One man’s fists, another man’s pleasure

It was on my third day in Shanghai that I witnessed my first little traffic altercation (of any notable significance), one that improbably concluded with a rare, rather poetic, resolution. I accept this term is more often used to describe countless insipid Hollywood endings, not traffic accidents.

Okay, here’s the story - one in a million.

As a traffic light turns green, a cyclist speeds across the intersection. Simultaneously, a fellow on a scooter turns the corner, oblivious to all going on outside his own little bubble. A scene repeated countless time every minute of every hour, all over Shanghai.

Crash.

The cyclist is knocked off his bicycle (uninjured) and the scooter driver crumbles gracelessly to the ground (also uninjured). A few short seconds lapse while the two recover their wits. Then the shouting match begins. I am unable to pull my attention away - there is an eager voyeur in all of us, I’ve long accepted.

The cyclist is incensed and raging - he has no doubt about who is in the right. His anger boils stronger as the shouting intensifies. These are two middle-aged men, I might add, certainly not ones who in any way resemble your stereotypical brawlers. Nonetheless, the dispute suddenly turns to fisticuffs.

Provoked, the scooter driver takes the first swing, a defensive jab aimed to deter his opponent from making a strike. The fuse is now lit. The cyclist follows up with a short flurry of punches of his own. He has managed to prop his bicycle in the middle of the busy intersection while the slightly damaged scooter of his opponent lies nearby. It appears to be leaking copious amounts of petrol, though it’s owner is oblivious to this fact at this point. He is rather preoccupied since the cyclist is now grabbing at his helmet, ripping at his shirt and trying to connect fist to face in the process.

At this point in the story, I have to come clean. I am all for the little guy on the bicycle. I know exactly why. He is the underdog and as a frequent cyclist, I know just what he is feeling. Most injustices on the road are left unresolved when the offending driver speeds recklessly away in a puff of exhaust fumes, oftentimes blissfully ignorant that anything at all has even transpired, much less that they may have been the cause.

Here and now, this is unconventional vigilante justice being administered on the Shanghai streets with no police in sight.

Finally a couple of middle-aged ladies manage to wedge themselves in between the pair. The cyclist kicks the scooter-driver’s helmet that he has managed to pull off across the intersection, walks to his bicycle still standing in the middle of the street, mounts it and pedals away. The dishevelled scooter driver stands in the road stunned, unmoving for a few moments, then notices for the first time that his scooter is leaking petrol. He has lost face.

Score one for the underdog. I wander away from the scene, feeling somewhat guilty for smiling. I’m not normally like this.