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His first name is Victor, his last name is Mota

8 September 1999, 3.01pm Mexico time… Dressed in jeans, t-shirt and an American-style baseball cap, 21 year-old Victor Mota makes his way over to the backpacker sitting in the waiting area of the out-of-the-way Juchitan bus station in south-west Mexico. 

The backpacker looks tired and uncomfortable in her surrounds. She arrived inMexico via London the night before, and decided that the only way to meet her backpacker friend in San Cristobel in time was to travel an extra 12 hours via the town of Juchitan. She has not seen another traveller since leaving Mexico City Airport. 

Victor had watched as the mid-20s backpacker bought a packet of chips from the station’s small shop. She screwed her face at the discovery that the chips were covered in a chilli pepper. He watched as she ignored the middle-aged Mexican man who sat next to her in the 100-seat waiting area. 

“Can I help?” Victor asks in perfect English as he squats down beside the backpacker’s chair. Victor tells the girl about his Mexico, the history and current cultural climate. She looks relieved. 

With gentleman ease he helps her put her backpack in storage, gives her tips on what bus station food to eat and then becomes her translator at the ticket counter to find out what has happened to the bus to San Cristobel. 

Her bus to San Cristobel is late. She is told that the roads are dangerous due to recent rains. It is Singapore hot and steamy. She looks down at her London-bought trainers and wishes she could change into a pair of sandals. 

Victor jokes and makes the foreign girl laugh. He makes her laugh a lot during the three hours they spend playing cards in the Juchitan bus station. His bus bound for Mexico City, where he lives with his parents and three brothers, arrives hours before hers. 

“Will you let me be your tour guide when you are in Mexico City?” he asks with a shy smile on his boyish Mexican face as he writes his email address and phone number in her journal.

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