a day, and are not terribly reliable, so I'm told; the taxis may only be 20 pesos (about 2 dollars), but multiply that by at least 4 times a day, 5 days a week (just to get back and forth to work) and soon we're talking serious money; and quite honestly, I'm kind of a sweaty guy under the best of circumstances: if I walked everywhere (and the town is rather spread out) I'd never dry out. So a scooter I bought.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.
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