Driving Mexican-Style

17 of October 2013

On Wednesday I skipped school for a little detour with the Kander’s homeschooling group. At nine o’clock (I finally got to sleep in past six am during the week) we went to a local watercolorist’s home to study and use his art supplies. I was invited because, well, I’m an artist- there’s something amazing about being known around for being what you want to be. As mum was taking the boys to school that morning- Kira and Delilah were sick so they didn’t go- she started the ignition of the car, but it didn’t turn over like it should. That car has elicited a trend: every two weeks the battery flops. Mum hailed one of the numerous floating-about taxis to take the boys and when she got home, we tried to figure out what to do about the car situation. We didn’t want to take a taxi all the way to Puerto, and the car had no chance of working unless we got a jump from someone; we also had the choice of just not going to the art deal. I told Mum I would’ve skipped school for no reason if we didn’t go, so she waited outside by the car for someone to drive by to give a jump start. A kind Mexican man in a big work truck with his toddler son leaning out the passenger side window like a small dog drove down from up the street and helped us out, then we got on our way.

While I’m talking about cars, here’s a quick list I want to keep track of: in Mexico, there’s less rules on the road, so one can see some pretty interesting things. So far we’ve spotted:

-A man chilling out on a couch in the bed of a truck

-A group of manual laborers standing and chatting in the bed of a truck as if they were on a street corner, or outside Starbucks

-Whole families that ride around on mopeds: the dad driving and the mum sandwiching two kids in between the parents

Water coloring was an experience- the kids in the homeschooling group are mostly of the younger ages, so the man who ran the class had to focus on helping them more than the older kids and the adults who were participating, but he did recognize that I am at a high level of painting and tweaked his critiques and pointers to advance me even further. Mum and I ran off early and drove our car to Bubba’s car shop to be fixed yet again. The shop is in a rundown area of town that no-tourist-has-ever-set-foot-in and was totally void of expats, save Mum, me, and Bubba and his father, Roger, who is doing more work on our car than his son. Then my lovely mother and I walked home to the other side of the caratera.

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