A Happy Gay Bus Story

I gained a new fake name from the bus: Seth Fehicund. At least, that's what my bus ticket said. That nickname joined a rich pantheon that includes Chico (little boy), Arroz (spanish for rice, sounds like Bryce), Pelirojo Loco (crazy redhead) and "OI, GRINGO!", which requires no explanation.

Like any good South American bus, it broke down. In fact, like any good South American bus, it broke down within an hour of leaving the terminal. For once, I didn't mind. Rather than being stuck behind a mudslide in the middle of the night, we were on an empty Peruvian beach, just as the sun was beginning to show an inclination to head for the horizon. I played like a little kid, romping in the sand, flirting with the surf, digging up shells and identifying decayed bird remains... ok, perhaps not exactly like a little kid.

They had to replace the engine belt, which took a leisurely half an hour. I didn't mind. We then drove to the nearest town, and changed buses. Changed companies too. Still not atypical. We then drove on a few hours, stopped in another town, and changed buses again for reasons unknown. But we didn't just change buses, we all took motorcycle rickshaws (seriously) across town to get it. I believe while on the rickshaw that this began to dawn on me as abnormal.

As we got on the third bus, people started loudly jeering us, booing and beating their seats. Either they were pissed at us for slowing their travels, or they just wanted to haze the newbies.

This bus took off, but over the course of the night, stopped multiple times on the side of the road for reasons still unknown. I suspect once was a swine flu checkpoint, another an illegal military bribepoint. Whatever. I faded into and out of sleep, oddly comforted by the cockroaches swarming inside the bus. They reminded me of the Amazon.

Rest didnt last long. A strange loud 'crack' cut the darkness. The bus again stopped and pulled over, and a quick investigation revealed that a bus window had broken. You know, one of those unbreakable plastic ones. So we drove on to the next town and stopped again, getting plywood to board over the window before carrying on.

By hour 18, my knees were killing me, and today I'd eaten less than Callista Flockhardt to boot. (Remember her? How about Lara Flynn Boyle?)

Thankfully, the bus doesnt go straight to Lima, and we stopped for a few hours in Trujillo. Rather than in a bus terminal, the driver unceremonially ditched us all at a gas station. I took a taxi into town rather than wait. Sleep was an option, but the hostels wanted to charge a full night, and checkout time was just a few hours way. It worked out to about 10 dollars an hour of sleep, about equivilent to a crack whore motel, so I opted to go without sleep instead and make the most of Trujillo.

Not a bad place. Pyramids, ruins, beaches, ect.

The bus to Lima left that night, another 10 hours further. Before we got on, they searched us, patted us, wanded us, fingerprinted us, and videotaped us. Like airplane security, I felt more unsettled than safe.

Thankfully, this ride didn't break down. However, I kinda wished it did so I could change seats. I had the foul luck of having a gay kid sitting in front of me, and despite my lack of interculture gaydar, he could apparently sniff me out. Persistent inquiries of "Do you like men or women" bled into "Do you like music" bled into "Can I touch you?" They poor bastard had no game, and there's nothing less sexy than poor game subjugated to poor English. I responded by 'falling asleep'.

In fact I didn't sleep a wink, and hadn't much in 2 or 3 days. So upon arriving in Lima, the first thing I do is find a hostel and pass out for most of the day. And that night, not knowing anybody, I followed my typical tactic and went to a gay bar. Hadn't I learned my lesson. I didn't have to sit at the bar long for two guys to come up and strike up a conversation. They seemed friendly, and one even spoke decent English. I drank with them, met their friends, dance with them, and even agreed to go drink more back at their place.

Ill-advised? Most likely. Very frequently when visiting gay bars, I get invited to afterparties. Without fail they end poorly. Sometimes I fool around with someone I regret the next day. More frequently, I have to fend off awkward advances and either take a taxi home or pretend to pass out.

This time I took the taxi. After the crazy one tried jamming his hand down my pants, and finding no response from me, he stormed off in a huff and drove home drunk. His friend, who's house it was, tried laughing it off before suggesting we go to sleep. I didn't like his intonation, so I told him I wasnt tired and was going to walk around a bit. When he pulled the exact same "Can I touch you?" line, I walked.

Peruvians: No subtlety. Cant work a bus, cant work a date.