How To: Not Exactly Greyhound

I’d like to dedicate this story to all the bus drivers in the Central America region.
Thank you for not killing me yet.

I finally left Rio Dulce where I spent an amazing 3 days, hopped on a local bus, and headed to Poptun, Guatemala*. The bus looked like an old American school bus, painted white, with the words Fuente del Norte painted on the side. As usual, I paid for a seat and stepped onto an overcrowded bus and had to stand. On the rear view mirror were a couple of stickers: The middle one said "Jesus Live," with a Yosemite Sam sticker to the left and a Storm X-Men sticker to the right. Hanging from the mirror were no less than four cruceros, rosaries and all, swaying with that sway only a crucifix can...creepily. On the side window was a final sticker of Tweety Bird dressed like a little yellow thug, a thick gold chain around his thin, feathery neck, his blue attire showing an obvious supporter of the Crips. The driver gets in and crosses himself three times. A little old man beside me with crinkly eyes and a red leather machete holder does the same, and I can only go with the flow, praying to whoever might be listening that I would really appreciate making it to my destination. Alive.

I’d like to share some wisdom in Guatemalan bus etiquette. First of all, men do not offer seats to women. Or at least white women. As soon as I stepped my white ass into this third-class Guatemalan tank, the entire bus was instantly confused and disoriented.

"Why is she here? She white! That means she’s rich. What is she doing on our bus?"

I get watched a lot on buses. Mostly curiosity, I think. One of the first things I do when getting on a bus where I’m the only white person is to find a child and make him or her smile. That feat in itself usually generates respect from the female half of the bus. Then I step on a person’s foot and apologize profusely in Spanish, letting them know I speak and understand their language, earning brownie points.

The bus is going full swing now, and seriously, NASCAR should really look into hiring Guatemalan bus drivers for their races. It seems pretty normal on the straight parts, but they hit a curve, they downshift, downshift, pedal to the floor, and let it fly. It’s like a rollercoaster without seat belts, and if anyone didn’t know, I hate rollercoasters. Proper positioning for standing in the aisle should be to spread your legs, bend and wedge your knees in between the seats on either side of you and hold onto the handlebars connected to the roof. Basically your biceps will be flexed the entire ride, as there are always sharp turns, ups, downs, and an occasional slamming of the brakes. At this time, your adrenaline is pumping and it’s a good time for some bus music.

Rachel’s Favorite Guatemalan Bus Music Pick: Rage Against The Machine.

You have to turn it all the way up though, so everyone around you can hear it. The guy in front of you will step forward, the guy behind you that keeps stepping on you will move backward, and you won’t be bothered. (Yesterday, near the song “Wake Up,” I looked around to find a teenage boy looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. His head bobs to my music. I wink at him and smile. We understand each other.)

“Know Your Enemy” comes on next. Some lyrics:
the D
the E
the F
the I
the A
the N
the C
the E.
Mind of a Revolutionary.

Defiance. I figured out why I am standing on a third-class bus in Guatemala. I can travel with almost no money all the way across Central America. By myself. I defy a cushy life for adventures completely unknown. I defy the necessity to go to college, get a degree, pay off loans, get a house, get a career, get a kid, then die knowing I spent too much time at the office in a cubicle wishing I could have done something else instead. I defy the "American Dream." I defy all the people on the bus who thought I would give up or complain. I defy the people who judge others by their appearance or lifestyle. I defy people who blame me for the world’s problems because I was born in Texas.
I am here to spread the word.

Back to the bus. After an hour of standing some people get out and I grab a seat. Literally ten minutes into enjoying the blood flow coming back into my arms and hands, this tiny old lady hobbles on. Her face is surprisingly smooth, except for the corners of her eyes, which are wrinkled and hold a slight twinkle. She wears a red knit dress, handmade and beautiful. There are no seats and no one offers theirs. I sigh, get up, and offer her my seat, which causes a small murmur throughout the bus. I defy people who think I have no manners.
My Momma raised me right.

The bus starts again, and I’m preparing my stance when I feel a tap on my shoulder. The old man with crinkly eyes and the machete is there behind me, offering me his seat. Our eyes meet, and we thank each other with our eyes first, then I thank him verbally in Spanish. He stands tall, taller than I thought he was, as the bus zigzags up and down the hill country of Guatemala. I sit there for half an hour until the bus stops in Poptun. As I get out, I thank the old man once again, smile back at the old woman, and look over to the kid who likes Rage Against The Machine...he smiles too.

*Enlightening Fact about Poptun, Guatemala: There are around 8,000 people living in Poptun, and in town center there are exactly eleven gun shops and two shops that specifically sell gun accessories. That’s one gun shop for every 615.4 people.