Ridin' Solo

The public bus never really gets the attention it deserves. I mean, how often do you think about it other than “thank God I have my car and I’m not that sucker waiting for a bus out in the rain.” Well in India, as with most things, transportation takes on a life of its own. I’m not going to brag about my ability to barter with auto drivers or the skills I now have in jumping on and off a moving bus or riding one-handed on the back of a scooter. But I am going to talk about what it is like to travel around, day in and day out, in Hyderabad, and most importantly, what it is like on a public bus.

Half of my Indian friends are still completely floored by the idea of me and my American friends actually getting on these things. I mean, they grew up with drivers and have been driving themselves around town just like the rest of us have been since we were teenagers (okay well I never had a driver but you get the picture). They have not even stepped onto a bus themselves. But when they cost about twenty cents to use, don’t require any bargaining, and you more or less know where they will go, it is kind of hard to say no. Although sometimes I wish I did. You see, there is something interesting about the bus system here in the city. It is that buses are as diverse as their drivers, and run the gauntlet from a clunker with a literal hole in the floorboard (yes on a recent trip I had to straddle said hole and hope it wouldn’t get bigger) to the bus I just took to this coffee shop which had air conditioning and a TV screen playing music videos. And it only cost three rupees more. The catch is as you wait at any given bus stop you never know what you will get, or really how crowded it will be.

Getting onto and off of the bus is an art form in itself. Most routes have stops that are marked or if not marked, at least visible by the amount of people congregating to get on them. But the real fun begins when the bus stops. For if you are getting on the bus, you are being pushed by the people behind you who also want to get on, at the same time you are being forced back by the people getting off the bus. I generally just wait until the last possible moment in back and then jump on as it starts to move. Saves my backpack from being squashed in the melee. On the flip side, if you want to get off the bus, you had better force your way through the women to the front and push them, poke them, yell at them, or do whatever, to ensure that you get off in time. It can be a long way between stops.

The bus ticket collector is also an anomaly. They wander up and down the aisle, often tapping, whistling and even pulling braids to get your attention so you can pay the fare. Sometimes if you don’t have change and they don’t have change they will hold up a finger, say “ek moment,” and twenty minutes later, assuming you haven’t already gotten off of the bus, voila, you have your change. They also have an uncanny knack of remembering exactly what stop you paid for, making sure you get off at that stop or else. I may not understand Telugu but I do get it when I am no longer welcome. On really crowded buses I have seen them hanging off the stairs, jumping out to allow passengers on and off and then running and jumping back onto the tiny bottom rung without missing a beat. It takes a certain breed of person to excel at this obviously and I have to admire their stamina and good sense of balance. Walking up and down a moving bus all day yelling at people has to get old.

Drivers tend to be in their own world, sitting up front, shifting with one hand while talking on their cell phone with the other. Shoes are optional as is any peripheral vision. I once was on a bus that somehow managed to be missing all the glass from the windows on the left side which happened to be where I was sitting. It was like riding in a half-convertible bus. Which was nice and breezy and fine until the driver veered left into a group of low-hanging trees. If I hadn’t ducked, I don’t think I would be writing a blog about buses after all.

Buses are not for foreigners. Oh no. I have realized that the reason why I never see foreigners walking on the streets but I see them in restaurants and in bars is because they don’t stoop to public transportation. But if you can get over the stares and learn which end of the bus you belong (men in back, women in front), it is really easy. My friends and I had a laugh the other day when our flatmate, who has taken the same bus to school and back every day for five months and never seen a non-Indian on board, watched a foreign couple get on her bus. And she stared just like everyone else did. I mean, you start to feel possessive about things here and your local bus definitely figures high onto that list. You are the token foreigner on that route thank you very much. You alone know the ins and outs of public transportation in Hyderabad. And you’ll be damned if someone else figures it out.