In January 1975, my friend Linda drove me to the Mexican border where I took the train from Mexicali to Mexico City. It was my first trip out of the country alone and I was both nervous and excited. I booked a private compartment, inexpensive in those days, so I could relax and sleep in a bed for the long ride to the Capital. The train car was nearly empty and the journey was uneventful, except for the police coming in at one stop to search for drugs. They were looking for marijuana and, finding none, they left me alone for the rest of the trip.
When I got to Mexico City, I bought another ticket for the overnight train to Oaxaca. On that trip I sat next to a man on his way to Panama and we traveled together for six weeks through southern Mexico and Guatemala. But that’s another story.
I eventually made my way to Panajachel on the shores of Lake Atitlán in Guatemala and spent a month in a nearby village. My home was a tiny adobe hut with a thatched roof. Just one room with a dirt floor and a bed of straw on a wooden platform. I spent lazy days sitting outside looking at the lake, reading and listening to my neighbors laughing and talking in a lilting Kaqchikel. I didn’t understand a word. In the afternoons I walked to the communal water tap to fill my jug and tried to balance it on my head like the other women did so effortlessly. It was a skill I never learned, but I loved my time in that small village. And one day, after three months away, I knew it was time to return to California.
I got a ride with an American family from Panajachel to Oaxaca and from there I hitchhiked along the Pan American Highway to Mexico City. At the train station I bought a ticket back to the border. I was on my way home, ready for the long ride. Once on board, I spent a few of my remaining pesos to rent a pillow so the trip would be more comfortable. As the train pulled out of Buenavista Station, I settled into my seat and soon the rhythmic motion of the car lulled me to sleep.
Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by the sound of brakes grinding the train to an abrupt stop. It was 4:00 a.m. and there was a problem. A train ahead had jumped the tracks and our train was blocked, unable to move. All the passengers, roughly roused from sleep, got up and slowly filed out into the dark. It was cold and quiet as we stood on the tracks waiting for buses to take us to Guadalajara, the nearest railway station.
There was another problem: the next train to the border wasn’t due to arrive until the following day and I didn’t have enough pesos left for a hotel room. No credit card in 1975. I only had my few belongings and a blanket I’d bought in Guatemala. I waited in the train station all day and when night fell, I made a bed on the floor with the other passengers who had no money for hotel rooms. I wrapped myself in the blanket and felt safe, protected by the bodies sleeping all around me.
The following day the train arrived and everyone got on to continue the journey through Jalisco, Nayarit, Sinaloa, Sonora, and Baja California. At every station, women and children carried baskets filled with tortillas, sandwiches, fruit and drinks to sell to the passengers. I had very little money for food and no pillow. It felt like a very long ride.
Things took a turn for the better when I met a couple on the train who were returning from vacation. They were crossing the border at Mexicali, picking up their car in Calexico, and planning to drive up the California coast. They generously offered me a ride back to Venice Beach. I don’t remember their names or even what they looked like, but a few days later they dropped me off a few steps from my door.
I sometimes think about that train accident and the delay in Guadalajara, my money nearly gone, the need to wait another day for the next train north. If it hadn’t been for the delay, I would never have met that couple who graciously drove me home. And, of course, you already know the moral of the story. When it comes to travel, or really anything else in life, it’s often more helpful to see ‘problems’ as opportunities to experience challenging situations in a different way. Eventually things will work out. They always do.
© Thea Evensen 2025.
