Back of the Bus

Imagine, if you will, leaving a cruise ship for a day excursion into Progresso, Mexico.  The ship has docked at the end of a three-mile long pier leaving the only transportation into town by way of bus.  Viewing the pier from the deck shortly after breakfast, you note the pool and bar area that lead to a small shopping center.  In front of the shopping center is a line of buses waiting to take those interested parties into town for shopping or sightseeing.  You hurry back to your room to gather the items needed for your excursion, collect the family, and head toward the elevator that will take you to the exit doors in the lower bowels of the ship.

Exiting the ship entails multiple pictures by the cruise line followed by catching up with two twenty-year-old boys who, in Mexico, are of drinking age and have shots waiting for you when you reach the bar area.  Slamming those down on top of eggs and bacon, you drag them away from the alcohol and through the shopping center toward the local transportation that will take you into town.  By the time you make it to the bus stop, it appears all the luxury buses have departed, leaving only a ramshackle shell with wheels.  

Looking at one another with trepidation (yes, if you haven’t figured it out by now, this is not a fictional story but one that our family actually encountered), we climbed the rusty stairs and entered the bus.  Saying it was on its last leg is being kind.  The seats, doubles on each side, had foam and springs escaping from their worn, stained cloth bodies.  They were covered with plastic, we could only assume, actually, let’s not go there.  There was plastic draped over the window openings as well.  Any glass that had once been there was long gone.  We followed the boys to the bench seat at the very back of the bus.

As we gently sat on the plastic covering, we chuckled nervously.  The ride was only three miles, how bad could it be?  Once the bus was full, the driver released the clutch, sending the bus rolling forward while our bodies slammed backward against the plastic bench behind us.  The rickety vehicle slowly moved forward, circled the parking lot, and made a creaky turn onto the pier, heading toward town.  With the boys laughing, my husband and I clasped each other’s hands and said silent prayers that we would make it the three miles in this dilapidated hunk of junk.

Wind blew in through the open windows sending the loose plastic dancing in its wake.  The view of the turquoise water stretching out on either side of the pier should have given us peace, but before we could enjoy the scenery, the front of the bus rolled over a speed bump the size of Mount Vesuvius.  When the back of the bus reached the mountain, all four of our bodies went airborne, butts leaving the seats and everyone’s head but mine (being short comes in handy sometimes) hitting the ceiling before returning with a lame thump onto the permanently indented bench beneath us.  Again, nervous laughter filled the air.  By the time we regained breathing rights, the second speed bump was beneath us and up in the air we traveled again.  There were three speed bumps in all.  At this point, part of me wished we’d stayed at the bar.  Finally, at what seemed an hour later, we arrived at the opposite end of the three-mile pier, unloaded ourselves, and walked away as quickly as possible. 

I’m sure that you have your own “back of the bus” story.  If not, my suggestion to you is that when it does happen, buy another round of shots at the bar and stay close to the boat!