The parent and child riding the Motocarro quickly passed by

Parent and child on Motocarro — Parent and child on a Motocarro

Walking through the southern Mexican town of Tehuantepec, I heard the lively hum of an engine approaching from behind. Two motocarros swept past me, their small motorcycle bodies fused with cargo beds. Locals know them well—three-wheeled taxis that can be described as part motorcycle, part utility cart. They excel at darting through uneven, half-paved roads, weaving into narrow lanes where city buses never go.

In the first one, a young mother sat beside a well-dressed little girl in the cargo bed. The mother rested one elbow on her knee, her hand lightly on her daughter’s shoulder. The girl wore a pure white dress, her hair neatly arranged, yet her expression was the opposite of festive. She seemed to have noticed me, fixing me with a steady gaze—but it wasn’t the sparkle of a child on her way to the fair. It was closer to the quiet before a needle pierces the skin.

For visitors, motocarros are a curiosity. For locals, they are simply tools of daily life—hauling groceries, ferrying children to school, taking people to the clinic. In the rainy season, the gaps in the seats let the rain blow in; in the dry season, dust swirls through. Still, they’re practical enough to endure both.

Up ahead, the other motocarro carried an elderly couple. Unlike the mother and daughter behind them, the pair rode unfazed by the bumps, as if the journey itself was a time for rest. As I walked on, I found myself wondering what role that white dress would play at their destination—but in the end, I never found out.

Tehuantepec on Google Map

Comment via

日本語