The view from the
top of the chicken
bus, the English
name for an
American school bus
that’s used in
Nicaragua as local
transportation. A
bike, a bag of rice,
tires, furniture and a
tied-down calf ride
on top with the men
and the author, who
says, “Women never
ride on top.”
‘Arriba arriba?” High high? I
ask the bus driver and point
to the top of the American
school bus that’s used in
Nicaragua as local transportation. In English, it’s called a chicken
bus. Most are classic yellow, customized
with images of the white jesucristo bleeding on the cross. This one has green streamers along the sides and a blue Virgin Mary.
I am on my way to Limon, Nicaragua,
to start a surf camp for Nicaraguan girls.
I ride through the mountains on top of
the bus and grip rusty racks to keep from
being slung off — passing sea-foam colored
homes, black iron pots piled on the washing slabs and bright purple rope oppressed
with drying clothes.
I yell with the men, “¡Brama, brama! ¡A
la izquierda, a la derecha!” Branch, branch!
Left, right! And we dodge. When we stop,
women with baskets of dulces on their
heads and bags of ripe avocados around
their wrists push their way up the aisles
looking for a sale. I sit on top because the
bus gets crowded and these women have no
problem shoving me out of the way. I don’t
blame them anyway. So I sit with some
men. One holds a pig in a bag. On the back
