Bad conduct

"El español es uno de los idiomas que más se habla en el mundo," says the driver on the bus from the pueblo to Madrid.

The front four passengers grunt their acuerdo and then, suddenly, they each grab the bit between their teeth and are off in pursuit of their own tema preferido.

Here am I, a bit further back, trying desperately to catch up on sleep. It occurs to me that if these cinco discursos - paralelos y totalmente independientes - are anything to go by, maybe Spanish is the most widely spoken language. Maybe even the language that's heard the most. What it certainly isn't, is the language which is most listened to. It's an indisputable fact that when two or three españoles are gathered together the decibelios automatically rise to niveles unacceptable in most civilised countries.

In the end it's the driver who wins la batalla de la audiencia, and he settles down to conducir el vehículo while simultaneously leading la conversación.

It's not the first time I've been on a bus he's been driving, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised: it seems to me that this guy is uno de los hombres que más habla del mundo.

On the previous occasions I've travelled with him, I've learned that in school siempre sacaba un 10 en mates; that he used to be a fireman and that he used to swim naked in the charcos naturales of the Sierra de Gredos impervious to el frío. (I don't think he ever actually claimed to have had to break the ice before diving head first into the crystalline waters, but perhaps some things are best left to the imagination.)

On one long and memorable journey - memorable al menos para una pacifista vegetariana como yo - we were forced to listen to the rivalry between el conductor and a garrulous female passenger about who had matado a más y mayores animales in their nocturnal drives. I don't know who came off as the winner. Certainly not the rabbits, squirrels and other simpáticos e inofensivos bichos who had the misfortune to cross their paths. Nor the ciervos y jabalíes who ended their days en la barbacoa.

Maybe it's just me, but all this talk of road kill and accidents seems like tempting fate. But for this driver it's definitely un tema recurrente.

We stop in a pueblo en route and a woman gets on with her child. She and the driver argue about el precio del billete del pequeño. "Antes no pagaba," claims the mother. But now it seems that even babies must have tickets bought for them if they are to be covered by the seguro if there's un accidente.

And now his favourite topic's been raised, the driver regales us with an account of los peores choques que ha visto en su carrera como conductor. He tells of the numerous cabezas cortadas he's seen rolling on the asphalt and the inappropriately named quitamiedos which any motociclista will tell you producen terror.

I can't help but think that if he slowed down a bit, if he talked less, and si girase menos la cabeza to watch the reaction of his captive audience, we'd all be a lot safer.

His attitude to the rules and regulations is flexible. He won't let anyone board unless they are en la parada correcta (even the week when all the stops had just been moved). Nor may anyone get off salvo en los sitios oficiales. However, this is the same guy that I've seen stop the bus on the main road in front of his own house para bajar y sacar la compra del baúl and leave it with his wife. At least I supose it's his house: I've certainly seen him get off in the same place when he's hitched a lift as passenger on a bus driven by another conductor. Yes he knows how to be flexible - siempre que gane él.

I know lots of things about his life, but his stories aren't usually very interesting. So when I heard him say "Siempre me han gustado las damas," I pricked up my ears. I didn't doubt that the talk of his conquests would all be designed show him in a good light, but at least it might be a topic with a little more life to it. Pues no. It turns out he won the campeonato de damas de su pueblo - and being a drafts champion isn't quite the same as being a ladies' man.

Certainly he's not much of a gentleman. One Friday, on the last bus out from Madrid, una vieja despistada boarded the bus. After an hour and a half, she suddenly realised that se había equivocado de autobús. This was clearly quite traumático para ella, particularly given the fact that her family was meeting her at a bus station a couple of hours drive from the last stop on our route.

Despite the fact that it was he who had taken her ticket, el conductor pasó olímpicamente, leaving it in the hands of a woman passenger with a mobile phone and buena voluntad. The rest of us were bored silly listening to the whole story develop. Even so, that aburrimiento was nothing in comparison to how it's been when I've heard the driver re-tell la misma historia time and time again on other journeys.

Back on the viaje which started this account, the other passengers defend their derecho a participar: the conversation wanders hither and thither, mostly on topics of bar-room philosophy. They talk of el más allá: "El infierno está aquí," claims one; "This life would make no sense if it was all there was," añade otro. There's discussion of reincarnation, climate change and global warming - though not, I notice, noise pollution. Then, perhaps because they are mostly older folk, they finally find agreement on the subject of la juventud egoísta de hoy en día.

Still, they clearly miss their own youth: "Los años van..." says one woman, whose intonation leaves that final ellipsis quite clear to all who hear her.

"...y no vuelven," adds the driver in an attempt to reassert his leading rôle: his papel del conductor que más habla del mundo, of the Madrid driver who's guaranteed to drive me mad.