sharp objects in the schoolyard

in the compound:

At the time it really wasn’t clear to me why we needed a police escort to bypass a large group of non-moving vehicles and guide us into an extremely tight parking place next to two other buses and a lone restaurant. My mental processes were elsewhere. All I cared about was eating. I was shirtless and hungry, a deadly combination. And being near the back of the bus I nearly had a mental breakdown waiting for my turn to get off – this is human nature in the 21st century, patience is at a minimum – but when the time was right I excitedly jumped down the steps and onto the gravel floor of the compound, making my way for the gate that we had very recently pulled through. Denied. The gate was closed, locks on tight, cruelly denying my attempts at freedom and leaving me in a brief state of confusion. I looked through the openings between the metal bars as if I were in a prison cell, grasping them tightly in my hands while doing my best to look like garbage. I could see the only other white people on this venture (a young American couple) exit the front door of the adjacent restaurant, take four to five strides into the street (clearly on their own mission for freedom and sweet Colombian plantains) before being chased down and fiercely grabbed by our very own bus driver. His mustache was wiggling madly, sweat poured off his brow, presumably down his hairy back, etc etc.
“Please my friends, stay here,” he said, gesturing to the restaurant, “I don’t want to lose you.”
What was this? Kevin Costner’s The Guardian? Why was our sweating bus driver insisting that the gringos stay close at hand? Whatever the reason, it spurred off a series of motormouth activity from Noble and I. We started cracking jokes to anyone within earshot that the man with the moustache was the most serious and dedicated bus driver of all time. An everyday hero of the transport world who has never arrived late for a stop. A king of fast food and sharp turns alike.
“I’ve never lost a passenger before!” We roared in imitation, laughing hysterically while smoking a stick of tea en route to a corner table, where we joined the American couple as this was the only seat-space remaining, the forces of racial segregation at play.

eating:

I’m midway through a spoonful of sopa completa when malevolently bizarre forces begin to show themselves in this small latin town. First, the crowd abruptly stands and rushes in unison out of the restaurant, towards the bus, causing me to grab hold of both sides of the bowl’s outer rim and begin a very messy drinking process that may or may not have resulted in a lentil getting caught in my scraggly facial hair. Apparently we’re leaving (muffled shouts from outside). I stand up, grab a remaining fry from Noble’s plate, stuff it into my mouth like a true hedonist, and watch in wonder as all the people who had just rushed out of the building, are now scrambling in terror to get back in.
“I guess we’re not leaving.” Says my new American friend, resuming his position at our corner table.

Amidst the bodies weaving about three women appear directly in front of our seats, running in hysteria, clutching desperately at their faces, eyes red, gaging noises erupting from their throats…

“What the…”

I glance first at Noble, then at Alex. Our faces all say the same thing. It is decided without the use of words. We move towards the exit, alert, confident, and cautious at the same exact time. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, steps are light and agile, eyes wide, muscles ready. The scene appears normal at first glance and we exit, moving towards the gate to see what exactly is going on. But we never make it. Tear Gas sees to that. It is like walking into a wall of sulfuric acid. In fact this is exactly what it is. My eyes begin to water profusely, there is an wretched feeling in the back of my throat, sinuses burn. All I can think about is turning around.

Back in the restaurant. Loud shouts from outside drown out the chatter rapidly emanating from over-crowded tables, causing silence to spread throughout the long room as the three of us make our way outside once more, curious as ever. The scene that floats to our eyes is from a documentary film you may or may not have seen. A pack of twenty to thirty young men wearing bandanas occupy the street, carrying rocks, sticks, clubs, and other primitive weapons. Civil Uprising is here. I watch carefully as they move towards the centre of town, causing locals to run in fear. Panic-stricken chaos is everywhere, a face-off with the police is imminent. Tear Gas Round Two. The riot police, masked & armoured, launch canisters of the filthy stuff towards the fleeing rebels. It bounces along the ground giving off a white devilish smoke, small town pandemonium if you ask me, salty tears run down flushed cheeks everywhere…

back on the bus:

The reason why our bus was the one that tried to escape, right in the middle of the riot, is simple: our moustached bus driver’s dedication to the cause. His pride, confidence, and flawless record all collided creating a mountain of inspiration.
“Everybody back on the bus!”

We were going for it. There were faces all around excited and nervous, the look a human gets when they have little control, as the bus hurriedly backed out of the compound and onto the town’s main drag. Police Escort Round Two, the reason for this one far more obvious than the first. Glimmering shin guards, bulletproof vests, they accompany us for the first two hundred metres, then we are on our own. The street is barren as our driver continues to accelerate his prized machine towards la frontera, a calm before the storm if you will. Noble is cracking a joke in broken spanish to the traveling musician next to him, something along the lines of how productive the Tear Gas was at cleaning out his nasal cavity. The musician laughs but I can tell it’s not out of understanding, it’s simply the polite thing to do when a language barrier presents and you want to encourage the conversation to continue. Or maybe he’s just nervous.

For my part, I’m looking out the window. I’m immersed in the dusty plain latin madness. I watch fervently as we barrel around the last corner in town, our speed approximately 80km/hr, a fork in the road all that stands between us and freedom. That’s when I see it, or realize it, we are being ambushed. Ten or so teenagers rolling large rocks (not quite boulder size) sprint into our path, in an attempt to block the exit. My mind is 100% in sync with the driver’s. I can feel the change in speed shudder through my bones as he eases his foot off the gas pedal, wondering what to do. It’s that time when you are approaching an intersection and the light goes yellow. Brake, and watch the light turn red, stomp on it and accelerate towards wherever your destination may be. This split second of reflex feels like an eternity. I weigh the options inside my own haven of thought. Brake and we’re undoubtedly going to be attacked. Gas and the chances of mowing down at least one rebel are near positive. Fight or flight, before me in way I have yet to encounter.

back in the compound:

Time has passed and I’ve had the chance to reflect. I’ve come to the conclusion that what I found out in those seconds, minutes, and hours following our ambush really doesn’t affect the decision I would have made in the slightest. Our bus driver hit the brakes, then our bus hit a rock, ripping away part of the vehicle’s ground effects and undercarriage. Numerous windows were smashed over the course of the next five minutes as rocks rained on our bus like arrows from the sky. Passengers everywhere were wide-eyed with terror and panicking to kneel on the floor, to get away from the windows, with hands over head, scared shitless. Muffled sobs could be heard through the chaos – the continuous thuds and angry chants that came at regular intervals from both sides of the bus.

Eventually, after watching a yelling match between our fearless bus driver and a handful of rebels – “Tranquilo! Tranquilo!” - the riot police came to back us up, not that we were putting up much of a fight, and with their never-ending supply of Tear Gas the uprising fled, allowing us the chance to return to the compound like a dog with its tail between its legs, licking its wounds as darkness settled in the night sky and the battle continued. Furthermore, the worst Tear Gas was still to come: an errant canister landed right next to our compound, an episode that made my eyes leak like uninhibited faucets, that evoked an awful wave of nauseousness, and that led me stumbling blindly towards the bus where it would take a good ten minutes of nose-blowing into my t-shirt and slow methodic breathing to overcome the terrible effects of technology. But even then, just like now, I was envisioning what would’ve happened had it been me in the driver’s seat. Brake or Gas. Gas or Brake. As time idly slips by we all understand ourselves that much more, experience aids this process along, and I’m beginning to realize that when the light turns yellow, I am one who pushes the pedal down every time. There is no halting the pace of life.