The Medicina, The Musica

The Medicina expresses/reveals ItSelf in the Human in Peyote Songs.

As soon as I got to the desert where the Great Medicina lives I began
seeking Musicians, as well as the Medicina. I found neither until the
last full day I had in the high desert.

And then this youngblood Mexicano arrived with his guitar and an
ancient, wonderful Spanish thing with It. And his stunningly beautiful
older sister arrived with her 50 peso, key of C, Andean flute. And
then the Great Medicina was with us.

Then I had to go.

It was the Saturday before Palm Sunday, the official beginning of
Semanya Santa (Holy Week), when Latin Americans have their vacations
and travel and all buses are full.

In anticipation of this I had bought a non-refundable round-trip
ticket from Austin to Monterrey. It was now time to take the bus from
Estacion Wadley to Monterrey. If I didn't get to Monterrey on time
there would be no ride for at least a week, and I would lose the $50
Americano paid for the return trip.

The ticket office opened at 1:30 p.m. Everyone told me the bus would
depart at 2 p.m. When I bought the ticket, the woman who sold it to me
said the bus would leave at 2 p.m.

We began playing in the shade in the central plaza in front of the bus
ticket office.

The previous day our Peyote Song was a kind of a Blues thing. We
started the Song the same way we had started it the previous day. Then
it went someplace so different and so magical, and so strange.

The song had an enchantment and IT transfixed those who played it,
those who heard IT. And it soared into the transcendent sky.

And yet there was one within hearing of the song who was not
enchanted by the song.

The driver of the bus arrived at 1:35 p.m, then stiffly walked past
us, past my backpack, into the ticket office, then back past my
backpack, past us - to the bus.

The driver was annoyed by the song.

When the song ended we all asked, "Where did that come from?" in the
songs lingering rapture.

Then we heard the bus starting, and we saw it pulling away (at least
20 minutes before it's scheduled departure time).

I ran to a nearby refresco (soda) stand and asked if that was the bus
to Monterrey.

It was.

And now the bus was about a hundred yards away and picking up speed.

I am fat, and old, and my head was full of Peyote. Yet, I ran from the
shade into the full scorching blast of the mid-day sun. And I did an
all-out sprint, yelling out to the driver. It could have been my
personal best for a 200 to 300 yard dash. I began closing with the
bus.

Then the driver put the pedal to the medal.

I picked up a rock and threw it at the bus receding into the distance.
But it was a feeble throw.

I was soaked in sweat, on the verge of fainting. Yet I ran back to the
ticket office.

The lady called the ticket office in Estacion Catorce, about eight
miles away, the buses next stop and left instructions for the driver
to wait for me. But she told me the bus would wait no longer than half
an hour - if that. She said I had to get a ride to Estacion Catorce
"muy rapido".

The hired, private transport in the desert are mostly Willey's, old
Detroit-built jeeps. Usually there was at least one about to drive
Peyoteros, those seekers into the desert where the Great Medicina
lives.

But now there was none.

Again I ran back to the ticket office.

The woman called for a taxi. A small, old car driven by a much older
senior Senor arrived soon after.

I embraced my young musician friends and got into the taxi.

I told the Senor of my circumstances. And he got angry. And he drove
that old, little car like it was a race car.

As we got to Estacion Catorce we could see the bus, and it was
beginning to pull away from the ticket office.The Senor put peddle to
metal, bounced and flew over the rutted streets, got abreast of the
bus, pulled in front of it, and then stood on the breaks.

The bus stopped in the smoke and stench of burnt out break. And when
the driver got out of the bus he was called an ugly, retard, the
result of a terrible, monstrous miscenegation.

And it seems to me that there is much truth in what the Senor said.

During the drive to Montorrey the driver played truly bad Mexican
music and turned back to look at me with disdain and hatred. And it
seems to me a dangerous thing that someone so stupid and ugly is
allowed to drive a bus.

And yet, 24-hours latter, I am arrived safely back in Austin, Tejas,
as if in a Peyote Song.