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Bus Ridden by Doug Nathan I have not climbed any bus roofs since returning to Seattle, but I can’t stop riding buses. Click to read Essay Profile of Author Bio of Author from ETG Essay, Late-breaking Developments Author's Comment on the ETG Experience Updated Bio Click to Purchase Send email to the author (The copyright on this essay is held by the author.  For permission to duplicate: copyright@cunepress.com)

Bus Ridden
After traveling throughout Guatemala by bus for six weeks, I am unaccustomed to riding buses in Seattle. I long to hail another Blue Bird school bus for an over-crowded ride. Seats designed for two American children hold three and sometimes four adult Guatemalans with more people squeezing in the center isle. When there appears no room left between shoulders and butts half on and half off the seat, that’s when thirty more people push and smoosh their way on, and the ones not quick or aggressive enough are left behind. Then the audante, the ticket taker, collects fares. It’s an art learned over many sweaty, bumpy miles. Bus riders lean heads and rotate hips and learn to ignore elbow jabs. If it’s really crowded, the audante walks on top of the chair backs balancing himself on body parts beneath him as the bus slams into potholes.

Out of city limits away from police supervision, the audante lets people climb the rear ladder to the cargo roof rack. Roof riders help load and unload 100 pound bags of coffee beans and unwieldy canastas of live chickens. Roof riders duck tree branches and electrical wires and gaze at patchwork vistas of mountains tilled into cornfields. Roof riders sing and nobody stares. God is alive on buses in Guatemala. Wooden crucifixes swing from rearview mirrors. Windshield decals proclaim in Spanish: "I am The Way: Christ" and "God Bless this Bus and All Aboard." For more wayward souls, there are Tweety Bird and Speedy Gonzalez decals to contemplate. Some bus signs speak metaphorically to travelers far from home: "Not Responsible for Forgotten Objects." Or my favorite sign: "Do Not Litter," which refers to the American-made bus. Do not litter the bus. Plastic bags, straws, corn husks and papers red, blue, green, white fly out bus windows to adorn the countryside. Guatemalans seem ignorant of all that litter, the same way we ignore our own isolation.

I have not climbed any bus roofs since returning to Seattle, but I can’t stop riding buses. I crave reminders that I am not alone: the mustiness of wet wool, the rustle of folding umbrellas, and the sickly sweet smell of discarded chewing gum as a man unsticks his coat from the seat. I like the way we tailor our buses for physically challenged riders, the way the bus drivers actually wait and strap in the wheelchairs. I’m glad we don’t throw our litter out the windows to keep the inside of the bus clean.

I met an elderly woman who started riding the bus after her husband died. She’s too uncertain about steering herself alone through town. She, like other people new to bus riding in the United States, is easy to spot, eager to talk. She hasn’t closed down within the anonymity of the bus ride. She doesn’t notice the silence of people sitting next to each other who stare straight ahead as if their attention is needed to keep the bus moving forward. New bus riders appreciate this novel society on wheels: the hurried pace and congestion of traffic outside; inside is room for sitting next to strangers, talking and creating experiences. Like the little girl and her mother who sat behind me last week. The little girl kept asking questions: "Who is the bus driver? Is the bus driver a man or a woman? Who’s driving the bus? Who is the bus driver? Who’s driving the bus?"—a playful song which for several minutes amused her and, ok, her song was sort of annoying, but cute, and made my ride worth more than the bus fare.

Profile
After sailing on the Golden Hinde and climbing the glacial slopes of Mt. Rainier, after teaching English in Japan and then working hard and fast as a freelance journalist, Doug Nathan accepted a technical writing contract at Microsoft in 1992. Once he settled in, he sought out fellow refugees from the natural world, teaching, and the arts. We had lunch in one of the large, raucous cafeterias at Microsoft’s Redmond campus. Ever since, we’ve been talking about poetry, politics, translation and transformation, and the writing life. The discipline of writing has been a major topic, and we’ve had fun speculating about the forces that fuel the spirit which drives these "greeny" things.

In the time I’ve known Doug, I’ve come to admire most of all the integrity of his relationship to his work. Not much concerned with prizes or celebrity, he sees poetry as a cultural and social catalyst to clear-headed, clear-hearted action. He not only contributes his poetry and prose to our cultural life, but has taken direct action to help sustain the arts and his fellow artists in our market-driven economy. If this seems like high praise, well, the guy has earned it. Look for his work, look for him.

—William O’Daly

Bio
Doug Nathan
Place of residence: Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Birthplace: Syracuse, New York.
Grew up in: Eleven cities before high school graduation.
Day job: Owner/president of Beyond Words.
Education: B.A. in English literature, University of California at Los Angeles.
Serial publications: U.S. News & World Report. Los Angeles Times. On the Bus.
Award: Gift certificate for double kayak rental, Olympia Outdoor Center.
Current project: Bringing back the wild.
Favorite book: The Song of the Dodo by David Quammen.
Beliefs: Baptized Catholic, confirmed Episcopalian, awakened by Buddhism.
Cravings: Many.

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