Sweat pours down his back and stains his shirt as he fights the controls. His left hand grips a metal lever connected to a small wooden box by way of a brass gear. This lever controls the amount of electricity that is allowed to pass from the overhead streetcar wires down to the motors beneath the carriage. By carefully, but forcefully, manipulating this lever the driver is able to increase the speed of the beast, releasing bursts of roaring power as we climb the steep hills. It is a real, physical battle in every sense of the word.
His right hand rests on a large mechanical wheel–not a steering wheel, for the tram is guided by pitted, century-old metal tracks laid into the cobblestones. This wheel controls the mechanical brakes that keeps the carriage from careening out of control down the twisted and steep streets. Whenever he needs to slow the heavy tram car, he uses every muscle in his body to throw his weight onto the wheel, resulting in a metallic cacophony of screeches and squeals and lurching that tosses the passengers into each other with yelps of dismay and delight. A chorus of “excuse me’s” and “disculpe’s” and “perdon’s” and apologies in several other languages accompanies the violent meetings of passenger’s elbows and ribs and heels and shins.
Much like prisoners enduring a shared hardship, the riders take it all in stride, patient with each other, knowing that at the next application of the brakes, or next violent turn of the tracks, it could just as easily be themselves that will lose their footing and go tumbling into the shoulders of the big German guy standing by the door or the lap of the little Korean woman in the adjacent seat.
The beast smells of machine. Grease, oil, sweat, in equal measure. The seats are wooden and shaped to form perfect 90-degree angles, designed perfectly for discomfort. The wooden walls and windows are worn and polished from millions of sweaty hands and arms. The noise is tremendous. It is impossible to hold a conversation above the clanking and creaking, not to mention the fact that of the riders, almost no two share a common language.
But they all share a common smile. The rumbling, the jolting, the lurching, the smell–all together it is an experience not unlike a theme park ride. Perhaps this is why the number 28 tram is one of the world’s most famous forms of public transportation, delighting riders and tourists alike for almost a hundred years.
Up and up we climb through the viciously narrow streets that lead to the old Moorish castle above the city. We passengers grab desperately for any handhold as the tram bumps and lurches over track junctions. Leather handholds dangle in rows, swinging wildly from side to side, echoing the motions of the tram car. Nobody uses them, preferring to grasp something more solid like the back of a seat or the metal poles at the front and rear of the carriage.
We pass rows of laundry hanging to dry and old men on benches doing whatever old men on benches do in Europe on a lazy Sunday morning. Markets are opening. Cafes dole out strong espressos to hungover tourists. Around us, Lisbon comes to life and greets the day. Deep, ancient church bells peal from pigeon-capped towers.
When we finally reach the end of the number 28 line in a nondescript plaza somewhere west of the city center, the driver stops the tram with a final lurch, opens the rear door, and announces in a loud, irritated voice, “Finished! Get out! Get out!” He keeps repeating this until the little yellow tram car is empty. The ride is over, and everyone, with the sole exception of the driver, is smiling.
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