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Don Javier smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “Mijo, I have been driving this route for eighteen years. I have never lost a single worker. Not one. That is my Pemex. Not the directors. The drivers.”
The first hour was silent. Workers napped, their heads lolling against the headrests. Don Javier kept his eyes on the road. He knew every pothole. He knew where the previous year’s floods had eaten away the shoulder. He knew that a sleepy driver here meant a bus full of broken bones or worse. transporte de personal pemex
As the sun finally broke over the Gulf of Mexico, Unit 47 rolled through the main gate of the Dos Bocas Maritime Terminal. The smell of crude oil and salt filled the air. The workers stood up, stretching, alive. Don Javier smiled, revealing a gold tooth
At kilometer 22, the morning erupted. A low-flying helicopter from the Marina base passed overhead, rattling the windows. A young apprentice, Luis, woke with a start. Not one
“Hold on,” Don Javier announced over the PA. “We’re going off-script.”
Don Javier raised his thermos of black coffee in salute. Then he turned the key. Rrrrrumble. Time to go pick up the night shift.
