You Are Bus 96, Even If The Sign Says 92

Day one and we’re on the move. After an entire first evening of carbohydrates (we ate baguette snadwiches, crackers and muffins, a baguette sandwich on the plane and a croissant sandwich from our new best friend at the border, not to mention the two granola bars that had been rationed somewhere in the middle) we started the day with toast smeared in spreading chocolate. Delectable! Next stop: The Algarve Coast! 8 metro stops later (which took about 3 minutes - Lisbon is tiny and adorable!) we struggle to find our way out of the subway (which cost less than $1 to ride) and into the bus station. “Two tickets to Lagos, please,” I ask. “Next bus is 2pm.” It is now 10:30am. “”Ok!” We drop our bags at the “holding tank” as it is called and head into town, aware that we need to be back before 1pm because the holding tank is closed from 1pm to 2pm for lunch/siesta/because it has always been closed from 1pm to 2pm.



Still in massive city London mode, we are surprised over and over again at how close everything is. A quick jaunt down the main drag lends our stomachs to more carbs - a chocolate croissant and custard cake. No fruits and vegetables to be seen. Along the water, into the hills and back to the metro we go, not wanting to have another mishap and miss picking up our bags. tragic foreshadowing.


While our bags did make it onto our bus with us, our bus did not make it to Lagos. An hour into our now epic trek we’re parked on the side of the freeway with engine failure. A fresh bus has arrived and Zeynep and I are splitting up tasks - she’s running foll throttle to make sure we get seats and I’m taking care of the bags. Unbelievably, the highway, vegetation and general ambiance are strikingly similar to Southern California, though I’m guessing it’s more of a flashback to the 1950s kind-of thing. More on our progress (or lack thereof) soon!


UPDATE: Another hour passed and we pulled off at a Portuguese rest stop for treats and toilets. Another foreigner on the bus had mentioned thinking she heard the driver say that those of us going to Lagos now had to change buses somewhere else. On her way off the bus she stopped at my seat and said “I think this is where we change.” Naturally, I begin to scurry around, compiling our mild explosion of books, iPods and laptops before hurrying off the bus behind her.


Zeynep was buying fresh fruit (since we had eaten nothing but carbohydrates for two days) and I was hunting for our driver to get details. “Dispatcho,” I screamed. That means “excuse me,” though I’m fairly certain I just spelled it wrong. He turned and I mimicked running faster. He was not impressed. “What,” he replied, hands on hips. “Oh, you speak English! I’m sorry, but is this where we changes buses to Lagos,” I asked. Now, Mr. Happy Pants wasn’t so happy to be answering my question. “No, it’s not so difficult to understand this,” he started. “We go to Algarves (I think) then you change the bus to Lagoa, [Insert name of another town], [Insert name of a third town], then you arrive in Lagos. Is this hard to understand?!?!” Considering the fact that we had pulled off the road an hour earlier because our bus broke down and he was speaking ONLY in Portuguese up to this point, yes, yes it was. I scampered back to the bus and buried myself in my book.



We arrived in Lagos after five lovely hours on a bus. Fortunately, it’s tiny and adorable, so we found our place with no problem, put on sweaters, went exploring, ate some delicious food, had a lovely cocktail, watched a movie and hit the sack! This morning found us scarfing down more carbohydrates (LOVE the continent), moving hotels to a quaint, charming little guesthouse and hitting the beaches. More on those soon!

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Kyle Taylor

WHY? WHY? SHOE!

The night of doom began at 10pm when we got in the taxi to catch our bus to Rach Gia, the port town where you catch the ferry to Phu Quoc, our deserted island escape. The taxi took us to a mini-mini bus depot, where we got into another little vehicle that took us to the actual bus depot. As it turns out our “night bus” wasn’t really a night bus at all. No, it was a large van crammed with fourteen seats and legroom that wasn’t even sufficient for Kyle Long (whos is 9 inches shorter than me). I should have known we were doomed as the driver proceeded to karate chop and kick and shove my backpack into the three inches of space between the last row and the back doors.

As my luck would have it, we were assigned seats 13 and 14, the back corner. Naturally, this row had the least legroom, the seats didn’t recline and there were four people on our bench seat. Mind you, everyone else on the “bus” was Vietnamese and a good eight to ten inches shorter than me but no, I would remain here.

I didn’t fit in the seat. I don’t mean this sarcastically. I literally didn’t fit in the seat. Sitting straight up my knees were wedged into the row in front of us. If I tried to slide my feet down under the row in front, I was abruptly stopped by my pesky kneecaps, that just refused to bend backwards. If I slip my legs up to my chest and rested my knees on the seat in front of me, I was halted by the stabbing pains in my lower back from the stress of supporting my body. At exactly 11pm we pulled away, all 14 seats full, everyone else talking at the top of their lungs, music BLASTING on the radio. Kyle sort-of dozed off quickly, as did the other smaller people who sort-of fit in their seats. In all honesty, no one really fit in their seats. They were too small. The whole thing was absurd to the point where I thought it was a joke. The stern look on our dirver’s face reassured me that no, this was not a joke.


Two hours later, back sore, nodding in and out of sleep in my overtly upright position, inflatable neck pillow whispering softly in my ears, “this isn’t happening bucko,” we stopped. I pulled up my eye shade to discover that we were – shockingly – at a roadside restaurant! 1am and we’re stopping for food. Most everyone piled out. I laid down to my side, looking forward to a thirty-minute nap while everyone else chowed down.

“BANG BANG BANG!” The driver pounded loudly on the outside of the van. Those three pats were all it took to bring every ounce of rage in my body to the surface. I slowly sat up, lifting my eye shade as I went. “BANG BANG BANG,” once more on the outside of the car. This time it was followed by a stream of words in Vietnamese that I did not understand. Now he was patting his knee, as if calling me to him. I was pissed. “BANG BANG BANG,” again. I pulled the eye shade off my head with one dramatic swoop and slapped my hand on the seat. “WHY? WHY? WHY?” I yelled at him, my voice getting louder and more irritated with each successive “why.” He then proceeded to bang on the car wall again. I countered by banging on the seat. Then he was rambling again and I was shouting the word why. Bang. Slap. Ramble. Shout. Bang. Slap. Ramble. Shout. It was a heated argument and neither of us had any idea what the other one was saying.

By now Kyle was up and attempting to calm me down. “It’s ok. Lets just get out. It’s ok. Calm down.” I was still yelling. A few shouts later I realized my original goal was now pointless, as I was now wide awake. Deflated, I said “ok” and started putting my shoes on. You’d think at this point he would chill out and wait a second while I fumbled for footwear. No. Instead, he started banging on the side of the car again! Now, I’m not an angry person and rarely do I explode in an irrational fury of totally absurd emotions. Still, I firmly believe that on every trip, you are allotted at least one totally insane, culturally insensitive, “foreigner” moment. Needless to say, this was mine. I grabbed my sandal in my hand, raised it in the air, shook it violently and started yelling “SHOE! SHOE! SHOE!” He countered with some additional banging and unintelligible rambling. By now Kyle was thoroughly bewildered, amused, irritated, maybe a little bit of everything? He lowered my hand down, encouraged my actually putting the sandal on my foot and subsequently getting out of the van, which I did, begrudgingly.

We stood there for 40 minutes at 1am while everyone else ate. One of the 20-something Vietnamese guys in our van came up and asked if we’d like to join he and his friends. “They think you are mad because we are all talking a lot and the music is really loud.” I said nothing. We did not join them. Quite honestly, I am not sorry, which might be bad. The whole experience was totally absurd and I was so freaking angry. Had I not exploded then, it would have just continued to bottle up inside, saved for a later date and time. “Wow, I’ve never seen that side of you,” Kyle told me the next day. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that side of anyone.” Don’t mess yo. Don’t mess.

When Recliners Meet Celine Dion In Spanish – On A Bus

Our bus was departing at 8:15pm. I should have known at 8:02pm when we were still standing in the office that time was going to be tight. Combine our late departure with a 65-year-old cab driver who didn’t quite understand the severity of our situation and you’ve got one stressed out host in the form of Marina, the Avancemos representative escorting me to the North. Since she was so worried I didn’t have to be, so I just laughed about the whole thing. We get to the bus station at 8:14pm and Marina darts into the building. I’m a close second with Gonzalo, the Argentine venture rep bringing up the rear. Marina is literally “paving the way” for us, zigzagging through crowds of adults, children and luggage. The big digital clock now says 8:15pm and Marina is talking to herself in Spanish. I’m guessing she’s using angry words. I’m still laughing. I mean, how funny would it be to miss a 15-hour bus that wouldn’t leave again tomorrow after missing an 11-hour flight that didn’t leave again until a day later? Pretty funny!

We arrive at our “gate” (this bus station is reminiscent of an airport) and Marina flings the tickets in the man’s face. He takes them calmly, pointing to the luggage compartment. Marina smiles at me, relieved. I turn to smile at Gonzalo only to find that he is nowhere to be found. Gonzalo is gone. He was there we exited the cab and still behind me when we got into the building. Now the only thing behind me is an older, heavyset woman wearing lots and lots of gold jewelry. Marina tells me to find him. Um, ok?

I walk back to the central corridor and keep my eyes peeled, scared to leave the bus for fear that I’ll be gone, he’ll show up and I’ll have no idea how to get back to the bus. This really isn’t an effective search method. There are literally thousands of people milling around. So, for lack of a better idea I start yelling his name. “Gonzalo! Gonzalo!” People start staring. This isn’t like China, where no one notices anything you do. Curious heads turn and watch. It is now 8:19pm but it feels like an eternity has passed. I’m still cracking up inside about missing the bus. Suddenly, like in a movie, the crowds part and Gonzalo appears, shaking his head. “I went to far,” he says. I nod. We “check” our luggage and board the bus, crisis averted.


It’s now 11pm. I’m sitting in my luxo super reclining dream chair at the front of the top floor, so I’ve got a 270-degree view of the Argentinian countryside. At about 9:15pm the “bus attendant” told us to “put our seats in the full and upright position, lower our leg rests and insert our tray tables” for dinner. They really take bus travel seriously! She brought two small sandwiches and poured us each a glass of champagne (no, seriously). I assumed this was dinner, until about 40 minutes later she reappeared with a plate of rolled deli meats, cheeses and empanadas. Apparently the sandwiches were a “snack.” The champagne continued to flow. “This must be dinner,” I thought to myself. 10 more minutes pass and the woman appears once more, this time carrying a steaming tray of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes as well as MORE champagne. We’re now pushing 10:30pm and here I am eating two sandwiches, an enormous plate of deli meats and cheeses, two chicken legs and mashed potatoes, all while “Take My Breath Away” pumped through the bus speakers. This “jam” was followed by a DVD of Cirque du Soleil in Vegas. The evening concluded with a US feature film starring Vince Vaughn that I had never heard of. I don’t even remember the name. I’m just about to watch an episode of The Office before drifting off myself. Peace out.

Update: It’s 8:12am. The entire bus was forcibly woken up at 7:15am with Celine Dion’s “All By Myself” blasting in Spanish. In protest, I left my seat in full recline until just minutes ago. I missed breakfast, which is alright because I’m still full from last night (all I’ve really done since arriving is eat hunks of meat and cheese quiches). At some point in the night my eye mask fell off and is now nowhere to be found. Oh god…they’re playing Brian Adams…in Spanish…and we almost hit a guy on a bike…and now it’s Robbie William’s “Angels” in Spanish…