EPTI am constantly on the lookout for ways in which to relate to my fellow man, and it came to me this morning that nothing unites us more as humble people than sharing a bus ride together. This might seem inane, or simply idiotic, but I really believe it to be true, and besides, I think but a single ride on a bus would assuage your skepticism. It occurred to me that poets, novelists, and writers at large have been strangely silent on the subject of buses, so I decided to do a little research into how extensively this singular trope has been explored in literature. A quick google search led me to a .pdf file comprised of poems written by school children, called Bus Poems. Here is a sample from the most successful venture:
Everywhere I go there are people
The window tastes like chicken.
No wonder it’s so yum,
Chicken is my favorite.
While I licked the window
there were people riding bikes
for quicker transportation, for exercise.
This is high gluttony. I can imagine that if windows tasted like chicken there would be few dirty windows in the world, and we might declare as our international anthem the song Windowlicker by Aphex Twin; but really there is more to riding buses than windows and chicken, and though this poet has revealed some of the delights of this practice, we should be able to do better than he in elucidating why riding buses is such a pleasurable and fraternal activity.
The bus is unique among modes of public transport: planes entail such distressing rigmarole of embarking and alighting; trains are bound to their tracks, much like reform is hindered by an immutable constitution; taxis are too capitalist. The bus is like the harmless and gentle blue whale of the road, which is way the Japanese have eschewed the bus in favour of the train. I will admit that the bus moves less gracefully than the whale, but the way in which it lumbers forward is so endearing, like watching a fat friend huff and puff his way through a cross-country course.
But aside from looking a little funny, what is the real importance of buses? Well, like we judge a civilisation by the quality of its government, the freedom of its citizens, and the vigour of its cultural discourse, we can also judge it by the quality of the public transport it provides. It is symptomatic of a deep cultural and structural malaise if a country’s public transport network is lacking, or is too inefficient to meet the needs of its citizens. An efficient and extensive public transport system reveals sound prioritisation: those in power must realise that in order for people to accomplish things, they must be able to get to the places where they are accomplished.
So the quality of life in a city can be said to be equal to the quality of its public transport, or, in this instance, its bus network, which is really why Sydney can be so deplorable a place to live in. That aside, the feeling of satisfaction one gets when a bus arrives on time is unique, as is the sincerity with which one calls to the driver ‘thank you!’ as he alights. It would be impossible to intone this with even a modicum of sarcasm or insincerity, and anyone who tries would surely be rewarded for his efforts by stumbling down the stairs and landing on his head. One mustn’t mess with the sanctity of buses; it pains me so when I see bus windows covered in graffiti or the fluff of a seat cushion disinterred by some degenerate.
Speaking of degeneracy, here is one of the more unpleasant experiences I’ve had on a bus. Last week I caught the 480 into the city. Seated at the front were two young girls who were talking in very loud voices about one of their girlfriends. Apparently the week before she had met some guy at a bar who had then taken her home and proceeded to ‘finger’ her, quite against her will it seemed:
Girl 1: ‘Yeah, so she fuckin’ flipped out and tried to leave but he wouldn’t let her, was getting all aggressive and that. She wasn’t having a bar of it and starting screaming at the top of her voice until he let her go’
Girl 2: ‘Fuckin’ hell, what a bastard’
Girl 1: ‘We’ve seen him ‘round before, he’s one of Jake’s friends’
Girl 2: ‘Yeah I think I know him, real seedy lookin’, looks like fuckin’ rat…’
At this point they were interrupted by a middle-aged woman seated directly behind them:
Woman: (in a highly offended tone) ‘Can you please stop using that kind of dreadful language!’
Girl 1: ‘Aw stop eavesdroppin’ on us, it’s none of your business’
At this point other passengers came to the woman’s aid, muttering things like ‘highly inappropriate’ and ‘such foul language’. After the girls argued back, the bus driver got involved, insisting that they behave properly or get off the bus; the girls protested:
Girl 2: ‘We’ve payed for our tickets haven’t we? We’ve every right to sit here and talk as we please’
Girl 1: ‘Well, fine. We’ll get off the fuckin’ bus then’
And surprisingly they did, the driver stopping and opening the doors for them.
Now, it seems to me that in buying a ticket and taking a seat on the bus, you tacitly agree to abide by a certain code of civility, and this code includes using only language appropriate to the setting. It is this agreement, this awareness of others, which should and does make the experience of riding a bus so pleasurable; the social contract ensures that the bus remains egalitarian, and if we the passengers are the citizens of this itinerant democracy, then the driver is both our parliament and our law enforcement. True, I have had bus drivers who abuse this power, either by acting irrationally or simply surly towards passengers, but in the main I think we are able to rely on the benevolence of the driver; we must place our trust in him or her, for they will guarantee our safe passage through the perils of the urban landscape.
The next time you find yourself on a bus, put on some relaxing music and try to relate these words to your experience. Perhaps it might be on a warm afternoon when the sun’s soft light falls on those around you; perhaps it might be a cold morning on an old creaky bus, where the roof leaks and passengers huddle together for warmth in the chill. I think that nothing better summons the feeling that I am trying to convey than the final scene of The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross elope together from Katharine’s wedding. It is the silence that does it: no one need talk to other passengers to feel the camaraderie that riding a bus gives rise to; it remains unsaid that in sharing a common destination and a common vessel we become common people.
So peaceful, and the music is pretty nice.
