It was 6:34 when I jumped on the bus in Tlacochahuaya; we were leaving a bit later than usual, but what’s usual? (I can hardly remember.) The bus was crowded with women in aprons, their hair braided in two braids down their back and tied with a satin ribbon in the middle. Hauling heavy sacks, they one-by-one began to get off at various stops. The mothers toting children were going; the chavos (translated as blokes in my dictionary, but really just cool young guys) were headed off in packs. And, I suddenly realized there was no one left on the bus– just me, the driver, and his trusty sidekick.
Many bus drivers have sidekicks; they change the tv or radio channels, adjust speakers, holler out the bus destination in voices louder than the large neon signs already plastered on the right side of the windshield, take money and make change, get the driver’s dinner or lunch or cigarettes, sometimes help the frail with their packages, and so forth.
As I was wondering where everybody went, we began driving down a dirt road and backing into a small area to turn around and head back into the town. The bus driver also was wondering where everybody was and stopped every dozen meters and honked his horn wildly trying to coax riders to the bus. It started to work, and, by the time we reached Tule (a town having an empanada fair), we were so packed that the sidekick began hollering at people to get back, to double up in the rows.
My stop is near the baseball stadium, but I stood up a little early (near the McDonalds), and the driver said I could get off right where we were in the middle of Monday night traffic. Always interested in the adventure, I was obliged to head out into the lights and noise.
shewhodaresnothing 