Letting go

    "There, up in the clouds," said the man who responded to my question about transportation to Cuajimoloyas (kwa-hee-mo-LAW-yas ... it gets easier if you say it 50 times). It's a small Oaxacan village nearly two miles above sea-level but, looking in the direction he was pointing, it didn't seem so high. We were at a noisy crossroads in Tlatcolula, a town in a flat arid valley surrounded by high green mountains.           Heading from one bus station to another, I made arrangements with a taxi driver for the journey and went to a comedor for lunch. When I returned he was gone, but another driver said he would come back soon.
An hour later I decided to try elsewhere and was directed to a street corner where vehicles heading in my direction would have to pass.
    Of all the traffic passing by, taxi's, minibus collectivos and larger buses, none displayed a sign for my destination. As the second hour went by, I assumed that I'd have to spend the night in Tlatcolula, and explained my situation to a very tan, grizzled old man wearing a straw hat. He immediately suggested jumping aboard one of the buses going to Diaz Ordaz, at the foot of the mountains, with the likelihood of getting a ride from there.
    As the conductor took my five pesos and learned where I hoped to go, his eyebrows raised upward as if to say, "Are you sure?" At a lonely intersection, the bus stopped and I was told to get off and wait there. Years of similar travel through Mexico and Guatemala taught me to follow the directions of bus drivers and their conductors. I've never been let down, no matter how odd the circumstances.
    A battered blue pickup truck approached minutes later, turned the corner and stopped in front of me. The passenger leaned out of the open window and said in a questioning tone, "Quaji?" I nodded and without another word being exchanged, climbed into the truck bed.
    Very quickly, the views became majestic and exhilarating. The village I had just come from faded into the distance and soon even the other mountains were covered by a thick haze.
After going uphill for 10 minutes, the mountain I had been looking up at was at eye-level. Ten minutes later I was looking down on it and, as another 10 minutes passed, there was nothing to look up to except for the mountain we were climbing.
    Though the cold mountain air twice forced me to pull out extra shirts from my pack and finally put on a hoodie, that 35-minute ride has been the highlight of my trip. But it's made all the better by not having to be concerned with plans, timetables, or where I'd be sleeping that night. Many years of travel have provided me with utmost certainty that I would always have a place to sleep and food to eat in a safe environment. Being stranded in a small village, such as Tlatcolula or Diaz Ordaz or any other, wouldn't be of concern.  I'm traveling to experience new places, so by that standard, wherever I happen to be means that I arrived at my destination.
    Travel has given me the confidence that people will help me when ever I might be in need, and that is the best feeling of all.