THE NATIVE
65
hours, looking at ancient scrolls and stone carvings, until we were
numbed and blinded by museum fatigue. And we still had to face
the problem of how to get home again.
After a number of inquiries, we discovered that a bus taking
workers back to Oaxaca would be leaving soon from a nearby town.
We maneuvered another lift on a truck and we got to the bus just
on time, which always means, we discovered, at least a half-hour
late in that part of Mexico. The motor roared and spat, the bus
shook as though it had chills and fever, and we were off.
It was now about six o'clock. The countryside had a dull, hot
glaze, like some soft candy that had just been taken out of the oven.
As
the bus bounced along the parched road, Edna and I kept looking
intently out of the window. "Isn't this where we stopped?" I said to
her. "No, a little further on." Suddenly Edna poked me. "Here,"
she said, "there he is." There he was, in his field, plodding along
behind the tree trunk and the ox. As they faded in the distance, they
looked like a funeral procession moving slowly through the dying
day.
Just beyond we looked to see whether our two pilots of the morn–
ing were still stranded; but they had apparently managed to get
their taxi running, and were probably back in town ready to take a
new batch of tourists to the ruins tomorrow. Their mission was ac–
complished. "You know," I said to Edna, "I bet those ta.,<i-drivers
never get anybody to the ruins."
