guaguas

…this one is waaaay overdue.

ever take a city bus? ever have an especially hairy taxi ride? those experiences you just thought of in that instant? they would pale in the face of public transport in the Dominican Republic…like a tranquil newborn to the same kid, spoiled rotten, five years later…they just aren’t the same kid even to the stressed and sleep deprived mother.

so heres how you do it. you find a well traveled street and stick out the sign for where you want to go (or the general direction you want to go). this means a thumb for somewhere on Churchill (yeah, theres a few highways named for US presidents here…i guess they ran out of their own good ones??). a pointer finger pointed out for Nueve (9–the name of the most traveled bus stop in the north west section of the city).
and an index finger down for L.A. (Los Alcarrizos, where I live). I love the fact that there are even signs for different areas of the city. It speaks to the development of a signage system amongst the population in place of the government providing a system.

alright, assuming you’re on the right bus now, find a decent seat (not in the back and not in the middle and not with the mother of five, but its really a mute point because inevitably you will get sandwiched in wherever you are) and don’t fall asleep. I say don’t fall asleep because once you get going it can actually be a long and boring ride once you get used to it and I’ve already had one cell phone taken out of my pocket when I was wide awake and standing up (I actually fell asleep today on the way back from the city, but God had mercy on me and kept the slight of hand away). now, the idea is to mind your own business and try not to think anything is too odd and stare. thats right, don’t stare at the lady who just got on with a 50 lb sack of rice or the sunglasses vendor who brought all of his wares with him and are now jabbing you in the ear on certain bumps. just be ready for the ‘cobrador’ who somehow navigated his way back to you in the bowls of the ‘cocina’ (the back of the bus is called the ‘kitchen’ because its always the hottest part and you usually end up sitting 6 or 7 across like upright sardines) while the driver had fun slaloming through the two lane side streets at top speed (yes, i’ve been in three guagua wrecks by the way) and expects you to be able to reach your fare in a second…that you forgot to get out before you succumbed to the depths of the guagua. so now that you’ve become that awkward foreigner who made everyone else around you uncomfortable for having to dive for your money, you shout at the top of your lungs for the circus to stop at least a quarter mile before your stop and hope that someone passes the message to the driver because you’re sure that no one beyond that wailing child five seats in front of you actually heard. the guagua comes to a rolling stop and you squirm, dance, and squeeze your way passed the family of five, passed the lady and her 50 lb sack of rice, passed the sunglasses vendor and his goods, and passed the other 30 people who somehow found a way onto this rolling zoo and emerge with at least half of your wits and a full breath of fresh air as you hit the ground running (literally).

…then you find the first moto friend of yours and pay the darn 20 pesos just for him to take you the last mile home (thats just as much as you just payed to get halfway across the city with a guagua) instead of walking because you feel like in some way, you’ve earned it.