Chickens Keep Fallin’ On My Head

Even a decent seat on a relatively uncrowded bus can make for a droll ride from time to time.  As I boarded a bus bound for site I took the last available spot underneath two wide, flat boxes punched with air holes.   Very suspect.  But the cargo was nothing more than a bunch of tiny yellow chicks fresh from their shells.  It’s not uncommon to place your bag on the overhead rack and see a chicken raise its beak over the edge of some nearby cardboard box, give a few clucks, and duck back in; so I didn’t pay much attention to the boxes above me.  The odor of bird dander was a little over-bearing at times but when the bus was in motion the rushing wind from the open windows dissipated it to a point where it was hardly noticeable.  Of course the constant chirping of a hundred hungry chicks was enough to remind me that they were still right there over my head.

As we traveled along and the sun beat down and the bus filled up I could feel the temperature rising a bit.  Well it must have been mighty hot being crammed into those tiny boxes near the roof of the bus, and any living and breathing creature would probably be overcome by paralyzing claustrophobia at some point.  So, rather than waiting for freedom that may never come, some of the chicks started to take advantage of the poor construction of their temporary cages.  They desperately began looking for a way out.  And within a few minutes something plopped onto my head and landed in the lap of the man to my left.  It was obvious that one of the birds had found an escape route that led directly to our seat.  And whenever something living unexpectedly lands on you, no matter how harmless and adorable, there’s always that one instant of surprise and terror that manages to manifest itself in a very physical way.  I believe I flapped my hands and said something like, “Hooweeahahhwww!”

The man held onto it for three or four minutes, stroked its head, commented on how pretty it was, and then handed it to me.  Not knowing what else to do, I placed it flat on my palm and raised it above my head with the hope that someone would come to claim it.  Really, nobody wants it?  I understood; I didn’t really want it either.  So I stood up, bent back a flap on the box, and dropped it in.  Within 10 minutes another bird looking for some fresh air followed his friend out the hole, onto my head, and into the man’s lap.  The man repeated his actions then handed it off to me.  Well this time I followed suit and did as he did: I held it, stroked it, and the thing pooped on my shirt.  It wasn’t ideal but how can you get mad at an Easter peep?  It was, however, enough to earn him a trip back to lockup.  It had already become quite clear that these weren’t isolated incidents.  A pattern was forming.  I was soon proven to be right.  Rumor must have spread quickly about the road to the other side.  Birds were plunging onto us at regular intervals.  All attempts to block the escape route failed.  The bouncing of the bus was enough to create a little separation and leave the breach wide open.  So for the next two hours I rode along with baby chickens bouncing off my head and always into the lap of the man seated next to me.

For the entirety of the remaining trip I carried a smile I couldn’t contain.  And it wasn’t the kind of bitter smirk that finds itself paired with narrowed eyes used to mask ire or frustration.  It was an expression rooted in absolute joy.  I smiled because baby chickens had fallen on me and I smiled at the idea that they would probably continue to fall on me.  I smiled at the thought that this was simply part of the daily occurrences of my life, something perhaps to be repeated, rather than being an amusing anecdote brought back from some fleeting vacation.  And I smiled when thinking that the environment that surrounds my life is so entirely different from what I imagined it would be just a few short years ago.  What an interesting place I have found myself in.
(Thanks for the great photos, Dad!)

Travel Options

 Use only what you need, then be prepared to give up half.  It would be a fair and accurate motto regarding the personal space allotment on a public bus in Nicaragua.  The safest bet is to arrive early, push towards the front of the line, then race for a window seat on the shady side.  I make a quick calculation of the general direction the bus will be heading with regards to the rising or setting sun and use that to put me on the right path.  The window seats are small enough that I’m likely to be squished with my knees nearly up under my chin and pinned to my chest.  But hey, at least they’re my knees.  An aisle seat on a full bus means I’m now competing for space with the body parts of others, and I can forget about knees at that point.  A creeping hand and forearm takes over my headrest to support its owner.  A sweat-soaked t-shirt unsticks itself from a man’s back and gently flaps in the breeze, brushing against my exposed arm and cheek.  A large breast of an old woman bounces uncomfortably between my shoulder and my head.  I usually take this as a sign that the universe is attempting to correct some imbalance.  Give up your seat to this old woman, you bastard, is how I interpret it.  I succumb.

“Please, take it.  I don’t even want to sit, really.”  I say this sweetly but loud enough to force the other able-bodied (yet still seated) passengers into deep shame.  If I feel my message hasn’t been fully internalized I’ll shoot glances in several directions while shaking my head ever so slightly to convey my disappointment.  But in the end, all the dramatics are for naught.  I’m now in the least desirable position, scrunched into the 40 foot long by 2-½ foot wide “standing room only” section.  Capacity: ??
 

 
 But luckily for me I have travel options.  All this can be avoided by taking the 12-hour ferry ride from Granada, which arrives to my site at 3am.  There are two ticket choices: you can ride for half-price on the bare-bones lower deck or spring for the full-price upper deck and take advantage of all its amenities.  I always opt for the latter.  There’s an indoor cabin with A/C and cushy seats, hooks outside to hang your hammock so you can swing and sway in rhythm with the waves, and plenty of dirty backpackers for people-watching.  And the roominess!

Unfortunately, the recent influx of troops into the Rio San Juan has forced the ferry operators to use the lower deck strictly for army personnel and the once luxuriously unpopulated upper deck for all other civilian passengers.  This turn of events has really detracted from the enjoyment the trip once provided.  There was a certain simplistic beauty in being able to travel long distances while stretched out on a hammock.  But that was then and this is now.  So I’ve been forced to change my perspective during the journey.  I take solace and find inner peace while pondering the emptiness between the clouds and the lake.  And as I’m crossing Lake Nicaragua and looking out at the vast horizon and taking in the views of Ometepe just as the sun is setting, I can almost ignore the dense crowd of people behind me with whom I’ll soon be sharing the limited space of the concrete floor…that is until my gaze is drawn downward by the faint sound of splashing water, and I see the uncircumcised penis of a man in army fatigues leaning over the railing of the lower deck and whizzing off the side of the boat.