From Kowloon to Colombia, Katmandu to the Congo; every backpacker has several night bus stories. FOOTNOTES Journal-ista Andy Turvey sends us one of his, from Mexico

The bus station is a pale blue house, halfway along the block, five from the central plaza. Inside there are two ceiling fans that do not work, and probably never have. A large cockroach scuttles purposefully across the cracked cement floor, hurrying to the shelter of the plastic seating arranged around the otherwise bare room, eventually hiding under a string tied box that forms part of the small dark skinned lady's abundance of packages. The desk in the far right hand corner is unattended, made up for by the flashing fairy lights that wrap around the arch on the outside of the shrine behind the counter. Doll's furniture decorates the holy setting and an angelic shower of lights and rays splay the back of the shrine. Candles burn incessantly, illuminating a path only they understand. I wait by the desk, absorbing the smells and sights. On the wall to my right is the timetable painted in thick clumsy strokes - departures for Oaxaca and Mexico City (except the Mexico City service no longer runs, or so I gather from the broad line painted diagonally through it). There is a bus to Oaxaca at 21.00, six hours away. Someone arrives at the desk pronouncing his greetings with the usual precision. I greet him back and enquire as to the bus times. Yes, there is one at 21.00, there might be one at 23.00 too but he will not know until 22.00 when he has counted the ticket stubs. By that time the 21.00 will have left. My mind is made up easily. "The 21.00 will do nicely," I say, smiling. I decide to head back into town, have a taco, read the paper and wander round.

I catch a taxi back in the evening but the taxi driver has never heard of the bus company. I see a few familiar street stalls and the wider than usual tree lined avenue the company is on. I pay the fare and tackle crossing the road, checking for gaps in the traffic. Made it to the middle and again the traffic is held up, my chance to the other side. Horns are jammed down randomly, almost patriotically, at the sudden but expected hold up. I get to the other side and recognise the colouring of the bus company. TRANSPORTES DEL ISTMO is vaguely legible on what is left of the crumbling facade of the small waiting room. I stand outside and smoke a cigarette, people around me are speaking an Indian language, I cannot understand them but it pleases me to hear them. A few large drops of rain hit the tarmac in front of me, the smell and weight of the air warns of a heavy storm ahead. Along with the other passengers waiting outside I duck my head and enter the waiting room for shelter. Amongst the passengers and parcels I spot a sweet vendor with his wooden box on a leather strap around his neck. His eyes show tiredness and apathy, but he cheers up when I buy three packets of chewy sweets from him. I cannot peel the wrappers off them, they have been in the sun for days but sucking the wrappers is better than nothing. The bus has arrived now and the driver starts crawling around under it, attracting the usual crowd of mechanically minded Mexicans. The bus is old, very old. I look at it for a while and think of mountain roads, recent mudslides and the long night ahead.

We board the bus noisily and charge for 'reserved' seats. I collapse into mine and look forward at the windscreen, there is a seismic crack running through it from one corner to the other. The collection of stickers give some indication as to the driver's temperament. 'THE EXTERMINATOR' raising my suspicions. I try the reclining button on the side of my seat, nothing. I am to sit bolt upright for the entire journey. I look around at the collection of pseudo cowboy hats and proud facial hair sticking up above the headrests. The bus is full so no chance of swapping seats. I let my weight drop back into my seat with resignation and absorb the smells of the bus - a sweet acrid smell of old chilli wafts around and creeps between the rows. The commotion is settling down now and the driver sadistically revs the mature engine. The bus rattles from back to front and pity flows through me as a crash of cogs indicates first gear. The lights go down and we are off. Not bad, only an hour later than scheduled. Indians with babies strapped around them wave coyly as we pull away. Then we stop; we have only been going for about five minutes. We pick someone else up on the way out of town, he has a good look at the 'guero' sitting up front and shyly he hides his smile as they all do. Shyly disguising mine I smile back and he shuffles on down the aisle in his leather sandals that expose his earth dyed toes. The bus is to carry on in this shunting mode all night, picking up and putting down wherever necessary.

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