Riding the Rails

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If there's one thing I can say about living in Beijing, it's that life is never boring. That fact was grandly illustrated yesterday when I took advantage of Beijing's rapidly expanding public transportation system.

This weekend is a national holiday in China, recognizing International Labor Day, which is May 1st. I spent a leisurely Sunday morning reading the morning's headlines and then meeting the family for brunch. It was a gorgeous blue sky day with a light breeze and made for a pleasant early afternoon outside. At four o'clock, I arrived at Wangfujing Catholic church for the hour-long mass. Afterwards, I sauntered along Wangfujing pedestrian street, chatting with a friend from church, Steve, as we made our way back to the subway.

That was when it got interesting.

For the past four years, I have not been in Beijing for the May holiday, always electing to travel outside the city (or country!) to take advantage of the time off. This year, I happened to be in town and was woefully unprepared for the influx of tourists from outside the city.

As Steve and I descended the stairs leading down to the Wangfujing subway platform, we could tell it was going to be an eventful ride. The platform was teeming with a sea of black hair, some passengers bent over under the weight of enormous traveling backpacks, others holding sleeping children draped over their shoulders and sweating in the crush of humanity. While ordinarily the Beijing subway is somewhat orderly during non peak hours, on this particular Sunday, it was every man for himself. Steve and I flattened ourselves against the stairway wall in order to avoid being trampled by eager tourists rushing up the wrong side of the stairwell. We could hear exclamations of similar dismay made by local Beijingers around us, but there was nothing anyone could do.

Once we reached the platform, it got much worse. The subway attendants employed to maintain order were trying in vain to force impatient passengers to stand and wait in two lines on either side of the subway car door while exiting passengers made their way through the crowd. The only way those tiny women had a chance in their endeavors was if they suddenly sprouted enormous biceps and grew a meter taller.

As the first train arrived, Steve and I knew we wouldn't make it on board. The train was stuffed to the gills; there was no physical way anyone could get on it unless others got off. That was fine. Standing in the middle of the line, we were able to avoid the brunt of the pushing and shoving nearest the car.

As the second train arrived, no less full than the first (and with the addition of some faces literally pressed against the windows), we began shuffling forward in line, attempting to keep our place as other passengers boldly skipped the queue and tried to cut in front of us. Reluctant to employ bodily force (but knowing it would eventually become necessary), we stepped aside.

After the third and fourth trains had come and gone without any movement forward in line due to the number of line jumpers and the subway attendants' inability to control the crowd, we began getting more physical. This involved sticking elbows out in an effort to keep others at bay. Unfortunately, this is an oft-used tactic and was ultimately futile as I got more elbows to the ribs than I gave. One of the subway attendants frowned at me and pushed me back into line. In civil society, we must line up to board the train. Was she freaking kidding me?!

By the time the fifth train rolled around, I was getting angry. What kind of country was this where I couldn't even get onto a subway car? Why wasn't anyone standing politely in line? Why wasn't there any order? Didn't anyone read the propaganda billboards around the city that implore people to be "civilized"? I immediately felt a bit ashamed of myself, as I'd fallen into the classic expat trap- judging the foreign country where I live based on my own experiences growing up in a developed western country. It just can't be done- no fair comparison can be made. Each country must be judged as objectively as possible on its own merits.

As the sixth train rolled into the station, I saw a line jumper begin inching his way in front of me out of the corner of my eye. I turned, looked him directly in the eye, and said in Chinese, I've already waited for five trains. I was here first. You can go to the back of the line and wait too. Though visibly surprised that I spoke Chinese, he paid me no heed and boldly stepped in front of me. It was at that point that I'd had enough. It was time to get "local."

I nodded across the line to Steve. He squared his shoulders. The seventh train was approaching. Now at the front of the line, we both stepped as close to the edge of the platform as we dared. The train rushed past us, slowing as it reached the end of the platform. We jockeyed with other passengers, desperately trying to keep our place in line. Steve wielded his backpack as a human shield, I my purse, and actually swatted a few passengers away. The doors opened and the crowd surged forward. We found ourselves caught between a manic crowd at our backs, desperately trying to stuff themselves into the train, and an equally manic and desperate (and sweatier) crowd trying to force their way out of the train. In that moment, I had no control over the direction my body was moving. I have never felt physically afraid in Beijing, but in that instant, what I felt was suspiciously close to fear. I thought I was going to get trampled. Steve had a similar expression on his face as we were forced backwards back onto the platform, arms windmilling to keep our balance. We couldn't believe it. Seven trains come and gone, and here we were, back at square one.

As Lucky Number Eight pulled into the station, I blinked back frustrated tears and told Steve that it was now or never. The doors opened. The crowd surged out. We hung onto the sides of the door and held our ground. The crowd behind us surged forward and squeezed into the overpacked train. At the last minute, as the warning bell pealed and the doors began closing, Steve and I hurled ourselves into the crowded car, my purse flying through a tiny crack between the doors in the last second. We'd made it.

Breathing heavily, sweating, and exhausted, we stared at each other and then burst out laughing. Our fellow subway passengers must have though we were insane. We were laughing too hard to actually communicate with words, but instead pantomimed our ordeal to each other. It felt as though we'd been through a war.

Thankfully, the May Holiday insanity draws to a close tomorrow and life can get back to normal. Or as normal as it gets in a city like Beijing.

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Comments

[KW]

memory
LOL. Love your blog! They say once you’re trained in BJ, everywhere else is trivial in comparison. Your story reminds me of 80s when I was a little kid (less than 10) in BJ (Chao Yang – Dong Cheng Districts), I did the same thing over and over again everyday in a bus on my way to school and back home – 3 short stops. The scene was almost the same. Once my Mom bought me this really fancy winter hat and a really flashy men’s leather belt – all were absolutely top of the line at a time. At the end of a Bus “War” after I arrived home in a busy day, I only fought out that both my hat AND my belt were mystically “gone” ( must be inside that d*** bus ! ). “Your belt also??!!”, my Mom was in total disbelief. “Yeah Mom, the belt also…”, I was almost crying… lmao.