Tribute to the Chicken Bus

If you want the most authentic Guatemalan experience you can get for less than 10 Quetzales then you have to ride a chicken bus. Just like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you really never know what you are going to get. These beasts of the bus world would be demobilized and deconstructed on the spot if they had to pass inspection in the US. Nevertheless, these school buses from hell live on to spew their black fumes and carry their low-budgeted passengers through the streets of Guatemala.

You may find yourself standing in an aisle wedged between a family of five on each side. You will gain a whole new definition of personal space as you reconcile your crotch resting on someone’s shoulder and your butt cheeks cushioning somebody else’s face. You will realize that your feet are almost useless as you fail to find a stance that provides a modicum of balance. Your hands cling to poles greasy enough to make the biggest non-germophobe douse his hands in sanitizer. Standing somehow becomes a full body exercise as your arms flex to keep you upright as the bus plows over bump after bump, tightly hugging the winding mountain roads.

Standing there, sometimes for as long as an hour and a half before you can find a seat, you don’t have much else to do but look around. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll get an animal show. You’ll hear what sounds like a baby screaming only to look up at the luggage rack and find an orange cat squeezing its way out of a beat-up and poorly tied cardboard box. He’ll climb above you, confused and frightened, before his own comes along and sweeps him into their arms. Amidst the crowds, sometimes the clucks of chickens will be audible and you’ll look over to find a woman casually holding a hen in her arms as the bus roars onward. Other times as you’re boarding you’ll hear a pig squealing. You’ll think you’re crazy. After all, you’re in the middle of the city. But then you’ll look up, and sure enough, you’ll see a pig scared shitless tied to the luggage rack on top of the bus.

If you are Christian and feel bad about missing mass one weekend, board a chicken bus. About one out of every three rides you will receive a complimentary sermon. A man, who will be sitting in his seat, looking just like everyone else, will prove to be far from it. He will stand and face his captive congregation. For thirty minutes straight, his lungs will bellow syllables that pierce through the deafening noise of the bus’s engine. He’ll speak of salvation. He’ll speak of bettering the world. He’ll speak of God’s love. And – just like with free city tours – if you think he did a good job, he’ll ask for a little tip afterwards.

At the least, you’re guaranteed a live action show as the bus driver’s partner risks life and limb to herd a couple more patrons on. He’ll hang from the open bus door with one hand, using his other to amplify his shout: “Guate! Guate!” or “Antigua! Antigua!” He’ll grab your oversized luggage – be it a large sack full of fresh produce or a duffel bag full of clothes – rest it on his neck, scurry up the back ladder of the bus, and toss it on the roof in under 3 seconds total. Sometimes he’ll jump back onto the front door of the moving bus. Sometimes, if he is too slow, he’ll simply hang from the ladder in the back like a Guatemalan Spiderman. Damn impressive, if you ask me.

Call them loud. Call them dirty and overcrowded. Call them threats to the environment and your physical well being alike. Call them whatever you please. You will not stop the chicken buses, or even slow them down. Things work differently down here. In a country where infrastructure is nonexistent, where personal space is a luxury, and where people make do with the little that they have, these monsters of the road get the job done.