The past twenty four hours of my life are a true testament to how absolutely insane this Race can become.
Last night we boarded a fancy (by our standards) double-decker bus. Plush seats, air conditioning, light-blocking curtains, reclining seats. We were high rollin’! We pulled out of the station in David, Panama, around 10:45 PM. By 11 o’clock, I had donned my eye mask and headphones. By 11:05, I was out cold as Steffany Gretzinger serenaded me.
About an hour later, I felt the bus lurch to an abrupt halt, and from behind my eye mask, I saw the bus’s overhead lights come on. Outside of the window, I looked down to see a police officer searching the bottom of the bus, yelling profanities at the bus attendants on the side of a busy road. We all gathered around the window to see what was going on, but a few minutes later, we started moving again.
My heart sank as we pulled into the police station, not stopping at the front of the building. Oh no. We went around to the dark side of the building, where they began pulling bags and boxes from the bottom of the bus again. A drug dog pranced out, sniffed the things laying on the ground, then proudly pranced back into the station.
After pointing at one box repeatedly, the police officers finally opened it and found a bag of… something. Within the split second that I looked away to completely lose my mind at what we had witnessed with my teammate, the bag had disappeared, and everything was packed up. The owners of the box re-boarded the bus, and retook their seats across the aisle from yep, you guessed it- yours truly.
About twenty minutes later, our bus pulled over again. I looked out the window to a completely pitch black view of a flat tire on the side of the road. Then I saw him- a new passenger that we picked up at this very secretive “bus stop.” After what we had seen 20 minutes earlier, I knew this was going to be the longest night of my life, and little did I know in that moment, but this was just the tip of the iceberg.
I’m sorry, but how am I supposed to sleep when I’m living out a sitcom about Central American drug cartels?! Nope. No sleep would be happening from here on out, I resolved.
About 30 minutes later, we stopped alongside another bus, and our attendant announced we would be stuck here for at least an hour. As soon as this announcement was made, our bus moved lanes, between construction barrier cones and onto a road that was under construction. A few miles up the road, we were met by some other vehicles with other “things” being carried in them. Stacks and stacks of other “things.” My teammate and I gawked out the window and grabbed hands as we melodramatically discussed how our lives were becoming a movie before our eyes.
Then we just sat. For an hour and a half. I fell in and out of sleep as I conversed with God about what in the WORLD was happening.
Y’all. I can’t make this stuff up. I’m not that creative. This is real. I was not dreaming. I have extensive notes and photos as proof. This is life in foreign countries.
This is my life, apparently.
As I was talking to Jesus about what was happening and what we should do, He addressed the bitterness and overall dislike I had toward the bus driver and those involved with whatever was going down. He reminded me of something really important: that He loves them and has a plan for their lives too.
Life lesson accounted for. But still, it was a long night. I lost track of how many times we stopped, but for an express, no-stops bus, we stopped quite frequently. By the grace of God, I did sleep for about 3 hours when I finally could control my wild, out of control imagination.
Three hours later than planned, we arrived in Panama City and began the search for our hostel. We all loaded up with our packs and began walking the streets.
Picture this, and you’re allowed to laugh as you do: 12 gringos with our giant packs, miscellaneous belongings dangling from them, wandering the streets of a major foreign city, stealing WIFI casually outside of Pizza Hut to desperately map our surroundings. By the time we had reached our hostel, we were drenched in sweat and hangry as all get out. We dropped our bags and began the hunt for a genuine, local cafe. Naturally, we ended up at McDonald’s.
After we had stuffed our faces, we decided we were ready to try to take on the city. We ended up in the Old Town, better known as Casco Viejo, walking through brick streets and colorful, vintage architecture in our day-old, salt-stained hand-me-down clothes.
We walked into an artsy restaurant in our travel day garb to find ornately, traditional Central American dressed dancers dancing to no music as a camera moved around them in the bar. So of course we took tons of pictures and sat at our table in silence staring at them as they filmed their choreography over and over again.
As we sat there, I just laughed at my life. How did all of this happen in one day? We had said our farewells to our ministry hosts, made it overnight aboard a bus with ulterior motives, become acquainted with a new city, and witnessed some kind of filming of a Panamanian dance party all in the same clothes.
And here I sit, in a hostel with roommates from Germany and Brazil, recounting the wild, peculiar tale as some creepy show about unsolved murders blares around me in the common room.
This is my life. What will the next 24 hours hold? Obviously, there’s no way of truly even guessing at that.
