THE PERILS OF PUBLIC TRANSPORT

Two cases come to mind where repercussions resulted when I have placed myself at the mercy of two different forms of public transport.

The first deals with a Greyhound (I think) Coach. I was travelling to Sydney to attend the Australian Travel Exchange (ATE), where Australian tourist operators present their offerings to overseas buyers. Anyway, I boarded the brand new coach in Adelaide and, all the way to Murray Bridge, had to put up with the Coach Captain extolling the many benefits of this public people carrier. In actual fact, however, the seats were too hard, no doubt designed for the overweight bums they usually accommodate these days. The new ‘Greyhound’ must have taken the Mount Lofties in its stride, resulting in us getting ahead of schedule. So, our enthusiastic CC pulled up at the old Murray Bridge railway station, saying “We will have a 15 minute stop to cater for the smokers on board.” That suited me, as my skinny little bum was approaching a riga mortis state. There were some shifty looking dudes on board, so I grabbed my hat and briefcase, as I exited the bus (sorry Coach!” I needed a leak, so set off at a fast walk to some old railway buildings, about 400mtrs away. The driver had given us a departure time, so I reckoned I had plenty of it. I duly drowned a few ants and had a bit of a poke around, before heading back to my transport, which had parked just out of sight. So imagine my surprise (shock, horror, indignation, it’s all relative) when it appeared that the brand new Greyhound Coach had disappeared into thin air. I couldn’t believe it. It was still 5 minutes to the departure time stated. I was in a bit of a pickle. My bag and all my belongings, including money, were on board. I stood rooted to the spot, under my hat, briefcase in hand, like a rural pox doctor’s clerk. I saw a small car approaching, driven  by a young lady. I gave her the ‘hitch-hiker’s’ thumb which produced a surge of power from the Korean made vehicle, leaving me floundering in its fumes. Thought I was well-dressed enough, but apparently not.

I had to catch that coach before it was out of range. Five minutes dragged by. Then along came an early model Holden ute with a load of rubbish in the back. It was Saturday morning. This time I held up my hand in a stop sign gesture, and the ute pulled up. In desperation, I opened the passenger side door and jumped in… amongst an assortment of junk. Possibly also (though maybe not) destined for the dump. I said to the elderly bloke “Gooday, thanks for stopping. Can you follow that bus!” “Ok” he said, taking my word for it that there was a bus to follow… then he said “Where is it?” I just told him to head for the bridge, which he did, at no more than 50kph. I was writhing with frustration, but what could I do? As we travelled sedately over the bridge, I was trying to phone Pinnaroo where I hoped the coach would stop. Then as we came off the bridge and headed in second gear up the steep, eastern entry to Murray Bridge, I saw the most beautiful sight. The brand new Greyhound Coach was blocking the skyline, as it carried out a 360 degree turn. It seems I was saved. My ‘savior’ pulled up alongside and I thanked him profusely as I pushed $10 (all I had) into his hand.

As I climbed up into the coach, the embarrassed Coach Captain attempted some sort of explanation, but I said, “Listen mate, one thing I do know about your job is you are supposed to count the passengers each time you leave a location”, and walked back to my seat next to a pleasant young lady.

When the coach departed the old railway station, she thought I must have been in the toilet, but after the scheduled Murray Bridge town stop, when I didn’t show up, she told the driver I was a.w.l. No doubt thinking I would report him (not me!), he came back down and offered me a rear empty seat, but I stayed where I was.

Only a few days later, a very different incident occurred. I was staying with a mate, called Roger Scott, at a suburb called Greenwich, not far from Darling Harbour, where the A.T.E. was held. I would catch a couple of different busses, then walk the last half a kilometre to the venue. At the end of each day I would get a cab back to Scotties. I always sit up the front and talk to the driver, but this bloke of middle eastern descent was not interested in conversation. Several minutes later, a black cat raced across the road and under our wheels. Looking back, I saw it was in a bad state of repair, heading into a very upmarket driveway. “Pull up” I said, and he said “Why’” and then “what?” I told him to back up as I wanted to put the cat out of its misery. I don’t like cats (feral), but don’t like seeing anything suffering either. The driver reluctantly backed up, very unhappy with the situation. Once again, I grabbed my briefcase, (I didn’t trust him), got out and headed towards the driveway of the two story house. It was dark, by this time. Looking for something to hopefully dispatch the cat, I found a piece of timber about a metre long, lying alongside the fence. I proceeded up the tiled driveway towards some bushes where I expected to find the cat. If I was observed from the house, it didn’t need a lot of imagination to get the picture: a reasonably well dressed bloke, wearing a ‘respectable,’ small Akubra, (my town hat) with a brief case in one hand and a lump of 3x2 in the other. Not a good look, as I was starting to realise. Couldn’t find the cat, so leaving the timber, I made my way briskly back to the cab and its ‘seething’ driver.

When I told Scotty about the incident he said “Rex. You are crazy. This is Sydney. They could have rung the cops and you could be shot full of holes.” I couldn’t disagree, and definitely wouldn’t do it now! Not quite sure if this incident can be relevant to the perils of travelling on public transport, but there you go.