tysontrips

21, August, 2005

Bussing My Ass

Plans change easily when you don't have plans. A few nights ago I added another fantastic bus journey to my catalog of travel mishaps. In the very southernmost state of Brazil, Rio Grande do Sul, I caught a bus, which took me twelve hours north to the city of Curitiba (still southern Brazil). What should have been a routine overnighter turned into a painfully cold ride inside a meat locker. The buses in Brazil are generally excellent and much better than those in the US. Greyhound buses would be used to transport produce here. But the buses I had been riding around on the last few days were not as nice. This is because a few days ago I opted to travel to an off-the-beaten-path attraction: Two enormous canyons inside a national park in southern Brazil (see pictures in southern brazil album).

canyon
Above: A steamy canyon whose name I can't pronounce

I had to jump on and off of a series of various interstate, intercity, local, and transport buses to arrive at the entrance to this remote park. And from there I was on foot because the park lacked much of an infrastructure. After this grueling routine and walking around the park, I was forced to navigate the entire route in reverse order until I arrived in a town large enough to have an interstate bus terminal, albeit closed. The long-distance bus came through and grabbed me late at night in front of the town's cold, forlorn, sexual predator-welcoming rodoviaria, or bus station. It was definitely time to move on from this town because I was seeing some of the same people on the way back as I saw on the way in. Because buses in South America are notorious for blasting the air-conditioning (if they have it), I was dressed up in two t-shirts, a fleece, a jacket, jeans, and a wool hat. Still I froze. My teeth chattered the whole way up the coast. The cold wind blew in my face as if the bus was a convertible. I looked around and noticed there were no windows open. Of course not. Nobody would be that stupid; it was freezing out. But somehow there was a draft the whole night. Even those with blankets were tossing and turning the entire time. Well, I wasn't going to get any sleep.

Soon my mind wandered. I thought about the million and a half bus rides I have taken and some of the strange situations I have encountered. From the time I spent an entire spring break on greyhounds to an excruciating three-plus day ride from Santiago, Chile to Lima, Peru, I think I have witnessed just about anything that can happen on a bus (except going off a cliff, thankfully): Fistfights, flat tires, passengers booted off the bus in the middle of nowhere in the snow for drinking booze on board (not me, I swear), natural roadblocks from Himalayan rock avalanches and manmade roadblocks from striking miners in Bolivia.

Here are a pair of my most interesting experiences:

Jakarta, Indonesia, August 2002 - My first Indonesian bus ride! My friend Adam had told me about these three adjacent towering volcanoes – on a remote, tribal island called Flores, near the end of the Indonesian archipelago – whose craters contained enormous lakes, each lake a different, constantly changing color. It was possible to hike to the rim of the volcanoes at sunrise and watch the sun's rays awaken the color from deep within the erupted craters at least a thousand feet below. Awesome.

kelimutu

Above: Views of Kelimutu's craters

I wanted to fly the great distance from Jakarta to Flores but all the flights were full. Without wings I had an painfully long journey ahead: first was a 30 bus ride the entire length of the island of Java, followed by a four hour ferry (with the bus) to Bali, another six hours of bussing across Bali, another two hour ferry, a ten hour bus across the barren island of Sambawa, an eight hour ferry to the island of Flores, and finally a 12 hour bus across most of Flores. 72 hours of insanity, not accounting for imminent delays. But I figured I would just do the entire trek all at once and take my time on the return trip. 3 days passed long and lonely. When the ferry arrived on Flores, I was finally one overnight bus ride away from my destination. I found a minibus with tiny seats headed my direction. It was not sleep-able but at least I had a seat. The ride was brutal. Flores is a long thin island with a steep spine running down its center. The only road winds up and down, continuously crossing the spine to access small villages. As we putted up the first hill around tight corners through lush tropical scenery during sunset, the first little girl got sick. She and her sister were sitting in front of me, on their parents lap for lack of space. Her dad held a plastic bag out for her to be sick in. After filling several bags, the other sister and the mom caught the puke bug too. There were no more bags so they were forced to lean out the window as we drove along. The dad was sitting still, emotionless and heroic, but I could see beads of sweat forming on his neck and his shirt becoming damp as the bus tossed and turned and the foul air churned all of our stomachs. Eventually he gave in and joined the puke party. Several others behind me joined in as well. It was nearly a complete and total barf-o-rama. Less than half of the twenty of us crammed onto the minibus were spared; me being one, thankfully. I just kept my eyes, ears and nose tightly shut.

Just as we finally peaked the first mountain pass, the bus died. This was actually a relief as we were able to scramble off the puke wagon for a spell. After what seemed like hours of the "I think I know what the problem is" game followed by an hour or so of the "let's just smash the engine with this mallet to see if it helps" game, something finally worked and we were off.

Later that night we took a rest a roadside eatery where the passengers would consume the Indonesian staple nasi goreng, fried rice usually mixed with some meat. As I wandered around outside the restaurant kicking rocks, a small Indonesian man came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Damn," I thought. Here comes another standard five-line conversation in broken English. I had had this same identical conversation hundreds of times as I traveled. It went like this:
"Where you come from?"
"Canada."
"What your name?"
"Tyson. (I later changed this to John to avoid the following situation)"
"(With fists raised in air and laughing uncontrollably) Like Mike Tyson?!"
This was followed by me trying to smile and nod and not cry. But this guy didn't say anything. He was only using hand signals. I didn't understand what he wanted but I was ready to try. I hadn't had a decent conversation with anyone since I landed was in Jakarta five days ago. A crowd now gathered around to watch us converse in sign. The guy next to me pointed at the man and then covered his own mouth. Oh, I get it – the man is mute so he must be deaf too! So we spoke the same language: none. We have to communicate in signs so we are on the same plane. I concentrated. My new friend pointed at me and then at the bus. Yes, I nodded, I am riding the bus. Then he pointed at himself and to a motorbike. He was riding his bike! He pointed at himself and then down one direction of the road. He was going that way. So I pointed at myself and then down the opposite direction of the road. Me, that way! However shallow, I could have never had even this deep of a conversation with anybody else on the bus because they would depend on sound rather than signals. He smiled as if to say "nice to meet you." I smiled back and we shook hands. He pointed to himself, made a gesture as if he were drinking from a bottle, and then pointed to me. He was inviting me for a drink. I shook my head no and pointed at the minibus, which was loading up. He gave me the thumbs up and we waved goodbye to each other. And he went inside. I stood there in shock. It had been completely silent that during the brief time we were communicating. The crowd stood – still huddled – around where we had been ‘talking', all cheerfully smiling. It was the best conversation I had had in a week. I felt like me and my friend had shared some intergalactic understanding, he and I both being unable to communicate effectively with the majority of the world. But we understood each other perfectly. It was a brief but intimate connection. That remarkable ‘conversation' will be difficult to forget.

New Delhi, India, April 2002 - My first bus ride in India! My friend Adam had told me about all these fantastic desert cities in Rajasthan, western India – some of whom a specific color associated with them.

jodphur
Above: Jodhpur, the ‘Blue City'

After just a few hours in New Smelhi, I was more than ready to head out to a more tranquil locale. At the bus station I had to choose between a ‘deluxe' and ‘semi-deluxe' bus. Obviously, I chose semi-deluxe. When that hunk of rusty metal with wheels came sputtering my way I wanted to change my mind. But I knew I had plenty of bus rides ahead in which to experience a ‘deluxe' ride (the names meant nothing). At least it was a bus and it was going my way. I climbed on. Some kid grabbed my pack, tossed it in front of a row of seats and asked me for ten rupees. "No way! For what?!" "I make sure bag does not get lost, sir." Although I would be sitting right next to my backpack watching it the entire trip I interpreted his comment as a threat to mean ‘pay me ten rupees or I will make sure your bag does get lost, sir'. So, scowling, I gave the lad twenty cents. Earlier, when purchasing the ticket, I had specifically requested a window seat so I would be able to get some fresh air on the hot, dusty ride. The second I sat down I heard, "That is my seat, sir." "No, I believe I have #2 and #2 is right there so…," I started to argue, but he interrupted loudly and quickly, "This is my country, sir. I know which seat is which seat because I live here all my life. Do you not think I do not live here all my life and do not know which seat is which seat and which seat is not my seat, sir!?" I had no idea to respond to this statement, much less whether it was even interrogative, so I just moved up a row and sat down.

On my bench seat to the right sat two school-age boys who could not take their eyes off me, or apparently blink at all. They stared at me like I was a wild animal, which I felt like I was about to become should anyboy else choose to mess with me or my bag. It was eerie, constantly sensing the unrelenting stares of the kids out of the corner of my eye. Across the aisle was a classic wiry-thin Indian type, about 50 years old. He wore an insanely long turban, baggy, white cotton pants rolled up to his knees, a white button-down shirt and no shoes. He sat on the bench seat looking like a pretzel, tucked and folded into a confusing mess of limbs, as only Indians can do. My bag lay on the ground in front of his seat.

The bus started moving. All right, only six hours to go! Off I went with the ‘Take a picture, it will last longer' Twins to my right and Mister Pretzel to my left. As we bumped down the road I began to relax, always, of course, tuned into the fact that I was being closely scrutinized by two sets of curious eyes from the right. Mister Pretzel also began to relax. He partially unfolded himself and set one of his feet on my bag. I was going to protest but then I thought, "Why bother? They are just feet on my already filthy bag." But upon closer inspection, it was the feet which were decidedly more filthy in this comparison. I don't know what mud pit this guy was splashing around in before he got on the bus, but he was caked and so too would be my bag. No bother. I just looked straight ahead and watched my two friends watch me out of the corner of my eye.

Then things got much more interesting. Out of nowhere, Mister Pretzel jammed one of his fingers deep into his right nostril. Discretion was less than an afterthought here. He was going after something up there with the diligence of a predator seeking prey. Even though he acted as if he was in his own secret world, I dared not look at him directly, as his finger hunted for the rare, Western Indian Slime Worm. My eyes started to throb because they were now focusing in opposite directions on all the incredible action. The Indian man pulled something long and stringy from his nose and examined it, squishing it between his thumb and forefinger. After confirming its identity he discarded the find. But not with a conventional flick off the fingers. No, he reached down and wiped it onto the closest object he could find: my backpack. I wretched. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I found it so disgusting that I couldn't decide how to react. Now, I am not the kind of guy to sit and pass judgement on other cultures or know what the acceptable customs are and are not. Cultural relativism works for me wherever and whenever. Often times I don't even understand the intricacies of American culture. Hell, maybe this was some kind of flattering compliment toward me and my dirty backpack. But before I even had time to ponder the possibilities of his behavior further, he went back for more. This time he dug out a hardened, chunkier version of the first specimen. I thought, "Oh, no, you are not wiping that on my bag, dude. I don't care if you are from BoogersRgood-istan." I stared directly at him so he would definitely see my scornful look in his peripheral vision. Nevertheless, his hand started moving down toward my bag anew. I cringed. He didn't look down this time, bobbing his head non-chalantly and staring out the window as if nothing was happening. Meanwhile, continuing his quasi-sneaky but insultingly overt behavior, he wiped booger number two on the underside of my backpack. Okay, I appeased myself, he must not know that it is my backpack. So I leaned across the aisle, motioned to him, and pointed at my bag and then at myself. "My bag," I said firmly. He nodded. Simple enough and all seemed well.

Not a minute passed and mud-caked feet found their way back onto my bag. Alright, I have already allowed him this luxury so I can't complain. But then – as if driven by some outside force – his finger headed up to his left nostril. It was excrutiating to watch. I tried to reason, "It's just snot. ‘snot gonna hurt me." Watching it happen in real time was like terrible. I wanted to hide my eyes. But I couldn't not watch, knowing what was happening. Ya dig? Out came – attached to the end of his finger – the longest, stringiest, find yet. It looked like a piece of cooked spaghetti. Casually and slowly and with almost with graceful delicacy, he again reached his hand down toward my backpack and smeared the long freshie into the fabric of the bag. Oh c'mon! Right on the sholder strap! Right where I grab 50 times a day to pick my bag up. Surely I will feel the cold, slimy vegence of this booger in a moment of absentmindedness. In this sad and repulsive instant, I felt like either puking up tears or crying drops of vomit, I wasn't sure which. But one thing was for sure: I had no control over the situation, as Mister Pretzel's digger finger went back in for another round of booger extraction and the two Peeping Toms to my right sat emotionless, their eyes still fixed on my helpless and hardening expression; my countenance at once becoming stoic and vacant.

In desperation, I prayed to some unknown and probably non-existent higher power. Anyone who would listen."To whome it may concern: I am in India, where anything may be possible. Please reincarnate me instantly into a dead-leaf-eating bacteria so I can live and die alone, never to be disgusted by nose-picking again." Mister Pretzel picked and wiped away for hours, until his nose was clearer than it had ever been (probably). Hours later the bus stopped. Weerily, I looked down and picked up my mud and snot-covered backpack, flinching. I pulled the straps around my shoulders, shuddering. And I walked out into the dusty street in the western Indian desert, wondering.