TRAVEL
Riding The Same Road A Hundred Times
The world through the eyes of a bus driver
Bus trips are awful. There’s no way around it. They just are. You ride for eight to nine hours while a plane would take you around fifty minutes. It is unfair and exhausting.
Yet, I can’t say I have a single bad memory of a bus trip.
Every time I’m about to take one, I feel excited. Deep down, I love buses. And every time I get off one — it’s the same old “Why on earth would I do that to my back.”
I’ve just finished a series of bus trips from Serbia to Bosnia through Montenegro, totaling 23 hours of sitting, chewing nuts, and watching road signs and movies.
Welcome to the world of square butts and exterminated sleeping schedules.
By the way, none of the buses we took had a working toilet. It’s fine if the stops are regular. However, during an eight-hour ride, we had one stop. That looks more like torture. Rather soon, I figured it out. Had the situation gone south, I would have yelled “Power to the people” and demanded a stop at the nearest gas station. For some reason, I was confident the drivers were not instructed on actions during a local rebellion.
All the minor issues aside, it was a pleasant trip. Because for the first time, I took a front seat. Full bus driver experience.
I was always interested in knowing how a bus driver sees the world. For us, passengers, it’s another little adventure. But for them, it’s the same route over and over again.
The answer came during a ride from Antalya to Istanbul two years ago. It was an overnighter, and if you know a thing or two about bus trips and are shorter than 6 feet — take the back seat next to a window, preferably a single one.
When I squeezed through people to my throne, I found a hefty man snoring right where I was supposed to snore. Not willing to poke the beast, I humbly took a place next to an old man. There were plenty of free aisle seats.
A few minutes after we left the station, a reserve driver came to our backside area, frowning and searching for something in his papers.
“You Nick?” he said.
I confirmed his suspicions. It was rather obvious, as I am a foreign-looking guy almost everywhere where the winters are warm.
“You sit here,” he pointed at the snoring fella.
I didn’t want to start a fuss, so I smiled and told the driver that there were no problems.
“Problem var,” he switched to Turkish. With one heavy slap on the shoulder, he woke up the man and ordered me to stand up, swinging a finger. The unfairly awakened and I shared apologetic glances and switched seats. The driver was pleased he put all the pieces in their places, but still gave us a strict look.
“Don’t change. System,” he said and retreated to his seat next to the other driver. As an introvert who has spent most of his life among extroverts and party people, I felt a little uncomfortable anyway.
There was a company of young people occupying the last row. They were noisy at first but then turned out to be pretty good guys. I found out they sold a transfer van and headed to Istanbul to buy a new one.
“Better car — better income,” said one of them, being unexpectedly practical. They invited me to look at their options. I’m not good with cars, especially transfer vans in Turkey. But it was better than trying to sleep for the fifth time.
The grumpy reserved bus driver came with some snacks and water, and quite soon joined us, as he had nothing else to do. He even brought the rest of the supplies and shared them among us, conspiratorially lowering his voice as he passed a whole bottle of lemon soda and showed us where to hide it.
We passed a small village, and the driver pointed to a window.
“Soon we’ll have a stop at a beautiful station!” he said.
“Aren’t you tired of this route?” I asked. “You must’ve seen everything here a hundred times.”
“No. Of course not. The road is like a home,” he said, reaching for another chocolate muffin.
“I know everyone in every town and village. Here we stopped for coffee, and there we had a flat tire, and the whole village helped us change it. It was very bad, but we had a lot of fun. The road is never the same. For you, it’s just a ride, but for me, it is work. I plan it, I know when my friends will stop their buses at the same station as I do. I also know where to eat without possible food poisoning.”
“That’s valuable intel,” I laughed.
“Yesterday, we drove the same route but in the opposite direction. And I called others to ask about the traffic. They told me it was good, so we decided to make a longer stop at the mountain lake. Very nice. We usually just pass it by, but this time I thought why not? We can have a little break. You know what is the best thing about riding the same road every day?”
“Coming home?” I tried to crack an unnecessary joke.
Always squeeze in an uninvited joke, that’s page one of my Terrible Interlocutor guidebook.
“The fact that you are in control of it. It’s not the road you see, it’s the way you ride it. If you just drive and drive, you will go crazy,” he munched another muffin and slowly returned to his seat. It was time for a driver change.
I keep his words in mind during every bus ride, hoping this time the driver will be in the mood for a longer stop at a beautiful place or a swing by an unknown local culinary gem on the road.
This thought follows me beyond bus trips and into everyday life. We all have a routine to do, repeating the same things over and over again. But if we simply drive — the next stop is boredom and madness. I guess if we are the drivers we have to plan where to stop, how to make it more interesting, and, most importantly, where to look for the unexpected in the regular.
Bus trips are awful. But I’m up for another one, as soon as my back forgives me for the last time.
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