Robert Young

So, we’re hurtling down the narrow highway in a mini-bus—a marshrutka—on the way to Stepantsminda, a small town near Georgia’s border with Russia. We’re packed in tight, Tyler and I taking up two of the four back row seats. Any other seat would have been preferable, but people claimed them before us, and they paid by having to sit in blistering heat while we waited outside in the shade.

Tyler has the window seat and I sit with the aisle in front of me, which provides a little stretching area since the fold-down seat that would fill that space is the only seat unfilled. On the other side of me sits a middle-aged man, thick and glowering. He staked out his territory early, opening his legs as far as his chubby hips allow. I, however, won the shoulder battle, and rested my back against the seat while he leaned forward.

Two hours into the ride, the driver brakes hard and swerves onto the shoulder of the road. He talks excitedly on his cell phone, then slams the gearshift into reverse and starts backing down the highway. BACKING DOWN THE HIGHWAY! This is not just a little country road with no traffic. This is a highway with cars and trucks whizzing by, most of them blowing their horns at us.

Unaffected by the horn blasts, the driver continues, using his side mirrors to guide his erratic path. The response from inside the bus is silence, except for the guy sitting in front of us who snorts with laughter. My heart is racing and my breathing shallow as I imagine a fiery death for us all, except for the idiot driver who will most likely be thrown to safety. Isn’t that the way these things usually go?

We continue on—backwards—not for a hundred yards or two, but for several miles. When the bus finally comes to a stop, the driver jumps out and races to the back of the vehicle, where he greets an old bearded man walking along the road. The driver ushers the man to the side of the bus, pulls open the sliding door, and points to the only available space, the fold-down seat in front of me.

The bearded man slowly surveys his sole seat option as well as the mass of humanity inside the bus. He speaks to the driver in Georgian and the driver responds, their voices rising over the sounds of the cars and trucks whooshing by us. And then, the driver slams the door closed, gets back behind the wheel, and drives as the man watches us leave. Forward. At last.

I stretch my legs out into the empty space in front of me and wonder how many more hours until we reach our destination.