Tagged with bus

turned off my headphones twice

Thursday was a great day for eavesdropping on the bus. You didn’t even have to get anywhere near the eaves to drop down from them. People with their conversations approached you, built eaves at an easily mountable height and then proceeded to crouch beneath them and speak loudly.

On my ride to work I sat in front of a guy talking on his cell phone. I tuned in when he mentioned Union Gospel Mission, and how these programs take time to work and if he’d stop taking the drugs now he’d go into withdrawal so he needed the drugs by the end of the day. “I don’t think you understand!” he kind of shouted into his phone, before signing off with a “Go fuck yourself.” Then he calls someone else and explains loudly to her that he’d just talked to his doctor and the doctor won’t prescribe enough pain pills for him because of his insurance, and he’s explaining about when his year of meds began and when it ends and why he needs the drugs now and how he was in detox and didn’t ask anyone to pay for that. Then he gets huffier and says “You know, on December 27th I was so sick of dealing with insurance and the WCB (Workers Compensation Board) and the pain and everything I took thirty pills and tried to die! So now the doctor won’t prescribe more than a week’s worth at a time and you won’t pay for it…” This was when he got off the bus.

And then on my way home from work a guy got on the bus and was having a good ol’ chat with the bus driver, in a voice that carried to the back. As he wove his way back there some person, emboldened by this guy’s loudness I guess, asked if loud guy knew the score of the hockey game. Loud guy did and this started the entire back half of the bus in on a furball of a conversation about playoff hockey and the Habs and Ovechkin and 1993. It was like the bus had turned into a sports bar with all these strangers just going on about their common interests. Sparked by a loud guy talking to a bus driver.

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spatters

On the bus I listened to a couple of teens talking about their drug use. And when I say “I listened to” I mean “the whole bus couldn’t help but listen to” (though you see how that would have used the word bus twice in four words and I couldn’t do that). About how when the girl was in grade 6 she thought pot was a slang term for coke, and how their friend did a whole lot of caps and stayed up all night and made a really bad first impression on one of their other friends and then had to go to work the next day. An enlightening few minutes in the lives of these kids.

And then last night when I was walking to the bus stop I dodged and ducked (and by “ducked” I mean “splashed right through as if I were a member of the family Anatidae because it was dark and I couldn’t spot every one perfectly”) huge puddles all down Keewatin. Just nasty things. And I managed to avoid getting soakingly splashed by any vehicles and in my head I rewrote the beginning to a short story I’m submitting to a magazine. The new beginning managed to stick with me the whole way home and I was grateful.

A shady looking guy knocked on my door today. He tried to say “Hey I know you from…” and I said “Nope.” And he said he was looking for his friend and he’d been told I was a source for some herb. I told him he was mistaken. He was all “Oh dude, he must have been upstairs, sorry.” Ten minutes later he was loitering in the stairwell and I asked if he could wait for his friend outside. His story shifted a few times about how he had keys and he pulled out his phone and pretended to talk to his friend, and I asked him to leave. Then I changed the keyless code for getting into the building.

So yes, now if you want to get in, you’ll have to buzz up. For me you just press 3 and I’ll let you in. If you aren’t there to pretend to buy drugs from me.

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life with my mom

Sri is in India visiting family and such, so I’ve been hanging out with my mom a bit more this month. We’ve got four episodes left in the first season of The Wire, which I love because my mother has to concentrate to get what’s going on. Which means she can’t be putzing about in the kitchen or feeding the dogs or whatever else when we’ve got a disc in; she has to give it her full attention. Which is what I feel good television/film deserves on a first viewing. So that’s cool.

On Monday I met mom at work and we took the bus to her house together. Her bus experience is so different from mine. Not just because her buses tend not to have the automated voice telling you which stop is coming up, nor because her bus doesn’t cruise by abandoned warehouses and railroad tracks, but because she talks to people. I consider myself quite verbose for saying “Hi” and “Thank you” to the bus driver. She has bus friends. When she moves over for a standing young lady to sit down, a conversation ensues and it turns out she went to high school with the girl’s parents. The Mennonite game stuff becomes so interesting the girl deliberately stays on past her stop so they can hash out all the fun things they know about Domain and Glenlea and all these other towns MCI kids came from. So strange.

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windchill warnings in effect

Kate called from Los Angeles this morning. She was wearing sandals. I think I managed to stifle my squicky groan as I used that bit of knowledge how the “winter” outside Winnipeg can be to stab myself in the brain. The eye is part of the brain, right?

I hate the cold so very much. At work today Ivy said it sounded like the walking to work in the cold was making me bitter, but she missed the main point which is that winter itself, not whether I am walking to work or not, is what makes me hate. I really wonder what it would be like if I had grown up in a place where half the year wasn’t a constant war with the goddamned motherfucking elements. Where I wasn’t aware of the need to double up the fabric between mitts and sleeves so your wrists don’t die. What would my personality be like without this infusion of pain and misery every year?

I went to Quinzmas tonight only to be told that it was sold out. It was a 45 minute trip across the city (not the whole city) in the -39 degrees, directly after a 45 minute trip home from work in the -39 (but the wind then was at my back so I didn’t die as much as I will tomorrow on the way to work when it’s scheduled to be -47), only to have to walk out the fucking door and run to catch a bus that passed me. I did and so didn’t have to stand around waiting for a bus home until trying to get a connection. Still took another 45 fucking minutes though.

Needless to say these trips are glasses-less so my scarf can mummy me up and I expose as little skin as possible (and don’t have metal next to my flesh; just handling my keys to open my apartment direct from outside hurts), but that means I can’t see shit for finding buses. And Winnipeg’s cornucopia of different bus models doesn’t make it easy to memorize the smeary light patterns they make on my retinas.

I hate so fucking much.

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28c transportation

On the bus to Mianyang Jiaozi was climbing all over Catherine and whoever her seatmate happened to be. First it was Holly then when she came back to give the dog his own seat it ended up filled with a guy we picked up on the side of the road. The terror on his face that he had to share a seat with a dog was pretty priceless. Holly was embarrassed about the dog, but Catherine doesn’t seem to mind. When Jiaozi got extra antsy she tried opening the window a bit but had some trouble. The guy leapt to assistance. I’m sure he was hoping the dog would leap out. But it didn’t help that much. When we arrived the guy bolted so fast.

From Mianyang to Chengdu we took a cab instead of a bus and that driver liked Jiaozi. Petted him at least. Catherine was in shotgun for that trip so the dog couldn’t crawl all over the rest of us and Holly could chat with the fourth passenger, a 26-year-old designer of some product that gets exported. His girlfriend was a 21-year-old student which he was sort of sheepish about.

The cab ride was quite pleasant. We were going 130 as much as we could on our little natural gas powered cab (interesting side effect: the fuel gauge reads empty all the time), dodging big trucks and amateur drivers. Holly talked to the designer, Catherine slept and read Marriages that Work. There were fireworks and four planes in one region of the sky.

On the road between Jiangyou and Mianyang they’d painted all the buildings traditional black and white in honour of the Xth (1400th?) anniversary of Li Bai (Li Po in my collection of his poems). As we drove through both that in the afternoon and the night expressway I felt very in the present. We were driving through Sichuan. I don’t know why but that was very fulfilling to me. My biggest pet peeve about travelling is people talking about it being a “once in a lifetime experience.” No. Or at least no more than any other. I’ll go back to Sichuan (China is pretty much a given). There’s no anxiety over what I’ve missed. Life is long.

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11 the future

We stepped out of the Ma La Tang joint and into the future. Not the gleaming utopia of Star Trek or the grand operatic backdrop of Star Wars (yes I realize that was trying to be the long long ago past; bear with me) but the grimy glowy rainy Blade Runner future. I always feel that on these rainy nights. It has to be the glow, the neon bouncing off the sky and the ground. The electric bicycles gliding by and cars all rounded and sealed. The brightness of the glow in the sky’s mostly mercury vapour but giant LCDs or something too. So many of the huge e-billboards are red but the blue ones (for Motorola or China Mobile or whatever) do their part to shift the spectrum. In Shanghai Holly mistook the blue glow for a clear night sky. On Nanjing Lu the signs were so bright until 10 o’clock when it all shut down. It’s hard to say what colour that shifting spectrum took But that ostentation felt like a Disneyfied parody. This is what development looks like, like Hong Kong, all bright and streaming. When the alleys feel more accurate.

We’d been at the Nanjing (or was it Jiangsu?) Museum of Art/History/Culture in the afternoon. Because it was Women’s Day? March 8? Meh. The museum resembled a museum. More than resembled. It was well done, low and sprawling not sprawling: Quadrantized. There were rooms for jade and for bronze and brocade and porcelain and ceramics and miniatures. We spoke of robots all through the miniatures room pausing only at the Gang of Four beating hell out of some intellectuals and the Mao’s Wife opera scene. And a person with her leg up over her head counterbalanced with a polearm (all of wood? I don’t know. I was trying to remember Asimov’s laws of robotics). In the bronze room was an array of scapular stone bells. There’s something unbearably beautiful to me about striking stones to make music. Wood and metal make sense but stone is so hard to shape. What kind of sound do those stone slabs make with their indelicate arches? A young man mimed playing the bronze bells below as we passed.

After the museum we took a bus back to this part of town (“this” being where I am currently on Holly’s porch on an alley off Shanghai Lu) and got very stuck in traffic. We were on a cheap bus (8mao) which didn’t have a television. I couldn’t tell on the way to the museum if the TV screens on that bus were actually receiving live signals or if it was some sort of tape loop a la Speed. It showed the correct time on screen. Though I suppose inserting a timestamp wouldn’t be too difficult a task. The main indication it wasn’t real TV was the preponderance of Tanovan (or something) ads. Real TV must advertise for more diverse products mustn’t it? The video screens on those buses (much more than the monitors on long distance buses or Air Canada flights for that matter) give me a real telescreen vibe. Transmitting both ways and such a la 1984. It’s an unfamiliarity thing I guess. Which breeds suspicion. Ubiquitous TV just seems wrong. A nigh constant distraction we don’t really need. Though we aspire to it. Getting old because we substitute voyeurism for play.

On this bus when we were jammed in traffic the driver was yelling out the window at no one in particular it seemed. We were motionless in one spot for maybe 20 minutes. Holly and I both stood and the bus wasn’t ridiculous crowded so she was messaging someone making plans to meet up with people that evening and the next day. Below me a guy was messaging with his phone (a Nokia N72, very nice) and his messages weren’t in Pinyin to turn into Hanzi. I couldn’t tell what he was actually doing but it seemed very predictive; his speed was better than I’d have expected.

Later I learned there’s a system for doing the strokes as numbers on the keypad, so it’s like you’re actually writing the characters. That intrigues me and makes me happy. I imagine modern calligraphers getting together in a kind of council to determine the best way to pixellate each stroke within the whatever by whatever grid a full character takes up. The argument’s based on the length of the third stroke in the Shui radical when part of the top half of the right hand side. Three or four pixels? And so different manufacturers have different fonts? Je ne sais pas.

In the evening a guy named James came by. Taking under consideration that Holly uses this world to describe many people, she likes him because he’s so intense. He was here to plan an English Corner with Holly. I can’t quite tell where he goes to school… no he doesn’t go to school. He’s a trader and doesn’t really like it. He knows Zhi Mian through the seminary people? All unclear.

In any case he was trying to direct these 13 English Corner sessions like a thesis discussion. (Oh, a description of James: Good strong boy with engineer glasses. He wore an Adidas Memphis Grizzlies sweater and rolled his head on his shoulders before speaking.) Moving from humanity to society and development and why do we want to develop to fight more wars over different resources? He was enamoured with Greece and Rome and historical progressions. “We all know we want tolove each other so why do we not? Why get rich? What is the point of cycling through all these repetitions? Aren’t we just stealing from someone in the end?” It all fit in well with the kinds of concerns Holly and I have been discussing.

And Holly told him about how she wants to learn Chinese and start a business with Zhao Xing. A guest house/organic farm out in Western Sichuan. And how that doesn’t fit into a career path and she told James his ideas sounded very good to her, but what about her farmer students in Sichuan who were very concerned with money because they don’t have any? Money is important. We can’t just do without it. And to make money there’s some form of development needed. It’s funny to hear Holly talk this way, all businessy but not really. Making money teaching to fund her own language learning is something she’s very interested in. As opposed to being an MCC service worker.

Theresa and she talked a lot about this stuff back in September and how there’s such a gap between service workers and the management level within MCC (the CRs and such). Theresa left MCC and worked with some other NGOs in Jilin and Beijing and now Winnipeg doing things she wanted to be doing and actually using her experiences to work up to something better and more useful, whereas if she’d stayed in MCC she’d still be an entry-level equivalent.

But anyway, that’s a different kind of future. MCC she might not see a future in. James asked Holly and me what we thought the future of the human species might be and Holly said she figured we’d eventually go extinct. I said we might exist to the end of the universe even if not in biologically recognizable forms (see Charles Stross or Rudy Rucker books for what I’m talking about) and he talked about robots who don’t need emotions that will eventually overtake us all (which I’d see as vey close to being an extension of humanity in another form but whatever). He talked about wanting to go to the seminary to learn more about god. And Holly encouraged him. “Your questions would be very good.” So maybe in three years he will.

In three years. That’s something I might be done with. I’m getting to the point where I can’t say “Three years from now I’ll do this.” I have to start doing things now. Write my book now. Move to Japan now. Goof around with Sean now. Everything around me is changing and it’s no longer enough to sit back and count down to some time I’ll be able to start again. I have to start building things now. That’s my future.

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32 there and back again: across the long river

I know a little bit about my nature. I let go of things too easily in an attempt to keep hold of them. Took all those “let your caged birds fly” verses seriously as a kid I guess. So when it comes time to find something I want to see or do, I give up at the first obstacle. “Oh well, probably not that great anyway” is the thought pattern. And sometimes this reverse psychology works on the universe. Like yesterday in travelling to the Chang Jiang [the Yangtse/Yangzi/Yangtze River - the river Wanzhou is on, much further upstream].

The Lonely Planet said there was a #67 bus that went to the Da Qiao Gongyuan [Big Bridge Park] from a terminus on Jiangsu Lu. So I hiked up Ninghai Lu for a long way, though not too terribly long in the scheme of Chinese roads/marches, and arrived at Jiangsu Lu’s southwest end. I could tell by the sign – those little directions on the blue placards are great. Then I followed the road to its other end at an architectural college. I passed the terminus but all it held were good old #8 buses, the bus that doesn’t run in Taiwan (or so our former-Red-Guard language teacher once said).

So I wept and gnashed my teeth, put on sackcloth and rubbed my face in ashes. How would I ever arrive at the first bridge built by the Chinese without Russian help? The bridge that created a direct rail line between Beijing and Shanghai? I pondered a taxi but the thought of the driver asking questions I couldn’t answer made me ever so fearful. Which end of the big bridge? The park? What did I really want and was there any possibility he’d understand? (I say he because unlike Wanzhou the cabbies here seem overwhelmingly male.)

I stopped for a snack and a lavender flavoured milk tea which made me vaguely nauseous. Otside the Suguo [a Nanjing chain convenience store] two men were singing karaoke style. They had their own mics and an amp and a sign I couldn’t read. Outside with all the bikes they serenaded the street. More folk songs than pop. The one in blue sat and looked down, concentrating. The one in grey was more expansive.

Making my way out of the back streets I was on back to the big roads with their informative signs. As I passed a Mai Deng Lao [McDonald's] and a Xinhua book store whose gel ink selection was rather poor I checked a bus stop and found buses heading to Da Qiao Nan Lu [Big Bridge South Road]. My defeat wasn’t complete! I got on a bus and followed its map enough to realize it wouldn’t get me to the actual bridge, but I was on my way. I changed buses and waited next to a monk who was on his way somewhere out of town judging by his suitcase. His yellow robes and cell phone would have made a nicely cliched picture. And I was so close, too. I stood when I got on the next bus. And when it hit the elevated road that ran towards the bridge I ducked and twisted to see everything I could.

We crossed railway tracks and passed high over a park. I wasn’t sure where I’d be able to get off so I was sucking everything I could straight onto my retinas. I disembarked on top of the north end of the bridge where the revolutionary statues are. The workers and soldiers striding forward across the bridge holding their tools, weapons and books of Mao Zedong Thought high. Under the statue was a staircase which I descended. Six or maybe eight storeys worth of old slippery tiled stairs, not bare cement, but a very doctor’s office or old hospital kind of thing. There was one elevator and there were locked doors at every landing. Down at the bottom I crossed the parking lot/small expanse of pavement no vehicles used for parking to the other supporting pillar and climbed. I could hear women talking above me but couldn’t tell how many, or if they were climbing or descending. I caught up with them as we all reached the top and emerged from under more revolutionaries only to see there was a traffic signal I could have used to cross the road up there. Crossing the road had been my major motivation for using those stairwells. I regret nothing.

So I crossed the bridge walking high above the river I used to live sort of next to. Here it’s still muddy but also much wider. The lanes for the ships to each side. The rumbling you could feel up on the bridge when a massive boat loaded with sulphur or nothing passed from the upstream flatness down towards the city. On the maps the islands look much larger than they did from the bridge. The river around them looks separate, like it should have separate labels on the map, but above it there’s no illusion of that. I could see the distant downtown landmarks I navigate with, including the CN Towerish thing and the building near Gulou that’s being built.

While crossing the bridge I realized my logistical difficulty in this trip. I was out of small change for the bus. So I steeled myself for a long walk down the elevated road till I could buy a bottle of water and be transported homewards. It was a fine walk. I got to stop traffic for ten whole seconds.

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for every panda

It took just under 24 hours to travel through the three gorges and get from Wanzhou to Yichang. If you look at a map for that and realize that it’s all downstream, you’ll know exactly which cliche I’m not going to use.

I only really saw two of the gorges because darkness tripped and was sprawled all over the place by the time we got further. We also seem to have stopped for an hour or two in the middle of the night, but I’m not sure.

The sun rose as we were in the locks coming into Yichang. I had one of those sleeps where I woke up all the time because I didn’t want to be the only person left on the boat when it got to port. Like on the bus to Chengdu.

We got in this morning and I went straight to the train station to get my ticket to Guangzhou. My Let’s Go book said that it’s almost impossible to get tickets directly from the station here, but I had no problems. The ticketseller even spoke a bit of English. I leave at 7:02pm and that train ride should be about 14 hours. Then it’s just a couple more hours and I’m in Hong Kong.

If they’re having a freakish cold spell I will destroy something beautiful.

(Oh. I’m having problems accessing my email addresses so I hope you’re reading this mom.)

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out again

I’m up too early and I’m on my way out the door. I’ve got a boat to catch. And then a train and a bus and some more trains to finally get to Hong Kong. Hopefully by Tuesday. We’ll see.

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olympusbud and the 7 seas

So this morning I got up to go down to Zhongguancun, the technology haven in Beijing to get a camera. Why do that when I have a perfectly good digital camera? Well firstly you shouldn’t ask so many questions and secondly I am now the official photographer for my organization that shall remain nameless. Not that being the photog really means much since everyone has a camera anyway, but I’ve now got an aura of respectability to wear when I’m taking pictures. Sadly, my previous camera was not up to the strict requirements of this new position, so I got one that is a little more work and a little less point-and-shoot. I like it. My old one still has more space for pictures on it, which was important as my travelling camera with Reyn, and it has done very well for itself.

I got on the bus this morning to go and get a camera. After getting onto the bus and finding a conductor to pay her the 1 kuai (about $0.17) I found a space to stand and started looking out the window. And the bus didn’t move. First, a word about buses with conductors: I love ‘em. They remind me of pirate ships, like we’re sailing the seas and the members of the crew all have their jobs so the captain can get us through the storms of traffic. I always wish they would say more “Avast ye hearties” and make people walk planks to disembark. Back to the becalmed bus.

Now this is one of those articulated buses (which I’m told must be a Canadianism since the Americans call them worm buses – in any case the bus has two parts with an accordionlike swivelling connection) but it is old. It reminds me of India, this bus, though it isn’t so crowded. It’s patched and discoloured and the seats make you think of when you had your last tetanus shot.

It could have been stopped because it was ahead of schedule or something so I wasn’t worried, but some people started looking around and being generally disgruntled. Then the two conductors said something and a pile of people got off the bus. Some people stayed on though, so I did too, having no idea what was going on and not really wanting to be left behind.

From my spot near the back I saw the conductors (two twenty-something females) leading a pile of commuters in their shoving of the bus. “Heave ho!” they shouted in my head and then the engine caught and the bus started again and everyone got back on and we were back on our way (to find some booty – sweet sweet pirate booty).

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