by Larry P. Johnson
(Reprinted from "Catholic Digest," March 2003.)
(Editor's Note: This story, originally called "Train Ride," is a chapter from Larry Johnson's book "Train Ride," which has an expected publication date of June 1. The book will be made available electronically and in paperback, and can be purchased from www.1stbooks.com, as well as from Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and Borders.)
Each time I tell the story of my first visit to Mexico -- at age 18, blind, and alone except for my dog guide Tasha -- someone invariably asks me why I decided to go in the first place.
"Maybe," I reply, "I was just looking for adventure."
In my heart, I knew my motive went beyond that. It arose from my yearnings for a sense of self-worth, a feeling of personal accomplishment. I certainly had reason to be satisfied with my achievements thus far. I'd done well in my two years at junior college. I had a B-plus average, had acted in two school plays, and joined a campus fraternity. Yet I wanted to prove, perhaps to myself more than anyone, that I was capable, competent, and courageous. I wanted to show my family that even though I was blind and the youngest of four siblings I could do amazing and admirable things.
My mother taught me the importance of independence at a very early age. She didn't believe in coddling or shielding me from the bumps and bruises of life. When I came in from play with a bump or a cut, Mom would wash the injury, apply medication, and send me right back out. It taught me resilience.
That summer of 1952, I made up my mind to go to Mexico. The family, especially my two older sisters, was concerned about my going to a foreign country; my sisters tried to persuade my mother against it. But Mom had faith in me, perhaps even more than I had in myself. Instead of trying to dissuade me, she asked me a barrage of questions: Where would I stay? What did I plan to do there? Did I have enough money? She also offered a few suggestions on what to take along -- canned dog food for Tasha and my portable typewriter so I could write letters back home.
I had it all worked out. I had arranged with the YMCA in Chicago to reserve accommodations for me at the YMCA in Mexico City. I had written a budget for the three weeks I would be there. I had my round-trip train ticket and tourist card. And, thanks to a friend, I had a letter of introduction to a family in Mexico City. I would have a five-hour trip from Chicago to St. Louis, a change of trains, and then a single train from St. Louis to Mexico City with only a coach change.
Although the trip would be a long one -- three days and two nights -- I anticipated no problems. But for Tasha, my 3-year-old Doberman Pinscher, it was a different story. I had to take along her eating and drinking bowls, cans of dog food, and plan when we could leave the train so she could answer nature's call. When we crossed into Mexico, I tried in my limited Spanish to discuss with the conductor Tasha's needs to periodically leave the train. He assured me it would be no problem.
The next morning around 6 a.m., Tasha and I prepared to get off the train as it pulled to a stop in the small town of Banderas. I asked the conductor if we would have enough time for Tasha to roam a bit. He replied, "No problema, se�or."
We stepped on to the cindery ground. The air was refreshingly crisp for mid-July. I removed Tasha's harness, collar, and leash, and she scampered off a few yards. Seconds later, I heard two short whistle blasts.
That couldn't possibly be our train. I hesitated.
Just then, a heavily accented voice spoke to me in English: "Se�or, did you want the train?"
"Yes, yes," I said, realizing what was happening. "Stop the train!"
His reply stunned me: The train had left.
I stood motionless in disbelief. I was alone in a foreign country, and my baggage was on a train to Mexico City. I felt scared and overwhelmed. Had I made the wrong decision in traveling to Mexico by myself? I had told myself I was looking for adventure. Well, here it was.
The voice spoke again: "Can I help you, se�or?"
"Yes, por favor," I replied, quickly calling Tasha to my side. As I leaned to fasten the harness under her chest, she licked me on the cheek. Don't worry, she seemed to say, I'll get you out of this.
The man led me to the telegraph office next to the depot. There, I managed to send a message requesting that my baggage be unloaded and held for me in San Luis Potos�, a major city about halfway between the U.S. border and Mexico City. But the next train would not come through for 12 hours. What was I to do?
My nameless companion guided me to a small posada, a family- owned inn a short distance from the depot. His brief exchange with the owner was spoken so fast that I guessed rather than understood what they said: The innkeeper would take care of the norteamericano and his perrita (little dog) until the train arrived.
The family consisted of a woman, her two teenage daughters, and a couple of younger children who squealed nervously at the sight of Tasha. Tasha exhibited the grace of a queen, walking with quiet dignity, her head held high. I was so proud of her, and I began to feel my own confidence return.
That wonderful family showed me true hospitality. They took me into their inn, fed me, brought water to Tasha, gave us a place to rest, and made sure we were at the depot in plenty of time for our train. When I offered payment, they refused to accept it.
Back on the train and headed again for Mexico City, I felt both relief and satisfaction. I had survived my first south-of- the-border adventure. I was excitedly -- albeit naively -- optimistic about being able to handle any new situation which might come along.
We pulled into the station at San Luis Potos� about 11 p.m. Tasha and I headed into the depot to claim my luggage and have it placed back on board the train. We were met by two young men who eagerly escorted us to a baggage room where my two suitcases and portable typewriter were waiting. Anxious to get back on the train, I checked my luggage quickly.
"Oh, no, se�or," one of the young men insisted in Spanish. "You must check everything carefully." I dutifully opened each suitcase and probed the contents with my hands. "It's all here."
"Now, you must write a receipt saying that everything has been returned to you in good order."
"But the train is getting ready to leave," I protested.
"The train will wait," they assured me, "and we must have a receipt."
"OK, OK," I replied with annoyance, snapping open my typewriter. I typed a short statement in Spanish and handed it over. Satisfied, they handed it back, saying, "Very good, now sign it please."
"Gladly." Quickly scribbling my name at the bottom, I returned it to them and got to my feet. "Can we go now?"
"Of course," they echoed each other. Picking up my suitcases and typewriter, we headed out of the depot and toward the train. The train was already moving from the platform and gathering speed.
"Not again," I groaned. "Yell for them to stop!"
"It's too late, se�or. They won't hear us," said the man nearest to me. "Not to worry," he reassured me. "We'll take you to a hotel and you can catch the next train in the morning."
His solution was simple and logical. I now had all my belongings with me. Did it really matter that I would get to Mexico City another half-day later than planned? Wasn't this just another part of my adventure?
Tasha and I followed our guides as they led us away from the depot, down a deserted street, and into a place I assumed to be the lobby of a local hotel. One of my escorts approached the desk clerk and spoke with him in low tones. I was told the cost of the room was $3.50.
I didn't know what kind of place this was or what was a reasonable rate for a hotel room in this city. I was tired and eager to get some sleep. "OK, fine," I agreed. I was led down a long hallway to a small room that contained a bed, bureau, and bathroom. What more did I need?
Though my companions had given me no cause for mistrusting them, I felt apprehensive. Had this pair deliberately delayed me so I would miss the train and then be obliged to follow them to this obscure hotel for some sinister purpose? I was determined to put on a brave face. I thought about all my favorite heroes -- Jack Armstrong, Sky King, the Lone Ranger, Captain Midnight. I thought about how they would handle my situation. Stay calm and remain alert. That's what they would do.
It was a rough night. I drifted in and out of a restless slumber. At one point I came awake, paralyzed by fear. Something cold and menacing had touched my face. I lay perfectly still, waiting, listening. There it was again, something against my cheek. My heart pounded with terror. With great effort, I slid my left hand out from under the covers and seized the thing. It was a hand! It did not move. Slowly, I followed the dead hand up to its shoulder. It was mine. I laughed out loud. Apparently, I had slept on top of my arm and lack of blood flow had left the arm without feeling. My mind had magnified and used my own fears -- I was my own intruder.
The next morning, a bellhop from the hotel accompanied me back to the depot, where I boarded the Aztec Eagle for the third time. Twelve hours later I arrived in Mexico City.
Caption
Larry Johnson and his guide dog, Tasha, pause for a photo. Tasha, a Doberman pinscher, yawns to show what she thinks of having this picture taken. (Photo courtesy of Larry Johnson.)