An even larger wrench came forth from the hut carried by a small boy further dwarfed by its size, and then a heavy rusted bar. More crawling around, bang, bang, bang, more murmurs amongst the team. Finally the man, the wrenches, and the bar, all sporting a fresh coat of ancient oil, dirt, and grime emerged. A Mexican bus is never broken, no matter how broken a newcomer to the language might think it to be. Repair time is just a function of tolerance, both of passengers and of automotive parts.
Anger serves no function.
And when you travel, no one is encouraged to rely on arrival by a certain time. The unmarked Mayan hut, it turned out, was the local mechanic's workshop. Miscellaneous used spare parts, everything from engine blocks, to alternators, from brake drums to extra cracked windshields, camshafts, transaxels, timing chains, exhaust manifolds and even a few spare hubcaps were stacked, strewn, and generally piled in corners, both inside and out. Here was a collection of automotive prosthetics designed to fill even the most obscure improvisational need. Unfortunately, we were in a bus, not a car, and the issue of scale could not be ignored.