Los Colectivos

For the key to unlocking the intricacies of Paraguayan culture, look no further than los colectivos. Just the fact that they call them "colectivos" (collectives), rather than "autobús" or "ómnibus" or "dalla dalla" or the million other words in the world for public transportation, describes the sense of sharing that pervades everything in this germ-swapping nation (super common for everyone to share a cup -- see Nick's post on tereré). So, in the sharing spirit: everything I learned about Paraguay, I learned on a bus . . .


No Bus Stops:
That's right, there are no bus stops in Paraguay. You might be wondering, how exactly do you catch a bus if there aren't any bus stops? And the answer would be, well, quite simple really, you just wave it down like it's your personal taxi. Similarly, when you reach your destination, simply ring the bell and like a Pavlovian dog, the bus driver will slam on the breaks. Yes, this system is incredibly inefficient and often means that a bus stops to pick up one passenger, only to stop ten meters down the road for another. However, it is also rather convenient . . . when you're the one getting door-to-door service ;-)

But aside from that brief feeling of celebrity, when the bus stops directly in front of my feet in the morning, I spend the other 45+ minutes of my ride reflecting on how we're all getting to our destinations 10 minutes later because the government never got it together enough to create a system of bus stops (let along good traffic lights, recycling, and other public services). And the tragedy of the commons continues . . .

Lesson 1: Inefficiency is practically law in Paraguay.

2,100 Gs (40 cents - más o menos):
The cost of a ride is not fixed. It's not tied to the distance or the popularity of the route, nor is the fare that convenient for the driver who has to simultaneously drive the bus and count out 9 separate 100 G coins in change when you hand him 3,000 Gs or a 5,000 G bill. (also as a side note, there are several different guarani currencies in circulation right now, making the size and shape of coins totally unhelpful in distinguishing their denomination). At first, I thought the fare was 2,000 Gs and I got away with paying the discounted rate well into our first month here. Nick, on the other hand, has been short-changed more than just a few times. It seems the fare has more to do with the mood of the driver, than anything else. How's that for a lottery system?

Lesson 2: Life's inexpensive in Paraguay, but not always fair.

Life Insurance (Seguro de Vida):
In exchange for your 2,100 Gs, the bus driver rips off a little ticket for you. On the back is printed: "No devuelva el boleto este es su seguro de vida." Hmmmmm. Well, since when I got here my Spanish wasn't all that strong, I asked my trusty amigo, GoogleTranslate, the meaning, and confirming my suspicion, GT replied "Do not return the ticket this is your life insurance."
Only in Paraguay can you buy life insurance for 40 cents on a bus! But seriously, this one has me stumped completely. Is there some amount of money attached to my ability to hold onto this ticket through a deadly bus crash? Should I write my beneficiary on the back? I just don't understand . . .

Lesson 3: Not everything makes sense in Paraguay.

The 16.2:
If you want a guide to the bus system in Asunción, you're out of luck. There isn't one. More, the naming/numbering system can make your head spin. Sometimes buses with names like "Aregua" go to the town of Aregua outside of the city, but sometimes they don't and you really don't know which ones are which unless you ask. The numbered buses are equally unusual. There's a 1, 3a, 3b, 7, 16.2, 31, 52, and 85 (among others). There is not however, a 16.1. I take the 16.2 from where I volunteer downtown a long ride to the other side of town for my Spanish classes, and for everyone that I've asked -- the 16.1 doesn't exist.

Lesson 4: Repeat Lesson 3: Not everything makes sense in Paraguay.

Los Mercantes (the people who sell stuff on the bus):
Depending on the day, time, and how crowded the bus is, a whole range of people get on to sell things. Sometimes they sell fruit, or cooking oil, or gum or chipa (paraguayan snack), but sometimes they sell shoelaces, or kitchen knives, or teach-yourself English books, or all three put together in a nice little tote for only 10,000 Gs! People also come onto the bus, sing/play a song or two and try to sell music lessons or they pray for your soul and then ask for money. I've even seen a stand-up comedy routine! The strangest thing about this system, though, is that it works. Rarely does a mercante not make at least one sale or does a musician, beggar, comedian, or missionary walk away empty handed.

Lesson 5: Note to the unemployed, there' s a job for you in Paraguay.

I don't want this post to come across as negative, because it's not. I've had some of my favorite cultural experiences on buses in this country. There's also a great culture of giving up seats for the elderly, women with children, or pregnant women (of which there are tons!) and, like Nick, I'll miss the mercantes a ton when we have to say goodbye. It's just that, like everything in Paraguay, the great culture and amazing people get overshadowed by the incredible inefficiency and absurdity of the nation in which they live. They, however, take it in stride. Tranquilo no más . . . so is life in Paraguay . . .