Chicken buses are not referred to by locals this way.  They just call them ‘camionetes’.  They are used school buses from the US.  You see, ridiculous school board policies require schools to get rid of buses once they are ‘unsafe’, which is considered to be 100,000 miles in most cases.  So, auctions are held all the time getting rid of buses that were $500,000 a few years ago and are sold for less than $5,000 to church groups and Guatemalan and Panamanian entrepreneurs.

Educators like this arrangement because it keeps budgets artificially high, which helps to hide waste and inefficiency that would otherwise occupy a much larger percentage of the budget, politicians like it because they can be ‘pro education’, taxpayers accept it because it’s “for the children”, and bus companies like it because they sell more buses.

The buses are driven through Mexico, or occasionally shipped by boat, and then retrofitted.  They remove the metal hood and replace it with a lightweight fiberglass hood, rip out the old engine and replace it with one designed for a 18 wheeler.  This is so those inclines they encounter with regularity (aka mountains), will not slow their ascent, even when loaded to twice the manufacturer’s maximum gross vehicle weight.

It is also mandatory to install a stereo system with blown speakers, metal racks on the inside and outside, and ladders on the back.  The ghetto tasteful Mayan-inspired paint job may be immediate or come later, depending upon the remaining budget.

The buses work very much like TukTuks; the driver pays the owner rent for the privilege of driving the bus every day.  A daily rent fee averages 1200Q (not a bad return on a $5,000 bus, eh?).  This is why the buses are always racing around, because the more trips they make, the more the driver makes.  A typical bus is built for 66, but properly loaded it will hold 150, including those standing in the isles.  At 8Q a piece to the capital, it’s not hard to see why they race back and forth.

The driver is assisted by an ayudante, who collects money, helps little old ladies onto the bus, and loads things on top when necessary.  He also jumps off the bus at intersections and solicits riders, yelling out the name of the destination (apparently locals cannot read the name printed on the roof).

Guatemaltecos, like most Latinos, don’t understand the concept of personal space, so they don’t think much of being squirshed together on the bus.  I’ve seen people sit 3 or 4 to a seat when there are other empty seats further back.  Nobody ever seems to mind, although one time I did see a woman frown when a kid grabbed her left breast and hip to get enough leverage to squeeze by.

Every American I know would gladly walk to the back of the bus for an empty seat rather than sit three across on a seat made for two fourth graders. In contrast, old ladies  would rather sit with four others on the very first seat than walk a few rows back.  This is because of the difficulty you can have fighting your way out to the exit on a crowded bus.  Unlike my dark-pigmented brothers, I’m perfectly content to sit in the very back of the bus, which gives me easy access to the rear exit and allows me to avoid the crowd at the front.  Of course, the ride in the back is much worse (owing to the condition of the original set of shocks), for reasons I  understand but have never been able to articulate to my kids.

Because of the economic arrangement, owners don’t have much incentive to maintain a bus.  If the bus goes off a cliff because the breaks fail, well, that’s the driver’s fault.  It’s probably cheaper to buy one occasionally than waste all that money on breaks and tires.  It’s not like you could have anticipated such a thing, anyway.  If a chicken bus runs over a family of six on a motorcycle, well, the owner is not liable because he has a contract with the driver that releases him from all liability.

You can probably understand now why the buses are such notorious polluters; the owners have absolutely no incentive to get them to optimal operating conditions.  If you’re a bus owner and driving through town in a 2009 Hummer, the filter in your AC will save you from the cloud of exhaust, and since you would never expose yourself to the dangers of Antigua by rolling down the windows, that dark cloud hanging over 7th Calle (egress to Guate) & 9th Calle (ingress from San Pedro Las Huertas, San Juan del Obispo and Santa Maria de Jesus) is not a problem.

I trust readers have some good stories to share…

Update:  Charlotte has a personal experience to share.

I’ve never lived full-time in a city with a subway, although I’ve traveled extensively and always appreciated being able to get around town easily, cheaply and while reading a newspaper.  My favorite combination is the DC Metro and the WSJ.  Plus, subways are great for people watching, and in the days of phone/camera combination, anything is possible.

Well, when we were first in Mexico City (aka Distrito Federal or ‘DF’), I realized quickly that I could go all over the city and get close to almost anything for only 2 Pesos, which at the current exchange rate (1:13),  is around 15 cents.  At most I had to change trains 3 times to go anywhere, although very often only two trains were necessary to cross town.  As long as you avoid rush hour, its convenient and fast.  If you ride at rush hour, you’re going to be packed in like sardines.

Security was always high, with plenty of visible armed policemen, and at night and on the weekends, heavily armed military types.  I never once felt unsafe, in fact, whenever I entered the train, most people would stare for a few minutes and then look away as though they were afraid.  It was with these experiences in mind that I encouraged my wife to use the subway without hesitation.

Her experience was somewhat different.  When she got on the train, everyone stared at her-for as long as she was on the train.  Her pale complexion and light hair probably made her quite the spectacle.  In addition, she found herself immediately surrounded by four or five men, and within the first few stops had been groped in all manner of places by seemingly dozens of hands, and twice found someone’s hand in her purse.

When she returned and told me the story, I wasn’t sure whether to feel outrage or jealousy.  All those times on the subway, and I had only once been groped in such a fashion, and I’m pretty sure it was because I made the mistake of getting on at 5pm and there were about 500 people on the train, causing me to be pressed up against a small, stocky grandmother who was desperately trying to find her ringing cell phone and in was frantically searching and grabbed my, well, you get the point.  My Spanish wasn’t very good at the time but I understood her sheepish grin.

The closest thing you’ll get to that here is the Chicken Bus.  I’ve ridden the Chicken Bus on a number of occassions, and if you ride between 7am and 9am, or between noon and 2pm, or between 5pm and 6pm, you’ll likely encounter the same crush of human bodies.  I regret to say that I’ve not yet been groped in these circumstances, although I have had multiple close encounters with exposed breasts.  I’ve got more to say about the Chicken Buses, but that will have to wait for another post.

I stopped at one of the tourist agencies in central park to arrange for a shuttle.  The first agency quoted me $5 and said it would leave at 1pm.  As it was only 11am, I wanted something sooner.  Two doors down, another agency quoted me $8, and said the shuttle would leave at 12pm.  Obviously the hour was worth more than my $3, but I inquired about the price difference.  The young man explained to me in broken English that the other place was offering “hair cuts”  and that if I wanted to read testimonials from other Americans explaining their experiences, I could.  (He subsequently pulled out a ring binder with handwritten horror stories from tourists explaining their bad experiences with the other agency).

So, I paid and got my receipt and made arrangements to be picked up at 12pm over at Academia Colonial.  The shuttle arrived promptly at 12:30pm.  The driver, 50ish, small and muscular, didn’t offer to help me with my bags but made it clear he was in a hurry.  I hopped in and was pleased to find the 12 passenger van only had 11 passengers in it, instead of the usual 15.

I should have thought about it when I first saw the driver, because the wrap-around sunglasses, leather motorcycle jacket and driving gloves might have served as a warning for what the next 2 1/2 hours would entail.  As a bizarre mixture of circus music and salsa blared out of the blown speakers of the shuttle, the driver pushed the engine to the limit as we climbed the hills towards Panajachel.

As we rounded the curves I could feel the walls of the balding tires giving way, and worse, as we passed chicken buses (if you know anything about those pimped-out buses, you know just how fast we were going), and darted back and forth between incoming traffic and collectivos, the shuttle routinely bottomed out, owing no doubt to a history with the current driver and a usual load of 15 oversized Gringos.

About an hour and a half into the trip, the driver skidded to a halt on the side of the road to grab a bite to eat.  I could smell the brakes and noticed the engine was throwing off enough heat to stir up a small dust cloud under the van.  A fellow passenger made it clear she needed to get out to use the bathroom (not sure where she planned to do that, since the tienda was nothing but a small shack and there was nothing else in sight), and was in the process of opening the sliding door when the driver returned, dropped it into gear and guns the engine.  I would have laughed at the situation except I had picked out a fence post I was planning on using for bathroom concealment myself, and nothing is worse than thinking you’re going to get to ‘go’ and then not getting to.

Now the driver was navigating the winding pavement/dirt roads between Chimaltenango and Panajachel with one hand grasping a can of orange juice and the steering wheel, the other holding a package of crackers and managing the gear shifter.  From my vantage point the farthest I could see on the speedometer was 100 km/hr, but the needle was far enough past this that I could not ascertain our precise speed.

A short time later, we arrived in Pana.  My fellow passengers scrambled out of the van.  I found a bathroom (after being refused access at two ‘tourist-friendly’ establishments).  As I walked down Calle Principal towards the docks, I noticed the aforementioned shuttle driver changing the right-front tire.   I didn’t know whether to appreciate his foresight or to simply feel gratitude that it hadn’t failed during our trip, which almost certainly would have resulted in a rollover and likely, a very long tumble down a mountainside.

Moral of the story:  If your driver looks like Mario Andretti, you might want to feign a sudden stomach ailment and wait for the next shuttle.  I suggest going with a guy who looks like he’s never been in a hurry in his life.