The Wheels on the Bus

Public transportation in the only mode of transportation for me here. I haven't driven a car in a year and 4 months and I'm beginning to forget what it feels like to be in charge of my own travel agenda. While I have not had bus rides as long as other volunteers here, I've still experienced a few 7 hours bus rides in the past, and they're not fun; especially since, for the life of me, I can't fall asleep on a bus here. I felt like trying a different writing style to share a typical bus experience with you:

I squeeze myself out of the jeepney, hunched over as to not hit my head on the roof, while holding my inconveniently large backpack in front of me, trying not to fall on the woman with a baby on her lap as I shuffle awkwardly past. I make it to the back of the jeepney and jump down, glad to finally be free from the confined bodies squished on either side of me for the past 20 minutes. I stand up straight, take a deep breath, crack my back, put my backpack on, and look around the bus terminal for my bus home. I am hot and sticky and receive no relief from the equally hot and sticky air. I glance at my full water bottle longingly, debating whether I should save my bladder from bursting on the bumpy bus later or save myself from possible dehydration now. Instant gratification wins out and I down a quarter of my water, feeling only slightly ominous about a possible bursting, bouncing bladder in my near future. To the left I see the yellow bus under the sign that says “Dumaguete” and head over to it. There are only 4 people in the bus already, causing me to inwardly groan as I realize I still have at least 30 minutes to wait for the bus to fill up before it will leave. I take advantage of the silver lining this offers though and grab the front seat next to the driver that provides more leg room, and I pray no one will sit next to me. Bus rides are my zoning out time where I get lost in the scenery and my music, and having to spend a few hours riddling out a conversation in a foreign language with a stranger tends to take away from the zen state I prefer to experience bus rides in. Almost 45 minutes later the driver starts the engine and pulls out of the terminal, finally allowing a breeze to come through the open window beside me and relieving me of the sweat dripping down my face, stomach, back, arms, and legs. Nothing is safe from dripping sweat here. I am in luck with an empty seat remaining next to me, so I say a silent thank you for the locals being too timid and shy to sit next a foreigner, and sit back to endure the 6-8 hour bus ride ahead of me.

The first part of any bus ride in the monotonous drive out of the city, surrounded by flat roads, buildings, people, and minimal green. I take this time to go through my music options to determine the mood my music will take for the ride. I scroll through country, classical, soundtracks, pop, rock, upbeat, slow and lazy, audiobooks, everything I have and eventually decide on country music, as I knew all along I would. I choose “Somewhere in My Car” by Keith Urban, a new favorite of mine, and lean back with my feet propped up on the bus's dash board (another perk of the front seat) as the bus goes past children waving, dogs chasing each other, chicken running across the road, and elderly locals gossiping in groups. Soon enough we leave the city limits and are surrounded by flat rice fields with an occasional nipa house here and there with the mountains looming in the distance. The conductor has reached me by now, after making his way through the rest of my local travel companions, and asks for my destination. His hole puncher marks my ticket and the small punched out paper bits go flying into the hair of the girl sitting behind me. He hands me the ticket, I hand over my fare, and then continue with my window gazing. Every few kilometers we go through another barangay and the bus stops to let people on or off, never allowing the bus to go more than a few streets without stopping again. My seat-partner-absence is short lived as the seat is filled by a middle-age Filipino. I smile briefly and then return my gaze to the surrounding landscape, hoping he'll let me continue with my zen state. My butt starts to hurt so I shift in my seat and glance at my watch, hoping at least an hour has gone past so I don't feel too bad about my butt's low tolerance for sitting. Only 30 minutes have gone by. I sigh and accept, once again, that this will be a long ride.

My seat partner is soon sleeping (as all Filipinos somehow manage to do in the most uncomfortable positions) and I am bored out of my mind, seeing as rice fields are only entertaining for so long, and decide to take advantage of another perk of the front seat: reflective windows and mirrors. Sitting at different angles I am able to see a few of the other passengers sharing this excruciatingly long journey with me. A couple rows behind me is an older Filipino holding a rooster and I'm momentarily surprised I hadn't heard the rooster crow already, but then remember they tend to be quiet on bus rides for some reason, maybe too much outside stimulation to justify an attempt at displaying their dominance. I predict the Filipino won't be on the bus long. I can't imagine him wanting to ride more than an hour with a rooster on his lap. As I silently laugh to myself at the possible image of the rooster pooping in his hand, my eyes wander a few seats away and I see a young mother with her infant child sleeping adorably in her arms, mouth slack with drool starting to pool out. I take a moment to acknowledge that I no longer find it strange to see babies without car seats, instead relying solely on their mothers' arms to save them in the event of an accident. In fact, I'm not sure I have ever seen a car seat in this country. Between the mother's legs stands a young girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old. There's no room for her on her mother's lap with the baby there so she stands there, leaning her body on her mother's legs and resting her head on her arm on the seat-back in front of her, trying her hand at the act of sleeping while standing. I marvel again at all the odd positions I've seen Filipinos of all ages sleeping and remain quite impressed with their seemingly nation-wide ability.

My focus goes back to the road ahead and I feel a sense of excitement as I realize we are nearing the mountains, my favorite part of the journey. The sun is setting now as the landscape becomes more defined with hills, and I appreciate the beauty of the sunset with its perfect blend of deep purples, reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows, providing a perfectly contrasting background to the lush green rice fields in the foreground. Despite all the natural disasters, poverty, or political corruption that can happen in this country, its beauty has always prevailed and reminds its viewers that hope never dies and is always there to provide a silver lining.

Twenty minutes later we are in the mountains, weaving along the road on the side of the cliff, still passing through barangays every few kilometers. I begin watching the driver as he maneuvers the bus expertly around the corners and think to myself that this must be his favorite part of the drive too. Every now and then he pushes seemingly-random buttons on the dash board, whose effect I cannot determine, no matter how hard I try. It's one of the mysteries I ponder every time I'm on a bus. There are generally fewer people who want to get on or off the bus in the mountains so he can keep driving and get into the groove of his curve dance. His body seems to move with his hands as he turns the bus to the left and then the right and back again. It's almost meditating watching him do this. He looks so content in this moment of driving, weaving, dancing, repeat. He knows the boundaries of his bus well; we come to an area of construction where the road is half as wide and the driver balances the bus expertly on the edge of the paved road as we drive past the construction workers pulling a late night.

As we come up on the next barangay I spy a dog sitting in the middle of the road in the distance. The bus doesn't slow but instead heads right for it, honking its horn in warning as it approaches. The dog glances up and seems to take a lifetime to decide if its worth the effort to move out of the way of the oncoming bus. I start to feel nervous for the dog as it lies there and glance at the driver, silently begging him to slow down or dodge the dog or something, but the driver drives on, straight at the dog. I brace myself for the bump we'll undoubtedly feel from running over it, but at the last possible second the dog stands up, moves 3 ft out of the way, and returns to his seemingly relaxing nap as we continue past, not seeming to care that his life could have just ended. I take a few seconds to calm myself down and reflect, for about the thousandth time, how different dogs are here compared to in the States. Dogs in the Philippines are extremely street smart. They look both ways before crossing the street, they know how much space a vehicle needs to get by and they won't budge if they know they're outside that space, even if they're sitting in the middle of the road. These dogs are amazing.

I glance at my watch and see that almost 3 hours have gone past, meaning that I'm almost half way done with this leg of my trip. I try to catch site of the speedometer in front of the driver to gauge our speed, but it's broken, as it is in most vehicles here. But since no one ever gets pulled over for speeding or other driving violations, this is of little concern. We pass a sign telling me we've gone all of 120 kilometers, or about 75 miles. In 3 hours. That means we've averaged 25 miles per hour. I'm confounded by this realization as I imagine how much faster this trip would be in the States, going 70 miles an hour on paved highways. And now I've opened a can of worms as I start thinking of home and how much I miss everything and everyone on the opposite side of the world. It's dark out now and with no street lights I can imagine the bus is driving in Indiana on back country roads were all you can see are the trees on either side of the road and the headlights in front of you; no surrounding landscape, no nipa huts on the side of the road, just trees and road in the middle of nowhere. I start to feel sad and then realize I'm still listening to country music, which is singing about all the things I miss from home. So I decide to switch my music genre in the hopes of putting a halt to this feeling of homesickness. I change to an upbeat Maroon5 song and focus on the non-American faces surrounding me, and I'm brought back to the present, my homesickness pushed to the back of my mind for the time being.

Eventually we exit the mountains on the opposite side we entered and are rewarded with a rest stop. My bladder wasn't as bursting as I had predicted so I give myself a mental pat-on-the-back at my small success. My stomach is beginning to growl though so I splurge on a 35 peso ($0.80) siopao (fluffy dough encasing packed meat and sauce). The driver isn't back from his break yet so I pace around the bus, stretching my legs and giving my butt a rest, dreading when I'll have to get back on the bus. All too soon it's time for me to take my seat again and the drive continues. Looking out the window isn't as entertaining anymore since it's dark outside, giving no view to enjoy. Instead I continue on with my music listening and reflection people watching as the remaining time goes by.

The end of a trip always seems to go fast to me, maybe because I start to recognize my surroundings and the journey is no longer simply unfamiliar scenes. We enter the city limits of Dumaguete and the bus begins to stop at every crossing, letting one or two people off each time, and considerably slowing our progress to the finish line. I begin considering where I want to get off the bus. I could stay on the bus until the bus terminal at the other end of the city and immediately transfer to my next bus to take me the remaining hour home, or I could get off in the city, grab some McDonald's as a reward for enduring yet another long bus ride, and then continue home. The internal debate doesn't last long and again, instant gratification and my growling stomach win out and I end the ride with a delicious caramel sundae from McDonald's. Happy ending!