The ayudante in charge of collecting fares and distributing tickets on our bus to Cuenca, from Quito, was not immediately friendly. We do, in fact, have a very special relationship that I'm sure will endure the inevitable waning of memory. This connection, strong and deep as it runs, centers around public urination and horses. Not the public urination of horses, mind you. . . no. These are two, distinct bonding moments that he (let's call him Don Quixote) and I share.
Hat on, book in tow, and eager to once again greet the Andes on my own, great metal-horse (hat-tip to Old Iron Ass) we boarded the bus in Quito and steeled ourselves for a ten-hour trip to Cuenca. Different, perhaps even lacking, emission standards ensured that for the first hour or so, getting out of the urban area, I would be granted dark wafts of exhaust and fumes. The street-art so popular in the city extends out of the city and into the afueras:
"Favor prohido orinar
Multa $200"
(Note, urinating prohibited. $200 fine.)
Not even thirty minutes after passing this thoughtful, public advisory, I had to pee. Very well acquainted with the anatomy of buses, I turn and look for a small door in the back, left part of the bus. It's there. Wonderful. I tap on the door separating us from the conductor y ayudante, and after a few frustrating minutes, he decided to see what I wanted.
¨Por favor, que usted abra la puerta del baño,¨ I say, asking him to unlock the door to the bathroom.
He looks at me for a few seconds, unenthused and considering his options. I didn´t realize we needed to consider our options, but hey, I´m patient.
¨To pee?" he asks.
"Yes. . . to pee," I respond. Come on, I'm a pro, dude - don't poop on buses, I've got this.
"Just wait. . . we'll be stopping in a bit," he decidedly responds, seeming pleased with this plan.
I return to my seat by Alexander. For anyone who might not know, Alexander is my former Spanish professor, otherwise known as Dr. Steffanell. My travel partner is intelligent, a master of well-timed responses, and quite clearly latino. Colombian, specifically. I recount my exchange with Don Quixote to him and he laughs.
Ten painful minutes later, our bus slows as we approach a checkpoint, leaving one province and entering another (or something similar). Once cleared, we pull forward through the toll-booth-like obstacle and over on the right side of the road, directly between the aforementioned checkpoint and a small roadside market. Each are about 20 meters from our bus, and traffic is buzzing by on four lanes of well-paved expressway. A hiss of air alerts me that the door is opening, and Don Quixote opens the door of his cabin, looks at me, and alerts me that if I need to pee I should deboard and do it on the side of the road. Really?
Never one to turn down a good whizz in nature, I'm nevertheless taken aback that there's a toilet on the bus, that he has a key for it, and that we're now stopping the entire vehicle to let me out on the road to pee. Not my culture, not my country, not my bus. . . I assent and stand on the side of the road with absolutely no cover, exposed to Ecuador in all my gringo-glory.
Now, you know those long, urinal-troughs at stadiums and arenas? The ones that are often filled with ice, and always with a long line of waiting bladders that have been pushed to the point of eruption for the sake of one more song? Or the game-winning goal at the buzzer? Well, I always freeze up at those things and can never actually achieve the relief I waited so long for. I always end up faking it, shaking it, and walking away with my head down - defeated.
This happened on the side of the road. I return to the bus, the only one who knows the truth, and still having to pee worse than ever before. I tell Alexander what happened, and he, fulfilling his duty as friend and travel companion, bursts into laughter. He has to pee soon, and now that we're moving again, he knocks on the door in front of us.
Don Quixote opens the door, looks at me, thinking I was the one who knocked. His expression was a bit salty, until he realized that Alexander was He-Who-Knocked.
"Me das la llave para el baño, por favor?" Alexander asks, requesting the key for the bathroom.
"Claro, caballero, te lo abro," Don Quixote replies.
What? Did he just. . .
"Of course, sir, I'll open it for you." I can't believe this. I'm right there, he knows I speak Spanish, and he had, mere minutes before, put me in quite an uncomfortable and unhelpful situation. Alexander looks at me, an infuriating blend of surprise and entertainment dripping from his grin.
I could slap them both, I swear.
Posted with Blogsy
No comments:
Post a Comment