— Chepo-Chepo-Chepo-Chepo-Chepo! Kare bus a Chepooooo! — the conductor yelled at the top of his lungs every time we pulled up to a stop.
But there was no stop. The disembarking of passengers was more like a landing. And the boarding was like soldiers jumping into a fast-moving vehicle under heavy enemy fire. If one hesitated, he was dead.
The conductor forcibly dragged passengers into the overcrowded bus and continued yelling “Chepo!” The passengers themselves did not even try to stop the bus. They tried to get to the point where the bus was at its slowest. That was the stop.
The music was playing almost at full volume. Sometimes reggae, sometimes mariachi, sometimes rhythmic Panamanian dances with tambourines and rattles.
In this noise and bustle, so unusual after 19,000 miles in a personal car, I suddenly felt like I was in my element. We had two backpacks again, and we were on a bus again. Only the bus was taking us to a dead end.
This didn’t bother the driver. The car sped along the narrow Panamericana highway as if he was about to press the button with the red marker “nitro” and we would be pressed back into the seat from the unexpected overload. The matter was further complicated by the fact that the bus, which was going to another small town, did not want to give way to ours. This did not suit the short, plump man – our driver. He controlled the bus so masterfully with his strong arms and legs that I had no doubt that we would arrive in one piece, even despite the race he had arranged. I was amused by what was happening.
We were winning this race!
The buses themselves were also very interestingly decorated. On the stern of our opponent there was a huge poster of Rambo hugging an M-60 machine gun. Futuristic erotic graffiti on the sides and huge chrome exhaust pipes complemented this beauty. On the sides of our bus there were brutal dragons, flying on fire and spitting fire. On the stern, in addition to the pipes, there was a huge red tin spoiler. The road, which according to our calculations should have taken a little more than an hour, took 25 minutes. We arrived in Chepo. It was getting dark. And the town of Chepo, which was not attractive to us, seemed like the place where we least wanted to stay.
I understood that the road ends further beyond the town. There is only jungle and mountains. From Chepo we had to get to Puerto Carti, from where, according to travelers’ websites, you can take a boat to the border with Colombia. There was a tart and ominous spirit of adventure in the air.