I gassed in Chilpancingo, around four o’clock, and bathed the tires with water. That was what I was afraid of, mostly, that in that heat and sliding all over that rough road, we would have a blow-out. I peeled down to my undershirt, knotted a handkerchief around my head to catch sweat, and we went on. She was awake now. She didn’t have much to say. She slipped off her stockings, held her bare legs in the air stream from the hood vent, and unbuttoned another button.
We were down in what they call the tierra caliente, now, and it turned cloudy and so muggy the sweat stood out on my arms in drops. After Chilpancingo I had been looking for some relief, but this was the worst yet. We had been running maybe an hour when she began to lean forward and look out, and then she told me to stop. “Yes. This way.”
I rubbed the sweat out of my eyes and looked, and saw something that maybe was intended to be a road. It was three inches deep in dust, and cactuses were growing in the middle of it, but if you concentrated we could see two tracks. “That way, hell. Acapulco is the way we’re going. I looked it up.”
“We go for Mamma.”
“... What was that you said?”
“Yes. Mamma will cook. She cook for us. For the house in Acapulco.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Mamma cook very nice.”
“Listen. I haven’t had the honor of meeting Mamma, but I’ve just got a hunch she’s not the type. Not for the high-class joint we’re going to run. I tell you what. Let’s get down there. If worse comes to worst, I’ll cook. I cook very nice, too. I studied in Paris, where all the good cooks go when they die.”
“But Mamma, she have the viveres.”
“The what?”
“The food, what we need. I send Mamma the money, I sent last week. She buy much things, we take. We take Mamma, Papa. All the viveres.”
“Oh, Papa too.”
“Yes, Papa help Mamma cook.”
“Well, will you tell me where you, me, Mamma, Papa, and the viveres are going to ride? By the way, do we take the goat?”
“Yes, this way, please.”
It was her car, and I turned into the road. I had gone about a hundred yards when the wheel jerked out of my hands and I had to stamp on the brake to keep from going down a gully that must have been two hundred feet deep. I mean, it was that rough, and it didn’t get any better. It was uphill and down, around rocks the size of a truck, through gullies that would have bent the axles of anything but a Ford, over cactuses so high I was afraid they would foul the transmission when we went over them. I don’t know how far we went. We drove about an hour, and the rate we were moving, it might have been five miles or twenty, but it seemed more like fifty. We passed a church and then a long while after that, we began to pass Mexicans with burros, hurrying along with them. That’s a little point about driving in Mexico they don’t tell you about. You meet these herds of burros, going along loaded up with wood, fodder, Mexicans, or whatever it is. The burro alone doesn’t give you much trouble. He knows the rules of the road as well as you do, and gets out of the way in time, even if he’s a little grouchy about it. But if he’s got a Mexican herding him along, you can bet on it that that Mexican will shove him right in line with your fender and you do nothing but stand on your brake and curse and sweat and cake up with their dust.
It was the way they were hurrying along, though, that woke me up to what it looked like outside. The heat and dust were enough to strangle you, but the clouds were hanging lower all the time, and over the tops of the ridges smoky scuds were slipping past, and it didn’t look good. After a long time we passed some huts, by twos and threes, huddled together. We kept on, and then we came to a couple more huts, but only one of them seemed to have anybody in it. She reached over and banged on the horn and jumped out, and ran up to the door, and all of a sudden there was Mamma, and right behind her, Papa. Mamma was about the color of a copper pot, all dressed up in a pink cotton dress and no shoes, to go to Acapulco. Papa was a little darker. He was a nice, rich mahogany after it’s had about fifteen coats of dark polish. He came out in his white pajama suit, with the pants rolled up to his bare knees, and took off his big straw hat and shook hands. I shook hands. I wondered if there had been a white iceman in the family. Then I pulled up the brake and got out.
Well, I said she ran up to the door, but that wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t any door. Maybe you never saw an Indian hut, so I better tell you what it looks like. You can start with the colored shanties down near the railroad track in New Orleans, and then, when you’ve got them clearly in mind, you can imagine they’re the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, and that the Mexican hut is a shanty standing beside it. There’s no walls, or roofs, or anything like you’re used to seeing. There’s four sides made of sticks, stuck down in the ground and wattled together with twigs, about as high as a man’s head. In the middle of the front side is a break, and that’s the door. The chinks between the twigs are filled up a little bit with mud. Just plain mud, smeared on there and most of it falling off. And on top is a thatch of grass, or palmetto, or whatever grows up on the hill, and that’s all. There’s no windows, no floor, no furniture, no pictures of the Grand Canyon hanging on the walls, no hay-grain-and-feed calendars back of the clock, with a portrait of a cowgirl on top of a horse. They’ve got no need for calendars, because in the first place they couldn’t figure out what the writing was for, and in the second place they don’t care what day it is. And they’ve got no need for a clock, because they don’t care what time it is. All I’m trying to say is, there’s nothing in there but a dirt floor, and the mats they sleep on, and down near the door, the fire where they do their cooking.
So that was where she came from, and she ran in there, barefooted like they were, and began to laugh and talk, and pat a dog that showed up in a minute, and act like any other girl that’s come home after a trip to the city. It went on quite a while, but the clouds weren’t hanging any higher, and I began to get nervous. “Listen, this is all very well, but how about the viveres?”
“Yes, yes. Mamma have buy very good estoff.”
“Fine, but let’s get it aboard.”
It seemed to be stored in the other hut, the one that nobody was living in. Papa ducked in there and began to carry out iron plates for cooking tortillas, machetes, pots, and jars and such stuff. One or two of them were copper, but most of them were pottery, and Mexican pottery means the worst pottery in the world. Then Mamma showed up with baskets of black beans, rice, ground corn, and eggs. I stowed the stuff in the rumble seat, shoving the pots in first. But pretty soon it was chock up to the top, and, when I came to the baskets I had to lash them to the side with some twine that they had so they rode the running board. Some of the stuff, like the charcoal, wasn’t even in baskets. It was done up in bundles. I lashed that too. The eggs I finally found a place for in back, on top of her hatbox. Each egg was wrapped in cornhusk, and I figured they would ride all right there and not break.
Then Papa came grinning out with a bundle, bigger than he was, of brand-new mats, all rolled up and tied. I couldn’t figure out why they were so nuts about mats, but later I found out. He mussed up my whole rumble seat by dragging out the mat she had brought, unrolling his pile, rolling out her mat with the others and tying them up again. Then he lashed them to the side on top of the charcoal. I stood on the fender, grabbed the top and rocked the car. The twine broke and the mats fell out in the dirt. He laughed over that. They got a funny sense of humor. Then he got a wise look on his face, like he knew how to fix it, and went out back of the hut. When he showed again he was leading a burro, all saddled up with a rack. He opened the mats again, split them into two piles and rolled them separate. Then he lashed them to the burro, one pile on each side. Then he led the burro to the car and tied him to the rear bumper.