The bus…. before they added 20 more people
From the start of this trip, I knew transportation was going to be both fascinating and downright horrific. Southeast Asia was a slog to navigate, and compared to trekking across South America, it’s relatively tiny. And the transport was terrible, I mean worst I’ve ever seen there.
So far, South America hasn’t been that bad. Mostly just annoying 5-6 hour bus rides. However, our ride from Jardin to Salento was a site to be seen. Just a tiny bit of context, I was so ready for a nice transport day. In our hostel, the person next to me had a bittttt of a snoring problem. I didn’t sleep that well and I was looking forward to a nice sleep and movie day on the bus. I was wrong.
We got on the bus knowing full well it was going to be a very long journey to Riosucio. Not Salento? Yeah, despite being super close on the map, there’s a massive mountain in the way, turning it into an 8-hour marathon with a stop in Riosucio.
From the start, it was peak discomfort. The seats were basically wooden boards, legroom was a distant dream, and then they crammed as many people as humanly possible onto the bus. Personal space? Nonexistent. Ethan, who thought he lucked out with a window seat—oh wait, metal bars (because there were no actual windows)—ended up with a bolt jabbing him in the back once four more people squeezed into our row of six (which already had 4). We eagerly awaited the climb up the mountain, bracing ourselves for what was sure to be an unforgettable ride.
The first three speed bumps out of Jardín were a rough start—and it only went downhill (or uphill, technically) from there. The bus swayed constantly, seats bounced like trampolines, and poor Ethan kept smacking his head on the metal bars. We crawled up the mountain, gingerly and hilariously. Don’t get me wrong, it was terrible—but I couldn’t stop laughing, keeping me off my phone with entertainment.
At least the views were wild. The mountain landscape and the city of Jardín stayed in sight for nearly an hour and 45 minutes after we left, as if the bus couldn’t bear to say goodbye. For Ethan and I, stuck on the left side of the row, our “scenic” view was mostly leaves and vines—some of which periodically smacked again poor Ethan—an occasional waterfall, and then… the mudslides.
We started noticing some signs of previous mudslides, which was mildly concerning for a bus we already suspected might tip over the cliff on its own. But then we stopped. Overnight, a fresh mudslide had “spawned,” blocking the path. It was too narrow for the bus to cross—at least with all of us on board.
We got off and trotted to the other side of the mudslide, sneaking a peek over the edge. It was straight down. From there, we all stood like spectators at a cliffside demolition derby, waiting to see if the bus and driver would tumble off the edge.
I was definitely grateful to have gotten off the bus before it went off this.
Luckily, our driver was ready for the challenge. With a full head of steam and a glorious puff of exhaust, it rumbled its way over the mud and rocks. And just like that, we climbed back on board as if nothing had happened—business as usual.
The next hour was not so funny. Cramped, legs falling asleep fast, it quickly became miserable. Eventually, only an hour and a half later, though felt like 3, we stopped at a rest spot that was legit so high, we were in the clouds.
We first noticed it at the mudslide: people were actually sitting on top of the bus with the literal luggage. At one point, one of them even forced the bus to stop so she could puke. “When in Rome,” Xavier quipped, and soon we were requesting to squish onto the roof ourselves, escaping the cramped, spaceless seating below. (see what it looking like in the reel above).
Honestly? It was way better. There was so much more room to stretch out, and the scenic views were unmatched. Of course, there were a few trade-offs: branches smacking us in the face, relentless bumps, and the complete absence of seatbelts. I like to think of it as a live-action version of Temple Run, dodging and weaving the branches like a pro.
But the real highlight was getting to experience travel like the locals do. It was a one-of-a-kind journey, and seeing it from their perspective made it even more memorable.
After about two hours on top of the bus—which felt like ten—we finally rolled into Riosucio. Despite the bone-crushing discomfort of that ride, it was oddly entertaining and an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything.
The next bus? Completely forgettable. A three-and-a-half-hour ride stretched to five thanks to never-ending traffic at the end. It was your typical, mundane bus trip, nowhere near as memorable as the legendary 05/01/2024 ride from Jardín to Riosucio—an epic ascent up an eternal, fucking mountain.
PS, if you do every find yourself doing this transport, do yourself a favor, get up early and get a seat near the front.