He was committed to punctuality. He worked the clunky gear box with an experienced, manicured left hand while juggling the large steering wheel with his right, skillfully navigating the undulating Sri Lankan country side. He wasn’t simply driving, he was racing – hinged forward with a concentrated stare directed ahead of him. An exceptional peripheral vision meant he didn’t miss any of the patient passengers waiting for him at the invisible bus stops on the side of the road. They would soon be hopping on and off the barely stopping bus with a wave of the hand or a ding of the bell - the engine hardly ever coming to a full halt. He could be heard coming. A loud honk sounded a few seconds before encounters, giving pedestrians just enough time to clear the road. He was on a mission – it could be seen in the earnestness of his look, his attentively chosen outfit, and the hair perfectly in place. Nothing left to chance. He and his eccentric bus were a thoroughbred horse and jockey. He was lifted from the saddle and crouched, firmly holding the reins, conducting the bus confidently as it galloped down the narrow and crowded streets. A fiery competitor. Fear and trepidation dueled relentlessly inside me as I gripped my seat, a spellbound passenger filled with a competing mix of trust and apprehension - both excited and wary. It was a frenetic but fair race, marked by friendly camaraderie among the bus drivers, but I would have bet all my money on this driver’s victory. Sometimes they would let each other overtake, using a sophisticated sign language, while other times using the exact same hands to pass a thick wad of bills through their windows. Strange, I thought. In Sri Lanka the unpredictable variables on a road journey seem to increase exponentially, more so than in other places. Cows, donkeys, street dogs, tuk-tuk buses overtaking trucks - overtaking other tuk-tuks, navigating military check points, elephants, avalanches during the rainy season, religious ceremonies, endless road works and the inevitable road workers in flip flops. My bus driver took it very seriously, every second obviously a highly valuable second, transforming over the course of each trip into minutes, and minutes into hours. On this particular day he didn’t make it to the end. On this journey there was no crossing of the finish line and obstacles could not be removed with a honk or a brisk swerve. We were slow to notice, all attention in the bus captured by the mournful chanting coming from the rear. Standing, squeezed by the crowd, was an old man with a prehistoric microphone and tambourine trying to earn his meal for the day. His singsong voice contributed significantly to the erratic and overwhelming chaos of colours, smell, noises and the sensory overload that was this ride, distracting most from what was happening at the front of the vehicle, next to the driver. A bus journey is a curiously intimate undertaking – and in Sri Lanka it is a germaphobe’s worst nightmare. Bodies pinned against each other like bricks, sustain a complex and fragile upright structure. Skin against skin, sparking friction. The few straphangers that offered a handhold were our load-bearing pillars. Instantaneous intimacy sealed by an apologetic smile allowing permission to brusquely barge into and through personal space. No awkwardness, it was comfortable, simply part of the daily routine. When the bus came to a full stop it was disorienting. We had reached the end of the line, but as passengers asked other travelers for confirmation and heads turned towards the driver behind us, it was clear that this wasn’t the finish line. The race had been called off, an unexpected hitch. Flames and smoke were sneaking through holes around the stick shift, snaking their way towards nearby backpacks which were promptly picked up. I rushed off the bus fighting an urge to panic while everyone around me stepped off the bus composedly, near disaster seemingly a perfectly normal and everyday part of life. My gaze was drawn to our jockey, his disappointment palpable. For him it was a matter of honour to bring his passengers safely and duly to their destinations. Shrugging in resignation, his head was momentarily bowed, staring at his feet and avoiding the glances of one-time fans now waiting for their next rides. It wouldn’t last long, he loved the competition. My money was on him, and his fiery determination, to win tomorrow’s race.