The only thing I would rather not be in the world than a bus driver in Quito is a passenger on a bus in Quito. That’s right. You all know what that sentence means: Prepare yourselves for a harrowing tale of bravery, danger, suspense, hilarity, and of course, 23 individual moments of imminent death.
* For Readers: Due to the semi-traumatic nature of the aforementioned experience, this post will be devoted entirely to said semi-traumatic experience. If you were hoping to hear about my trip to the mall, the time I spent doing homework, or the boring three hour lecture I had, I am sorry to disappoint.
Let me set the scene of the story. Well, It was 6:00 pm, which means around dusk in Quito this time of year. I had just gotten out of a three hour lecture at the HECUA building, usually a 20 minute bus ride from my current living quarters. I walked to the bus stop, and as luck would have it, caught a bus after a measly 30 second wait. That was when my luck sort of abandoned me and left me to die like a Spartan child on a hillside. No, I am not presently embittered at all, why do you ask?
See, 6 PM is apparently the prime time for bus transportation around these parts. When I got on, All the seats were full, and there were already a good six or seven people standing in the isle. Sounds crowded right? I thought so too. What a misconceived notion that turned out to be. The next stop, about three people get on, none get off. Half a block later, one gets off, and three get on. Another block and two get off but six get on.. It’s obviously getting obscenely crowded now. The front side of my body is pressed up against a poll, the back side against someone else’s backside, and my free hand, the one that’s not holding on for dear life, is fixed firmly on the pants pocket containing my wallet, which incidentally is stuffed with $50.00 and my credit card because I had used the ATM earlier. I know what a mark I must look like to these people, and with the absurd number of riders on this bus, there has to be at least one person of less than impeccable moral standing. The next stop, one person gets off, about five get on. Then none get off but six get on. Then one might get off and about four get on, I cant be particularly certain because there are now so many people aboard the bus I can’t tell what is going on. Then maybe two get off but at least five get on. If this is starting to sound like one of those math word problems from 4th grade gone horribly wrong, that’s because it’s exactly what it felt like.
It has now been about twenty minutes since I boarded the bus. It is getting dark and the bus is filled to at least three times its capacity. I can hardly see anything, so I am not sure exactly where we are or how close my stop is. Not only that, but there are so many people on the bus that we bottom out on every hill or slight imperfection on the road. The bus feels like its going to tip over during every turn, and I am in absolute fear of being pick pocketed. The bus grinds to a stop in the middle of a hill, and I am elated to see the brightly painted childcare center that signifies we are at my stop. Only one problem. In the eight or so feet between me and the open bus door, there are squeezed at least 17 people. I desperately fight my way through, uttering a course of “perdona me, por favor‘s” and clutching my book bag in front of me like a battering ram. Five feet to go. “PERDONA ME!!!” Four feet to go. I’m a piglet fighting for prime position in front of its mother’s most generous teat. Three feet to go. More people are getting on the bus. What. The. Fuck. Two feet to go, and….he reaches, desperately, andddd…..the bus pulls away, with one guy still half out the door. Fuck.
At this point, I was a little peeved but not too worried. See, I usually get off at this bus stop because its only a few blocks farther away from my house than the stop where I get on, and if you have heard any of my Ecuadorian bus riding maxims, you know you’re better off safe than sorry on these blue monsters. However, every time I walk back to my house, I always see what appears to be the same bus driving down the street and stopping where I usually get on. I figured, hell. This isn’t so bad. I will just chill here by the door and get off in a couple minutes after we finish the circle.
Then, something went terribly wrong. Instead of making a nice little circle a few blocks later and heading back in the direction of my house, the bus continues barreling straight up the hill. We’ve gone about six blocks past my usual stop now, and I am starting to get a little worried. It would be silly to get off now and have to walk so far, so went my, what I thought was logical, thinking. Anyway, a few blocks later, we finally begin to turn…the wrong way. Shit. After this the bus proceeds to make a series of winding turns redolent of an amusement park go cart track. Within five minutes I am completely disoriented, but it is clear that we are still going up the mountain, which certainly does not bode well for me. Not only that, the bus, still tipping in bottoming out on every turn, is coming inches away from hitting houses. On both sides! Not curbs, not stray dogs, not parked cars. Houses. Whoever paved the streets in this part of town did so at a time long before the first bus rolled off the assembly line, that’s all I have to say.
It’s pitch black out now, and we’re definitely higher up in the mountains than I have ever been. Finally, the bus comes to a halt in a dead end street. The bus, which is still filled with a good 45 people or so, empties. I am literally the only person left. The driver apparently decides this is an opportune time to take a break, and jumps out of the bus to head to a nearby restaurant, leaving some time to ponder my terrifying predicament. I take a seat on one of the now forty empty bus seats, and examine my book bag. A pocket was unzipped that I am sure had been zipped when I got on. Luckily for me, its contents amounted to some candy wrappers and a motorcycle stand-stand. Hah. Some “ladron” thought I was an idiot-tourist that would leave my most valuable possessions in my backpack during a crowded bus ride for anyone to help themselves to. Well I’ll say this. Fat fucking chance! HAHA! I may be an idiot, and I may very well be a tourist, but I have not, nor ever will be, an idiot-tourist.
Ten minutes later the bus driver returns, and we are on our way. As we begin to make our way down the mountain, I try desperately to get my bearings. However, the dilapidated housings, which looked as if their roofs might cave in the next time an over-fed pigeon decided to land on them, were completely unlike anything I had seen thus far On the plus side, it was good to experience another side of the city, and afforded the most beautiful view I was yet to see. But on the other hand, I was still lost and not quite sure where this azure monstrosity was headed next. Think Chip. What do you know about this neighborhood? Well, the only thing I can recall is the time where my host mom told me in broken, thickly accented english, “Never go to the mountains. You do…is possible you might never come back.” Hm. Well, that was about as comforting as being mauled by a police dog. Two minutes later, I realized she wasn’t joking.
For reasons best known to him, our bus driver felt it necessary to whip down the steep, narrow streets at speeds suitable for airplane takeoffs. I am positive he was certifiably insane. Some of you might recall that I have been in a car crash involving a 60 mph impact with a car, two trees, and a house. However, I can truthfully say that I was no more certain that I was going to die than on this bus ride.
After a short while, I had had enough. My heart was racing and I figured I’d rather walk a few extra blocks (or miles) than take my chances with this suicidal maniac behind the wheel. I reached for the button one needs to press to signal their (in this case desperate) desire to exit the bus, and hoped like hell my stop was close and that I would reach it alive. I felt a lot like that kid in the Sandlot who closes his eyes and throws his glove up in the air in a desperate, feeble attempt to make that game winning catch. The bus driver slammed on the breaks and the bus ground to a halt. I stumbled out of the door, down the steps, and gratefully kissed the cement. I still didn’t really know where I was, and I was all set to start walking back up the hill, as I was sure we had driven past my stop during that light speed stint I still maintain I was lucky to survive. However, I looked back down just to make sure, and lo and behold, it turns out I had gotten out not 15 feet from my stop. Anddddd….HE MAKES THE CATCH! And Chip has just won the world series of Ecuadorian bus riding, a sport ten times deadlier than any other known to man, including that ancient Aztec one where the losing team was summarily executed! HUZZAH!
I still really can’t believe my luck with that. Looking back, the whole experience, the over packed bus, the scraping of the undercarriage against the road, the tipping sensation that accompanied each turn, the 30 minute extension to my ride, and the manic hurtling down the mountain, was all really quite comical. I have to admit that, despite the fact that this narrative makes it appear as if there were only about 10 minutes of this hour long bus ride where I thought I would survive, I was laughing for most of it. You don’t have to believe me, but I tell you it’s true. I guess I am just so used to things in my life being banal and dull that a harrowing life threatening experience like this simply makes me laugh a little bit. When your life is that ordinary, you never really expect anything as grotesque or exciting as dieing in a fiery bus crash to happen to you. These types of things only exist in books or movies. You don’t ever really admit completely that there is danger present, or that it is indeed reality. It all just seems like a big joke, and you can‘t help but laugh. Well, either way, I’m glad to have survived, and I hope you all feel the same!
Peace.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment