It Wasn't My Bus

The day I returned from Buriram was a very, very good day. Mostly because it wasn't my bus in the ditch.

Traffic stopped at one point. I thought it was some kind of police or military check point, there are a lot of those now, what with all of the Yellow Shirts, Red Shirts, and good, old fashioned meth smugglers. They usually don't detain the buses, but they snarl up traffic pretty good. When we got to the intersection though, I noticed all of the emergency vehicles, and finally saw the bus in the ditch.

It was a perfect fit, so it was hard to see until you were right on top of it, until I was looking right down on the blue, orange and white side of the bus with the windows staring up. Lots of guys with back-boards were crawling down to the bus. It didn't look like they'd opened it up yet. That was a real mess right there.

But it wasn't me, and I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Regular readers may know that I am not a conventionally religious man, probably I seem more like a blasphemer. But I do pray sometimes. No, I never ask for anything, I'm absolutely certain that there is no God that answers prayer. But God . . . who knows? It's so hard to be certain. So maybe I'm hedging my bets, but I do say a prayer of thanks on occasion, thanks for some blessing, some good luck, like this time, it not being my bus in the ditch.