By Rachel Morenz
My Venezuelan housemate inquired, "Don't they have microbuses in the US?" I gave a little laugh and explained that there are buses in the US, but not microbuses like here in Maturin. Normal full-length buses are not used as a means of public transportation where I currently live in Maturin, Venezuela. Instead, "microbuses," about the size of mini-school buses in the US, cruise the crowded streets of Maturin. They do not run on a timetable. They come and go as they please, stopping at major landmarks and when somebody on the side of the road throws out a requesting arm.
I don't have a car and don't live within walking distance of the university where I teach, so I am at the mercy of the microbus for my daily transportation to and from work. At first, I dreaded riding the microbus.
Six-thirty a.m., I peered down the trash and tree-lined main street, Avenida Bolivar, hoping to spot the approach of the number 20 microbus. Only a few taxis, rusty sedans, and the occasional Jeep Wrangler passed. Thinking about my 7 a.m. literature class, I glanced at my watch, 6:33 a.m, 6:35 a.m., 6:41 a.m. Finally, I saw a squat little bus with "El Perro" (the dog) printed in large white letters on the top of the windshield, a small "20" printed in the bottom left-hand corner, and a young-man in a bright green polo shirt, the fare collector, balanced on the steps of the front door. I forcefully threw out my arm. El Perro 20 screeched to a halt at my side. I crammed into the only foot of space left in the aisle. The collector shouted "dale." As we lurched forward, the popular reggaeton song "Eres una sexy muchacha" (You're a sexy girl) blared at an ear damaging loud level from the radio. I already felt sick.
Then I became conscious of the fact that the coating of sweat on my arm was not my own but that of the obese man's arm sandwiched onto my own. My buttocks were glued to those of a well-groomed young lady in tight jeans. My right shoulder was pressed into the breast of a middle-aged housewife. How were all the other passengers so calm? How could such close contact be appropriate? I thought I might either spontaneously scream or faint. Luckily, at 7:05 a.m., El Perro arrived at the university. I whimpered "parada" (stop) and squirmed my way out of the people jungle, considering sleeping in my office to avoid the commute home.
After nearly two months of life in Venezuela, though, a curious change has occurred: I have come to enjoy riding the microbus. I don't actually like closely touching fellow passengers' body parts and still find the close quarters stressful at times. However, the fast paced music thumping in the background is a better way to wake up in the early morning than a cold shower.
I have also been amazed at the microbus's ability to seemingly magically appear. It's nice not to have to worry about a timetable. I just go out on Avenida Bolivar and within 15 minutes, usually less, I am on my way to work with 30 friendly Venezuelans.
Most significantly, perhaps my newfound fondness for the microbus is an indication that I am at last beginning to shed some of my stiff American skin and embrace the chaos that is life in Venezuela. The streets are rarely quiet. Music is always blasting, horns honk repetitiously like jack-hammers, and people randomly set off fire-crackers. Not to mention, things don't get done quickly here. Inefficiency is everywhere. ATM machines constantly break. The Internet connection frequently goes down. Complete electricity outages occur at least once a week and last for hours, many times resulting in lost class time. Initially, all I could think about was the annoyance of the uproar and inconveniences. Nonetheless, beneath the swirl of chaos is a rich, pulsing life that is savored and shared in Venezuelan culture.
Kisses on the cheek in greeting, even between teachers and students. Two-hour lunch breaks that are respected even by busy doctors. An emphasis on sharing food, not eating alone or in a hurry. Family parties that last until dawn. Grandparents dancing. Five-year olds dancing. The microbus fare collector dancing.
