After a couple of hours, we began to lose the shade provided by a rock cliff on the southern end of the beach, so we carried our things up to the main road to wait for a bus back to town. Before one did, one of the private minivans stopped and we crawled in, me into the back seat next to a Rastafarian with his dreadlocks tucked up in a knit cap, and G rode shotgun next to the driver in front (good luck, I silently wished him).
Today's bus ride was much like yesterday's, speeding around other cars on the wrong side of the road, playing chicken with oncoming traffic. G later told me the driver was also texting the whole time. Yikes!
But, as I sat there, sweaty and sandy next to a Rasta who smelled little better, I thought that I wouldn't want to spend the day any other way. We love our time on the islands, talking to the locals, trying strange new fruits, realizing that not everyone lives like we do in the U.S.
This is the St. Johns bus terminal and its public buses.
