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Judgement.

The 9am bus from Porte de Soller to Inca is very popular. Walkers, who have come to

Majorca from all over Europe, but especially Germany, use this service to deliver them to

the starting point of a host of rambles – the peaks of the Ofre and Massenalla being the

two most frequented. Of course, the 9 o’clock bus from Porte de Soller to Inca never

leaves at 9. For this we must credit Jesus Velasquez, the driver. Though the timetable is

widely published and posted in hotels across the region, the 9 am bus departs at precisely

9.25. But, despite its tardiness, it is a popular bus – so much so that the queue of ramblers

assembles well in advance of its published departure time, crowding the dangerously slim

pavement of a narrow side street.

There are other buses. They are scheduled to start their journeys to Palma, via the tunnel,

and Valdemossa via Robert Graves old home in Deia. The second of these is also much

used by walkers whose planned itineraries commence at either of the two villages. So, by

8.45 there was always quite a crowd of hikers jostling for position and anxiously scanning

the throng in vain attempt to assess whether, on the basis of ad hoc mental calculations,

there would be enough seats to go round.

All of the buses, one of them a double-decker, sweep the right-angled bend into Carrera

d’esglisia with minimal clearance of inadequate pavement or, indeed, the stone wall on the

northern side. But the drivers, and noticeably Jesus, pride themselves on their ability to

navigate the turning and frighten the prospective passengers whilst, at the same time,

avoiding the slaughter of the tail end of the queue.

Jesus is, I should say was, the master of this technique – wing mirror fanning

unsuspecting customers as wheels passed a mere centimetre from the pavement. A

master. But, at the same time, a maverick. When interviews were carried out, shortly after

the event, there was no one who could confirm that Velasquez held the necessary

credentials required to drive a bus. Yet all confirmed that in matters of judgement, skill,

flamboyance, he had no rivals. Every hairpin bend on the northern mountain route, trip

after trip, would be negotiated with millimetre precision. He was, and many did say, a

natural.

So why did his bus always leave late?

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It was all about judgement – his judgement. Very soon after taking up his post as a driver,

Jesus grew tried of the 9 o’clock chaos and vowed to improve matters. And so it was, that

he began to arrive at the bus queue later than scheduled, just as the buses for Palma and

Valdemossa closed their doors and the final passengers took their seats. At this moment,

seconds before his colleagues pulled away, the bus to Inca would arrive in the street,

gliding through an elegant curve before coming to a halt no more than ten centimetres

from the vehicle in front. Jesus would calmly wait while the narrow street cleared. Then he

would open the front door allowing his grateful clients to board. At this point the jostling

would begin. Too European to actually push fellow ramblers out of the way; too middle-

aged and imbued with a sense of propriety to overtly trample on their rivals, an elaborate

dance would begin. The rules were simple:

1. At all costs, avoid looking competitors in the eye.

2. Wheedle and wedge your body into spaces carelessly left open by others.

3. Look innocent.

Jesus Velasquez took no interest in this. He simply devoted his attention to those who

were successful at the game. When the bus was full – and he seemed to possess a

supernatural ability to know this without so much as a glance over his shoulder – he

promptly close the pneumatic door without apology or warning. Those who remained on

the pavement could do nothing but walk away, no doubt to re-plan their day.

It was exactly so on 26th October 2008, when I attempted to board the bus in order to

reach the Cuber damn, the start of my walk. And, yet, not exactly so. At least, that is how I

recall events.

Firstly, I remember, when taking the corner into Carrera de Esglisias, the wing mirror of the

bus clipped the rucksack of a lady walker, pushing her awkwardly against the wall of the

dull building. Secondly, the bus for Valdemossa would have felt a slight jolt as Jesus

braked a fraction too late, for the first time, nudging his colleague’s vehicle. And then there

was the huge tyre, chaffing along the curb. But mostly I go back to the moment when I and

a young German were faced with a closing door – a full bus. Then…a shout: room for one

more! An empty seat! Jesus Velasquez had judged wrongly. With a hiss, the door opened

and before I had time to react, the younger man had squeezed in front and was on, leaving

me gaping at my tattered plans.

Lastly, of course, there was the incident on the road 1km before the Cuber damn – a bend

misjudged, wheels skidding off tarmac, hitting the gravel verge. The bus chassis

compressed by a full 5 cm as, on the hairpin bend, it a boulder full on, causing a lurching

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that grew as the centre of gravity readjusted and tipped to critical. There was a moment

when all seemed held in the balance before the steel body keeled over, like a wounded

beast, thudding, then somersaulting down the mountain slope.

Amongst the passengers, randomly jostling for position and bodily reassembling, there

were no survivors.

Jesus, on the other hand, finally regained his sense of judgement.

As the hulk of the bus poised, momentarily in equilibrium, he flicked his seat belt buckle

and, with feline instinct, propelled himself through the open window of the cab.