One of the interesting things about being in a foreign country where the people speak a different language is that even small things can be a struggle. Our first day here it took Kehala and I fifteen minutes to figure out how to lock our front door.
It turned out that the front door was a bit sticky to begin with as we had substantially less trouble with the front gate. Nonetheless, after ten minutes of unsuccessfully attempting to leave the house for our first venture into the wide world of Argentina, Kehala was literally on the ground laughing at our ineptness. When we finally did lock the gate behind us, it was a taste of victory.
Two days later, we encountered another obstacle: the colectivo (as buses are called here). After a few significant failures, Kehala and I think we are very slowly beginning to understand Córdoba’s bus system, which it turns out, is very different from any American bus system I have encountered (although both of us have limited experience with these as well). Every morning we ride two colectivos to get to work, stopping downtown to change buses. Immediately we learned that colectiveros (bus drivers) take a very lax approach to obeying traffic laws and it is common for buses to come within a foot of other buses, cars, cyclists, pedestrians, or one of the cities many stray dogs. Last week, something large and very sharp punctured the bottom of our bus making a loud noise and startling even the Córdobese passengers who are generally unperturbed by what Kehala and I consider near-collisions. The wood on the bottom of the bus was actually broken, with shards pointed into the air. However, our driver merely stopped the bus, peered underneath, nodded his head, and with a curt “nada,” continued on as normal.
Buses in Córdoba have both a letter and a number designating their route, for example to get to work we take N5 and C1. Our volunteer coordinator instructed us that all N buses go on Avenida Nuñez, a large avenue only about five blocks from our house. Therefore, he said, we could take any N bus to get home. A few days ago, Kehala and I walked to the Plaza de San Martín to catch our second bus heading home. As we approached the bus stop, we saw that an N bus was at the stop and people were boarding. We ran to catch it, and I hopped on. However, the bus driver, not noticing or not caring that I was halfway on the bus, closed the door (forcing me to squeeze the rest of the way in and leaving Kehala baffled and alone on the sidewalk). This was an unexpected turn of events, but not a huge problem since I assumed she would just catch the next bus and we would meet up at home (we didn’t have phones). The bus eventually hit Nuñez, but after only a block turned off onto a side street. After awhile it went by a grocery store I remembered visiting with my host mom (but had no idea how far it was from home). I kept hoping it would turn back onto Nuñez but instead it wound its way through unfamiliar neighborhoods, skirting the area I knew and eventually turning onto a dirt road. There were a few skinny horses grazing in dried up fields, run-down shacks, and children playing on a mound of dirt with a deflated soccer ball. It was very clear that this was not where I was supposed to be—Kehala and I live in the Argentinean equivalent of a gated community. People trickled off until all of the sudden I came to the disturbing realization that I was the last person on the bus.
My one consoling thought up to that point had been that buses go in circles, so this bus would eventually head back to Nuñez, or at least back downtown and I could catch another bus home from there. Mostly I was concerned that Kehala had made it home like normal, and was worrying about me. I went up to talk to the bus driver, who asked me why I was not getting off. I explained that I was lost, I was American, and I needed to get to Nuñez.
“Nuñez?” he asked. “This bus doesn’t go to Nuñez.” Then he informed me that this was the last stop for this bus, and I needed to get off. He did tell me that there was a bus stop for an N2 bus nearby that would take me back to Nuñez. I got off, and headed in the direction he had pointed.
After asking a man in the street, I found the bus stop (a number and letter spray painted onto a electrical pole) and stood there waiting. Eventually, a young woman came up and stood next to me at the bus stop. I asked her if she had a cell phone, wanting to call my host mother and tell her that I was on my way home. Her phone did not have minutes but she did assure me that I was in the right place and we got to talking (in Spanish!). She told me about her love for Shania Twain (and showed me the biography she was carrying), and that she was a geography student at the university. Eventually, two buses approached. As the first bus (an N of a different number) passed without stopping, a surprised face peered at me from the window: Kehala!
Somehow, she had also ended up on an N4 and landed herself in the same neighborhood! She had also found herself alone on the bus, but her bus driver had taken her to the station with him and put her on a different bus that would go by Nuñez. It was an incredible moment: somehow in this city of over a million people, she had looked out from the bus and seen me standing on a street corner on a dirt road in a neighborhood that to this day I would have no way of finding on a map.
I got on the next bus with the young woman, and we chatted until we got back to an area I recognized. An hour and a half after we had set out from the Plaza de San Martín, wandering a bit confusedly about my neighborhood, I was asking an old woman for directions when I saw Kehala coming towards me (unlike me, she knew the way home from there). I have no way to calculate the probability of encountering her twice on our improbable journeys home, but suffice it to say that we were pleased to see each other.
Two days later, we had another lesson: not only do not all N buses go by Nuñez, not even our neighborhood bus, N5, will always take us home. Both Kehala and I left our first bus adventure feeling tired and hungry but mostly proud of our Spanish skills in a time of need and grateful for the help and companionship of strangers. This time, we got on an N5 bus downtown (although not at our usual stop). However, although we didn’t notice for quite some time (it’s difficult to tell because many of the streets look similar), this bus headed off in a completely different direction. Forty minutes later, the bus driver asked us what we were doing and informed us that the N5 route that goes by our house is a different route altogether. In the end, we had to buy another ticket and ride the bus all the way back downtown and then in the other direction towards home. This time we did not have fun. This time we just felt frustrated with our lack of information, we had headaches, and we were tired and hungry. But now we know: not all buses go in circles and it is important to always ask where your bus is headed!
This weekend, however, we had a more positive bus experience. Kehala and I went to Salta for four days and we took overnight buses there and back. These buses are much more cushy than any American or European bus I have experienced. The cama (bed) buses have seats that recline to a bit less than 180 degrees. Although I don’t generally enjoy transportation of any kind, overnight busing is definitely preferable to day busing because it’s so much easier to sleep. I won’t say that I slept well, but 11 hours each way on the bus definitely went a lot faster than heading off nausea by staring straight ahead.
While it’s true that seemingly simple things can become exponentially more complicated in a foreign country, it’s also true that even small things can seem like victories. After two bus mishaps, we made it home in a reasonable manner three days in a row! This we think, is cause for celebration.
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