by Dan Henk
I roll into a giant traffic circle. Cars dart around me, honking their horns in impatience. It’s all one way. I can see the road I need to be on, but neighboring lanes prevent me from crossing. I jerk the wheel and head back in the direction I came. Large ranch-style buildings flood in on the roadsides. All I need is one side street! If I go back too far, I’ll end up right back where I came from. A small road opens up on my right. It’s so sheltered by a tree that I almost fly right past. I spin out in a squeal of burning rubber, pulling myself right at the last minute. One short block that looks all too familiar, and I wheel out onto the street I just left. The crumpled remains of a door lie nestled amid the sandy dross of the roadside. I reenter the road, glide past the street I turned on, and keep going. I’m traveling so fast I skid off the roadway, cleaving through the small stretch of grass in a slippery wobble. Jerking the wheel violently, I manage to pull myself right. A flash of lights and a guttural wail, and I realize I’m now headed the wrong way down a one-way street. As I roll onto the shoulder bordering the park, a truck passes with an angry roar. I slow down to thirty and keep rolling down the roadside, a succession of cars honking at me as I pass. Without even noticing, I roll into an intersection. I’m almost through when a vehicle clips my rear bumper hard. I hear squealing brakes, and manically spin the wheel as I hit the gas. A two-lane highway crops up in front and I bound onto it. Cars swarm around. I must have entered a major thoroughfare. Looking ahead, I see that the oncoming expressway forks. Left looks like it heads back toward the main artery through the city, and I angle that way. A looping roll up a small incline, and I’m back in the flow of traffic. Motorists speed by on all sides as I meander through the lanes in an attempt to reach the far right-hand side. It’s the slow lane, at least in the US, and it’ll help disguise the missing door.
This highway must pass through some park. Rows of trees throng in on the right, the somber hollow of the forest distancing me from the city lights. Hopefully I’ll be out of this metropolis and in the woods soon. The faster I’m away from civilization, the better.
CHAPTER XVII
GUERILLAS IN THE MIST
As luck would have it, I make it fairly easily through most of Mexico City. A map I glanced at weeks ago registers as a photographic record in my new form. I don’t remember specific names and details so much as a vague impression of what avenues to take. I was on Paseo de la Reforma, took a right on Al Insurgentes Centro, flowed overtop a main artery that I wanted to be on, spun around, headed down Cafe Xola, and merged into traffic on Calle Viaducto Presidente Miguel Aleman. All with the nebulous sense that I was somehow heading the right way. Apparently Mexico City is a mammoth labyrinth of overgrown buildings ensnared in a rat’s nest of roadways. Capillaries swarm in and out within an elaborate web of one-way streets, blocked off lanes, and disorienting side roads. People pop in and out of view, yelling at one another in Spanish, honking their horns, revving their engines, a whole overloaded range of misanthropic reactions. People in large cities seem to thrive off hostility, and despite the circumstances, some things apparently don’t change. Viaducto leads to Calz Ignacio Zaragoz, which lets me out on Ctra Federal Mexico Puebla, also known as Route 150, and my ticket out of here.
The cluttered structures give way to more residential dwellings as I slowly escape the city. It’s way more sprawling than any Western city I’ve been in. Large stores and warehouses refuse to give up their debasement of the land, constantly resurrecting themselves like some endless cabal.
I’m surprised my one-door pickup has lasted this long. The engine throbs heartily in a utilitarian drone, the dashboard lights glowing in an orange blur under a screen of stained Plexiglas. Wind whips through in a steady vortex, the currents from the missing door challenging the influx from the open window. Houses roll by in a steady stream of boxy shadows and pinpricks of light, the whole panorama playing like a fleeting slideshow through the gaping doorframe. The gas needle rests serenely in the middle. Half a tank—that should get me far enough. This little four-banger probably isn’t much of a gas guzzler.
Route 150 finally progresses into tilled fields, a thin barrier of trees lining both the roadside and the median. The dawn is approaching, the dark purple sky leavening into a faded grayish blue. Fog rolls in from the hinterlands, blanketing the road in a white haze. I roll past a small cluster of houses, the pint-size settlement hiding a larger industrial building in its midst. I briefly wonder what purpose it serves. The sun crests the horizon, casting a radiant sheen across the tilled fields.
The road ascends into wooded foothills, and I see more palm trees fraternizing with the pine and red gum. The lush foliage crowds in on all sides, almost smothering the road. I wish I could just pull off here and vanish into the wild, but it’s way too large a country, and I still have the smaller city of Puebla ahead of me. After that it should be smooth sailing: 150D to 145D, a turn onto 180D at the town of Minatillan, then on to 186 at Villahermosa. Once past, I should be free and clear.
The forest provides all too brief an intermission before I’m tumbling down into the depressing openness of grassy fields. A smattering of residential dwellings isn’t far behind, and I cruise by the sleepy buildings in the pale blue light of early morn. Fog clusters around the sleepy domiciles. It’s the last gasp of night, soon to be burned away by the austerity of day. Nighttime always seemed more surreal to me, the possibilities far greater. I wonder if that will continue. The strange effects that light and season have on the human body might fade. Their influences grow stronger with age in humans, but is that because of an enfeebling of the mind? Or a lack of information in youth? Children fear nothing, it seems, but given time they grow into crotchety old men that jump at their own shadow. I don’t want to be scared of the unknown, but I also don’t want to lose my array of associations that gives me a personalized outlook on the world. Some believe that all human reactions are simply an intricately stacked queue of millions of sensory experiences. That there is no free will, just the imperceptible interaction of an uncountable number of encounters. If that’s the case, with a lack of uniquely human stimuli, will I metamorphose into some insensate entity? And if true, is this necessarily a bad thing?
My pass through a few smaller towns is a breeze. The sun climbs in the sky, washing out everything. San Martin Texmelucan de Labastida is my first major worry. As I roll in, the lanes widen, traffic picks up, and a couple of the locals stop and stare. The pint- size cab provides me with a little concealing shadow in the intense splendor of early morn. I obey the traffic lights, keep my vision forward, and make it through the town without a problem. Puebla is next.
As luck would have it, Route 150D skims by the town in a swarm of four broad lanes. It’s become a bright, cloudless day, making me feel more than a little exposed. An eighteen-wheeler rumbles by on my left, followed by the clamor of a Volkswagen bug. It’s probably a ’70s model, cracking electric blue paint and whining belts testifying to a lack of TLC. The passenger is young, with a closely cropped mane of black hair and acne-scarred olive skin. He slowly turns and notices me. With a horse croak, his eyes bug out, his jaw drops, and he turns hastily around in an effort to alert the driver. I really don’t need this right now. Stepping on the gas, I draw level with the truck and harmonize our trajectories so we’re running parallel down the interstate. With a squeal of rubber and the coarse sputtering of an old diesel engine, the bug pulls out into the fast lane and attempts to round the truck. I stay level, just slightly aft of the truck cockpit, and hope those thickheaded kids won’t do anything that will further complicate my life. As if on cue, I hear their bug swerve closer. It sounds like they managed to pull in front of the truck. My suspicion is confirmed a minute later when an air horn lets out a thunderous bellow, followed in rapid succession by a piercing metallic crunch. The truck starts to jackknife, the tail end swooping forward toward my rear. I mash the gas pedal to the floor, pulling ahead just in time to see the crushed rear quarters of the bug. The splintered windshield is
covered in blood, and it’s spewing a rain of sparks as the buckled front of a Mac truck bulldozes it forward at sixty miles an hour. The cockpit of the truck starts to drop, followed almost immediately by a back end that whips around in a crescendo of flailing metal. The metal haunch crunches down on the bug, the resulting pileup blocking out all three lanes in a massive grind of rupturing metal and splintering glass. I face forward and keep driving.
Puebla was the last major city, and I now roll through endless hinterlands. The sun has passed the midpoint and is slowly dropping toward the west. Usually the days seem to pass so quickly, but ever since I lost the need to sleep, time appears to have slowed down. Maybe it’s a factor of being awake twenty-four-seven. Maybe it’s a matter of new terrain and endless run-ins that keep me on edge. Or the abrupt transitions from slow, drifting boredom to hyperactivity, and then just as quickly back to boredom again.
The arid terrain is bare for long stretches, suddenly blossoming into scant signs of civilization before giving way to wilderness again. I don’t know the distances in Mexico, but I can’t be too far from my goal. I try to piece it together with the miles I’ve traveled so far, but the route is too meandering, with too many stops.
Level savannas give way to wooded foothills as the Nissan trudges on, whining in an ever-steady pitch as it climbs the sloping roadway. The orange needle has fallen to less than a half a tank, and these inclines are only eating up more gas.
My sides proffer a splendid view. Rolling vistas of green forest, tumbling into verdant valleys, and then back up again into tree-covered summits in a flowing crescendo. The landscape pops in and out of view, seen as a radiant green through gaps in the trees.
It’s all too short an intermission as I descend from the charming backwoods into a flat prairie of subjugated fields.
I roll by the outskirts of Cordoba. The sun has dropped almost below the horizon, the falling globe a fiery ball of white nestled amidst a smoldering orange haze. Gossamer strings of gold stretch out from the core, highlighting the distant hilltops.
Serene hills and valleys pass in a subdued procession. The night is absolute out here, the heavens speckled with the light of countless stars. I flow through the endless wasteland, rolling down a moonless highway. Small clusters of households drift in and out of the night, the pale windows glittering beacons. Highway 150D turns into 145D, then eventually 180 at the small town of Ixhuatian del Sureste. The gas needle has dipped dangerously low. I really don’t want to, but I should probably steal another vehicle. I would guess I have a good two-hundred miles to go until I hit the rain forest, and there is no way this vehicle will make it that far.
The trees on the roadside recede just ahead, and I can make out the contours of a house. Slowing down, I pull off on the shoulder. A dirt lot sprawls out in front of a long, box-shaped building. There are no lights on and no cars parked in front. Off to the side, a wide unpaved road wanders into the woods. It’s a chance, but I take it. Better to run out of gas somewhere closer to a populated area than in the middle of the wilderness.
I bounce the truck slowly down the road, the trees closing in and turning the dirt path into a tunnel. I’ve traveled only a few feet when a path opens up on my left, the contours of a house visible beyond. Pulling the truck over, I turn off the ignition and quietly creep out.
The silence is nearly absolute, the night cloaking all but the hum of insects and crackle of my footfalls. No lights are on in the house, but the edges of a vehicle can be seen jutting out from the far side. Slowly I cross the open lot, every step way too loud. I feel totally exposed, no tree cover to hide behind, the starlight a dead giveaway if anyone looks out. I can make out at least two upper storey windows. I keep scanning for any glimpse of a human response. Nothing. The shadowed vehicle is an old Land Rover, a spare tire mounted on the hood. I inch over to the driver’s side and notice the steering wheel is on the right. Stupid... I forgot this is a British import. Circling around, I open the left door. The hinges squeak faintly, and I spin around to look. The house remains motionless. Ducking under the dash, I feel for the wires. I grip a cluster, but it’s too dark to make out what leads to the correct components. Fuckin A. How am I going to figure this out? I pause for a moment to think it through. I have no choice. I’ll have to break into the house.
I turn and walk to the front. Climbing two steps, I examine the door. It sports a modern brass knob. I twist it slowly, but it’s locked. Apparently nothing is easy. Taking a step back, I kick the door. The wood shatters, cleaving at the lock into a torrent of metal and splinters. I hear someone yell in Spanish, and a middle-aged man, decked out in flannel trousers, comes running down the mahogany staircase. His light skin tone and graying ponytail give me the impression he’s a foreign transplant. He’s almost halfway down before he stops and stares. He must be in his early forties, a slight beer belly expanding his waistline. Dark hair carpets his pale chest. Well, damage done. It’s not like he can do anything. If I could talk I would just ask him for the keys, but I don’t have that convenience, so I turn my back and wander toward the kitchen. I hear some more Spanish, followed a moment later by, “What the hell are you?” I turn and rotate my hand like I’m twisting a key in a lock. He just stares at me. So much for communication.
I keep wandering across the hardwood floor toward the stretch of linoleum that I presume is the kitchen. The creak of a stair hits me and I spin my head. He’s still frozen in shock, probably deliberating what a lousy move that one step forward was. Entering the kitchen, I run my hand up the wall. A flip of the switch, and the room comes to life, decorous blue tile stretching out before me. A stained round wooden table commands the center of the room, a shiny stainless fridge not far behind. And right there on the wall is a key rack. I reason the largest key, with the black- plastic-enshrouded head, is for the car. Snatching it up, I stroll back out into the entrance hall. The man has made it down to the foot of the stairs, and falls slightly aback as I walk by, still gaping in wonder. I clamber down the front steps, around the house, and over to the Land Rover. The key slides into the ignition, and with a sleepy grumble the engine fires up. Mashing the pedal, I spin out of the dusty lot and head back toward the interstate.
It’s a little strange navigating from the right side of the car, but my muscle memory clicks in faster than my instincts, and I smoothly roll out onto the road. A glance over my shoulder, and I can see the British guy has made it to the open door, witnessing my escape in silence.
A brief tramp through the woods, passing the abandoned shell of my former truck, looking more battered and abused than ever, and I’m back out on the highway. A shame I had to steal a car, but at least no one died. Back on 180, the lonely boulevard stretches out before me. A shimmering river of black, splicing a marauding swath through the wild.
Highway 180 bypasses a few rural dwellings before finally crossing over a giant body of water. I can already see the dawn creeping up. The sky hasn’t lightened yet, but it’s coming. The thoroughfare forks into 180D, bypassing the city of Villahermosa. A last outpost of civilization before the swamplands that border the rain forest. The old truck grunts and snorts, vibrating with the stress on its aging valve train. Despite the fact I can’t smell in any conventional way, I somehow sense the reek of mold. Poorly lit like all old vehicles, the round gauges glimmer through a haze of decades old grime, the ancient three-speed gearbox whining loudly with the ninety kph strain I’m subjecting it to. The floorboards vibrate stiffly, grousing like a grumpy old man. If the Land Rover can just make it to the backwoods, I’ll be happy.
The sun has yet to crest the mountains, but the sky has paled into the silvery blue of early morning as I pass Villahermosa. The truck is complaining more vociferously now. The engine cuts out in worrisome spurts, a tense moment passing before the gas reignites in a sputtering backfire that convulses the whole truck. The lights of the city drift by quickly, a flurry of houses and buildings that I largely ignore because I’m fighting with my dying truck.
Almost through the city, I look up just in time to see the avenue splitting into 180 on the left and 186 on the right. Spinning the wheel quickly, I cut off an ancient white Honda Civic in a blare of shrieking horns. I cross two lanes, jerking back at the last minute when I realize I’m heading toward the ramp for 180. The Civic pulls around me and storms by, just as my truck gives up the ghost and conks out. Vigorously flipping the key back and forth, I grind the starter as I try to reignite the engine. Nothing. Letting it cool for a moment, I coast toward the side of the road, flipping the key just as I roll onto the shoulder in a last ditch attempt. Something catches, it sputters to life, and I pull back out onto the main road just in time to see the interstate ascending onto a sizable bridge. The lanes further split into separate spans as they cross the body of water. Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, I roll forward, hoping for enough momentum to carry me up the incline. The truck makes the first few feet, slowing as it struggles up the bank, then falling into a steady rhythm as the thoroughfare levels out. Made it! In a victorious descent I ride the clutch, drifting down the other side. A few more passing buildings, and I’m out of town, sticking to the right as I round a giant oval curb and finally jettison the last major outpost of humanity. I’m almost there! This is the beginning of the Mayan area. I just need to find sufficient jungle to lose the truck and disappear.
The sun has crested the mountaintops in the east, casting a pall of misty radiance over the terrain. Stratocumulus clouds blanket the sky, shifting and twirling in a graceful billow through the heavens. The tops of trees bloom in the radiance, their green leaves stretching out to greet the incoming sun.