Nine years ago,
Western Mexico
Chapter 1
We are sitting behind Jorge, the coach driver, as he pulls in to the car park. Well, I say car park – it’s actually just a piece of pockmarked concrete on top of a hill. Everything, it seems, is on top of a hill around here. Even the hills.
An excited gaggle of little boys is running beside the chugging coach, waving at us through the dusty windows. One of them is holding a football; all of them are laughing and smiling. It’s infectious, and I stick my tongue out in response. They look shocked then delighted, and all start pulling faces at me. I am lowering the tone already, and I haven’t even got off the bus. My mum always says you need to be a bit of a kid to work with kids, and I suspect she’s right.
Harry shakes his head at my antics, in an amused-but-mildly-exasperated way. I stick my tongue out at him as well. That’ll teach him.
‘Hope Jorge’s hand-brake is good …’ he murmurs, as he starts to stretch out his arms, pressing his palms against the luggage rack and gazing at his own biceps. They are good biceps, to be fair, but the view outside is even better. The forested slopes, the red rooftops of the village, the heat that seems to shimmer in the air.
This part of Mexico is exotic and enticing and a million miles from our normal lives in London. Even a million miles from the hotel we’ve been staying at, really. I am excited to be here, in this place, and excited to be getting off the coach and breathing in the late afternoon mountain air.
The engine of the bus seems to sigh and belch as it shudders to a stop. I feel it jarring through me, my bones rattling and settling after hours on the road.
I glance at Jorge, and see that he is also sighing, just like the bus. Though not, as yet, belching. He is a lovely man, Jorge – physically he is made entirely of circles, a round face on top of rounded shoulders that hulk down to a round belly. I see him reach out to touch the St Christopher medallion he has hanging around the mirror, before leaning back against his seat, which has a T-shirt tied around it bearing the logo of a football team I don’t know.
It’s been a heck of a journey, the longest and most scary stretch of driving we’ve done as part of our mini-tour. All hairpin bends and jaw-dropping scenery and frankly terrifying heights. This little bus has been our only protection against the wild world, keeping us safe on narrow roads and cool in the searing heat.
That heat has taken its toll, though, and the windscreen is coated with a patina of red dust and stray flower petals and flattened insects. There’s been a mini-beast massacre.
I can tell that Harry is itching to get off, and I can’t really blame him. He’s a lot taller than me, and a lot less patient, and a lot less interested in scenery. He didn’t even want to come on this trip – he’d have been far happier sitting by the pool in our posh hotel, sipping cocktails or floating on a lilo. He only came to please me, which was either sweet or another sign that we have nothing in common – I’m not really sure yet.
Our tour guide, Sofia, gets up to speak. She turns first to Jorge, and they give each other an enthusiastic high five. If I was driving these roads every day, I’d celebrate too.
I know Jorge has grandchildren; there are photos of them tacked onto his dashboard, from babes in arms and toddlers through to teens. He talks with great affection about his wife, Maria, and is always very amused when we all ooh and aah about whitewashed adobe buildings – he says he prefers his air-conditioned apartment with all mod cons.
He must be in his sixties, and he holds his round body with a lot of dignity – but every now and then he winks playfully, or puffs with laughter, and a much younger, much more mischievous man peeks out.
Sofia comes to face us all. She is in her thirties somewhere, with deep laughter lines at the side of her eyes, and accented but perfect English.
She has kept us entertained and informed for the whole of the trip, speaking into her crackling microphone, all the way out of our resort in Puerto Vallarta, through the Sierra Madres and the old mines and the forests and the magical places that are sprinkled across the hills and valleys.
We had an overnight stay in what I called ‘rustic’ accommodation, and which Harry called ‘a shithole’, and which was maybe a bit of both depending on your perspective. We’ve seen astonishing wildflower meadows and abandoned haciendas left behind as strange time capsules, and the most picturesque places imaginable.
We’ve seen so many different types of birds and animals and met so many people, and I’ve loved it. Harry has endured it as graciously as he could manage, so I can’t hold that against him.
When he suggested this holiday, I hoped that it would bring us closer together. Heal some of the rifts I’ve started to feel developing between us. Instead, I am starting to think that it is actually only highlighting our differences.
That makes me feel sad and confused – I have been with Harry for what feels like forever – so I set it aside to worry about later. I don’t want to spoil the present worrying too much about the future.
It is late afternoon, and we are here in Santa Maria de Alto for our dinner before we set off again. We are scheduled to arrive back at our hotel sometime around midnight, and then we will be back in the modern world, and all of this faded grandeur will feel like a dream. I can’t lie – I’m with Harry and Jorge on the air conditioning – but there is something wild and free about these remote corners of the world that calls to me.
Sofia tells us about the history of this particular village, about its isolation, many hours from any other tourist destination. She tells us about the way it reflects the wider history of the region, and how visitors like us are making an important contribution to the micro-economy. She encourages us to visit the church, to talk to the locals, to eat, to laugh, and to drink tequila. Everyone laughs at the last point, especially the gaggle of Aussie backpacking girls who have brought a near-feral sense of fun to the whole trip.
‘Jorge and I will be there with you,’ she says, ‘at our friend Luis’s bar. We’ll be here for a few hours, and if you need us, please just come and find us.’
‘No tequila for Jorge, is very sad!’ adds Jorge, rubbing away fake tears. His English isn’t as good as Sofia’s, but he makes his point, and I laugh again.
He opens the door to the coach and it makes a familiar hissing noise. Jorge will do what he always does – wait until we are off before he tries to move. It’s a complex manoeuvre, squeezing his bulk from behind the steering-wheel column.
I wait while the other passengers troop past. I like people-watching. I like making up stories to match everyone, creating fictional lives for them, assigning them nicknames. I have always enjoyed doing this, ever since I was little.
In my mind, my teacher was a fairy-tale princess and the man in the sweet shop was Willy Wonka and the old gent who lived in the bungalow on the corner of our road was actually a mysterious time-traveller. There were some harsh realities in my childhood, and I think all the tall tales helped me cope. These days, I am less fantastical with my imaginings. I realised that real people can be just as interesting.
Those Aussie girls, for example. They’re so loud, and vivid, and so completely confident in their own skin. They’re the first off the coach, a gaggle of long limbs and short shorts and sun-kissed skin and flip-flops. I see Harry’s gaze linger as they prance past in a flurry of laughter, and see Jorge watch them wistfully as they jump down the steps. I get it, I really do – they’re not just hot, they’re happy, carefree.
