EL BAHIENSE

Journeying from Buenos Aires to Bahía Blanca. photo © Lorraine Caputo

Buenos Aires to Bahía Blanca, Argentina / El Bahiense (Schedule #351)

Friday 11 – Saturday 12 December 1998

I have stowed Rocinante (my knapsack) and settled into my seat. Not the window seat I had requested. The ticket seller gave me an aisle seat instead – on this three-passenger bench. =Sigh= Perhaps I can switch with whomever will be my neighbor during this ride.

I have spent several weeks in Buenos Aires, exploring this incredibly cosmopolitan city. I met up with Yamila, a sister traveler I’d met in Mexico, who introduced me to her artist friend Alejandro. Together we hit the tango festival, spending so many late nights drifting from café to café for tango dancing and jam sessions. Oh, and the dream concert in the spectacular Teatro Colón, listening to the music of the master tango performers and conductors from our perch in the gallinero, high up in the rafters.

But the time for me to hit the road has come. It’s the beginning of summer. Soon the hordes will be heading out to enjoy the sun, sea and mountains. Transport tickets will be hard to get. So tonight I’m departing Buenos Aires on El Bahiense, the train that’ll take me further south to Bahía Blanca and nearer to the Patagonia.

I step back out onto the platform to check out the train. One locomotive will be pulling eight passenger cars. There are two Pullman (ultra-first class) and a sleeper car. (According to a porter I was talking with, the sleepers hook on thrice weekly.) Then the dining car (comedor), two first-class cars, and lastly two turista cars (tourist – a fanciful name for second class). The cars are white, with a blue band at the top and bottom, and trimmed in red.  Through the thin coat of paint, Ferrocarriles Argentinos – the old name for the national rail service – is still visible. Overtop is the new name, reflecting the provincial-control of the service now: U.E.P.F.P. – Unidad Ejecutora del Programa Ferroviario Provincial, a.k.a. Ferrobaires or Ferrocarril Buenos Aires.

Suddenly I hear my name being called. Yamila is frantically walking the whole line of train craning to look into the windows. Honestly, I’d forgotten she’d said she was going to try to come and see me off. It’s a good thing I took this stretch out on the platform – my seat is on the track-side, and I would never have seen (or heard) her. We hug. “From Alejandro and me,” she says, handing me a small package wrapped in Christmas paper.

The loudspeaker echoes the announcement of my impending journey. With one foot on the step, grasping the handrail, I say a last good-bye to my friend. In my other hand, I hold their gift.

The chimes, the slow pull away. I glance at the station clock: It is 9:12 p.m. We pick up speed. A suburban train whooshes past us, the faces of its passengers blurred to color. And faster we travel, zooming past the suburbs, clattering over the complex web of rails.

º

I sit looking out the open window. The wind cleanses the heat of this day. I listen to the music of my ride, watching this evening alive with a large family at a parilla, young boys playing fútbol, couples sitting in small parks.

Those houses of faded paint and those so prim. The varied graffiti. One shouts, Vote for those that fight, not for those that rob. In the pollution of city lights, the sky is murky rose-indigo in this hour or so after this near-summer sunset.

A porter, dressed in a green tartan plaid vest and white shirt, comes through: Reservations, Reservations for dinner.

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The uniformed and plainclothes feds sit next to me, across the aisle and behind. They talk amongst themselves. The smoke of their cigarettes drift in a cloud.

The tracks have thinned to two sets now. The crossing bells rapidly clang. People wait on platforms for a train to take them home or to the city. They ignore our passage, their long days wrapped in their crossed arms.

The homes are scarce now. Their square lights of windows break the dense blackness of night. We sway hard with this speed.

Wildfires brush the night orange-red. The smell of burnt grasses drifts into the windows. But on the other side of the tracks, the city continues.

We stop someplace. A suburban train zooms by. Its air forces people away from the windows. The vendor-porter comes through again with beer and soft drinks and sandwiches. The three uniformed and two plainclothes cops get up and move to another car, perhaps to one of the sleeping compartments.

A young couple on that other side works on necklaces. But it’s mate time. The pliers and wire are put to one side. Hot water is poured from the thermos and into the gourd. The long-haired, bearded man sips through the bombilla, refills the gourd and drinks again. After another refill, he passes it to his blond girlfriend.

Aboard this train are many other young artisans – and families. And the two elderly ladies, their grey hair dyed ash-blond.

I feel quiet, just resting in the music, the rhythm of this train. I watch the slippery night-already-come slipping by. The now-and-then trains whoosh by, rocking us with their force. The damp air smells of aged grass.

I open Yamila’s and Alejandro’s gift. Within are a new journal, a pad of plain paper and watercolor pencils. Dang, I can’t believe it – I’ve long wanted to try these pencils. Wow. Last night when we’d returned to the hostel where I was staying, I gifted Alejandro and Yamila my drawings. Oh, wow – I almost feel like giving these things a try (yeh, yeh – I know, like a little kid …) And a new journal – perfect timing. I only have a few pages left in this one and it won’t last this train ride.

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Cañuelas

On a distant playground, children swing and see-saw.

The wind blows across my braid-bound hair and cheeks.

Further back in this car, a young mochilero plays a bamboo flute. Now and again, I can hear its soft voice above the rumble rattle clatter click of our train.

I can no longer fight my lack of sleep. Too many nights up too late in Buenos Aires … I drift away on his music.

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I awaken at a stop further down this line. Many more youth, dressed in black heavy-metal t-shirts and metal-studded belts, occupy this car. Leather braces shield their forearms. In the dim light, one plays his harmonica.

But I am still on the brink of exhaustion. I sink back into deep dream.

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3:09 a.m.

We stop at Olavarria. And we wait. Now our sister train has arrived on the next track. There it halts, humming in the still of this chilled night. A wind dances the leaves of álamo trees. That other car opposite mine is darkened. Many of its shades are drawn down.

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Azul

I awaken refreshed. Many passengers have come and gone.

Not many of us from Buenos Aires remain. The ash-blond ancianas are still here. Also, the punk mother and her chubby nine-year-old son. Her younger lover pulls a jacket over the sleeping boy.

A new man snores behind me. Further up this car, four women talk of families. A dark-haired one’s hands move, forming the story she tells.

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A little after five, I awaken to the blast of cold air. Another new arrival had boarded – a young man in a ball cap and windbreaker who sits across the aisle. His window is full open.

The air is damp. Clouds grey the morning twilight. The flat pampa now and again is spotted with black bovine silhouettes. The lightening sky reveals a land tamed by mowing and plowing.

The conductor passes through announcing the next stop: ESTACIÓN CORONEL SUÁREZ. He stops at the elderly women, Ladies, your stop is approaching, then leaves. The women gather their few bags. The vestibule door cracks behind them and closes with a small bang.

And here we arrive. Water pools on the sidewalks of this quiet town. We leave those ladies behind.

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I keep falling in and out of strange dreams. A rain washes the sheep farms we quickly pass through. And each time I resurface from my catnaps, the faces have changed.

We are only perhaps a dozen left in this wagon. At Tornquist, the mother, son, and lover leave – and the ball-capped man, too. The rain continues. Many are still asleep. Rain blows through a window that won’t stay shut.

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Saturday 12 December 1998 / ~8:05 a.m.

– Tres Picos, just past Tornquist

We slowly pass past the old brick building. Its light blue window and door frames peel their paint. It’s raining and it’s cold. I have heard a dog barking several times in the next car back. Further south, the sky looks a bit clearer, a bit more yellow.

We’re in our last hour of our ride. The five heavy metal rockers sleep across the seats up front. The man behind me has gone to the dining car.

We stop along a blackened field for a moment. Outside the wind hushes and then whistles from the Northwest. Yellowed grasses bow and sway. Dried thistles and newly flowering bright purple ones hedgerow yards. The rain has ended for now.

We rattle and creak along, this train straining under its slow speed. A jet entering the heavens marks Bahía Blanca. We are getting nearer – the more frequent ranches, the road signs to port, a garbage truck.

And then the neighborhoods. A sweatered boy sits atop the brick-block wall of his yard. Too-close trees scrape the sides of this car. We creep and creak along. There’s a park on one side. On the other, fine houses with perfect fenced yards bunch. In a small vegetable garden behind one, the corn is tassling and the onions blooming. In the midst, stands a papier-mâché woman, her skin in tatters, worn down to rusting chicken wire

The traffic is stopped. A man waiting for our passage, to raise the manually operated gate again. Two pictures of El Che observe our passage. One says, If you are capable of feeling the injustice …

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When we arrive, the station clock says it is 9:45 a.m.

The roqueros gather their bags and two guitars. A white-haired man leads them to two waiting cars.

I hoist Rocinante onto my back and wander towards the paved highway to hitch my way into the Patagonia.

BOREDOM

photo © Lorraine Caputo

7 May 1996 / about 4:20 a.m.

Buenavista Train Station, Mexico City

Well, I have been writing off and on since I arrived here last night at dusk. Sales for tickets to Nuevo Laredo go on sale early, at 6 a.m. – and I don’t want to miss getting one. They sell out fast. I found that out the hard way a few days ago. So the only way I can make sure I get aboard that train is to spend the night at the station.

I have managed to catch a bit of sleep. Twice. About 45 minutes each time. According to my pocket watch, it’s now 4:20 a.m. Sometime soon, the rush to that ticket window will be on.

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Many hours earlier, a man approached me. “I’m sorry to disturb you, miss. But, please, may I have a cigarette? Oh, thank you very much, miss. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I really am. And thank you, miss. I’m sorry …” I told him, no hay de qué, it’s okay.

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I decide to settle in for a third nap.

~   ~   ~

Suddenly, I am awakened from a just-entering dream.

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That smoker is leaning over me, again apologizing profusely, asking for money. He claims he’s a Catholic missionary from Guadalupe Church in Hidalgo. He shows me a very bad photocopy of a certificate with a battered photograph on it. It could be any very young man. Even him when he was younger – oh, some 15, 20 years younger perhaps. It is my time to apologize. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t give you any pesos.” I have just enough to buy my ticket, and a bit of food during the journey.

~   ~   ~

He finally fell asleep … and still is, almost three hours later.

There is a cold draft in this lower floor of the Buenavista Train Station in Mexico City. The janitors have now shown up. They are cleaning the bathrooms.

A very small puppy, a skinny male, is trotting around, looking for food. I gave him a little piece of my meat from dinner. A woman chases him. She laughs when he runs away in fear.

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Oh, it will feel so good to be on that train and going. Last night I was really wishing I was on one, able to just kick back and relax.

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Women – strangers to one another – lean over bench backs, wrapped in conversation. When they aren’t talking, they catnap.

A man passes this time and his boredom by peeling off the Styrofoam label of a soda bottle into ribbons, rolling them up and stuffing them into the empty glass bottle.

I sit here, waiting for the worker to get done in the ladies’ room. Nonetheless, other women are still going in and using it.

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Oh, how I could go for a cup of coffee. Perhaps after I get my ticket.

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The janitor finally gets fed up with those people coming in and interrupting his work. He throws one woman out. She’s an older woman, perhaps in her early fifties. She is one of those who has drifted out of her catnap at the same hour as every other woman who is waiting for him to finish his work. And, ay, is she ever listless! She’s on the prowl, on the prance. She obviously has to go bad. She has tried going in again – several times – and each time she is asked to leave. She speaks in a cold voice about such inconsideration. He answers back, his sharp voice echoing from the bowels of the bathroom. I feel like telling her just to go into the men’s room.

º

I, myself, wish he would hurry so I can go before getting into line.

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A man with a tubercular cough hacks and hacks and spits on the floor. Security comes ‘round, pounding metal keys on metal rails. People wake up and get moving. Bewildered people come back to the reality of the waking world. They grab their bags, tie and pile up sacks. Soon we will be biding this time in the queue. More women wait for the janitor to get done in the bathroom.

That little puppy is still trotting around.

~   ~   ~

Ah, I’m now in line. I’ll have to hit the bathroom later. And I’ll have that cup of coffee on the train.

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published in:

Oracle (Spring 2023)

 

URUGUAY SOJOURNS

Sunlight and leaves. photo © Lorraine Caputo

Durazno, Uruguay

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In the goldening late afternoon sun, screeching green loros fly from tree to eucalyptus tree. A boy rides a white horse bareback down a dirt street.

Now cricket song swells in the rose-brushed twilight reflected upon the steady river. There chiquilines (children), skins sun-toasted, still play in the waters.

•  

The near-full moon whitens the dense brush. Frogs have joined that grillo chorus.

•  

In the midst of this starry night, I hear the sputtering hum, the wheezing horn, the distant rumble of freight trains crossing the half-mile-long bridge, rusted trusses vibrating & wood ties clunking … coming nearer … I struggle against surfacing from dreams to see the passing chains of cars.

•  

I awaken amid the shreds of last night’s dreams.

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Fuchsia-mango sun rises above timbered plains, above the river. A garza negra glides low, landing upon its rippled surface. The rattle of harness & cart, the splash of water as a man reins his horse across to the other shore.

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I enter this shallow río, pebbles crunching beneath my feet & sink into its coolness on a summer day. & I release myself, floating downstream, allowing it to take me wherever it be …

… past the sandbar beach, beneath the shade of trees overhanging this swift current …

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The clouds had gathered steel-blue all afternoon. Then the wind, the far-off thunder, the wind … I tie down the tarp just as the first large drops fall & seek refuge, the sides of my tent bowing, rain pelting overhead. I hear the distant rumble of the seven-thirty commuter crossing that bridge, nearing our camp, thundering over steel & wood.

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The wind has silenced, the thunder now far off to the east. Leaves still shed pooled rain. A hummingbird darts about a eucalyptus, the mosquitos return. & the dusk song of loros begins. Down on a sandbar, a dog & its children stroll, leaving prints behind.

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I wander down to the river’s edge where swimming is forbidden, stepping through the high wet grass. & there at the foot of one bridge legging is a fortification from some war or another, its concrete walls blackened & tilted with the years, gunsights staring blindly across to the other bank.

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The rumble, vibration, clunk of the nine-fifteen. Lightning bugs sketch dashes on this eventide silenced by the cricket serenade. Someone sings along to his radio. Flames leap from parillas, sparks climbing into the dark. Families huddle downwind from smoke fires scented with grass & eucalyptus, shredded sycamore bark curling. & to the southwest, lightning sketches dashes across the sky.

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Full moon veiled by gauzy clouds. Still the grillos trill & a sudden chuckle of a bird. The quiet river reflects the night.

•  

I awaken before dawn to break camp. Some have already left on that first train to the city, wheezing horn, slow rumble, before crossing the bridge. Roosters crow in the village, a few crickets yet rasp. & morning twilight becomes streaked golden-orange & magenta through broken clouds.

As the day brightens, bird ballads echo among the trees.

Bit by bit, my knapsack Rocinante is packed & tied down. A man passes from site to site, bell whispering, pushing a blue motorbike. He offers me homemade sausage & cheese. I stow my purchase before heading out to another town swathed in the clouds of this aging morn.

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published in:

Invisible City (Spring 2023)

VOYAGING FROM VERACRUZ

21 January 1997 / Veracruz train station

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The rising sun goldens the open wooden doors of the station.

In front is parked the old black & silver Engine Nº 9 with its coal car.

The tarnished-brown station bell awaits to be clanged.

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Across the street, in the port, a large ship berths at a pier.

Standing idle to one side, a loading crane flexes.

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Through this white & ochre cavern echoes the flight of two lost pigeons.

On the other side of the gates separating lobby from tracks, a man

sweeps the tiled platform with a wide push broom.

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People bound for Xalapa & Mexico City line up at Gate 5.

Plastic tote bags, handles tied with a bit of string –

large boxes carefully wrapped around & around with rope –

small knapsacks all lie at feet.

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A mother holds her new-born child,

covering its head with a thin flannel blanket.

Next to her, on a duffel bag, sits her chubby-faced son.

He stuffs a stick of gum into his mouth & another.

His slightly slanted eyes squint at the pack in his hands.

He stands up & offers a piece to his mother, then to abuelita.

His tuft of black hair bobs as he chomps his gum.

The boy walks away, pulling his sleeves over his hands

& prances around the station.

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We are told to move to Gate Nº 4.

Boxes & packs are shifted to the orders of the guard.

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& the young boy pulls his gum out of his mouth with plump fingers.

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El Jarocho arrives a half-hour late from Mexico City,

amidst the blare of its locomotive’s horn.

From its long line of cars – 2^nd class, 1^st class, sleeper & dining cars,

its passengers rush towards the lobby.

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The young guard holds his automatic rifle off his right shoulder.

His black pants are tucked into shiny black military boots, neatly laced.

He commands us to form a single line, a single line.

For the love of God, form a single line, I said.

His hand rubs the stock.

º

Suddenly he finds the gate opening out of his control, from the other side.

He calls for our steady stream to have tickets in hand.

The man before me shifts his box to one shoulder as he is stopped for his.

Hurriedly I dig mine out of my pocket & the guard allows me to pass.

º

People run the half-length of platform to where our cars await on Track Nº 5.

They wobble under the weight of heavy bags & boxes,

laughing at the insanity of the rush.

& even I find myself picking up my gait to the closer car.

º

Sunlight dodges the platform roofs

& finds its way into my window open to the morning.

In the engineless passenger cars on Track Nº 4,

I see a man sweeping the length, followed by another swaying a mop.

On the other side of us clangs the bell of El Jarocho’s locomotive

dieseling alone into the railyards, abandoning its red-striped blue cars.

º

& on the platform between, a young cat ochre & white sits alone.

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published in:

Synchronized Chaos (September 2021)

TO THE BRINK OF CENTRAL AMERICA

Veracruz to Tapachula, Mexico

30-31 January 1998

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The day train from Mexico City pulled up on the other side of this platform at 8:30 p.m., in plenty of time for this train, El Centroamericano, to be caught. Of course.

(The other day I had taken that very same train – and arrived just in time to miss this one.)

One platform down, the night run bound for that City awaits its passengers.

Both trains are brightly lit.

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And now this is it for me, on board El Centroamericano, bound for Tapachula. This is the most infamous of the Mexican hell trains (according to the guidebooks). A pure second-class ride, it is said to be, with cars in poor repair, running eternally late – and lots of theft.

Well, this is a pure second-class train. When I bought my ticket, there was no option for any other class.

This train? We are just two unlit passenger cars, a freight box, one locomotive. Old second-class cars these are, too. The linoleum is torn up – vinyl upholstery peeling off seats – many cracked windows. The vestibule doors are tied open.

And how much trust should one have? The conductor has his bag chained to an overhead rack.

But there’s plenty of room for me to put my ol’ canvas knapsack, Rocinante, at my feet. I settle into my window-side seat, putting my feet atop her. My morral (woven shoulder bag) is tucked aside me. Within it is everything I need to have on hand: water, a bit of food, a flashlight, bandana, toilet paper … and of course, this journal and pen.

Well, just say a quick one to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. And have faith, have faith ….

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Oh, but when I think about when I first considered taking this train in November ’88. In those days, it left from Mexico City, not here, Veracruz. No-one knew when tickets would go on sale. Waiting and waiting in the growing madness downstairs in the second-class area of Mexico City’s Buenavista Station. Watching the boxes and bundles mound. The roosters crowing and goats bleating.

Honestly, I lost my nerve after several hours.

I went upstairs to the first class ticket window and got a passage for Oaxaca.

Last winter, I rode the other hell train here in Mexico – to Mérida. It wasn’t that bad of an adventure. But that 24-hour ride lasted, oh, some 46 hours and so – and really, we all should have been in three cars instead of crammed into one sole vagón. We were so tightly packed, the armed soldiers couldn’t even do their requisite searches at each station. Ah, but that all is another travel tale.

So here I am, steeled for this adventure.

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Vendors are swarming on board. The smell of their food fills the air. Babies cry in the blackness. The last boxes and bundles are tied down. A few passengers are already asleep, not disturbed by the warning horn.

As we pull away, the platform lights checkerboard across my journal. Soon they disappear. I continue to write by flashlight.

We click and rock through the railyards, starting this southbound journey. One that begins – and is supposed to end – at night.

A journey that will carry me near the Guatemala border, the brink of Central America.

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*       *       *

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Once the danger of thrown rocks has passed, I open my curtain-less window to the night and its smells. The heaviness of rain. The stale hops of beer. An overwhelming perfume of a night flower or a woman aboard this train. Then, that scent of rain that once was or is yet to be.

A near-new moon dangles in the cloud-shadowed sky. Was it last night it was just the barest of a sliver? I don’t know if it’s waning or waxing. The days and months flow and weave into a blur of past, present, future ….

That sweet perfume swells again. The smell of burning brush leaves a bitter taste on the tongue.

Past a cemetery, ghostly white in the dark.

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At Paso del Toro, we stop for a few more passengers. I watch a man sitting in his house, in a fine-carved chair. He sips a drink through a straw. The colors of his TV set play across his face, across the photos hung crooked on a papered wall.

And once again, we quickly rattle through countryside silhouetted against the night.

Almost 11:30 p.m. – I am awakened by the jerk of this train, the hiss of brakes, by the bright station lights of Tierra Blanca falling in my face, and the hurried hushed voices.

And by the women who are swarming aboard. ¿Quiere café con leche? ¿Quiere gorditas a un peso? ¿Quiere atole de arroz? Gorditas – ¿quiere gorditas? Nescafé caliente, el Nescafé. ¿Cuántos?

More passengers come aboard, carrying rope-bound boxes upon shoulders, shoving heavy sacks down the aisle with their feet. The search for an unoccupied seat becomes more difficult.

The one beside me is taken. Soon, that man’s steady breathing, gentle snore drifts on this night.

I catnap. At 12:15 a.m., the cars jump back as the locomotive is reattached. At 12:20, I hear the horn blow and the muted rails of our departure.

All night we speed like a bat out of hell through the darkness. We stop once or twice for a freight train. Its passage rocks these cars. The stops at towns.

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*       *       *

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Daybreak, Jesús Carranza – Fog hangs thick, wet. The moisture beads upon the heavy growth that edges a placid river.

The Isthmus of Tehuantepec is swirled in early morning mists. The yellow lights of distantly scattered houses pierce the haze.

A man on horseback herds dozens of cattle down a dirt road. His dog runs, legs lifting off the red soil, rounding up the strays.

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What few villages there are we don’t stop at. Instead, we continue on at a fast clip through the clearer countryside under blue skies. The mountains to the north are still cloaked. We follow a river that occasionally tumbles into rapids and waterfalls. Sometime after a heavy rain, it had broadened to leave still, deep pools behind.

The vestibules are full of boxes of bananas, sacks of oranges.

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Matías Romero, Oaxaca – Breakfast comes with the women, dark hair pulled back, clean dresses worn and torn. Champurrado, atole, chilis rellenos, pollo.

A man enters with two wooden cages. From each of three compartments stick out the bright phosphorescent green of rooster tails, the short, rounded tails of hens.

We wait here for a long time, no engine hooked up. Yet, at either end, disconnected ones hum.

Birds peck along the stone bed. A boat-tailed grackle, feathers blue-black in the sun. The pigeons, neck feathers magenta-green.

The women’s sing-song sales cease to fill the carriages.

At 9:15 we finally leave. Now one large, two smaller engines pull us forward.

The distant mountains are clear.

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Late morning, Ixtepec – The line splits for Tapachula, and for Salinas Cruz where no trains go any longer.

I slept until here, leaning my head against the window. The warm wind blew through the cracks of the pane and the loose strands of my hair.

The air and landscape are a bit dryer here. The sun bright, but not quite bleaching the sky as it does in Central America.

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Juchitán – Women board with crockery urns, handles tied together. Their long skirts almost sweep the ground. Embroidered huipiles hug their large breasts. They cradle long sheaths of flowers in their arms. The blossoms are towel-wrapped to protect them from the heat and dust.

Doña Teresa asks me if the now-empty seat next to me is taken. She rests her flowers upright between her legs.

(I feel as if I am in a Diego Rivera painting …)

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~  ~  ~  Musical Interlude   ~  ~  ~ 

Two pieces of thin wood shims, held together at one end, slapped together in the quick rhythm of a fast-travelling train.

A metal rod as a counterpoint.

Continue this rhythm until Chahuites, Oaxaca …

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We enter between low cerros seared brown in this dry season. The brush is charred by wildfires.

The thick scent of doña Teresa’s azucena fills the noon. Her high-boned cheek rests on an up-turned hand. Bright pink ribbons braid into her almost-pure-white hair.

Along a dry riverbed, cows seek the shade of small-leafed trees.

One of the roosters within here crows – and another further back in our car.

The mountains have disappeared from the west.

Past mango orchards bronze-tipped with the coming of fruit. Their flowers have fallen away.

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Chahuites, Oaxaca – Doña Teresa leaves, embracing her bouquet.

Those mountains to the west rise and retreat again. Then flatlands stretch out to the unseen sea. The Eastern Sierra rises higher, stronger.

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About 3 p.m., we enter Tonalá. The sun is fierce, almost blue-white. We are here nigh-on an hour. The engines are refueled.

Is it my imagination, or do I smell the sea?

This ride isn’t all that hellish. Except for the bathrooms. But, honestly, after having to go in mere holes in the ground, you can really appreciate the luxury of these. No worse than an old outhouse.

Our sister train, north-bound, arrives. A few minutes later – five to four – we continue south.

I have a moment’s view of a laguna and the aroma of salt air.

Ejido La Polca – The train suddenly slows as we are leaving here. Piglets scatter from the tracks. I hear their squealy grunts.

A broad expanse of water appears again, dotted with heavily treed islands. Laguna La Joya. High hills rise along its southern shore. Cattle graze on the pasture plain.

For a while, we ride along its edge. The late-afternoon sun shines blindingly off its smooth surface. A great blue heron stands stoically in the shallows. Ducks swim away from our clatter.

I swipe my forehead. My fingers blacken.

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Morrón – A village at the sea’s edge. Music plays from the store at the station. Under the shade of the porch roof, men sit, sharing liters of beer. Canoes and launches lie beached upon the shore.

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It’s just a lazy Saturday afternoon. It has been all along the way. Classrooms are abandoned. Children stop their play to wave at us.

A woman scrubs clothes on a washboard. Women hug babies on hips. A woman watches out the door of her store.

A basketball game here. In another village, families sit under the shade of trees, watching a soccer game. Their eyes turn from the blue and white uniforms to us as we rattle by. Or a volleyball game on a sandy street.

To the east, the Chiapan highlands touch the clouds.

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 *       *       *

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The shadows begin to lengthen and the sun to golden. The sky, the Sierra, the clouds become tinged with pale lavender. The air cools. The sky-horizon turns  toorange-rose, to magenta. A bare-limbed tree fills with white egrets.

Two men pedal hard, pedal fast down a country lane.

We clatter over a bridge spanning a silty river. Brown-skinned boys splash in the water.

º

Within this car, a mother holds her daughter. They watch the mountains tower, rake the sky. A husband cradles his wife’s head in his lap. They talk in hushed voices.

A thickened crescent moon boats across the greying sky. The perfume of flowers swells in the dusk. The smell of brushfires slashes the anochecer. Electric lights from homes gleam bright yellow. The landscape falls into black. The sunset colors fade as the heavy blue twilight settles.

Again … and again the scent of flowers.

The train inside is once more blackened, except for the play of passing village lights. Our engine’s lamp cuts a path through the new night. The conductor’s flashlight dances across the ceiling, across the walls, as he collects the fares of new passengers.

A thousand stars stud the sky.

º

I awaken at a town stop. The conductor gets up from his seat, from the embrace of his sweetheart. Sigue, sigue a Tapachula, he shouts. He impatiently paces the aisle, flashlight beam bouncing on the ceiling, the floor, the tired faces.

I look at my watch. Five after ten. A bit over an hour behind schedule.

We pull away, past glimmering rivers and ponds. I gaze at the stars, now several tens of thousands.

Out on the horizon is the brightness of our destination. Finally I shall be standing on the brink of Central America.

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published in:

Ají Magazine (Fall 2022, Issue 17)

RIDING AN ENDANGERED EAGLE

A copy of the rail map the FFCC de México used to give away, with most of the rides I’d taken marked. © Lorraine Caputo

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The train between Mexico City and Nuevo Laredo was called the Águila Azteca (Aztec Eagle). Within a year of this ride, this passenger train service – along with dozens upon dozens more – would disappear forever.  

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_       _       _

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11-12 December 1996

Nuevo Laredo to Mexico City (2ª clase)

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When I hit Laredo this December afternoon, heat distorted the sidewalks. A bank clock flashed 91ºF … 33ºC.

Under a bridge on the Mexican side, between downtown and the train station, traffic was tied up by a demonstration holding banners.

I now have my ticket for Mexico City. Since I last took this train seven months ago, the price has increased about 25 percent.

 

*

 

We board the train. Everyone bustles to find a place – even the cucurachas.

But for over an hour our departure is delayed. A US cargo train must go by first. And that train is long with car after sealed car of automobiles, their chrome and headlights gleaming through the perforated metal sides. That train’s breeze cools the early evening swelter.

 

As we leave Nuevo Laredo, the sound of beaten drums passes alongside us. A procession slowly wends the trackside road. A large banner of the Virgen de Guadalupe flutters. Houses flash with the multicolor of Christmas lights.

 

*       *      

 

I awaken to the deep darkness of night. Out onto the vestibule I walk and hang over the half-door. The sky is so black and full of stars dusted with the Milky Way.

 

*       *       *

 

Day will be breaking soon here, near Saltillo. The sky begins to lighten a bit … then brightens and clears with the rising sun ready to top the mountains rimming this desert.

 

*       *       *       *

 

South of La Maroma, we click by a field of goats leaping into the air.

A little brother and sister hang over the seat in front of me and pop back beyond.

The boy reappears

How old are you, I ask him.

Five, he answers, his short fingers of one hand raised.

No-o-o-o, I tell him.

He disappears.

His sister shows her head

How old are you?

Four. She forces the thumb down and that fourth finger up.

And your brother?

Dos, she says, quickly flashing two fingers.

She, too, then disappears.

 

*       *       *       *       *     

 

We take a mid-afternoon break in San Luis Potosí. The train is cleaned, supplies reloaded, more passenger cars hooked up.

After a while I begin to wonder if I really am on this train …

Pepe’s parents ask him to sit next to me. His mother wants to put up her bare feet swollen by nine months of pregnancy. The two-year-old pouts.

I offer a mandarin if he comes. He grabs the bright orange ball from my held-out hand and hides behind his mother’s knee.

Thank the señora, his parents urge.

But he only pouts more.

In a while he comes hanging over the seat in front.

Oh, now you have a smile, I tell him. What a miracle!

He laughs and disappears.

 

Leaving this city, we pass a neighborhood wall painted with a huge portrait of Che Guevara.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *

 

The new conductor sits beside me. He, too, is a poet – somewhat. But he loves poetry. He recites one by Amado Nervo as the countryside clatters by.

The first lieutenant father offers me a banana. The children are looking at me. I begin monkey-talking. They erupt into giggles.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

 

The trees of Escobedo are full of garzas. On this side of the station, a young boy in a bright purple soccer uniform kicks a ball. He carries a large plaid bag in one hand.

The sun begins to set. The sky around it is red-orange and purple.

 

We near Mexico City, swooping fast to make up lost time, bypassing station after town. The lights of that metropolis spread wide through its valley.

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published in:

Litro UK – Online Travel & Lifestyle (22 October 2022)

 

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Ready to take more great Mexican train rides?

Get your free eBook poetry collection

Abandoned Tracks – Volume 1 : Northern Mexico

INTO THE CHACO

Today we shall take a train in eastern Bolivia, from Santa Cruz to Yacuiba on the Argentine border. photo © Lorraine Caputo

23-24 November 1998

Santa Cruz de la Sierra to Yacuiba, Bolivia

I.

Calling vendors wander this short train. Small net bags of mangos, oranges, apples dangle from wrists. A man leans into each platform-side window: Chicken, chicken for your family, chicken for your children.

Out the window of the only primera clase car, a young Mennonite woman peers. A straw sun bonnet partially shades her stern face. A scarf-headed girl, a blond-haired boy crowd her legs.

The station bell tolls. The locomotive horn blows. More passengers hurriedly board, amid last-minute kisses & chao’s.

Five o’clock p.m. en punto, the final clang … & the slow, slow pull-away of our train … out of the station’s cool shade, into bright sunlight. The deep muffled clunk-click across wooden ties. The echoing squeals around curves into switches that will lead us into the Chaco & south towards Argentina.

Already many drift into sleep or day dreams, into bored stares. Outside, the human world stops. Children wave, dogs bark. Plastic bags caught on bushes & barbed wire fray in the wind. Fires smolder. Birds take flight at our passage.

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II. Sunset

The clicking clunk, the echoing squeals across miles of prairies. Sandy soil billows at our heels. The seeded tops of grasses are transparent in the sun nearing the summits of once-distant hills. Swirls of cirrus clouds gather lilac & orchid & snow-tinged honeysuckle.

We stop at & leave Totaicito, & its wattle-&-daub homes. Bib-overalled Mennonite men file through this car. Women & children vendors continue to wander the aisles with baskets.

A señora in the section beyond the mid-car vestibule reads a large Bible in her lap. Her lips softly voice the passages.

This sunset brightens the pale sky in periwinkle & orange. A chorus of cicadas raises its low song.

In Zanja Honda, dusk is darkening the village & plains. The thin sliver moon silvers the deepening blue sky.

The now-tarry-green brush still scrapes the side of this train. Sparse-leaved trees & ragged horizon silhouette against the rose & gold & indigo.

We pass over yet another broad dry river, its light sand paler against this new night. Hundreds of stars float around that crescent-boat moon. The whorp-whorp-whorp of sapos drifts up from the swamps.

As evening nestles us, we slip into intimate conversations. Others fall asleep, leaning against walls. Children sprawl across seats or on the floor.

& somehow they will awaken in time, gather their belongings & step into the dim lights of their station stop.

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III. Midnight

A horse whinnies, three huge frogs hop away as we enter Charagua. The station is crowded. Women serve meals at small tables lit by oil lamps. Military police check faces. The car is blackened, except for the light of the distant station or of passing locomotives. A soft toll of the bell, a muted blast of horn. Lamps are extinguished. Dogs sniff about as we creep away. But soon we clunk-click & whoosh through the night. A column of grey smoke arcs over these cars. Our lights within & before & whirling red atop the engine mar the ebony world.

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IV. Sunrise

The land is just beginning to green & the sky to blue. Pastel colors color the east. It is not quite five. A cacophony of insect & frog song swells in the twilight.

At Tigüipa, chicks peck along the tracks. Beside the old wooden station, a man stands, hat pulled tight, dirty jeans holey-kneed. He crosses his arms against the cool morning.

& in the oriental heaven pool magenta & salmon, cascading into honey.

We zoom across lush prairies & through copses of woods. The new sunlight gilds their canopy.

By the time we arrive at Tahiguati, that yellow-blue ball is well above the horizon.

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V.

Rough dark-faced mountains rise to the west.

Villamontes – Mothers & their sleepy-eyes children enter with baskets & jugs. Hay café, empanadas, biscoti.

Leaving behind railroad workers waiting to repair beds. Leaving behind shanty homes. & back into fine-soil dust storms that seep into our cars.

Aguaraicito

Palmar Grande – A windmill stands against the cloudless sky.

Over a died-blood-colored quebrada we hollowly click-clunk. Thin rivulets of water braid.

Sunchal – A young man at the car-end door begins strumming his guitar. Goats laze in the dirt crossroads of this village.

Clang-clang, clang clang. & we roll away from the brick station, our rhythmic bumping across bleached crag-eroded soil.

Caiza

El Palmar

Now 17 kilometers from Yacuiba, less than 20 from Argentina. & yet mile upon searing mile of dense-treed savannah clicks by.

The airstrip sock is limp. Men stack bricks from out of a kiln. Forests fray into neighborhoods. The more-frequent warning horn stops that human world outside.

It is now time for me to gather my belongings & step into the bright light of morning.

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published in:

Schuylkill Valley Journal – Dispatches (18 July 2022)

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This train still operates. Check the Ferrovaria Oriental website for schedules and fares.

THE MÉRIDA EXPRESS

Taking the train from Córdoba (far left) to Mérida (far upper right)

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19 December 1997 / 6:45 a.m. / Córdoba, Veracruz

Day is just breaking. The air is cool and damp.

The Mexico City train has finally arrived … late. We, its newest passengers, stumble across the tracks where these two lone cars await their locomotive.

º

II.

I drift from out of memories of the dream I had before awakening at four to catch this train.

We pass by kilometers of tassling sugar cane. The morning mist swirls over blades of cane and around flowering mango trees, around banana trees, around orange trees heavy with fruit.

A man sings a ditty, holding up boxes of vitamins: “Oh, you can have a woman so beautiful. Oh, but on the inside she could be oh, so sick. And with these vitamins… Only ten pesitos…”

Teenage girls giggle at his comments. Men snigger and sneer.

But as this vendor walks the length of the car, people pull out ten-peso notes with the face of legendary revolutionary Emiliano Zapata for those red and  black magic pills.

We now pass through a narrow valley. Sugar cane stretches out to those green mountains swathed in misty clouds. Those mountains look like mango trees. Oh, and the mango trees – like clouds. So many villages all along, houses made of scrap wood boards, of scrap tin.

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III. 10:10 a.m. /Tierra Blanca, Veracruz

The car in front of us is unhooked. Our locomotive pulls it away. The woman next to me says assuredly a third one will be added.

Into this car, more passengers flow aboard, and vendors with buckets of drink, plates of food. They can barely push by the people without seats.

The sun brightens my window as it weakly tears at the clouds. Along the ground aside our car, dogs sniff for chicken bones tossed out windows. A boy rides a donkey down the street.

Across the aisle, from the overhead rack, a father strings a hammock for his son. The young one suckles his mother’s breast.

We begin traveling again, just one car. A troupe of buzzards flies up off the tracks we approach.

Our train passes truck upon truck, railcars upon railcars overflowing with cut sugar cane. A man sits in his yard husking corn. Those mountains are now further off.

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IV. 1:15 p.m. / Approaching La Palma

We’re traveling through a huge patchwork of various shades of green and different textures. Fields of pineapples, fallow fields, pastures.

At the side of the tracks, zopilotes casts their shadows over a dead cow. We clack past small towns of cabañas, palm-thatch roofs. Their cane-slat walls are stuccoed and rarely painted.

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V. 3:15 p.m. / Los Tigres

It’s still 45 kilometers to Medias Aguas, about an hour away. The train stops briefly at this station in the middle of flatlands.

Two women come aboard with large baskets filled with tacos and chilis rellenos. The train’s porter follows right behind, selling soft drinks and beer.

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VI. 5:37 p.m. / Stopped south of Medias Aguas, in the middle of nowhere

On this train is a young man, his hair greying already. He wears four layers of filthy shirts beneath a holey sweater. His pants are several sizes too big and held up with a rope. The tennis shoes are mismatched, one held together with a string tied around the sole.

It’s going to be a long night – no lights in this car, that screeching kid, and the humidity.

Dusk has fallen. People rush to move their belonging down from the racks to the floor, in front of their seats.

The trees are getting restless. I wonder if a storm is a-coming.

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VII. 8 p.m. / Just past Chinameca, Veracruz

I am awakened by a conversation between a woman from Chiapas sitting next to me and a man in the aisle. I am held by the edge in her voice and his replies.

“It’s a disgrace how they treat us passengers,” she says.                               

“Indeed, it is,” he replies.

“Not giving us another car, making us squeeze into this one. Especially when there are so many people traveling now with the holidays.”

“Yes,” the señor says.

“But there aren’t any extra cars. They’re using them all to transport soldiers to the south.” Since the Zapatista uprising in her home state, many troops have been mobilized in that region.

“No, you don’t have that right,” the man states firmly. “It’s to transport soldiers and federales to the north, to Chihuahua, to fight against the narcotraffickers.”

“No, to move soldiers to the south.”

“No. It isn’t as simple as that. It’s much more complex.” He spits on the ground, leaving a mark on his pant leg.

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 VIII. 20 December / 7:30 a.m. / Macuspana, Tabasco

This is my second dawn upon this train that once more is nothing more than the lightening of a clouded sky and still the steady light rain. The morning mists swirl around the jungle-covered mountains. The sun is beginning to break through the clouds. Canes and vines brush against our train.

We pass a village of rough-board, tin-roofed houses.  Turkeys waddle in the yards. One fans his ragged tail wide.

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IX. 11:43 a.m. / Tenosique, Tabasco

We have been stopped here now for 20 minutes. A whole chorus of women’s voices – from young girls to abuelitas (grandmothers) – chant their noonday offerings.

A musical family boards. Father plays guitar and sings. A son plays güiro and takes tips. Someone plays an electric keyboard, drowning out the rest of them.

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X. 3:33 p.m. / Don Samuel, Campeche

I chuckle as we pass the primary school named after Emiliano Zapata. (Again he appears during this train journey.)

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XI. 5:38 p.m. / Wherever

It’s now my second dusk upon this train is about to fall.

Some say we will be in Mérida about 2 a.m., others say no, 9 or 10 a.m. We’ll see … we’ll see …

We had been passing through the heavily wooded, rolling flatlands of Campeche State. Sometimes we dip into a cut through these low hills.

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XII. 7:40 p.m. / Campeche City

We’ve just pulled into here. According to the train schedule, it’s four more hours to Mérida. But if this trip so far is any indication …

A group of soldiers come aboard and begin checking baggage. Their lights flash across the ceiling. I look out the window. More soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders walk the platform.

I quietly ask another passenger, “Why is there so many of them?”

In the darkness, comes the answer. “They’re looking for drugs and other contraband. If you look suspicious, they’ll haul you and your belongings off.”

The vendors rush on with heavy baskets and jugs. As the soldiers leave, people stare after them.

With a stomach full of tamales and pineapple juice, I snuggle down for a nap. We leave Campeche at 8:15, finally with a second car.

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XIII. 21 December / 3:35 a.m. / Mérida, Yucatán

I found an open eatery just around the corner from the station. A cup of coffee warms my hand.

The train for Izamal, my final destination, leaves at 6 a.m.

We arrived here at 3:05 a.m. – 44 hours later – and over 17 hours late.

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published in:

Lowestoft Chronicle (Nº 50, Summer 2022)

NEW PUBLICATIONS : Poetic and Travel – December Solstice 2022

Happy December Solstice!

As summer is beginning here in the Southern Hemisphere and winter officially starts in the Northern Hemisphere, it is time for another quarterly round-up of my recent publications.

Indeed, my poetry and travel writing continue to appear in journals and on websites around the world – this quarter, in India, the US, Austria, Hong Kong, and the UK.

Spend this December solstice browsing through the list (with links) below, poetically journeying to Venezuela, the Galapagos Islands, the US, Ecuador, Colombia, Mexico, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras, and Uruguay …

… and destinations within my self / Self …

Added features this month include my artwork and photography being featured in several publications … and several newsworthy bits & pieces …

In the realm of travel narrative and articles, we’ll be riding a train in southern Mexico and another in northern Mexico, witnessing a crowd watching a football (soccer) game in the Guatemala highlands, visiting southeastern Guatemala – and information to help you plan the ultimate road trip in southern Peru, way off the proverbial “gringo trail”!

And until we next meet …..

Safe Journeys!

Sunrise over the Condor Range (pen & ink, colored pencil) drawing © Lorraine Caputo

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NEW LITERARY EXPRESSIONS

“Mucuchíes” in PPP Ezine (Poetry Poetics Pleasure Ezine) (India) (Volume 6, Issue 10, October 2022)

“Answering Some Call” in Literary Cocktail Magazine (India) (Volume 1, Issue 2, Fall 2022) – also photography

“Chill Breeze” in Scarlet Dragonfly Journal (Special Issue – Hallowe’en 2022)

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“The Circus” in Silver Birch Press – One Good Memory Series (6 November 2022)

“After that Eclipse” and “Orisha Storm” in The Pine Cone Review (Austria / International) – Glissade: Special Issue on Dance (Issue 5, November 2022)

“In This Season of Light” in The Gift (Sweetycat Press, 2022) – anthology

“And That Rain Again” in Red Eft Review (16 November 2022)

“Spirit Suite – Étude Nº 11” (poem); “Roots” and “Talking Trees” (drawings) in fws (formidable woman sanctuary):  journal of art and literature – woodlands (issue 1, volume 1, Fall 2022)

“Delayed Journey” in 聲韻詩刊 Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine (Hong Kong) (Issue 68, December 2022)

“Lament for the Missing Moon” in Scarlet Dragonfly Journal (30 November 2022)

“Early Morning” in Panorama Journal (UK) (Issue 7 : Dawn, November 2022)

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“Escaping the Night,” “Holiday Trippers” and “Secrets” in Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal

(Tenth Volume, Winter 2022)

“Sketches of La Purísima” and “Songs of La Purísima” in Agape Review (11 December 2022)

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Besides my photography and artwork appearing in the above journals, my visual creation also have been featured :

“Fire, Water, Earth, Air” (drawing; pen & ink) and “Lilac Moon” (drawing; pen & ink, colored pencil in Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal (Issue 11, Fall/Autumn Issue – November 2022)

“Antisana” (photography), “Sunrise over the Condor Range / Amanecer sobre la Cordillera del Cóndor,” “Parinacota,” “Puracé-Coconuco” and “Ushuaia” in Feminist Hiking Collective – 16+1 campaign (25 November – 10 December 2022)

“Autumn Night” (drawing, colored pencil) in New Feathers Anthology (3.3, Winter 2022)

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… plus a few that flew under the radar (so to speak) …

“Sojourn” in PPP Ezine (Poetry Poetics Pleasure Ezine) (India) (Volume 6, Issue 7, July 2022)

“Homeward Bound” in PPP Ezine (Poetry Poetics Pleasure Ezine) (India) (Volume 6, Issue 8, August 2022)

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AND OTHER NEWS IN THE PUBLISHING REALM

I was invited to guest edit Synchronized Chaos October 2022: A PAN-LATIN AFFAIRE.

I was shortlisted for Yellow Arrow Publishing’s 2023 Chapbook Releases.

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The view from Cerro Baúl near Moquegua – one of the incredible destinations to add to your itinerary! photo © Lorraine Caputo

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NEW TRAVEL EXPRESSIONS

Ají Magazine

“To the Brink of Central America” (Fall 2022)

Litro Magazine (UK)

“Riding and Endangered Eagle” (22 October 2022)

“The Championship Game” (5 November 2022)

Synchronized Chaos

“Quiriguá” (November 2022)

Peru Schedules

“Southern Peru | 9 Incredible Destinations You’ve Been Missing!”

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Please feel free to contact me if you need:

• an article for your publication or website

• a translation (Spanish – English) of your scholarly article or literary work

• proofreading / editing of your dissertation, book or article

I am also available to participate in literary events.

OVERNIGHT TO MONTERREY

14-15 April 1992

El Regiomontano (Mexico City – Monterrey)

~    

Welcome to the Regiomontano – a purely first-class train: several cars of primera especial, a bar car and a dining car. Behind are the sleepers. Not a second-class or first-class numbered seat (primera numerada) does this locomotive pull.

Even in here, primera especial, the floors are carpeted. The upholstered seats recline and have draw-down tables. Napkins drape the headrests. The overhead lights also work.

You can even tell you’re riding first-class-all-the-way, baby, by the Mexicans aboard here. Very light skinned (unlike their paisanos who can only afford to ride second class or primera numerada). They show their Spanish blood well.

And they wear it as haughtily as their conquistador ancestors. They don’t talk with strangers – not even of their own class. It’s very cold on this train – and not only because of the air conditioning blasting away.

This is the first time I’ll be traveling on a pure first-class Mexican train. (I normally ride in second-class or, at most, primera numerada. But I had no option on this run. Well, this should be a cultural experience.…)

~       ~  

I head to the dining car for a cup of hot chocolate or herbal tea – something to warm me. I walk through the bar car. Four young North Americans are playing cards at one table. Mexicans stand at the bar, sit at tables, sullenly downing their drinks.

The white-coated dining car waiter shows me to a table. I hold a cup of coffee (no tea, no chocolate) in my left hand, feeling the heat seep into my bones, move throughout my body. The landscape silently slips by on this smooth ride.

After a while, a man and a woman are seated with me. The poet, Darío Manuel Ehecatl (Nahuatl, meaning the wind) begins reading aloud from his collection-in-process: Amor. Long, repetitious, aimless in their imagery.

But how could I insult this great poet?

He shows me his previous book, Démosle la Palabra a la Poesía. I begin reading the poems of living in the city and reconnecting with the earth, with one’s self, with god. Impressive. Then comes a whole slew of love poems. The more I read them, the more I am reminded of the feeling, the sensibilities US poet Kenneth Koch evokes.

He’s never heard of him.

I tell him that I, too, am a poet. “May I share some with you? But I write only in English.”

“Well, I don’t read English,” he says and excuses himself to return to his sleeper car cabin.

I spend a while yet here, chatting with the workers as they close down the dining car. Then I, too, return to my seat.

The bar car is still jammed.

~      ~      ~     

The chill of the desert night is beginning to mix with the air conditioning. I wrap my sleeping bag around me.

Until the bar closes at midnight, drunken people stumble to their seats. A woman I saw back there draining glass after glass now bottlefeeds her baby.

~      ~      ~      ~     

In the middle of the night, I have to toss my sleeping bag aside. The heat has been turned on. This is another sign that this is a pure first-class ride. (Cars of the lower ticket classes very rarely have heating – let alone air conditioning.)

~      ~      ~      ~      ~     

As we near Monterrey, the black-vested, white-shirted porters begin collecting rented pillows and the headrest napkins.

And, of course, as befits the first-class traveler, we arrive a few minutes ahead of schedule.

(And, indeed, this was a cultural experience. I think I’ll stick to the lower classes.)

published in:  Potato Soup Journal

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Ready to take more great Mexican train rides?

Get your free eBook poetry collection

Abandoned Tracks – Volume 1 : Northern Mexico