I've always thought that I wish I could secretly record the conversations that I have with the taxistas of Acapulco, or rather, their monologues about life in Acapulco, where they've been, what they've seen. Perhaps I did not mention it before, but even my maestro de arte used to taxistear (my own palabra inventada).
Today I've come down to the Costera to, según, be productive working on my resume and finding a news article for WatchingAmerica.com to translate. It is walk-able or even bus-able, but I opted to agarrar un taxi. 30 pesitos, but we would have to stop in a gasolinera to change my billete de 200. For the umpteenth time a taxista revealed that he had lived in the U.S., Los Angeles, for three years only to return to Mexico because his mother had become ill. He arrived through the Sonoran desert and would maybe go back once the economy turns around. I did not have the chance to ask what he worked in.
Thinking I was an arquitect at first because I had la pinta de arquitecto he soon realized I was not from Acapulco, which is when he began to speculate that las acapulqueñas were "after me" because I don't look like a local. I look "Hawaiian" or "Caribbean" or "Jamaican" he tells me, while the local people are more morenillo.
He then proceeds to ask me the obligatory "Which is more difficult to learn Spanish or English?" to which I respond with something akin to "No lo sé, o sea, realmente no tuve que 'aprender' inglés entonces no te puedo decir."
Before changing the 200 bill we stopped on the side of the road so he could fill up the tank with gas he keeps in a Coca-Cola water bottle as he explained to me that the vochos-- almost all taxis in Acapulco are old VW beetles-- have the gas tank up front and the engine in the back. Interesante.