Fio Dental - Chapter 2: This Isn't Greyhound

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Traveling by bus in Brazil is not exactly like going Greyhound. In a country where public safety is as sure a thing as a World Series appearance for the Chicago Cubs, transportation companies take extreme measures to ensure passengers arrive at their destination without having been separated from their valuables. Not catching on at first, the driver for Gardenia Lines instructed me to fill out a form prior to boarding. I needed to include name, passport number, age, date of birth, reason for travel, my mothers’ maiden name, and how many times I was held for detention in high school for not covering my book. No passenger can board without having an original passport or identity card fully inspected. No identification, no trip, and no refund on your ticket. The staff went through all my belongings. I thought the next step was to be frisked. Our driver to São João del Rei introduced himself and welcomed all aboard. Then, like a flight attendant, he indicated where the toilet was located (in the back, where else, stupid?) and to pay very close attention to the emergency exits on each side of the coach, turning his wrists in each direction as well as any employee of Delta. Upon wishing us a pleasant journey, he matter-of-factly closed the door between the driver’s compartment and passenger seating and locked us in. Now completely walled from the driver, it was safe for him to pull away from Tietê. What about us? I have inferred that the technique of locking away passengers is two-fold: One, if a traveler is intent on hijacking the coach, clearly a conceivable occurrence, he cannot take control of the vehicle very easily. The subliminal message here is in the best interest of the driver. If mayhem erupts, I’ll be just fine back here behind this closed door. Two, if a criminal does indeed board, access to the rest of the bus becomes quite a hindrance. Regardless, we saw very little of our chauffeur, and when he did pop his head through the door to announce an arrival point, he was curt and passionless. Even trying to chat with him left me dumbfounded. I have had better conversations with pepper shakers. Otherwise, bus travel in Brazil is far more comfortable than in the U.S. Though the interior cabin was downright frigid, buses are better equipped, have more room and the upholstering does not date back to the heyday of Abba. Compared to back home, the shuttle between New York and Boston may as well be on a horse and buggy.

The seven-hour trip to São João del Rei cut through the brutal slums of suburban São Paulo, some temperate rain forest and eventually opened up into the high plains of Minas Gerais state. The choppy, rocky landscape undulates for miles and provides occasional patches of land for grazing cattle. My mind easily wanders back to the time when Portuguese bandeirantes stormed their way through Minas in search of riches, minerals, and slaves for their growing empire. Farmers often set controlled burns to clear shrubs or establish firebreaks in case of brush fires.
A small connection is needed at São João to get to Tiradentes. The lady at the Presidente ticket counter made her contribution to my adventure in eventually getting there.
“Obrigado. From which platform does the bus leave? And at what time again?” I knew it was ten after five, but I wanted to be certain.
“Platform R, 5:10!” Great. Out to the platforms I go. Lugging my pack over a single shoulder because of the short distance, I spotted the corresponding letters to each boarding area. Fine: A, B, C,….all the way to H. Hmmmm. After H was a dirty slope leading to a side street. I surveyed the departure area three times, back and forth. No R. My frustration sent me back to the lady, now reading a magazine at the ticket desk.
“There is no platform R. How do I get to Tiradentes?” This caused her a bit of concern, but not too much, as she wasn’t going to Tiradentes. So, she never displayed any sense of urgency.
“Oh!” she glanced at the schedule. “It is E, not R.” As I stuck my face against the window, I noted that the timetable was dated March 2005. I came close to asking her how long she had been at this challenging position, but I let it go. This was about as far as she was going in her career in over-the-road transportation.
Having found the departure area, a small ruckus broke out in the station’s parking lot. I sat down next to a woman from Brasília and juxtaposed my neck among all the other onlookers like a field of sunflowers pointed in the direction of the commotion. Our bus had collided with another coach trying to back out. This caused us to miss to the connection and catch the next one. Fortunately, our compensation was the disorderly and animated fashion in which the two opposing companies (and their drivers) argued, made menacing gestures at each other, filled out mountains of paperwork, and inspected what seemed to the attentive audience from a distance to be no more than a microscopic scratch. Curiosity got the better of the crowd and it involuntarily crept closer to the two buses to see for itself that there was much ado about absolutely nothing. One wrinkle-faced woman could not take it anymore and committed the mortal sin of inquiring as to when this would all be sorted out. “We’ll be out of here in about ten minutes, right?” to an station employee.
The station master looked at her, sized her up from head to toe, and replied, “Yes, in about ten minutes, no problem!” He determined that she required a “ten minute” answer, and that’s precisely what he gave her.
We departed forty minutes later. Once more, I rolled into town in the dark.

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Photos

Locked in...
For the drivers' safety and ours...supposedly...

Minor Accident
Loads of peperwork...