The wheels on the bus go round and round...

The buses in Lhasa have got to be unique worldwide.

They are typically beige or royal blue rudimentary affairs with sliding windows and seats for maybe a dozen passengers but often contain far more squeezed into every crevice. Each one is decorated with pictures of protector deities and tinsel (popular year round in Asia) and blares some mildly desirable Tibetan pop tunes. There are two bus staff: one a sweaty and disgruntled driver and the other a bored school child who opens the door, shouts the name of the destination out the window at wary passerby, and collects the requisite two kuai per passenger. Basically if you can spray paint some numbers on a bus and drive on the known (but not necessarily posted) routes then you too can be in business.

I have come to know and love the buses, particularly after having cracked the code on how to stop them: mutter a “di gik carona” and point your lips at the desired spot. So I have stopped really being intrigued by them.

Until today friends. I get on the fairly deserted bus as usual. I silently berate myself for picking the first empty seat (empty because it was in the blazing sun). I notice with mild interest that the music on this bus happens to be in English, rare but, unfortunately, totally unsavory. The school age girl collecting money puts two and two together and realizes that a.) this music is in English, and b) this girl (me)speaks English and so begins to chatter on to me in loud and clear Tibetan (a blessing for any language learner) because even though she can recognize English she can’t speak a word.

Somehow she knew that I was a teacher at the Teacher’s College and a few exchanges later comes to know the extent of my Tibetan language understanding: not much. Yet somehow as we near the school she begins to insist something to the effect of: go around another time. I was confused and before I knew it I was sitting between her and the driver she was jumping off to buy me a bottle of water and for the next hour I rode with them the entire bus route.

I got to yell the destination out the window at passerby. I got to laugh at the children who would get on and turn the place into a jungle gym. I got to shake my head viscously at the other suicidal drivers and mutter ‘nyoombarisha!’(crazy). I got to sing along to Chinese, Tibetan, and yes even English pop songs with the driver. I got to wave and taunt other bus drivers as we passed them in the street. I got to talk to this girl about the weather, her job, her family, and where she was from. I got to exchange my phone number with my first total non English speaker. I got to ride for free.

When the second time to get off came around I almost missed it… because they didn’t want to let me off. I had to meh meh (no no) and guchi guchi (please please) until they laughed so hard the driver couldn’t help but stop.

So long story short, this afternoon I lived the dream people. I was part of the bus driving world, and, let me just tell you, the bus riding world will never be the same.