I tried to figure out how many hours of my service are wasted by having to travel everywhere via busses driving on the shittiest roads in Central America. I didn’t used to mind riding on busses; but when they are hot, crowded, loud, smelly and full of salesman/preachers, I lose it. Not only is there no limit to how many people they will put on a bus, there is no set “Stop Schedule”- meaning they might stop 30 times on one trip.
You think after some time here you would get used to the busses, as you do with most foreign experiences, but I have actually had the inverse reaction to them. The longer I have been here, and the more bus rides I go on, the more hatred boils up in me when I think about having to sit on a bus for more than an hour. Considering I live 1.5 hours away from the next closest volunteer, I frequently experience this bus rage.
It is not like a nice safe air plane where you can take a sleeping pill and wake up in your destination... no. With all of the stops you make along the way, you have to constantly keep one eye on your bag and on the person sitting/standing next to you, in case their fingers get a little sticky. Bus robberies are far too common here. You would think because of these robberies companies would change their practice, but come on... that would make too much sense. So, I am constantly trying new/safer routes on bumpy dirty roads hoping to keep 500 Lempira fortune (aka $25) that I travel with.
Every volunteer you meet has some crazy story that happened on a bus ride. To classify a story as “crazy” it must include more than just: breast feeding, vomiting, overcrowding, strange salesmen, or clowns. It really has to be out of the blue to even warrant a re-telling. My crazy story (one of a few I have now accrued, because of my excessively long bus trips) also happened to be the best bus ride I have ever been on. And it goes like this:
One Friday afternoon I was heading to my friend’s house over the mountain for a “burger night.” I worked a full day and decided to leave on the 4:30pm bus, far later than I normally leave, but since he only lived an hour and a half away I thought I would fine time wise. I left my house at 4pm to walk 5 minutes to the bus stop just to make sure I could get a seat on the bus. When I showed up to the bus office I saw a huge crowd. I thought, “Duh! Idiot! It is coffee season on a Friday afternoon! Of course there is a crowd.”
Coffee season means that a TON of migrant workers make there way to the mountains during the week to cut coffee... very lucrative. So I stood “in line” to get on the bus. I say “in line” because Hondurans don’t line up, they crowd, push and butt to get to the front of the mass. I had pretty good placement and thought my chances were good to make it onto the bus.
Then, they opened the doors and people who already had tickets could get on first. Crap no ticket. But I could still jockey for position with all the un-ticketed. Just then, a man who was clearly intoxicated, thought he could somehow sneak past the ticket collector in the bus doorway... foolish. After his entrance was denied he uttered some hmm less than friendly words to the ticket collector/attendant. The bus attendant was a bit displeased with the gentleman’s language and decided to kick him in the chest to get him away from the bus. The kind gentleman responded with a wild punch directed at the attendant. So the the attendant delivered another kick to the face, which made the gentleman step back. The attendant decided that it was best if he went in the office so he and the kind gentleman could cool off.
Lucky for me, the gentleman had surfaced just to my left with and empty bottle in his hand. He smashed the bottle on the wall next to us and decided to look for the attendant to “talk to him again”. The attendant had come back outside and was immediately spotted by the bottle wielding gentleman. A foot race down the main road ensued. When the attendant had made it a few blocks in mere moments the gentleman, bottle in hand, turned back to the crowd. It was at that moment I decided to leave. I thought I can just hitch a ride over the mountain. Hitch-hiking is a common practice here in Honduras, and I only use it as a means of transportation in rare situations. But, when I do I catch them I stand in front of the police office and the officers normally help me and instill some fear into the driver.
I was having no luck and at this point it was nearing 5pm, I had almost thrown in the towel. Just then, the bus pulled up and stopped for me to get on. I hopped right on, bidding my cop friend farewell, and we were off. The door no sooner closed behind me than I realized how FULL this bus actually was. This Greyhound type bus had every seat filled, along with people standing up and down the entirety of the isle. So, I did what I could and took a seat on the floor next to the driver. The driver and the new attendant (he replaced the one involved in the altercation) were extremely nice and not in an overtly creepy way, which is normal. We talked about the work I was doing here, how long they had been working for the bus company (the driver for 30 years!), food in Ocotepeque, roads in Central America, and anything else that came to mind. It was cool outside because it had just rained, and no one was on the roads, so the driving conditions were perfect... for Honduran standards. I had a bird’s-eye view of the road, something that I had never seen before, giving me awesome perspective on the Ocotepeque valley. And best of all I DIDN’T PAY for the the ride! I took my money out but the attendant refused to accept it. They dropped me off at the entrance to my friend’s town and bid me adieu. Soon, I was eating a delicious cheeseburger recounting my harrowing tale to my fellow volunteers.
It went from one of the craziest moments I have witnessed in Honduras, to the best bus ride of my service. Every time I hop on a bus I hope to see that driver and attendant combo but have yet to find them again.
Side Note- 90% of my blogs, written or yet to be written, were concocted on a bus.
