Guest Column: The NTS team

Reflections on the Gallup-Window Rock bus

By Duane A. Beyal
Special to the Times

The bus arrived at 6:37 a.m. At Gallup Indian Medical Center, the sky to the east was lightening. The streets were empty, the crows the only movement.

As I walked up the steps at the entrance of the bus, the driver eyed me, decided I was not drunk and stamped my e-ticket, his tool clicking like a cigarette lighter.

Inside, as on most of the early morning and evening runs of the Navajo Transit System bus, the passengers were mostly workers heading to Window Rock. Not the usual pay-as-you-go, get-a-ride-if-you-can clientele who populate this town. These people are serious — working folks with a job to do and no real reason to wear a baseball cap.

During the mid-day runs of the buses, all the men wear baseball caps like a team on its way to a game, the stars and bench warmers all wearing their game-time stares.

On a recent ride, I counted 16 caps and only one “potato chip” — a straw hat. But our headdress is significant: from war helmets to caps, we are all united. Whether a headdress of eagle feathers, a felt George Strait hat, or a potato chip or cap, we are all together in our styles. This is a camouflage for the masses.

Several times the bus driver has refused to allow an intoxicated individual onto the bus. Other times the driver has searched a suspicious person’s bags to find a pint of the dreaded illegal-on-the-reservation booze.

“No, you can’t get on,” he will tell the unfortunate person.

The rest of us breathe in relief when the bus finally closes its doors, the engine roars, and the bus sets off on its course to Window Rock.

The most vexing part of the bus ride experience is, of course, figuring out the schedule of arrivals and departures. For example, the Gallup Express schedules remain a mystery. I got on a bus after asking if I could get to the hospital, told yes, I clambered on board for a scenic ride through the north side of town. After a long loop, we finally headed up Ford Canyon towards the hospital. You can see the buses going here and there, but when are they going and where?

We could depend on the guys who get off to “plazz” at DCI, or the people who unload at Walmart or the people who get off downtown, but the question remains about when the bus arrives.

I spoke to an old Zuni man who sat on a bench in downtown Gallup. He said his children lived in Lukachukai and he was going to visit them. I sat next to him and we traded stories about hunting deer. A week later, I was saddened to see his obituary in the newspaper with a photo of his bright, smiling face.

I also remember a guy who was loud and laughing while he drank from a plastic container. The driver finally pulled over past the Summit and took the guy by the arm and escorted him out, leaving him standing forlornly beside 264. (Officials for the Navajo Transit System and Gallup Express were unavailable for comment.)

As with many situations, you should know when the bus comes. Survival in today’s world is the remembrance of routine.

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