One, there were so many people making the trek to the top it didn't really feel adventurous. Although it was super cool. The trip down off the mountain is the story that needs telling and I'm happy to say I'm still here to tell it.
The bus driver now, was a character. I had, with many other tourists, been dropped off earlier in the day by the morning shift driver so we could all hike to the rim of the mighty Mt Vesuvius. Upon our return, a new driver, the afternoon shift driver I'll assume, came rolling up the hill in a cloud of dust, hand on the horn, wherein he unceremoniously threw open the doors and came to a skidding halt. This mind you while chanting a chorus of (with a thick Italian accent) "Pompeii, Pompeii, Pompeii!" Pronounced: Palm-Pay-UHH! Palm-Pay-UHH! Palm-Pay-UHH! Those of us waiting for a ride back to town scurried over, jumped on the bus, and took our obligatory places. We didn't get the last ass in the seat before he closed the door and began this three-point turn in this tiny space with all these tourists milling about who were paying absolutely no attention to the fact they were about to come face to face with the Dirty Harry of Italian bus drivers. He backed up, pulled forward, and seemingly sideways; all the while yelling, "Oh! Hey! Oh! Ay!" And making what I gathered was the sound an unaware tourist makes when squished by a bus filled with other tourists. This had the back of the bus smiling and giggling with laughter, for now. After some expert maneuvering, we left them all behind in a cloud of ash, most of them pressed against a wooden railing with a look of terror on their suntanned faces. Here's where it gets good. This guy didn't give two shits about anything, literally. As we weaved our way down the mountainside we took out some guy's side mirror and missed other cars and buses by mere inches as the bus tossed us to and fro and side to side. At one point there was an
audible gasp from the entire bus as we damn near came up on two wheels around one of the 100 or so bends in the road which switchbacked down the mountain. The giggling disappeared to be replaced with strong grips on the seat in front of us and a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers whispered under our collective breaths.
The bus driver now, was a character. I had, with many other tourists, been dropped off earlier in the day by the morning shift driver so we could all hike to the rim of the mighty Mt Vesuvius. Upon our return, a new driver, the afternoon shift driver I'll assume, came rolling up the hill in a cloud of dust, hand on the horn, wherein he unceremoniously threw open the doors and came to a skidding halt. This mind you while chanting a chorus of (with a thick Italian accent) "Pompeii, Pompeii, Pompeii!" Pronounced: Palm-Pay-UHH! Palm-Pay-UHH! Palm-Pay-UHH! Those of us waiting for a ride back to town scurried over, jumped on the bus, and took our obligatory places. We didn't get the last ass in the seat before he closed the door and began this three-point turn in this tiny space with all these tourists milling about who were paying absolutely no attention to the fact they were about to come face to face with the Dirty Harry of Italian bus drivers. He backed up, pulled forward, and seemingly sideways; all the while yelling, "Oh! Hey! Oh! Ay!" And making what I gathered was the sound an unaware tourist makes when squished by a bus filled with other tourists. This had the back of the bus smiling and giggling with laughter, for now. After some expert maneuvering, we left them all behind in a cloud of ash, most of them pressed against a wooden railing with a look of terror on their suntanned faces. Here's where it gets good. This guy didn't give two shits about anything, literally. As we weaved our way down the mountainside we took out some guy's side mirror and missed other cars and buses by mere inches as the bus tossed us to and fro and side to side. At one point there was an
We did finally make it down into the city where he stopped on occasion to talk to other old Italian guys. There was a lot of hand waving and Ohs and ahs! It looked as if they were all angry with one another, but he always pulled away smiling. I'm guessing it is just a thing in Italy. Genghis Khan finally dropped us at the station near the square wherein we all filed off the bus thankful to be alive and, whether we were religious or not, crossing ourselves as we passed in front of a cathedral that I'm sure God put there intentionally to gather any lost sheep that made it off the bus in one piece. End scene.
Crazy experiences make great stories. Thanks for sharing, Kristine. Safe travels!
ReplyDeleteYikes!! Yeah, I've most certainly left my fingerprints imbedded in numerous seat backs and arm rests over the years. Our race to the Entebbe airport in Uganda from the Virunga Mountains, an 8-hour drive along mountainous one-lane roads for much of the way, was one of them. This pic was made by me, leaning out the bus window and looking back at the road we just traveled. http://www.dustydogdigital.com/p756974234 . Glad you made it down in one piece. But, what a trip!! ~Di
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