Ever wonder what becomes of those ugly yellow Bluebird school buses when they’re almost junk?
They start a new life in Central America.
The one I’m on now is in León, Nicaragua. I’m squished into a torn and well-worn window seat — at least I have one on this overcrowded hot bus — next to the non-functioning sliding window.
Inhaling my foreign surroundings, I spy an ominous-looking bug, just out of reach, watching me from the side panel under the window. The bug is actually closer to the bare arms of the pony-tailed young woman in the seat ahead of me. She is engaged in a lively conversation otherwise I would warn her — despite my limited Spanish skills — about the nasty-looking bug.
This insect, carrying a black hard shell with red wavy lines, is about the size of my thumbnail. Its antennae are long and waving. Somehow resting comfortably on the side panel of the bus, it faces me. Right now, the bug is stationary. And I am caught in its line of vision.
There is too much activity and noise on this bus…and we haven’t left the depot yet.
A large middle-aged woman from the market is pushing along the crowded aisle hawking tajadas, a favourite Nica snack of fried plantains served in a plastic bag with two helpings of coleslaw salad (carried separately in a swinging pail) topped with a splash of some mysterious sauce. The woman’s eye makeup is impeccable but over the top: turquoise eyelids with a whitish blend beneath her carefully black pencilled eyebrows. Shimmering tomato-red lips draw attention to her double chins. The colour of her lips matches her long fake fingernails. Tawny-coloured hair, black at the roots, is pulled back severely into a ponytail accenting her dangling golden hoop earrings. She is a study in extremes as she sways back and forth, up and down the crowded aisle, hawking her food.
Her loud appearance is a magnet, forcing me to take my eye off the bug for a minute. But suddenly my peripheral vision senses movement. I catch the bug’s slow silent creep towards me along the side panel of this hot-like-a-furnace vehicle.
Finally, the aging bus burps and smokes as the driver pulls out onto the dusty road. He switches an old Bruce Lee film on the front video screen which adds to the general confusion.
Nica buses have a copiloto, a helper who performs duties that free the driver to do his job. The copiloto collects fares, helps passengers off and on the bus, urges them to move on back when it’s crowded. Our copiloto is slowly making his way through the stand of pressed-together flesh, collecting the fare, while the bus is in motion.
The bug, still there and visible in my peripheral vision, unsettles me. I decide to flick it away but miss my flick; instead, it skitters closer to the bare arm of the girl ahead of me. Unfortunately, it still faces me, ignoring the luscious-looking flesh only one bite away.
Now careening along the highway with swaying customers leaning into and around our bus seats, I decide it’s time to warn the pony-tailed girl about the bug. As I’m about to tap her shoulder, she pulls a canister from her large purse, sprays her thick black hair and unwittingly sprays the ominous-looking bug. It disappears — where? On my bare leg? Inside my shorts? In my backpack wedged into the space between my legs, ready to pop out when least suspected?
Meanwhile, back at our casa
The bug is still on my mind when we awaken the next morning to the crow of nearby roosters. Too many insectos in these tropical countries, I conclude.
Suddenly my husband beckons me to the baño.
“Spider,” he whispers, “big one.” He points to an open drawer.
I gasp.
Tarantula! Two of its black hairy legs hang over the edge, poised as if ready to jump.
Oh, what to do? What to do? Although a whiz at defeating bugs, my husband has no idea how to tackle a 10 cm tarantula.
Is it fast? Poisonous? Aggressive? We run around in circles before he decides to seek an expert: he runs for help from a Nica neighbour. Ayúdame! Help me! I hear him shout.
While he’s gone only a minute, I nervously eye the tarantula in case the creature decides to scurry somewhere. Like towards ME.
My husband returns pronto with our aging Nica neighbour. He sees the tarantula. No translation necessary.
Reaching into his back pocket, he whips out one of those spring-loaded tape measures that when released flies back inside its canister. While we both watch intently, our elderly neighbour pulls out the tape measure to a desired length.
Deftly, quickly, he places the extended tape under the body of the tarantula, immediately flips it out of the drawer, onto the floor. Stunned, the huge spider does not move. With lightning speed, our saviour neighbour steps on it.
There, before our astonished eyes, we stare open-mouthed at the remains of this large hairy intruder. Squished into many black hairy pieces.
Immediately I think about all the dark places in our rented casa where his kin might hide. Undisturbed black corners of our bedroom closet. Hidden back-of-the-drawer spaces, like cupboards. Behind the stove. Even under the bed at night.
***
And to think I was worried about the bug on the bus.
