Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The wheels on the bus

Jackie and I have learned a little about the Shenyang transportation systems. I say systems because there are many. Our first experiences revolved around private transportation—we were met at the airport by a van owned by Mr. Hou and used for company (and now school purposes). Most of our early trips to the city and back were done with taxis. And, although I'm not sure of the ownership category they have technically here in China, they seem like privately-operated transportation choices. (Of course which color taxis go where and when for how much and whether the three-wheeled “tri-cy-cars” or the small 6-passenter vans are taxis are all questions that are still out there to be answered.)

Lately we've been able to venture out into the world of public transportation. We'd been hearing tales told by our co-workers of trips to the city by bus. These stories started around National Day because some staff here did not travel during that week-long vacation. On top of that the Bank of China shut down its branches and ATMs. So money was very tight. Out of neccesity Seth figured out that the 177 bus goes from a block away from our school to the north train station in downtown Shenyang. The neccesity was financial and the bus cost only 2 yuan. (Chinese currency is also called renminbi or rmb and, most commonly, kwai.) This compares very favorably to the standard taxi fare of 60 yuan. With the current exchange rate of 6.5 yuan to the dollar, this was like paying 30 cents rather than nine dollars. The taxis are faster; usually taking just under an hour to get to the downtown business districts. The bus to the train station takes more than an hour and the train station is another 15 to 30 minutes by taxi or another bus from most points of interest in the city.

What I got out of Seth's description of his bus experience was the knowledge that the bus ride was doable. Also it emerged as a possible avenue to learn more about the regular life of my neighbors. Realistically though it was practical only as a one-way option. The amount of time it would take to ride the bus both in town and out would be impractical. I'd pretty much have to turn right around once I arrived at my destination in order to make it home without missing the last bus. The 177 stops running at 6:30 pm.

Later in October or early in November Andy told me that he'd also taken the bus to town and had transferred from the 177 to other routes in order to get to places like Middle Street and the underground market at Taiyuan Street. He informed me that in-town bus rides are only 1 yuan. Andy did have the advantage of being a 24-year-old American man who everyone, especially the 20-something Chinese women, loves to pieces. Nonetheless this grizzled 52-year-old was beginning to feel like he could handle the mysteries and challenges of the buses.
(Not really a Shenyang bus, but you get the picture)

My interest in the public transit opportunities was piqued in early November when I went to the U.S. consulate on election day to drop off my absentee ballot. While I was in town that day I wandered past the entrance to a subway station. There were people coming out of the station. I knew before coming to Shenyang that the subway was under construction and soon to open, if only partially. Here I was looking at evidence that maybe its inauguration had taken place. I went down into the station and saw the route map, the farecard vending machines, the electronic turnstiles, and those people again. They were doing all the things people do when they are entering and exiting subway stations. I even felt the rush of air that could only have come from trains moving through subway tunnels.

So when Andy told me he was taking the bus into the city last Sunday I decided to go along. We got to the bus stop and looked at the eight or 12 people waiting there. Andy recommending walking around the corner one stop more. He felt certain we'd be able to find a seat if we did that. Since we were looking at an hour plus bus ride, a seat seemed a good idea. Rounding the corner we saw a bus chugging toward the stop we'd targeted. After a quick jog we got there in time and climbed aboard. Andy's advice was proved sage when we got to the stop we'd passed by and found that the number of passengers boarding there exceeded the seats available. We settled in for the duration of the ride.

I was surprised how quiet it was. My bus riding experiences in the U.S. tended to expose me to loud public revelations of private concerns; even more so since cellphones have insinuated themselves next to everyone's ears. Here on the 177 it was as if the notorious gunslinger had just entered the saloon—all the chatter stopped. It was more than compensated for by the driver's ham-handed operation of the clutch and gear shift. Actually I don't think he used the clutch at all. The shift from first gear to second was the most calamitous, I expected pieces of the transmission to clatter on the road behind us every time he attempted it. If we didn't have much momentum built up, say when we were going up a hill or “accelerating” from a stop (precisely the times when shifting from first to second is most common) it was an open-ended question whether the driver would manage to force the complaining transmission into submission. Frequently he couldn't and we ended up creeping up small hills while being passed by trucks, cars, other buses, and even people on small battery-powered bicycles.

Luckily Shenyang is mostly flat. We made it to the north train station in not much over an hour and met Andy's friend Hannah who would help us transfer to the bus to Wu Ai, our destination that day. Hannah is a young Chinese woman, hence her willingness to help Andy, who graduated from medical school but decided to go to law school because anybody can be a doctor and lawyers make more money anyway. She's working at a job she doesn't like while she wends her way through the five years of legal studies. She estimates this career change will cost her 100,000 yuan a year. No wonder she takes the bus.

We got to Wu Ai that day (I'll save a decription of the market itself for another time) and then went to the IT district with Amos and Kristine. By the time we were ready to head home we were smack dab in the middle of the dreaded 4:00 to 6:00 pm Sargasso Sea of taxi “shift change”. This meant that, even though most of Shenyang's 7.5 million people all wanted a taxi to get them home in time for dinner, the taxi drivers were refusing to pick anyone up. We decided to kill some time over coffee and cakes before trying our luck at flagging a taxi.

By 7:30 or 8:00 things were moving more smoothly and we caught a taxi back to school. So ended my first trip using public transportation.

Last Saturday was round two in the public transportation preliminaries. Jackie and I had the day off and made plans to go to the Nan Er market to buy fabric for curtains. We got an early start because we were going to make the round trip by bus. As we waited at the bus stop for the 177 we saw our Chinese friend Charlie. He was running errands but thought he'd like to go into the city to have lunch with a friend. He offered to show us another way to take the bus downtown. We accepted and soon were walking west on Shenbei Lu to the route 383 bus stop. Charlie's help was essential; the bus stop for the 383 is not marked in any way. We stood on a corner and waited to flag down the bus when it passed. This route is privately-operated and can charge fares on a sliding scale depending on the distance the passenger goes. For us the trip was three yuan. We paid a man who would make change if we didn't have the exact fare. This reminded me of Nicaraguan buses and their “cobradores”. That similarity extended to the fare collector's practice of yelling out to the driver when a stop was needed and when the departing passengers had gotten off so the driver could resume.

There was more conversation on this bus. One uniformed man even asked me in English where I was from and what I did in China. Charlie told me that the uniform identified the man as a member of one branch of China's security forces. Charlie likened it to a uniformed FBI. I didn't detect anything more than friendly curiosity in the man's questions. Other passengers spoke to one and other. When I commented on this to Charlie he said that was because 80% of these passengers were farmers. The quiet passengers I had noticed on the 177 bus were students. To Charlie “farmers” are uneducated bumpkins hence their willingness to jabber on in public.

Charlie had recommended the 383 because he said it was a much faster trip. He was right. We rode the bus to the Orthopedic Hospital on Dongbei Damalu it a bit more than a half an hour and changed to a 221 city bus there to the market. The 221 was not a fast bus. It took more than another half hour to get across town to the market. The entire trip from school to city was as long as it would have been on the 177 and an in-town taxi.

An unexpected bonus from out trip on the 383 is that we met a former van driver when we changed to the 221. The man had been one of the more memorable drivers we'd known. I had recently remarked to Jackie how different he was from the current crop. This man was personable and out-going. He would try to talk to us in Chinese and teach us words and phrases. The men who drive now are essentially silent and do not encourage attempts at conversation. Charlie helped as we found out that the former driver was now driving a trash truck. He was paid more and worked shorter hours. He was very happy that he'd made the change. As is common here mention of pay triggered his inquiries into how much we got paid and whether Mr. Hou was actually sticking to his obligation to pay us. (Mr. Hou is known to fail to pay the Chinese staff.) Charlie told the man that we made about 4,000 yuan a month that was paid to us here and another amount in dollars that was paid to our U.S. Bank accounts. This wasn't exactly true (all our pay is paid to us here and the amounts were a bit off), but the gist was correct. It makes us uncomfortable to talk about our pay here even though it's very common here to ask how much someone makes. Charlie likes to rib us about being rich foreigners.

After the relative success of our bus rides into town, Jackie and I decided to continue on public transit to get home. We left the market and walked to the Taiyuan Street subway stop. I had seen on my map of Shenyang that there was a subway stop within what looked like reasonable walking distance from the Orthopedic Hospital where we could catch the 383 bus back home. Another advantage of the 383 is that its last run was at the late hour of 7:10.

As far as a plan goes this was a good one. We had help from one of the subway attendants and successfully purchased two farecards to the Pang Jiang Jie station. We had absolutely no trouble tapping our cards on the turnstile and getting on the right side of the platform for the direction we were going. We even had some local girls ask to have their pictures taken with us. We were rolling. The subway came and, although crowded, it was an easy ride six stops to Pang Jiang Jie.

On exiting we had a little trouble. The single-ride tickets we bought don't tap to activate the turnstile. They have to be fed into the card slot where they disappear depriving me of a hoped-for souvenir. We walked out of the station and were confronted by the realization that we did not know which way was north, south, east, or west. So, even though I knew where I wanted to go on the map, I didn't know which way that was in real life. I went back in the subway station and used the map to communicate my predicament to an attendant clad in military-style cap and blue wool greatcoat. The coat was adorned with a Sam Browne belt and a bright red-with-yellow-writing armband on the left arm. The attendant, speaking in very loud voice, explained in great detail what we needed to do. Unfortunately he explained it all in Chinese. We tried clarifying with pointing hands and traced out steps in the air. We clearly didn't understand. He went back into the station and announced to another attendant something then he turned and indicated that we should follow him. He walked us up one side of the street, over a pedestrian overpass, and down the other side to a bus stop. He pointed energetically (he did everything energetically) to the number on the sign—245. He also indicated some Chinese writing which I can only assume was the name of where we should get off for the Orthopedic Hospital. Finally he turned to the ten or so people waiting at the bus stop and spoke in a commanding voice. I don't know what he said, but it sure looked to me that he was telling the others that we wanted to go the Orthopedic Hospital and that they should do all in their power to help us get there. After passing on that responsibility he turned with a whirl of his greatcoat and was off back up the street, over the pedestrian overpass, and down the other side of the street to the subway station.
(Not the actual attendant, but you get the picture.)

 
We were stunned and a little sheepish. A man in the group pointed to the sign and held up three fingers. I figured that meant go three stops. When the first 245 bus came it was very full and we hung back. About half the people waiting fit on. The rest of us continued to wait. Soon two more 245s came. We got on the first easily. After the second stop I craned my neck to look for the Orthopedic Hospital. As expected it rolled into view on the right hand side. A young woman passenger indicated to Jackie that this was our stop. We got out and ambled over to where we'd transfer to the 383 bound for home.

Charlie was already there. He became our guide for the rest of the trip which was mostly uneventful. Most of the ride passed in three-way conversation with the woman who was sitting next to Charlie. She was eating a sort of burrito-y, stuffed crepe-like thing that is a common street food here. Charlie found out what was in it (eggs, sausage, and potato) and why she was eating it now, at 6:30 on the bus. (She was on her way to a nutrition class. She hoped to learn enough to go into business selling nutritional supplements.) Charlie complimented her on her good looks for a 45-year-old woman. In turn she told Charlie he should watch his diet. He had too much oil on his face and that indicated a dietary imbalance. Before we left the woman gave us her card. Thank God she didn't go to work analyzing our diet as evidenced by our skin, hair, pores, nails, and whatever else a wannabe Chinese nutritionist thinks is relevant and fair game on a public bus on a cold and dark Saturday evening in November in Shenyang.