Buses

A fleet of Dion buses, Wollongong, 1948.

I have been traveling on buses a lot lately. That's fine - it saves me money, gets me from A to B through to Z. Having got rid of a second car and looking to get a motorbike, the bus serves me well in the interim. Sometimes it just IS, i.e. I go from here to there and back again, mostly between Wollongong and the northern suburbs, but I have ventured as far west as up over the Escarpment to Campbelltown, and into the deep south of Stockland Shellharbour. Usually I just pay my fare and sit quietly, comfortably, if possible. Other times the whole experience can be a real pain, like when you walk to the bus stop and see the bus pull out, realising you have to sit around waiting for the next one in half an hour or so; or late at night when I am tired and just want to get home, have a shower, and hop into bed, and the bus trip seems interminably long; or when a noisy drunk gets on the bus and you don't know what they are going to do; or a couple is having a bedroom brawl in the rear section, oblivious to all those around them who don't give two hoots about their personal, self-inflicted dramas. Other times it is a real adventure - going to places I have never been before, such as the back streets of Rosemeadow near Campbelltown, or Lake Heights near Shellharbour. On such occasions I just like to stare out the window and take it all in, thinking about what life would be like living in those places, being those people, and of course reflecting back on who I am at that point in time and what is happening in my own life. Reflecting, like I do in this blog, in thought and in words. It can be very sobering at times.

Buses. Noisy, quiet, hot, sticky, cold, freezing, lonely, crowded, public and private. All the above. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just sit and stare at those around me or out the window. There are all kinds of people - all shapes and sizes, ages, ethnicities and sensibilities. Sometimes I talk - to the bus driver, or someone who happens to be on the bus and who I usually don't know from a bar of soap. Old, young, male, female. Seeking information or simple, inane conversation. Ephemeral. Or I just listen in on what is going on around me. I hear talk of bushfires and who is to blame; what they did or what they plan; idle chatter live or online. Everyone on their phone - at least the young ones anyway - watching, reading, playing. The old ones, with their yellow Opal cards and shopping trolly, stooped and slow, quiet or noisy. You can tell the drug addicts, with their rugged, worn faces, twitchiness, missing teeth, ill-fitting clothes, bright, white joggers, track suit pants showing bum cracks, and $1.36 on the Opal card, which makes the scanner ring. As I said - the worst are the drunks, because you don't know what they are going to do. You just hope they get off soon without vomiting, urinating or fighting. And where does one sit? Front, middle or back; window or isle? Front is best, for the view, fresh air and easy escape. Middle and back can be stiffling, hot and sticky, or freezing, trapped in amongst the people. Too close. Just above the rear wheels is good - high, with a good view forward and out, like a Meerkat. So make your mind up either way, and sit down.

Michael
11 January 2020