Monday morning I woke up with $0USD to my name. I didn't even have enough to take the guilero (antiquated commuter bus) to Sta. Rosa to teach my Monday morning class. On a prayer I jumped into my new car and hoped for enough gas to get me there. I got there, and back, I also lied: It's not exactly new. I'll explain: Last Thursday I was driving home from class when I saw a most enticing 1979 VW Microbus. Now I've always wanted a VW bus, mostly because they are amazing (
and I don't exactly fit into a Beetle.) I pull over and ask a most craggled man about the price. The man seemed to be on another planet and surely had William McKinley beat on eyebrows. He told me that it was, Mauro, his brother who I wanted to talk to and that he would be back "later". The problem was that I couldn't exactly come back "later" as I had class then play rehearsal, then more class. Hmmm. It would have to wait. Friday rolled around and I found myself face to face with the notorious Mauro. He was one of these guys who had a space in between his teeth and chain smoked Raleigh cigarros. He told me that he wanted $11,000MP for her and if I was interested. I in fact was quite interested, but seeing as I had $37 pesos to my name, it didn't seem very feasible. I thanked him kindly and told him I'd get back to him when I rounded up the remaining $10,063 pesos. Mauro almost laughed and showed me out the door. Before I could say "Emiliano Zapata's ghost" Mauro, as soon as he saw it, was asking about the 1976 Renault 5 I had drove up in. Small talk ensued and finally he offered the bus to me for a good-old-fashioned switcheroo. I couldn't say no. What a beaut! The VW is white with Bond-O blemishes pocking its stressed skin. Spiderweb cracks dance across the windshield, rear window, side window, rear-side window, and side-rear window and the rear-view mirror are also broken. No seats, dashboard, or spare tire to speak of. The driver-side door only opens form the inside, the passenger-side door only opens from the outside: a perfect harmony of ying and yang. The good news is that the windshield wiper (yes, singular) works and
that the back is tiled in faded-blue faux-mother-of-pearl linoleum. Mauro doesn't have any paper (except the lining from the Raleigh carton) so we decide to do the business on Mondays, still trading the cars at this moment. No worries. I attend to some business and home. It's about ten at night, and tired, I think to take the shortcut by the haunted dam. Bad decision. The bus shorts out on a most steep 35 degree incline. I pop that bad boy into R and plan to push start the bus down the hill. Just my luck. The bus hits a rock and stops dead in it's tire tracks. No problem: I'll just give it a push over the rock to get some speed and jump in to pop the clutch. Easy enough. I jump out of the bus and position myself in front of the depressingly smashed windshield and 1-2-3 GO! The VW jumps the rock as planned, starts gaining speed as I go to open the driver-side door. As my fingers fumble to open the handle I realize that the door only opens from the inside! Hijo de su pinche madre! I wildly scamper to the other side as the bus races towards an adobe house. I think I hear children praying before bed just audible through the laminate roof. My mind races as I picture their indigenous faces clasping their rosaries as their mother warms up fresh donkey milk, so they can get to sleep. A tear jerks to my eye as the passenger-door catches and I jump inside. I frantically wriggle into the helm and slam on the brakes. I stop millimete
rs away from the earthen wall as I hear the children squeak "....amen." My heart sighs as I right the bus to the road. Another try and I'm off. This time I take the canal, a much planer, yet scary route. My luck kicks in again, as the VW shorts again. My patience and regulator are fried so I opt to crash on the dingy linoleum. The night was for the least, chilly and dis-concerning, as the canal is haunted. Luckily no llorana gave me trouble. I awoke to push the luchadora to my friends house and we got the mighty beast running, but I needed a second opinion. The only mechanic in town that isn't a total cheat is this guy I met at a first communion bash. I hadn't caught his name, could be the fact that he's a deaf-mute and I don't know Spanish sign language. I spent an hour deciphering his signs (although the only sound he can manage is a rolled rr (incidentally the problem with my transmission)) Anyhow, He fixed my problem and with a new regulator on board, I was on the way. So "El mudito" (the little mute) had saved the day.
and I don't exactly fit into a Beetle.) I pull over and ask a most craggled man about the price. The man seemed to be on another planet and surely had William McKinley beat on eyebrows. He told me that it was, Mauro, his brother who I wanted to talk to and that he would be back "later". The problem was that I couldn't exactly come back "later" as I had class then play rehearsal, then more class. Hmmm. It would have to wait. Friday rolled around and I found myself face to face with the notorious Mauro. He was one of these guys who had a space in between his teeth and chain smoked Raleigh cigarros. He told me that he wanted $11,000MP for her and if I was interested. I in fact was quite interested, but seeing as I had $37 pesos to my name, it didn't seem very feasible. I thanked him kindly and told him I'd get back to him when I rounded up the remaining $10,063 pesos. Mauro almost laughed and showed me out the door. Before I could say "Emiliano Zapata's ghost" Mauro, as soon as he saw it, was asking about the 1976 Renault 5 I had drove up in. Small talk ensued and finally he offered the bus to me for a good-old-fashioned switcheroo. I couldn't say no. What a beaut! The VW is white with Bond-O blemishes pocking its stressed skin. Spiderweb cracks dance across the windshield, rear window, side window, rear-side window, and side-rear window and the rear-view mirror are also broken. No seats, dashboard, or spare tire to speak of. The driver-side door only opens form the inside, the passenger-side door only opens from the outside: a perfect harmony of ying and yang. The good news is that the windshield wiper (yes, singular) works and
that the back is tiled in faded-blue faux-mother-of-pearl linoleum. Mauro doesn't have any paper (except the lining from the Raleigh carton) so we decide to do the business on Mondays, still trading the cars at this moment. No worries. I attend to some business and home. It's about ten at night, and tired, I think to take the shortcut by the haunted dam. Bad decision. The bus shorts out on a most steep 35 degree incline. I pop that bad boy into R and plan to push start the bus down the hill. Just my luck. The bus hits a rock and stops dead in it's tire tracks. No problem: I'll just give it a push over the rock to get some speed and jump in to pop the clutch. Easy enough. I jump out of the bus and position myself in front of the depressingly smashed windshield and 1-2-3 GO! The VW jumps the rock as planned, starts gaining speed as I go to open the driver-side door. As my fingers fumble to open the handle I realize that the door only opens from the inside! Hijo de su pinche madre! I wildly scamper to the other side as the bus races towards an adobe house. I think I hear children praying before bed just audible through the laminate roof. My mind races as I picture their indigenous faces clasping their rosaries as their mother warms up fresh donkey milk, so they can get to sleep. A tear jerks to my eye as the passenger-door catches and I jump inside. I frantically wriggle into the helm and slam on the brakes. I stop millimete
rs away from the earthen wall as I hear the children squeak "....amen." My heart sighs as I right the bus to the road. Another try and I'm off. This time I take the canal, a much planer, yet scary route. My luck kicks in again, as the VW shorts again. My patience and regulator are fried so I opt to crash on the dingy linoleum. The night was for the least, chilly and dis-concerning, as the canal is haunted. Luckily no llorana gave me trouble. I awoke to push the luchadora to my friends house and we got the mighty beast running, but I needed a second opinion. The only mechanic in town that isn't a total cheat is this guy I met at a first communion bash. I hadn't caught his name, could be the fact that he's a deaf-mute and I don't know Spanish sign language. I spent an hour deciphering his signs (although the only sound he can manage is a rolled rr (incidentally the problem with my transmission)) Anyhow, He fixed my problem and with a new regulator on board, I was on the way. So "El mudito" (the little mute) had saved the day....To Be Continued...
