Why drive when you can catch the bus?

Why drive when you can catch the bus? That’s what I thought when Bubu offered to drive me to Trinity Beach to pick up my brother's ute so I could collect a double bed from Smithfield.  Seffie and I could have some quality time together and buses are an environmentally-friendly mode of transport.  More people should catch buses.

     For a year Seffie had been politely asking for a double bed so she could sleep comfortably with two dogs.  There wasn’t a double bed on the Tablelands in my price range.  So I bought one from Lifeline at Smithfield, 84 kilometres away which wasn’t a problem when Seffie and I could easily catch the bus that stopped at Smithfield then take the council bus to Stephen’s place at Trinity Beach to get the ute.  I was excited.

     The driver advised our ETA at Smithfield was half ten, a bit later than usual being Friday, he said.  It wasn't long enough, I thought as Seffie and I snuggled in with the blankets we’d brought for the bed.

     Five minutes out of Tolga, the driver slammed on the breaks.  Passengers were thrust forward as if giving speedy Japanese bows.  We were in a convoy behind a rusty ute.  Two vehicles ahead took turns overtaking the ute and suddenly we were on the wrong side of the double lines.  I gripped Seffie’s hand as a white car barrelled towards us. I wondered if we were far enough down the bus to avoid being pulverised on impact.  Then we were jerked to the left just in time.    

     When racing down the main street of Mareeba the driver again braked without warning as a bulldust covered Toyota Starlet turned right.  Our driver was a maniac. I located the nearest emergency exit with a hammer of life attached.

     As soon as we pulled up to collect more passengers, I insisted we move.

     There was an odd assortment of new passengers that filled the bus - sunburnt European backpackers, unhealthily thin, hoodie-clad youths, young mothers dragging reluctant toddlers by their arms.  A large bellied man sat across the aisle from me and was snoring within seconds, his fingers interlaced atop his gut.  There were invisible passengers also – odours; stale alcohol, old sweat and freshly turned earth. Relieved Seffie and I were near the emergency exit, I tried to enjoy the ride … except for one of the backpackers crooning a love song in stilted English and out of tune (THE WHOLE TIME!), a child whining intermittently, the mother cursing it and the American woman in front of Seffie asking her to stop kicking the back of her seat (which I didn’t see her do).  The sleeping man across from me snored and snorted and gasped for breath at times as if he was choking.

     “I am supposed to start work at eleven,” said a woman in to her phone as we hit the Kuranda Range, “but we are running late.”

     Twenty five minutes late.

     Half way down the range, the bus pulled sharply to the left and stopped on a thin strip of gravel.  The engine died and the silence was near deafening.  The driver stood as if to address us.  Thinking of the Umpqua school shooting the day before, I imagined the driver whipping out an SKS. I closed my eyes and gripped Seffie’s hand.

     “Sorry, folks,” said the driver, “the engine’s overheated and we’ll need to wait here for a while.”

     Some passengers disembarked to light up.  Although we were in the shade, without the air conditioning, it was soon stifling.  That’s when I became aware of another odour, unidentified yet familiar.

     I fished out a book I’d been trying to read for some weeks, To Cut a Long Story Short by Jeffrey Archer.  The title irritated me in the circumstances.  I decided on reading the ABC news on my phone.  There was no signal.  I gazed at the passing traffic.

     Eventually, the driver called everyone back on board.  Strangely, six or so of the passengers at the front moved towards the back with their bags.

     “Someone’s spewed,” said one of them.

     Ah, the strange though familiar smell.

     We made it to Smithfield without incident.  I rushed for the exit and leapt over a puddle of lumpy, grey gunk at the front.  Seffie and I stood in a cloud of diesel exhaust and I smiled at the rear of the bus as it pulled into the traffic.

     “Mum,” said Seffie, “I think I stepped in the vomit.”

     We traipsed to the opposite end of the shopping centre to the bus stop only to discover we were about to board a southbound bus to Cairns Central.  That’s when I learnt, after 15 years of visiting Smithfield Shopping Centre (including living in Smithfield last year), there were two bus stops: one for southbound buses and one for northbound buses which we needed ... at the other end of the shopping centre.

     Eventually we made it to Stephen’s place, an hour and a half behind time.  What a lovely sensation, a steering wheel beneath one's palms.  As I pulled out of his driveway I thought, Why catch the bus when you can drive?