(I'm already deciding that I'm not fond of blogspot. I wrote this whole entry once already and blogspot lost it. It just means that I'll have to take more precautions.)
Yesterday as we left San Antonio and headed for Antigua, there was a man on the bus who walked up to the front where the driver is. He didn't walk like most of the rest of us walk; he was sort of dragging his legs and used his arms a lot to keep him upright. I suppose he could have been drunk, but I think he more likely had some sort of motor problem.
Upon arriving at the front of the bus, he proceeded to block the stairway, talk to the driver, and mess with the instruments that he could reach...and even some that he couldn't really reach. This bothered me. I live in the highlands of Guatemala, 4000 feet above sea level. It is one thing to put my life--on these mountainous windy roads--in the hands of two--the driver and his helper--burly Guatemalan men. It was another to unwillingly have my life put in the hands of a man who lacks motor control should he suddenly grab and yank the steering wheel. To be honest with you, I was scared. To be further honest with you, I was hoping the driver would kick the man off the bus.
However, as we reached the entrance/exit to San Antonio, the driver stopped the bus and wrestled the man off, and we drove off, my feelings slightly changed. To see the man laying there on the ground holding his knee, I wondered if the driver had even tried to explain the dangers that this man was putting us all in, that the man needed to sit down (as there were seats available). I couldn't help but think that maybe the man wasn't treated fairly.
But I was glad that my life was back in the hands of people I more-or-less trusted.