The Bus.

Big, rickety behemoth, lumbering down the road, the city bus has become one of our closest friends this year. Even though the number of personal cars is rising every day in China, the public bus is still the most common mode of transportation. For the equivalence of 30 or 44 cents (depending on whether or not it has air-conditioning) you can ride anywhere in the city. The buses don’t run on schedules, but rarely do you ever wait more than 10 minutes for one.

The buses spew forth exhaust, the gears grind, and the shocks moan like a woman in labor. Occasionally the driver pulls into a gas station to fill up the tank, oblivious to the deadlines of his passengers, but the buses never break down on the road.

The swaying and sudden stopping are minor annoyances when sitting down, but major concerns when standing for 10, 20, or even 40 minutes. On evenings, weekends, and rush hour you have no choice but to join the mass of people entering the bus. You think not one more person can fit, until the driver yells to everyone to move to the back. As you stand sandwiched together hanging on to the plastic hand loops hanging from the ceiling, you all shuffle a little tighter together and more people climb on.

Happiness is a day when you get a seat on the bus. It’s even better to get one near the back. This way you are less likely to have to give up your seat to old people or parents holding young children.

Noise is the backdrop to all the bus dramas. People chatting on their cell phones in loud abrasive voices. Chinese pop music over the loud speakers. Jangling of construction jackhammers. The hum of thick layers of cars and buses on the street. The constant metallic rattles of the bus.

Visual noise outside the window fills the senses. Billboards and store facades yell at you to buy. Banners float from half finished apartment high-rises promising a good life if you move to their elegant grounds. Vegetable and fruit vendors lay their goods on mats and tables that line the sidewalks. Bicycles and pedestrians weave in and out of the traffic. Garbage lines the streets, even as tired looking men and women in conical straw hats and fluorescent orange safety vests slowly sweep it up.

People from all social classes and age groups ride the bus. Teenagers in their baby blue sweat suit school uniforms with backpacks, pigtails, and ear buds. Wiry, muscular workers in olive green jackets and muddy boots. 20somethings women in fashion boots and short skirts. Hip young men with orange hair, a long baby fingernail, and a cell phone. Bored businessmen in the standard white button down shirt and gray dress pants. Tired housecleaners with their hair pulled back in straggly ponytails. Severe old women with no nonsense shoes and a glare that can make a grown man cower. Sweet girls freshly arrived from the rural areas, ready to try out their broken English and exchange cell phone numbers with you. Ancient old men with sun weathered skin, carrying buckets on bamboo poles. Fishermen in rubber boots carrying pails of freshly caught fish.

On a bright sunny day, happy that I had a good seat on a rush hour bus, a sad young woman sat next to me and began to weep. This was no small sniffle, but deep sobs that went on for 30 minutes during which time I pondered the proper response. Pretend to not notice? Nod and look sympathetic? Place a gentle hand on her?

Foreigners make up only a small percentage of the population in Zhuhai and thus are prime targets for intense stares. Passive faces that give no clues to the thoughts behind them calmly look you over. One night Nathan rode the bus home from a Halloween party with fake blood dripping down his cheek, open wounds on his arms, and a torn, blood spattered T-shirt. The teenage girls stared and chattered about him. He understood bits and pieces of their conversation as they discussed the odd ‘meiguoren’ (American). The middle-aged fisherman seated directly next to Nathan stared a long time, looked away, stared again, his eyes uncomprehending what he saw.

The last bus to the university area leaves downtown around 10:30pm. On a Friday or Saturday night the college students hop on the 10:00pm buses back to campus from the bars. The smell of alcohol fills the air as they stand arm and in arm, swaying more than usual with the turns and bumps, laughing hysterically at each other’s clever observations.

Is it motion sickness or viruses that cause people to vomit on the bus? A five-year-old boy, looking tired, falling asleep against his grandmother, suddenly rushes to the window next to me. He doesn’t make it to the window and leaves an offering at my feet. A college student stands leaning over his girlfriend, shielding her from stares as she throws up on the floor in front of her. 8:30am an exhausted woman, returning from a night shift, discretely throws up into a plastic bag as I stand hovering over her on the rush hour bus. Everyone turns away and shifts as far from her as possible. No one wants her seat when she leaves.

From your place on the bus you look down on private cars and taxis rushing to their destinations, their passengers ensconced in air-conditioned luxury. You shift in your stance, feel the bags of groceries balanced between your legs, take a tighter grip on the passenger hook above you, and feel the pulse of the city around you.