Santiago Sardines
by Anika Rice
Riding the
metro during Chile’s morning rush hour is not for the meek, physically weak, or
claustrophobic among us. It is a task –
a challenge – to arrive somewhere by 9am in Santiago if you don’t own a car. As the metropolis’ 6 million inhabitants all
try to get across the city at the same time, the metro system turns into a sea
of people teeming with energy, urgency, and serious morning faces.
As I walked
from the crisp morning air of the street level down to the train platform this
morning, Santiago’s population slowly surrounded me. The ceramic tiles on the platform’s floor
were nowhere to be seen, covered by leather work shoes, summery high heels, and
the black leather booties that belong to the common high school uniform. People edged their way up to the bumpy yellow
line on the edge of the platform, forbidden by the official Transantiago guards
to step in front of it.
At these
busy stations, groups of personnel dressed in neon yellow vests patrol the
platforms. Every time a train comes they
yell at people to stand behind the yellow line.
After the doors open, a guard at each door has the task of pushing the
people on the platform to the sides to make way for the passengers that are
exiting the train. They then fearfully extract
themselves from the crowd while everyone eagerly – and often violently – pushes
onto the train. How much personnel does
Transantiago have to hire to make sure that its riders don’t trample each
other? More than you and I would think.
The crowd
on the platform was about 4 people thick, so I knew I had to wait for the
second train to come. With some
patience, I nudged and forced my way on, glad that I could reach one of the
handrails before the train lurched into motion.
I was plastered up against three different people, grabbing the opening
of my bag to secure my belongings. I was
looking a middle-aged woman right in the face, only about 2 inches away from
her. She could probably smell the
strawberries that I had eaten for breakfast minutes before. I shifted my feet uncomfortably, but found
that I had nowhere to move them.
We whizzed through the tunnels, a
sleek and fast-paced submarine on Santiago’s ocean floor. But, I wasn’t safe yet. I had to change trains at one of the busiest
transfer stations called Baquedano.
As the
conductor announced, “Baquedano,” the large group near the door mobilized! Everyone tried to squirm his or her hips and
shoulders in front of each other, lacking the patience to be polite. I didn’t have to make an effort to go towards
the door because I was ushered right along, bumping into the man in front of
me. I felt like the only one in a school
of fish who didn’t know where we were going.
As I stepped onto the platform, I was blasted backwards by people trying
to get onto the train. A final push on
my part broke me away from the crowd, next to the wall. I took a deep breath, and started towards my
transfer train.
This crowd
was three times thicker than the one on the last platform! I waited for three trains to arrive before I
had the chance and fortune to sneak my way on.
I watched a woman unwisely cram herself past a bursting train door,
about to whip shut. The sliding door
began to close, and she twisted her body so that she barely missed it. The doors hugged her hip but were less
merciful towards her skirt hem.
When I
finally reached the front of the group, I jammed my way through the violent
waves of passengers, turning my body and thrusting my shoulder sideways to get
past the train doors. The doors closed
and we were on our way. I exhaled. It was 8:30am and the hardest part of my day
was over! The air in the car was stuffy
and sweaty. I was packed in tightly
again, but at least I had escaped the flood of people on the platform behind
me.
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