Sweat seeped through the cheap, plastic seats. An elderly grandma was pressed up against me on my right; my boyfriend on my left. There were 3 seatbelts in our row and 5 people fit. Behind us, 6 people were crammed into the same space. Shouts of “Lucea, Lucea” were fading in and out, like badly balanced surround sound. The driver and his pusher were working together to fill up every inch of the tiny bus. A vendor approached the window as we waited; she had bottles of water at her feet. I gave her 150JD for some sweet relief.
I’d been in Jamaica for a week. We were on our way to another place — another guesthouse, another regional dish to try. I’ve driven in New York, across the Dominican Republic, and road-tripped up muddy, mountainous terrains. I’ll never be able to drive in Jamaica. It’s chaos. The Western-style, air-conditioned busses have routes from big city to big city. But I wanted to see real life. I wanted to see the towns. A sumptuous-looking lady squeezed in as the driver paid the pusher a few hundred for his help. We were supposed to be 12 passengers and 22 made it in. We were off.
The music started up with the rusty engine. Reggae-style rap began vibrating on our slick thighs. Maneuvering past the other cars, the driver enhanced the soundscape with his incessant horn blaring. No one seemed the react. We inched our way past a few red lights and finally, finally, the air began to breeze in. It was like someone was sucking out our wet coating with a straw. The driver accelerated. He veered and he veered again. I looked out the window and saw what I can only describe as a construction site. The road was littered with so many potholes it had to be intentional. Cheap yet ineffective speedbumps.
I was getting sick from the starts and stops, the swerves and curves. There wasn’t much to do than close my eyes. Thoughts began to flow. I’ve been stuck in uncomfortable positions before — followed by strangers late at night and sweated on buses like this one in Jamaica. And yet, some of my fondest memories have happened on the road. I remember the first time I went traveling. I was on the road for 90 days before I realized that I hadn’t even once missed home.
I tried looking out the window again. Luscious fruit skimmed us as we whizzed by. It’s mango season, but 38ºC sunshine made it hard to see the trees. I had a flashback of Alaska during a snowstorm. Everything was white; I thought I was blind. The sun had the same effect.
I knew we were entering Lucea when the driver started smashing his brakes. A little girl in the back seat raised her hand. Within 2 seconds, we went from 115 Km/H to a full stop on the side. She paid the driver and climbed off. 6 passengers, one at a time and each at their own stops got off before we reached town. Each paid the driver separately before sauntering off to their homes. The last of the 6 got off one block before everyone else did. The route taxi was as close to a door-to-door drop-off as a public bus could get.
We rolled into the town center and other drivers began hounding us. “Montego Bay? Ochie? Kingston?” I couldn’t hear straight. “Come with me, come with me”, they competed. We nodded at one. He grabbed our bags from the still-moving bus. We followed our stuff to his nearly-full bus. I guess we were going with him next. It’d be another hour until we arrived at our final destination. We were staying for one night before moving on. More towns to wander, people to encounter, thoughts to ponder; more journeys to pursue.
This is a great piece, Yehudis! You had me hooked the whole time, sitting right there with you in the bus. You choose all the right details, using concise, economic language to tell a story, ask thought-provoking questions, and reveal a little about who you are. Excuse me while I read it again.
I hope you never stop moving Yehudis, so that we are blessed with more beautiful pieces like this one!