The Long Trip Home

Imagine yourself sitting on a bus, a crowded bus. You weren’t able to buy a ticket, so you have no seat, but you did get there early enough to snag the cushion on top of the motor. A woman gets on, she has one ticket for seat number 42. Her carry-ons include three children and two large bags, one which, you would bet both your pinkie fingers on it, has a rooster inside it. Now imagine the bus is so packed with people, it’s shoulder to shoulder, up and down the aisle way, people crammed into every nook and corner. As soon as a few people get off, the bus stops to pick up 10 more. They are driving with the door open, people are standing on the stairs and one man has most of his body out the door. Personally, you’re glad the door is open because it lets some fresh air in, helping to fend away your motion sickness. A women is next to you, she swings her large purse around and smacks you in the face. It stays where it landed, in your face. You just duck your head down so it’s below the bag, not saying anything because it’s not like she really could have put it anyplace else. Besides, being rude never helped anything. You go the rest of the way until you get off with your head tucked almost between your legs. You get off at your stop, and three men get on behind you, carrying Tupperware bins filled with bottled water, lemonade, fritada, cho-cho’s, and pinchos, or meat on a stick. Good-luck, you think to yourself as you picture them trying to move up and down the crowded aisle. But oh, don’t those pincho’s look good?

Imagine when you get off the bus, you are in a city, or a stop on the main road. You walk to where you will wait the next car or bus to take you back to your home. You look out, down into the valley, where if it’s a clear day, you can see for miles. But it’s not a clear day, you can only see about 20 meters, or 60 feet and then everything disappears into the fog. You are standing in a cloud, and if you watch closely, you can see it swirl around in the air, teasing, playing. You hope it’s not raining below, at your house.

You wait 20 minutes, then a truck comes. The cab has 3 people sitting in it, full. You motion, is there room in back? The driver stops, he goes behind, opens the door – the truck is the type that would be carrying pigs or goats. He lets you in, and asks if you’d like the door open or closed. Open, you thank him, resting your back against one of the giant drums holding the sugarcane moonshine he’s carrying. You prop your feet up against the edges of the door. More comfortable than the bus, you think to yourself. For the following half hour, you drift in and out of thought as you watch the winding road behind you. When it starts to rain, you silently send a thank-you for the tarp overhead.

When you get off at the road leading to your village, you move your things under the makeshift bamboo bus stop. It’s close to 5 pm, so a car may or may not pass soon. But right now, you don’t want to walk the 3 uphill kilometers, as you have a backback, an umbrella, a purse, and a potato sack full of groceries. You’ll take your chances and wait for at least a half hour before pinching that nerve in your fingers again. You sit down and start to flip through the most recent issue of National Geographic. You’re looking at some beautiful aerial pictures of Latin America when you hear the hum of a motorcycle. It pulls around the corner, followed closely by another motorcycle. The second motorcycle stops, motioning for you to get on. You decline, saying it’s against Peace Corps rules. They offer to carry a bag for you. You turn around to pick up the bag, and when you turn back, there is white smoke pouring out from under the seat. Everyone runs away from the motorcycle. Soon, more motorcycles have gathered around, everyone getting off to take a look at the smoking one. You’re reminded of the volleyball games where the players gather around the sideline to point to where the ball hit, debating weather it was in or out of bounds. The crowd comes to the consensus the smoke is no big deal and something that can be fixed. Everyone jumps back on the motorcycles. There’s no more cars coming, they tell you, but two motorcycles offer to carry your bags so it will be easier for you to walk. Thanks, you say, and everyone takes off, leaving you alone with your umbrella and purse.

15 minutes pass, you’ve crossed the river and are walking uphill, lost in thought but listening for bird calls. A truck comes up from behind you, stops, you need a ride? You get in, turns out you’re going to the same place. Little coincidence, since the village is the only thing farther down the road. You chat, have the same conversation you have almost every time you meet someone new. 7 minutes later, you jump out of the truck, turn around and thank the drivers, Dios le pague. (God will pay you.) You are home.

~ by number3263 on October 24, 2007.