WHEN PLANS GO DOWN THE TOILET

I am an un-planner. Find a bus, look for a hotel, see the sights, find another bus, go somewhere else. But I’m 64 now. Not 23 when I’d discovered the joy of spontaneous travel. At 64, reservations are my friend. Certainty brings me peace.

So, two weeks before I left for a trip to Mexico, I’d not only booked my accommodation for a week, I’d booked a return bus ticket from Huatulco Airport to Puerto Escondido, three hours away. And back at the end of the week. Bada bing, bada bang.

Sure. Good plan.

December 15^th — I walk into the Huatulco bus terminal. The very quiet terminal. My stomach squirms.

A uniformed man walks toward me in the echoing room, his brows raised. “Donde va?”

“Puerto Escondido.”

“No, no hay.”

I stare at him uncomprehendingly. No bus? Of course there’s a bus. My heart pounds. I fumble for my phone and show him my online ticket.

“Ahh” he says, nodding. My heart slows. He was mistaken. There IS a bus. No. It is something else. “Alta Mar va desde otro terminal,” he explains.

What? “De donde?” I ask, my voice a notch higher than it normally is. He swings a finger toward the hill outside. I growl inwardly. How did I screw that up? Then I shake myself. Stop thinking and go. I run toward the terminal’s exit. A taxi driver opens his door when he sees me. I jump in saying “otro terminal.”

“El Terminal Central?” he asks.

I shake my head. No sé….Alta Mar.”

He speeds halfway up the hill, perhaps feeling my panic, then stops, pulls in to a large building. This is the terminal? I could have walked here.

“Cuanta cuesta,” I ask, sure he’s going to ask for a crazy amount of money. How dumb was I, not asking the price before I get in a Mexican taxi? But no. He asks for fifty pesos. Not even three dollars. “Muchas gracias,” I call as I rush away. Into an empty terminal. Where is everyone? I rush outside, see only vans.

“Donde va?” a man asks.

“Puerto Escondido.”

He points to the van. “No Quiero el bus,” I tell him. “Alta Mar,” I add.

He shakes his head. “No hay bus.” My stomach lurches.

A tourist pokes his head out of the van, smiling. “There’s construction on the highway, so no buses are running,” he explains. “This van’ll take you to Pachutla where you can get another one to wherever you’re going.”

Okay. Whatever.

All goes as my companion promised. Two hours later, I’m in Pachutla, and ten minutes later, on an Alta Mar bus, settled into a soft seat cushion. I watch the sun set over the ocean as we coast toward Puerto. 

**

One week later…December 22, nine a.m. A fantastic holiday but time to return.  I have six hours before I’m to be in Huatulco for my flight. The airport is a three-hour bus ride away. No prob.

I walk up the hill toward the terminal. Lots of time, I think to myself, slowing my footsteps, turning my head to the warm sunshine. It’s only ten. The bus leaves at eleven fifteen. Two blocks from the terminal, my bladder calls out, directing my feet into an open-aired restaurant.

“Puedo usar su baño?” I ask a heavy-set woman standing near the kitchen. She nods to the back of the restaurant.

Inside the washroom, I sit without removing my daypack, more concerned about any urine my bum may encounter. Job done, I stand. CRASH. Chunks of white porcelain greet my eyes as I look down. What the…?! I bend and pick up the porcelain chunks of the lid that is no longer on the toilet, and my finger gushes with blood as a sharp edge slices down it. Blasting water over it, I press down on the cut, trying to stifle the flow of blood.

My mind swirls, trying to understand what’s happened. The lid must have been unbalanced. Or… did I hit it with my bag? No. I would have felt something.

I open the door.

A woman waits outside, her eyes curious. I redden, wave behind me toward the toilet. She spots the shards of porcelain and calls out. The big woman at the kitchen strolls over.

“Qué paso? she asks.

“No sé.” I DON’T know what’s happened.

You have to pay, she says in Spanish.

My heart sinks. Pay how much? “I didn’t do anything,” I say desperately, my words quavering as I wonder a tiny bit if I DID do something to make the top fall. If it WAS my fault.

Spanish flows from her angry mouth. You were in the bathroom, I wasn’t, she says.

“But I didn’t do anything! It fell,” I tell her in English. She looks at me blankly. God, I wish I could speak better Spanish!

The woman fiddles with her phone, pulls up a website, shows it to me. $1229 pesos for a toilet, the screen shouts. I quickly calculate. $120?!

No! No way. I rummage in my purse, hand her 100 pesos and some change. My thoughts drift to the 500-peso note in my daypack, the only money I have left. Money I need for a taxi from the Huatulco bus terminal to the airport. “Es todo que tengo,” I lie. All I have.

A hundred pesos isn’t going to pay for a toilet, she says. Or something like that.

My stomach lurches as I remember my bus is leaving soon. I check the time on my phone…10:45. Lots of time still. I calm slightly, and look back up to the lady, then out to the street. Her eyes blacken. As if she sees what I’m thinking. That maybe I can just throw the 100 pesos in her hand and run. Oh my god! Your crazy’s comin’ out, girl! And she’s seen something in my eyes. Her arm comes up to block my way, her legs spread into a sturdier stance.

I pull my pack off my shoulder and rummage through it, pull out my last 500 pesos.

She stares at the note, then nods. “Es bueno,” she says and plucks it out of my hand.

Suffused with relief, I throw my pack over my shoulder and walk out to the street.

A block later, I enter the terminal and walk to the ticket desk—lots of time, but I’ll just double check. “El bus sale a las once y media, si?” I ask the grey-haired man in wire glasses. He looks at me.

“No. No hay bus.”                                               

Silence ensues as I stare at him in disbelief. I fumble for my phone with shaking hands, press the screen with suddenly-useless fingers, working to bring up my online ticket. He looks at the clear proof of my paid-for bus from Puerto Escondido to Huatulco at 11:39. “Espera,” he says, waving to the waiting room.

I sigh, a mix of relief and confusion. Why would he say there is no bus, and now tell me to wait? I sit but nerves pull me to my feet again and I walk outside. I’m wildly cheered by the sight of an Alta Mar bus. But..shouldn’t it be warming up? A tiny niggle of concern ripples through me. A uniformed man walks from the terminal. He looks at me curiously.

“Buenas tardes,” I say. “Sale a las once y media? I wave toward the bus.

“No. Tres y media.”

3:30? What the….”No!” I say, my voice louder than I’d like. I show him my online ticket.

“No,” he repeats. He tells me that bus left at 10:30.

Uncomprehendingly, I stare at him. Why would it leave an hour early? I ask him. He shrugs. I take a deep breath and change tact. “Cómo puedo llegar a Huatulco?” I ask him.

“Tengo un vuelo a las seis.”

The man looks at me, his eyes sympathetic after hearing my flight from Huatulco is at six. He points to some shuttles across the paved yard.

“No tengo dinero,” I tell him, my eyes desperate as I remember that I have no money.

“No tiene dinero?” The man looks at me in disbelief.

“Necessito un cajero,” I answer, realizing an ATM will save my ass.

“Venga.” I follow him. At the street, he waves down a collectivo, tells the driver to take me to an ATM.

Sweat pours off my forehead as I ask the driver to instead take me to the ADO terminal on the highway. Maybe there will be a bus from there. I can pay with my credit card.

But no, there’s no bus. Hope turns to a lump in my chest. I plead with the girl. “Hay otro manera?” Another way?

“Si.” The girl at the desk points across the street. Without seeing what’s she’s pointing to, I only know there’s a solution at hand. Maybe. I head quickly to the ATM machine I’d seen when I entered, and feel the rush of relief as I pull peso notes from it. I run from the terminal in the direction her finger had pointed and ignore the taxi drivers calls as I step on to the road. A car screeches to a halt, barely missing me. “Lo siento,” I call, waving an apology at the driver as I continue running toward a waiting bus. I climb up into the hot bus. Sweat pours from my face and neck and I slide on to a seat. I glance at my phone. One thirty. An hour and a half to Patchutla, a quick transfer if I’m lucky, then another hour to Huatulco. I’ll be late for my two-hour check-in but I’ll get there. I breathe a sigh of relief.

In Pachutla, someone points me around the corner to the local bus station. And ten minutes later, I’m perched on a scarily loose seat in a local rattletrap to Huatulco airport. Calm, knowing I’m halfway there.

A half hour later, I check Google Maps. So close. Maybe fifteen more minutes. Smiling wearily, I look out the window at the ocean going by. I’m gonna make it. A little voice pops into my head. Nope. Don’t be countin’ your chickens before they hatch. You’re not there yet.

Said by someone in the know. Not ten minutes later, the bus lurches to a stop behind a line of dusty cars. We’ll get going soon. The minutes drag by.

Suddenly, a commotion at the front of the bus. I look through the windshield and watch several boys drag plastic barriers and place them across the highway. Our driver leans out the window, asks a hard-hatted man something. The news isn’t good; he shouts something about an hour delay, revs his motor and does a seven-point turn. My heart pounds. He’s going back? To Pachutla?! That’ll add another hour to the trip! At least. Then...a frisson of hope as he turns off the highway up a dirt mountain road. I look at Google Maps and confirm. Yes! A shortcut.

We bump and grind over potholes as we climb and dip . And then, thank god, the jolting ends and we pull off on to a smooth expanse of highway that, according to Google, goes directly to the airport. What a lovely sight. Finally, I relax. Yep, you're gonna make it, girl.

A half-hour later, bag checked, bum settled in an airport restaurant, and a plate of tacos in front of me, I swig the last of my large glass of white wine down and gesture to the waiter to bring me another. I sip slowly, feeling the waiter’s curious glance on me.

What? Don't you judge me, mister. You don’t know the day I’ve had.

I lean back on the chair, musing. So much for planning. All that certainty and all it did was create expectations with no guarantees. Spontaneity, on the other hand, comes with no expectations and a high likelihood of adventure. 

The latter holds a hell of a lot more appeal, don’tcha think?