The Not-So-Magic Schoolbus

I consider myself a fairly tolerant person, yet when it comes to bus rides here in Nicaragua I find myself beginning to lose patience with a few essential bus ride factors:
1) the music being rocked over sound systems which belong in Honda Civics with spoilers, not on ancient school buses
2) the absolute lack of safety (though I had some illusion of it until this past weekend)
3) subjection to spontaneous Evangelical sermons

The last four times Lauren and I traveled back and forth between Somoto and Cusmapa we’ve been in the same bus, as there’s only three which ramble back and forth up and down the mountain. Eddy, the wide-mustached driver, seems hell bent (though he may not be conscious of it) on providing the most awful, repetitive music possible to accompany this scenic route. Imagine looking across the misty forests and mountains of Nicaragua and Honduras and being subjected to tunes such as: Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, a CD which I refer to as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack”, or my newest favorites which I call “Spoken Word Evangelical Style” and “Woman Howling in Spanish about her Failed Romantic Endeavors”. Every once in a while Eddy plays a gem like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or some ranchero (Mexican drinking music). However, the vast majority of the time I find myself groaning as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack” repeats itself for the fourth time. What makes the music selection particularly destructive to my mental health is THE VOLUME LEVEL OF THE TUNES REFLECTS EDDY’S ASSUMPTION THAT EVERY SINGLE OF HIS BUS PATRONS MUST BE DEAF.

It’s not only the bus music selection that sets Nicaragua apart from other countries in this world. Tell a Nicaraguan you’re from the United States and you are bound to be faced with a few remarkable questions:
1) “OH! You must love the music of Michael Bolton!”
2) “Ooooh. Bryan Adams. Don’t you love romantic music?!”
3) “Have you ever heard the song ‘Hotel California’ ?”

If you haven’t heard “Hotel California” lately, you’re bound to hear it within the first two hours you’re in the country. If like myself, you don’t even know what songs Michael Bolton actually sings, you will know soon enough. If Bryan Adams songs bring back thoughts of the mid-eighties, they will now bring thoughts of Nicaraguan friends who enjoy singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs at 6 AM. My favorite part of the random awful selection of US music listened to here in Nicaragua has to be what’s lost in the translation between English and Spanish. Although in English most romantic music refers to human relationships, the Spanish versions most often showcase Jesus as the song’s major theme.

As if listening to Jesus theme songs and “Evangelical Spoken Word” isn’t grand enough, approximately 1/3 of the bus rides also include an unsolicited Evangelical sermon. The first time I experienced this event, I sat wide-eyed and awed (you know those times you feel like life’s so ridiculous that you MUST be in a movie) as the preacher sent fire and brimstone across the vinyl bus seats, praising Senor Dios almighty before he came around to each patron, hand outstretched to collect cordobas. Though I’d like for nothing more than contributing to the construction of another “Dios Poderoso Iglesia de Jerusalem” or “DioZ es el Senor” (literally spelled with a backward S, seen on the front of a Baptist church here in Cusmapa), I normally choose to abstain from the bus pastor’s collection.

My favorite display of public Evangelism occurred nearly four months ago at the bus station in Managua (which apparently is an extremely dangerous place, though after this experience I have my doubts) as Ingrid and I headed home after a weekend in Managua. We curiously watched a pot-bellied middle aged man set up a karaoke machine, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with a washcloth and adjusting the volume so it would be just right (aka: enough to reach the ears of every person within a two block radius). After indulging the audience with a few warm-up elevator music hits, the pastor grabbed his Bible and started praying (now that I think about it, he sounded a lot like the “Evangelical Spoken Word” CD Eddy likes to play so much). Ingrid and I marveled at the exhibit, and the man took a long gulp of water before clearing his throat and beginning to SING. To get some idea of his vocal chord capabilities, you must imagine Josh Groban with the voice of a 60-year-old smoker. Not pretty. Entirely hilarious. Whoever does the Public Relations for the Evangelical churches in Nicaragua certainly iced the cake by flaunting this multi-talented pastor at one of the busiest travel hubs in the country.

I digress. Lauren, Mike and I set off for Esteli in the early morning last Saturday, after a lengthy Friday evening of shenanigans and billiards. The Esteli trip served three purposes:
1) We are unable to cash our paychecks in Somoto (the bank there we refer to as a FAKE bank because they do not take travelers checks OR cash any type of check from a different bank chain) so we must make the nine-hour round trip bus ride to stand in line for two hours to get our monthly stipend. (aka: I will NEVER complain about going to the bank in the States again.)
2) Lauren and I have decided to do our grocery shopping at the nearest store not owned by Wal-Mart, which happens to be a locally owned supermarket called “Las Segovias” in Esteli. It’s also the only place in the Northern part of Nicaragua which sells both wine and coconut milk.
* and they served us free beer on my birthday, which boosts the store’s rating to *****.
3) La Casita, our favorite restaurant in Nicaragua, which sells whole wheat bread, muesli, banana marmalade, and Swiss and brie cheese is located in Esteli. To keep up morale, I find I must indulge in one of their sandwiches and a banana milkshake at least once per month.

The stretch of Pan American Highway between Somoto and Esteli looks similar to the two-lane mountain madness at the top of the Fourth of July mountain pass between Idaho and Montana. While living in Spokane during college, I made this trip dozens of times in my trusty ‘93 Subaru Legacy (which hugs the curves much more successfully than the trusty rusty school buses here ever could) and endured quite a few near-death experiences (mainly due to blizzards, breakdowns of Reghan’s “Budgets” mini-van, and crazed semi-truck drivers). Winding two-lane mountain roads and school buses don’t mix. You get the picture.

This particular bus driver (as we were on an Express bus) drove like a “bat out of hell” (as my mom would say) and I felt more than a little queasy as his Indy 500 attempts at tight corners tilted the bus precariously. Lauren and I sat together near the front while Mike brought up the rear of the bus (this being the first time I’d ever experienced bus-attendant-enforced seat numbers). On a particularly dodgy twist, we passed a semi-truck and just as Lauren and I gave each other a “good god we might die today” look…

“WHAM!” people screaming and the bus lurched as the semi-truck grazed the back 15 feet of the bus. For a good 30 seconds, I thought our driver was going to keep on truckin’ down the highway with a hole ripped through the back of the bus. He finally pulled over and I saw Mike stand up brushing broken glass off himself. He’d been one row in front of the shattered windows. We piled off the bus, my heart pounding emergently. There were no serious injuries, only a shaken group of 20-some people who’d literally seen their lives flash before their eyes. The semi-truck we’d hit kept driving! Scary thought. Lauren, Mike, and I regained our composure and shook our heads in disbelief. The bus attendant began to sweep out the broken glass with the head of a broken broom and some of our fellow bus-mates hitchhiked with passing lorries. Five minutes after we stopped, folks loaded back on the bus and we looked at each other warily before making our way back to our seats. (Yes, we got BACK ON the wrecked bus). Ten minutes later we were still waiting and the man standing in front of Lauren and I reported that the driver had called the police, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. The three of us got back off the bus, tracked down the attendant to get 20 of our 30 cordobas refunded, and caught the next bus passing on its way to Esteli.

The irony of the situation was that the day before, Lauren asked if I carried my travelers insurance information with me in the case of a bus accident. Truthfully, I’ve never thought about how important it could be to have my medical information on me, but now I am absolutely convinced. I think Mike might take to renting cars rather than relying on public transportation (though I suggested the purchase of oxen and a cart, which would be much more cost effective than car rentals). Any minor sense of safety I felt traveling on the public bus system has been completely shot after that experience, especially seeing the nonchalant reactions of the Nicaraguan’s I’ve told about the wreck. Their flat-line response to hearing about the accident points to one simple fact: there are absolutely no magical crash-free school buses in this country…

Oh, the things we risk and endure just to get a brie and hummus sandwich, a can of coconut milk, and to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart owned Pali.