Hippie

“You buy the coffees,” he said, standing up. “I already spent a fortune today with that fine.”

Paulo had read her smile, her need to disguise her joy. For that reason she said the first thing that came to mind:

“Here women always split the check. We weren’t raised to be your sex objects. And you were fined because you didn’t listen to me. Okay what do I care if you listen, I’ll pay the bill today.”

What an annoying woman, Paulo thought. She has an opinion on everything—whereas in reality he loved the way she asserted her independence every second.

As they walked back to the agency, he asked her if she really thought they could make it to Nepal, a place so far away, on such a cheap ticket.

“A few months ago, I had my doubts, even after I saw the clipping announcing bus trips to India, Nepal, Afghanistan—always for around seventy to a hundred dollars. Until I read the story in Ark, an alternative newspaper, of someone who had gone and come back, and I felt I absolutely had to do it, too.”

She left out the fact she was thinking about simply going, returning only after a few years. Paulo might not like the idea of coming back alone across the thousands of miles that separated them from their destination.

But he’d just have to figure it out—life is all about figuring it out.

There was nothing magic about the famous Magic Bus, which looked nothing like the posters she’d seen at the agency?

??a brightly colored vehicle full of drawings and messages. It was just a bus that at some point must have been used for taking children to school, with seats that didn’t recline and a metal frame on top, where gallons of gasoline and extra tires were tied down.

The driver brought the group together—perhaps about twenty people in total, all of them looking like they’d stepped out of the same movie. They ranged from underage runaways (there were two such girls, and no one had asked them for identification) to an older man who kept his eyes locked on the horizon, with the look of someone who’d already reached a long-coveted enlightenment and had now decided to embark on a journey, a long journey.

There were two drivers: one who spoke with a British accent and the other who by all indications came from India.

“Though I hate rules, there are a few we’ll need to follow. The first: no one can carry drugs across borders. In some countries this spells prison, but in others, such as those in Africa, it can spell death by decapitation. I hope you’ve all listened closely to what I’ve just told you.”

The driver paused to gauge whether they’d understood. He suddenly seemed to have everyone’s attention.

“Below, instead of baggage, I’m carrying gallons of water and army rations. Each ration contains beef puree, crackers, cereal bars with fruit filling, a chocolate bar with nuts or caramel, orange juice mix, sugar, salt. Be prepared for cold food for much of the trip after we cross into Turkey.

“Visas are granted at the borders: transit visas. They cost money, but nothing too expensive. Depending on the country, such as Bulgaria—which is under Communist rule—no one can jump off the bus. Take care of your bathroom needs before we leave, because I won’t make any special stops.”

The driver glanced at his watch.

“Time to go. Take your backpacks onto the bus with you—and I hope you’ve brought sleeping bags. We’ll stop at night, sometimes at gas stations I know, but most of the time in the countryside, near the road. In some spots where neither option is possible—such as Istanbul—we know some cheap hotels.”

“Could we not place our backpacks on top of the bus to leave more space for our legs?”

“Of course you can. But don’t be surprised if they’re not there when we stop for coffee. Inside, in the back of the bus, we have space for luggage. One piece, as it says on the back of the slip with a map of our route. And drinking water isn’t included in the price of the ticket, so I hope you’ve brought your water bottles. You can always fill them up when we stop for gas.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“If one of us gets sick, for example.”

“I have a first aid kit. But as the name itself suggests, it’s just first aid. Enough to make it to some city and leave any sick passengers there. So be sure to take care, very good care of your physical health, just like you like to think you do with your souls. I’m sure you all have been vaccinated against yellow fever and smallpox.”

Paulo had the first vaccination—no Brazilian could leave his country without it, perhaps because foreigners always imagined them to be carrying all sorts of diseases. But he hadn’t had the smallpox vaccine, since in Brazil it was believed that a childhood illness—measles—provided the body with natural immunity.

Whatever the case, the driver didn’t ask anyone for a vaccination record. People began boarding and choosing their seats. More than one person set their backpacks on the seats next to them, but soon they were confiscated by the driver and thrown in back.

“Other people are going to board along the way, jerks.”

The girls who looked to be underage, perhaps they were using fake passports, sat next to one another. Paulo sat next to Karla, and the first thing they did was work out a system of rotating shifts to see who would take the window. Karla suggested they trade places every three hours, and that at night, so they could get a decent night’s sleep, she would sit next to the window. Paulo took this suggestion to be immoral and unjust since that would leave her with somewhere to rest her head. They agreed that they would alternate nights taking the window seat.

The engine turned over, and the school bus, with nothing romantic about it beyond its name, Magic Bus, began the journey of thousands of miles that would take them to the other side of the world.

“As the driver was talking, I got the feeling we were starting off not on some adventure but on some sort of mandatory military service, like we have in Brazil,” Paulo said to his companion, remembering the promise he’d made to himself as he descended the Andes by bus and the many times he had broken it.