I mentioned in a previous article that, for me, the worst and possibly only, disadvantage to traveling by bus in South America, is that, invariably, movies are shown and music is played.  Most buses have three or four ceiling-mounted VCR’s, or whatever the heck they are, as I really don’t know anything about such things, but the last bus that I rode, the one that I took from Santiago to Lima, had but a single VCR mounted in front facing the passengers.  The bus company operating the bus has the name Transportes Tas Choapa.

There was a notice posted behind the driver stating that it was permissible for the staff to play the radio at a moderate volume provided that no passenger was opposed to it.  It did not, however, specify television or VCR’s, citing only radio.

In the fifty-hour trip, the three drivers must have played a dozen movies, and movies of the kind that I absolutely detest, namely, so-called action movies.

One of the movies was entitled Doom and starred Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, an impressive-looking Samoan wrestler.  Another was entitled The Marine and starred the equally impressive-looking wrestler, John Cena, a New Englander.

I didn’t find out the names of the movies and actors until, having arrived in Lima, I searched Internet.  And I didn’t really follow the story in either case.  All I could think about was how much I hated for my excursion to be ruined with all the shouting, screaming, yelling, explosions, fires, shooting, fighting and jumping around.  I simply can’t understand the type of mentality that revels in such blatantly-fictitious violence and mayhem.

In addition to these two raucous bloodbaths, they played some other action movies that I didn’t see well enough to try to trace their titles.  They also played a whole flock of incredibly stupid cartoons, like Dancing Penguins.  Had they shown a movie about real penguins and their habits, I’d have been interested.  But this kind of garbage defies my credulity.

Most of the movies were in English, with Spanish subtitles, but as far as I could tell, no one on the bus except me understood English,

Between movies they played odious Spanish-language songs, something like rap, usually with hollering male vocalists and incessant drumming.  It just drove me crazy.  Had they played some lovely-voiced songstress, without drums, or some Renaissance-style music, I’d have loved it.

The first night out, I raised hell on the bus, after listening to this glop all day long, when they kept it up till after 10:30 PM.  Invoking the posted rule, I finally got them to turn it way down.  The drivers argued stubbornly with me though.

The second night, I raised hell again, practically yelling at the drivers.  They refused obstinately, saying that the rule applied only to radio, not to television.   Since the movie they were playing was in English with Spanish subtitles, I finally reasoned with them, by saying, “Let them read the titles.  Just kill the voice.”  I guess this made sense, and they turned the voice down to a whisper.  I hate to create ill will, but as soon as it gets dark, I’m ready to sleep.

I was traveling in order to see Chile and Perú, not Johnson and Cena.

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