The Woman On The Bus

I don’t really want to be here. I’m not a huge fan of the atmosphere on public buses. People are constantly trying to sneak glances at those around him, passing judgments and fitting their fellow travellers into basic stereotypes. On a bus, everyone feels and acts like they are better than each other, more important, more popular, more successful.

It doesn’t matter who you are or what you “do”. You could be a brain surgeon, you could be unemployed and homeless, but at this very moment in time, sitting in the same uncomfortable seats on the same bus, everyone is on a level playing field.

I boarded this reality check on wheels at Margaret River, my final destination being Perth. Usually this would be a three-hour journey, but in the spirit of public transport the bus takes the longest possible route, stopping everywhere possible, resulting in a five-hour travel time. I am not complaining. I paid my $35.70 completely aware of what I was getting myself into.

This brings me tell you about “the woman on the bus”. For the purpose of this discussion, I will call her Mary. According to the graffiti riddled sign, the seating capacity of the vehicle is 57 people. We had made our way through Cowaramup, Yallingup and Dunsborough, picking up a few people along the way, bringing the total number of passengers to 15 including myself. That means there are 32 spare seats, including at least 8 window seats on either side of the bus. We pull up at Busselton and Mary boards the bus. Mary had prepaid her ticket online and had been allocated a seat number, the same way you would with an airline ticket.

I love to observe the movements and actions of people, and I was especially focussed on Mary because she was wearing dark sunglasses despite the fact it was a dull and rainy day. The next thing that drew my attention was her perfume. It must have been industrial strength. I could smell her coming up the aisle from the back of the bus. She was wearing a purple top accentuated by shiny silver stitching and her large leopard skin handbag was overflowing with a wide assortment of unusual objects. Mary certainly looked to be in a hurry. Her eyes were darting rapidly between her bus ticket and the seat numbers. She was on a mission and I was getting more entertainment than I had anticipated. Mid way up the bus Mary found her destination, it was window seat 39 and there was a young girl asleep in it. All around Mary was empty window seats, but she had to wake up this innocent young girl because she was sleeping in her seat.

I could not believe my eyes. The bus was virtually empty, yet Mary was so important, so caught up in her own world to make a change to mission and sit in one of the 32 empty seats around her.

The reality here is, we are all riding the same bus. We may get on and off at different stops, but when we step into the confines of public transport, lets try to be civil.

No one wants to be on a bus. Why make the experience more unpleasant than it already is?

From Nowhere To Somewhere

Its tough to sit in a car for 13 hours, especially when your destination is Perth. Compared to our trip up (see Road To Nowhere),  it was a relatively uneventful experience. We once again blew a tyre on the camper when we went through Wolf Creek and we changed it with the precision of a formula one pit crew. Dave nearly destroyed a Kangaroo, JB ran out of weed and we all spent ludicrous amounts of money on service station food. 

Perth is a shit place to end up. 

Road To Nowhere

With the Chill Pro Junior out of the way, I thought I would make the most of me being in WA and take time to explore more of the coastline. I have done the whole Margaret River scene before, spending 5 weeks there both in 07 and 08, so I jumped into a packed Toyota Prado 4wd and headed north. With the swell forecasts looking good for Monday, a decision was made to tackle the 12 drive through the night. Battling the hangover from hell (see chill pro junior), I was in no state to drive, so B-Rad, Margaret River firefighter and experienced desert rat, took the wheel and charged it.

We had to stop several times to check a dodgy wheel bearing on the camper, meaning that a deep sleep was impossible to achieve, my already shit sleep ended with the sound of a blown out tyre on our '77 camper. We pulled over and were in true Wolf Creek territory, literally. The low budget Australian film was actually filmed in the area. With Delroy distracted by his new torch and me being too tired to think, it was up to stoner in denial JB and B-Rad to get shit done. It was a learning experience for us all, and a perfect opportunity for a driver change. Dave took the wheel and I took the front seat position to try keep him awake. It wasn't even really driving. It could have been the worlds straightest road, not even the slightest bends came our way. Trees made way for low shubbery, and roadkill littered the road. With steering negligable, and cruise control taking care of our speed, all that was left was to avoid the ridiculous numbers of Kangaroos grazing on the roadside. Having the road to ourselves was a godsend, meaning were able to utilise both lanes when swerving to avoid yet another errant Roo. 

Arriving at Carnarvon at 3.30am was a good feeling, we once again took the salmonella lottery and spent exuberant amounts of money on nutrition free service station food. Filling the Prado with LPG and Unleaded at bank busting prices, B-Rad noticed that the water tank in the camper was leaking, we had split a hose. As this was our last opportunity to get water, we had to take action. Using the cover of darkness, we removed a section of fire hose from down the side of the servo and went to work to fix the leak. JB was in his 'I'm a chippy' prime as he used the few tools we had to get shit back together. An hour or so passed and we were leak free. 

Then the next dilemma reared its ugly head, we had to get a new tyre for the camper before undertaking the next leg of our journey.  We were so close to our destination, but between us lay one hour of bitumen and two hours of horrendous dirt road, to tackle this dirt road without a spare tyre could have put us in a near fatal situation. It was now 4.30am on the Queens Birthday public holiday, and we were fucked. For some unknown reason, an angel in the form of a Beaurepairs ute pulled into the servo. Our angel was a disheveled looking 40 year old man, clearly pissed on his way home from the pub and not too happy to see us. B-Rad spoke some words of desperation and the drunken angel agrred to help us. He would meet us at the workshop at 9.30am. Elation turned to despair when JB reminded us that it was only 4.30am, we had to kill 5 hours in a town where even one hour is enough to kill you. 

What could we have done? We had no options, so we drove to the Beaurepairs workshop, parked out the front, pulled our pillows from the back and slept. Dave tried miserably to sleep on the ground outside and had to retreat back to the sweaty cave that was the Prado. We woke with the sun, talked shit and waited. Amazingly, as the clocked ticked over to 9.30, our now hungover looking angel rocked up, fixed our tyre and we were on our way. The wheel bearing on the camper was looking ratshit, but we forged on anyway.

They say to focus on the journey, not just the destination. Fuck that.