Falling Fowl Of The Chicken
Bus
theage.com.au
The lure of travelling like a
local proved too strong for Sue
White - with hilarious results.
Travelling from Guatemala to
Nicaragua may sound adventurous,
but for most people it involves
parking themselves on a luxury
air-conditioned bus and waking
up at their destination. Luxury
coaches cruise the length of
Central America, escorting
backpackers through Mexico,
Honduras, El Salvador, Costa
Rica and Panama.
However, after having spent a
few weeks travelling in the
area, I decided it was time for
a more authentic experience:
Guatemala to Nicaragua as the
locals do it - by chicken bus.
While either option is cheap on
a foreigner's income (we're
talking $100 versus $40), my
back-of-the-envelope
calculations deduced that the
locals' way could probably be
made in the same amount of time,
but in a more grassroots
fashion. So why wouldn't you?
Six chicken buses and one boat
later, I had my first inkling of
why you wouldn't.
Chicken buses are retired North
American school buses - the
yellow ones that we see in the
movies.
The buses arrive on the Central
America transport scene in their
twilight years and they are
promptly reborn, decked out with
bright-coloured paint and
religious icons. Without
exception, they are crammed full
of humans in the manner of
battery hens. And yes,
passengers have been known to
travel with their livestock in
tow, adding to the general chaos
that accompanies each journey.
A chicken bus does not leave
until it is full. In this part
of the world, "full" is taken
literally: I'm talking brimming
so chock-a-block with people and
produce that conductors may
climb across the tops of seats
to move through the vehicle
collecting payment.
My marathon began without
fanfare, a tiny boat escorting
me from my lakeside cabin on
volcano-studded Lago (lake) de
Atitlan to the bigger town
across the water. Steeling my
mind, I embarked on my first
chicken bus journey - no
problems yet, and within a few
hours I arrived in the capital,
Guatemala City.
Undeterred by arriving and
leaving from different terminals
in a big, dirty, and supposedly
dangerous city, I was impressed
to find myself on a border-bound
bus before lunchtime. When
travelling alone it becomes easy
to talk yourself into or out of
anything, so I spent most of my
morning quietly congratulating
myself on my travel prowess. I
was good at travelling. No, I
was great at travelling - this
is so easy!
By the time I approached the
Guatemala-El Salvador border
post, after changing all my
Guatemalan quetzals into US
dollars (the main currency used
in El Salvador) I had taken
things a step further, giving
myself the title of World's Best
Traveller. In WBT guise, I
arrived at the El Salvador
immigration point all smiles,
ready for an impressive
"Welcome" stamp in my passport.
But for reasons I can scarcely
understand, Australia appears
not focused on its relations
with El Salvador, earning our
citizens a place on a list with
residents of Angola and Armenia
as those requiring a visa to
enter.
While this in itself was a
surprise (no one mentioned it,
and my guidebook had proven
generally incorrect so I had
begun to override it), I simply
responded as any WBT worth their
salt would.
Dipping into the tool kit that
had helped me out of many sticky
situations, I tested each
technique in turn. Feigning
ignorance was closely followed
by cajoling, backed up by
offering money and my back-up
plan, flirting.
After each strategy failed
miserably (yes, big ego blow on
the latter), I resorted to
getting really cranky in
Spanish, in a barrage that went
something like: "This is loco.
You saying no visa buy here ...
that I must three hours go on
bus back to Guatemala City,
where I just come? Go back
dangerous place, at night, a
woman, on her own, because no
you stamp passport?"
Unfortunately, that was exactly
what they were saying. Although
I found no solace in the border
guards' parting words ("This
happens to Aussies all the
time,") I was naively reassured
when he affirmed obtaining a
visa would be cheap, and fast.
Upon reflection, it is possible
he just wanted the grammatically
incorrect tirade to end.
Leaving WBT at the border and
returning on the bus to
Guatemala City as WBI (World's
Biggest Idiot), I found myself
exactly where I'd been eight
hours earlier.
By 8am on day two, I was
optimistically waiting at the
entrance of the El Salvadorian
consulate, ready to get my visa.
Ten minutes later I was sitting
outside the building frantically
considering alternatives. As it
turned out, an El Salvadorian
visa is neither cheap - $US60
($66.70), even to pass through
for eight hours - nor, more
importantly, fast: two days, no
exceptions.
Luckily, unlike at home, there
was another country nearby. It
wasn't quite as close or as
convenient, but who was I to be
picky? In less than an hour I
was on a vehicle bound for
beautiful, visa-free Honduras.
Four hours later, just one
chicken bus away from the
border, I fell into a new
variation of the pep talk: "You
know, I may not be the WBT, but
I am undoubtedly the World's
Most Flexible Traveller - off to
a whole new country,
spontaneously."
The bus journey was slightly
longer than I had planned for,
and I was a little short on
national currency, having gotten
rid of most of it before
attempting to leave the country
the previous day.
But seeing that it had taken
more than 36 hours, one boat,
nine buses and two taxis to
travel only a few hundred
kilometres, a lack of quetzals
wasn't going to stop me getting
to Honduras. Watching the
conductor (on crutches, poor
bloke), collect coins from
everyone in the border-bound
bus, I opted to use the
"high-drama" technique on him.
Tipping my purse into his
awaiting palms I explained in my
best Spanish (almost child-like
without the wrath behind it).
"I'm sorry, I no have much
quetzals. This all."
"Don't worry yourself," came the
gracious reply, "That's great".
"Fantastic", thought WBT (she
was back), as I settled into my
seat for the border crossing,
"Much easier than anticipated."
As we pulled out of the terminal
I looked out the window and
noticed the conductor having a
rest. Strange, I thought, they
usually come on the bus
collecting money along the way,
as chicken buses stop whenever
someone waves them down.
"Excuse me, senor," I asked the
cowboy in the seat in front of
me. "Is that the conductor?"
"No."
"Then who is he and why was
everyone giving him money?"
"He needs it for an operation on
his foot."
As we confirmed that I had given
every last quetzal to the young
invalid (15 times the average
donation from the other
passengers) word spread rapidly
through the bus.
Soon, a dozen Guatemalan cowboys
were straining to stare at La
Gringa Stupida, laughing
riotously. WBT faded into
oblivion as I too saw the funny
side, wondering how this one
would pan out.
Saved only by two US dollars
tucked in an emergency pocket,
the Honduran border crossing was
decidedly uneventful. As the sun
set in the distance it struck me
I wasn't even halfway to my
destination, but it was all or
nothing now.
The first chicken bus left at
5.30am and I planned to be on
it. Nicaragua or bust. |
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Colourful crossing ...
buses in Guatemala.
Photo: Kraig Lieb/Lonely Planet |
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