Ride a Byke

In Melbourne byke riding is a total subculture.

There they are, kamikaze style, they claim the roads and sidewalks as their undisputed domain. Oblivious to road-traffic rules they are the ultimate consciencious objectors.

They ride aggressively, surpassing the obsolete tram network and snaking their way through the traffic jams. They carry their work clothes inside backpacks and will shower at the office.

Ride a Tram - Part 2

Riding on Melbourne trams is a great way to watch Melbournians in their natural habitat, and spy the endlessly entertaining parade of people go by. Here's a sample of what you may notice on any given day...

A thin 20-something Muslim girl wearing a black Jellabah, which has leopard print piping, and under which you could see her acid-wash jeans and sneakers.

The business man in his brown business suit, listening to his iPod Nano.

The business womand on the tram, wearing a business suit and cradling her toddler in her lap. She was feeding her baby a banana.

The 30-something man with spiky black hair and designer eyewear, and a tattooed arm.

The Jenny-Kee look alike, falling asleep on the Camberwell line.

The African lady in a bold African print (red and yellow) dress. Her hair braided into many tiniy braids that sticked out from her scalp lie a forest of miniature palm trees.

The Asian student reading "The Foodies' Secret Guide".

The homeless man in a woollen pinstripe suit, whose scent of gutter and rotting cardboard wafted through the tram.

On the sidewalk I watch a walking cliché: a suited woman wearing sneakers, she carries a foam cup of take-away skinny-soya-chino. She power-walks past all the tasteless women who team their office outfits with rubber thongs.

Amongst the anonymous crowd: a familiar face. Anthony J., my University lecturer in multimedia. His placid Buddah-like face floats above the nameless morning crowd of pedestrians.

At the Flinders Street tram stop, an Indian lady is wearing a saffron-coloured sari.

The posse of Indigenous Australians, homeless men and street kids, who camp on the benches at the feet of St. Paul's Cathedral, form a corroboree of cigarette butts and plastic cups of beer.

A group of cricket fans raids the tram. They are dressed in Green and Gold, and shout hymns from the Bamy Army song book.

Opposite me, a man with an elephant-print tie puts down his book, stares out the window, sighs uncontrollably and shakes his head as if a great weight might be crushing him. Maybe it's those elephans...

Ride a Tram - Part 1

In Melbourne not all trams are the same. Number 16 to St Kilda Beach is often steeped with tourists, but mainly, its passengers are under 35 and interesting-looking. On the other hand, the 67 to Malvern East always smells of piss.

Travelling to the CBD at 8.00 am is an ordeal. One must squeeze into the full tram in which passengers are squashed together like sardines. The morning rush of commuters is a survival of the fittest in order to secure a seating space to make the 40-minute commute bearable.

If you're unfortunate enough to have to stand, you'll find yourself dangling from one arm as you hold on to the hand rail for dear life, clutching all your belonging, including briefcase, newspaper, jacket (which you will have taken off due to the high level of humidity in the tram's microclimate and generated by all these sandwiched bodies). Possibly, you might as well be carrying an umbrella, given the umpredictability of Melbourne weather.

You'll be struggling with all of the above, all the while, trying desperately to maintain your balance as the tram rattles across intersections and hiccups through the morning rush hour, finally coming to sudden violent stops at red traffic lights. By now you'll be jealously voodooing someone securely seated - enjoying the sound of the music streaming from their personal stereo and peacefully reading a book.

Meanwhile, the effort of balancing and holding on to all your stuff, added to the aching feet from your stiletto heels, will cause your glasses to fog up.

But the ride home, at the end of a long working day is even more arduous.

Hot, crowded trams roll by slowly merging into the afternoon rush hour. Inside we are squashed sardine-like and sweaty and exhausted. The scent of bacteria and armpits, mingles with that of unwashed underwear, urine and spilled beer.

I prefer the new airconditioned trams, my favorite, number 16 to St. Kilda Beach.