Talking to police

Met by silence I dug deeper

I approached one of Melbourne’s bike police at a community workshop about cycling, thinking it’d be interesting to get his perspective, without considering what we might talk about. Maybe I thought I’d be able to convince him that punishing cyclists for failing to wear a helmet or running red lights wasn’t the most effective way to reduce the road toll. I’ve always thought of myself as the kind of person who could talk to policeman. 

The policeman was young and lean. He was enmired in a conversation with one of my inspired but intense bike friends, who was telling him about his campaign, Drive to Work Day. Drive To Work Day is a national day where all cyclists take to their cars, to show how bikes help reduce congestion. I’m not that into it as a campaign idea; I find the idea a bit negative.

As I walked up to them the friend introduced me. ‘This is ____ , he’s a legend! He’s actually a cyclist. You may have seen him at the Zero Budget rally.’ We had an easy conversation about the Zero Budget  (zero money for bikes in the state budget) – the policeman agreed it was bad. I didn’t find out whether he was at the rally as an individual or on duty.

Then my friend was like, ‘So, you gonna join me on Drive To Work Day by running Bikes On Strike?’ In response to the Zero Budget, the idea of Bikes On Strikes had come up, where cyclists take to public transport with their helmets or placards or something. My friend thought we could run them in tandem.

The policeman seemed uncomprehending and possibly wary, and for some reason I felt a bit embarrassed, thinking that these ideas must seem ridiculous to him, and he probably thinks we’re a bit fringe and nutty. I tried to explain the logic behind Drive To Work, but the policeman didn’t give me any validating signs so I quickly abandoned the thread.

‘Anyway, what do you guys get up to?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you know, enforcement. We have periodic campaigns.’

‘Oh yeah, you mean, like Operation Halo.’

I couldn’t think of anything good to say about Operation Halo, which seemed to me to be more about blaming vulnerable road users than protecting them, so I popped out this one: ‘I’ve always wondered if I could outrun the police if they tried to catch me.’ I kind of thought it was going to be this jokey tension-reliever, as it would have been if I was talking to my friends.

No response, so I explained further. ‘Yeah, like in a stand off between me and the police, would I win.’

He gave me a look best interpreted as disbelief at my stupidity. ‘Really. Yeah, there are a few people that do that.’

‘Of course I’d never to do it,’ I quickly clarified.

Met by silence, I dug deeper. ‘I mean, it’s just a fantasy.’

In my social interactions I work off this theory, which I’ve never really interrogated, that awkwardness can be overcome by sharing an honest story, particularly an embarrassing, self-deprecating one, and that if you just be yourself, people will like you. As I get older I’m realising this theory is fundamentally flawed as it rests on an assumption that others think similarly to you. I’m not sure why it’s taken nearly 30 years to work this out.

Me: ‘So……what issues are you working on right now?’

Him: ‘Well, cyclists without lights is becoming an increasing problem.’

I wasn’t sure what to say. I think focusing on cyclists’ personal responsibility is misguided as a safety strategy,  but fair enough, riding without lights is dodgy.

My friend declared that he never rides without lights, and in fact, that’s why he was walking home tonight.

The policeman told us: ‘Believe it or not I’ve seen some cyclists riding along, no lights, wearing all black!’ He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Oh, I ride without lights sometimes,’ I revealed stupidly, in reflexive defence of the cyclists so roundly condemned as irresponsible.

The policeman and my friend both looked at me in surprise. I pedalled backwards, adopting a low, calm voice. ‘Oh you know, sometimes when you get stuck out at night, and your light goes flat, you don’t want to leave your bike in the city so you have to ride home. I mean…on the footpath…slowly.’

‘Fair enough, that’s a different thing then,’ said the young policeman.

Who brought this uni student? 

After the meet and greet was over, we did some activities where we rotated tables and swapped ideas. As it turned out I spent a lot of time on tables with police.

I quickly realised how far apart our ideas were. One policeman said that if you take road space away from motorists by putting in a bike lane, you have to give them something back. I decided to leave that comment, so I never really found out what he thought it would mean in practice to give something back – new roads, perhaps?

At another table, a cyclist put forward the idea of making some of the major roads ie William, Elizabeth, one-way, as in some European cities.

One of the policeman was like, ‘You can’t have that, it’ll just throw the traffic into chaos.’

Without knowing much about the actual proposal, I chipped in: ‘Chaos is not always a bad thing.’

‘Really?’ he said, sounding doubtful.

‘No. If you have unpredictability in the urban environment, people are like, what’s going on here, and they slow down and exercise more care. That’s good for cyclists. Whereas if you have certainty, people think they can just hoon up the road without looking.’

He wasn’t impolite, but looked a little incredulous, perhaps thinking who brought this uni student?  For a moment I felt like maybe he was the face of commonsense, and I was really just living in fairyland.

People have a right to get to work safely by some means of transport

Another policeman commented, ‘I’ll tell you one thing I disagree with that’s been said here. We can’t make Melbourne a cycling city in four years. We CAN make it a city safe for cycling. Understand my distinction here?’

Another cycling friend, who has this kind of slippery way of talking sometimes, says, ‘Oh, great, well that’s what we want too, so it sounds like we’re on the same page. We want to make Melbourne a city safe for bikes too. Actually, that will probably involve making it a cycling city though.’

I tried to explain to him how making something a cycling city could actually make it safer for cyclists. I told him that cars treated me more respectfully on Canning Street than, say, Arthurton Road, where motorists were like, what the hell are you doing here, get off the road!

Or how, on Spring Street, I refuse to ride in the bike lane, a narrow painted lanebuilt alongside car doors, and instead ride in the middle of the traffic lane, but motorists often beep and gesticulate for me to ‘Get in the bike lane!’

‘What I am saying is that if you legitimise cyclists through the urban environment, motorists will be more careful and respectful too, and they’ll be safer.’ He seemed to have some sympathy for this view.

‘See the thing is, Melbourne’s always going to be a car city. We’ve never going to be Europe. We’re closer to America. We’ve got a very strong car culture. But there need to be safe avenues for cyclists. I think cyclists have the right to have safe avenues to their workplace.’

Me: ‘Yes, people have a human right to ride on the roads without fear of being killed.’

He hesitated, seeming unsure of this characterisation of the principle.’Well…yes, in a way. People have a right to get to work safety by some means of transport.’

Commentary on my commute

Video taken on the way home from work with a helmet cam. Probably pretty boring unless you have a special interest in traffic behaviour, which increasingly I do…

Re the ‘cautious cyclist’. Yes, she is travelling in the ‘car dooring‘  zone. But on this road, particularly when you’re going uphill, eschewing the bike lane and taking the whole traffic lane, and therefore holding up the faster cars, is a bit intimidating. It might be safe, but you can face aggression from drivers. Plus, then you get stuck in traffic!

Re the ‘hero’ – people need to slow down on shared paths. You can’t really see it here but as he overtakes me, he then zooms past a pedestrian quite close. Some cyclists’ behaviour on that shared path is terrible – maybe they forget what it feels like to have someone riding past you fast and close.

The Carlton Gardens shared path is problematic; an alternative route is needed. A bike lane on Nicholson Street would be good, but it’d be difficult to get it. The other suggestion is that cyclists travel through Carlton Gardens, which is currently banned. I support this but have my doubts about it. The way cyclists people travel on the shared path, I don’t know if I’d want to share the park with them.

Others move as the spirit moves them

New York Times editorial defending the term jaywalking, 1915

‘Jaywalkers’ – a truly shocking name and highly opprobrious – for people who cross city streets in the middle of blocks instead of at their ends

http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=9503E3D7133FE233A25751C0A9649D946496D6CF

New Zealand anti-jaywalking ad, 1950s

‘Believe it or not, they LEAP in front of moving cars. Most of them suffer from anxiety overdrive, a mania for achievement, always an urge to get their quicker. Others move as the spirit moves them…The motorist usually wins because he’s got a ton of steel behind him.’

Anti-jaywalking ad from Melbourne’s The Argus, 1950s

Crackdown on jaywalkers during Operation Halo, February 2012

The invention of jaywalking

http://m.theatlanticcities.com/commute/2012/04/invention-jaywalking/1837/

In defence of jaywalking

http://www.slate.com/articles/life/transport/2009/11/in_defense_of_jaywalking.single.html#pagebreak_anchor_2

Corner of Flinders and Swanston Streets, 1900-1920

Sharing the road on corner of Elizabeth and Swanston St – circa?

Blitz on jaywalkers at corner of Flinders and Swanston Street, 2012

http://www.news.com.au/breaking-news/police-blitz-flinders-street-station/story-e6frfku0-1226349979563

Push-button pedestrian traffic lights at corner Flinders Lane and Spring Street, where jaywalking is the norm

Desire path

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desire_path

Teaching English in Deep China

A graceful, slim Chinese guy in a pinstripe suit greeted me at the Xi’an train station and guided me through through haze and honking cars to his van. From there, he drove me to my new teaching post at Xi’an Siyuan Jiatong University, a private college outside of town.

All I remember of this journey is identical grey buildings, streets filled with litter and rubble, and a long string of tyre shops. It was hard to see much more because of the smog.

I was shocked – I had thought Xi’an, as a university town and historical city, would be the Chinese version of Melbourne: a hip hotbed of literary and intellectual culture. I immediately realised how embarrassingly delusional and narrow this expectation had been.

The university was a gated compound of identical apartments, perfectly tended grass, uniformed guards, and frequent PA announcements (incomprehensible to me, but seemingly in the nature of barked orders).  The students needed permission to leave the compound.

Perhaps it was just the cheap building materials that made the whole thing look like some kind of Chinese factory kit, but the university felt a bit surreally temporary, as if when you tried to return one day, it wouldn’t be there, and everyone you spoke to would deny knowledge of its existence.

Xi’an, the nearest city, wasn’t far, but due to rutty roads, as well as frequent ‘accidents’ and ‘special delays’, it could take up to an hour to get there. Siyuan University was perched on a hill overlooking the city, but the city view was almost always obscured by smog.

Outside the school gates was a dirt street with restaurants, street food, a few hairdressers, an internet cafe, roller-skating rink and general store. We called it Commercial Street. Beyond that was countryside. Deep China.That phrase was coined by one of the other foreign teachers, a kooky Quebecker guy.

I’d often go for walks around Deep China. I was intensely frustrated at the way the university was run, and walking helped me blow off steam. Most villages were quite friendly, but in others, groups of people would gather at the side of the road as I passed, staring and spitting on the ground. Spitting’s pretty normal in China, but the vibe in this case felt hostile; anti-foreigner. That said, I did grow quite paranoid in China, mainly because I was always being stared at and talked about.

Some of the other foreign teachers came up with the idea of us hiring a house out in the villages. It would be a good way to get away from the school on the weekends; the school could get quite claustrophobic as we were always the centre of attention. So a few of us, including the Quebecker, went looking around.

We  ended up at this really traditional-looking village in the hills: curved roofs, coloured doors decorated by Chinese characters. The Quebecker said, ‘Woah, this is deep China, this is the China I came to see.’ We started taking photos, including of the villagers (in hindsight this seems extremely rude and objectifying. When I was 21 I thought it was OK to just stick my camera in people’s faces, or rather, people of a different culture. I don’t seem to be able to do that now).

Our Chinese friend (whom I’ll call Electric Hawke due to certain aspects of her passionate and volatile personality) told me the villagers were saying, ‘It’s not our culture to get our photo taken, we’re shy.’ The children were staring at us and then hiding their faces in each other’s arms. They started giggling controllably and Electric Hawke told me one of them had farted.

Electric Hawke then asked the villages if they had a house for rent and they went to fetch their landlord, who showed us a room. It was filled with dirt and a bit basic, but would have been OK once cleaned up. At some stage they invited us in for dinner. Electric Hawke was like, ‘I can’t believe it, they’re so friendly, I love China, I love myself!’

We waited for dinner in a room that was bare except for a mattress, a television, and a traditional Chinese painting on the walls. Electric Hawke couldn’t believe how poor the locals were. She kept exclaiming in English, ‘I can’t believe people live like this!’ They served us dumpling soup, then noodles. I’ve never tasted anything like those dumplings before: I still can’t identify the herbs. It was more food than we could eat. After dinner played on bamboo pipes with the children, who were still very giggly.

Later the husband came home and took his wife off to speak with her in private. Then the woman spoke to the Electric Hawke in Chinese and I could tell by the Electric Hawke’s high pitched tone that things weren’t going well. Electric Hawke explained to us that the woman wanted to how how much we were going to pay for our meal. She told the woman that we would pay when we came back to hire the room.

But we didn’t want the room anymore. We trudged off, tails between our legs, and never returned.

Electric Hawke was appalled at their contravention of the laws of hospitality. ‘I can’t believe this!’ But the Quebecker was not surprised, and wanted to go back and give them some money.

‘We are rich Laowai (foreigners) and they see big green dollar signs on our back. We have everything and they only have a little, so why don’t we slip them sixty quai,’ he said.

I remember feeling really hurt, but I think the Quebecker was right. Even if you are friends with someone (which we weren’t, in that situation), if the monetary inequality is so great, how can you expect them not to want (and perhaps try and get) what you have?

Teaching English in China was hard. Most of the students, who were about the same age as me, didn’t speak much English. I couldn’t speak Chinese and had no experience teaching. There were no textbooks, only a blackboard and chalk. I exhausted my ideas fairly quickly. In the end my lessons consisted of excursions and teaching English songs, like the Carpenters song Yesterday Once More, which was huge in China at the time! I found that most of my students were not shy of singing, as long as they were singing together.

In general, most of the students seemed pretty disengaged. Sometimes they would fall asleep at their desks, or just leave the class. After about three months I fell into a bit of a rut of culture shock and loneliness and the difficulty of teaching, and found it hard to motivate myself to show up to class. One day I called in sick, speaking to the principal, whom I’ll call Zhang Deng. ‘You’re not sick,’ he said. ‘I think you will go to class,’ he said firmly.

Our favourite, or perhaps our least favourite, saying of Zhang Deng’s was ‘Right Right Right.’ This was usually delivered in response to one of our requests. At first I thought it was a promise, but soon found out it was mainly placation.

I remember sitting in Zhang Deng’s office with all the other teachers, his stubby little fingers resting on his huge black wooden desk. His office was the shape of the hallway, and we sat on black leather couches lining the sidewalls. He passed his packet of cigarettes around to us. It was about ten minutes before he even started speaking.

‘It’s very hard for me.’ He snickered, cigarette smoke puffing from his nose and mouth. ‘So I must cheat.’ His weasel face, with small eyes and jagged teeth, loomed unnaturally close in my vision. Zhang had organised a speech competition with the rival school in the area. The judging panel would consist of eight of us and a mere two teachers from the other school. Someone from the rival school must have been paid off.

‘Afterwards we will go for Peking Duck,’ he announced. ‘So, it is very important that we win,’ he says. ‘Right? Now I have something for you.’ Before we left, we were each presented with a packet of cigarettes with heart-shaped filters.

Predictably, we won the competition. Actually, Electric Hawke won it. After the victory, Zhang took us to a street stall where we feasted on cow stomach, intestines, ribs, and various other digestive organs.