Restless Me - The Journal of World Travel

It's the worst in the highlands, with its steep inclines and rapid descents. It would be bad enough if the buses weren't all secondhand Ford school buses, circa 1976, and if they weren't so full you have to tuck your hands between your knees to narrow it up, because there are three people on each seat (more if you count the babies sitting on their mother's laps, and the small children), and even more people squeezed standing sideways in the aisles. Also, there are of course no seatbelts, and because they were built for children there isn't nearly enough leg room unless you're under 5'6", which at 6'0" I am decidedly not. Without fail my legs are always pressed firmly into the back of the seat in front of me, and not quite blissfully numb after ten minutes.

And then there are other factors to be added into the equation, such as heat -- there is of course no air conditioning in them, and the seats are made of vinyl, which as you probably know can be a very sticky substance. Also, odds are the campesino or senorita next to you hasn't bathed in a while, which is par for the course in Guata, and maybe there's a tub of tamales baking in the heat, or meat purchased from the market (cow tongue, intestines, take your pick), and I hope you planned ahead and haven't had anything to drink for a few hours, because these factors don't do your bladder any good, and I've yet to come across a driver who makes bathroom stops.

But the way they drive is the real kicker, especially in the highlands, where I've been for the last month. When cars and trucks and buses stack up on each other, what ensues is a game of leapfrog, Russian roulette style. The driver will ride the bumper of the car or truck or bus in front of him, often swerving into the other lane to check his view before whipping it out there and gunning it. As mentioned, these are far from high-performance vehicles, so the engine shutters and buckles and a thick black plume of exhaust belches out the tailpipe as you CREEP, yes CREEP by the car or truck or bus you're trying to pass, measuring progress a fender or a wheel or a window panel at a time, while alternately looking out the front windshield (if you're lucky enough to see through the mass of bodies) to simultaneously check the progress of the car or truck or bus or blind curve bearing down on you. And just when you clear the front bumper of the car or truck or bus that's now beside you, and you're about to breathe a deep sigh of relief, you realize your driver is even now beginning to pass the car or truck or bus in front of it as well! So.

So! You grip the seat in front of you a little tighter and measure more slow progress as you look out the front windshield -- if you're lucky, or unlucky enough, to be able to do this, because, after all, this is a matter of debate -- at what's baring down on you, and just when you realize with absolute certainty that you are about to die, the driver lays on his horn -- WONK WOOOOONK! -- and the car in what is supposed to be your lane taps his breaks ever so slightly, thus giving your driver the smallest of small pockets to whip the bus back into, which he does.

And then the whoosh of a dozen other cars and trucks passing by.

You are now breathing rapid, shallow breaths straight off the top of your lungs and taking a look around at some of your fellow passengers, which you seem to feel a newfound solidarity with, only to realize they are -- what's this? -- sleeping! Or talking to their neighbor and laughing. And not about what they've just lived through either, oh no, because it's all old hat to them, my friend, and probably they didn't even notice. So you grit your teeth and tell yourself if they can be calm in the eye of the storm, then by God so can you.

When next you crest the top of the hill you instantly realize the uphill was nothing compared to what you're about to experience, because now you've got speed to reckon with. Witness the driver riding the bumper of the vehicle in front of you, tapping the breaks in rapid succession like an angry dog tugging at his leash, which sends you in great jerking motions toward the seat in front of you. Restrained no longer, he whips the bus quickly out into the other lane and, yes, guns it. This time the engine responds immediately and you're going WAY TO FAST for these narrow, winding rows in this thirty-year-old bus. As soon as you've gotten around that other vehicle, or five, the driver whips it back into the lane you're supposed to be in and SLAMS on the breaks, sending you sliding forward in your seat for real this time, and then immediately jerks the bus around the sharp corner so that you're pressed instantly up against the window, or mashed into the person next to you. You groan, close your eyes and promise yourself not to look at the precipitous drop off (there is of course no safety rail), listening as you do to the squeal of tires, smelling the acrid stench of smoking breaks, and trying to make a hasty peace with death. Because try as you might not to think about it, you at the same time cannot shake the notion that you are about to roll off the road and tumble down the side of the mountain, perhaps never to be found.

But then the bus straightens out and you're still alive. When you take another look around the same people are still laughing, or sleeping, and you think to yourself incredulously, "How can this be? Because my nerves are just SO FUCKING SHOT." You want to shake them and shout -- DO SOMETHING TO STOP THIS! You want to burrow your face in their lap and whimper. But you don't, because in your heart of hearts, you want to be like them - aloof, passive, cool.

So instead you look at your watch, only to realize that what felt like hours has in fact been more like five minutes. The hours are what's left. So good luck to you, you poor, miserable sap. And good luck to you, senor, and to you, senorita, and to you and you and you . . .

- - - - -

Besides braving a chicken bus in Guatemala, writer and traveler JOE FRANKLIN has also performed a back-flip off the second deck of Mama Hahn's party boat in Nha Trang, Vietnam. A story on his adventures with sticky rice will appear in an upcoming issue of Restless Me. He can be contacted at joejdf@yahoo.com.