Blogger Party

I was sitting in a restaurant and not that I am in the habit of “eavesdropping�, but I couldn’t help hearing someone bellyaching about bus schedules. Apparently they were not happy with the lack of quantity of buses running their particular line.

WELL! I could tell immediately that this person has never either been outside the USA, or is one of those people who goes on a grand tour of a third world country to make them feel better about how they were there, but then takes only taxis from the Hilton to the restaurant.

Let me tell you how lucky we are. I lived in Mumbai India for about a year. Mumbai was formerly known as Bombay in Frank Sinatra songs. Unlike the songs, it is not a beautiful, tropic paradise. It is a city of twelve million people, and believe me, they are all in the streets on buses and trains every day and night.

It didn’t take long for me to notice that I was probably one of the oldest passengers on the buses, not to mention among the only Caucasian. Old people generally walk everywhere they need to go. They have to. Trying to “mount� a bus is not for the weak. They tend not to make stops like we know a stop to be. When your appointed stop is coming, you better be near the door, cause the best you’re gonna get is a slowing of the vehicle.

The double deckers are especially interesting. Packed to the gills, people hanging out the openings (there are no neatly closing doors), they take corners and curves at breakneck speeds, like a World Cup Sailboat. I kept watching, waiting for them to tip. I never said hoping, mind you.

There are crowds of people waiting at the “stop�, and when the bus approaches they get ready. Many times you would see people leaping off, and the awaiting passengers running and grabbing trying to load up, while some of their family was left behind. That’s everyday commuting in Mumbai.

I guess I should have been happy that they had roads, but it wouldn’t have hurt anything, especially my bottom, if they had discovered shock absorbers, cushioned seats and maybe some tar to fill the crater sized potholes that the bus drivers seemed to relish in hitting. I was warned not to sit in the very rear bench. Of course, being the macho American that I am, why would I listen to these wimps? My posterior wished I had listened. I honestly didn’t think you could really fly two feet in the air in a bus going down a city road.

I have said nothing so far of the conditions, nor the room afforded each passenger. That’s because there is no room. We were packed like the proverbial sardine in a can, and unfortunately deodorant is held in low esteem there. I also have to mention that since toilet paper is also in short use, you can imagine the condition of the bus.

But, as bad as this may sound, it pales in comparison to taking a commuter train. At the train station you need to make sure that if your intention was not to be on a certain train, then you need to be sure that you are physically nowhere near the train when it stops. If you are among the throngs waiting, you will be washed aboard with the masses. There will be no fighting it, nor choice. It is like an undertow at a Pacific beach. People are literally hanging out of every opening on the train as it barrels down the tracks.

There happens to be a 10 deaths every day in India by trains. It is little wonder. The only thing stopping more people from boarding is the fact that the train takes off before more of the hoards can push the mass deeper into each other. If the lack of air doesn’t get you, then the stench will.

So Martha, next time you even think of complaining about your bus being ten minutes late, better thank your lucky stars. At least you have air conditioning.