Bus or bust: Brazil

Manaus, the sweaty, noisy capital of Amazonas, Brazil, and my goddamn translator friend had put me on the wrong bus. I was screwed. I’d paid a lot for a ticket to Boa Vista, a city twelve hours further north and a stopping point on my journey to neighboring Guyana for its famed Easter rodeo. Well, famous in Latin American rodeo circles, anyway. The gauchos of the pampas seem to think it’s something special.

You’d think a local translator would know his Route 1s from their Route 101s. Instead of being dropped at the interstate bus terminal, I was at the dead end of the line in poorly-lit outer suburbia, which seemed to sprawl far for a city of only a million and a half people.

I walked up to the ticket woman as she was trying to get out of her little seat behind the steel ticket turnstile.

“I go Boa Vista but not here? My friend he stupid,” said I.

She sighed inwardly. Another damn stupid gringa…

We walked outside. There were buses everywhere. It was a hangout for end-of-the-line drivers and ticket ladies who milled around at a small cantina. My ticket lady friend explained the situation to the group as I stood a few feet back, feeling useless. I’d have to buy another ticket, another hundred dollars, another long wait…I figured.

They motioned for me to sit, and the woman behind the counter brought out some food. Beans - Brazil has the best beans in the world - white rice, a bit of spaghetti and some chicken, all on one of those plates made from dark yellow glass: standard Brazilian fare.

I got beer too. Brazilian beer sucks for the most part but if it’s free, who cares?

An older bald man, obviously the patriarch of this particular Line’s End, questioned me.

“Bus. Boa Vista?”

“Yes.”

“Midnight?”

“Yes.”

“It is now after midnight. You need another bus.”

“Yes.”

“American?”

“No! Australia. America stupid.”

They laughed. America-bashing is always an easy, if not cheap-shot, entrée to social acceptance in Latin America.

He started talking on his mobile, organising, looking at me now and then; everyone else went back to the conversation. I concentrated on the beans ‘n beer. My ticket lady came over to pat me on the back and smile, a Florence Nightingale for hapless travelers if ever there was one.

Very suddenly, it was time to go. One of the younger drivers led me to his bus and we rumbled off into the sticky darkness. I’d been too preoccupied on my way here to notice the scenery. Even now, there wasn’t so much to see. It was dark and badly lit. Still, the small, homerun corner bars with girls out front, sometimes old men, and low houses squatting together in the narrow streets lit up by the occasional orange streetlight gave unexpected flavour to my unexpected journey.

We were roaring along the main roads and I lost interest in middle Manaus when we pulled up at a traffic light, sidling next to a bigger, interstate coach.

“Vai!” yelled the driver pointing at the bus.“You go! GO!” The lights were about to change, I had no goddamn idea what was going on, but I ran out through the hissing doors and around the front of both vehicles as they revved, waiting for green, then into the open doors of the interstate. I fell down onto the huge, soft seat and tried to ignore the bemused looks of the other passengers. What was this, were we going to Boa Vista? What about my bag?

We soon arrived back at the interstate bus station. The one I was supposed to be at fifteen hours, fifteen suburbs and a plate of beans ago. The driver pointed at the ticket window. I went over. Turns out they’d already changed my ticket for me, free of charge. I sat back with a cheap beer and a cheaper cigarette, and waited out the tedious hours until my huge coach pulled in, ready to drag me up to Boa Vista then on to the rodeo.

True, it’s not a remarkable story; I only tell it as so many damn tourists in Brazil are convinced all Brazilians are out to rip em off, fuck em over or fuck em up. And they’re not.

Brazilians are cool. Even the ticket ladies.