Beijing Bus Pass

Buses are everywhere in Beijing. They're in the bus lanes, in the car lanes, in the bike lanes. I'm actually not totally sure if any of those lanes exist specifically for any specific mode of transportation; the streets here are chaotic, spilling over the sidewalks and in constant motion. Some buses appear to be on a rail, and move through the city connected to thick wires that hang from telephone poles. This rigging system does not seem to stop the bus driver from attempting to make a left turn in front of oncoming and cross traffic. Instead, like most Beijingers behind the wheel, the driver just honks repeatedly and continues to turn.

There are 3.3 million cars on the road in Beijing--and that's only one car per every five people. The government estimates by 2020 there will be 140 million cars on Chinese roads. I can't even begin to imagine what that looks like. Below is a photograph of a traffic jam in the financial district; see the woman with a child on her bike? It looks like what might happen if I got a job parking cars and worked without my glasses on, but this is actual traffic, in motion.


So it's safe to say buses are a big part of a Beijinger's future commute. The city added about 3,000 more buses by the time the Olympics started, which raised the daily capacity for passengers from 12.5 million to 15 million. Additionally, two new subway lines and an airport rail link have been opened. The subway in Beijing is nice; clean, fast, and very crowded. The bus is just crowded.

One of my roommates is a big fan of taking the bus. In this way she reminds me of Alyssa; always trying to find the best route, bus pass in hand, while I stare blankly at the schedules and fumble for change. A bus ticket here costs 1 kuai--about 14 cents. So Maggie speaks and reads a little Chinese, and she figured out a bus route that would take us from our street to Sanlitun, an ex-pat bar/coffee/shopping part of the city. She's got a pass, which is also usable in the subway, and although it won't save you any money, you don't have to wait in line buying tickets.

Each stop has the bus number and a small queuing space marked off with spray paint, and you stand in a little line according to the bus you need. Some stops have people with battered green flags stationed at each number along the curb, and when the bus approaches they flag it down. I guess this means the buses only stop when there are people needing to get on or off.

So we get on the bus. And it feels like there are 15 million people just on my bus from Xinjiekou. People are everywhere, standing, sitting, crouching on the ground. One of the marquees listing upcoming stops is broken and it flashes over and over OOOOOAAAAEEEE. I can't even see out the window to see what street we're on because I can't get near a window. It's mostly silent, except for a young boy with thick black frames resting on his nose who's cell phone keeps ringing. He's got a Missy Elliott song as his ring tone, and every few minutes we hear, in English: all you ladies pop your pussy like this. Maggie and I laugh at this, and the people around us stare, not getting our joke.
The bus stops and starts frequently. Not only does it make it hard to stand up, it also makes what would be a fifteen minute ride into thirty tedious ones. I can only imagine what is happening in front of us: taxis trying to edge out in front, bicycles loaded down with garbage, crates of beer, or sometimes just two or three people resting on the back, one person taxi cabs the size of a Radio Flyer zooming in and out of the traffic. There are lanes on the street, but I understand it to be more of a suggestion; I've been in cabs where the driver cruised over to the opposite side of the road because it was faster. I think buses do the same.

Because the bus stops and starts so much for traffic and I can't understand the Mandarin on the intercom, it's difficult for me to tell when we've arrived at our stop. Luckily, Maggie's done it before, this bus riding business, and tugs on my jacket sleeve when we arrive near Sanlitun. We're in the back of the bus now, and we have to muscle our way through the middle of the bus to get off before the driver pulls away. It feels like we're thirty people deep and we'll never escape. On the street again, I feel like running, or skipping. Sweet, glorious air! Space to move my limbs! I take a deep breath, and start coughing. A group of boys walk by, and six or seven bicyclists are headed straight for where we stand, and I realize there's no relief from humanity in this city. Gotta keep moving.

Benjamin told me once its best to live very close to something you do daily when living in Beijing. I didn't realize what wisdom that was until I tried commuting. Because in Beijing, it's a bitch!

Boulder: the Skip on a Saturday morning.

One Saturday morning, I took the bus down to Pearl St to meet a friend for coffee. I caught the bus at my regular stop (Table Mesa & Ithaca Dr) and boarded.

To my delight, my favorite seat was vacant. The one opposite the rear door. As Iapproach the seat, I notice an unopened can of sauerkraut sitting on the seat. I love sauerkraut, and this was the good kind that’s sold at the Farmer’s Market. So I sit down and put the sauerkraut in my bag, happy as a clam. I looked around the bus, taking in my surroundings, and I locked eyes with a man sitting toward the back of the bus. He is literally staring at me. I give him a polite smile and turn my head to look out the window. A mere moment later, he is right next to me. I look at him, and he plainly says “What’s your name? You have a pretty face.” I tell him my name and ask him his, and we begin a cliché conversation. He asked me what I was up to that day, and I tell him I’m on my way to meet a friend then I’m going to a birthday party. I asked him what he was up he told me he was on his way to a meeting.

“What kind of meeting?”

“I’m in a special program because I have severe schizophrenia.”

Oh. Well, then.

So then he starts asking if he can come with me to meet my friend, and if he can come to the birthday party. Asks if I have a cell phone, to which I replied no, asks who I live with. Do I live with a bunch of pretty girls? Creepy. “No, I live with my husband.”

And at that point he got up and went to sit with another girl about my age. He actually gives her the exact same opening line as he gave me. “What’s your name? You have a pretty face.” I was a little insulted.

Moving East: Colfax and Josephine

The difference between standing by the stop at Milwaukee and Colfax and the stop at Josephine and Colfax is measurable. There's the hordes of high school children, the sudden increase in concrete (buildings, empty lots, broken and crumbling courtyards and churches), the smell of deep fried food.

It's eleven in the morning, which means I've interrupted the seemingly endless East High lunch hour. The kids are teasing and stumbling, crowding, shouting, calling to each other in every imaginable pitch, and avoiding all sorts of unnecessary eye contact. The empty school looms large to the north.

It's a comfort to me to know that when the bus arrives, I'll be relieved of all this adolescence.

I board the bus after two or three others, the first of whom is still arguing with the driver about her fare. I notice a heavy young man holding his very young baby against his chest. I wouldn't have known there was a child in all that cloth except for its small face among the layers. I find a seat near the back of the bus.

The bus begins to move, and a large black man standing near the front, holding the bar near the ceiling of the bus, deliberately faces the man with the baby. Without hesitation or shame, the standing man announces to the small group of people around him, "I just yesterday learned my baby ain't my baby. My girl told me it's zero percent. That baby is zero percent of mine." The crowd is completely unsettled, and a wave of excited chatter takes hold of the front of the bus. Disapproval, sympathy, laughter. The standing man just keeps talking about it. It seems he can't stop.

It appeared first that the tall black man knew his audience. He spoke as if to old friends. As if perhaps those around him knew the woman in question and her illegitimate child. Minutes pass, and interest in his story, his anger, his drama, fades into talk of cell phones and groceries and the tiny baby's impossibly tiny hands.

The black man moves slowly to the back of the bus and faces the front, watching the father with his baby, and waiting for his stop.