Wednesday, June 30, 2010

In the Belly of the Bus

Tofino. A small town on the western coast of Vancouver Island. The enormous Red Cedars are outnumbered only by tourists. The tourists don't stick around as long and the cedars keep to themselves...



I arrived here on a Greyhound bus, greasy-haired and dissheveled. As I made my way to the exit I wondered if the trip had been worth all the trouble. I was two days older and indeed, two days wiser.

My original thought before stepping on board a bus filled with strangers of all ages and backgrounds was that I wanted to embark on a different kind of journey back home to Canada. I had spent the last three months in Arizona working as a field technician, surveying breeding birds along the Colorado River. It had been a dramatic season full of love and adventure and I wanted to take the next two days to say goodbye to America and to reflect on my time in the desert. So, in lieu of the convenience of an airplane I opted for a bus. This way I could witness the beauty of Oregon and Washington, read my book, and write in my journal. It was a romantic idea. But sure enough like most ideas, it didn't quite materialize the way I had hoped. In reality, those two days lent themselves to the longest week of my life. It may of had something to do with the fact that I left something of great value behind. I was incredibly sad and in my opinion, there was no better way to be sad than to wallow in the loneliness of an epic 1000-mile bus ride.



A day before embarking on my journey north, I said goodbye to my field house in Lake Havasu City, AZ and drove off in the last remaining work truck. I took it six-hundred miles across the seemingly endless deserts of Nevada, northwest to Reno. The trip was lonely, sad, and a little maddening but I occupied myself by taking pictures of distant mountains through the smudged windshield and sang along to my favourite songs. I stopped occasionally for food, gas, and bathroom breaks only to hit the road once again. Eleven hours later I triumphantly pulled into a driveway in a quaint neighbourhood just south of downtown Reno. The lawns were manicured and the gardens were overflowing with colourful flowers. The home at the end of this particular driveway belonged to my boss and her husband. They had offered to put me up for the night, and I was happy to have a warm bed to rest my tired and confused head.

The next day, after a restful sleep and a bowl of oatmeal, I strolled over to the Stephenson Street bus station. One hundred and seventy-nine dollars later I had my ticket to Canada. I spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging my backpack and in the evening I enjoyed a few farewell drinks with my boss and her husband.

At 8 PM I sat in the run-down, Reno Greyhound terminal gripping an orange, second-hand suitcase and waited eagerly for the first of five buses that would eventually take me all the way to Tofino, British Columbia. My head was full of thought, and my stomach was full of drink. Soon, people began forming a line which I promptly joined. As we all stood there, a young man standing in front of me asked where I was heading. He raised his eyebrows in shock when I told him I was travelling all the way to BC. I raised mine when he informed me that he was heading to LA to catch a flight back to Germany. Being born in Germany myself, we found a few things to talk about while we inched closer and closer to the narrow bus door. Finally, it was my turn to hand over my ticket and my luggage. We eyed separate window seats and parted with a smile. I curled up and tried to mentally prepare for the longest bus-ride of my life.

***

It seemed that everyone I met on my buses had a story. It began with a conceited woman with a fake nose and collagen-injected lips. She sat next to me on that first bus which embarked from Reno. All the way to Sacramento, California she entertained me with tales of rock stars and celebrities she had mingled with, danced with, slept with. She talked to me about chakras and astrology. And I was glad for her company. The first one hundred and thrity-two miles flew by and before I knew it I saw the tall buildings of downtown Sacramento.


I waited two hours for the next bus that would take me to Portland, OR. We roared onto the I-5 around 1:15 AM and I managed to sleep until 7 AM, at which time the small town of Roseburg, OR met us for breakfast. Little did I know, this would be the only meal I would eat until midnight.
I savoured my coffee and gazed beyond the smudged glass, watching as green fields, lush forested mountains, and deep valleys rushed past. Abandoned houses and farms dotted the fertile landscape and I wondered who had lived there once upon a time.

I marvelled at all the beauty and told myself that this was why I did it. This was what made the entire bus trip worth all the discomfort. It was absolutely breath-taking. The New Pornographers "Entering White Cecilia" whispered into my head and provided the perfect soundtrack to accompany the transient world outside my window.


In Eugene, an awkward man climbed the stairs of the bus and made his way down the aisle. He was the next person to grace me with tales of his life. He was going home to Portland where he was studying to be a nurse. He had two kids and a new baby granddaughter. In earnest, he showed me pictures of his family, as though the world could end at any moment and he desperately needed to inform someone that he did something meaningful with his life. I feigned polite interest for a little while, but I soon returned to looking out into the world. I placed my headphones over my ears and watched as the rest of Oregon passed me by.

My makeshift solitude was not to last long, however. In Corvallis, a young, deaf mother with a pair of toddlers sat in the seat in front of me. I was initially annoyed when one of the little girls popped her head over the headrest. An enormous, small-toothed grin crossed her face as she stared at me intently. I smiled back thinking she would grow bored and retreat. But she was persistent. For the next two hours she pointed at absolutely everything from the bus window - clouds, cars, dogs in cars, people in cars, horses, cows, buildings, my water bottle - with intense curiosity. I laughed at her eagerness and pronounced all of their names. The mother occasionally turned around and looked at me apologetically, letting me know that I didn't need to entertain her daughter. But I was happy to teach her some new words, and make her bus trip a little more bearable.


At 2:45 PM we all exited the bus in Portland and half an hour later I was on my next bus heading for Seattle. This time I shared the ride with a young girl, also studying to be a nurse. We chatted a little bit but she mostly talked on her cell phone. I took this pleasant opportunity to listen to my music and contemplate my future out west. I had the notion that I would live a quiet, artistic summer beside the ocean. I would write music and paint, perhaps work part-time. My best friend was living out there with her boyfriend and I hadn't seen her since February of 2009. A lot had happened since then and we needed to catch up in a big, bad way. So I would establish myself in Tofino and spend the summer with my friend. This seemed an ideal place to ignore my spot of melancholy.

I arrived in Seattle at 7:00 PM. This bus station was the worst I had seen so far. It smelled of urine and was packed wall to wall with grumpy travelers. We all stood, toes thumping, eyes straight ahead, praying for our respective buses to pull-in and take us home.

I heaved a sigh of relief once on the bus - my second last bus before I reached my final destination. We crossed the Canadian border at 11:00 PM after a few minor hiccups (I had to turn over my pepper spray and then discovered I needed to replace my passport... long story) and arrived in Vancouver at midnight. My bus to Nanaimo didn't leave until 5:45 AM and so I took this opportunity to clean-up. I spent the next twenty minutes in the washroom changing my clothes and washing my face. I braided my greasy hair which I tuckedunder my green field hat and brushed my teeth.
When I exited the washroom I saw a round, red-faced Ukrainian security guard explaining to a mother and daughter that the bus station was closing. The pair had nowhere to stay while they waited for their next bus which coincidentally was destined for Nanaimo. I joined in the conversation and explained that I was in a similar predicament. The guard gruffly told us we could sleep in the station but would have to remain inside all night as they would lock the doors.

We settled into a corner of the bus station and piled our belongings on a pair of wooden benches. We laughed about how ridiculous we felt and spent the next hour chatting before catching a few, broken hours of sleep. As it happened, this Navajo woman and her daughter had traveled from Phoenix and were delighted that I was also coming from Arizona. While we exchanged stories the Ukrainian security guard, along with his Punjabi partner, strolled over and chatted with us. They asked us where we were from and what we were doing in Vancouver. They told us they always worked the night shift and liked it because it was quiet. They did their rounds and then returned. This time they sat together near the ticket booth talking quietly. In the meantime I had unrolled my sleeping bag onto one of the benches. I lay there listening as the soft voices of the two men echoed around the hollow bus station and drifted in and out of sleep.

At 4 AM the Ukrainian barked at us to wake up since they would be opening the station in half an hour. With as much haste as I could manage I stuffed my sleeping bag into its pouch and packed it away. I yawned and looked around the empty station. Soon it would once again be busy with the to and fro of those making their way from place to place.

The bus to Nanaimo departed the Vancouver terminal at 5:45 on the dot, and took me along with it. Together we crossed the Straight of Georgia on a large ferry. I was forced to exit the bus for the duration of this water crossing. Pillow in hand, I found an empty seat and curled up. I dozed for the entirety of the trip, waking occasionally to the sound of excited elementary school kids running around the deck.
I arrived in Nanaimo at 8:30 AM. Two days had passed and I was nearly at my final destination. I waited in the small, dusty bus terminal for the last wheeled beast to take me to Tofino. I busied myself with a romantic World War I novel. The bus rolled-in at exactly 10:30 AM and I climbed aboard. How sweet this final stretch would be. I could taste the salty air, smell the cedar, hear the waves crashing onto the sandy shore... Exhausted, I lay across the two hard, narrow seats and slept the last four hours into oblivion. I woke randomly to see the road before us snaking through poisonously green mountains. My eyelids closed against my will and I continued to dream.

I didn't wake again until we arrived in Tofino.