Traveller

Because we had arrived early to catch a bus, Kate and I could sit together, and even place our luggage in a spot where we could watch it without craning our necks. The goal was León, a town known as the brainstem of academia and art in Nicaragua. Buses run on a two-man system in Managua. The first member of the team is, of course, the driver. Selection for these positions begins early, as primary school teachers identify which of their charges possess the requisite hand-eye coordination. From this pool are chosen the most aggressive and/or suicidal boys, who are raised in private driver camps where they receive testosterone-boosting injections and are subjected to endless indoctrination by watching movies like “Speed” and “The Fast and the Furious” on a loop. Training (and competition) intensifies during the teenage years, and the boys are pitted against each other in a series of downtown Managua drag races, police chasing after them futilely. A dangerous place for pedestrians, some of more bloodthirsty students scratch the number of people they’ve run down on their hoods in Roman numerals.  

Or, at least, this is what I imagine as our driver plunges his bus into oncoming traffic, swerving between cars, honking every time he has to slow down even one kilometre. He drives with inspiration, a running-back dodging linebacker after linebacker. At one point a rusted-through car breaks down on the street ahead of us, and scarcely has the car’s engine started its death rattle than our maniac of adrenaline lays on the horn. 10 seconds. The slightly-balding man in the unfortunate car is scrambling to start it but the engine is coughing feebly. 30 seconds. The horn is unflagging; the man is fumbling for his keys, sweating. 60 seconds. Kate and I glance at each other, slightly in shock, as the drone continues. 90 seconds. Now the man is checking his engine, face under the hood. Other helpful drivers have joined the cacophony. 120 seconds. The man is back behind the wheel and all the drivers on the street encourage him by joining in the chorus. Some newcomers, incapable of competing with the imposing duration of our bus’s trumpeting, instead play staccato. Most find a balance. 150 seconds. The balding man, looking rumpled and flustered, coaxes a wheeze from the engine, which grows to a hacking cough – he’s done it; the car has started; the symphony stops playing.

While impressive in both skills and belligerence, our driver is too focussed, too extreme to truly interact with the public. Sure he slows the bus down to pick up passengers, though this easing off the accelerator seems grudging, reluctant. That’s where the other member of the team comes in. The ayudante, or helper, is the face, brains, and wallet of the operation. The ayudantes are selected for being able to project their voices – somehow they must be heard over hucksters hawking shawls, the squawking of chickens, and the occasional backfire of the bus’s engine. Ours screams “Leon Leon Leon” so fast the words start to blur together, as he hangs out the side of the bus holding on with one hand “Leonleonleonlonlonlon” every time we pass a group of pedestrians, bus stops being mere suggestions. Of dexterity, the ayudante, is king – nimbly leaping from the still-moving bus, ordering lunch for the ayudante/driver team, paying for it, then jumping back onto the bus without it ever stopping. Of grace, our man the ayudante is crown prince, helping ladies with trays of pupusas onto the bus, lending his arm to the elderly, even assisting young mothers find a seat by holding their babies. Of finances, our friend is knave; he tries to charge Kate and I double – a tax on foreigners – but we have become canny to this custom.

The bus stops. It’s unsettling, at first, when your guts have acclimated to constant motion. There is a shuffling sound, like something being dragged. Someone is coming on the bus, a man, I think. But a stooped man, dragging his leg. A hunchback labours to the top of the stairs; one of his arms is thick, with veins showing, the other is small, too short, ending in a knuckle. He lifts his head to the people on the bus, staring down an army. His eyes are wide-seated, and wet; his jaw is loose, favouring one side. With his strong arm he takes hold a strap dangling from the ceiling. He speaks in a torrent, weaving his way through the bus, bending over so people can put cordobas in his breast pocket.

My friends, I see and feel your eyes on my disfigurements. But what you can’t see is that I have nothing. No family. I am loved by no one. I am admired by no one. You will bear witness to my story. As a child my father was ashamed of me and put cigarettes out on my arms. I went to school for a few years and the children beat me and called me demon. I ran away from my village and came to Managua, where no one would hire me. I became a beggar who wrestled his dinner from dogs and mice. At night I wake myself up with a horrible cough, but have no money for the doctor. No woman has ever touched me or looked at me with desire. The only warmth or comfort I have felt came from a bottle. You will tell me that God loves me. Each day I pray to him this life will be over soon.

He reaches the end of the bus, and his story. We had stuffed his pocket with bills; we could not meet his gaze.

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