¡SIGA! ¡SIGA! ¡SIGA!

Every day I leave my house in La "Y" (pronounced: 'La Yay') and wander down the broken asphalt of Echaverria to our giant Roundabout-o-Death in hopes of a miraculous break in traffic so I can scurry across dodging cars, motorbikes, buses, horns, and sly comments in Castellano (Spain-influenced Spanish).  I walk down to the corner, past the tienda where we buy our beer, eggs and bread, and stand amongst other Quiteños and hope the next electric blue, smog machine that comes barreling down the feeder road is headed my way.  

My limousine.  I like to share. 

I am fortunate enough to have been born a woman, in that the bus will almost completely stop for me when I am attempting to get on.  When I am strapped into 3+ inch heels, this is a blessing beyond comprehension by the male brain (well, most male brains, but that's another story entirely).  The humor in that we as women are given a hard time about the buses treating us well (they also stop for people who look like they could be 100 years old and anyone carrying a child like a football or basket of bread) is that once we are on that first step, the bus driver- conductor- is off.  Most times, it feels as if he has skipped first gear entirely and thrown the blue beast into second gear and we are handing our twenty-five cents over to the controlador (fare-collector) who wanders up and down the aisle.  How they remember who paid and didn't during rush hour is beyond me, and I have a knack for faces.  

During rush hour, getting on the bus is an Olympic event.  Usually, I must climb on amidst countless other (not to mention over-capacity) Quiteños and squeeze in between a middle-aged man who, coincidentally, falls at the appropriate height to function as a guard for the money stashed in my bra, should I need him to, and an indigenous woman with a baby strapped to her with a bed sheet and a bag of some unnamed vegetable either on her head or squared between her short, sturdy legs.  The crowd is not conducive to personal space, let alone the aforementioned jerking of the bus, which causes you to get to know your immediate traveling companion in the biblical sense.  

Standard method for carrying babies, though typically more complex in the wrap. This one looks like he can breathe, which is an anomaly.

On the off hours, you should find a simple plastic seat with your name on it.  Those who sit in the aisle do not rise or scoot over to allow you to pass by and lower yourself onto the window adjacent seat; they simply scoot both knees to the aisle and keep their glazed stare on the passing buildings or on the sales person selling choclates, caramelos, dulces, and chicle.  No one wants their bag sliced.  The dull roar of the engine and warm sun beaming through the messy glass makes for a nostalgic ride, like when we were babies and our parents, worn out from pacing us back and forth while we wailed, would strap us into the car and drive us around the block until we were lulled into a peaceful slumber. 


Sometimes there are entertainers who enter the bus, much like those selling soccer nets, sweets, ice cream, music, hats, chips, etc.  I have seen two boys under the age of ten come on to the trolé and blow the windows out of it with two classical guitars and voices that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up out of respeto.  Conversely, I have had a tall, goofy man with skin the color of lacquer come on with a jump drive and speakers and rap the same three words over and over and then stick his hand in my face for his due diligence.  Back it up, buddy. No me gusta.

¡SIGA!  ¡SIGA!  ¡SIGA!

It means "Go ahead..." but it comes across as, "Get on the goddamn bus and get away from the door".  The laid back, round-to-it attitude of the Latin Americans disappears as soon as that electric blue tank rolls around the corner of the redondel and screech to a halt- never where you are, mind you, but about ten feet away and around ankle-breaking potholes- and you hear ¡SIGA! Shit.


Every parada where countless ¡SIGA! exclamations are poured out of the open bus door onto the grimy streets of Quito, I see people get off the bus and return to their private lives; filing into twenty story buildings, wandering into local restaurantes or exchanging kisses and handshakes with loved ones.  At stop lights, local performers wander between vehicles juggling bowling pins, spinning poi, throwing balls over buses to their counterpart, riding unicycles, you name it. Older indigenous women meander the lanes with newspapers, fresh corn on the cob, lottery tickets and handmade items.  Pedestrians scramble to cross the asphalt before the light changes to green and horns begin to blare out of sheer habit.  Drivers pitan (honk) and have zero remorse... Think NYC with flavor. 

Exiting the bus is by far the least stressful leg of my daily adventure, I bid a lighthearted Gracias to the holder of my destiny as a thanks for not killing me between La 'Y' and Estadio Olympico (where my employer is).  As the bus rolls away, I always find myself feeling as though I left a part of myself on the bus... With the child who was turned around in their seat looking over their mother's shoulder at the gringa smiling back... With the old man with the brown fedora perfectly framing his experienced face and snow-white hair that has probably lived two or three lifetimes.... With the woman wrangling three children who want nothing more than ice cream from the man in the bright red uniform on the bicycle...

I am amazed at the pace of the daily life here in Quito.  The incredible people who unknowingly cling to their culture inspire me to look deeper into mine, as well as to create my own.  I know in my heart, that every day I am fortunate to be here in Ecuador and that this was by far the best decision of my life.  My "Year of the Yes" will continue into 2012, without a doubt, and I will continue to ¡SIGA! every chance I get.  A massive part of my blessings are derived from the people I have met here... But that is another blog, as they deserve recognition, if for nothing else, just for helping me find my home here in South America. 

Go forth... ¡SIGA!

xx.a