The chicken was nowhere to be seen, but it didn’t matter. Even without it, I was on the cusp of experiencing a different and exhilarating kind of bus ride.
Something to be remembered long after it’s ended, a trip on a Guatemalan chicken bus is a giddy dip into local color.
Chicken buses, gaudily painted in flamboyant hues and stripes, are second-hand American school buses that have been refurbished and pressed into service in Guatemala and other Central American countries like Costa Rica, Nicaragua and El Salvador.
Used mainly by locals, but also by foreigners seeking cheap transportation and a bit of a thrill, the chicken bus is a Guatemalan institution. Local passengers often carry on aromatic produce — tropical fruits and vegetables — and chickens as well.
My daughter told me about chicken buses before our trip, saying that a tour of Guatemala would be incomplete without experiencing a ride on one. Since I wanted to learn all about Guatemala — a country of dazzling colors and a violent colonial and post-colonial history — I was game.
On one of our last days in Guatemala, we bought tickets for the 45-minute ride from Antigua to Guatemala City. But I was apprehensive, having heard that chicken buses have careered off mountain roads, have been held up by robbers and have had their luggage stolen by thieves.
I tried to suppress these unsettling scenarios as I boarded Norma, our stainless steel chicken bus. As per custom, chicken buses are given names, which are splashed across the front window in prominent letters.
The typical chicken bus has a crew of two — the driver, who usually sports a mustache and wears a straw hat, and the helper, who loads the vehicle from the rear door and collects fares.
As the bus pulled away in a noxious cloud of diesel fuel, the driver turned on the radio. Loud, cheerful, rhythmic Latin American music filled my ears as I settled back in my hard seat. Five minutes into the ride, I was thrown back and forth as the bus abruptly negotiated vertiginous curves on the winding road. The sensation was somewhat reminiscent of aircraft turbulence.
The bus slowed down, coming to a shuddering stop to pick up yet more passengers. With the bus filling up rapidly, seated passengers collectively moved toward the windows. Three passengers were now squeezed into seats made for two, but no one seemed to mind. A young woman seated next to me was oblivious to the congestion, nonchalantly applying lipstick and makeup.
At the next stop, a hawker selling candy and chocolate bars entered the bus, taking orders as he walked up and down the aisle.
Shortly afterward, two young men dressed as clowns joined us. Standing jauntily near the driver, they told jokes. With a national election on the horizon, they also engaged in a little political banter. Having finished their skit, they collected tips and left, bidding everyone good-bye.
As the bus got closer to its destination, an old man wearing a white Stetson hat smiled and reached out to shake my hand. Assuming I was a gringo, he asked, “Are you from the United States?” He seemed delighted that I was a Canadian.
We were dropped off in the center of the bustling capital, our luggage at our feet and our lives intact. Driving away into the mid-morning heavy traffic, the bus left its signature diesel corona.
We hailed a cab to take us to our hotel. Compared to the chicken bus, the taxi was dull and pedestrian, bereft of character, bounce and bonhomie.
There is only one chicken bus, minus or plus a chicken, and it should be savoured.