Riding a city bus in Barranquilla is not quite the same as in the States. First of all, almost all the buses are run by private companies. They pick their routes and for the most part stick to them. However, this is never a sure thing. For these buses, there are also no bus stops. Instead, one makes one’s way to a street where the bus generally passes, and waits. If your intended bus hasn’t arrived within five minutes, you are probably on the wrong street.
When your bus does come barreling by, you stick your hand out and do a floppy sort of Hitler salute, indicating to the driver you’d like to climb on. Then, despite the lack of a “Release” waiver, you climb on. In hindsight—as well as foresight, while you’re at it—this almost always seems like a bad decision. But, since you’re lacking a car and distance or the presence of arroyos has forced your hand, as they do a regrettably significant amount on a weekly basis, on you go.
If you’re lucky, you may find a seat. But let’s say, for the fun of it, it’s one of the many “busy” times during the day (7am-10am, 11am-2pm, 4pm-forever). Let’s pick 9:00 pm, because you were silly enough to put off sundry-shopping until then on a Sunday night, and the streets are too unsafe to walk, and you as well as the world needs to return home.
So, you stand by the corner and wait until the particular pattern of flashing lights announce that your bus is arriving (each bus distinguishes itself with lights, colors, and a variety of casino-worthy decorations). You flag it down, then haul yourself up the first few steps and stand wedged on the top step. You are lucky enough to ascend this far since, in this scenario, you happen to be a small pale girl; rather than having to cling to the door handle while the wind tugs at your belongings as well as yourself, other hapless men take their places on the bottom step where they stand half in and half out the door. As the surrounding men stare ardently, you give over your 1500 mil pesos to the driver (about 80 American cents), who is impetuously holding out his hand for your fare even as he talks on his cell phone, accelerates down the narrow street, and jokes with the person sitting shotgun.
Then, it’s time to hold on, because bus rides are nothing, here, if not a test of bus’s brakes. The bus drivers clearly have somewhere better to be, always, because they are champions at speeding up directly into the person in front of them, then slamming on their breaks to avoid hitting them. They then blast their horn multiple times, but when that doesn’t work, they pull into the opposite lane to cut off whomever they can, even as oncoming traffic charges towards them. As one Barranquillan said, “If you have a big vehicle, you do whatever you want.” Buses, by virtue of being the biggest, are the tyrannical, maniacal kings of the street.
It’s a frightening thing, being this close to the front window and able to witness these driving feats, but no matter—because soon the bus driver will glance back and see that an inch of space has opened in the back. After hollering for people to squeeze in more, he’ll crank the turnstile so you make it past the steps, until you are standing so close to the people crowding the aisles that your sweaty arms begin to slide together in unison to the bus’s jerks and stops.
Not lucky enough to land near a window, your sweat-soaked clothes bear witness to the fact that the temperature in the bus aisle is approximately ten degrees hotter than outside, which, after a long day approaching 100, has finally slid down to the low 90’s, and you realize, as the woman opposite you in the aisle bumps her ample self into your back, and then leans back against you and settles in for the ride, that there are more than just traffic-related reasons you may not survive this bus ride. But the gods are good, because at least your companions have mostly used deodorant.
A gut-wrenching series of stops, starts, turns, accelerations and near-accidents later, you lean over some passengers, peer out the window, and see from the numbered streets that you are rapidly approaching your destination address. Too rapidly. Although just minutes before the streets were so congested you moved only in fits and bursts, suddenly the way has cleared. And in the space of time it will take this racing bus to go four blocks, you need to squeeze through a bus aisle stuffed three-people deep.
If you are good at Twister, these skills might come in handy, although better if you’ve ever played it in a dark and oscillating setting. Hauling your now-curse-of-a-grocery bag, you climb over legs, squeeze between flesh, push, pull, yank, levitate, and there it is—the door. You search for the button to push, that will let you out of this careening Hell—and you see that it’s broken.
Parada! You shout. Because you have no choice. And the entire bus swivels to stare you down, you who already pissed off at least ten people by stepping on them or squashing their families, in your quest for the door. Gringas, you can see them think.
But, mercifully, the bus shudders to a stop. You lurch off, gaining your legs slowly on the sidewalk, breathing in the suddenly sweet-seeming Barranquilla air.
And, for the moment, you’ve survived. As long as you can figure out how to make it across the street…
