The Chicken Bus

The chicken bus is not just a form of transportation from a to b, but rather a full-spectrum experience.  I'm not sure why they are called 'chicken' buses - as they are old discarded school buses from the US . . . although it may be related to the possibility that the passenger manifest, such as it is, may include chickens.

I had my first (and likely my only) chicken bus experience en route to Antigua for Semana Santa.  I traveled with my friend Steph, which is good, because I might well have lost my nerve mid-way to Antigua if not for her steady certainty.

The relatively short trip to Antigua, when done by shuttle is a door to door operation in a single vehicle (flat-tires and other such break-downs not-withstanding)  To do the same journey by chicken bus requires four transfers.  Each bus change requires the concurrent transfer of one's luggage off the roof of one bus and onto the roof of the next. Watching the process is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. 

Each bus has two workers - one is the driver, and the other I'll call the 'handler'.  He takes fares, deals with the people and handles the luggage.  As far as I can tell, insanity is part of both job descriptions.  Absolute fearlessness is essential for the handler.  At major transfer points he is the one that takes the baggage, recently removed from the previous bus, and installs it at the top of his bus. He also removes the baggage and passes it off to its owners at each departure, tucking up new pieces as folks get on the bus.  None of this sounds terribly glamorous . . . until you are witnessing the process.

Maneuvering luggage on top of the bus means climbing the ladders at the back on either side of the emergency exit door.  (used as a regular entrance and exit - that's where we boarded and departed each of our buses) What makes the luggage process spectacular is that the handler runs up and down these ladders while the bus is in motion.  The big load is dealt with at the major transfer points with the bus stopped, but after that, he runs up the ladder in anticipation of someone's exit, hucking their stuff down at them as the bus begins its departure.  Sometimes that means he hops off the ladder at the back and runs beside the bus to the front, jumping on there as the bus begins its acceleration.  (Marathoners have nothing on these guys).

One would think that given that this all happens around people on-boarding and off-boarding  that at least the bus is moving fairly slowly.  That would be a deeply erroneous assumption.  Remember the insanity clause.  The bus generally goes at top speed, careening around corners (many prayers were said on that journey), and screaming to a not-quite-stop so folks can on-board or off-board at random spots along the road.  Actual bus-stops not required - neither a demarcated spot or an actual full-stop of the bus.  Locals seem to have almost the same ease hopping on and off a moving a vehicle as the handler, though I admit he did come to a full stop for brief moments for some passengers . . . but not for all.

We were on bus 3 of 4 was when the rain came. The bus was only about a quarter full. In addition to Steph and I there was one other traveler - a Norwegian girl, and all three of us had our big packs on top of the bus.  We were watching the sky darken, and the wind pick up . . . and little drops begin to fall . . . and I wondered aloud about our packs up above . . .  If the rain stayed light, we might be ok, if it picked up, we were all screwed.  It would be days before the contents dried.  As the rain got more enthusiastic, I decided to risk the ask. I wandered up to the front (holding on for dear life as we continued to ricochet along the highway in the rain) and offered my most charming and sheepish grin to the handler.  In my sad Spanish, I asked if perhaps he could retrieve our packs from the top and bring them in?  I was pleasantly amazed when he agreed - with an indulgent you-dumb-gringos look, mind you, but it didn't feel mean . . . just humourous.

I had made the assumption that if the handler agreed, the bags would come down at the next stop, or maybe even that they would stop the bus to do it.  No sir.  At full throttle, going up a hill and around corners, in the pouring rain, that man hopped out the back door, swung up the ladder to the top of the bus, unhooked our packs from the rack, and swung each of them down to some locals who hauled them in the door.  The Norwegian girl's pack must've weighed close to 50 pounds.  It's amazing to me that this experience fit into one paragraph - because truly, it felt so much bigger than that.  I cannot begin to fathom the fearlessness, sense of immortality . . . I don't even know how to process belief set that goes with swinging one's body and someone else's heavy bags off the back of a bus hurtling through pouring rain on curving hills at full speed . . .

The rest of the journey was completely uneventful.  I'm not sure, really, how it could have been anything but, by comparison!  We made our last transfer, back in the sunshine, though we put our rain covers on our packs just in case. The last bus had good music, so we bopped along; it was also the fullest, so I shared a seat with two other people. Remember that these are children's school buses - designed to seat 2 children to a seat, not 2-3 adults and a child.  Crammed to the gills, we arrived in Antigua without incident, pulling in to the most colorful yard of buses I've ever seen.  Dozens of brightly coloured chicken buses, parked in rows, waiting to depart, belching smoke, hanging out ... wow. A truly Guatemalan experience.  And don't worry Mom & Dad, I'm perfectly safe!