The last bus ride

(Makes me think of the day... the music died... and we were singing...)

This blog is written for my enemies. Yes, to my enemies and to others who like to laugh at my misfortunes. Which seems to be a suspiciously frequent visitor these days.

Go on. Have a laugh. It’s on me. Again.

[Sigh.]

The last time I’m taking the bus. Definitely the very last and final time.

Somehow not the first time these reflections formed a conclusion in my mind, but I honestly hope it is now secure and will act as an angry red flag the next time I decide to send my person to point B through the means of public transport. If you can’t fly there, don’t go there.

I had to take the bus. Couldn’t find a lift at the last minute and couldn’t take my own car.

I used to enjoy taking the bus. Those big windows are amazing and you can see things that you can’t see from your car. It’s rather beautiful really. But it somehow loses its charm after three hours or so. Just becomes so darn uncomfortable. It’s one thing taking a day trip; it’s an altogether-nother thing taking an overnight trip. Mine was scheduled to leave Cape Town at 6:45pm, arriving at my destination, Knysna, at 3:10am. Not the best prospects, but I thought I had prepared myself mentally, albeit physically.

I was still hopeful when, after it turned dark and I became sleepy, I still couldn’t find a comfortable position even though my entire row was empty and I had all the chairs as far back as possible. Tried countless positions to rest my seemingly oversized limbs but remained utterly un-asleep. Who would’ve thought – no matter the fact that I had four chairs across the passageway available to my person, the only one that was remotely sleepable was the sitting position. But I remained hopeful having anticipated the worst. (My previous bus experience was horrendous see; this time I had prepared for undesirable conditions.)

Eventually I managed some s-shaped position in which most of my limbs were supported by the assorted bus props.

The first movie, Triple X [xxx?] - third level, or something like that, undesirably proceeded to transmit its skop-skiet-en-donner sound waves and busy, bright digital camera enhancements through the air. Not a great choice for an in-transit motion picture where, in my view, one really just wants to relax; but I managed to subdue my person in the anticipation of quietude once the movie had finished. Well the only quietude that I experienced was the silent manifestations of a quiet nervous breakdown as I nearly started praying in tongues when the sky-scraping decibels of the pitchy voice-overs of Madagascar II animals then proceeded to bellow over the speakers immediately above my headache. Begged God to, just this once, destroy the DVD player, or the speakers, or both. Couldn’t believe that they were showing two movies; I mean, this was a school night.

Really considering writing a note to Ben Stiller sharing my thoughts on the dangers of producing a movie such as Madagascar and its sequels, especially its sequels, which opens up the agonising possibility of having it aired on a bus ride at 10:30pm. I think he played the lion. Alex. Lion’s name was Alex. Will haunt me forever. Recited a psalm of praise when the credits finally went up.

Finally, I thought, I was going to get some sleep. But no. Oh no. Sleep was something I did not get during this trip. What I did get, were things unspeakable. Unspeakable and unthinkable.

The bus broke.

Three of the most often-spoken words throughout third world countries on the globe. The Bus Broke. Again prayed in tongues. Pleaded with God not to grow a bitter heart.

The bus didn’t so much as break down, but something went wrong, causing all its passengers to hop 17 inches off their seats for every 3mm variation in surface levels of the N2. I felt like I was in that Ace Ventura movie. (Now that would’ve been a good choice for the trip.) I guess it would’ve been funny if I got paid what Jim Carrey got paid, or if I was five. No. It wasn’t enjoyable. Some people felt the need to voice the rude words that was on everyone’s minds to indicate their discomfort. Prayed and repented some more at this point.

After hopping and cursing for three hours, the bus people decided to get a mechanic in George to fix the problem. In George. George being the last stop before we reach my destination. Oh, if only they could’ve done the fixing in Knysna. I would’ve happily (happy being a relative term here) hopped in my s-shape position for another 60 minutes rather than to spend a dreadful, unbearably challenging two hours standing motionless in the dullest corners of a parking lot in George.

Of course it occurred to me that I could catch up on some sleep while we waited, but Rodrigo, our friendly host, decided to park his person in the row behind me having a very loud and candid conversation with a couple that seem to be some of his bestest pals. They didn’t seem deterred, or surprised even, by our tragic circumstances. From what I gather they are frequent bus riders. Said they preferred it. Even said they considered it an outing. An outing! Baffled me senseless. The only outing it could possibly represent, I concluded, was the kind where you left behind your mind.

The dullness continued. I can in detail, intrinsic detail, describe the view out of my window of the quart yard where I spent two precious, precious hours of my life. Roughly about 987593447 pebbles evenly distributed over the few square meters of tarred parking; a slatted grey wall lining the opposite side of the street; uneven white lines demarcating approximately 57 parking bays.... Oh, let me stop there; I might just relive it. The frustration was understated. I continued imploding while they started and restarted the bus only for it to die again along with all my hope, selfless ideals and forgiving intentions. Prayed some more for my heart not to grow bitter. Was like the 24/7 prayer night all over again.

Just before I reached menopause, the bus started again and we were on the move once more. A smoother, but much delayed ride to freedom. By this time I was actually at peace. Probably could’ve stayed there for another two hours if it was needed. Had a supernatural sense of peace layering my thoughts which helped with the imploding. (Jesus Culture – Consumed album helped a lot.)

Finally arrived in Knysna some time after sunrise. Eleven hours’ travel in total. That’s right. E.L.E.V.E.N. Normally when I travel eleven hours I end up in the UK or somewhere where they speak a foreign language, or at least with a funny accent.

My dad, who, consequently, were also in a sleep-deprived state, met me with a grin and reminded me that all things happen for the good, to which I responded that He works all things for the good – doesn’t mean they were good to begin with.

Haha. I guess it was all kind of funny. Praise God for His goodness, and His sense of humour. ;)