Mark & Jen's 'Around the World' Travel & Photography Blog

My watch reads 6:00 a.m. The greyness of the sky is just beginning to lift. This is the coldest part of the day, just at dawn, as the crispness of the morning breeze slowly creeps through my fleece. I shift in my chair, impatient. I am anxious to go.

Around me at the bus station, people begin to appear from the thinness of the morning. Toting enormous plaid market bags, duffel bags, corded boxes, or bundles of tied cloth, they lug their provisions toward the bus. An old woman hobbles forward on the arm of her daughter, her granddaughter dancing behind. A bony, scraggly stray dog darts from person to person in hopeful expectation. The station manager gives him a kick and shout, and the dog scurries away to the periphery, still in hope of a morning snack. Somewhere in a field, a rooster continues to announce the day.

And then he appears… the man for whom all have waited, the man who controls the lives of each person of this twelve hour day, the man who holds the power of life and death in the turn of wrist, a man of omniscience and generosity… a paper cup of steaming tea in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, The Bus Driver (BUD) slowly saunters toward his coach.

With extreme particularity and the drama of a royal procedure, he unlocks the door to the bus. Instantly, people swarm forward, provisions in hand, in a racing mass toward the door. Indifferent to the chaos, BUD backs away and waves a hand to his assistant, cigarette still resting languidly between his fingertips. The young boy, perhaps in his late teens, begins to pack the roof of the bus with luggage. In an expertise only acquired through experience, BUD shouts directions to the boy above. “Tie down the motorbike!” he yells. “Secure the TV!” The boy struggles with his ropes and tarp to comply.

Boxes are everywhere. People yell. The smell of a nondescript farm animal wafts in my direction. Unfettered by the those around me, I scramble hurriedly aboard in search of the perfect seat, or for that matter, any seat. The daughter, keeping the crowd away with her elbows, helps her mother slowly climb the steps above.
Luggage stowed, the assistant begins collecting fares. BUD sits regally in his seat, overseeing all through his mirror above. Any arguments, any mis-payments, any manipulations, and BUD will know. I walk to the front to communicate our vague destination. “No problem, no problem,” he says. “I know. You sit. No problem.” I smile and nod in response, a feeling of relief inside.

The daughter embraces her mother with a few tears in her eyes as the old woman places a kiss on each cheek. The woman takes the hand of her little girl and steps down out of the bus; they stand together just outside the old woman’s window. As BUD starts the engine, the woman and the little girl wave and wave as the bus slowly turns out of the station. We are on our way.

A handful of open seats remain. An empty seat equals an empty pocket. Creeping down the main road at the pace of leisurely tortoise, BUD waits for the expected wave and shout of a last minute rider, running desperately toward his escaping ride. The assistant hangs outside the open door, shouting the day’s destination over and over in a song of his own composure. I groan with the sluggishness of the trip—some days I feel like all I do is sit and wait.

BUD stops and a woman with her load of vegetables climbs aboard. He stands up and helps her heave the heavy potatoes to the floor, stowing them out of the way. He continues on. A man and his son scurry from the opposite side of the road, and BUD stops again. A few feet later, BUD opens his door to the flagging of a young woman carrying two children and bag of clothes. He yells at a man in front to move, and then situates her in his seat. She smiles her gratitude. Further on an old man flags the bus down; a lengthy conversation ensues regarding his intended destination. BUD shakes his head in negation, steps down from the bus, and points the old man in the appropriate direction. A man of compassion, strength, and a sage of directional information, BUD is the impervious guidebook and undaunted guru to whom all turn.

The hours slowly pass as the sun creeps higher in the sky. Sweat forms in little droplets on my neck, under my legs, under my shirt. I am never clean. I shift and feel it slowly slide down my spine. People open windows to breathe. BUD, in his own effort to remain cool, merely lights another cigarette.

I drink too much water. I know will have to pee, but I am hot. The processed, cardboard biscuits I swallowed for breakfast have turned my mouth to a cottony paste. I am thirsty, but my bladder is pressing resolutely against my side, unrelenting in its insistence. I shift again in my seat. BUD continues.

A man scurries forward. I cannot hear his proposition over the rattling in my ears, but suddenly BUD and his Olympian bladder begrudgingly pull to the side of the road. Us mere mortals jump to our feet. To the right, the men form a single long line of relief, smiles of satisfaction slowly spreading across their faces. I can do this, I repeat to myself.

I look to those around me to judge what to do; women scramble to the left, looking desperately for a tree or a bush or some tall grass—anywhere. Two sisters turn off the road, and I follow close behind. BUD honks his horn in a series of announcements, checks his mirror to ensure all his flock has returned, and waits patiently for the old woman to return.

Every so often, BUD comes to a brake-squealing stop next to a remote house or shop. He swings the door wide open and jumps out for a hello and a handshake, a friendly slap on the shoulder, or a quick shot of hot tea. He delivers a package and receives another for later. He is a man of his people, knowledgeable, capable, prevailing. Uninvited, we wait patiently, merely spectators of this world.

A few more hours pass. My biscuits and banana are long eaten. I shift in and out of sleep. Outside my window, the land drops dramatically below. The bus speeds around one mountainous curve and then the next. Life and death of fifty passengers and the assistant are in the hands of this one man. Commander of the road, captain of curves, BUD appears confident. I only hope he values his own life as much as I value mine. Next to me, a lady groans as she presses a plastic bag to her mouth. A baby behind me cries. BUD and our year speed on.

Just as we turn yet another corner, I catch my breath in the beauty of the view before me.  The forested, snow-spotted peaks line the horizon beyond.  Below, homes and fields paint a postcard pattern across the land.  Life moves. There is no other place I would rather be.

The ride continues in the same unceasing manner until the sun sinks again behind the distant hill. The lights of the houses flicker in the darkness. And just when I cannot sit another minute in my hopeless repose, when I cannot tolerate another day of submission, and when I cannot endure BUD’s insouciant reign over my life and bladder any further, he pulls into our destination amid a flurry of taxis in a paparazzi pursuit.

I step off this final bus in a frenzy of people and luggage and pause to catch my balance.  The old grandmother, the young woman and her two children, the dogs, the chickens, and the vegetables, the noise and the serenity—they are all vital pieces of this world once so foreign to me. Without them and without BUD, I never would have had the courage to take this step, either on or off this bus. A little more patient, a little more flexible, and a little bit wiser, I am now a composition of culture.

Time has passed so slowly, yet so quickly. BUD’s reassuring nod has pacified my nervousness time and time again. We have arrived—with both our luggage and a story. Oblivious to his metaphor of my world, BUD lights another cigarette and walks away into the darkness. Fighting my way to my bag and swinging it over my shoulder, I too turn toward home—prepared to drive our dream forward.