We tend to take public transportation for granted, except when stuck in the middle of some god forsaken jungle where there isn’t any. Venting about the irrationality of the bus service wouldn’t move us any closer to our destinations. Strong will and the ability to trust the unknown were our salvation… along with adaptation, which found us in a role we never could have anticipated.
After being kidnapped in Belize, we were eager to abandon the country in favor of Guatemala and boarded the first bus out. As the bus neared Flores, the border town, it shuddered to a halt. The driver raised the hood and peered at the engine. He shook his head. One by one, men stepped off the bus to inspect that engine and offer up opinions. Some of the passengers took up their belongings with resigned expressions and began their walk home. Eventually, the bus driver climbed back on the bus. Sorry, he said, bus broken. The other passengers nodded and gathered their bags. Veronica and I looked at each other in bewilderment. Sorry, bus broken?
“Are they sending another bus?” we asked.
The driver shook his head apologetically.
Belize in the morning, sun drenched and verdant, didn’t fool us into letting down our guard. Get out of here before nightfall, out inner selves bellowed.
“When does the next bus come?”
“Tomorrow,” the bus driver said. “Tomorrow morning the bus come. If it’s fixed.” He gestured toward the open hood. “This is the bus.”
Hitchhiking in Central America was one of three things we had sworn we would not do.
Yet, here we were, flagging down a stranger’s car and begging for a ride to the border. Once there, we entered the bleak immigration shack to have our documents stamped. We asked about bus transportation to the first town on the Guatemala side of the border, a mile away. There was none. But there was a taxi idling outside. We need to get to the bus station in town, we told him.
“No bus station,” he informed us. “No bus.”
In this remote area, there was no bus transportation. Not into town from the border and not out of town to Guatemala City. If you wanted to go there, you flew. From a town two hours distant, accessible by rock-strewn, uneven, dirt roads. As we bounced along those roads in the sweltering taxi, we were already scheming to find an alternate route home. $20 for a two hour taxi ride, the bargain price no wonder with the spine rattling and brain shaking.
***
Our last destination before returning home was Tikal. We knew there’d be no trouble with transportation here in this popular tourist destination. So on the last day of our trip, a Sunday, we packed our bags and stood waiting at the crossroads for the bus that would carry us to the town a mile from the Belize border. Two women in colorful wraps called to us from across the road that the bus doesn’t come today, giving us a moment’s pause, but we rechecked the schedule and sure enough the bus was due any minute. A half hour passed. We waited, wondering what sort of mishap delayed the bus. Two men approached.
“No bus today,” said one, waving his arms from side to side.
“Next week, the bus come,” added the other.
“Next week?”
Schedule or no schedule, the bus had taken to coming alternate weeks. A taxi?
“No taxi. Next Sunday, the bus come.”
We didn’t have a week to spare. No bus, no taxi, no plane. Not even a lone mule! But as luck would have it, there was a bartender. He fixed us up with two “Indians” who, for gas money, would ferry us to the border. They spoke a native language; they knew no English and minimal Spanish, while we spoke English and some Spanish. Thus, the Indians and us spoke little and our comprehension was laced with uncertainty.
Our place in the jeep was in the back with the luggage, where a slanted window cast the sun’s overpowering rays directly onto faces and legs. Knees up to our chins, sides pressed together, we baked as the jeep bumped along rutted roads. After two hours, we expected to be at the border;, still another hour claimed the men up front. Our pulses quickened; could that possibly be right? We bumped along looking at trees, wondering.
The jeep slowed. We looked up to see a shoddily constructed “checkpoint” blocking the road. This checkpoint was manned by rifle toting boys no older than fifteen, garbed in a motley smattering of military uniforms. We’d been warned about guerillas. Was this them? Why were they wearing different uniforms? Were they working in concert, or competition? Our driver rolled down the window to speak with them, and we cocked our ears for signs of anything ominous. The words “American girls” caught our attention, and we held our breath. Was being an American girl an advantage here, or our death warrant? The checkpoint boys apparently approved this label for they waved us through.
Another hour passed, and we began to panic. The last bus from Flores to Belize City would be coming soon. Where was that border?
Another half hour, they told us. How could that be? That would make the trip twice the length we’d expected. What if they weren’t taking us to the border at all? There was no way to identify landmarks here in the jungle. We hadn’t seen a single road sign since the trip began.
The hands on our watches circled ’round. We prayed for that bus to come late, oh please, let it be as unreliable as all the others only this time to our advantage. We could not spend the night in the jungle, we told each other, as the sick feeling sunk in: we would have no choice but to spend the night in the jungle.
Border control at last. We dragged our suitcases up to the wooden shack and presented our passports for inspection.
“Did the bus to Belize City come yet?” we asked hopefully.
Gone. Long gone. And here we were at a border station in the jungle with no transportation, no food, and nightmarish memories of our night in Belize one week earlier.
It was two hours until that last bus out of the country left the station in Belize City. We frantically looked around for a taxi, to find there was none. And no phone to call one.
The Spaniard and his German girlfriend looked spunky. We weren’t so sure about safe, but the sparkle in their eyes hinted that they might welcome adventure. They laughed when we approached and begged them to drive us forthwith to Belize City, so desperate were we to catch a bus. For the next two hours, it was us and them in an aged American sedan breezing along on the open road. We talked a little. We agonized nonstop. If that Spaniard would just speed it up a little, we might make that last bus.
He was so carefree. Didn’t he understand? We were going to miss the bus!
We felt the moments ticking away. It was time and we were almost there, but just almost. Finally heeding our admonitions, the Spaniard floored it. As he pulled onto the street housing the bus station, Batty’s bus rolled down the street ahead of us, closing in on the intersection with the main road.
That was the last bus out of the country tonight.
“Block that bus!” we screamed. “Stop it! Don’t let it get away!”
The Spaniard raced past the bus, screeching to a standstill perpendicular to its front end, grinning delightedly and reassuring us.
“Please, please don’t move until we’re on that bus,” I exhorted, thanking him emphatically, while throwing our remaining cash at him in frenzied gratitude.
The bus driver, however, was unyielding. We insisted that he take us, or the Spaniard, who we now counted among our dearest friends, wouldn’t budge. Still no. Veronica dashed past him up the bus steps and I began tossing our luggage at her, shouting to the Spaniard, begging him to stay put.
“Block the bus.” I kept screaming at him. “Don’t let it get away before we get on it.”
The bus driver stood firm in his protest. It was too late. The bus was already on its way and we couldn’t get on, he said.
With the last bag in hand, I blabbered about necessity and the airplane, my job, armed robbery, kidnapping, impossible bus schedules and tourista. I don’t know what else spilled out at that moment, but when I looked up from my seat, there was a busful of eyes focused on us. Laughter dribbled out here and there. The resigned bus driver took his seat. That dear Spaniard and his German girlfriend sported lunatic grins as they waved goodbye and drove off, allowing the bus to proceed those last few feet to the main road.
We had just hijacked a bus!
At the corner, the driver paused to check for oncoming traffic. In that split second sound blasted forth in front of us and we spied flashes of color, the varied colors of flags, marching band uniforms and gleaming brass instruments. A parade!
They say everyone loves a parade, but I assure you some of our fellow bus passengers did not. Some sighed, others shook their heads and pursed their lips. As the marching band kept its consistent and none-too-quick pace, some tried to stare us down. A few smiled and shrugged. We slunk deep into our seats and pretended not to notice. In a few hours time, we’d reach Cancun and our flight home. Our Central American odyssey would be over… as long as the driver didn’t mind that we didn’t have the cash to pay the bus fare.
