Dick Bus Driver

There is a system in place in the garas for buying tickets.

Sometimes, with some drivers, you are expected to buy your tickets for your seat number at a little window from a doughy woman with thin hair. She is never too glad to see you. While you are buying from her several bus drivers (all men) will push you out of the way. They shove a handful of bible paper forms at this woman through her little little window. She stops her transaction with you and attends. Then the man will leave and she will continue with your request. Maybe you will be interrupted 3 times. These men are favored for two reasons. They are men. They are drivers. Drivers must get away as quickly as possible because they have pulled out of their parking space 5 minutes late trying to hassle people to go to the villages they will pass through, and are parked in the middle of the exit lane from the gara. They stop here because they must go tell the gara (these women being the authorities) how many people are on their bus. At this point the woman will print out all the tickets for the accounted people. Not the ones standing up, only the ones in seats. If you are standing up, you are extra and pure profit for the driver. If you are silly and buy your ticket individually, and give it to the driver instead of paying your money to the driver, the driver will have to write this on one of those bibleish sheets. If you are silly and buy your ticket on your own, you have power over the other passengers. You can kick them out of their seats if you are standing. You are assigned a seat, and if someone is sitting in that seat, you can kick them out. I've never done this, but had it done to me many times.

So, some drivers make all their passengers buy before hand. Some force them never to buy them. My personal favorite driver drives from Balatina to Balti once a day, and returns once a day. He is fat and bald and the most outwardly misogynistic person I've ever met. I take his bus one way or the other once or twice a month. Every time he sees me he glares at me and yells at me to know better Romaninan, and why the fuck don't I speak Russian. Halfway through these diatribes he will turn to one of his friends (all men) and point at me and continue these harangues.

I have interacted with most of his friends individually before, and his son too. His son is lovely, his friends are pretty normal people, all of them are very enthusiastic to talk with me when he's not around.

I asked Renata about him. He hates her too. The dozens of people he waves and/or honks at (his horn plays a pimpin tune akin the the Woody Woodpecker laugh) are all men. He smiles at men, and glares at all women. Even pretty, demure, perfect Moldovankas with brown hair, hooker outfits and down turned eyes. His bus is filled with the following decorations: a string of country flags, two dozen Orthodox icons, 1 gold CD, 3 strings of mardi gras beads, 2 bunches of fake plastic flowers, a slinky dog, 1 Ave Maria towel and 3 prostitute towels. Prostitute towels are beach towels with pictures of prostitutes on them. All blonde. All with red lips. All leaning forward at you with their big pixelated breasts.

At first I thought it was my Americaness. I tried all the first year to win him over. He has an American flag hanging in his windshield, so I thought there must be something I could work with. One night (not just any night. I was carrying a heavy fucking box of books from the states to my school. It was the middle of winter last year, ie dark at 4pm. We arrived in Balatina at 6:30 pm. It was windy and snowing pretty hard. My hood would not stay up it was so windy, and it was cold enough that when the wind made my eyes water the tears froze on my face. Remember, in Moldova there is no need for hyperbole) he dropped me off on the outskirts of town, by the gas station. The gas station is 2 kilometers from my house. I asked politely if he would please drive into town like he normally does, and is supposed to (the Balatina gara is only 250 metres from my house). He said he was going home. At this point, I adopted a Moldovan technique, which is to repeat the request. Response: “I GO HOME! I GO HOME! I GO HOME!” So I walked.

Yesterday's ride home was no different, though it's lighter out now, and the sun is just setting at 6:30pm, and it was snowing, but not windy, and I had a punga full of clothes. Net gain in all ways. Getting on the bus he sneered at me and threatened to drop me off on the outskirt of town again if I had bought my ticket. Ah! There's a REASON for his hatred! I always buy my tickets from the official lady where they are ALWAYS cheaper, and I have the self satisfaction of supporting the infrastructure rather than the scalpers.

I was so surprised at this, he'd never said anything before, that I burst out laughing at him. Got on the bus and read my book feeling pretty good about myself.

Who does this man hate? Why does he hate so vehemently? I've never witnessed this before. I mean, yea, his life sucks because he's a bus driver in Moldova, but, really, relatively, he has a pretty sweet life here. He only drives 4 hours a day, hangs out with his patsans the rest of the time. Bus drivers make more money than teachers. He has a lovely son with manners.

Ideas?