There’s not quite anything from the United Stated I could use to compare with the bus services of Montevideo, Uruguay. The rules and regulations for driving, the whistles, the honking, the sudden stops, and the condensed population are only the beginning, and even then, almost everyone in the city uses the bus service to get around.
My first ride through the city was with Jose, the taxi cab driver. I didn’t mention this earlier but as we rode into the heart of the city, groups of people were standing near the road waiting to clean windows, or toss up bottles in the air as a juggling act, or join partners for duets in the middle of the street – all in an attempt to win over a few pesos.
The bus services are the same. They are a business and although the 18 peso (roughly one dollar) faire isn’t too bad, the price adds up. The rules are roughly the same in driving: The Rule of One. Drivers do not yield to pedestrians; they are in a hurry to get to their destination. Buses won’t even pause for you if you can’t dish out the pesos. Vehicles on the road are in constant competitions with each other; if an opening in the roads opens for a heartbeat, a car will make the dash to pass around the vehicle in front of it.
My first bus trip was with Mauro: a short jaunt down one of Montevideo’s central roadways. That time I simply followed his lead, passing the money and sitting down in the back of the bus. No sweat. (Note to self: I noticed an odd basket-ball shaped handle on the top of the stick shift. I’ve since then noticed almost every bus with the same shape. Not a soccer ball (fútbol), mind you, but definitely a basketball. Possibly, a definitive factor of the culture? A new take on the flying spaghetti monster? Must look into this for creative material.)
On Thursday, March 3rd my bus trips were entirely different journeys. First, I needed to find a sign that filled me in all of the different buses’ destinations. Bus 14 goes to la playa de los pocitos, bus 152 does not, and so on. Then you wait until you see your number flying down the road and you stretch one straight arm as far out in the road as possible (Remind you of anything?). Sometimes the bus driver notices you, sometimes he doesn’t. He’ll open the door and, depending on the time of the day, either waves of people will pour in and out or a slight trickling of people will make their way through the bus’s portal. One again, time is money and the bus driver is making his stops as fast as possible; if a large amount of people clump at the entrance, the driver will ask that you squeeze in so he can shut the door – otherwise, he’s going. I had to quick step and mash myself in before the doors were closed.
One minute, in rapid Spanish, the bus driver wants you clumped in the entrance so he can close the doors and the next, more rapid Spanish and he’s telling you to work your way to the back of the bus to make more room for passengers. More passengers = more money. I stood around waiting at the entrance until the driver told me, with this cold, course, and cutting voice and while keeping a hand on that basketball shaped stick shift, that I needed to make my way to the back (And thanks to my friend Gina for translating). The buses are often packed and sense of space and personal bubbles is out the moment you step inside.
Getting a seat and watching out the window is great. The sights, the exciting driving (never a dull moment), the literal dodging in and out of traffic (magic has got to be at work because there is no other way that no accidents happen), and the people standing around wrapped up by their own thoughts are mesmerizing. So much so, it can be easy to forget to watch out for your stop. Passengers need to stand up and hit a buzzer above the buses portals to communicate that they want to get off. Stepping off from the bus, holding onto that first sigh and welcoming the solid ground, you can’t help but feel, despite the negatives, that this culture is great.
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