The #82 and the #128 . . .

Please indulge me while I get my obsession with public transportation out of my system.
The public buses in Lanzhou are ubiquitous and cost one yuan (about twelve cents) to ride. I am having a romance with the buses, to the point of annoying some friends who favor the comfort and convenience of the (likewise plentiful and cheap) taxis. Yes, I’m obsessed. Discovering a good multi-route bus stop and jotting down its location and bus numbers in my notebook makes my day. I give the buses so little, and they give back so much. I can people-watch, listen to spoken Chinese, practice mine on tolerant strangers, memorize street names, look at the urban landscape – and even, in some cases, indulge my taste for reverse snobbism.

There is a caste system on the public buses. The Brahmin buses are sleek and modern, clean and quiet, with coin boxes for correct change and card readers for savvy commuters who prepay. These buses serve the upper and middle class neighborhoods and business districts. Below those there is a whole range of mid-caste buses, even some cable cars. Then there are the Untouchable buses that serve the poor neighborhoods. They are ancient and filthy, and each one is presided over by a conductor dressed in well-worn street clothes, who performs a variety of functions, including collecting fares, making change, shouting out the details of the route when the bus stops, and sometimes hauling passengers aboard the moving bus at an obscure place that the driver deems unworthy of a complete stop. There are many of those places.

The 124 is one such bus. It is the only route that extends to our university campus; we are, in fact, the end of the line for the 124. My Chinese colleagues are always assuring me that the 124 will soon be upgraded, all the buses replaced. I grieve when I hear this, for I love the 124. There is usually a 124 bus waiting at the college gate, pointed toward town. It’s unclear to me why it waits, perhaps satisfying some precise timetable, or, more likely, hoping to attract enough passengers to justify overcoming inertia.

One day when I boarded, the engine compartment was open and a committee consisting of the driver, the conductor and some passengers were assessing the motor. They soon slammed the lid, and then most of them got off the bus and lit up cigarettes. This looked like a social occasion, but it turned out that the cigarettes were for strength and courage. The men then began to push the bus down the lane while the driver steered and tried to start the engine by popping the clutch. It took four lurching tries before the engine sputtered to life. The stalwart bus pushers had to dash along and jump on the moving bus; I honestly can’t remember whether they were charged full fare.

Another day I boarded late. The freight of passengers had nearly reached critical mass, and the only remaining seats were at the back. On the rutted road, this is a bad deal even on a bus with shock absorbers. On the 124, it’s very bad news indeed. To make matters worse, of the five seats abreast across the rear, the backrests of three had toppled onto the floor. I grabbed the remaining window seat, and a student plunked himself down beside me. We exchanged woeful grins. After a moment, the conductor came over and hoisted the backrests into place on the other three seats. He tried his best to dust them off, especially the antimacassars on the headrests. It was a comical act, since these haven’t been laundered, it appears, in the whole life of the bus. His final act of valiant housekeeping was to remove them all and turn them around. More passengers piled on, we all paid our one yuan, and the 124 bus plied its usual route.

Yet another day, I went to the gate and was disconcerted to find the bus facing the wrong direction and the driver prone underneath, wrench in hand. After a few minutes, he emerged and shrugged in response to my inquiry. He boarded the bus and soon re-appeared to sit on its step and sip from a large bottle of beer. (I have seen no small bottles of beer in China.) I adopted the demeanor of the other people standing around the bus, which can be described as patient forbearance. (I find this imitative behavior to be useful in many settings. I just wait, adopt the posture of the locals, and see what happens.) After a while, another bus materialized, made a tortured K-turn in the narrow lane blocked by the disabled bus, and took us all aboard . . . and so . . .

My students chide and gird me before I board the 124. They cinch my scarf against the cold, button my coat, and most of all try to sew all my money into my underwear to guard against pickpockets. I love the students’ protectiveness, and I also love riding among the poorest people in Lanzhou. One day a young family boarded the bus with their toddler, making fond good-byes to the leathery grandfather as they boarded. Their belongings were crammed into a bulging rice bag; they waved and called out their farewells until YeYe (Grandpa) was out of sight. The little one was plump and happy, and gladly played games with me.

I have been in Gansu a very short time – two and a half months that feels like a lifetime. It is one of the poorest provinces in China, and I know there is much I have not seen. But I am happy to report that the poorest people look optimistic, and all of the babies I see are fat.