On the Buses

It’s hard to know where to start, but we are certainly not talking Badgerline here! Most of them are twenty or thirty years old, some I suspect older; all bear proud battle scars, dents, scrapes, partial repairs, erratic welds.

Overloading is the norm, so suspensions are shot; some paw the air, others bow or tilt alarmingly to port or starboard, crabbing down the road, roaring and farting black smoke.

Although with experience, you can tell which ‘line’ they belong to, they are painted according to the owners’ whim and some are very whimsical indeed! Sixties psychedelic is a favourite, and religious themes popular, perhaps in the hope that they will get to their destination, though I’ve not seen any broken down.

Maintenance is minimal and optional; sound systems at ear-destroying decibels compulsory: style counts! Macho is the word, and big sound is big balls so we are not talking pissy little car stereos here; I’ve even experienced a four-foot speaker stack at what seemed like full-bore. (I’ve since bought industrial ear plugs.) (sic)

Most town buses are small Fords or Chevys, with the occasional Goodness knows what. Few are silenced and they sound like tanks about to do battle. Actually, that’s not far off the mark: some have wheel bolts protruding beyond the body, others have hubcaps with steel blades (sic) worthy of Boadicea and quite capable of shredding inattentive calf or offending tyre. They jostle with one another, darting in and out of lanes with little warning, but it’s usually good humoured.

At night, some are without lights entirely, others are Christmas trees, perhaps with a blue flashing light on top. It all seems to depend on the driver’s vision of cool.

Health and safety types should avoid this place or they’d quickly head for the nearest corner and start rocking, drooling and counting their fingers.

The driver sits enthroned in magnificent dereliction in quite the most battered cab you’ve ever seen, occasionally with an assistant but usually taking fares himself. Unless there is a rear door, you pay as you get off.

There’s nearly always a fan, and often rosaries dangle as he peers through the peeling, blue sunscreen film.

The engine cover next to him is padded, and unless it is occupied by a predatory female admirer, you can sit there or in the seat next to him while he counts his money, chats on the phone, blasts pedestrians and other drivers with his airhorns, or enjoys shouted conversations with other bus drivers, while taking the occasional light refreshment from street vendors who leap aboard.

Both vendors and beggars may join the bus, the latter motor-mouthed, haranguing the passengers, wild-eyed, with extravagant stories about their sick child or needed treatment before aggressively demanding small change from everybody.

A few lines insist their passengers be seated, but most pack as many in as they can, often with some hanging out of the door. They don’t always stop by the pavement, and you have to watch out for cars or motorbikes overtaking in the inside lane as you get off. It all adds to the fun, and they select for survival here, not victimhood.

Seating is as eccentric as the rest of the experience. Some can impale the unwary, others come apart under acceleration. If the bus empties, it’s as well to move closer to other passengers in case robbers get on.

It sounds bizarre, but like most things here it works after its own fashion very well indeed, and I suspect it’s exactly how many like it.

Safe the buses are not, but most stop too frequently anywhere they are hailed to build up much speed. They are frequent and cheap: anywhere in town, for any distance, there is a flat fare of 3 Bolivars, about 25p at black market rates; this, in an economy with similar prices or higher prices than Britain – though you can fill your tank for the same price as a bus ride!

If you don’t have the money, odds on the driver will let you ride anyway.

You rarely have to wait more than a minute for a bus going in because all go to the terminal, and on the way back a five-minute wait for the right bus would be a long one. As far as I can gather, each ‘line’ is a co-op and the driver owns or part-owns his bus, so they try harder.

The thing I like most in this nation of stubborn individualists, though, is that the buses are often named – ‘Little China’, ‘The Bull’, ‘Black Power’, ‘Blessed of God’.

But my very favourite, which says it all really, is baldly named in English, with a lurid paint job, ‘The Fucker!’

Vultures Round the Tower Blocks

This is my travel blog from the city of Maracay in Venezuela, and the title is literally true!