Observations on my trip to work

Billy drives the 747 bus from Glen Innes to Panmure. He never tires of telling every new person he meets that that he’s in charge of a 747 and is hoping to work his way up to an Airbus A380.

His routes snakes around my suburb and I used to be the only morning passenger but that all changed when the Orange monster kicked off an oil crisis and the good people of East Auckland figured that they could swallow their pride and catch public transport with the plebs.

He greeted me like an old friend this morning when I boarded.

“How’s Conor McGregor today”, he asked in a broad Polynesian accent. To my great annoyance, McGregor is the only Irish person that a lot of people here can name.

“I’m sure he’s been an annoying prick, as normal” I answered and took my normal seat at the front.

“Why did you become a bus driver, Billy? You should be a standup comedian.”

He chuckled and caught my eye in the rear-view mirror.

“Bro, I got suckered by that job ad that promised a corner office, a $400k company vehicle and getting paid to travel. But it’s all good. I got a cruisey route and no hassle. Just white guys like you with your headphones on and buried in your phones. Beautiful world out their bro, if you look”.

I looked out the window at the half-built housing estate and container yard to my left and wondered where he saw his wonder.

I waved goodbye when we got to the train station. That is also busier since fuel prices went up. I’ve caught the train to work in five different cities, and the process is remarkably similar. The train is always late, unless you are running late yourself and people always try to get on when others are trying to get off.

I took Billy’s advise and left my phone and headset in my bag. Three young Indian students sat in front of me. Two guys and a girl and they danced around each other like peacocks in a mating ritual. One guy tried the jester approach. He talked endlessly, trying to make the girl laugh but trying not to embarrass himself in front of his mate at the same time.

The mate was quieter, he leaned back in the seat, with one foot on the floor and the other on the bar in front of him. He sported a beany and whispy beard and tried his best to adopt a James Dean pose.

The joker moved the subject to phones, and his intentions were clear to me. He was trying to source the girl’s phone number without asking for it. The only problem for him was that his intentions were also clear to the girl and she led him on a merry dance around.

Beany leaned forward and asked for the girl’s phone. He typed in his own number and his phone rang, and a garish Bollywood tune boomed out across the train carriage. They all laughed and beany threw a smile to his friend. Some things never change and finding a novel way to get a girl’s phone number is one of them.

My train ride runs along the coastline for the last couple kilometres. Ferries and sail boats raced across the bay and a large container ship edged its way toward the heads and the sea lanes towards Singapore.

I got off the train in the city and started to walk up Queen Street on my way to work. Queen St is supposed to be Auckland’s premier thoroughfare, but it has sadly seen better times. The city council have tried to plant trees and spruce the place up but it is like putting lipstick on a pig. Its best shops are at the bottom end. As you get further up, phone, vape and empty shops dominate the street scape.

It was 8.45am and the homeless population of Auckland was rousing themselves from a chilly slumber. The council have employed a bunch of rough security guards who would make Ice agents look like choir boys. Their job seems to focus on ensuring that the homeless keep moving and do not sit down, particularly in front of posh shops. Where they are supposed to move to is never discussed. It’s like watching a Samual Beckett play each morning.

Sometimes the homeless push back against the madness of it all. Then the cops are called and they do their bit in protecting capitalism. I passed three cops this morning pressing a guy against a car while they tried to get handcuffs on. Beside them a tour guy was explaining the 19^th century architecture to a group of tourists who were fascinated by the guy being arrested while trying desperately not to meet his eye.

Auckland has lots of social problems. Like most cities, it tries to present a glitzy front while trying to keep a blanket over its festering sores.

If you want a metaphor for the miserable world we’ve created, then a homeless guy sitting outside a Christian Dior shop will do it for you.

Beside my office, a blind busker is doing a marvellous version of an Elvis song. I notice that his collection tin is chained to his ankle, and I wonder what heartbreaking tale lies beneath that decision.  

I catch the lift to the 23^rd floor with its panoramic views of the bay and its cone shaped volcanic islands. I have lived in this city for 10 years and worked in this building for most of that time. It can be a grimy city, a twinkling jewel. A place of awe and desperation.

But I think that Billy might have a point. If you put away the headset and phones, there is a world of wonder out there and it can be seen in the small things and the mighty. We live in a crazy world, but beauty always has a way of breaking through.