Looking out my Backdoor: Oh, for pity's sake!

Those words came out of my mouth with full exclamation stop. And nobody near with ears to hear.

Among other things in this mysterious and strange aging process, things like talking with myself, I have an emerging propensity to use phrases I have not heard since I was a child; phrases I snubbed, vowed never to let pass my more educated, sophisticated lips. Ha.

Yesterday, I returned from my week on the beach in Mazatlan. With a severe shortage of gasoline in the state of Jalisco, among other Mexican states, returning had its moments.

Mexico has a weird new president, Lopez Obrador, whom I most admire for taking a stand against government complacency and gangland corruption. More to the point of weird, he started with his own office, weird things like refusing the opulent presidential palace, sending his guards home and flying coach on commercial airlines. Weird. That kind of weird.

Seems that huachicoleros, a criminal gang by any other name, have had a payday for years beyond counting, stealing billions of pesos of oil annually from Mexico’s pipelines.

President Obrador said, “Stop it!” So the government shut down certain isolated pipelines most vulnerable to these illegal taps and diverted fuel to trucks and rail cars under heavy guard. So oil flows but by a sluggish, complicated process.

Consequently, stations which bought black market fuel are shut down. Other stations have long, long, lines of customers in cars, burning gas, creeping up to the pumps, hoping for a fill up, before tanks run empty. That is, both car tanks and gas station tanks.

So, yesterday, as I said, I returned home to Jalisco from a week on the beach in Mazatlan. Being the selfish person I am, you wonder why this gasoline “crisis” should bother me. Well, so do I; so do I.

My diesel-fueled bus goes direct from Mazatlan to Zapopan, a municipality which comprises a huge portion of Guadalajara. (From what I am told diesel fuel is readily available, a boon to public transportation, shipping and farmers.) Leo generally picks me up at the bus station for the more, or less, hour-long drive home to Etzatlan.

Leo called me, “My car broke. And there is no gasoline. I cannot come get you.” “Not to worry,” I said. “I will take a taxi.” He actually called six times trying to figure out best way to get me home. Each time I said the same. I am the only one not worried.

While on the bus, an hour out of Mazatlan, I got a call from Josue. Actually, he called four times, throughout the six hour trip. He had gas, would pick me up. Then, he did not have, did have, did not have. I said, “Not to worry. I take taxi.”

The sweet young man (They get younger every year, notice that?) who helped me with my bags after I got off the bus in Zapopan tried to convince me to take the local bus to Etzatlan.

I did that once. Cramped molded plastic seats, knees beneath chin, at least a hundred stops along the road, no exaggeration, plus stops in every tiny pueblo and hamlet along the way. Three hours later, barely able to move, I brushed off the chicken feathers and goat slobber. I really do not want to repeat that trip, ever again.

I held up my cane, pointed to my hip, said, “Mucho dolor.” The young man nodded his understanding, signaled the taxi driver next in line. Within minutes, my handsome young driver, all of fourteen, whisked me down the highway to home, a drive of forty minutes with so little traffic.

With my own eyes I got to see cars at the few open stations stacked in lines two and three kilometers in length.

So when I got home, I checked Mexican news for the straight skinny on the gasoline situation. While frustrated, most of the Mexican people I know support this short-term inconvenience in exchange for long-term benefits. Neighbors do not just jump in the jitney for every whim. Necessary trips can be managed.

In my search for information, I also discovered there is considerable worry with how the shortage in Mexico could affect the United States. The chief concern voiced in our country was that there would not be avocados for the Super Bowl parties.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.”

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].