I sat on the curb waiting for the overnight bus that would take me eight hours north to Yangon, Myanmar. A flock of mosquitos were hovering above, singing in harmony with the buzz of the fluorescent lights. I wore shorts and my freshly laundered t-shirt, which was already falling victim to sweat from the tropical evening heat. I pondered on the ingenuity of the overnight bus—what a merry merging of efficiency and travel. I wondered what I would do when I arrived, fully rested and ready for adventure.
The bus rounded the corner, belched out a cloud of black diesel fumes and rumbled to a stop across the street. I boarded and opted to keep my bag with me. Maybe I would get lucky and no one would sit next to me. The seat was not designed with the legs of a six-foot man in mind. I shifted, trying different positions before I settled on leaning against the window. It was not ideal for a good night’s sleep, but with the right amount of exhaustion, it wouldn't matter.
As I was beginning my celebration commemorating the empty seat next to me, he appeared at the front of the bus. He wore a jean jacket with a swastika patch on each shoulder. His hair was slicked back and full of grease. He carried half a dozen full plastic bags, crinkling and crackling with every step he took.
He began the search for his seat. I sent up prayers of desperation, begging with the gods that he would keep walking past me. I could see my chances at sleep disappearing with each row he passed. He was closer now. I could feel my heart beat faster. As he arrived at my row, he looked at his ticket, then at the number on the seat next to me, then back to his ticket. Time stood still and I held my breath. I cursed the gods as he sat down next to me with the grace of a farm animal jockeying for position in the feed line. An elbow found its way into my ribs. So it began.
He did not speak English, nor did I know any Burmese. He was young and looked like a punk rocker from back home. After a brief failed attempt at a “hello,” I quickly realized there was no chance at an intelligible conversation. He seemed to disagree. He constantly tapped me on the shoulder to mumble something indecipherable. I would smile and nod and then he would grab my hand and raise it up high and cackle with laughter. We did this dance for the next 10 minutes and I watched my chance at sleep drift out the window, joining the trail of diesel smoke in the night sky.
My hopes were lifted when we reached the highway. I told myself he would lose enthusiasm and it appeared I was right. I wondered when the bus driver would turn the lights off. There was an announcement made and I imagined the driver was wishing us sweet dreams. In my head I thanked him for being so polite. Instead of turning the lights off, the TV mounted in the front of the bus flickered to life. "Ah, a nice movie to put us to sleep,” I thought. A woman appeared on the screen and the sound of electronic techno drums pierced my ears. She began to dance and sing as the screen flashed with a strobe light. My face dropped as I stared on in disbelief. Burmese pop music blared from every corner of the bus. I turned my gaze over to my seat mate, expecting to see a face of shock. He met my gaze. Smiling, he grabbed my hand and began to dance in his seat.
The music blared on and I was quickly learning to never assume it couldn't get any worse. The driver decided to turn the air conditioner down to arctic levels and the temperature in the bus was quickly dropping. I mulled over the situation, trying to understand how pop music and freezing temperatures were a sound business idea for an overnight bus service. It seemed like a war was playing out in front of my very eyes. As the temperature dropped lower and lower, the music got louder and louder. I decided that the passengers had to dance in order to keep their body temperature at life-sustaining levels.Every part of my body wanted sleep but my seat mate continued to dance, the music continued to blare, and our mobile rave bounced along the road in a most unforgiving manner.
Suddenly, the bus screeched to stop. My seat mate got up and I almost could not contain my exuberance. Was this his stop? I watched him walk to the front of the bus and exit into the darkness. Pure joy entered my soul. I waited for the bus to roar to life and leave him in the dust behind, never to be seen again, but we didn’t move. My gaze shifted outside the window. I saw something shimmering in the darkness. My eyes were dreary but I forced them to focus. It was my seat mate. He was relieving himself just outside my window. He glanced up and waved at me.
After he emptied his bladder, he resumed his position next to me and the bus sputtered to life. Before I could consider the etiquette of stopping the bus for one's personal needs, the pop music was back to maximum volume. My cheap headphones were no match at drowning out the noise but they did act as a subtle defense against my seat mate’s attempts at conversation.
Midnight rolled around and people began to break out their blankets and coverings. My seat mate was digging through one of his plastic bags, somehow able to make enough noise to compete with the pop music. It was an evil symphony designed to thwart any attempt at sleep. Near the intersection where patience and violence meet, I let go of any hope for sleep and resigned to staring out the window. My seat mate eventually passed out, yet this did not improve the situation. He swayed back and forth with every turn and attempted to lean on my shoulder, coughing and sputtering every time he woke up.
We eventually arrived in the city, or what I thought was the city. As my luck would have it the bus didn't quite go all the way into the city. It dropped us off on the outskirts and it appeared I would still have to corral a taxi at three o'clock in the morning. I tried to communicate the name of the hotel that I had booked and the bus driver walked me over to a white station wagon. I was able to convey my needs with the taxi driver. We agreed on a price for the trip and I bid farewell to the bus from hell.
I arrived at my hotel with one last obstacle to overcome: I had booked a room for that night, but I was arriving at 3 AM. I hoped that would fall under the hotel’s early check-in policy. I was confident, however that I had paid my dues on that bus ride and the gods would be happy to grant my wish. I approached the check in counter with sleep in mind. The attendant shook his head. A large tour group had checked in the day before and they did not have a single room free. He was very apologetic and informed me he would not mind if I slept in the lobby. I slumped over to what looked like a comfortable couch and decided it could be worse. As I laid down expecting to sink into the oblivion of foam padding, I landed the rigid frame of the wicker furniture that hid beneath the thin cushion. There was no other option but to laugh. I drifted off to sleep with the sound of Burmese pop music dancing in my head.
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