Fighting heaves with every twist of the road, I cursed the "chocolate corn" Pedro Martinez kindly treated us to back in Oaxaca City. Every bump threatened a repeat of that ...unique...flavor. As sketchy as the bus had seemed at first glance, I was grateful for one thing: I had the seat to myself, so if I needed to make use of the solitary plastic bag I dug from my belongings, no one would be unnecessarily put out.

The journey began at the decrepit second-class bus station in Oaxaca. We'd already forgone the first-class bus, which took the nicer, straighter road, but for two extra hours and significantly more pesos. Our choices were limited, as very few bus companies serviced the coast; Estrella de Valle gave the options of an ordinario to Puerto Angel (lots of stops but closer to our final destination Mazunte) or the directo to Pochutla ("direct" meaning few stops, not nonstop). After one look at the tattered bus to Puerto Angel, we plunked down 85 pesos for Pochutla.

Now, I've left my cozy apartment once or twice before, so I've seen my share of rough travel conditions. But this bus station had the most overnight "guests" of any I've ever witnessed. We kept alert to our surroundings, but when a policeman came by to ensure we were watching our bags, we wondered if we were downplaying the danger. And the bathroom was the second-nastiest in my experience; second only to the trench toilets of China, which will not be topped for some time.

A minimal payment of 2 pesos garnered me one square of toilet paper and entry into a stinking two-stall closet with sopping wet floor, missing seats and a waterless sink. I discovered only when I looked for the flush lever why there had been giant drums of water by the door: users were required the flush the toilets manually with buckets. I always carry liquid soap and bottled water so my friends and I were able to wash our hands in the parking lot; since it seemed unlikely others were doing the same, the prospect of touching anything in the bus station was extremely unappealing. Getting on the bus was a relief.

That feeling didn't last long, however. The road was hardly the worst I've ever taken, but perhaps that 3rd beer followed by a large bowl of atole added to my revulsion. The actual distance between the capitol and the coast is not great, but the winding, looping mountain road stretched the journey to 9 full hours.

Not long after we got underway, the driver popped in The Wailer, a straight-to-video cheesefest in which stupid American tourists are brutally murdered by the ghost of La Llorona while taking a self-centered sex-filled Mexican holiday. Why are Latino bus drivers so partial to horror and/or super-violent action movies, even on overnight rides? As idiotic as it was, I did my best to focus on it rather than think about what type of breathing pattern stimulated my gag reflex the least.

The only chance for fresh air was at a mountainside toilet break—in the truest sense of the term, as this was no gleaming rest stop with a snack bar and smoking lounge. The air at this elevation was absolutely frigid, but I happily dashed off the bus for the 3 metal shacks with long-drop toilets so I could worry over one less problem.

I gulped the sweet cold air, but back on the bus, my queasiness revived within minutes. Fully into the chilled mountain night, my rolling stomach now battled my shivers for attention; eventually I passed out from sheer force of will.

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