About A Bus

You can judge a country by its buses.

Morocco is chaotic. Goats and chickens are shoved into the bag hold along with our stuff as we haggle over ticket prices. A professed five-hour trip turns realistically into 11 hours and an extra stop in out-of-the-way Meknes. The only saving grace this bus has is the atmosphere of celebration. Ramadan has ended and the driver and his friend are celebrating Eid Al-Fitr with bottle after bottle of Coca-Cola, an endless parade of cigarette smoke billowing out the open door and auto-tuned Moroccan pop pumping out of the stereo.

Thailand is dynamic. We lounge on the backseat surrounded by other weary travellers, swapping stories and swigs of rice whisky. A lazy afternoon – the sun setting over scenes of rice paddies is broken up by smoke drifting up from roadside barbecues. It soon turns into darkness and sleep, but all of a sudden shouting wakes us. The bus has broken down straddling the railway line. “Everyone out and push because we don’t know when the train is coming” translates a young local. We frantically shove the bus to safety and then, rejoicing as the train rolls through not more than a minute afterwards, we share a laugh and a cigarette – Thais and us farangs brought together by success and simple existence.

Argentina is laid back. Roofers are still going about their business at nine o’clock at night, families are still out having dinner past midnight and no club kicks off until at least 3am. Relaxation and enjoyment are by far the most important social concepts here. This may be why the buses are so damn comfortable. Reclining at a luxurious angle with snacks of alfajores delivered by a high-heeled and well-balanced hostess, and True Lies dubbed into booming Castellano is undoubtedly the best way to navigate this country.

Vietnam is friendly. Without delay, the little old woman sitting next to me strikes up a conversation. She wants me to become a doctor, or failing that, a nurse. “Health is the most important thing. Here, have one of these, it’s good for you.” She offers me a small, brown, egg-shaped fruit. When cut, it opens to reveal flesh that looks like the leather on my old suede boots. Feeling it would be rude to say no, I nibble at it. A slightly off-putting texture is overcome by the sweet honey and prune taste, and I promise myself I’ll buy a bagful at the next markets we visit.

Six months backpacking resulted in an uncountable number of buses, but there was a new story from nearly every one. From the cold efficiency of Helsinki’s airport shuttle to the warmth of a stranger’s offer of half her sandwich on a rickety bus shuffling through rural Spain. These simple tales are often pushed aside as trivial anecdotes, but for me, they made all the difference to my big adventure.