The Chicken Bus Game

We are up early and off to Panajachel, on the banks of Lago Atitlan.  The tourist mini-buses are far too steep for our budget - 75Q each! - so we have begrudgingly resigned ourselves to three hours on another Chicken Bus.  As long as I can have the window seat.  And be seated towards the front, as far away from the stereo speakers at the rear incessantly blaring Latin pop.  And not too close to the front where many passengers tend to crowd the aisle near the door.  There are very specific survival rules to The Chicken Bus Game.  And we must sit with our legs spread apart to discourage a third person (or a farm animal) from sharing our seat - originally made for two.  Two children, that is.  Never forget that these are ancient school buses with just enough leg room to accommodate an eight year-old.  I'm 6'1".  One of my legs is the size of a whole second grader.  By now, I am painfully used to riding with my knees planted in my face.

We leave Hostel Umma Gumma in Antigua around 6:30 AM before anyone else has awoken.  And by "leave," I mean "sneak out."  We did not pay for our last night.  No one asked and so we didn't offer.  the people running the place are a little scattered and I'm still bitter about being promised breakfast from the in-house restaurant that promptly shut down two hours after our arrival.  Not jsut shut down.  But closed.  Completely.  In fact, it disappeared.  No more tables.  No more bar.  No menu.  Evaporated into the Guatemalan night.

So we "leave," place our key on the front desk and let ourselves out the gate.  We are giddy at having saved 120Q and I am already planning eight different ways to spend it when I hear the patter of tiny Guatemalan feet trotting over the cobblestones behind us.  It is the guy from the hostel.  He has chased us down the block.  Panting, he tells me we did not pay for our last night.  I look surprised and question him.  This is all an act, of course, one that I rehearsed while lying in bed this morning, in the event of such a confrontation.

"What do you mean we owe you for another night?  I thought we paid you for two nights already?"
"Yes, but you stayed three."
"We did?"  I am not going to win an Oscar here.
"Yes."  And he proceeds to count the days of the week.
"Oh my.  It appears that you are correct.  Lo siento, lo siento."  I pull out 120Q and hand it over, awkwardly bowing and apologizing.  I even throw in a "Yo soy estupido" to further debase myself.

Oh well.  Moving on.  You can't really be too upset when you are caught trying to cheat a poor third world hostel out of 13 dollars.

On our way to the bus we stop at a bakery and cafe which is just about the only place open at this hour.  It is an accomplishment to find a cup of coffee before 8AM in this country.  the cafe is full of gringos with mountains of luggage.  Of course, the cafe is also a travel agency and we notice a big sign for a cheap direct bus service to Panajachel at 7AM.  There is an inviting picture of a luxurious Pullman bus with plush, comfy reclining seats, TVs and other creature comforts - all for the unbelievable price of 36Q.  We wonder if it is a misprint.  Maybe they mean 36 dollars?  This must be what all the other gringos are doing here.  I ask the man behind the bakery counter.  "Yes, yes.  Direct bus to Panajachel.  Leaves in 15 minutes."

"Ooohh!  I want that!" I say.  Like it is a delicious pastry.  Only 36Q.  That is half the price quoted to us for a minivan.... and we will dodge the Chicken Bus!  Oh happy day!

"But I don't have tickets," I tell him.
"Do not worry.  Get them later."
"There are seats available?"
"Yes, yes."  He manages to be both reassuring and dismissive at the same time.

A few minutes later, our coffees drained, we are herded out of the cafe with shouts of "Panajachel!  Panajachel!"  Now, the bus is not, in fact, waiting outside in front of the cafe as one would reasonably expect.  "Down the street, one block away," we are told.

Watch how they play the game.

We load ourselves up with our backpacks and suitcases and various bags and parcels and hustle down the street, our glorious, comfortable bus awaiting.  Except it isn't.  Not exactly.  We make a left, walk a bit further and pass through a pair of iron gates into a parking lot where we see a gleaming, brightly painted... Chicken Bus.  "Panajachel" is printed above the front window shield.  This is our bus.  There is no mistaking it.  Everyone balks at the sight and a collective groan is issued from our gringo ranks.  We all look at each other, a mixture of disbelief, anger, and resignation.  For those of us who have been travelling awhile, this is only part of the game.  And they have won again.

Before anyone has a chance to seriously object, our luggage is loaded onto the roof and we are prodded into our seats, brumbling to ourselves about our promised fancy bus.  A brave Spaniard attempts to confront the conductor.  It is an exercise in futility.

"Excuse me, señor.  We bought tickets for a Pullman bus."
"This is the bus to Panajachel."
"Yes, OK, but this is not the bus we paid for."
"This bus is directo."
"Fine.  But the travel agency advertised a Pullman bus."
"This is the only direct bus to Panajachel."
"But we did not want a local bus.  We bought tickets for..."
"This is the direct bus to Panajachel."
And on and on.

There is no arguing with him.  No apologies for the disappointment, no acknowledgement of the obvious scam.  Pay your money and sit down.  We are better at this game than you are.

Perhaps this really is a direct bus to Panajachel.  No stops.  No three hundred extra Guatemalans packed in along the way.  But we know better.  The Book says the direct Chicken Bus to Panajachel leaves at 7AM from the market.  And as soon as everyone is settled, our pulls pulls out of its secret location and drives directly to, you guessed it, the market.  Where we begin the all too familiar ritual of stopping for every Guatemalan on the side of the road.  Directo, my ass.

We still have a chance to win this game, though.  Unlike the other gringos, we did not pay for our tickets in advance from a dishonest travel agency.  This is, in fact, the exact bus we would have caught from the market had we not stumbled upon the cafe scam.  "We are not paying 36Q for this bus," William says.  "No we are not.  Watch the locals and see what they pay.  And spread your legs."  We assume the position, knees spread wide so as to leave no illusion of extra space in our mini-seat.  I quickly teach William the Spanish for "sorry, there is no room here."  Lo siento, no hay espacio aqui.  I realize this is evil and very American of us, but if we are going to be duped and pay extra, then we should at least have the tiny seat to ourselves.  This is Justice.  American or not.

When the conductor comes down the aisle collecting fares, we try to see how much the locals in front of us are paying.  It most certianly isn't 35Q, but you can never be sure.  It is entirely possible they are not riding to the final destination, in which case they would pay less than full fare.  The conductor approaches us.  William hands him a 20Q note.  The conductor looks at it like it were a dirty kleenex.  "How much?" I ask.  "76 for two," he says, bored.  We have been over this already.

"But we did not buy tickets from the agency.  And the other people..."
"76."  He cuts me off.
"But why?  The other people...
"Because 76 is the price."  And that is the end of that.  And honestly, how can you argue with that?  It is like having a discussion with a two year old:
"Where are you going?"
"To work."
"Why?"
"Because I have to make money."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat to stay alive."
"Why?"
"Because that is the way it is."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Why?"

And the bus rolls on through the Guatemalan countryside, stopping every few feet to pile on more passengers.

"You can play the game, but you will never win," observes William.  It's like a carnival ring toss.  You know deep down that te damn rings are too small to fit over the bottles, but you keep playing anyway, throwing your dollars away with every flick of the wrist.

Congratulations, Chicken Bus.  You have won again.