A chicken bus in Quetzaltenango

Three things happened when I stopped being a pussy and started taking the chicken buses instead of tourist shuttles between cities:

1. I connected with the locals.
2. I saved 70% on transport.
3. I faithfully resumed crossing myself years after giving up on Catholicism.

For the CA-uninitiated, chicken buses are the people’s transport. They are essentially decommissioned and artfully repainted U.S. schoolbuses that were deemed unsafe for American children but just fine for Guatemalan families. I’m still not sure if Guatemalans are on average short people due to genes, nutrition, or from jack-knifing their legs in seats originally meant for kids.

Thousands of these rumbling beasts belch about the country. Because of their age, they are as sonorous as they are colourful. When the bus hits a rough patch of road, it doesn’t shake so much as convulses violently. The rattle of metal and glass sounds like short machine gun skirmishes.

But what really makes travelling in them an adventure is the way the drivers negotiate cliffside roads with no guard rails. It doesn’t matter if he can’t see the incoming traffic past a curve, if there’s a slow truck ahead, the driver will gun it. Also, the fact that there’s a 100-metre drop only a feet away from the road’s edge seems inconsequential to them.

Either Guatemalan bus drivers are unaware of the dangers of overtaking on a blind turn, or they are too aware of it, and have surrendered any illusion of safety to the merciless whims of the Universe. Life is inherently unfair, they think (maybe). Death is as perfidious as it is indiscriminate, so might as well just try to get to our destination quickly.

Click here for pictures of Guatemala

Yep, nothing will renew your faith in a Divine Protector like a Guatemalan bus driver playing chicken on a narrow cliffside road. In fact, this is the reason I believe they are called chicken buses, NOT due to poultry-carrying passengers, of which I have seen nil. When there is an oncoming bus that emerges after the curve, the standard practice is to greet each other by blinking high beams. Then it’s a battle of nerves over who flinches first.

And as you’re sitting there, internally debating whether regular church attendance serves as a kind of spiritual insurance policy, the centripetal force of a chicken bus on a high-speed turn throws you onto the lap of your seat neighbour, which incidentally is a great way to start a conversation.

That is, when the driver isn’t blasting accordion-heavy ranchero music with vocals so effusive you can’t tell if the singer is heartbroken or having a bullet removed.

Oh, and a fourth thing happened when I started taking the chicken buses: I ate a lot more fresh fruit. That’s because at every road stop, a veritable market boards the bus on the front and saunters down the aisle, offering chiles rellenos, cakes, ice cream, drinks, nuts, candy, and fresh mangoes, pineapples and papayas, conveniently sliced in baggies.

Then they hop out the emergency exit on the back, a half-metre drop that was meant for exactly that, emergencies, but here was co-opted as just another way out.