Imagine: a country of 1.3 billion plus people. Twenty years ago, only the highest-ranking party officials could dream of owning a car. Now, roughly 1000 vehicles—and drivers—are being added to Beijing’s roads each day. Not only in Beijing, but in other big cities and suburban areas alike across the country, car ownership is becoming more commonplace. But what does that mean for the state of the nation’s roads? Consider a situation where there are too many drivers on the roads to begin with and that all of them are relatively new to the skill. Then throw in a crowd of pedestrians mixed in with motorcyclists and plenty of bicycles and what have you got? That can give you a reasonable picture of the state of China’s roads.
Actually, after spending time in India where each time you cross a street can call to mind not only a fretful mother’s advice to “Look both ways before crossing the street…” but also the Buddhist doctrine of the impermanence of life, China’s traffic isn’t nearly as bad as I expected it to be. Nor is it as bad as the free-for-all found on the roads across India, where the most strictly adhered to rule is: the bigger your vehicle, the greater your power (roaming cows and monkeys excluded). No, in fact, keeping in mind China’s drivers’ relative lack of experience behind the wheel under their belts, the traffic situation in Nanjing and the other cities I’ve seen here is surprisingly orderly. Imposing order, I’ve noticed, is the forte of this nation’s government. Orderly, yes, but still crowded and chaotic.
Passing pedestrians and motor- and bi-cycles—which to help keep things nice and orderly have been allotted their own lane that is more or less formally marked off from the rest of the road and the sidewalks—plus the constant flow of cars makes for a slightly intimidating frenzy of people on the go that I was initially reluctant to jump right into. That’s why I decided to wait a week, study well the route between home and school, and get a better feel for the principles that govern traffic flow (or occasional lack thereof) in this city before beginning to ride a bike to school.
My family had been encouraging me to bike instead of walk all along, offering to let me use an old bike of theirs and the further enticement of cutting my travel time from 25 minutes one way to 10. A bike sounded appealing, but I enjoyed the opportunity the stroll home from school provided to soak in my surroundings and reflect on the day’s occurrences. Biking might be faster, yes, but it wouldn’t be so leisurely, nor would the nerve-wracking nature of navigating a Frogger-like maze of obstacles lend itself to reflection.
This past week, I finally decided to go for it, to try taking the bike to school. It happened to be the morning my Tai Chi teacher had invited my friend Sarah and I to observe her early morning (6:30 AM!) class to decide whether we wanted to join once the new session started up. Which meant that, even if I were biking, I’d need to be out the door by a time when everyone else would still be sleeping. As I should have expected, though, my motherly and ever-caring Ayi was awake to see me off. I wouldn’t have been able to take the bike otherwise: it was stowed away—and a while ago, at that, judging by the thick coating of dust its surface had accumulated—in a basement room designated for our apartment’s residents to keep their bikes.
I had actually been wondering where the people living here kept their bikes. Several families, mine included, have cars but most people I see coming and going seem do so on foot or by bike. So in a 23-storey apartment building, you can imagine how many bikes that adds up to. From this basement room, there was a special cement ramp built for people to walk their bikes up to the surface. Which is once I did, once Ayi undid the bike lock and handed me the key. By this point, I was starting to feel a bit nervous about my maiden voyage by bike in Nanjing’s morning traffic, and, certain that I would encounter some obstacle(s) on the way, was concerned I wouldn’t make it to Tai Chi class on time.
Right before I was about to hop on the bike and pedal off to see Tai Chi in the park, Ayi astutely decided to check to wheels. Two floppy, essentially flat tires. Despite that, it seemed to ride smoothly enough. So off I went. And that’s what surviving in this traffic takes: you’ve just got to jump right in, I found. Once in the midst of it, and as long as you pay attention to what’s going on around you, its really not that hard to navigate. I made it to class on time and without incident. And that old, beaten up “Café Blue” brand bike (that is hardly blue anymore) with the padding peeling off its seat—all deterrents to a potential bike thief, which I’ve heard there are a lot of around here—has served me well since.
Actually, after spending time in India where each time you cross a street can call to mind not only a fretful mother’s advice to “Look both ways before crossing the street…” but also the Buddhist doctrine of the impermanence of life, China’s traffic isn’t nearly as bad as I expected it to be. Nor is it as bad as the free-for-all found on the roads across India, where the most strictly adhered to rule is: the bigger your vehicle, the greater your power (roaming cows and monkeys excluded). No, in fact, keeping in mind China’s drivers’ relative lack of experience behind the wheel under their belts, the traffic situation in Nanjing and the other cities I’ve seen here is surprisingly orderly. Imposing order, I’ve noticed, is the forte of this nation’s government. Orderly, yes, but still crowded and chaotic.
Passing pedestrians and motor- and bi-cycles—which to help keep things nice and orderly have been allotted their own lane that is more or less formally marked off from the rest of the road and the sidewalks—plus the constant flow of cars makes for a slightly intimidating frenzy of people on the go that I was initially reluctant to jump right into. That’s why I decided to wait a week, study well the route between home and school, and get a better feel for the principles that govern traffic flow (or occasional lack thereof) in this city before beginning to ride a bike to school.
My family had been encouraging me to bike instead of walk all along, offering to let me use an old bike of theirs and the further enticement of cutting my travel time from 25 minutes one way to 10. A bike sounded appealing, but I enjoyed the opportunity the stroll home from school provided to soak in my surroundings and reflect on the day’s occurrences. Biking might be faster, yes, but it wouldn’t be so leisurely, nor would the nerve-wracking nature of navigating a Frogger-like maze of obstacles lend itself to reflection.
This past week, I finally decided to go for it, to try taking the bike to school. It happened to be the morning my Tai Chi teacher had invited my friend Sarah and I to observe her early morning (6:30 AM!) class to decide whether we wanted to join once the new session started up. Which meant that, even if I were biking, I’d need to be out the door by a time when everyone else would still be sleeping. As I should have expected, though, my motherly and ever-caring Ayi was awake to see me off. I wouldn’t have been able to take the bike otherwise: it was stowed away—and a while ago, at that, judging by the thick coating of dust its surface had accumulated—in a basement room designated for our apartment’s residents to keep their bikes.
I had actually been wondering where the people living here kept their bikes. Several families, mine included, have cars but most people I see coming and going seem do so on foot or by bike. So in a 23-storey apartment building, you can imagine how many bikes that adds up to. From this basement room, there was a special cement ramp built for people to walk their bikes up to the surface. Which is once I did, once Ayi undid the bike lock and handed me the key. By this point, I was starting to feel a bit nervous about my maiden voyage by bike in Nanjing’s morning traffic, and, certain that I would encounter some obstacle(s) on the way, was concerned I wouldn’t make it to Tai Chi class on time.
Right before I was about to hop on the bike and pedal off to see Tai Chi in the park, Ayi astutely decided to check to wheels. Two floppy, essentially flat tires. Despite that, it seemed to ride smoothly enough. So off I went. And that’s what surviving in this traffic takes: you’ve just got to jump right in, I found. Once in the midst of it, and as long as you pay attention to what’s going on around you, its really not that hard to navigate. I made it to class on time and without incident. And that old, beaten up “Café Blue” brand bike (that is hardly blue anymore) with the padding peeling off its seat—all deterrents to a potential bike thief, which I’ve heard there are a lot of around here—has served me well since.
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