Despite every seat in the small bemo, or minivan, being packed full, the next hour was spent in the usual manner, hurtling through the narrow alleys, horn blaring wildly to attract attention, and it was only after the town had been circumnavigated several times that the driver sadly acknowledged that, hard as it was to believe, there really was no one else who wanted to ride with him. Or, more likely, he realized that it was even beyond the supernatural capabilities of his assistant to cram one more person, pig, or fowl into the tiny interior of the van. Having taken on maximum payload, the bemo achieved escape velocity and shot out of town, hopefully in the direction we actually wanted to go. We just kept repeating to ourselves: "it's an adventure, it's not just transportation, it's an adventure." If you can't think of an eight hour, kidney smashing, cramped ride in a smoky, noisy minivan with 20 other people, pigs, chickens, and assorted other animal life as an adventure, while all your worldly possessions at the moment are out of sight on the roof with bundles of other chickens and assorted animal life, then you are not going to have a very good time. And there really is no better way to learn about the local life, especially the domesticated animal life.
As we went along the luggage handlers were forced outside the van by the press, either reclining atop the sacks on the roof or hanging ten off the open doors into the wild slipstream they set off. Some passengers were sitting astride the aisle, precariously balanced with one thigh on the edge of each seat. In fact there was absolutely no danger of falling to the aisle floor since it and every other possible square inch was packed with baskets of fruit, bales of coconuts, cleverly wrapped pouches of eggs, live chickens tied by the feet, and an occasional pig scrunched in the back. Our strong, bright, 6000 cubic inch, 50 pound backpacks were lashed to the roof with rough jute rope and, to my great surprise in every one of the dozens of bemo trips taken, never once fell off. I also marveled that the woven egg pouches, stashed between people or beneath neighbors' feet never seemed to lose any eggs. The chickens, alas, were less fortunate.
One instance particularly stays in my mind. A young boy, perhaps on his first trip to market, had several chickens. One must have been special for it was held in his arms while the others were stowed underseat. When we finally arrived at the market town, there was the usual shuffling as the compact press of bodies broke and people clambered to get out, along with the communal passing of baskets and goods to the exit. As the bemo prepared to drive on I looked out the window and saw the boy standing by the dusty side of the road, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks; his prize chicken had suffocated in his arms. I have no idea what portion of monthly income that bird represented to his family, entrusted to him, but he cried silently.