The most important reason for going from one place to another is to see what’s in between.Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth
Bangalore, India
I take a seat just in time. The bus jerks forward and I have to stick a hand up against the warm, greasy bar in front to stop myself shooting forward. She is squashed against me. As the bus careens through roundabouts, I can feel soft, maternal flesh beneath her chiffon sari. She prattles Hindi into her mobile phone, gazing out the window. A long, animated conversation—perhaps philosophy, or gossip.
Indian music wobbles over the speakers like the heat waving off the cars outside. The off-green colour inside the bus compliments the fake flowers decorating the front windscreen. The bust of an Indian female stenciled onto the wall above the window stares at me, notifying the segregated seated plan. Women to the front, men to the back. It’s a short trip. The bus stalls to a halt and I stumble off as others stumble on. The air is dusty and dry and smells like a mixture of curry spices, exhaust and sewerage.
Trans-Siberian Railway, Mongolia
Human noise has quieted. Passengers have been lulled into a hypnotic trance, the soothing rhythm created between train and tracks. The extensive desert miles of repeated journeys through Russia, Mongolia and China have not wearied the continual clatter created upon the tracks. Like film on a reel, the Gobi rolls past the window. The fluorescent blue of a cloudless day sits starkly above the dull desert dirt below. An unending fence bounces and bobs along the bottom of the window’s view. Contained and protected from the wilderness of extremities beyond, I am rocked to sleep.
Paris, France
The air is thick in the tunnel. Heat, bodies, crêpes and rubber. It’s early evening on New Year’s Eve and already the underground at Alma-Marceau is packed with people waiting to board packed trains. We’re going to the Champs De Elyse to see the lights and the sights and the people on the popular street. The train arrives in a bluster of warm air.
The chatter onboard is ecstatic. Families, couples and friends cluster around themselves, excitedly anticipating what the night will bring. Scarves and down jackets do little to disguise party dresses and feet in stockings and heels.
“Bonne année (Happy New Year).” A young African man greets me from behind. He sits alongside his two African companions, dark pupils in bright eyes fixed and moving along us. Their over-friendliness is a symptom of an early start to the evening’s drinking, evidenced by a brown paper bag hugging the figure of a wine bottle swinging in a relaxed pair of hands.
The train rocks and sways, bringing the riders into a group dance. Everyone sways together, moving as one.
Rome, Italy
Like a herd of cattle, the local passengers unashamedly cram against each other, hungry for a spot on the crowded bus. A common claustrophobic bus has replaced the sights of civilization and grandeur. My legs are weary from traversing cobbled streets between Colosseum and cathedrals. Foolishly, I am the last one on, defying the demands of the driver to wait for the next one.
“Allora!”
I’ve backed in—I’m wearing a backpack and use it as my battering ram to move into the masses. The doors judder to a shut in front of my nose. The bus lurches into the traffic; a collective groan arises from its passengers. Suddenly conscious of the sticky fingers of gypsies, I sense the vulnerability of my backpack within many arms’ reach. I swivel around to discover I am squashed between the front windscreen and a nun. All is well.
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