Welcome to Brazil, We Survived Another Bus Ride

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Welcome to Brazil, We Survived Another Bus Ride

With the border crossing from hell in the bus's side mirrors, we bid Chuy/Chui a not-so-fond farewell.  Although the two towns did many things right, the immigrations process was something that sorely needed to be improved.  Unlike every other border crossing, the bus driver went whizzing past the customs facility, which apparently was only used by individuals driving cars or truck drivers.  Anyone riding a bus was not required to show documentation.  After what we went through to get our passports stamped and purchase the Visas in Montevideo, I would have liked some validation that it had been worth all the aggregation.  To this day, we have no idea how anyone would ever known that we left Uruguay and entered Brazil if we had simply got on the bus when we first arrived in Chuy.  Perhaps when we left for the states in mid-December, but we'll never know.  At that point red flags would likely have been raised and at a minimum Immigrations would have collected the Visa fees of $800 plus penalties.

The bus left Chui at 12:30 p.m. and was due to arrive in Porto Alegre, Brazil in about eight hours; well after dark and without reservations.  Generally, a bus ride of six or more hours had a second driver, but not this one.  As with any long driving experience, road fatigue can become a serious issue.  Countless stories of buses running off roads or into oncoming traffic flashed into my mind as we left the bus station.

The bus ride was fairly non-eventful for the first several hours.  We drove through beautiful farmland on either side of the two-lane road.  At around 4:30 p.m. the bus pulled into a rest area where everyone could get off to stretch their legs and get something to eat.  It was the first time we experienced a Brazilian style all-you-can-eat buffet.  There was only one catch; they charged by the kilo.  So unlike in the U.S. where people gorge themselves "to get their money's worth", in Brazil you had to ask yourself if you really needed that extra helping of mash potatoes.  It was a great portion control devise, and one the U.S. should adopt to help curb the obesity epidemic.

The bus left after a 30-minute stop at the rest area.  I was sitting in an isle seat about halfway back in the bus and could see the driver in his rearview mirror - it was used to keep an eye on the passengers, not look out his back window.  Approximately one hour from our destination, I notice his head jerking as if he had nodded off.  Apparently the meal and long drive were beginning to take their toll on the charioteer.  The images of a horrific bus crash came vividly to my mind.

I debated whether to go forward to speak with him to help break the monotony, but knew he spoke no English and probably not much Spanish.  Sitting in the seat behind me was Federal Police Officer - at least that's what I guessed, based on his badge, patches and the gun he was carrying.  I hoped he spoke enough Spanish for me to explain my concerns, as my Portuguese was nearly non-existent.  So here was my dilemma . . . Do I risk letting the driver continue taking his micro-naps and put my family and me and our fellow passengers in mortal danger or bother the guy carrying a gun?  It seemed like a no-brainer, but if the officer was a Brazilian version of Barney Fife, I did not want him misunderstanding my intentions and using his one-and-only bullet on me.  What to do? What to do?  I chose the guy with the gun because I knew at least he could speak to the driver and in doing so revive him long enough to make it safely to our destination.  Between my normal pantomime, a few words of Spanish and pointing at the driver, my new best friend understood the situation.  We both observed the driver in the mirror for a few minutes, and eventually he went forward to speak with driver and hopefully revive him.

I could see they were both laughing and looking in the review mirror, and was sure I was the topic of their mirth.  I am also sure the driver denied dozing, but there was no mistaking the symptoms of driver fatigue - we've all been there.  The policeman returned to his seat and gave me two-thumbs up, which I interpreted to mean that it was not my imagination and we just might survive to see another day.  The only Portuguese word I knew was "obrigado".  The problem was I could not remember if it meant thank you or I love you.  I rolled the dice and said "obrigado" and held my breath.  He did not wink at me or shoot me, so apparently it did mean thank you.  And silently I said to myself, "obrigado Dios!" - translation: Thank You God!

We arrived in Porto Alegre and disembarked at a huge bus terminal.  It was 8:30 p.m., very dark, and once again we had no place to stay.  As travelers we were used to such inconveniences and uncertainty, or at least that's what we tried to convince ourselves.  Trying to find a hotel that late in close proximity to the bus station for five people on a budget was no small feat, but we did it.

And remember . . . "Travel is the ultimate education."

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