Vacation Memories : An Unforgettable Train Ride Through Mexico

My tickets promised a two-day train odyssey through exotic locales: along the eastern edge of the Sea of Cortez, passing through Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta and ultimately disembarking in Mexico City. Afterward a rental car to colonial San Miguel de Allende.

The alluring murmurings of the travel agent about refurbished locomotives, plush parlor cars and elegant sleeping compartments wafted through my thoughts like a cool Baja breeze.

I was undaunted by the 90-minute drive east to Riverside to await the red-eye Trailways bus that would start my journey. (I had drafted a friend for this minor driving chore.) Nor was I disturbed by brief stops in Indio and Heber before arriving in Calexico, Calif., at about 3 a.m.

Small Doubts Arise

Much later, after four cold and friendless hours in the Mexicali train station due to one of those not-uncommon connecting delays, when I realized I was perhaps the only non-Spanish-speaking traveler who would be boarding the train, I began to have doubts. That was when I staggered aboard train No. 2 bound for Guadalajara.

On expert advice I had tipped the porter $5 to guide me through the necessary checkpoints for embarkation. It was a good thing he stayed with me. With great verve, this kind man navigated my benumbed body through the congested corridors of the train car, depositing me in my sleeping compartment.

Then, with confidence borne of the knowledge that he could beat a hasty retreat from this place, he pointed out the features of my cabin.

I do not fault him for overlooking the several bullet holes in the window; later, I would be thankful for the pinpricks of ventilation they provided. With the air of a maitre d’ hotel producing a bombe flambe , he flicked open the door to the bathroom.

Although inky blackness prevented me from seeing inside, I knew by the overpowering disinfectant fumes that I would perform my ablutions in its sanitary, albeit dark interior. After patting the faded blue upholstery of the banquette/bed, he disappeared in a cloud of dust. Like virtually all of the railway personnel I met during the next two days, he was a nice man.

Deciding to explore, I went to the open platform at the rear of the car. With a jolt that awakened my excitement for travel, the train pulled away from the station.

A Last Glimpse

I will always remember my last glimpse of Mexicali with yearning--for there, resting peacefully on the neighboring track, was a beautifully renovated Mexico National Railways train, its compartment windows festooned with quaint wooden-slatted shutters, its freshly painted cars bedecked with colorful green awnings.

How could I, or my travel agent, have known that this lavishly restored train, a specimen of a bygone era in travel, would leave tomorrow, not today?

There is something comfortably relaxing about hanging out in a place that has no pretensions. Who knows, had I been settled in a luxurious, highly polished compartment, I might not have felt good about propping my dirty feet on the upholstery and watching the desert scenes fly by, cerveza in hand.

As it was, I dozed off, coming to life only when the train ground to a halt in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

Also called Puerto Penasco, the middle of nowhere was well-peopled. As I again stood on the rear platform of the last car, my eyes feasted on platters of succulent redfish and crab nesting in beds of fresh fruit and vegetables that were offered by scores of vendors. A bargain at about $2 a plate.

But only my eyes feasted. With a nerdish fear of foreign bacteria I declined this fare--a move I’d have reason to regret. I had judiciously packed a small repast of pita bread, mineral water and Swiss cheese, secure in the knowledge that a sumptuous dining car would also be at my disposal.

I returned to my compartment and was reminded of how a train car is similar to a mobile convection oven. Although the temperature outside had been perhaps in the mid-80s, my small unit was at least 10 degrees hotter.

While awaiting the porter to find out about turning on the air conditioning, I propped my cabin door open for ventilation.

Aroma of Seafood

The pungent aroma of seafood, which some of the passengers had bought at one of the stops, drifted through the corridor, mingling with the powerful odor of disinfectant. It was a heady smell, reminding me that I was a stranger in a strange land.

I lay back on the seat and watched tiny villages whisk by, their clay and whitewashed churches glowing rose in the late-afternoon sunshine.

The porter arrived and, after testing every switch in the compartment, said there would be no electricity until evening.

Apparently the train cars operate on some kind of portable generators that need frequent regenerating. I shrugged, smiling. So I’d be hot until bedtime; that’s when being cool really counted, anyway.

Before my journey I had been warned by many guidebooks and persons that train travel in Mexico should be undertaken only if one could afford a private compartment ($78 one way). I discovered why.

The first two or three cars I worked my way through contained private compartments with heavy curtains separating them from the corridor, rather than metal doors like my unit. They shared communal restrooms and it was nauseatingly easy to find these facilities at either end of the car.

The next eight or nine cars, all in second-class, were dismal affairs crammed with vinyl-covered seats. Some had air conditioning, most did not.

The overwhelming smell of food, humanity and clogged plumbing almost prevented me from continuing my search for the dining car. I suddenly appreciated my good fortune at having a sleeping compartment at all.

I threw open the door to the dining car and was relieved that I didn’t dress for the occasion. Some men, one of them in what once must have been a white uniform, were propped against train seats, sodas or cervezas in hand. Immediately they knew I was an American and indicated that I had reached my destination.

Dinner Preparation

But I saw no tables, only cardboard boxes stretched between seat backs that served as food preparation areas. Dust drifted up through the refracted light rays that warmed the slabs of baloney, ham and Cheddar cheese. Iceberg lettuce wilted and sliced tomatoes puckered in the heat.

The smiling host waved his mayonnaise-encrusted knife over the selections, sending the flies buzzing over to the bread. I paid him for a soda, bid the boys adios and began the 15-minute hike back to my compartment.

That evening, as I chewed on dry pita bread and imagined it stuffed with crab and redfish, I came to a startling conclusion: With the shattering of my last illusion about luxury train travel, I could really start enjoying myself and the experience for what it was. Nothing could faze me now, not even the realization that there wasn’t and wouldn’t be any electricity in our car.

The 300-page novel I’d brought lay in idle darkness as did the dreaded restroom facilities.

At some point in the night an elderly porter crashed through the open door of my compartment with a flashlight to make up the berth--no easy task under those conditions.

Later, with the door still propped open to release the stifling heat of the compartment, I crawled into my bunk covered only by cool linen sheets made soft by time and washing.

Hypnotized by the tiny tableaux that would suddenly be framed in the compartment window and just as suddenly disappear into darkness--miniature vignettes of families at the dinner table or washing dishes or getting ready for bed, I finally slept.

The next morning, after scraping off the thick layer of dust that had settled on my face during the night, I returned to the dining car for thick, black, sweet coffee. Wonderful!

I relaxed throughout the day, occasionally glancing up from my book to see the dramatic changes in scenery from the dry desert of the north to the more tropical lushness of Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta.

The Finest Meal

This time, when the train stopped in mid-afternoon for a very early dinner break, I was the first one off. Perhaps one of the best meals of my life was that one of beans, rice, grilled beef and salsa on hot homemade tortillas, bought for about $1.50 and eaten while I sat cross-legged on the concrete loading pier at the small train stop in central Mexico.

Basking in the warm west wind and breathing in the delicious smells of roasting corn and meat, the thought of watching all this from the inside of a dining car seemed untenable.

Late that night we arrived in Guadalajara. Those of us continuing to Mexico City changed trains and, as I stood in the elegant, green-awning car and waved goodby to the elderly porter, I felt a twinge of regret.

The renovated trains are lovely, as I discovered while enjoying a glass of wine in the serene parlor car. The compartments are very comfortable, decorated in soothing colors and complete with many small amenities. But gone was that element of adventure--that special something--that had made train No. 2 so memorable.

Much later, as the train rattled inland along the tracks, I rolled up the beautifully finished wooden shutters and propped my chin on the windowsill.

I realized then that there were many friends to whom I’d never recommend traveling by train in Mexico, people who place comfort high on their vacation priority lists.

More Cameo Glimpses

The landscape dodged by in long patches of darkness and brief patches of light, and I saw the same scenes as I had the night before on train No. 2--tiny cameo pictures of life in Mexico . . . images I never could have captured from an airplane or a ship.

No, I thought with a feeling of great superiority, trains aren’t for everyone; they’re for travelers who don’t mind getting down to basics.

But as I curled up under the delightful satiny sheets salvaged from the old Southern Pacific railroads of yesteryear, lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of the train, a vision crept into my mind of breakfast the next morning: a perfect rose in a silver bud vase, freshly squeezed orange juice, starched white tablecloths and real coffee.

I really had to have a talk with my travel agent about train schedules when I got home.

For more information on travel to Mexico, contact the Mexican Government Tourist Office, 10100 Santa Monica Blvd., Suite 224, Los Angeles 90067, phone (213) 203-8191.