The people's protest, and car

Americans could learn a few lessons in civil disobedience here. For the three days I was in Morelia last week, the main streets in town were blocked by hundreds of taxis and vans -- a protest by the drivers because the state will not allow them to raise their fares.

I realized the extent of the problem Friday morning, when I checked out of my hotel and asked the clerk to call me a cab. I needed to go to the final session of the annual monarch butterfly conference, to meet with a guide who would take me to several indigenous communites.

But the clerk said no cabs were available. She suggested I lug my huge suitcase to the street and hope to flag one down. I went to the curb and after 20 minutes found a cab. But we couldn't get all the way to the conference site because, of course, the roads were blocked. I walked the last few blocks myself.

Happily ensconced in the conference, with coffee and cookies, I learned that the whole operation was moving elsewhere because of the protests. 'It looks peaceful to me,' I told my guide. 'But in Mexico,' he said, 'you can never tell when a protest will turn violent.'

He went to fetch his car to drive myself and three others to the new site. His car turned out to be a 15-year-old Volkswagen Bug, and into this vehicle squeezed myself, the guide, three other people, their bags and my extra-large L.L. Bean duffle bag thing. I felt like the biggest fool in the world, and extremely American.

The trip to the new site took over an hour, because of the horrendous traffic and a series of wrong turns, one of which led us up a very steep, San Francisco-style hill. About halfway up, the Bug's engine gave out and we started rolling backwards at an alarmingly high rate of speed. I never imagined this to be the way I would go, but so be it. At last, though, my guide pulled the emergency brake, the car jerked to halt and we all climbed out to walk up the hill while he drove.

Later that day, after a three-plus hour drive up and down beautiful mountains, we reached Zitacurao (my present location). The hotel requires guests to pre-pay, and it was then, as I opened my wallet, that I realized I had left my ATM card in an ATM machine in Morelia earlier in the day. I am an idiot.

I called my bank and they are sending me an emergency replacement card. They informed me they are doing this for free because it is my first time to lose my card abroad. But if it happens again, I was told, they will not be so forgiving. I will now name my bank to shame them: Bank of America. Do not bank with them.

Anyway, the Bug has reliably carried us across many miles of bumpy, rocky, dusty roads over the last few days. Tomorrow, it's back to Mexico City, where flat, smooth pavement and an ATM card await.