Island Transportation (Part II)

The sliver of the moon had been erased by the rising sun. Clear nighttime skies left the morning air damp. I put on my sweatshirt and looked down Alii Drive. Traffic was still light when the HELE-ON bus rolled to a stop in front of my condos. Very convenient and very free, at least for a little bit longer, before the county in it’s never ending quest for more funds increases the rate to a buck.

The coach-like bus released a hiss of air pressure and the doors swung open. The driver, a plumb local lady wearing a faded green jacket greeted me with clipboard in hand. “Where are you going?” she asked. Did she just lick the tip of her pen?
I replied, “The Kuhio Plaza,” the shopping mall in Hilo, the last bus stop on the line. 104 miles from my condo. She scribbled down my destination.

It was 6:30 am. Scheduled arrival time was 10:10 am. Three hours later, at 1:10 pm the same bus returned to Kona. I slipped into a seat two rows back behind the driver and opened the morning paper. I settled in for the long ride.

The day was all about logistics. I had no idea if the bus had a bathroom or if the bus stopped anywhere long enough to use a restroom facility. So I drank nothing before boarding. At the other end of the trip I would have to pee in a cup, for my employment drug screen. I didn’t want to show up with the plumbing bone dry, but I didn’t want to burst either.

I packed a lunch-a roast beef sandwich, banana, ginger snaps and a Kashi TLC snack bar. I’d have only a couple of hours at the company’s office. To use every minute constructively, I thought I would get all the paperwork, documentation and instructional training done in those two precious hours of time. Then on my return, I’d eat my lunch.

I didn’t know you couldn’t eat on the bus until we stopped at Kmart. There the driver got out and lit up a smoke. A young couple boarded. Hauling large backpacks, they carried an open box of cereal.
“No eating on day bus,” the driver growled at them.
“Oh no, we won’t. It wouldn’t fit in our packs,” the young man with dreadlocks explained.
“If I catch you eatin’ on day bus, believe me, I’d throw you off day bus.”
Gulp. When was I going to eat lunch? I would not have thought about it again, but I kept hearing a rustling sound. It was the driver, diving into a bag of candy. She popped gummie bears all the way to Waimea.

In Waimea, the bus pulled into Parker Ranch Mall. It seemed like a perfect place for a pit stop. A food court, restrooms and a Starbucks. Not that I’d dare smuggle food or drink onto “day bus” for fear of being thrown off by the four foot six 150 pound chain smoking driver. But the bus cruised through town stopping just long enough for the driver to hit a few drags from her cigarette.

We made a pit stop at the Honokaa Recreation Park. A thirty minute stop in the middle of almost nowhere. No place to buy a cup of coffee or a donut. The cinder block restroom near second base was modest to say the least. Inside the stalls were so short that my head appeared over the top of the warped plywood door. There was one cold water sink, no paper towels. Before re-boarding I grabbed my Kashi bar and took a few sips of water from my pack. The driver managed two phone calls and three more cigarettes.

We got back on the road and headed down the Hamakua Coast toward Hilo. There must have been a couple sides of beef onboard because the air conditioner was turned down so far that the weather report from the back of the bus called for snow. By Hilo, the passengers packed tighter than a Hindu transport in New Delhi blew warm air into their cupped hands. I sat on my hands and pulled my hood over my head.

The return trip should have been so mundane.

Gordon (his real name because there is no innocence to protect) volunteered to take me and another guy back to Kona. This was despite the fact that he lived in Captain Cook, a town about a half hour south of Kona. Gordon seemed harmless enough. A local guy, he had an outgoing personality and a good sense of island humor. He was on my team when we assembled our office desk. Maybe the speed in which we completed the task should have indicated his thirst for moving faster than glass shatters. But, that was only half the story.

On the long stretches of island road I’ve driven 70 miles an hour. Everyone does. But Gordon drove like a maniac. Not since I was in Micronesia had I seen such crazy driving. There the taxi drivers opened the cab’s doors, leaned way out over the road, head down and spit beetle nut juice. It was a honed skilled done without slowing down or missing a curve, but it scared the living crap out of me the first time I experienced it.

Gordon cranked up the island gang bang music in his early model Honda. He claimed he knew a shortcut and lit out for the other side of the island. I expected a Hawaiian secret route. His shortcut was to take distance out of the road by hugging every turn and corner along the southern coast. With every four letter word booming from the speakers just inches from my ears - a rap ghetto beat straight from the wickedness of Hades – he ran right up to the bumper of the car ahead of him until there was a gap in oncoming traffic. A sharp snap of the wheel and he’d veer into the oncoming traffic throttle bleeding speed. Gordon turned back into the right lane microseconds before the oncoming car reached us, just a hair width in front of the passed car. I froze expecting to hear metal on metal.

After the third such maneuver, I closed my eyes and prayed to my God. If I prayed out loud Gordon never heard me. My prayers drowned in the deadly beat of rap. I don’t know how he knew his cell phone rang. Half the time he talked on the phone, the other half he scanned his Ipod for the next musical classic, “my girlfriend won’t let me f…. I need to bust my nut…” And if there was any conversation it was about his pregnant daughter expecting his grandchild any minute now. If we live...

I planned not ride back with Gordon the second day. I planned to discreetly tell the staff that his driving scared me. I planned to insist on riding the bus back. But before I could say anything to the staff one of the instructors asked for volunteers to drive me back home that afternoon. Gordon immediately volunteered again. It might have been because the night before I gave him $10.00 for gas money. But the second time around I just thanked him for not killing me.