It is the law of natural selection that such behaviour should become extinct; but it is a pity, because life threatening traffic habits are a curious sight, and very much part of the local flavour. Suzhou boulevards, never more than ten years old, provide for all manner of traffic habitat. Along the middle are grassy embankments usually boasting some kind of shrubbery, but in particularly ambitious areas a line of coniferous trees (deciduouses with aggressive autumn deleafing are kept well away from roads); on either side of these memorials to the environment are two lanes, flanked by a generous bike lane and a pavement wide enough for an entire extended family. And it is the setting for something uniquely Asian: the traffic lottery.


The traffic lottery works on the premise that no-one ever turns their head, or stops - except at their destination or if there is some significant impediment immediately and clearly in front of them. So pedestrians reach the end of a block and merely carry on walking, the slight dip in the urban landscape beneath their heals of no particular concern. This same lack of anticipation applies to motor vehicles; traffic lights only partially solving the problem of prioritisation: one stream of traffic must give way to another, but turning right or left is a free for all. The lack of clear instruction does not inspire caution as much as blind hope: literally so, as cars turn blithely into unseen roads. That there are not more accidents is down to several factors: in the industrial park there is not a great deal of traffic, and it moves slowly; and in the town centre there is so much traffic it hardly moves at all.


But there are accidents, and many of them. At a Christmas party I noticed a colleague with her young son, but not her husband.
"Your husband not able to come?"
"No, he's in hospital." Came the remarkably matter of fact reply.
"Oh my god." I exclaimed, feeling that faked concern was more appropriate than a returned indifference, "Nothing too serious I hope."
"He broke his leg in a motorbike accident," she explained, ending with a half smile and a slight shrug, as if to say, 'there you go; that's what happened - don't make a fuss of it.'
Respecting her discretion, but not entirely able to abandon myself to her unconcern, I shook my head with an expression of muted empathy, "There's some crazy drivers on the road."
"Oh no." She explained, slightly more upbeat, "It was all his own fault."
"Oh dear." I supplied, a little taken aback at the extent of her frankness, but now curious to know what happened.
"Yes, he wasn't wearing his glasses: he's as blind as a bat without them."


It is impossible to tell how many myopics ride round with naked noses, but it is easy to spot the bare heads where helmets might have been, the small families precariously perched on single ride bikes, the overcrowded cars with safety belts cast aside, the taxis in bike lanes beating the rush hour queues, the peasant drivers of large trucks on the wrong side of the road; the stories in the paper of families obliterated on their overstocked bikes. But recently I witnessed the emergence of an entirely new breed: the Chinese boy who could cross the road safely. He walked out of an apartment complex, obviously intending to move to the park on the opposite side of the road. He stopped at the side of the road, looked both ways, patiently waited and then crossed, continuing to look right and left. He could not have been taught this: who amongst the adults could have known? A freak gene must have prompted him, and having made it to the park alive he can help to propagate a generation capable of crossing Chinese roads safely.


Nick Little
July 2004