Take a bus. Take the train. Get a bike. Walk. Whatever you do, leave your car at home. In London and San Francisco both citizens and local government have begun to transform their transport culture so that the car is left at home. Those that do insist on driving are, in some circles, becoming social pariahs like the smoking lepers at a party who raise eyebrows from their clean living friends as they head outside for a draw.
After my bike was stolen getting around the city was either on foot or by public transport. The MUNI, SF's bus network, compared to London's red buses, provides cheap relatively rapid movement around the city. $2 for a two hour ride with interchanges compared to London's £2.30 ($3.70). Yet what's the real cost? Travelling on route 22 it would seem could cost you your life.
It's wise to pay attention to any natural instinct and after a couple of unpleasant experiences on the 22 I usually opt for the alternative more sedate, less incredibly-noisy-school-children infected 24 to take me to the sunnier microclimates of San Francisco. Yet as I headed to try out a new hairdressers, my barnet having grown back into its natural mushroom shape and my vanity winning out, I gave the 22 another shot (the irony) as the route took me a good 200 meters closer to my destination than the alternative.
Loaded up with old episodes of The Thick Of It, I was looking forward to twenty minutes of "us" time with my iPhone. Disappointed but not shocked that the bus was already rammed when I boarded (so busy in fact that when fellow riders tried to get off there's a very disconcerting bodily brush). Still, I rhesus-monkeyed myself to one of the suspended handrails and bedded in. Let it be said that in London, no matter how packed the tube or bus, inadvertent intimate brushing never happens. Accidental foot clashes do occur and they are met with stoney stare, nothing more. It is testament to how much effort is exerted by each passenger that no body part should touch.
Having only just adopted my primate pose a lady at the back of the bus vacated her seat. Deftly swinging down I flipped my iPhone into life and began looking forward to some inspired Malcolm Tucker swearing
It was with some surprise that before the first f-bomb was dropped I internally launched my own, "Oh **** I've sat next to a tramp and now I'm trapped!" This may sound callous but sitting next to one of San Francisco's many vagrants is never a pleasant experience but can usually be born out unless they start shouting obscenities in your face, smell particularly bad or in this instance, spend the journey clearing out whatever a hard life on the streets leaves at the back of the throat and around the mouth.
My fellow rider was making the kind of deep hacking, gagging noise Premiership footballers like to make before they take a penalty kick. This thorough personal mining was followed each time with a slow half-regurgitation half post dental-work spit and drool into a newspaper. The process was constantly repeated to be occasionally interrupted by a quick brush around with a dry toothbrush. Feeling horrified at these kinds of encounters is always balanced out with a sense of shock and pity. How can someone eventually find themselves in such a position? "There but for the grace of God go I."
I turned up my iPhone and pretended it was happening. Fourteen years of Tube travel has at least taught me something.
My orally conscious back of the bus companion was nothing to what was about to transpire. Commotion by the bus stop only encouraged me to turn up the volume still further, dismissing the noise as nothing more than excitable kids letting off steam after lessons. Noisy yes, mildly irritating too but not even the hardiest of curmudgeons can really deny a group of kids having a bit of fun.
The noise got louder and the shouts filtered over the paid-off ranting I was trying listen to on my phone. Natural instinct kicked in again as the muscle of noise sounded less fun more fight. Flashes of movement out the corner of my eye rung true with what I was hearing. The unmistakable flail of a real fight, of long, swinging, over reaching limbs as arms and legs fly forward, heads and torsos seemingly pulled back by the unseen gravity of fear. The bundle of arms and legs moved around the bus and was suddenly behind, in the middle of the road. A boy, no more than 16, was pushed to the ground face carved into the concrete by determined hands. "School bullies are here too," I thought.
Another passenger, one that had brushed their teeth before boarding shouted, "That kid's got a gun" and sure enough as I looked closer those mass of limbs were not attacking the boy but trying to force him down, extend his arm and take out of his hand what I could not believe to be true but was, a handgun. A handgun pointing straight at the back of the bus. Let it not be forgotten, exactly where I was sitting.
Girls screamed to the movement of a panicked run up the street and the bus pulled away. Not soon enough for my liking. All I could think of is drive, drive and keep driving. Sandra Bullock would have kept going, why couldn't this driver?
I left the bus not long afterwards and just as the adrenaline had flooded every part of my body. I stood shaking on the street. I called The Missus. I needed to talk to someone about what I'd just seen. Five years of living in the East End of London and I'd never seen anything like this and in the middle of the afternoon. I wondered was it a real gun? What if it had fired? Would the shell of a bus absorb a bullet? Who would have gotten shot? What if one of the kids who tried to disarm the other got shot? Did I see their faces? Could I make a statement? Should I have called the police?
Like a true Brit and like everyone else on that bus, I carried on my day. I got my haircut.
I explained to the hairdresser what I'd witnessed. It was both infuriating and comforting that he was nonplussed. Comforting because his matter-of-factness let the adrenaline leave my body and brought me back down. Infuriating at first not only because I was in shock and wanted to be treated accordingly but has America really come to a place where gun crime is a part of every day life? Where a child with a gun is accepted as just one of those things. Where everyone has a story to tell about a gun incident? This is what the hairdresser argued. Refusing to bring politics into the discussion as so many deliberately and depressingly do, he insisted that guns are part of life and that, the gun was "probably from Oakland anyway!"
I shall be asking around to see if the hairdresser's opinion is shared by others. I hope not. In the meantime my brief experience has changed my view of the city. Made me more aware of those around and, more nervous. I can only imagine the feelings of anyone who's been involved in an actual gun crime. Those people have my sympathy now more so than ever.
As a parting thought, the hairdresser reminded me that you see all sorts on mass transit in the city and suggested I watch this video. I'm not sure who I'm more afraid of, the kid with a gun or ninja-bus-lady. I'm just pleased I've got a new bike and I take my own risks.
 |
| Standing room only |
It was with some surprise that before the first f-bomb was dropped I internally launched my own, "Oh **** I've sat next to a tramp and now I'm trapped!" This may sound callous but sitting next to one of San Francisco's many vagrants is never a pleasant experience but can usually be born out unless they start shouting obscenities in your face, smell particularly bad or in this instance, spend the journey clearing out whatever a hard life on the streets leaves at the back of the throat and around the mouth.
My fellow rider was making the kind of deep hacking, gagging noise Premiership footballers like to make before they take a penalty kick. This thorough personal mining was followed each time with a slow half-regurgitation half post dental-work spit and drool into a newspaper. The process was constantly repeated to be occasionally interrupted by a quick brush around with a dry toothbrush. Feeling horrified at these kinds of encounters is always balanced out with a sense of shock and pity. How can someone eventually find themselves in such a position? "There but for the grace of God go I."
I turned up my iPhone and pretended it was happening. Fourteen years of Tube travel has at least taught me something.
My orally conscious back of the bus companion was nothing to what was about to transpire. Commotion by the bus stop only encouraged me to turn up the volume still further, dismissing the noise as nothing more than excitable kids letting off steam after lessons. Noisy yes, mildly irritating too but not even the hardiest of curmudgeons can really deny a group of kids having a bit of fun.
The noise got louder and the shouts filtered over the paid-off ranting I was trying listen to on my phone. Natural instinct kicked in again as the muscle of noise sounded less fun more fight. Flashes of movement out the corner of my eye rung true with what I was hearing. The unmistakable flail of a real fight, of long, swinging, over reaching limbs as arms and legs fly forward, heads and torsos seemingly pulled back by the unseen gravity of fear. The bundle of arms and legs moved around the bus and was suddenly behind, in the middle of the road. A boy, no more than 16, was pushed to the ground face carved into the concrete by determined hands. "School bullies are here too," I thought.
Another passenger, one that had brushed their teeth before boarding shouted, "That kid's got a gun" and sure enough as I looked closer those mass of limbs were not attacking the boy but trying to force him down, extend his arm and take out of his hand what I could not believe to be true but was, a handgun. A handgun pointing straight at the back of the bus. Let it not be forgotten, exactly where I was sitting.
Girls screamed to the movement of a panicked run up the street and the bus pulled away. Not soon enough for my liking. All I could think of is drive, drive and keep driving. Sandra Bullock would have kept going, why couldn't this driver?
I left the bus not long afterwards and just as the adrenaline had flooded every part of my body. I stood shaking on the street. I called The Missus. I needed to talk to someone about what I'd just seen. Five years of living in the East End of London and I'd never seen anything like this and in the middle of the afternoon. I wondered was it a real gun? What if it had fired? Would the shell of a bus absorb a bullet? Who would have gotten shot? What if one of the kids who tried to disarm the other got shot? Did I see their faces? Could I make a statement? Should I have called the police?
Like a true Brit and like everyone else on that bus, I carried on my day. I got my haircut.
I explained to the hairdresser what I'd witnessed. It was both infuriating and comforting that he was nonplussed. Comforting because his matter-of-factness let the adrenaline leave my body and brought me back down. Infuriating at first not only because I was in shock and wanted to be treated accordingly but has America really come to a place where gun crime is a part of every day life? Where a child with a gun is accepted as just one of those things. Where everyone has a story to tell about a gun incident? This is what the hairdresser argued. Refusing to bring politics into the discussion as so many deliberately and depressingly do, he insisted that guns are part of life and that, the gun was "probably from Oakland anyway!"
I shall be asking around to see if the hairdresser's opinion is shared by others. I hope not. In the meantime my brief experience has changed my view of the city. Made me more aware of those around and, more nervous. I can only imagine the feelings of anyone who's been involved in an actual gun crime. Those people have my sympathy now more so than ever.
As a parting thought, the hairdresser reminded me that you see all sorts on mass transit in the city and suggested I watch this video. I'm not sure who I'm more afraid of, the kid with a gun or ninja-bus-lady. I'm just pleased I've got a new bike and I take my own risks.
No comments:
Post a Comment