Terrible Travel Day with Amazing Friends

So... This is a story about a bad day with two great people.  It might be a little confusing, so I’ll explain now.  The story starts at 1:48 am, goes back in time to tell of the day leading up to that point and then goes on to tell the story from 1:48 am to about 3:30 am.  Think you can follow?  I bet you can.  Enjoy our misery:

It’s 1:48 am on a Saturday night.  I have the curtain on the bus pulled back in an effort to scribble a few worlds each time we pass a street light.  An old Ecuadorian woman from an oil town in the jungle is sitting next to me.  Her old skin and dirty clothes are taking up part of my seat, but she is kindly turning her head the other way to cough.  

It is dark on the bus, but I can make out faces of the people standing in the aisle each time the blue ceiling light turns on, letting more people on to the already overcrowded bus.  About 14 rows back, my friends Mike and Elise sit apart from each other, but close enough to manage communication with one another.  

We had been in close company the entire day before now.  The first bus we were on was relatively empty.  A six hour ride with the last 4 rows to ourselves allowing us to drink rum and laugh while the psychotic driver sped over the sharp curves of the mountain road.  A movie played, then the sequel, then the trequel, if that is even a word.  The star, a terrible Mexican Indiana Jones wanna be with a less than impressive singing voice, blared constantly in our ears from the speaker above the seats.  We mocked the movie, spilling the coke bottle on our shirts whenever we hit a bump.  Six hours of this fun and torture, and we had arrive at the first destination, Ambato.

Ambato was not a place we had wanted to visit.  It served only a connection between Cuenca, where we started, and Tena, the ending point.  We were dropped off not so much at a bus station, but more like an alley with a sign showing a picture of a bus.  Instinctively, we walked towards more light and away from the dark alley they called a bus station, ignoring our bodies desire to find a bathroom.  A Guayaquil bound bus approached and stopped in front of us.  The driver opened the door telling us to get in and he would take us to the station that a Tena bound bus would be.  Trusting the good in this man, we blindly followed the advise, only partially understanding the Spanish rambling.  

Once again, we were dropped off somewhere we did not want to be, nor understand what we were to do next.  We were standing, bags in hand, on a sidewalk of a big street with little signs of life.  The street vendors were all finishing packing up for the day, as it was approaching 1 am.  A few other people waited for various buses.  To our relief, three were also waiting for a bus to Tena.  Though they were not sure that we were in the right place or when a bus would come, having them in the same position as us made things a little better.  The youngest, a boy around 9, was shivering in the cold and I gave him my coat.  The oldest, a girl around 17, used her phone to play the same terrible songs impossible to escape in this country.  We all waited in the cold.  Just waiting, hoping desperately that this bus would arrive soon. 

Each time a bus would drive by, we would gain a bit of hope, only to be let down returning to the reality of the cold, dark street.  Finally, a bus came and stopped.  It was going to Tena.  Our excitement to get off the street was quickly squashed when we walked into the blue light of the bus, seeing a sea of people, hearing an already annoying mariachi radio station and smelling the stale fragrance of sweat, hot breath and exhaustion.  The co-pilot gave us six seats, making others stand since they would only be on for half an hour and we had another 5 to go before arriving in Tena.  

That is where I started writing this.  However, since pulling back the shade to give myself a little light, Mike and Elise hating life 14 rows back, so much has happened.  It has only been fifteen or twenty minutes, but life has somehow managed to seem even more like a living hell.  The Mexican Indiana Jones blasting in our ears, abandoned on a cold city street in the middle of the night, hunger, need for a bathroom... all of that was the equivalent of heaven at this point.

A few minutes ago Mike and Elise moved towards the front of the bus when some people had gotten off.  They were now a row ahead of me, but on the other side.  Picture an airplane... I’m row 2, seat A (window) with the old Ecuadorian woman taking a good chunk of my street, they are row 1, seats C and D (aisle and window).  I stopped writing for a second and looked up at Mikey.  He was already looking at me, eyes wide.  “Do you smell that?”, he mouthed.  Until that point, I had been so engrossed in my writing that I had not noticed the piercing smell that could only be vomit.  

In row 3, but Mike and Elise’s side of the bus, a little girl had thrown up an incredible amount of chunky liquid all over her father, the seat and the floor.  Someone (not Mike, Elise or I, as we all seemed paralyzed) grabbed the attention of the co-pilot who came to the “rescue” with newspaper and knock off febreeze.  There was no way to clean, so the man simply laid the newspaper over the vomit now sliding forward under the seats of row 2 and towards the unsuspecting shoes of Mike and Elise.  Blending the fake febreeze and smell of the vomit was so nauseating in itself, I worried if I too may add to the smell.

The situation right now is so terrible, I can do nothing but laugh.  A terible day of travel with two great friends, capped off by the smell of knock off febreeze attempting to cover up the smell of vomit coating the floor now seperating the seats between us.  People shoes are slipping and screeching as they step in it while exiting the bus.  What good is any other reaction besides laughing?  I put Kid A on my headphones almost as loud as it will go, drowning out the mariachi music, and buried my nose into my shirt, trying to suck in as much of my own BO as possible.  I looked at Mike again.  “I’m going to kill you.”  He didn’t just mouth it out that time, the words actually came from his lips.  I couldn’t hear, but I’m sure of it.  That’s love.  I am planning out my wedding speech for them right now.