In my last post I wrote that I had my first chickenbus experience.
I lied.
My first real chickenbus experience came this weekend with our trip to Antigua, Guatemala. For five and a half hours we sat, three to a seat, with all of our luggage, pinned up against each other by the natives that were exploding out of the aisles. And we were lucky; we had seats. The buses won’t even leave until the standing-room-only space (aisles) has been filled.
The road to Antigua was filled with construction in anticipation of the upcoming elections. Because the highways are actually two lane roads, they would have to block traffic in one direction at a time (blocking traffic consists of laying down a 2x4 filled with nails on one side of the road). Each time we stopped, locals would pour onto the bus offering snacks of various sorts to we hungry travelers. Miraculously, they actually managed to squeeze up and down the aisles when a transaction needed to be made. Of the more interesting commodities for sale, there was fruit soaked in honey (bees a’swarmin), french fries, and educational pamphlets offering to bestow upon the owner such pearls of knowledge as “What are the four oceans and which one is the biggest?” and “Who was Martin Luther King Jr.?” Once our appetite for snacks and third-grade social-studies had been satisfied, a man jumped up on the bus and began reading passages from the bible.
Once clear of these construction zones, we continued on our way at breakneck speed to make up for lost time. It was approximately at this time that our driver began the unnerving but well-accepted practice of passing cars by swerving into oncoming traffic (the perks of mixing machismo culture and two-lane highways). After another half hour or so we were all startled by a deafening “pop” that came from underneath the bus. We had blown out one of the rear tires.
Naturally, we just kept going.
Not to worry though, maintenance stops are quite plentiful along the Guatemalan highways. Such measures are necessary when you use recycled vehicles and quasi-paved roads. As we continued along our way to the nearest pitstop, the blown tire began slapping up against the wheel-base with each rotation, adding a surprisingly bongo-like soundtrack to our journey.
As soon as the tire had been replaced, our driver resumed his neurotic driving practices. Apparently aggravated by the delays brought on by construction and “burning rubber,” he began attempting to make up for lost time. We must have been going at least 85 mph in what should’ve been a 40 zone. He began cutting corners on turns when you couldn’t see if anyone was coming around the other side and passing anyone and anything that got in his way regardless of oncoming traffic (whistling as he worked). It was roughly at this time that I began contemplating force-feeding him a sedative. I also began wondering if that man who had been reciting the bible had included last rites among the chosen prayers. After a few movie-worthy “just in the nick of time” passes I decided it was better to just close my eyes.
Two buses and a pickup truck ride later, we arrived at last in Antigua, a lovely but touristy city near the capital. Might that be the end of our little adventure? Surely not. Wait for it…the next catch is coming. Our hostel, EarthLodge, isn’t actually located in Antigua, but about thirty minutes outside, up in the surrounding mountains. There are two roads up to EarthLodge—naturally, the easy one, the paved one, was closed for construction. The other alternative, Road “Plan B,” goes straight up at about a 45 degree angle. We piled into the pickup, hoping for the best, but deep down I think we knew that we were riding in “the little engine that couldn’t.” We didn’t get far. Faced with no other option, we found another hostel in the city and resigned ourselves to pass the night there. The owners of EarthLodge told us they knew the foreman of the construction project on the “good road” and could get us up the next morning. Nine large pizzas and a bottle of tequila later, we didn’t much mind the change of plan.
The next morning:
We arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, back in our pickup trucks, at the beginning of the construction zone. For a while it looked like they wouldn’t budge. Apparently, “two pickup trucks full of gringos” wasn’t a specific enough description as to whom they should let pass. The foreman told us he would need to speak to “the white guy” with whom he had originally made the arrangements. “The white guy” was Drew, a Canadian expatriate and owner of our elusive hostel. I didn’t actually hear the conversation that ensued once he showed up, but judging by their body-language, I believe it went something like this:
Drew: What the fuck man?
Foreman: Oye! I’ve got lots of trucks. You think I’m just gonna move them all?
Drew: You said you would!
Foreman: I forgot how many there were. Look! So many trucks!
Drew: I’ll buy you a Pepsi. (that part's true)
Foreman: You’re my best friend, you know that? Alright, let’s clear a path!
Saved by the white man. Who would’ve thought?
Well, it turns out EarthLodge was well worth the trouble. Set in the mountains, it overlooks both the city and the several volcanoes that surround it. They have everything you could ask for. Hiking trails, a sauna, enough green space to throw around a frisbee, and the coolest swing on the planet (I can prove that, picture coming soon). And the food was fantastic. They have their own avocado farm right on the grounds, and make fresh Guacamole everyday. From then on the weekend went by pretty fast. And pretty smoothly. We hiked, we frisbeed, we swang. Dare I say, we conquered? But soon it was time to get back to Xela, to our families, and to our (utterly neglected) Spanish. If only I survive the chickenbus ride home....
I lied.
My first real chickenbus experience came this weekend with our trip to Antigua, Guatemala. For five and a half hours we sat, three to a seat, with all of our luggage, pinned up against each other by the natives that were exploding out of the aisles. And we were lucky; we had seats. The buses won’t even leave until the standing-room-only space (aisles) has been filled.
The road to Antigua was filled with construction in anticipation of the upcoming elections. Because the highways are actually two lane roads, they would have to block traffic in one direction at a time (blocking traffic consists of laying down a 2x4 filled with nails on one side of the road). Each time we stopped, locals would pour onto the bus offering snacks of various sorts to we hungry travelers. Miraculously, they actually managed to squeeze up and down the aisles when a transaction needed to be made. Of the more interesting commodities for sale, there was fruit soaked in honey (bees a’swarmin), french fries, and educational pamphlets offering to bestow upon the owner such pearls of knowledge as “What are the four oceans and which one is the biggest?” and “Who was Martin Luther King Jr.?” Once our appetite for snacks and third-grade social-studies had been satisfied, a man jumped up on the bus and began reading passages from the bible.
Once clear of these construction zones, we continued on our way at breakneck speed to make up for lost time. It was approximately at this time that our driver began the unnerving but well-accepted practice of passing cars by swerving into oncoming traffic (the perks of mixing machismo culture and two-lane highways). After another half hour or so we were all startled by a deafening “pop” that came from underneath the bus. We had blown out one of the rear tires.
Naturally, we just kept going.
Not to worry though, maintenance stops are quite plentiful along the Guatemalan highways. Such measures are necessary when you use recycled vehicles and quasi-paved roads. As we continued along our way to the nearest pitstop, the blown tire began slapping up against the wheel-base with each rotation, adding a surprisingly bongo-like soundtrack to our journey.
As soon as the tire had been replaced, our driver resumed his neurotic driving practices. Apparently aggravated by the delays brought on by construction and “burning rubber,” he began attempting to make up for lost time. We must have been going at least 85 mph in what should’ve been a 40 zone. He began cutting corners on turns when you couldn’t see if anyone was coming around the other side and passing anyone and anything that got in his way regardless of oncoming traffic (whistling as he worked). It was roughly at this time that I began contemplating force-feeding him a sedative. I also began wondering if that man who had been reciting the bible had included last rites among the chosen prayers. After a few movie-worthy “just in the nick of time” passes I decided it was better to just close my eyes.
Two buses and a pickup truck ride later, we arrived at last in Antigua, a lovely but touristy city near the capital. Might that be the end of our little adventure? Surely not. Wait for it…the next catch is coming. Our hostel, EarthLodge, isn’t actually located in Antigua, but about thirty minutes outside, up in the surrounding mountains. There are two roads up to EarthLodge—naturally, the easy one, the paved one, was closed for construction. The other alternative, Road “Plan B,” goes straight up at about a 45 degree angle. We piled into the pickup, hoping for the best, but deep down I think we knew that we were riding in “the little engine that couldn’t.” We didn’t get far. Faced with no other option, we found another hostel in the city and resigned ourselves to pass the night there. The owners of EarthLodge told us they knew the foreman of the construction project on the “good road” and could get us up the next morning. Nine large pizzas and a bottle of tequila later, we didn’t much mind the change of plan.
The next morning:
We arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, back in our pickup trucks, at the beginning of the construction zone. For a while it looked like they wouldn’t budge. Apparently, “two pickup trucks full of gringos” wasn’t a specific enough description as to whom they should let pass. The foreman told us he would need to speak to “the white guy” with whom he had originally made the arrangements. “The white guy” was Drew, a Canadian expatriate and owner of our elusive hostel. I didn’t actually hear the conversation that ensued once he showed up, but judging by their body-language, I believe it went something like this:
Drew: What the fuck man?
Foreman: Oye! I’ve got lots of trucks. You think I’m just gonna move them all?
Drew: You said you would!
Foreman: I forgot how many there were. Look! So many trucks!
Drew: I’ll buy you a Pepsi. (that part's true)
Foreman: You’re my best friend, you know that? Alright, let’s clear a path!
Saved by the white man. Who would’ve thought?
Well, it turns out EarthLodge was well worth the trouble. Set in the mountains, it overlooks both the city and the several volcanoes that surround it. They have everything you could ask for. Hiking trails, a sauna, enough green space to throw around a frisbee, and the coolest swing on the planet (I can prove that, picture coming soon). And the food was fantastic. They have their own avocado farm right on the grounds, and make fresh Guacamole everyday. From then on the weekend went by pretty fast. And pretty smoothly. We hiked, we frisbeed, we swang. Dare I say, we conquered? But soon it was time to get back to Xela, to our families, and to our (utterly neglected) Spanish. If only I survive the chickenbus ride home....
