A peculiar sight flies through Guatemala’s densely packed cities streets and rolling, mountainous countryside: a fleet of thousands of American school buses. But they are not the ordinary yellow vehicles that ferry children to school every day. Not any more. Here, and across Central America, these buses are the region’s main form of public transport.

In Guatemala, the vehicles are a source of endless creativity and variety. A few buses hit their routes unadorned—still bright yellow, still carrying the names of the school districts they once served. But others get extreme makeovers. They can be seen arrayed in bus ports all over the country, with bright green, red, or blue paint jobs, and decorated with intricate striping, flames, American cartoon characters, flashing lights, or old-school bike horns. Their patterns indicate routes and companies, and are often a point of pride for their owners.

Some passengers haul in large bags of potatoes, corn, onions, and other crops to sell in urban markets. Others are suit-clad workers on their way to work, or women wearing traditional indigenous dress—intricately woven skirts, shirts, and belts as colorful as the buses they ride.

What the “chicken buses,” as they are known, share is history. Each of these vehicles started life as a school bus in the United States, and each reached 10 years or 150,000 miles of service. Then they were auctioned off for less than $2,000 and driven south to their new homes for a new life.

The bright patterns reflect the owners and lines of the buses, and are a source of pride.
The bright patterns reflect the owners and lines of the buses, and are a source of pride.

And behind each bus is a driver. And each driver has a story that’s a window into life in Central America.

The job is among the most dangerous in the Americas. Drivers have to pay protection money to gangs, often out of their own pockets. Between 2010 and 2017 attacks on buses have claimed more than 2,000 lives, notably in the capital of Guatemala City, according to Insight Crime, a think tank and publication that investigates organized crime in South and Central America.

Other drivers tell tales of pride: building their own family businesses through the buses, becoming fixtures in the lives of their passengers, or even meeting their spouses while working. Many more speak of the long hours, every day of the week, and the struggle to see their families, while others dream of migrating to the very place their buses come from.

Elsimiro Gomez Sosa, 31, bought his bus with his family seven years ago. “I started with nothing. … and I painted it myself,” he says, with a design he calls “Power Ranger.” The work hasn’t been as profitable as he though it would be, with more than a quarter of his earnings going to gangs that control the area.
Elsimiro Gomez Sosa, 31, bought his bus with his family seven years ago. “I started with nothing. … and I painted it myself,” he says, with a design he calls “Power Ranger.” The work hasn’t been as profitable as he though it would be, with more than a quarter of his earnings going to gangs that control the area.
Alexander Morales Lopez, 16, loads passenger cargo, which can include bundles of crops. He has been working as a bus assistant since he was 12, but hopes to immigrate to the United States. “Someday I want to go, but I have to save,” he says.
Alexander Morales Lopez, 16, loads passenger cargo, which can include bundles of crops. He has been working as a bus assistant since he was 12, but hopes to immigrate to the United States. “Someday I want to go, but I have to save,” he says.
Santiago Lopez began working on the chicken buses when he was 16. He started as an assistant, and has been a driver for 35 years. “They come from the United States, from all over,” he says of the buses. “For me, I love the colors ... the details. … But right now, this one is my favorite. Red, yellow, and green.”
Santiago Lopez began working on the chicken buses when he was 16. He started as an assistant, and has been a driver for 35 years. “They come from the United States, from all over,” he says of the buses. “For me, I love the colors … the details. … But right now, this one is my favorite. Red, yellow, and green.”
The buses that Carlos Santos works in are still a simple school bus yellow. This creates problems, he says, because there’s a hierarchy of buses here. The nicer and more brightly colored ones often get more riders. “It’s a way of calling people’s attention,” he says.
The buses that Carlos Santos works in are still a simple school bus yellow. This creates problems, he says, because there’s a hierarchy of buses here. The nicer and more brightly colored ones often get more riders. “It’s a way of calling people’s attention,” he says.
Maria Vail, 24, hoists a heavy bag full of potatoes into her husband's bus. She works with him selling tickets because they can’t afford to pay an assistant. She’s one of the only women working in the buses, she says, because socially it’s shameful if a woman has to work. “He has this dream, but at this moment things have been difficult, so I work with him,” she says.
Maria Vail, 24, hoists a heavy bag full of potatoes into her husband’s bus. She works with him selling tickets because they can’t afford to pay an assistant. She’s one of the only women working in the buses, she says, because socially it’s shameful if a woman has to work. “He has this dream, but at this moment things have been difficult, so I work with him,” she says.
Lionel Masaries, 52, has a packed bus. He’s been at it for nearly 35 years, and has a scar on his neck to prove it. “I’m passionate about my work,” he says. “It’s dangerous though. Twelve years ago, some thieves entered the bus and attacked me with knives. … Why do I keep driving? Because I like it.”
Lionel Masaries, 52, has a packed bus. He’s been at it for nearly 35 years, and has a scar on his neck to prove it. “I’m passionate about my work,” he says. “It’s dangerous though. Twelve years ago, some thieves entered the bus and attacked me with knives. … Why do I keep driving? Because I like it.”
Freddy Nicolage and another bus driver sip coffee as the sun rises over Antigua, Guatemala. For 12 years he has worked 15-hour days, every day. “You don’t see your kids, your family,” he says. “Even though you want to, you can’t spend time with them because as a father, you have to be able to bring food to the table.”
Freddy Nicolage and another bus driver sip coffee as the sun rises over Antigua, Guatemala. For 12 years he has worked 15-hour days, every day. “You don’t see your kids, your family,” he says. “Even though you want to, you can’t spend time with them because as a father, you have to be able to bring food to the table.”
Gustavo Fuentes decorates his bus for Christmas every year. “We haven’t even finished decorating yet,” he says. “We’re going to put a wreath in the front. People always comment about how pretty the lights are. Every year, we do a different style.”
Gustavo Fuentes decorates his bus for Christmas every year. “We haven’t even finished decorating yet,” he says. “We’re going to put a wreath in the front. People always comment about how pretty the lights are. Every year, we do a different style.”
Four years into his 18-year stint as a bus driver, Jose Joel Matias, 49, met his wife when she began to ride his bus to work. “I walked up and asked her what her name was, and it started from there,” he says. “She would come at 7 in the morning and go back home at 8:30 at night, and we would talk and talk.”
Four years into his 18-year stint as a bus driver, Jose Joel Matias, 49, met his wife when she began to ride his bus to work. “I walked up and asked her what her name was, and it started from there,” he says. “She would come at 7 in the morning and go back home at 8:30 at night, and we would talk and talk.”