Where the hell have you been? Who me? Yes you!  OK, I know. It’s been a while since I scribbled anything down here. Too busy enjoying the adventure to write about the adventure. The last you heard from me I had made it, through gritted teeth, heavy breathing and growling cramps, to Machu Picchu, Peru’s lost city. From there I flew on to colonial Quito, the slimy creature infested Ecuadorean Amazon and then to wrongly reputation-laden Colombia. Here I  spent two fun-packed months, mainly in Shakira’s Barranquilla on the Caribbean coast. I’m not going to talk about Shakira (although she is hot as) or about the sexy beaches (hot as..) or the sultry weather (you’ve guessed it!) I’m going to talk about buses! Excitement! Big wow! Buses! It’s not so much the buses themselves that I found fascinating. I didn’t start collecting numbers or any of that garbage (sorry if you do! Not.) Although saying that they were very colourful buses, especially the yellow, green and red Puerto Colombia bus I had to catch every day when going to school. A heavy customisation had taken place to each bus, from the ginormous fluffy gear stick covers, to the slogans, to the prayers that are crucial to your survival from extinction. I am exaggerating, and the vast majority of bus journeys ended without incident, but I have a few tales to tell that display the wonderful temperament of a wonderful people.

So, a few general observations first.  All were made whilst furiously wiping my brow, neck, nose and cheeks to dry the 6.45 a.m. humidity-induced sweat that regularly dehydrated me. Number 1: music. Did you ever get on a bus in Barnsley, Dagenham or Truro, and see the driver’s shoulders and hands move in time to a medley of salsa and reggaethon hits? I thought not. By the way I’ve got a couple of driver stories to tell you later. Number 2: conductors. By the way I’ve got a conductor story to tell you too! It was nice to be regulars on the bus and to see a familiar conductor, hanging out of the door yelling “Dale!” as you jumped on.  They would weave in and out of standing passengers collecting the perspiration soaked 2500 fares that had been carefully counted out and held in clenched fists. They possessed incredible memories and wandered up and down the colourful musical bus registering in their keen minds those who had paid and those who were criminal fare avoiders. Number 3: hawkers. People would be allowed on the bus at regular intervals, especially on the way home, to promote their wares. Some, for example, would hand out a bag of sweets or a cereal bar to every passenger and collect them back in as they returned to the front of the bus. I think the idea is that you will really want something if it’s in your hand for you to play around with for a bit. Some people handed money over and kept what they had fiddled with. These hawkers would sell all kinds, mostly comestibles, although a busker tried, on one occasion,  to sell her questionable vocal skills. The whole bus journey was an audiovisual delight each day, because you were mixing with real Colombians, not a tourist in sight, doing everyday things like a Colombian. Sights and sounds, smells and tastes. Oh yes, let’s not miss out touch! There is a definite closeness between passengers while travelling, the gap between sitter and stander at times being totally obliterated. One unfortunate gringo passenger, who shall remain nameless (Alice Brent from Newbury) was usually a sitter and on this particularly day was also a sitter. She came into close contact with a stander of the male variety. She knew he was a male stander due to the excitable state of the maleness pressing into her as she sat, imprisoned between him and her fellow sitter.

On one occasion I was travelling home and I looked up to see a standing male pointing and gesticulating at another  man, who was chatting to a pretty lady. The stander became very animated and suddenly reached out and grabbed the other by the scruff of the neck, hauling him to his feet. There then occurred a dragging, as the man (I should really tell you that this is my conductor story and he was the one being forcibly extracted from his place of comfort) was taken to the back of the bus. Shouting and waving and pointing then took place, as the other passengers feared what the outcome might be. I guess you’re wondering what the hell was going on. Simple. The man had paid his fare to the conductor. The latter had “forgotten” to give him his change back. The man was simply reminding the conductor in a friendly way, with shouting and dragging, where he had been sitting. The outcome? The man left the bus with all his change rattling joyously in his pocket.

Another time, on the way back to Barranquilla, the driver was going so dangerously fast that we looked around half expecting to see air hostesses strapped in their seats ready for take off. It wasn’t the only occasion when we experienced a severe bonerattle along the road from Puerto Colombia to the city. I half wondered whether he had been drinking, even before what happened next. A group of elderly passengers, clearly terrified,  summoned up the courage to speak out against his erratic driving, shouting for him to slow down. Slow down? Slow down? Slow down? (three times for dramatic emphasis) Well he didn’t actually say this but his expression and actions were as clear as if he had done. He went from fifth gear down into first, and from crazy runaway driver to psycho tantrum driver. He spat out an imaginary dummy that flew down the aisle of the bus, hitting every passenger square on the forehead, a defiant “fuck the lot of you I’ll show you. ”  He proceeded to not proceed very fast, slowing to slower than slow, and causing us to make it back home a long time later than we were supposed to. I guess he thought that he had asserted his authority. I just thought that he had not asserted his authority because he’s slowed down like the passengers told him to.

And finally, my favourite Colombian bus story. It was a typical humid day, the windows were down and you hoped for a seat next to one, so that the wind might blow through your imaginary hair and cool you down. It had been an uneventful journey up to that point, as we waited for the lights to change. A bus pulled up on our left and the driver started shouting something across to ours. It was difficult to hear what was being said (because I’ve been to too many loud gigs) but as we moved on from the lights, the bus pulled in front of us and we were forced to stop in our tracks. The other driver got off, shouting something and a frantic woman on ours jumped up and leapt off to go and talk to him. Her words went unheeded. Right, you wait there. I’m just going for a coffee. I’ll be back in a minute. OK, I’m back. Where was I?   So Mr Narky Busman walks over to the side of the road and picks up a huge rock, ignoring the pleas of the brave supplicant. There ensues a crazed ceremonial mirror smashing. My fellow passengers decide to move further inside the bus to avoid shrapnel and flying debris. I still haven’t got a clue what’s going on at this point! After this brief moment of glass mutilation, the driver calls it a day, huffs his way back to his seat and heads off to insanity, allowing us to complete our eventful journey. I have a horrible feeling that we clipped his wing mirror, thus setting off this unfortunate series of events.

I can truly say that I love the Colombian people, who are so open and friendly and I love a good Colombian bus journey: there is always so much to talk about afterwards. What all these stories show, however, is a people that is not afraid to speak up for justice and truth, for what it believes is right or wrong, and we have much to learn from them. Remember, also that these three stories happened on just three of over fifty journeys that passed without incident. They are the exception, not the norm. Go to Colombia. It’s amazing. Travel on the buses. They’re colourful and fun.

Si @cre8ivation