Summary

A traveler recounts waking up on a bus in South America with no idea how they arrived there, highlighting an unplanned adventure in the Andean town of Usquil, marked by a pig slaughter and a bus driver who spent all the fare money on beer.

Abstract

In a personal narrative, the author shares their experience of waking up disoriented on a bus in South America during their 20s. The story unfolds in the small Andean town of Usquil, where the author is initially alarmed by the sound of a pig being slaughtered, only to find the locals nonchalant about the scene. The author spends several days in the town, facing challenges in securing transportation out. Eventually, they encounter a bus driver who squanders the passengers' fare money on alcohol, leaving them stranded. Despite the setback, the author finds humor in the situation and reflects fondly on the unpredictability and freedom of those days, embracing the uncertainty of when and how they would leave Usquil.

Opinions

The author views their spontaneous and unpredictable experiences positively, considering them "excellent days."
There is a sense of detachment and almost amusement in the author's recounting of the pig slaughter, indicating a certain level of cultural shock but also acceptance.
The author seems to respect the bus driver's audacity and commitment to his own plan, despite the inconvenience it causes to the passengers, acknowledging his success in doing what he set out to do.
The author's tone suggests a sense of nostalgia for the carefree nature of their past adventures and the thrill of not knowing what comes next.
There is an underlying appreciation for the simplicity and unpredictability of travel in the region, as the author seems to relish in the lack of control and certainty.

Waking Up On a Bus In South America

It’s not an adventure unless you have no idea how to escape

When I was in my 20s I spent the better part of a decade trying to lose myself in the wilderness. Sometimes I’d wake up in the front seat of a bus with no recollection as to how I got there.

Those were excellent days.

On one occasion a journey took me well into the Andes to a small town called Usquil.

As I stepped off the bus, I was startled by the cries of a pig being slaughtered in a nearby hut. I know it was a pig because I thought somebody was being murdered so I rushed over to have a look.

Two people with leathery faces glanced up at me and then looked back down at their work. The floor was dirt. The knife was covered in blood. The pig, too, made eye contact.

“Sorry buddy, there’s nothing I can do.”

A screaming pig sounds a lot like a screaming person.

I spent a few days at Usquil, in part because I couldn’t figure out how to contract a ride out of the place. Finally a bus driver showed up.

“S/. 45 to Lima,” he said.

We lined up to pay.

“Be back here at 8PM.”

At 8PM we all came back and found him laying on the floor next to a crate of empty beer bottles. The son of a bitch had drunk all the fare money!

The crowd murmured in seething rage, but what could we do? The money was gone, absorbed, transformed.

The bus driver laughed at us. Good for him. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do that day. Even if we tied him up and pelted him with stones, he’d still be tied up drunk.

Credit where credit is due.

As the crowd scrambled for bits of wire, I pawed through the crate and found a bottle he’d missed somehow. The driver took a swipe at me to try and get it back but he’d lost all motor control.

It was my turn to laugh. The bottle was mine.

I tipped it back and settled into a corner in the town square to wait for the next form of transportation. Bus, taxi, horse, who knew?

Maybe it would be an hour, maybe it would be three weeks.

A cool breeze came down from the mountains. There was nothing to do and no sense worrying about it.

God, I miss getting into situations like that.