"if we make it through this...."

About ten minutes into our bus ride from Guatemala City to Rio Dulce, my friend leans over to me and says, "Sara, if we make it through this bus ride, you have to write about it on your blog." We lived, so here goes.

We paid the gringo price for a shuttle from Lago de Atitlan to Rio Dulce, and we expected to take a shuttle the entire way, with a change in Guatemala City. Well, we did change, but rather than the posh tourist shuttle, we boarded one of the infamous and god-forsaken chicken buses. Without knowing entirely what was going on, we trusted our bags in the trunk of the bus, seriously wondering if we would ever see them again. The bus was packed (or so I thought it was to capacity when we got on) and we filed to the back row. This said back row was slightly elevated from the other seats, giving us a clear view through the windshield, sharing the same line of the site of the driver.

Ah, the driver. For the entire four and a half hour ride, he had this scary maniacal smile on his face (which we were able to admire from the rear view mirror). Like the other drivers we have seen so far in Central America, he wasted no time to pass the slow drivers, but I think this guy took it to a whole ´nother level. For each turn, he would throw his whole body into it, like he was playing an intense game at the arcade, sitting in one of those car seat booths with a large steering wheel and a screen in front of him. He´d lean to one side and throw his arm all the way across his body to make a turn. And it was quite interesting to see just how fast he managed to get this massive school bus-turned-chicken bus to go. It was equal parts terrifying, thrilling and nerve-shattering to watch as we sped past trucks, heading straight head on toward another truck, and then swinging back into the proper lane. None of us knew whether to laugh or cry or scream, so of course, we giggled incessently.

Even though every single seat was taken, we stopped every once in a while to pick up some folks. At first, we thought maybe he was looking out for his friends, and giving them a ride, since he would wave and smile and then bring the bus to a screaching halt. Then, as people began to pile into the isles, it clicked. This must be why they call them chicken buses. At one point, we saw a few guys get on, one of which had a gun. It was at this time that I had to take a few deep breaths, and just resign myself to the fact that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Maybe we were going to get robbed blind, or shot up, or go flying above the 30 rows of seats and through the windsheild after colliding with one of the many 18-wheelers we were playing chicken with. Or maybe everything was just fine, and this is how it´s done.

It does appear that the latter was the case. But not without some pains. For one, Senor Know-it-all sat down next to me, and after telling him that we were from Alabama, he proceeded to give me the history of the state´s name, and then list all the states, towns and rivers in the US that were Native American in their origin. That´s a lot of names, folks. My friend was ready to scrap with him after he insultingly told us we were dumb for going to a travel agency and that as three young women traveling alone, we really were safe and shouldn´t worry about anything. Right. I managed to ignore him for most of the trip, but that´s just because he fell asleep and allowed his arm and leg to flop about, sqeezing me into half of my oh-so-comfortable bus seat. At least he wasn´t talking to us then.

Then we pulled over for a few women to hop aboard and sell food. Gallinas con tortillas y salsa. Despite the fact that I was starving, it didn´t seem right to gnaw on a hen leg in the back of a bus (especially next to my vegitarian friend.... and I am trying to go veg for the rest of the trip), so I asked for just a few tortillas. The woman promptly said no, gallinas y tortillas. OK, no thanks. There were a couple other stops, at which point men and women would swarm around the bus holding up baggies of cut fruit or bread for passengers to reach out the window and buy.

Somehow, I managed to snag a nap amongst this death-defying, video game of a bus ride. As we approached Rio Dulce, we began to fantasize about the cold beer, cold but much-needed shower and perhaps a plato tipico for dinner that awaited us, assuming we stepped off the bus in one piece. And we did, with our bags intact as well, and I think I am a little surprised we made it alive.