Bus Ride

*This post has nothing to do with my experience in Mexico or Young Adults in Global Mission. It's a story from my adventures in Colorado this summer that I just finished writing. It's kind of long. Sorry for any spelling errors. If you do read this story, I hope you enjoy.*

My adventure began at 5:40AM on a Tuesday. My friend Caleb gave me a ride to the Greyhound station in downtown Denver. An hour later, we boarded the bus. As we boarded, I met a 19-year old guy from Uzbekistan named Tom. Tom spoke good English. This was his first time to leave his country though. He was traveling to Ouray to work at a hotel for two months. He had flown to New York City, and then taken a two-day bus to Denver. He was now on the last leg of his journey. I can only imagine how tired, confused, and out of place he felt.

I slept most of the five-hour bus ride to Grand Junction. I would have an hour and a half wait in Grand Junction before boarding another bus to Durango. Upon arriving at Grand Junction, Bill – who I will introduce shortly – and Joe decided to leave the bus station and walk around to find lunch. Tom and I joined them.

The four of us were an eclectic group. Tom was the 19-year old Uzbek. Joe was a 20-year old from Louisiana, who had just finished his second year as an engineering student at LSU. Joe was on his way to visit his older brother in Durango, who was working as a rafting guide for the summer. Bill is hard to describe. He is an interesting guy, yet complex. He recently returned to Colorado after being gone for three years when his wife got a nursing job in Mancos. He has also lived across the Southwest. Bill was born in Puebla, Mexico to a Jewish father and Mexican mother. As a baby, his mother decided to migrate to the U.S. She left him at a border town in Mexico for a year while she found a place to settle. A year later, she returned to get him. Bill’s mother was no longer with his father. In fact, he has only met his father once. However, he grew up with a Puerto Rican stepfather. In order to get Bill into the country, his mother claimed that he was 100% Puerto Rican. Thus, to this day, the U.S. government believes that Bill is Mexican.

Bill was never close to his stepfather. In fact, he said his stepdad disliked him. Bill said his stepfather always boasted of Puerto Rico, leading Bill to hate the nation/territory. Ironically, Bill would go on to marry a Puerto Rican.

Bill describes himself as a jeweler by trade, yet he says he hates that job. He seems to like pretty much every vice: alcohol, marijuana, pain medication, hallucinogens, etc. In some ways, he seems like a low-life. He has all these bad habits and seven children belonging to four different women, none of which are his current wife.  At the same time though, he seemed deeply profound. Bill told us “the worst thing you can do in a marriage is cheat.”

Bill also shared with us the joy that children bring into your life. He described how having a child is a miraculous thing. He said there is mothering like hearing your child say, “I love you, daddy.” Later, he made a comment about the San Juan mountains having the ability to make you believe in God. And, he even said at another point, that you must have God in your marriage. He exhorted that a husband and wife should pray together. This struck me in a surprising way, seeing that Bill seemed non-religious. Though a Jew, he is not devout, and his history would lead you to believe that he lacks any grounding in religious morals. Regardless, his lack of a religious background served to give his words about God even more weight.

Back to the story. After eating lunch, Bill insisted we go to a liquor store to buy a six-pack for the bus ride to Durango. I accompanied Bill to the liquor store. By the time he bought beer though, we only had twenty minutes to make it a mile back to our bus station before our scheduled departure. We ran part way back, ended up arriving back with five minutes to spare. Bill then put his New Belgium IPA’s in Joe’s pillow in order to sneak them on to the bus. Once on the bus, Bill shared a beer with me and a twenty-something-year-old girl named Ally.

Ally joined us on the second bus. She was a pretty blonde – the type of girl that turns guys heads. Ally had graduated with a degree in Psychology from a state school in Georgia. She is now a yoga instructor and nanny in Atlanta.  She was heading to see her boyfriend, who grows pot out of his basement on the Western Slope.

Bill, Ally and I were sharing beers at the back of the bus and talking. I was nervous about drinking on the bus because I knew it was probably against the rules, but I figured When in Rome… or on the Western Slope. In any case, there was very little chance of getting caught since there was only one bus driver and he was focused on the road. Our shenanigans came to an abrupt halt when we pulled up to Montrose. As we pulled into a gas station – and bus drop-off – in the town, a police car was waiting. Our bus driver stepped off the bus, and two police officers proceeded to leave their patrol car and head toward the bus. Bill grabbed Ally’s beer out of her hands and stuffed it back into the brown bag at his feet. Not wanting to get caught red handed, I also stuck my empty bottle in Bill’s face. But, it was too late. The police officer was already inside the bus and saw my arm stretching across the aisle to Bill. Oh no, I thought, that had to have looked suspicious.

The police officer proceeded down the aisle, surveying the passengers as he made his way towards us in the back. As he walked down the aisle, Bill tried to shuffle the bottles around in his bag. As he did, he made some clinking noises. The officer was less than ten feet away and Bill was still clinking the glasses. The officers turned their eyes toward us. We must’ve broken some law by drinking beer on the bus, I thought. I figured we were done fore. They asked us if we had seen a bald guy with red eyebrows. We said “no.” They walked right past us and proceeded to check the bathroom at the back of the bus. Not finding their intended target, they turned around and headed off the bus. We were spared.

Apparently, they thought someone they were searching for had boarded our bus, but they were mistaken. Once we returned to driving, more heart gradually slowed from the near run-in with the law, and our visiting resumed while Bill downed three-and-a-half more beers.

Meanwhile, another storyline was unfolding. Back in Grand Junction, when Bill and I returned to the bus station from buying the beer, a guy sitting down asked me if I could spare him some money. He had dark, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a pony-tail, baggy pants, a plain white t-shirt, and tattoos covering one arm. He looked like a thug. I asked him what he needed money for. He shared that he had just gotten out of prison near Cañon City after being there for five years. He was heading back to Durango, where he was arrested and where he would be serving his parole. Since he no longer had contacts in Durango though, he needed money to get a hotel room for the night. I told him that I would pitch in some money, so that he could get a hotel room, but I wouldn’t be able to cover all of the room. I asked if he had asked anyone else for money. He said no. I told him to ask around. I watched him go outside the bus station – which was really just a waiting room – and ask a lady, who was waiting for our bus, for money. By the look on his face, I could tell that she must have declined him. He looked dejected and humiliated. It brought me back to the feeling that I had last summer trying to hitchhike out of Summit County.

He returned and sat down next to me. He didn’t seem to have much of a will to ask others. I told him I would give him money once we got to Durango. Then, I asked him his name. It was Sam.

After the near run-in with the cops on the bus, my thoughts turned to Sam, who was sitting half-a-dozen rows in front of me on the bus. I walked up the aisle, sat down in the row next to him and began talking. He was originally from Houston, Texas, but had moved to Durango ten years ago for college. After a year or so, he stopped going to school, but remained in the laid-back mountain town. Somewhere around five years ago, he was arrested for possessing stolen property. Now, he had been released from prison, but still needed to serve a year on parole. Sam was exhausted after traveling for more than twenty-four hours – on what seems like the most indirect route possible – since leaving Cañon City. To compound the matter, he was in severe pain from gallstones and a cavity. My heart began to warm toward Sam.

I couldn’t help but think about the fact that I was the only one Sam had approached. Why me? While there was no clear answer, a voice in my head spoke. This was an opportunity to serve the other. Dammit God, I thought to myself, I don’t know if I believe in you right now, but here you are talking to me. While my faith has been floundering recently, this was one of those moments where the voice of God seemed clear. It’s as if the Divine was telling me that this was the stuff of Christ: loving with risks. I couldn’t help but see Jesus in Sam.

Sam figured that we could find a hotel room for $30 in Durango. He said that we could split the room. I was reticent to share a room with Sam, but realizing that we wouldn’t get into to Durango until after eight at night, and I still needed to walk four miles to arrive at the trail, I concluded that I might actually join him.

After talking for a bit, I returned to my seat at the back of the bus, and resumed talking to other folks. I started to have doubts about the situation though. I realized I was putting a lot of trust in an ex-convict. I could be robbed, or worse. Then, another passenger who had overheard Sam and I’s conversation, told me that the cheap hotel in Durango was a sketchy place. He said that is was the site of meth deals and other dangerous business. I decided that I wouldn’t stay with Sam after all. I would give him some cash and then try to catch a ride to the trail.

As we approached Durango, Sam and I agreed to check the shelter in town to see if there was room. Once we arrived, I accompanied Sam to the shelter on top of the hill in Durango. We asked the staff person on site if there was room in the shelter. She replied, “Let me do some math to see if there was room. I will be back in ten minutes.” Bull-shit, I thought. Fifteen minutes later she returned to report that there was no room in the shelter.

Sam and I began to walk down the hill. It seemed like a hotel would be the only option for Sam. Less than a minute into our walk, a truck began to pass us and rolled down it’s windows. “Can we get a ride to the motel down the way?” Sam asked. “Sure, I would be more than happy to give you all a ride,’ replied the driver. The driver of the truck was named Gerald. He had just finished leading an AA meeting at the halfway house next to the homeless shelter. He was very kind. He and Sam began to talk about AA. Sam shared that he needed a sponsor, and went on to explain his situation to Gerald. Gerald proceeded to invite Sam out to an AA meeting.

Gerald dropped us off at the cheap motel. Due to the summer season, prices were way up. The motel was significantly more than Sam expected. I ended up paying for the room anyone. I decided to stay in the one-bed room with Sam. I slept on the floor (which weirdly enough is something I like to do anyway). I was nervous that he would try to pull something on me, but seeing that it was nearly 9pm, dark and I was tired, I realized that I would not be able to make it to the trail tonight. I took the risk to stay in the hotel.

Before we went to bed, I asked Sam how it felt to be out of jail. I expected him to be excited, but to my surprise, he said he was anxious. He no longer had contacts in Durango. He had a backpack that was slightly larger than a book bag filled with a few hygiene items, a change of clothes and a few cigarettes. His wallet held his I.D., social security card and $3. He was unprepared to be integrated back into society. He had no contacts, no resources, no place to stay (not even at the homeless shelter), no nice clothes, or phone or money. How would he find a job? Was the system not just setting him up to fail again? He was anxious about forgetting to call his parole office and finding a place to stay and getting a job. Being out of jail was not easy.

The next morning I awoke at 6:30AM to Sam smoking a cigarette. He had gone to the convenient store across the street to buy a lighter, which costed him $1.50. It was one of the few things that could bring him some sense of relief in his harsh new reality. Sam wanted to go see his parole officer the minute she opened her doors at eight. Sam wanted to keep the hotel room for the day, so that he could return later to nap. I told him that I needed to head too, though, to begin my hike. We left the room at seven. We were both headed south toward the center of town. I would turn right less than a mile down to head up toward the trail. Sam would continue walking a couple more miles to downtown Durango. A few blocks down, the public bus pulled up. It only costs a dollar to ride into town. Sam jumped on. I handed him a few bucks to get food later in the day, and we parted ways.