In Continuum.

Survivor: School Bus

The idea of putting a whole bunch of usually civilised people from America out into the wild,uncharted parts of the Earth appealed to a hell lot of people when the reality series first came out on TV.It's still a rather big hit around the media world,but i guess personally the interest level has dropped a hell lot.I guess i just hate to see the way people plot against one another then later backstab their mates,just to gain some sort of prize or immunity,whatever.Guess the general public just loves this sort of raw,uncivilised acts of people whom swore against such acts.

Anyway,i was on my way home yesterday on my mother's Lexus on the highway after book out.It was one of those rare weeks when we get to book out really early,or rather earlier than usual anyway(Guess the feedbacks worked,but for how long?).As my mother sped down the highway,we drove past this little van full of primary school kids.Remember those school buses,or vans that used to fetch kids to and fro their homes?I had some memories in one of those,though not nearly as small.In my days(i sounded real old didnt i?),they had those little vans,as well as the medum sized buses now commonly used by celebrities when they tour the island for autograph sessions and such.

I saw a little school boy then,sitting at the front of the bus.This girl next to him was poking his head,and pushing it against the window.It was rather amusing,but then i thought about those days on the bus rides back in the primary school days,when each day was a struggle for life,personally.I remember wondering if i am going to emerge from the folding doors of the bus a champion,or a complete loser.It mattered then,of course,after seeing those Power Ranger movies.Everybody wanted to be the red ranger,everybody wanted to be the hero,to win.Of course,we were merely nine,ten year old kids.Who wouldve thought that fighting would only make fools out of the both of us.

Back then it was a life and death struggle on every bus rides.I remember the school bell ringing,and the excited school kids packing their bags and rushing down to the school porch to line up for their buses in front of wooden signs held by prefects.I remember my bus was number 5 then,though they change all the time.Every community has a villain,and there are communities everywhere,even the passengers of buses.I remember there was a group of about three or four kids,always hanging out together and being the villains to terrorize the bus rides of other fellow school kids.

I remember his face rather clearly.Short trimmed hair,small single-eyelid boy with his cheeks always in a shade of red for some reason.I was the loner on the bus,always at the back of the bus minding my own business,hoping that the bus driver would drive a little faster so that i could get home earlier.It was late afternoon,and the sky was turning into a shade of purple and indigo.I forgot the reason,but somehow i got into a n argument with that kid,who was some sort of leader of the pack.So in the middle of the seats on the aisle,we were face to face,smelling each others' breaths and calling each other names.

It wasnt an uncommon thing to have kids start a brawl of some kind on the bus.Be it little pinches,a grab in the hair,or real one-on-ones,they were not uncommon.The curly-haired bus driver i remember,with huge mole on his chin,and a strand of hair growing out of it,never gave a shit what happens in the rearview mirror.He just...drove.I mean,he was a driver after all,not the discipline master.He didnt have canes or feather dusters,just a pad and paper to record down the latest 4D results.

So we were in this brawl,and it broke out into a fight.His gang was not involved,they merely stood around us cheering on the scene.I dont recall who landed the fists first,but i know his little Bata shoes coming towards me then.I was caught off-guard,and took the kick right in the middle of the chest,sending me sailing down the aisle and sprawled on the ground with a footprint on my white uniform.

I forgot whatever happened afterwards,i dont even remember if i cried about it.But then again,i can imagine myself feeling frustrated about the defeat.Sure,every boy at that age wouldnt want to lose in such a fight,or rather any sort of fight.

I got home,and my mother was shocked to see that shoe stain on my chest.She started questioning me who did that to me,what happened and if i retaliated whatsoever.I remember looking down at her hands as she changed me out of those dirty uniforms,and still feeling rather pissed off with the kid on the bus.

The next day my mother was waiting under our block for me.This time she was ready to avenge my kick in the chest.She got onto the bus then,explained to the bus driver what she was intending to do,and asked me to point out that kid who kicked me yesterday.My mother then proceeded to give him a lecture on how dangerous it was to kick somebody in the chest,and how it might just caused heart failure,and eventually death.Something like that.I wonder how much of her words actually got into his young mind,but nonetheless i was happy for the fact that my mother's words and presence landed heavier punches and kicks on that kid as compared to my puny fists back then.

The brawls didnt stop,of course.Im not exactly sure if the subsequent fights were with that same kid,but i remember being a little stronger and braver.I know,fighting is not exactly the most ideal way to judge if a person is strong,or brave.I mean,we are not in Ireland or Scotland,whatever.But you have to realise that i was really young and...well,stupid.

So there,my adventures on the bus rides back in primary school.It's funny how at such a young age,we were already involved in such struggles with ourselves without actually knowing it.It was just punches and kicks,but really it was more than that.Proving ourselves,i guess.To know that we are capable of something bigger than ourselves.Fighting became something that was some sort of ritual for me,perhaps it was because i was so small and thin back then,i became this sort of human sandbag.But i never backed down afterwards,never returned to my mother with a stain on my shirt or a blood nose.I fought,and i fought.Winning or losing,cheering or crying,it didnt matter anymore.