Hunka Hunka Burning Junk
The lonely brown station wagon was parked along the main street beside a small Zapateria. The car had a $ sign neatly painted in white peeking out the back window. It had that ‘freshly cleaned’ look even with the sand blasted side panels. The store was overflowing with neatly aligned shoes, on narrow shelves lining all four walls reaching the ceiling. Remarkably, there was cellophane wrapped tightly around every single shoe, and only the left shoe was displayed. I did wonder why these shoes had coverings yet the local grocery store didn’t bother to wrap their mounds of unrefrigerated meat?
The loud voices from a Spanish soap opera escaped the doors and a young man sat watching a portable TV with rabbit ears. He didn’t offer assistance when I walked in. The miniature size of this store was impressive housing so many shoes. In my best Spanish I said, “Hola.” He returned the gesture with a huge smile. I pointed to the car parked outside his window - a mere four feet from where we stood. I traced my finger in the air to outline a dollar sign and a question mark. He wrote the price, 2200, on a small scrap of paper. I quickly calculated the price divided by three (the exchange rate of that summer day in 1993) and came up with $700.00 usd. Finally, a car I could afford and way less than my original budget.
Having just moved to town with three kids in tow, I soon discovered there were no used car lots. Cabo is a small fishing village without the need for used car lots. Boats, however, were everywhere. In our search for a car, we did find a large boat yard with all different sizes of boats in various stages of repair. A boat cemetery, with faded hulls and bleached out names like ‘El Dorado,’ ‘Gone Fishin’ & ‘Play Me.’
We quickly realized we had to chase down cars that had white ‘$’ signs painted in the back windows. This made it easy to decide what to chase and what not to chase by looking at the condition of the car. My budget was limited, and expectations of what $2000 US dollars could buy, was soon in the gutter. In the meanwhile I had borrowed a friends Pinto (you remember … the car that could explode for no reason) we affectionately called the Yellow Banana. I only had to get the oil changed as a small token payment for being allowed to use it. There was one stoplight in town (when it worked) all dirt roads had potholes the size of craters, stop signs - that no one obeyed - and roaming packs of dogs everywhere. If we didn’t find a car soon and bottomed out the Pinto, I’d own the Yellow Banana!
It took some difficulty finding the oil and lube place which conveniently doubled as a car wash. Looking around this little establishment you could see how enterprising they were - they sold sodas from a small cooler and a small stack of ham sandwiches roasting to salmonella in the hot sun. Full service. I couldn’t speak a word of Spanish so I pointed to an oil spot on the dirt and hit the hood of the car several times and the guy seemed to know exactly what I wanted. While the kids and I waited, a car drove up with a large white $ sign painted in the window. Slowly I picked my wilted body up from the only sliver of shade to see about this car for sale. Shade was precious and rare and the kids sat cozied up to share the relief. I couldn’t believe the stamina these young Mexican men had to endure the suns rays nonstop all day without much rest.
“NO Mom, not THAT car!” the kids yelled in unison. True, it did look like a wrecker’s salvage. A large beast of steel, four door, 70’s old and rusted through so badly you could not tell what color it had ever been. The tires looked new enough though. A Mexican blanket covered most of the foam spilling out of the front the back seat. Even so, I was desperate to be done with the Yellow Banana.
The young girl understood my ‘caro venta,’ while pointing to the painted $ sign in the window. She wrote 3000 on a piece of paper. Quickly I figured out the exchange rate, three to one, and was excited at the price only being $1000 usd – half my car budget. I decided to take it for a spin to check how the engine sounded - as if I’d really know whether it was running well. After settling in behind the wheel, trying hard to not breath in the foul musty smell, I pointed to the ignition area asking for the key by motioning twisting my wrist back and forth. The girl, not much older than my daughter Toni, aged 12, said, “Nada.” It didn’t have a key. She reached over my shoulder and turned the silver ignition piece and the car started. Amazing really.
Could this be a stolen car? Even without the key I figured they wouldn’t have to worry about it ever being stolen again. I didn’t bother with the test drive, thanked her and went back to our little piece of shade to wait while the Pinto finished its oil change. The shade barely gave relief from the extreme heat and we sat waiting for what seemed forever, in silence. The heat seems to take away your words.
Back to the brown wagon story … Mr. Zapeteria dug the key out of his pant pocket and we walked out to the car. He was talking quickly in Spanish, likely giving me the reasons to buy his car. The wagon was only missing a few things … a radio, rearview mirror, the speedometer and back door handles. Heck, it was clean and sported brand new diamond studded ceiling upholstery. At this point I was desperate to return the Yellow Banana before some chunk of money was needed to repair it.
He opened all four manual crank windows hoping some air would take the heat out. Sitting comfortably in the drivers seat I started the car on the first turn of the key – this was a good sign of a well-maintained engine. After driving around the block I could hardly contain my excitement to finally find a car. I wouldn’t even try to bargain him down – not one peso. “Si,” I said and dug around in my purse for some money to leave as a deposit. Borrowing his pen, I circled the 2200 on his scrap of paper. “Two thousand US dollars,” He said in nearly perfect English, stressing the US dollar part. I tried to explain that I thought it was 2200 pesos and got nowhere fast. It had keys, a cloth interior, the engine started right away and we could live without a radio and speedometer. I did wish it had air conditioning! The car seats were fabric so we wouldn’t get leg burns from the sun scalded vinyl seats like the Yellow Banana. I liked it. One odd thing stood out though – it had California plates and a Mexican registration. Somehow I knew this sticky little detail was to be a problem sooner or later. Absolute frustration was the deciding factor to buy this car right then and there from a nice smiling shoe salesman for a about $1500.00 OVER asking price. His lucky day!
The police station turned out to be a full service institution – register your car, buy license plates and driver licenses, pay fines, stay over night, etc… Yes, just being inside a police station intimidated me. The movies do not even come close to imitating the real look and feel of a Mexican police station with the jail cells in plain sight. The walls have years of filth covering peeling plaster, a long counter of smooth cement with bullet hole chips (no kidding). An old-fashioned manual typewriter sat on the counter ready to seal your fate, and two real live cops holstering guns, standing behind the counter. People lined up to do their business including me.
When my turn finally came, handing the documents to the officer, I explained what I could about needing to register a car and get new license plates. The officer led me outside to check over the car and match the documents, which were a bunch of crumpled worn papers with official stamps all over them. He walked around the car twice studying it carefully. Finally, he read the documents over several times then cracked a smile pointing to the license plates saying, “Nada Placas en Cabo.” He didn’t comment at all about the California plates and Mexican papers which obviously didn’t match each other. I kind of understood his Spanish saying there were no Cabo license plates available and to come back later. I wondered whose California plates I had but he didn’t seem to care. I left the police station feeling like I really accomplished something – it only cost $10.00 usd to transfer title into my name. I couldn’t contain my excitement to get home and show the kids our new car. They instantly HATED it even after I pointed out the seats were fabric and in great shape!
I knew it was very important to get a mechanical inspection before we ventured north to La Paz, the little city a two hours drive, through the hellish desert heat along a narrow dangerous highway. My luck was getting better and the local mechanic was on the dirt bi-pass road. It was a little difficult to find the mechanic’s but it soon gave itself away with the many junkyard car parts haphazardly displayed around the dirt yard. Oil cans and other types of trash piled atop each other with a small tin roof overhead for a brief reprieve from the sun. He did have a big hole dug into the ground, I guessed for oil changes, half filled with water from the last rain. His scrawny horse was tethered to the small cement abode with a narrow door and tiny window opening. We couldn’t really communicate with each other but he understood I needed a full inspection of the car, checking all the gadgets and fluids. He wrote 70 in big numbers, I divided by three and calculated $23 US dollars – fair for a full inspection.
Later that day I made my way back to his little repair shop and it looked like the car had not even moved from where I had originally parked it. He repeated, ‘Manana’ several times. I knew this meant the next day or something like ‘just not today.’ Something simple like having a car checked turned into the chore of a lifetime! Heck, he could have offered me his horse.
Three days of pestering, he was finally finished proudly saying, “Perfecto.” What a relief to know that I could buy a decent car. The only problem was he made me pay $70.00 usd – I knew as I was paying him that I was being royally taken, yet again.
The long list of school items could only be purchased in La Paz. “Do not drive at night,” was the standard warning given when I asked around for directions. The plan was to drive up and spend one night there, shop for school clothes and maybe even take in some sights. We were excited to go to a city with a real shopping center and a movie theatre, even a Chinese restaurant. The car was packed light, a change of clothes and a small cooler with drinks and sandwiches. A picnic along one of the Pacific’s endless beaches sounded like fun, even to me. The gas station attendant washed the windows, filled us up and off we went on our first Baja driving adventure.
It is interesting to note that September is, in fact, peak hurricane season and I was the only person in Cabo who did not know this. (This was the summer of 1993 – no google!) I was smart enough to think through a few details for driving through the desert in the extreme heat was worthy of some safety considerations, i.e. bring water.
The drive was slow and tedious, curving along a narrow two-lane highway and hilly with terrible blind spots. We didn’t see anyone coming or going from either direction for many miles. The craggy mountainside peaks outlined the horizon, appearing like sleeping giants lying atop one another. Cactus forests dotted every square mile as far as we could see and the sandy coastline was thumping with gigantic waves. At times we could feel the car shake! All four windows were rolled down as far as possible and the hot air flowing throughout the wagon did nothing to cool us down.
A few skinny cows along with a few goats and donkeys added to the hazards of driving. Groups of them would graze what little vegetation sprouted through the tar and sand alongside the highway. The boys, aged 10 and 5, were obviously feeling the heat and had stopped their generally noisy wrestling matches. Seeing herds of bony cows inspired a conversation around good nutrition. The first dead animal we saw, and smelled, alongside the road grossed us all out. With every dead sighting we sang, “EWWW, Grosssss, Stinkyyy,” louder and in harmony each time we’d drove by a carcass. To pass the time along, we made up a great new game of ‘who can spot the dead animal first.’ We quickly learned the first clue for spotting something dead on the highway ahead was the kettle of circling vultures! Big and black and fat, these amazing birds loved dinnertime in the desert with so many choices on the menu. Good family fun!
The ominous black clouds hovered the horizon and over the mountains not too far off in the distance. So dark and heavy, I had never seen such a sky before. These clouds were moving quickly towards us at the same time we were driving right into them. What should I be more afraid of - the narrow roads, highway grazing animals, banditos (Too much TV) or the hostile weather front now closing in fast?
“Mom, the car’s on fire!” Toni and her brothers squealed in unison. Smoke spilled through the vents so quickly we were choking on it. Thank God I was on a flat piece of highway just at this moment and pulled over as far as possible without sinking our new car into the soft sand. “Everybody out of the car and grab what you can from the back,” I commanded. Out I jumped while searching for the hood latch somewhere near the break pedal. The kids scurried out with the cooler and backpacks, making their way as far from the car as possible. I found the hood latch but was so scared to open the hood thinking the whole car might explode any second. The smoke was squeezing through the outline of the hood and I could hear the flames licking the roof. I fumbled for the hood latch, finally opened the hood only to find it was missing the hinge to hold it upright so it fell backwards onto the window. I ran like hell to stand with the kids. One second later the sky opened up and the heavens gushed a glorious rainfall. The rain was quick and powerful lasting less than 5 minutes. We were soaked to the bone, a wonderful relief from the heat. We were in luck! The rain put the fire out.
The roads were abandoned in either direction. Toni whispered, “What now Mom?”
A large 18-wheeler transport truck was approaching from the direction we just came from. I tentatively reached my arm out hoping he would stop. He inched his load slowly beside the car, stopped and rolled down his window. He spoke quickly in Spanish. Of course I couldn’t make out one word. In loud English I yelled, “Can You Take Us To A Town?” He pointed at his cab, normally fit for two, and four heads popped up. I think he said he would send help and roared offed towards La Paz. I had no intention of waiting around for banditos to drive by, with three kids, on a deserted highway.
“It’ll be okay, another ride will soon come along.” I kept repeating hoping the kids would get some comfort from this quiet declaration. A drizzle of rain started up which offered us a nice reprieve from the dead air. The steam rose up from the pavement giving the illusion ghost pirates were raising from the dead. (Yes, I watch too many movies)
“Here comes a car!” Michael screamed and pointed. A taxi slowed down carefully stopping beside us. The driver leaned over his front seat passenger and spoke in rapid short spurts of Spanish which went nowhere in my brain. Getting out of his car, he quickly ushered us into his already full car. The other four passengers, an elderly couple with two young grandkids moved over, allowing us to squeeze in the back seat. The family welcomed us with warm bright smiles. A few miles later, the rain hit the windshield with a force so violent it shifted the overweight car to cross over the centerline. No need to worry about oncoming traffic because no one was driving in either direction.
Our nice driver didn’t slow down a wink during this insane rain and drove at a speed that should have hydroplaned us right into the ditch. Rivers were quickly forming, moving swiftly across the highway. Surviving being stranded in the desert, a burning car, a speeding taxi parting the thunderous rain waters now tidal waves on the windshield, in a car made for four, now burdened with eight passengers, in a foreign country, seemed only natural to wonder if we would be killed. If not a death by car crash, maybe the driver would sell the kids and me to some underground sex-slave business. Did I already say I watch too many movies?
Unbelievably, there was no rain at all in the next town over. Todos Santos is an old village, housing a few cantinas and one lonely gas station. The hurricane of 1940 something wiped out their livelihood of sugar cane and the 60’s brought some traveling flower children that still live here selling sandals made from old tires and beaded headbands. The taxi driver turned off the highway onto a sandy road and seemed to know where he was going. He stopped at an unpainted cinder block house with a large yard and a line of laundry flipping around in the small tornado dust balls kicked up from the gang of small children running around kicking a ball. A generously large woman in an apron appeared from the open doorway. Our driver spoke to her at length while pointing at us. We all crawled out from the taxi and found a large shade tree to stand under.
I handed our driver some money and whispered, “Gracias.” Big Mama yelled at her oldest, maybe around twelve years old, in a babble of Spanish and he ran off as fast as he could down the dirt street. Toni stood motionless and had run out of words somewhere back at ‘What now?’ Robyn, my stocky little athlete who took to the ocean like he was born to its grandness, stood shell-shocked with his hair dried stuck to his head from the rainwater. Michael, my baby, missing his front teeth, looking so vulnerable and so in need of a familiar moment, curled himself around my leg.
Standing under the tree, millions of tiny fleas and flies swirled around our eyes and any other place on our bodies that was damp. Our clothes were drying quickly in the intense heat, yet damned uncomfortable. A rough looking character, unshaven with a mass of matted hair, stumbled towards us. He rattled off Spanish sentences, yelling at the circle of children in the dust filled yard. The skinny kid who ran for the Dad now carried a large chain over his shoulder to a severely dented old pick-up truck. Our new mechanic guided the kids and I over to a mini-van, wildly painted in brightly colored faces. He opened the door, handed me the keys and motioned for me to follow him. His son was sitting in the pick-up ready to go. This mini-van, a disguised hippie vehicle from another time, must have an amazing history. I had no way to ask him where this van came from or who it belonged to.
The flies followed us into the hippie van, which was missing all the passenger seats except the front one. Toni sat in front while the boys sat in the back on the floor without even so much as a minor fuss letting Toni sit up front. We followed the old pick-up, backtracking along the highway to our car.
Remarkably, the roads were now completely impassable. The rain was still pounding down just a few miles from the dry dusty town we just left. Rivers flowed naturally cutting arroyos from the mountains to the ocean crossing the only pathway back to our two thousand dollar new car. We sat behind the pick-up waiting for a sign of what to do next. There were several cars behind us now waiting for the rain and the river to calm down enough to pass through. I tried to make some light conversation with the kids but got nothing in return. The chorus of hand slapping sounds, to rid ourselves of the micro fly attacks, was the only noise coming from any of us.
The mechanic motioned for me to stay put and NOT to drive through the arroyo, now a raging river. Of course I would stay on this side of river. What devotion this man has to his profession as he was taking a huge risk. We watched carefully to see if the pick-up would make it across. The rushing water rose over the top of his wheel wells (I held my breath) yet he easily made it across the other side of the 40-foot river. Other cars passed around our fancy-faced van and crept their way across the river in a game of ‘follow the leader.’
Time passed painfully slow as I scanned the distant horizon hoping to see my new favorite mechanic return. How many other rivers had formed between here and our broken down car? Finally, I saw a truck pulling a car behind him. A rush of relief swept over me to see it still had tires.
Roughly translated, my car had no water in the radiator and gaskets & other such stuff were burned out. Furious, I couldn’t wait to get back to the mechanic, whom I paid $70 US dollars to check my car out, and get my money back. My new mechanic wrote a phone number and a date to call him back in two weeks. Two weeks could be two months for all I knew. He took no money for his efforts. The fact that he had a phone was remarkable since practically no one in Cabo had one. There are two phone centers in Cabo, each one the size of a bathroom, with little stalls for privacy. I hadn’t even called anyone back home in Edmonton yet to tell how wonderful we all were. What fun paradise is!
The mechanic was nice enough to drive us to the bus station. The fish taco stand that doubled as the bus station was just closing for the day. At least the bus ticket lady was there to take our money for the ride back to Cabo. Only two other people waited for the bus. I wanted to ask them which way they were going and did anyone know what time the bus would arrive but didn’t know any Spanish. We found a shady spot and waited it out. Our little Styrofoam cooler, we had lugged around this far, had drinks and sandwiches that came in handy. Without an appetite, we nibbled on a few sandwiches and drank our sodas & waters. Waiting, sitting and standing and changing body positions, moving every time the sun shifted the shade location, we swatted flies until darkness arrived. I wondered if we would have to sleep here.
The big bus looked and sounded like the Greyhounds back home. Jerking and squealing to a stop, I counted fifteen people getting off. I quickly herded my crew to the open doorway and pushed Toni to go up the steps first. The driver stood up and motioned that there was no room for us on the bus. My day was not going to end with us sleeping at a closed fish taco stand. I pretended I didn’t understand him and pushed us through to the top of the steps, challenging him to do something about it. After all, fifteen people had just gotten off the bus – the driver took our tickets. Sure enough, I could see the bus was absolutely full to capacity, each face looking like the other, saying nothing. Bone weary, I did not care if we had to stand all the way back to Cabo.
Two young men stood up and motioned for the kids and I to take their two seats. Tears stung my eyes as I said, ‘Gracias,’ overwhelmed at their kindness. The four of us easily fit on the two seats, our cooler and backpacks on the floor in front of us. I wondered if the rain was still out there, pounding down in the darkness, making the roads into rivers. Sure enough, the rain was fearless and splashed through the permanently stuck open window, directly beside by my face.
We walked home from the bus station to our little condo only five blocks away. Amazingly, Cabo was dry as a bone. The stars shining, leaving me to wonder how on earth it could have stormed in the exact place our car just so happened to start on fire. I tucked and kissed Toni in the bed beside mine, Michael in the big bed in the boy’s room, and Robyn on the sofa. Robyn had not slept in a bedroom since our Cabo adventure started one month earlier after the ‘scorpion on the ceiling’ episode.
The mechanic was true to his word and only a few weeks later the kids and I hitched a ride to Todos Santos to pick up the ‘hunka hunka burnin junk!’