Convincing a Mendoza Bus Driver to Drive Me Home
I studied abroad in Mendoza, Argentina when I was 18 years old. Prior to that trip, my travels had been limited to horrible road trips with my family. Everything from the plane ride to learning how to properly pack a carry on was completely new to me. One thing I struggled with was dealing with public transportation. I had many adventures on the buses in Mendoza, but the story of a Mendoza bus driver forgoing his route and taking me home is by far my favorite.
This has nothing to do with buses, but it does show how clueless I am about my surroundings sometimes. This is me in Mendoza, on the same trip as this story.
Downtown. Always go Downtown.
My host mother had taught me how to take the bus to and from my university. She explained that as long as the bus was going downtown, it would take me very close to our home. So, I memorized the phrase “vas al centro?” (Are you going downtown) and essentially asked every bus that stopped outside my university building.
On this particular day, a bus that had a route number that I thought looked vaguely familiar stopped in front of the group of students waiting outside the university. I popped my head in the door and delivered my well-practiced line, “vas al centro?” The driver nodded impatiently, “si si si” and waved me onto the bus. I took a seat in the back and promptly zoned out. I was so accustomed to the ride, that I just waited until I saw a few city landmarks before worrying about an upcoming stop. Until those landmarks appeared, I hardly even glanced at my surroundings.
Forgotten, lost, and horribly confused
As it turns out, zoning out is not the best idea when riding buses in a foreign country. After a while, I felt that I had been on the bus for what felt like a good deal longer than my normal route. I looked around the bus and realized I was the only person left. I spun my head around, looking out the windows for any familiar landmark, but I couldn’t recognize anything at all. Then, I did see something. It was the bus terminal. The end-of-the-line resting place for buses who have long since finished their route.
I rushed to the front of the bus and hurriedly asked the driver, “donde estamos?!” (where are we?!) even though my location was very clear. The driver looked very surprised to see me; he clearly had no idea I had been riding in the back of the bus this entire time. He explained that he had finished the route a while ago, and he was taking the bus back to the terminal and going home for the day. This couldn’t be happening. I pleaded with the man.
“No, no, pero vas al centro! No fuimos al centro!”
(No, no, but you are going downtown! We didn’t go downtown!)
A little “he said, she said”
At first, the driver insisted that the route did not go downtown and I had gotten on the wrong bus. I argued, saying that I had specifically asked him and he had said yes. After we went back and forth a few times, he miraculously seemed to remember. He apologized, saying that his other route did go downtown and that he must have been confused when I had asked. I stared at him, more bewildered than angry. I didn’t know much about where I was, but I did know it was not a particularly safe area, nor anywhere near where I lived. My only option was a taxi, and I didn’t have enough cash on me to cover it. I uselessly repeated, “pero me dijiste!” (but you told me!)
This is kind of the sprawled-out nothingness I was dealing with near the bus terminal.
A personalized bus route, just for me
I don’t know if the driver really felt that guilty, or was just afraid he wouldn’t be able to drag this near-tears foreigner off his bus, but he started asking me where it was I was trying to go. I quickly explained that “al centro” always means the bus goes to Plaza Independencia. He nodded, impatiently, as he of course knew where downtown was. “Vives cerca de la Plaza Independencia?” (You live close to Plaza Independencia?) I nodded, quickly, and “Si si si, bueno, al lado de Plaza España pero siempre camino” (yes yes yes, well, next to Plaza España but I always walk”)
The driver sighed, and started up his engine. I stared at him, with the eyes of a lost and confused 18 year old in a foreign country. He told me to sit down, and I didn’t argue. I sat quietly, amazed, as this bus driver drove back into the city. As we approached Plaza España, he asked me where I lived. I pointed to an apartment building, and he pulled right up to the sidewalk and opened the door to let me off.
I paused before I exited, and thanked him enthusiastically. He smiled, perhaps holding back a laugh, or perhaps simply because he was happy to help. I hurried down the bus steps and rushed into my apartment, where I knew my host mother would be waiting, worried that I had gotten lost. I knew she’d never believe how I made it home.
