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How do you get from the Swedish capital of Stockholm to Oslo, the Norwegian one? Well, there must be at least forty two known ways to do that, among which taking an overnight bus is a good compromise between speed and comfort on one hand, and keeping to a tight budget against the pricey Scandinavian backdrop on the other.
This top-of-the-line bus is accommodating and clean, the passengers are neat and quiet and the night is silent and calm. With ears plugged into your Discman and in the company of a good book (the traveler’s best of friends), a couple of restful hours go by, leaving you secure in the knowledge that headway is being made for you. Finally, under the influence of an entire bus worth of synchronized snoring, you also decide to bundle up and turn in.
In your dream, you are traveling to Honduras on a bus from hell, with the Devil’s own fool at the wheels. Startled, you wake up and glimpse in the direction of your neat driver for this random ride, in his sleek bowtie and funny little hat, just for reassurance.
Nevertheless, what you witness is anything but reassuring.
Your driver is falling asleep at the wheel!!!
Not even halfway to Oslo yet, and his head is already pecking at the dashboard. His eyes, red and puffy, are fighting to remain open, yet heavy lids constantly conspire to shut off the one sense standing between him and the Land of Nod; the one also standing between you and an eminent pile-up to heaven.
He reaches for a humongous coffee cup, while the bus is sliding down a pitch dark highway at one hundred kilometer an hour. All he needs to do is keep the steering wheel steady, yet by the time he places the cup back in its holder, he is already pecking again, and the bus starts swerving.
Not able to think of a single proper thing to do in order to improve this miserable state of affairs, other than making a huge, contra productive scene, yet neither able to fall back to a sleep you might not wake up from, you lean back into your leather seat and keep watch over the drowsy asshole, mentally ready to grab the wheel in case Nod shall appear to be winning the fight.
The first rays of morning sun find you in that very same tense position. For the whole night, your eyes haven’t left the back of the driver’s head for a moment, nor has he managed to shake off the fatigue, yet everyone is still alive and the bus is already cruising the streets of the Norwegian capital.
You sure got a good mind to rebuke the fiend for his freak-wheeling behavior, but the moment he pulls into his designated platform, the bloody drive’s gone.
Well, at least he’ll get to fall asleep at the wheel another day.
* * *
How do you get from any town, China, to any other given town across this vast land of interesting times? Well, the locals must have as many ways for doing that as they have for skinning a cat, a rat or any other even remotely edible creature, for that matter. For a traveling laowei[1], though, the most available option is, surprisingly enough, a local bus.
It starts at the so-called bus station, which is, in fact, a whole bunch of adjoining streets and alleys, where a multitude of crumpled little buses await their passengers, themselves surrounded by a horde of petits-vendeurs and blocked in by everyday city life.
Picking the right bus to board is the trickiest task of all, as the only indication as to its destination is an elaborated drawing only Chinese folks are capable of deciphering. Then, you’ve gotta wait until the bus fills up; not just the seats but the entire belly of the gluttonous leviathan, until there is no room to move a single limb. Finally, only once stuffed to the gills, the vendors slothfully clear enough space for the bus to uncork itself, fight its way into traffic and begin its journey through shear chaos.
Once out of town, the bus bounces its merry way along endless dirt roads, and whenever a real big bounce comes up, everyone and everything that rises must converge and come crashing down as one. However, nothing dampens the spirit of your fellow commuters, and once their fascination with you begins to wear out, they all turn their attention to the tiny TV set at the front of the bus and join in a perpetual marathon of looping karaoke songs.
Several hours go by, several dozen people get off at various stops along the winding road and, for the first time during this journey, enough space has cleared for you to notice a metal pipe running the length of the bus, right through the middle of the aisle. What’s more important, though, is the fact that there’s now enough space for you to be able to stretch a bit, until you reach a position that might enable you to fall asleep. Less than three karaoke songs you now know by heart later, and asleep you are.
When you finally wake up, you immediately notice that every other passenger in your vicinity is staring at you, as widely eyed as they can. Wait, it’s not you per se they’re staring at but just one of your feet, which ended up stretched across the aisle. Only then do you notice a smell of burnt rubber and the smoke rising from a trusty Australian boot that’s been pressing against the pipe. Quickly retrieving your foot, to the sound of giggles coming from the most entertained audience, you find the boot has been forever deformed.
That tail, running the length of the jam-packed bus, is the exhaust pipe!!!
Well, at least your trusty boot shall still get to hike another day.
And that’s how you find yourself in Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu province.
Having made it so close to the Tibetan border, you now consider crossing over and experiencing some of that equally fascinating culture. It might be a bit of a stretch, especially with your single entry, thirty days, tourist visa to China ticking away and all, but at least it’s worth a shot.
Rather more experienced in the trickiness of Chinese immigrational whims by now, you first befriend an English speaking member of the hostel stuff, recruiting her as translator and aid for an attempt at scoring a permission to cross the border; to enter a land that they consider as much a part of China as force may dictate. Thus, with her by your side, you approach the authorities and are finally granted audience with a low government official who deals with Tibetan affairs.
“I would like to cross the border into Tibet,” you politely address the severe looking clerk, fortified behind his firm desk and stern little spectacles, once again finding yourself grinning like an imbecile in the face of uncertainty.
After a brief silence, he suddenly breaks out laughing.
“I not sink he let you go to Tibet…” whispers your timid aid, while the lowly little bureaucrat keeps on roaring away like a madman. Even once you’ve already edged out of his office; his laughter continues to echo through the corridor. It seems to bounce from office to office, across crummy passageways and down flights of stairs, mocking you clear out of his building and back into a reality where freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose; just another word for getting to live another day.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] Foreigner (Chinese)
How do you get from the Swedish capital of Stockholm to Oslo, the Norwegian one? Well, there must be at least forty two known ways to do that, among which taking an overnight bus is a good compromise between speed and comfort on one hand, and keeping to a tight budget against the pricey Scandinavian backdrop on the other.
This top-of-the-line bus is accommodating and clean, the passengers are neat and quiet and the night is silent and calm. With ears plugged into your Discman and in the company of a good book (the traveler’s best of friends), a couple of restful hours go by, leaving you secure in the knowledge that headway is being made for you. Finally, under the influence of an entire bus worth of synchronized snoring, you also decide to bundle up and turn in.
In your dream, you are traveling to Honduras on a bus from hell, with the Devil’s own fool at the wheels. Startled, you wake up and glimpse in the direction of your neat driver for this random ride, in his sleek bowtie and funny little hat, just for reassurance.
Nevertheless, what you witness is anything but reassuring.
Your driver is falling asleep at the wheel!!!
Not even halfway to Oslo yet, and his head is already pecking at the dashboard. His eyes, red and puffy, are fighting to remain open, yet heavy lids constantly conspire to shut off the one sense standing between him and the Land of Nod; the one also standing between you and an eminent pile-up to heaven.
He reaches for a humongous coffee cup, while the bus is sliding down a pitch dark highway at one hundred kilometer an hour. All he needs to do is keep the steering wheel steady, yet by the time he places the cup back in its holder, he is already pecking again, and the bus starts swerving.
Not able to think of a single proper thing to do in order to improve this miserable state of affairs, other than making a huge, contra productive scene, yet neither able to fall back to a sleep you might not wake up from, you lean back into your leather seat and keep watch over the drowsy asshole, mentally ready to grab the wheel in case Nod shall appear to be winning the fight.
The first rays of morning sun find you in that very same tense position. For the whole night, your eyes haven’t left the back of the driver’s head for a moment, nor has he managed to shake off the fatigue, yet everyone is still alive and the bus is already cruising the streets of the Norwegian capital.
You sure got a good mind to rebuke the fiend for his freak-wheeling behavior, but the moment he pulls into his designated platform, the bloody drive’s gone.
Well, at least he’ll get to fall asleep at the wheel another day.
* * *
How do you get from any town, China, to any other given town across this vast land of interesting times? Well, the locals must have as many ways for doing that as they have for skinning a cat, a rat or any other even remotely edible creature, for that matter. For a traveling laowei[1], though, the most available option is, surprisingly enough, a local bus.
It starts at the so-called bus station, which is, in fact, a whole bunch of adjoining streets and alleys, where a multitude of crumpled little buses await their passengers, themselves surrounded by a horde of petits-vendeurs and blocked in by everyday city life.
Picking the right bus to board is the trickiest task of all, as the only indication as to its destination is an elaborated drawing only Chinese folks are capable of deciphering. Then, you’ve gotta wait until the bus fills up; not just the seats but the entire belly of the gluttonous leviathan, until there is no room to move a single limb. Finally, only once stuffed to the gills, the vendors slothfully clear enough space for the bus to uncork itself, fight its way into traffic and begin its journey through shear chaos.
Once out of town, the bus bounces its merry way along endless dirt roads, and whenever a real big bounce comes up, everyone and everything that rises must converge and come crashing down as one. However, nothing dampens the spirit of your fellow commuters, and once their fascination with you begins to wear out, they all turn their attention to the tiny TV set at the front of the bus and join in a perpetual marathon of looping karaoke songs.
Several hours go by, several dozen people get off at various stops along the winding road and, for the first time during this journey, enough space has cleared for you to notice a metal pipe running the length of the bus, right through the middle of the aisle. What’s more important, though, is the fact that there’s now enough space for you to be able to stretch a bit, until you reach a position that might enable you to fall asleep. Less than three karaoke songs you now know by heart later, and asleep you are.
When you finally wake up, you immediately notice that every other passenger in your vicinity is staring at you, as widely eyed as they can. Wait, it’s not you per se they’re staring at but just one of your feet, which ended up stretched across the aisle. Only then do you notice a smell of burnt rubber and the smoke rising from a trusty Australian boot that’s been pressing against the pipe. Quickly retrieving your foot, to the sound of giggles coming from the most entertained audience, you find the boot has been forever deformed.
That tail, running the length of the jam-packed bus, is the exhaust pipe!!!
Well, at least your trusty boot shall still get to hike another day.
And that’s how you find yourself in Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu province.
Having made it so close to the Tibetan border, you now consider crossing over and experiencing some of that equally fascinating culture. It might be a bit of a stretch, especially with your single entry, thirty days, tourist visa to China ticking away and all, but at least it’s worth a shot.
Rather more experienced in the trickiness of Chinese immigrational whims by now, you first befriend an English speaking member of the hostel stuff, recruiting her as translator and aid for an attempt at scoring a permission to cross the border; to enter a land that they consider as much a part of China as force may dictate. Thus, with her by your side, you approach the authorities and are finally granted audience with a low government official who deals with Tibetan affairs.
“I would like to cross the border into Tibet,” you politely address the severe looking clerk, fortified behind his firm desk and stern little spectacles, once again finding yourself grinning like an imbecile in the face of uncertainty.
After a brief silence, he suddenly breaks out laughing.
“I not sink he let you go to Tibet…” whispers your timid aid, while the lowly little bureaucrat keeps on roaring away like a madman. Even once you’ve already edged out of his office; his laughter continues to echo through the corridor. It seems to bounce from office to office, across crummy passageways and down flights of stairs, mocking you clear out of his building and back into a reality where freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose; just another word for getting to live another day.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] Foreigner (Chinese)