| Patzcuaro |
I am traveling on an Amtrak train on my way to visit my family in Upstate New York, looking out the window at the Hudson River. A heavy layer of clouds has transformed the sky, river and distant Catskill Mountains into a backdrop of gray gloom. Rain pelts the window and I turn my attention away from the river to the book that has kept me company since I left Mexico.
The steady clackety-clackety-clack of the train lulls me toward sleep, but voices from the next row pull me back from that hazy place between consciousness and slumber. Their words are in Spanish and transport me to another time, to a different train ride, one that I took in Mexico, from the Pacific coast to the city of Pátzcuaro in the state of Michoacán.
None of the travel agents in Zihuatanejo could say if the train to Pátzcuaro still ran, but someone gave me the name of a travel agent in Lázaro Cárdenas, the large industrial city sixty miles to the north, where the train originated. He confirmed that the train still operated, but only on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.
With that assurance, a friend and I took the 6 AM bus from Zihuatanejo to Lázaro, allowing sufficient time since the trip could take anywhere from an hour to three hours depending on the condition of the road. The train was scheduled to leave at 11 AM, but having experienced airplanes in Mexico that departed earlier than scheduled if all (or most) passengers were on board, we decided not to take a chance with the train. From the bus station, a taxi sped us to the railway station on the other side of Lázaro.
We laughed with relief to see a train waiting at the station and people standing in line to buy tickets. The train was six cars long with a huge black engine and resembled the kind in the old Western movies where the bad guys would ride up on horseback, board the train and rob the passengers.
About ten minutes before 11 AM, the couple dozen passengers were allowed to get on board. We chose the last car along with several other people who spread out over twenty rows so that it felt like we had our own private car. Not many Mexicans travel by train, a little more expensive than the bus and, we found out later, much slower.
The straight back, bench seats were covered with red velvet fabric, stiff with age and little padding. I could tolerate the austerity because the train had the one amenity I care most about, a clean bathroom at the end of our car, complete with toilet paper and hand towels.
The 250 mile trip would take nearly ten hours, as the train traveled from sea level through countless tunnels to over 7000 feet. For the first several hours, the tracks ran parallel to the Rio Bolsa, a wide wild river that offered vistas of fishermen in dugout canoes and occasional palapa roofed huts. During the long ride, I either slumped in my pew, feet propped on my suitcase, or stood on the platform between cars, watching the river and catching the breeze in my face.
With no dining car, most of the passengers had brought their own food, supplemented by a vendor selling soda, beer and peanuts. Within the first few hours of getting on the train, my friend and I devoured the picnic lunch that my husband, Brian, had packed for us, sorry there wasn’t more.
At Nueva Italia, a town about halfway up the mountain, vendors strolled the platform, selling their wares to the passengers’ outstretched arms. One vendor held out a sample on a piece tinfoil, saying “Pruebelo – es sabroso, Try it – it’s delicious”. I accepted the fried dough filled with sweet squash that melted in my mouth like a forbidden dessert. The train whistle signaled our departure, I handed the man five pesos for two camotes and the train chugged away from the station.
The train cut through lush avocado groves punctuated by pink hibiscus, purple and white bougainvillea, and morning glory vines that covered trees and shrubs like a mantel of deep blue. Then the tracks turned away from the Rio Bolsa and we entered a barren moonscape of jagged rocks and cliffs. The setting sun covered the rocks in a rosy glow, tucking them in for the night beneath a pink flannel blanket.
Hours and several stops later, the train pulled into the darkened Pátzcuaro station. A few passengers climbed down and disappeared into the night; the rest would continue on to Mexico City. We hailed a taxi and were whisked through the sleepy city to our hotel on the main zocalo.
Four days later, my shopping completed and my purchases on their way to my store in Zihuatanejo via Esta Feta, we were back at the train station. We had confirmed several times with different sources that, yes, the train was due that day at 7:15 AM from Mexico City on its way back to Lázaro Cárdenas (you ask five people, and if three out of five say yes, then you hope it’s true). Still we had our doubts as we faced the empty station with its padlocked door, no other passengers in sight. The mist turned into rain and we huddled under the narrow eaves of the station, clutching our rebozas around us.
At 9:30 AM, someone opened the station, other passengers began to arrive and fifteen minutes later, we heard the welcomed train whistle.
The return trip was even slower than the ride up the mountain and the brakes squealed in protest as the train inched its way downhill. By the time we arrived at the bus station in Lázaro, we had missed the first class bus at 10 pm and had to wait for the next bus, at 2 AM. I climbed into my bed in Zihua just as the sun was rising; Esta Feta delivered my packages at 9 AM and later that day I set up my gift shop on Playa La Ropa.
Now, only a freight train runs from Lázero Cárdenas up the mountain to Pátzcuaro; at least that’s what I’ve been told.
Kathe Kokolias is a writer living in Upstate NY and Ixtapa. This story is an excerpt from a book she is writing about her experiences traveling in Mexico.
February 2003
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