Our "bus normale" trip across Southern Peru

Our Peruvian bus trip from Cusco to Arequipa left the station at 6:45 on a very cold July morning, remember southern hemisphere, it’s winter for these guys. For some reason this route was more difficult to secure a bus ticket for than most of our South American connections and we had to ride, what they call down there, a “bus normale”. This is the mode of transportation most of the locals take. When you think of foreigners in a foreign land traveling through a dusty, bumpy countryside surrounded by natives, this was how we were traveling; crammed into an outdated bus that sat 44, but was shipping well over that. We purchased the tickets the night before after hitting almost every bus company in the terminal. Absolutely everything else was sold out and the lady at the Civa bus company desk (Civa came recommended by Lonely Planet, thanks again guys) said these tickets wouldn’t be around much longer… she also told us we were in store for a 9 hour bus ride which turned into 12 long ones, but anyway when we found that out we were well away from her “customer service” desk.

We were up before the sun, caught a cab to the terminal, and made our way to the gate. Quick note about transport in South America, after purchasing your tickets you must also go to another window and pay a terminal tax (sometimes two in Bolivia), this threw me the first couple of times, thought we might be getting ripped off, but no, it’s legit. Showed the first guy our bus tickets, and then showed the second guy our tax stamps, and then kept the tickets in hand because at minimum we knew we had two to three more checks before we were in our seats.

Getting bags and your bodies on a Southern Peruvian (or Bolivian) bus is something else; it’s the first good shove you’ll receive of the morning. Westerners have been queuing since almost birth, so we can make a pretty organized and coherent line (in our sleep at that). In this part of the world, the concept hasn’t really caught on, in baggage and bus lines at least. It turns into a big pushing and shoving match. I’ve found waiting in the back and letting the melee die down a bit before approaching the baggage collection guy is the best way to handle the situation; plus who wants to be on that bus for longer than they have to. I made my way to the baggage doors, showed this guy our tickets, handed over the bags and he in turned gave me more paper I would surely lose so, Jen handles all those sorts of items on this trip, thank God. We make our way to the bus door, show the next two guys our tickets and we’re in. The initial boarding of a bus like this is usually the hardest part of the trip. First off, you get hit with a smell of musty, moist 30-year-old seat cushions and bodily fluids. Then its squeezing and nudging your way down an aisle made for a small person, but having to fit two or, if you have someone in a real hurry, three in between the left and right aisle seats—a very tight squeeze.

We had yet to pick a really good seat on a bus thus far in the trip. For us, since we purchase our tickets in advance (advance meaning before the bus starts moving), we choose our seats at the ticket desk before seeing the actual bus. In the past we’ve been too close to the bathroom, big mistake on a 16-hour bus ride, or been in seats that had a crossbar where two windows met, hence no opening window of our own or seats that didn’t recline because of obstructions or seats with a view blocked by the driver’s curtain… the list goes on, mainly involving loud or roaming children. So, at this point we pick seats a bit front of center and hoped for the best.

When Jen and I jumped on the bus we weren’t expecting much in the way of comfort, but were hoping to get a nap in, see some of the countryside and read a few chapters in our books. The bus filled up quickly and since the other bus classes were sold out we knew this was a popular route. Jen took the window seat and I sat by the aisle. We get settled and notice that this bus, like a lot of the buses of the area, had seats made for people that average between 5ft to 5’4”, not bad for the average local (or Jen), a pretty tight squeeze for me; knees buried into the seat in front and arms dangling over the arm rests.

Just like the beginning of many of our South American bus trips this one began in complete chaos and bedlam. People everywhere, twice what you’d except in an area that size, sitting, standing, cramming things in the overhead shelves and others selling god knows what over the rows of people. We see the majority of seats filled, with people pushing about and more passengers piling on and more passengers piling on, until all the seats were occupied, then standing in the aisle. From past experiences we knew that it’s custom for relatives to say their goodbyes on the bus, showing their relatives to their seats, then running frantically, pushing and shoving, to the front when the bus starts moving, but most people were just standing waiting. I am thinking, 9 hours standing (not yet knowing we had 12 glorious hours ahead) on a bus going over some pretty treacherous roads… I am glad Jen and I secured these seats early.

Everything settles a bit after the bus engines rev and kicks it into reverse. Heading out of the bus station parking lot I have my book in arms reach and am contemplating dosing off or looking over Jen’s shoulder as the city passes by when we hit our first of many axle grinding bumps. There’s a collective gasp, a few things from the overhead rack fall on passengers in the back and a native catches herself on my upper arm. Not with her hand mind you, but with her bum. She sat right on me. Little awkward, but I was thinking the moment would quickly pass. Nope, she rather liked that spot and since I didn’t immediately object she probably thought I was ok with it. She was your everyday Peruvian Indian women with 1980 style dress shoes, dresses and skirts stacked underneath her aprons, with mountains of blouses on top of shirts; then wrapped in a blanket of multi colors, braids down to the middle of her back and a hat; (plus no shower in a long weekend or so). Since this was a very cold morning all these layers made sense, normally it’s not this cold, but they tend to wear the same number of layers.

The eighteen inches of personal space doesn’t exist in other countries as it does in the States and I am ok with 12 or even 6 when space is limited. Now when it quickly approaches zero, meets it and stays for an hour and a half on your arm that is when I get uncomfortable. My mom has brought up a polite, young man and when I initially saw these women standing I toyed with the idea of standing and letting them take my seat, but two things came to mind; one, Jen then having to sit next to and smell them for the rest of the trip and two, these ladies nearly pushing me to the ground to get into their standing positions, so the offer passed through my mind rather quickly. My politeness was still taking over though and I couldn’t bring myself to full out push this lady off my arm. The small nudging I was delivering wasn’t having its effect and I couldn’t cough or clear my throat loud enough for her to hear it over the din of the bus and passengers and constant honking on the streets, so I sat and waited; hoping that this lady didn’t have a ticket all the way to Arequipa.

While having the native sitting on my left side, people shoving in the aisles, coupled with new people joining us at each stop light or slow turn around a corner, we also had every manner of salesman joining us on this jam-packed bus. They would jump on, sell their items over the mass of people in record time and hop off to harass the next group of travelers. With a captive and passive audience promised, these salesman were numerous and of every shape and size; small girls selling sodas foreign and domestic, middle aged woman selling popcorn, toothbrushes, mouthwash; old women selling lemons and oranges, men selling butterscotches and even a sort of South American encyclopedia set. Though the books were much smaller, for example the life sciences were condensed into a single easy to read 75 page, pictured filled book.

One sales duo worth mentioning was arguably the most popular of the traveling sales people. Two native women boarded the bus from a small abode dwelling half way through our route, in the middle of the Peruvian wastelands, with a big bundle wrapped in the ubiquitous colorful Indian blankets. The bigger and younger of the two women set the bundle down, one side on my arm rest, which forced me to lean well into Jen’s seat and the other on my neighbor’s. She began to carefully un-wrap her package. First she untied the blankets, then a sheet, and then a few layers of dark brown well-recycled wax paper. Before I could really make out what was inside the bundle, her hand rooted around in the small opening and produced a large meat cleaver. In one fluid motion the cleaver went high above her head and the other hand spread out the corners of the wax paper wide. Her cleaver came down several times with force enough to jolt my seat. The women’s free hand then found clear plastic bags and with the now free striking hand she grabbed a hand full of freshly hacked smoked meat of some sort and then a link of exceptionally greasy sausage. She did this repeatedly, handing the newly stuffed bags of meat to her partner who in turn sold them for 5 Peruvian soles, a steal in any currency. I was able to take a peek at the contents after she set the cleaver aside, and with my head no more than a couple of feet from the action, I still couldn’t make out what sort of animal it came from. Right off the bat I eliminated beef and pork, the smell and texture wasn’t right. I would guess either llama or donkey, I’d bet on llama, but no speculation on the sausage. These ladies cleaned up, made a killing; sold a good three-fourths of their carcass. Then wrapped everything up, ran to the front, pounded several times on the driver’s door and jumped off the bus in a spot just as secluded as their embarkment.

Roughly 2 hours after the start of the trip, just when it seemed we were through picking up random passengers in town, the lady on my arm found her destination and people were beginning to catch cat naps, the music kicked on. Jen and I were directly under one of the two speakers on the bus and could feel the traditional Peruvian music in the deepest recesses of our brains. We both scrambled for ear protection, I had ear plugs and Jen threw on her iPod to no avail. We’ve both been to numerous rock shows and I for one had never heard music that loud. It was ear piercing with the plugs in. We were both at a loss as to what to do for the second time on the bus ride. Should I try and tell the bus driver in my broken Spanish that he was destroying the hearing of his 60 plus passengers or at minimum, again in broken Spanish, take a census to see how many enjoyed crappy Latin music with the volume cranked to eleven. The speaker was clearly blown and crackled and popped every time a drum beat came in, but looking around no one was appalled; very few looked displeased, not nearly enough for a mutiny. So we sat there as passive observers to the oddest bus trip we had been on yet. We sat for about an hour and a half waiting while we slowly went insane, until the music just cut off, never to be heard again that day.

After the traveling butcher shop and insanely loud music we had another visitor that gained the attention of the bus: the traveling encyclopedia salesman. With his front two teeth missing he was able to deliver his sales speech above the racket of conversations and road noise. He leaped on the bus at about hour 8, when Jen and I were contemplating walking the rest of the way, and traveled with us for two hours or so. With him he dragged on two big duffle bags and gave the bus a sales pitch worthy of any I’ve heard. He went through the entire set of books for the audience covering A to Z, after that he went back to take us through, blow for blow, the history of Peru. Then if learning wasn’t really a rider’s thing, he also had posters and stickers of your favorite soccer or “futbol” stars to hawk. To my surprise he sold a good bulk of his books and posters and left as quick as he came with a third of his items.

So there it is—our most memorable bus trip thus far in our travels. Some of the Bolivian bus trips were close, but this one had all the quintessential South American bus travel goodies wrapped into one neat little package. Some of the items I didn’t mention above were the baby changing, breast feeding and crying, but anybody that has flown on a plane or been in a south Texas shopping mall has seen that lately.

Stay tuned for more posts, we’re in Australian at the moment, but heading to Singapore on Oct 10th.