I have been thinking some more about the bus trip back from Todos Santos, and I suddenly realized that some of you might be interested in hearing the story. No, not the part where we got stranded in the Cumbre for three hours because no connecting busses were running (the day after All Saints’ Day still counts as holiday, turns out). That stuff is pretty normal.
I was thinking more of first leg of the trip back from Todos Santos. The Peace Corps volunteer living in Todos Santos advised us that most of the busses wouldn’t be running due to the feria, but the 7am bus was still scheduled. So, being experienced Guatemala travelers, all of us Peace Corps folks got up early to make sure we got seats. First-come, first-serve in Guatemala. We arrived to an empty bus (!) and got on. Within the next half hour, it started filling up. About half PCVs, half other flavors of Gringo tourists, and a few Mayans thrown in to keep it interesting.
The bus filled up, and people kept showing up. A PCV got on the bus, looked around, and said “Man, that was dumb. We were here twenty minutes ago and it was empty, and we decided breakfast was more important than getting a seat. I guess we gotta stand.” Accepting the implications of her earlier decision, she shrugged and squeezed onto the bus.
About that time, the tourist sitting next to me opened his mouth. “Are you kidding me?” he said under his breath. “There are no seats left.” He was a small, younger guy with a pasty complexion and dark glasses. It was his first trip to a third-world country, and he probably just discovered what Latin American diarrhea is all about.
“Oh, they’re just getting started,” I told him. “They are going to pack this bus to double capacity, at least. I was on a microbus last month with 30 people.”
In the next few minutes, more people showed up, and were packed onto the bus by the diligent ayudantes. My neighbor became increasingly agitated, as butts got pressed into faces and elbows into ribcages. Then, a group of six more Peace Corps volunteers showed up.
“Sweet!” I said. “They get to ride on the roof!”
“Very funny”, the pasty fellow grumbled.
“No, I’m serious. Look!” I replied. Sure enough, the ayudante said some words and the passengers started climbing the cargo ladder. “You dont see that much anymore, since they changed the law a few years ago.” I was pretty jealous; it was turning into a beautiful day and the bus in this leg of the trip can’t go faster than 15 or 20 mph due to the rough roads. What an amazing way to travel the valleys of the Cumbre!
“These people are all idiots,” my neighbor said. By now, the bus had started moving and people standing at the roadside were looking up at the collection of riders on top. A Gringo parade float!
“They do what they have to do,” Barbara said. She’s another PCV, and was sitting on the other side of the guy.
“They ought to buy another bus,” he grumbled back.
“They are too poor,” she explained.
He made a face. “Maybe I should get them a rope,” he retorted.
“Excuse me?” Barbara asked.
“You know, a rope. So they can all kill themselves. They’re so stupid.”
At this point, Barbara lit into him about how it’s not their choice to be poor, and Americans have such a slanted view about what the world is like, and how more than 75% of the world’s population has no choice but to live like this. It was obvious to me that this guy was having a really bad trip… he was probably in physical discomfort, sure… but he also was seeing things that he could never have imagined. Things that shocked him to his core, wrecked his view of what he thought the universe was. People lying drunk in the street, people eating tortillas to survive, kids dressed in rags playing with trash, a total lack of law and order.
I didn’t really say anything; I felt bad for the guy and knew it was pointless anyway. He was beyond being able to listen, or see through his dismay. “Who asked you, anyway?” he asked Barbara.
“I don’t know. Who asked YOU?” she replied.
About that time, the bus stopped and the driver made an apology over his shoulder to the passengers. The hill was too steep, and with the bus overloaded as it was, about half of the passengers would have to get out and walk a few hundred yards to the top of the hill. The angry tourist guy looked around nervously. The bus slowly unloaded, until it was our turn (we were towards the back).
This wasn’t the first time I’d had to walk so the vehicle could get up the hill. “Well, ladies, let’s go,” I said, mostly to the annoying guy who was by this time clutching his knapsack desperately to his chest. “This bus can’t go anywhere unless we get out and walk.”
I must admit, I was secretly hoping for a nice walk to break up the trip. The weather was cool but not rainy, and the valley was beautiful. As I walked, I chatted with a local and we talked some about their traditional dress, and some of the similarities with my village. It was thoroughly pleasant; perhaps more so because the grumpy guy never left the bus.
At the top of the hill, we all piled back in, and listened to some more spite and malice from my seatmate. And sure enough, 15 minutes later, we encountered another insurmountable hill. We went through the exercise of emptying the bus three more times before the trip was over. “Hah, it would be pretty funny if we got left,” one of the volunteers said as we were hiking.
“Did you pay them yet?” I asked.
“Um, no.”
I shrugged. “Then we’re good. They won’t leave us without getting their money.” We both laughed.
Eventually we neared the end of the journey, and some of the other passengers were talking. The angry guy had two traveling companions, and by this time, even THEY were tired of the guy and couldn’t resist taking a shot at him. “So, when are you coming back?” one asked his friend, feigning innocence. Grumpy Guy didn’t even respond.
I guess my point in all of this is that Guatemala is a really different place from the US, and I oftentimes forget it. I also take for granted this amazing opportunity we’ve been given as Peace Corps volunteers, to see and comprehend things often hidden from the knowledge of most “civilized” folk.