Often, as I am riding a bus through town, a musician comes on carrying a guitar. I find this to be true, no matter what part of Mexico I am in. I have seen bus musicians in Mazatlán, Bucerias, Sayulita, and Puerto Vallarta.
Usually the musician goes to the back of the bus and soon he starts to make music. Sometimes the music is simply wonderful but this is not always the case. After three or four songs, singing and playing his guitar, he walks up and down the aisle with his hand cupped by his side. The conductors tolerate, if not welcome, his behavior.
Most of the people on the bus give the musician a few pesos for the pleasure of having live music on the bus. They know this is how this man earns enough money to get through the day. I always give the musicians something. I know how hard it is to make music in front of people and I’ve never had to do it on a moving stage. I make sure I look the musician in the eye and thank him for the songs as I give him what I have.
I clearly remember one old man who got on the bus with a tin can and a single drumstick. I was in Mazatlán, on my way to Walmart to buy a week’s worth of groceries. I didn’t realize the man was a musician at first. He just looked haggard and dirty to me. His long black hair hadn’t been washed in a long time. Neither had his clothes, his hands or his face, for that matter. It was impossible to tell how old he was, just that he seemed to have lived a long time.
Soon the man started to bang on the tin can with his drum stick, keeping time as he sang. I would like to write that the man had a great voice but he didn’t even have a good voice. He stared at the floor as he mumbled the words to his songs. When the musician finished, the passengers dug into their pockets for pesos, as usual. I gave him five pesos and a smile.
And the musician came alive! His eyes twinkled. He gave me a huge smile in return, showing the dimple in his cheek. He stood up straighter and kept his eyes on me. He was flirting with me.
As hungry and dirty and down-on-his-luck as he was, this man still had the energy to flirt with a gringa with grey hair, as she sat on a bumpy bus, mopping the sweat that was running off her face and soaking her t-shirt. Ah, Mexico!
This is great, Lynda. The closest experience I had to this was in Barbados. We didn’t have a car so every day we took the crowded local bus to the beach. On the way home there would be many school children in their immaculately clean, ironed and starched white shirt uniforms. Both ways the driver would have loud blaring local music on the radio. I loved it. And Barbadian are incredibly polite. I loved the local color
What a sweet story.