| Hmmm. Not exactly the pithiness
I was seeking. This time we’ll cut a little deeper and sneak
into the New Testament—there is good stuff there, I’ve
read it. OK, here we go again. Close the eyes, drop the finger,
open the eyes. 1 Cor 11:8-9: "Indeed, man was not made from
woman but woman from man. Neither was man made for the sake of woman
but woman for the sake of man." No doubt some of Paul’s
best work. I can buy into what he says, although I`m not too sure
of Gloria, but it lacks a little of the cogency I had hoped for.
O the middle ground, sanctuary, place of rest, where is it? Then
I recalled those peaceful, nearly blissful times that brought sweet
repose and remembered there is a middle ground—not exactly
sacred space, but a space to cleanse oneself of his burdensome load—a
bus ride to anywhere!
Many of the buses here are modern and up to date. The chicken
bus exists, but it is reserved for the shorter routes or for those
between less populated areas. I recalled the excitement of the
first ride from Coban to Guatemala City ("Guate")—a
distance of 130 miles that takes four to five hours to complete.
The bus was modern—even reserved seats. One left hourly from
2:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., so plenty of options. I selected the special
which left at 9:00 a.m. It cost more but I splurged for the extra
Q2 reasoning that Gloria was easily worth it. Specials stop less
frequently plus you get a movie—whether you want it or not.
Somehow the choice of a slasher movie dubbed in Spanish with blood,
guts, and heads flying about the screen at 9:30 did not set well
with my yogurt. Coupled with the screaming, crying babies the
next two hours brought only mild relief to a troubled soul. (Other
travels have provided movies of similar content with bombings,
killings, terrorism, or amorous conduct enough to make teenaged
boys resolve to get married as soon as the bus stops.) I also
planned next time to get the concession on Dramamine. The swaying,
rocking, up, down, sideways motions do take a toll on some of
the less stalwart travelers. The faint scent of previous riders’
discomfort tends to focus one’s attention on matters at hand—in
this case a slasher movie. Say, wasn’t that garrotting scene
well done and the hatchet work—surely Oscar caliber.
A trip from Coban to Xela requires a change of buses in booming
Guate, a city of some three million, many of whom travel by buses
that are all on the road at the same time. The papers frequently
carry stories of how women are attacked or men shot on some of
the buses in Guate. We try not to ride those. Drivers education
courses exist but they have obviously suffered tremendously from
a lack of students. Our driver was nattily dressed in a crisp,
white shirt with a dark tie and kept a watchful eye on traffic.
One of his fellow bus drivers in the lane next to us was equally
adept at maneuvering his bus through traffic. Too well. He cut
sharply in front of our driver with the buses missing only by
a matter of inches. The natty attire of our driver belied a person
who had the aggressive nature of Attila the Hun. They began a
game of bus leap-frog while I determined that a slasher movie
had certain preferences over dying in a crash in Guate.
Our man took advantage of a minimum opportunity and, after making
a sharp turn to the right, he stopped suddenly in front of his
new adversary. He seemed to be in a terrific hurry to leave the
bus. No surprise to me considering the bathroom habits I`ve witnessed
in the past but this was in eight lanes of rush hour traffic in
Guate! I looked out the window to my right and noticed that Attila
had dragged the other driver out of his bus and was proceeding
to rearrange his anatomy. I was impressed with his footwork which
he displayed with aplomb as he massaged his opponent’s ribs
with some well-place plies—Nureyev de Las Calles. Good hands,
too, as he kneaded his opponent’s face with his knuckles.
After a rumble in the supine position where our man lost his glasses,
they both jumped back on their respective buses and merged back
into traffic. I thought better of asking Rocky for our estimated
time of arrival in Xela and began wondering instead if Freddy
Krueger ever had his nails done at a salon.
That other public conveyance, the pickup, offers its own share
of entertainment value. Heading from Chisec to Las Promesas, a
distance of four hours on dirt and gravel roads, can clear your
head if you can keep it from getting pummeled by rocks and dirt
kicked up by passing vehicles. I suggested to Gloria she not insist
on checking the insurance coverage of our driver, a lad of 14,
let alone demand tires with tread. After I coaxed her into the
pickup by offering candy, she calmed down. That is until we saw
a small herd of maybe 20 cows on the road in front of us. There
was nothing to trouble your mind about since this is a common
occurrence and there was ample time to slow down and stop. Our
driver had other plans which included speeding up and careening
his way through the herd. Cows to the right of him, cows to the
left of him, cows in front of him, mooed and wandered—but
on, on into the valley of near-death drove our thick wonder (RHM—"Charge
of the Cow Brigade," 2002). He hit only one at an oblique
angle, the cow lurching to the left the pickup to the right and
continuing to fish-tail down the road. I had to offer Gloria more
candy.
Often here in Guatemala perspective makes all the difference.
Ours is a faith of hope, of expectation, with the ponderous, slogging
aspects of life isolated by the assurance there is a future and
our hope will not be cut off. A sense of humor doesn’t hurt
either. (Some liberties may have been taken with minor details
in the preceding. The stories are true.)
Roger
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