“Stop for Belmopan,” the bus driver called. “Next stop is Camalote.”
A little old lady stepped to the front of the bus.
“Did you say the next stop is Ontario village?” she asked the bus driver.
“No, ma’am. The next stop is Camalote. Then we make stops at Teakettle and after that, Ontario Village. ”
I was riding the bus to San Ignacio and the only one available that morning was what I call the “chicken bus.” Unlike the more expensive buses, the “chicken bus” stops at every little village and the passengers carry everything from chickens to groceries.
A few miles later the bus stopped and the driver announced, “Stop for Camalote. Next stop is Ontario Village.”
“Is this Ontario village?” the little old lady asked, as she wandered up to the bus driver.
“No, lady,” the bus driver said, “You have asked me that same question at every stop and I always give you the same answer. This is the ninth time.”
“Well, I’m a little hard of hearing,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
“No problem, ma’am. I’ll be sure to tell you when we get to Ontario.”
Before long the bus stopped and the driver called out, “Stop for Ontario village.”
Once again the old lady made her way to the driver and asked, “Is this Ontario village?”
“Yes it is, ma’am. You can get out now.”
“Oh, I’m going to San Ignacio,” she said. “But my daughter said when the bus gets to Ontario village it will be time to take my blood pressure medicine.”
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