The Chicken Bus Fuss

Text and photos by Martha Christopherson 

There was a quiet presence about him - a gentleness - like the soothing sound of his name, Jose Freddo.  He was a tall and sturdy Guatemalan with thick, dark hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache.  He wore his khaki, company-issued shirt tucked into his worn, faded jeans and his shoes and belt were basic black.  There was nothing flashy about him and he seemed to take his job as a bus driver quite seriously.

I took comfort in this calm, quiet man at the wheel of the tour bus I was riding on in a country otherwise known for speeding chicken buses guided by maniacal drivers.  These former, yellow school buses from the States were hardly recognizable beneath their colorful paint jobs in stripes, murals and even air-brushed scenes from movies like Star Wars and Rambo.

It was never clear to me if these buses got their name from the custom of passengers being stuffed like cooped-up chickens onto these speeding bullets or because of the feathers flying from the cages of live chickens tied to the roof racks.  Chicken buses were the choice of transportation for locals, backpackers and ordinary folks with a death wish, but not me. 

I don't usually sign up for bus tours, but in a country like Guatemala it's the only way to safely get around and as buses go, the one I was one was pretty nice.  It was not an old, Blue Bird discarded from the United States education system, but a shiny, blue motocoach built by Mercedes-Benz with its chrome three-pointed-star logo mounted on the front.

The seats reclined slightly, were upholstered in jazzy fabric and had little, fold-down trays like those on airplanes.  Its large windows offered unobstructed views of the passing landscape unless you were seated in a row between windows where all you could see were bunched up curtains held in place by snaps embedded into the plastic siding of the bus.   The tour guide implemented a daily seat rotation moving everyone a row forward or back each day to insure no one was stuck in a viewless seat for the entire week.

The first row on the bus behind Jose Freddo was not part of the seat rotation.  It was reserved every day for the tour guide, Jorge.  Jorge was maybe five feet, four inches tall but he carried himself with the confidence of a much larger man.  He wore designer jeans, a tight-fitting black t-shirt, Italian loafers, a healthy application of cologne and topped it all off with a Disney World ball cap.  Jorge packed a lot of knowledge and efficiency into his small frame.  He was a very good guide - adept at attending to client's needs while keeping them at an invisible arm's length and making each of them believe they were the most favored of the bunch.

It was clear Jose Freddo drove the bus and Jorge ran the show.

This was day seven of a 10-day tour of the Maya ruins in Central America and today would be the longest bus ride yet - eight hours.  There were about 40 people in the tour group and, as my husband, Larry, and I boarded the bus, I noticed everyone had stuffed their tote bags and backpacks with comfort items for our road trip - things like books, magazines, snacks, bottled water, beer.

Today's seat rotation placed my Larry and I in front of our friends, William and Victoria, who were traveling with us.   William was a retired airline pilot and his wife, Vikki, was an uber-polite retired school teacher.  Across from me sat two sisters who were traveling together to celebrate milestone birthdays and the seat in front of me was filled by a couple from Colorado who were big game hunters.  One day at lunch they revealed to William and Victoria that they had an American buffalo head hanging on their wall at home. 

I was, by far, the least traveled of the group.  Lunch and dinner conversations always centered on one-upping eaching other with tales about exotic destinations, luxury cruises and, in the case of the big game hunters, the number of kills taken on their trips. 

I was relieved to see Pat and Joe seated several rows behind me.  They were an older couple who had been on 47 cruises and I never figured out if Pat constantly yelled at her husband because he was hard of hearing or she just liked to yell at him. 

Jose Freddo idled the bus engine while we all boarded, stowed our gear and took our seats.  After a quick head count, Jorge said, "Jose Freddo... vamonos." Jose Freddo guided the motorcoach onto the highway and soon we were traveling through Motagua Valley, a very dry landscape dotted with cacti and thornscrub. 

“This is the land of rats and squirrels,” Jorge said into his microphone.  “Do you know the difference between a rat and a squirrel,” Jorge asked the group.  “A squirrel just has a better P.R. agent.” 

Even those who had nodded off to sleep groaned at Jorge’s joke. 

After our lunch stop, the landscape became lush as we climbed in elevation toward Petenchel in the northeast region of the country.  Our motorcoach snaked slowly up the switchbacks of steep hills as smaller cars and trucks whizzed by.  Chicken bus drivers were by far the worst offenders on the road.  They passed on blind curves, chugged right in the middle of the road on steep inclines and accelerated downhill at supersonic speeds.  

I looked out my big window at the switchbacks above us and through the trees I saw a big, bright bus stopped on the incline of the hill.  It didn’t look like it was moving and after rounding a few more switchbacks, we reached the point where that chicken bus sat stalled in the middle of the road on a tight, blind curve.  Jose Freddo slowed down and brought our bus to a stop about 50 feet below a chicken bus named Jessica.  Every chicken bus in Guatemala has a woman’s name painted on its rear panel – names like Maria, Carmelita, Esmeralda and Britney. 

“Ah, my friends this is not good,” Jorge’s voice quivered into his little microphone.   

Jose Freddo turned off the engine and he and Jorge stepped off the bus to check out the situation.  I watched as Jose Freddo retrieved blocks to wedge behind the wheels of our bus to keep us from rolling backwards.  I was relieved.  I didn’t want my brother to read an item in the newspaper about the bus plunge that claimed his sister’s life.  My brother had a weird fascination with bus plunges and always commented when he saw an article about one in the newspaper. 

Passengers from the chicken bus were filing out and making their way to the side of the road as a small traffic jam began to form.  Cars coming down the hill towards the chicken bus were stopped and cars coming up the hill behind our bus were also halted.  But soon, impatient and nimble drivers found they could slowly guide their small sedans and Toyota mini trucks around the buses.  Some passed on the outside lane just inches from a steep drop off, others passed on the inside and risked crushing their cars against the craggy hillside. 

I looked out my window and saw Jose Freddo standing with some other men on the bumper of the chicken bus peering into its engine compartment.  The other men watched as Jose Freddo jiggled, twisted and poked at various engine parts and Jorge paced around the bus while talking into his cell phone.  After speaking briefly with Jose Freddo, Jorge boarded the bus and gave us an update.   

“My friends, the driver of the chicken bus has lost power, but thankfully his brakes seem to be locked in place,” he said.  “But, I think we are going to be here for a while.  I’m going to make some more phone calls and will get back to you soon.” 

Until now, I hadn’t really associated Jose Freddo with the machismo image so overt in most men from Latin countries.  He was quiet and seemed almost shy.  In fact, one morning when I returned from a jog before breakfast, I spotted him getting the bus ready for the day’s trip.   He was hosing off the bus and wiping down the windows in the gravel lot behind the hotel.  He was shirtless but when he heard the crunch of the gravel beneath by sneakers, he looked up and retrieved his shirt from a nearby tree and put it on. 

But now, Jose Freddo seemed to be the one dispatching orders to the macho chicken bus driver and the virile Jorge who was morphing into a mouse beneath his Disney World cap.

Just then, the cab of a very large, double-axle delivery truck appeared from around the bend.  It slowed down at the sight of the stalled chicken bus but continued to inch along while the driver and passenger surveyed the situation through the windshield.  With no room to move any further, the driver stopped and his passenger jumped out.  With hands on his hips he looked in front of the truck, then walked behind and after having checked the situation on all sides he turned his gaze to the small ditch at the base of the hillside.  The shallow trench could easily swallow up the tires of the truck, cause the driver to lose control and send him rocketing into the chicken bus, our bus or both. 

I could still hear Jorge speaking excitedly into his cell phone from his reserved seat in the front of the bus.  He looked up and saw the truck.   

“Oh my friends, this is an impossible situation,” he said.

Everyone on our bus began to stand, stretch and crane their necks to watch the activity outside the bus.  William and Victoria were sitting in the seat next to the bunched up curtains so they moved into the aisle to watch from someone else’s window and the big game hunter reached into his camera bag for a telephoto lens. 

“This is why I always say it’s best to take a tour,” Pat yelled at her husband and everyone else.  “When these things happen someone else gets to handle it.”  

That someone was Jorge, who was now gesturing wildly with his hands trying to describe the situation to the person on the other end of his phone.  

One of the sisters sitting next to me interrupted Jorge to ask if she could get off the bus to smoke a cigarette but he said no with his eyes fixed on the chicken bus and delivery truck that could plummet into the front of our bus at any moment.  After a small uprising of the other smokers in the group, Jorge agreed to let the five off the bus.

A small cloud of dust outside the window caught my attention.  I looked up to see the passenger from the truck raking the rocky hillside with his bare hands filling the ditch below with loose stones.  Within seconds dozens of male passengers from chicken bus were beside him scraping rocks and loose dirt into the shallow ditch.  Side-by-side, they worked in unison like a chain gang. 

Meanwhile, sinuous traffic continued to meander by the two stalled buses, the delivery truck, the men filling the trench, the women and children from the chicken bus who were standing on the other side of the road and the five smokers from our bus.  

It looked to me like the men were making progress.  The driver of the truck was now inching along as the men leveled off the ditch with rocks and dirt. 

About thirty minutes into this ordeal, Jorge clicked on his microphone and said,

“My friends, I have arranged for two small vans to come from the other direction to meet us here.  It will take them an hour to get here but that is the best I can do.  Jose Freddo and the bus can meet up with us at the hotel tonight.”

I looked down to see Jose Freddo calmly walk past my window with a fuel can and some tubing then he disappeared behind our bus.  It didn’t look to me like he knew about Jorge’s plan.    

I looked up just time to see the driver of the delivery truck slowly coax his vehicle from between the rocky hillside and the stalled chicken bus.  The driver stopped just long enough for his passenger to jump in the cab and the two sped off down the hill.

A cheer went up inside the bus and we all clapped for the efforts of the dedicated men but then thoughts quickly returned to our own predicament.

“Our bus will never make it,” said. Joe.  “Our chassis is twice as long as that truck’s.”           

I noticed the two sisters had returned to their seats and were reading People and Us magazines.  Victoria was reading a book and Larry, William and the big game hunters were talking about camera equipment and comparing zoom lenses. 

I sat down and searched out the window for Jose Freddo and his gas can.  I didn’t see him anywhere but I did notice a little boy from the chicken bus standing on the side of the road with his mother.  He was wearing a bright, yellow t-shirt and I tried to make out what was printed on it but the strap of his backpack was covering part of the lettering.  It was something … "Man."   I tried to guess.  Superman? Spider-Man? Batman?  Then he took off his backpack and clearly in bold, black letters I could see "Ladies Man" spelled out across his little chest.   I pointed him out to Victoria and we had a good laugh. 

“Aw, isn’t he cute?” said Victoria. 

After a while, I too, took out a book and began reading to kill time until the mini vans arrived to pick us up.  Buried in my book, I was jolted when someone in the front of our bus yelled, “The chicken bus is moving!” 

We all looked up. 

The chicken bus wasn’t moving forward but it was convulsing as it idled and spewed black exhaust from its tailpipe.  Jose Freddo and his team of men were gathered beside the chicken bus yelling words of encouragement to the driver who was desperately trying to shift the chicken bus into gear.  After a dozen fits and starts the chicken bus finally lurched forward and the driver gained enough momentum to sustain a climb up and around the bend.

Everyone on our bus cheered and Jorge put down his cell phone.  The passengers from the chicken bus scurried to catch up with the driver who was waiting on the side of the road.  I watched the Guatemalan woman drag her little "Ladies Man" by the hand as they raced up the hill to catch the bus before the driver raced off.

Jose Freddo climbed back on board our bus after removing the blocks from behind our wheels and he spoke to Jorge in Spanish.  When Jose Freddo took his seat behind the steering wheel and started the engine of our bus, Jorge clicked on his microphone.

“My friends,” he said.  “Jose Freddo tells me the chicken bus was merely out of gas but the driver was too embarrassed to admit it.  All this time he has been pretending to have a mechanical problem.” 

Jorge went on to explain how Jose Freddo suspected the driver was out of gas and offered to siphon gas from our tank to see if that might solve the problem. 

“And don’t worry,” Jorge said looking at Pat.  “We have plenty of gas to get us where we need to go.” 

Jose Freddo shifted the bus into gear before Jorge sat down or gave the command to "vamonos."

It was clear who was running the show now.