I was in Georgetown with Chelsea as she was getting a few things looked into. The plan was to stay in Town overnight, and then leave in the morning while Chelsea stayed until Thursday for some observations.
That didn’t happen.
We got to the hotel about 530 in the afternoon, where I found out it would cost me 5,000 GYD to crash. I didn’t have that much, so I quickly called a taxi to take me to the bus park.
Now, one thing I’ve noticed is that come 530 or so, it’s extremely difficult to get a bus back to Linden—there simply are too few. So as I was dropped at the park I immediately saw a fully loaded mini-bus go speeding off. This should have been a cause for concern, however, having just finished Siddhartha, I took a step back and tried to exercise patience. Things will come, there is a beginning and an end to everything and we’re all connected. Om.
Waiting a few minutes I see a “big” bus pull to the far corner and the crowds begin to rush it. (This, I’ve observed, is quite common as the night comes on). Still practicing patience, I meander down to the bus, not sure if I’d get a spot, but content all the same.
It’s like a battle royal to get on this thing: people pushing, shoving, not letting people off, bags passing through windows, screaming. It’s pure craziness—and it’s a 35-person bus, by the way.
I stand at the back of the fighting crowd. Waiting. Eventually, the line fizzles and my turn comes up. The bus is filled to brim, way beyond maximum legal capacity. There are five per row, where four could sit comfortably. There were no more open rows, and the two spots between the front passenger seat and the driver’s seat were occupied. But I did spy a minute space behind the sliding door.
The kind conductor motions me on—now a logical person would forget about this bus and wait for the next one as several people were doing, but Siddhartha is on my mind and I know my patience will pay off. I am on the bus, am I not? All Siddhartha could do before he became a merchant was exercise patience, think, and fast and things worked out for him. I could do the same.
And I did.
That little 4’’ by 6’’ seat tucked in the corner behind the front passenger seat where in order to sit I have to have one cheek completely off, that’s my “seat”. Moreover, since it’s behind the seat, my torso has to remain at a constant 45-degree angle so I could sit in the first place. My feet wedge into the first step to get on the bus with 4 pairs of other feet where there should be none. I’m “smalled up” pretty good.
Every time we stop I have to rise up from my mini perch, step on some toes, and then stand like a ballerina with my backpack over my head like an army kit in a swamp in front of the 49 pairs of other eyes because if I don’t stand in such a fashion the door won’t open. I’m riding like “real Guyanese” my considerate conductor is so kind to point out as she stands, squashed against the door.
As I stand in such an awkward fashion and then return to my perilous precipice, I can’t help but smile and suffer in silence because life is suffering, no? Life is nothing but illusion, nothing but Maya…
As we near our destination, the bus pulls over. Great, I think, I may just get some relief since someone is getting off.
Oh, but how foolish of you, young Brahmin.
We pick up another passenger—5 pairs of feet where none should be.
But then a version of “Stand By Your Man” comes on, and I stare across the sea of faces as the entire bus breaks into song. I smile. It’s all connectedness. For every truth there is an untruth; for every bit of suffering there are patches of joy. It’s all about just being present in the present, to live for those miniature moments where life just comes and goes and we just live.
Oh, Guyana.
My Bus.
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