Recrossed Paths, or How 18 Pesos Can Open a Heart
A few months ago, before Christmas break, I woke up early on a Tuesday. I showered, made breakfast, and waited. My ride hadn't gotten here, and she was already 10 minutes late. Luckily, it is a small world afterall, and the teacher who drives me to school happens to be my landlord and landlady's daughter. I asked them to give her a call. She had forgotten, completely. I headed to the road to take a taxi.
I hadn't taken a taxi to that town where I work, just from it. I waited until I saw the telltale signs of the right-taxi-for-you (it's taken me months to correctly identify one), and hailed it. The driver pulled over and let me in. In colectivos, sometimes there's five or six of you, and sometimes there's just one. After about five minutes, the only other passenger got out of the taxi.
I could tell that the driver was looking at me in his rearview. I hadn't said five words, but he asked,
"Where are you from?"
I told him that I was from the USA, but that I was living here, teaching. He smiled and started to tell me about his many years in the States. Where had he lived? The usual suspects, Texas, Alabama, Chicago...
He had only come back to Mexico ten years before. But he was here to stay. Now wasn't the time to try and make a life in the United States. I nodded.
We visited for the few minutes left on our ride. What about? The usual suspects, Trump, my tolerance for spicy food, why English is such a dang difficult language to learn...
When we got close to town, I asked if he could leave me as close to my preschool as his route allowed. He nodded.
We got near the town's center (the road, at that time, was under construction), and he parked his taxi. I asked if he could point me in the right direction, and in response, he got out and opened the door for me.
"I'll walk you."
We walked three minutes to the entrance of the preschool, carrying on our conversation from the cab. When we got to the walkway, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the cab fare (18 pesos, less than $1 USD). He shook his head,
"I know it can be hard to be away from home. When I was a foreigner in your country, there were a few people who made it easier on me being there. I would like to be able to do the same for you."
When it became clear that he really meant it, I shook his hand and smiled. He asked for my name, and I told him. I asked for his, and he told me,
"You can call me Nacho."
"Thanks, Nacho," I said.
And I thought that was the end of it. So did he. I smiled, and went to work. And when I was there, I thought about what a blessing it was that our paths had crossed.
On the way back from school that day, I boarded a colectivo headed to Atlacomulco. The second that I did, I recognized his eyes in the rearview.
Never had I had the same taxi driver twice.
It gave me a chance to thank him extra when I got out and headed for home, but there were other people in the cab this time.
When I told my friend about what still stands out as one of my fondest memories here, she joked that I should blog about it, and title the blog, "Nacho Average Cab Ride." Haha. True.
In the months since then, I have kept my eyes peeled for Nacho when I come back from school on Tuesdays. I don't really know what I would have said anyways, but I felt like it would be nice to see the friend I made for a day.
On Tuesday afternoon, when I was headed to teach my C1 class, I waited to hail an empty Atlacomulco cab that could give me an especial ride (one without other passengers). As I waited, a cab traveled in the opposite direction with its windows rolled down. I instantly recognized its driver.
Nacho turned around, pulled over, and asked where I was headed. I asked him if he could take me where I was going, and he nodded, even though out-of-city cabs are not supposed to give especiales.
"I was wondering the other day if you had gone back to your country," he said.
I think we both felt how fortuitous it was that our paths were recrossing.
I explained I'd still be here for a few months. Our conversation was about as typical as last time. Now, though, it was marked with a sense of familiarity, kind of like southerners catching up with their neighbors in the grocery store (you always talk about the same stuff, but you enjoy the chit chat anyway).
When we had arrived at work, he parked the cab.
"Listen," he said, "I want to start by saying that I don't mean to be improper, at all. I know in this country, if a woman even smiles at a man, he thinks that she wants something more. But in your country, it's not that way. And I think that's better. So, I don't want anything more. But if before you go, you'd like to have lunch in town, just to talk, I'd like that. You because you live in my country, and I because I lived in yours. Just lunch, if you'd like."
I smiled, thinking at once about the countless catcalls I receive daily, and how even my plain-as-day scowl (the furthest thing from a smile) makes the unkind fellas doing the catcalling think that I'm into their objectification, somehow. Not all men are unkind, though. But Nacho doesn't count on me knowing this.
I told him that my phone was stolen, and that I didn't have a number yet, but that we could be in touch once I got one (this is a true story, by the way. I've been without a phone for a week, and I am more reliant than I thought I was on that piece of glass and metal).
I handed him my planner, and asked if he could write his number. In uneven penmanship, the kind I see in my younger students, he wrote out his full name. Next to it, he wrote "or Nacho." On the line below, he wrote his number.
"Do you have WhatsApp?"
He shook his head. Texting or calling would be better.
When I saw his phone, I could see why. No internet service on phones like those. I know, I am using one right now (and I wonder, is this even considered a cellphone?).
I thanked him and waved, and we both agreed that we hoped we could see each other again.
And in the office that I had ridden to for work, and for the rest of the week, I have thought about Nacho.
I have thought about how acts of kindness can be as cheap as 18 pesos, but as valuable as friendship. I have thought about how those 18 pesos mean a lot more to a man who works seven days a week without complaint, whose penmanship reflects the story he told about his life's hardships, and who doesn't pay for things like internet on his phone. I have thought about what he said about men, and how he is intentionally working to counteract the toxic effects that he hasn't contributed to himself. I have thought about how easy it would have been for him to decide that the 18 pesos and ten extra minutes for this stranger would not have been worth it for him.
And then I think about how quickly I burn through 18 pesos. I think about how bitter I've been to have a dinosaur phone. I think about how hell-bent my country is trying to keep men like him out of it. I think about how tempting it can be to give up on men some days, and people's goodness, and the possibility for change. I think about how worth it his 18 pesos and ten minutes were, and wonder if he knows it, or if he just knows that kindness is always worth it, somehow.
And in all of this thinking, I can't help thinking about how sometimes, you meet people who are in your life for one day. Other times, those same people show up most unexpectedly. I think about how each time that your paths cross may be your last chance for encounter. And how sometimes, the chance that you get to really appreciate those people, to have your life changed, and to have your heart opened, all take place in the backseat of a taxi.
And I think about how I want for all of this thinking to not just be thinking. I think that I'd like for it to be some kind of doing, some kind of action on behalf of another. Something kind of like what Nacho did for me. Something kind, that takes 18 pesos, and turns it into something more.
