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Since the Santiago Metro system happens to be very inconvenient for getting from where we live to where we work, Colin, Carolyn, Matt and I decided to start taking the local bus system, called micros. This might not seem like such a big deal, but on their arrivals in Santiago, Sergio warned each of them not to take the Micros anywhere, becuase they were confusing, irregular, and dangerous. He’s right. The micros are large yellow diesel buses that cover the city from end to end. Whereas Chicago has about 200 well-maintainted, timely and safe bus routes, Santiago has at least 600. http://micros.cl has route information, but this is subject to change at a moments notice based on the whim of the driver. The drivers are paid based on the number of people they carry in a day so it’s in their best interest to carry as many people as fast as possible. Obviously they are going to be cavalier about ensuring only a safe number of people are on their bus, and they are going to go as fast as possible, and make their stops as short as possible. I have actually seen people running as fast they could after a moving bus, knocking on the door, and then leaping inside once the driver opened it, all while the bus continues to accelerate. If you are the only one who wants get off at a particular stop, sometimes the bus driver will only slow down to just under ankle-breaking speed and your choices are to risk serious injury or miss your stop. (I have only seen this happen, never experienced it.) If you’re really observant, you’ll notice the shady looking characters that notify the buses of how much time has passed since the last bus on that route has past. If it is a short time, the bus should slow down, or else there won’t be anyone on the street who wants to take that route. If it’s been a long time, they should hurry up, becuase another bus might be about to overtake them. If it’s a very short time, they can pull into the left lane, and try to overtake the bus, stealing its potential passengers and the corresponding profit. If you could imagine combination of bass-jumping and the Mafia, you would have a rough idea of how dangerous these things are. To wit:

We join our hero on the morning of this fateful day, when I suspect nothing of the terror that is to befall me. It starts like any other, trying to decipher the little cards in the windows of the micros and flag down the right one before it speeds by. I work on a street called Blanco Encalada, “Whitewashed,” so I am looking for a sign that includes some abbreviation of that phrase. Finally, I see route 614, with a sign that includes “Encalada,” so I hop on. I haven’t taken this bus before so its route is unfamiliar to me. It turns left sooner that I expected, and starts heading south when my workplace is mostly due west of my house. No matter, the routes can be pretty circuitous. Pretty soon, it becomes apparent that something is wrong. The bus is way too far south to give me much hope of making it to work on this route, so I start to look around for other options. If I can guess where the Red Line of the Metro is, I ‘ll be able to take it north and get off close to my destination. It’s about this time that I realize we are travelling on a road called Lo Encalada. Well, that explains how I go into this mess, but not how to get out of it. I ask a woman if she knows if this bus goes near the Metro, and she answers in Spanish, “Oh no, it goes to Los Cerrillos.” I ask the bus driver later how to get to Blanco Encalada and he tells me the return route somewhere and then find 602. I am starting to fell very small. The house become gungier and smaller until they are little more than stucco huts with nasty fences. The bus is still going south and slightly west when it eventually turns into a garage. I ask the bus driver which 614 is leaving next and he waves me over to one. This driver has barely let me on before he snorts with derision at the other’s suggestion of 602 as a good choice. “Cross those railroad tracks and take 634,” he says. I scramble down the loose dirt that holds the track up. I try to flag down the next eastbound 634, but it’s going too fast. Inconceivably, it stops about 100 feet down the road and waits, but when I start toward, it rumbles off. I am ready for the next one, but it takes me to a part of town that’s even worse if possible. There’s a large open square that’s filled with a thin layer of trash, where some men are unloading more trash from a horse-drawn cart. Just after this square, the bus driver pulls over next to two other bues with the same number. I caught the bus about 10 block from the end of its route and now I’ll have to take another back in the same direction. At least it clearly says “Blanco” between “Parque O’Higgins”, the park just south of the university campus and “Matta”, the street that Blanco Encalad changes into. Now I know I am on the right track. No one is in the other buses, so I wait and watch two very old men mop the insides of the buses. They are amazingly efficient, but becuase of their age, their Spanish is impossible to understand. Eventually the other bus driver returns, makes me pay a whole other fare, (remember how they are paid based on how much money they take in) and 50min or so later, I arrive at work. I left at 10:00 and it is now 12:30, so I have been riding around the city for two and a half hours. From now on, I am going to play it safe and only take the 600 and 615. At least everyone had a good laugh about what happened.