- GUATE GUATE GUATE the bus conductor shouted from the moving bus.
- SI SENOR I shouted back, waving my arm confidently in the air. I had researched the local public transport from Antigua to Guatemala City the previous night, and gleefully discovered that a local chicken bus cost the equivalent of 60 pence for the 1 hour journey into Guatemala's capital, versus about 6 pounds to get the tourist minivan that my hotel had tried to tout me.
Chicken buses are the buses that locals travel on in Guatemala. They are like yellow american school buses, except painted in bright metallic colours. The tour guide books call them 'chicken buses' because a lot of the passengers are carrying chickens. The same tour guide books advise foreigners not to travel on chicken buses as there is a higher risk of getting robbed than on a more expensive, air-conditioned tourist bus. I decided to ignore their warnings for the experience of travelling on a Guatemalan chicken bus.
- CORRE CORRE the bus conductor motioned towards me on the pavement. - CORRE CORRE CORRE.
The smile evaporated from my face as I realised he was expecting me to run and jump onto the bus as it continued driving down the road towards Guatemala City. Large rucksack on my back and small daysack across my chest, I sighed and started running towards the bus, trying to ignore the question in my head: had the bus conductor got his broken arm doing what I was just about to do?
When I had successfully clambered up onto my chicken bus, it was surprisingly half-empty, so I cheerfully took up two seats for myself and my rucksacks and made myself comfortable for the journey. A few minutes and several bus-stops of Guatemaltecos piling onto the bus later, my rucksack had been thrown up onto the roof, I was sitting in a foetal position in a window seat above the back wheel, two people squashed on the seat beside me. The bus seats were sized for two people, but it must be a local travel custom for three people to sit in every seat, with a lot more standing in the anorexically-thin aisle.
Pins and needles started to tingle in my cramping legs. Meanwhile, the bus conductor with the broken arm hustled his way up and down the packed bus aisle, collecting fares and sweating profusely. Meanwhile the bus driver headed towards Guatemala City at break-neck speed, leaning enthusiastically into ever bend in the road for some reason I tried to ignore. Meanwhile, the old woman squashed next to me leaned her head on my shoulder as she slept. I wanted an memorable experience on the Antigua to Guatemala City chicken bus and I got it, even if there were no chickens.
