I’m writing this from on an old rustic bus on its way from Santa Marta to Manizales. The scenery we pass is a feast for the eyes: pastel houses clinging to the sides of green rolling hills, streams that curve their way through calm, shaded valleys, all beneath the comfort of a cool blue blanket of sky. The view is, as the Colombians say, “divino” ... or would be, if the bus would stop shaking like a god damned blender long enough for me to take it all in.

You could say the journey’s been long, sixteen hours so far. Luckily, for the majority of the trip, I have been surrounded by good company. Eduardo and Felipe, the two high-spirited individuals who were so generous with the fifth of cane liquor they brought on board, the little girl two rows back who likes to play peek-a-boo, and of course, my girl, who has made a constant effort to stay cheerful and keep things interesting. And even when her face began to turn green and she could no longer speak, there was still the old Sanyo mounted on the wall behind the driver’s head, a relic, much like the movies currently playing on the screen - high class flicks with lines like “I ain’t got time to bleed,” or “I’m gonna hit you so hard your ancestors will hurt.” Why is every movie on these buses a Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson Flick? It’s so bad I’d rather ask the driver if he could please put on a soap opera. Pobre Pablo or Pedro Escamoso. I’d rather eat a turd than have one force fed into my eyeballs.

But you gotta see the silver lining. The bus is clean and well maintained; it would have to be to stay in service over several decades on all manner of roads. The entire ceiling has been decorated with a festive mural. The driver has adorned the headliner with a plethora of stuffed animals, stickers, and decals extolling such phrases as “Jesus is coming - look busy” and “Drive it like you stole it.” The seats are covered in soft, stretched, well worn leather that has seen countless travelers. When you sit in them, you sink into their embrace. A button on the armrest of each seat allows one to recline back and catch some sleep. In my chair, however, I am wide awake. Between my legs I have placed my backpack, in my hand is a small plastic bag, and digging a hole through the nice worn leather and into my back are the go-go gadget knees of a passenger whose snores tear through my thoughts. I contemplate suffocating him with the plastic bag in my hands, but realize I can’t because the plastic bag is filled to overflowing with my girlfriend’s vomit.

It’s best not to think of that though. Sixteen hours on a bus leaves plenty of time to take in the subtleties of the land, to think about the journey ahead, and contemplate life in general. At first I thought that it would be difficult to travel for so many hours without stopping. For example, where does one go to the bathroom? How does one eat, or drink? What does one do to stay entertained when the television doesn’t work or the movie is over? Elsewhere in the world, these bare necessities have been ignored. But in Latin America, a travelers basic needs have been looked after. For entertainment - live performances! At every stop sign, railroad crossing or slow turn, someone will jump on board and begin his act, usually claiming to be poor, lost, or extremely misfortunate, in which case he will spend five to ten minutes launching into the tragedies of his life. Or he will evangelize, exalting the Good Book or singing Hosanna on Highest, in which case the crowd is invited to sing along (which they frequently do, especially if the evangelist sings poorly). Should one become thirsty or hungry, there’s no need to worry, for frequently those who jump on the buses come bearing food and beverages. The faire normally involves stale Funyuns and home brewed Horchata but it is sustenance none the less. And, lastly, of course, should one feel the need to relieve himself, he needs not wait for the next stop, for there is a bathroom right there on board the bus. I had to use it once. It is quaint. By which I mean no bigger than a broom closet. Better yet, coffin. With all the room I’ve got in here, I might as well be sharing it with a corpse. God knows it smells like a corpse. In fact you can almost picture him as you look down into the stall, his head bobbing up and down in a solution of toilet bowl water that smells like formaldehyde. Is that a limb, or entrails soaked in gastric juice? Oh, no, it’s just the ol’ Brown Round from the last visitor, too thick to make it down the little hole, so you gotta sit there and stare at it while you contemplate whether you should even try to drop a deuce, or whether, if you flush the toilet, it will overflow and you’ll end up swimming in a closet full of caca. And as you sit there trying to decide what is worse, pooping your pants or risking dropping trow into that ring-o-disease, the bus is banging and bouncing and dancing its dizzying dance, threatening to shake the shit out of you if you don’t hurry up and get down to it yourself. “Your ass is mine!” the toilet seat seems to say as it flaps up and down with the bumps in the road. “No,” you beg, silently, trying to fight the physical urge within yourself to relieve yourself. “No, I will never sit on you.” “DROP EM!” the toilet screams back. “NO!!!!!”

Enough. I digress. Sometimes I lose sight of why I embarked on this journey in the first place. It’s not about traveling in style or comfort or having the amenities of everyday life at your beck and call. It’s about adventure; hitting the open road, doing as the Romans do, tapping in to the pulse of the people. I don’t want to be That Guy - the American Tourist who sports too-short day glow Bermudas and pasty white skin, who insists on staying at the Sofitel but complains about the prices, and prefaces every question with “DO - YOU - SPEAK - ENGLISH?” and becomes frustrated and confused when one does not. Who needs first class? Who needs legroom and climate control? What’s the big rush? You’re on vacation, here to see the countryside; while you’re looking down from your comfy little window at the top of a cloud, I’m down below in the thick of it man, I’m taking it all in. I don’t mind the arctic wind blowing through the AC vents; I don’t mind the cockroaches crawling under the woodgrain. I’m…I’m…I’m gonna flip. I’m gonna hijack this thing. I’m gonna start a mutiny and yank Juan Pablo Montoya here out of his seat and throw him into oncoming traffic so we can SLOW THIS FUCKING THING DOWN!”

“Senor,” someone says. “Hemos llegado.” I retract my claws from the leather interior rising from my slouched position to look at the man who is addressing me. It is the conductor. We are stopped. “Estamos en Manizales,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, pulling myself out of my muscle tensed slouch to peer out the window. Day is just dawning, warming the quiet bus yard with its golden glow. I stand up, stretch, and grab my things. “That wasn’t so bad,” I say. “Come on babe, we’re here.”