By: Elizabeth Tilden 

Six hours of Enrique Gonzalez in tight red pants singing his love to beautiful girls, and I questioned our choice in sitting directly in front of the TV. Gibs, with a disturbed look in her eye said, “I can’t stop watching. Why can’t I stop watching the screen?” We were on our way from Esquipulus, Guatamala to a cloud forest in Nicaragua via Honduras. A ten-year-old boy jumped on at the stop sign and started walking through the crowded aisles selling bags of sliced mangos. He jumped out the back emergency door after the bus had started moving.

After that long ride into the middle of Honduras we were told through more hand gestures than words that we needed to get off the bus. That ended our tantalizing conversations that consisted of phrases like “Te gustan naranjas?” and “Tengo un hermano.” Two nice fellows that had bought us foot-shaped lollipops saved our packs by jumping on top of the moving bus and throwing them down. They requested several photos with their cell phones of all of us together.

There we were on the side of the Honduran highway and I had to pee. After unsuccessfully trying the only two buildings there, both comedors, I returned to Gibs. “I think we’re supposed to get in there,” she said pointing to a white van, “I’ve already seen 18 people go in.” Before I had time to question her interpretation of Spanish a good looking guy was taking my pack off and ushering me into the van. Two others got in before us, so with Gibs and I, that made 22. No one else seemed to think this was unusual that I was squished so close to the door that I had to rely on my yoga skills to make my body fit.

Whether preachers were preaching, chickens were roosting, tamales were slinging through the air, or the bus was passing cars on blind corners or passengers were just sitting five to a seat, the rides in Central America were always eventful. During my travels I never looked at a bus schedule; I don’t think there were any. All we needed was a confused expression and locals would be there to help. Amongst fields of buses, we’d be pointed to the one we needed and off within 20 minutes. This long-haul bus system was not fully appreciated until I got back to the United States and had to take a bus from San Francisco to Arcata. Sitting on the empty Greyhound bus I wished more people in this country used public transportation.