15. The Purple Bomb — Churros y Chocolate & Other Journeys South

The Purple Bomb

What a treat. Sixty-plus through the mountains of Mexico on the autopista, the high-speed toll road. Quite a change from our past trips when we had crept along behind overloaded, exhaust-belching trucks, only occasionally risking a Mexican pass-on-a-blind-curve maneuver. This was living. Little did we know how close it was to not living.

We rented our car in Zihuatanejo from a lesser-know agency. My husband, Gary, spent over an hour haggling with Elver, the young Mexican man with the big smile and white teeth while I sat on a hard wooden bench in the hot humid air, watching two very fierce dogs strain at their tethers as they tried to get at me. The pit-bullish one on the frayed rope snarled and leapt as we eyed each other. After testing the limits of his chain, the Rottweiler just lurked in the shadows. Plump gallos, Mexican roosters, strutted and pecked in the dust.

When the negotiations were complete, an attendant drove up in our Ford Fiesta—bright purple, my favorite color. A good omen, we decided. Our little beauty even had air conditioning. We made the inspection, a vital step for a Mexican rental. Elver noted all of the dents and scrapes on a folded piece of paper. I noticed that one tire was bald and insisted that he replace it with the spare. This was not an easy task due to badly stripped bolts that held the spare under the chassis, but Elver persisted.

As we walked around the car for a final look, Gary flipped open the gas cap cover. What gas cap? A sodden white rag protruded from the tank opening. A great look of surprise spread over Elver’s face. Then he fessed up. “Ladrones, thieves,” he told us. “This is a Ford and it is impossible to get a new cap in Mexico.” We were renting a giant Molotov cocktail.

The sun was below the horizon and the light was fading. We were roasting and needed to find a hotel in Zihuatanejo. The daily rate was better than that of the competition and I figured if we were lucky, we wouldn’t run into any gas attendants with cigarettes or flamethrowers. Adopting Mexican fatalism, we loaded our bags into the trunk, and took off.

The next day, we headed south. The Purple Bomb behaved splendidly, zipping past lumbering trucks and ancient cars, bouncing over the ubiquitous topés, the speed bumps that punctuate the road as you drive through the myriad small villages. Turning east at Acapulco we got on the autopista. Expensive but delightful, it cuts the journey to Cuernavaca by many hours. As we stopped at gas stations along the highway, Gary came to enjoy the looks on the faces of the attendants as they fumbled for our gas cap. “Un tapón Mexicano,” he would tell them, a Mexican gas cap, and they would get a good laugh.

When it was my turn to drive, I noticed that the brakes were grabbing a little. Gary dismissed the problem and we zoomed onwards. We stopped for several days in Cuernavaca and Puebla, then turned south and headed down another autopista to Oaxaca. By this time, I was noticing a metallic screech as we pulled into the all too numerous toll plazas. “No problem,” was Gary’s response as he dropped off to sleep again in the passenger seat.

We settled into a tiny apartment in Oaxaca City. After a day of rest, we headed to Hierve el Agua, a geological formation in the mountains that rise above the valley on the east. Here the water has such a high mineral content that it has created a frozen waterfall composed of calcium carbonate and magnesium. After we climbed up narrow, precipitous mountain roads, the asphalt finally disappeared and we bumped onwards through the town of San Lorenzo Albarradas to the site, dodging dogs and bicycles, school kids and burros.

The real problems, however, surfaced as we started back. As we twisted and braked our way down out of the mountains, the screeching sound got worse. Somewhere within that purple body all was not well. We cut short a proposed trip to the archeological site of Mitla and headed back to the city.

We found a handy brake shop and the Purple Bomb went up on the rack. Brakes? What brakes? The front pair was down to the metal…and beyond. The brake drums had been scarred and needed grinding. Back brakes? Barely there. Not only were the brakes gone, they also discovered a large slash on the inside of one of the tires, exposing the steel belting.

Two days and $240 later, we were back in business. The Purple Bomb was on the road again with its new brakes and tire. We came to the conclusion that fate or somebody must have been on our side, protecting us from all the curves, mountain descents, high-speed driving, dogs, topés, bicycles, and random sparks.

We decided to take no chances on the trip back up the coast, however. Even though we are decidedly non-religious and definitely non-Catholic, we consulted several rather pious-looking women selling devotional items. They suggested we visit La Iglesia de San Francisco in Oaxaca de Juarez. Here Gary asked a helpful nun which saint would give us divine protection. He emerged from the rectory office with a golden key chain and a large medal bearing the image of San Sebastian, Protector of Travelers.

It worked. The Purple Bomb zipped over the mountains, hugging the curves and slowing appropriately to avoid going over precipitously deadly cliffs. The rag cum gas cap did not ignite.

At month’s end, we drove back into the rental yard intact and were greeted by the same slavering canines. Elver was all amazement and wonder as we handed him the bill for the repairs. Rather than ranting and raving, a definite temptation, Gary took the Mexican tack and was polite and jovial. We left with a guarantee that our expenses would come off the final bill. Elver was as good as his word.

Would we rent another car in Mexico? Sure. We might take a better look at the tires and pay more attention to the little noises. We might go with a better-known rental company, though that is not a guarantee. But we will make sure San Sebastian is riding with us as we pull out onto the roads of Mexico.

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