Christian Charity
has its limits
So I get on the ol’ Greyhound in Seattle this morning, to make my way back to sanity. The driver opens the hatch so I can load my bag, and I hop on and settle in. Check my phone. Emails. “We’re sorry your connection has been cancelled.” This bus leaves the UW at 8:45 and arrives in Spokane at 4:30pm and then I transfer to another line for the Spokane/Missoula leg, which is the one that has been cancelled- which is strange because the weather report everywhere is for dry weather, and Tom in Weedville texts me and says, “We haven’t had any significant weather for a couple weeks at least.”
The bus driver says go to the Greyhound site and you’ll find the number you need to reschedule. I call, press 1 for English (wondering if I should press 2 for faster service in Spanish- it’s happened before) and after the stupid recordings that include mention of my legal rights and my right to opt out any point, whatever that means, it says hold on for a representative, and three seconds later, before I’m even treated to the repeated muzak track, it hangs up on me.
Now on the road to Ellensburg, Sunnyside and Pasco, I reserve a one-way car rental, Spokane to Hamilton, MT. Perky Pelican has a meeting on Tuesday and I already told the boss I would be there. But the boss says, “Don’t worry about it; we can reschedule the meeting.” At Pasco the Greyhound station lady looks at the computer and says, “You’re right- that bus has been cancelled!”
-So what’s a stranded passenger supposed to do?
-Well, Greyhound will refund you up to $80 for a hotel.
I figure a night in Spokane won’t kill me, and look forward to seeing the city a bit before my bus at the same hour the next day. But then Stan Delaney calls and says, “I was talking to Kenny and he told me your predicament. I’ll come out and pick you up no problem.”
That’s 7 hours round trip of driving for Stan, and I of course say it’s no problem for me to hang out in S., but he says he’d be happy to do it, and so as I type he’s on his way, probably coming over the Montana/Idaho border at Lookout Pass right now.
At Spokane there are three other passengers who have the same connection with the eastbound bus. None of them realize the bus has been cancelled. The woman disappears soon after learning she’s stuck in Spokane. The two young guys stand there helpless. I think, hmm, would Stan agree to take these guys to Missoula? Would I? If I had the Suburban I probably would. But then I find out they are going to Billings, and they may as well wait here in Spokane, where the station is open all night. Little Missoula station closes, I’m pretty sure, and what good would getting them closer to Billings do if they had to wait for the same bus anyway?
One guy was a blonde dude, call him Billy, in strange, multi-color pajama-ish clothes; the other a Hispanic guy with a huge suitcase. I tried to help both.
Billy- You mean there’s not another bus until tomorrow? When?!
D- It’s just one bus a day. Leaves at the same time, 5:10pm.
Billy shook his head in disgust and said, “What am I supposed to do?”
I thought about my lack of success with customer service by phone, so I walked over to the service counter, and the dude came around from back. I’d spoken with the Hispanic guy, a Nicaraguan, and it looked like both Billy and Rasael needed help (Hispanics these days are as creative with names as African Americans). I told James behind the counter that these guys were stranded and needed to figure out what to do. (Since Stan had solved the problem for me with the ride, I felt like it was the least I could do to help out these poor traveling schlubs.) I went back to Billy and Rasael and relayed James’ advice on rescheduling and such.
Billy was funny; he treated me like I was there at his service. He treated each piece of information I gave him, which he could have easily got himself, with a blank look, a pause, a follow-up question, and then another look that said Hold on there I’m thinking this over. It could have been the conversation between an inconvenienced and not too happy customer at the counter and a station employee trying to make things as right as he could under the circumstances. This didn’t bother me. For one, it may sound presumptuous but I’m guessing all the other riders on the Greyhound had a heavier burden than me, and I started life with much better prospects. Plus I could take the airplane if I worked harder and wasn’t such a cheap ass, and I’ve got friends, like Stan who’s coming to pick me up. Billy is allowed a little low-class gruffness. The other reason Billy’s lack of appreciation or tact didn’t bother me was because I can look at situations like this like an outside observer. They say you can manage your torture session a little better if you imagine the situation from a disembodied viewpoint. “Hey, there’s DW with some hot iron rod up his keister. That must feel weird,” said DW to himself from the corner of the interrogation room. I haven’t had a chance to try this technique under torture, but one more EMJ or Linh Dinh interview and the Mossad might give me a chance. Anyway, I guess I chuckled a little when I watched myself trying to help somewhat-less-than-appreciative Billy.
When I was finished with Billy, or more correctly, when he was finished with me, he said, “Okay,” without emotion and stared out into space, weighing up his options. Next was Rasael’s turn. Rasa was much more appreciative. He was more lost than Billy, as he spoke very poor English. He couldn’t just sort things out like Billy might be able to on the website, as he had bought his ticket with cash in Los Angeles and his ticket was just a printed copy. After Stan had texted me that he was coming, I was looking forward to my first and only meal of the day in a local restaurant- the station is downtown in the restaurant zone. But I spent a good 40 minutes with Rasael, helping him with the customer service guy by phone (on the press 2 Spanish line) and the white dude at the counter here at the station. Funny, after a wait, Rafael was able to connect with an operator on the Spanish line, as opposed to having the line go dead as in my case; white, English non-privilege. I listened in on the conversation and jumped in with pertinent information at spots. When I told Rasa to ask the guy about being comped for a hotel, the guy explained that sorry, if the delay or cancellation was due to an act of God, like earthquakes, floods, landslides and bad weather, Greyhound would not offer compensation. I wanted to jump in and say “What gives, man? The roads are dry from here to Nantucket!” but I kept silent, knowing Jose in customer service would be confused by Nantucket.
At the counter, nodding toward Rasael, James said, “Where is he going?”
Dan-To Minneapolis.
James-Minneapolis?! Good luck getting that far, as an illegal!
D-Well, he has his ticket already. He just needs to sort out the rescheduled bus, starting from the Spokane leg.
James told me what Rasa had to do and I translated. As James brought down the steel curtain to close things up, I said, “Incidentally, I’m not sure he’s an illegal. Do you think he’s going to join the troublemakers in Minnesota and stuff?
J-I don’t know man. I just know there’s some crazy shit there and they are cracking down.
I told James that like him I’m no fan of all the illegals everywhere. I don’t know about Rasael’s case and I’m just helping a fellow traveler here. James was cool about that. “Yeah, man. I can’t speak any Spanish. That’s pretty cool you can speak it and help people.”
When we were finished sorting things out, I said to Rasa, “Hey, I’m going to go out and get a bite to eat. Do you want to join me?”
R-Yes. I am so hungry. I have not eaten all day. Maybe you can help me find a hotel too. I have not slept well or washed in a while!
We both had a backpack and a big suitcase, his being huge. We trundled down the road to find a taqueria on the google map.
Reader- Oh, great Shumway. He’s Hispanic so you had to find him a taqueria. How very culturally sensitive of you. Do they even have tacos in Nicaragua?
D- Take it easy, I was worried my Christian charity might extend to footing the bill, so if we went to the Irish pub and got a beer or two and a hamburger combo, I could be looking at a 60 or 70-dollar tab. I was being cheap, not culturally sensitive. Besides, I was in the mood for tacos.
It was just a couple blocks from the station, but when we arrived there was no taco place. I called them up and the nice girl started giving me directions to the new location. I cut her off and said I was on foot and she was very apologetic. I don’t know if the mix-up was Google’s fault or the taqueria for not updating their information. I looked for another place- there’s no shortage of Mexican food in Spocompton, and I found a place three and a half blocks away.
D- Well, Rasael, why don’t we go down to this place called Cochinito Taqueria? Google says it’s a six-minute walk.
Rasa paused and looked up and down the street, with a skeptical expression. Was he a 7th-day Adventist who would never eat at Piglet’s Taqueria? Did he think we were in danger? Spokane is of course a bit edgy and raw, and there’s no shortage of homeless, but this was the restaurant zone at 6pm and for crying out loud, he’s from Nicaragua1 and has lived two years in a rough neighborhood of Los Angeles. Rasa said, “I don’t know. I’m kind of tired and this big suitcase is so heavy.”
I looked at this tough latino half my age and with a smirk said, "¿Qué?!”
I grabbed the telescoping handle of his suitcase and it had good wheels and a smooth ride, easy for this man twice his age to walk with.
D- Come on man! This is light! You’re a tough young guy.
R- Yes, but I don’t want to be so far from the station and have to walk back.
Was he serious? Was he afraid I was going to jump him? Muscular, swarthy Central American attacked and robbed by greying 60-yr. old former schoolteacher in a Yorkshire flat cap. Suspect is at large and considered dangerous.
And then the thought hit me. You’ve done enough, Shumway- Go have dinner and let him fend for himself. How many times in your travels have you been stuck in a train station or had to figure your way around the scuzzy side of a town, and I as the obvious gringo target, no less. And further justifications for letting him go peppered my thinking:
You’ve been in my country for two years working at the factory and you haven’t done squat to learn English? (to the extent LA is my country, you might say)
You’re legal, and congratulations for that, but you got your work visa with an asylum excuse- a political refugees program? Give me a break!
You’re going to go work on a dairy farm in Minnesota. OK, you’ve done such work in Nicaragua and Costa Rica, but screw that dairy farmer who refuses to pay enough to attract a nice Midwest boy who could use the work and get started in life. I’m supposed to help out in this process of demographic suicide? Humbug!
I didn’t say any of this, but just bid Rasael farewell and said I’d call and see if everything came out OK. I still have to do that today, before the 5:10 to Billings, to keep my promise.
Individually, I’ll judge the man case by case. Would I not take advantage of an opportunity to make 5 times the wage of my home country like Rasa was doing? Of course I would. Do I have something against the super-friendly and fun Salvadoreans and Hondurans I play soccer with on Sundays? Of course not. But when I combine my Spanish skills with my natural eagerness to help, I feel good but I have to ask whether I’m contributing just a little bit to the demise of my nation.
Actually, Nicaragua “has historically maintained one of the lowest homicide rates in the region,”…"It has often been considered a safe haven compared to the "Northern Triangle" (Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala), which have historically faced much higher levels of gang-related violence.” Google search.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFAoWwUwknc