FORTNIGHT JOURNAL :: Print article :: Karja hansen

This is a continuation of "Optimodal: I."

It is a gorgeous Andean morning in Bogotá; as I walk down Carrera Septima, the largest and busiest road in the city. Yet people are smiling and laughing… and walking, biking and skating, too. It is Sunday morning and this is Ciclovia, a weekly event in Bogotá where over 75 miles of the main roads that run through the city are closed to cars. These routes are instead opened to pedestrians, bicyclists and food vendors. Droves of people—over a million—make their way out onto the pavement to buy some fruit, some hot chocolate, and stroll into downtown, play in a park or visit a museum. Conversations are had, friendships made, future spouses met—all because cars have been taken out of the equation.

At other times in Bogotá, the scene on these roads is very different: congested, slow, dirty and full of cars. Ten years ago, the city enacted the Pico y Placa (Peak and License Plate) rule, restricting the use of vehicles, even taxis, on two varying days a week according to license plate numbers.

For example, if you have a 1 or a 2, you don’t get to drive within city limits on Monday. Despite this rule, traffic still reaches a standstill on major roads on a near-constant basis.

Prior to this rule taking effect, Bogotá celebrated a citywide Dia Sin Carros, a private-car free day (public vehicles and taxis still allowed), once a year, on February 7. In addition to being a wonderful event—though not a holiday, most people still go to work like usual—this 10-hour period has huge impact on air quality.

What is even more striking are the reasons
that this policy is a success: namely, Bogota's 205
miles of integrated, connected bike trails.

What is even more striking are the reasons that this policy is a success: namely, Bogotá’s 205 miles of integrated, connected bike trails. These are not bike lanes painted on the roads and streets, but rather, a parallel yet separate system of bicycling infrastructure, much of which runs alongside the Transmilenio busses.

Over the last decade, Bogotá took its largest transverse roads and either offset car lanes to the outside, or removed the cars permanently, turning them into bus-only routes and padding the bus right-of-way with wide pedestrian and bicyclist berths as well as seating, water features, sculpture, trees and plants. Bogotá called this a Transmilenio. This phenomenon is in no way unique to Bogotá, but, while existing individually in other cities worldwide, has come together to form a wonderfully cohesive system. And this, in a city and country that has been at the center of political and financial upheaval for decades, with class disparity and economic struggles to parallel those of any Latin American city.

Corbusier, while a great architect, didn't translate
concepts well into city planning. He left physical
scars on the urban landscape that are
still vivid today.

But the walking fabric of Bogotá, while wonderful in some specific sections (like historic Candelaria, or recently redeveloped Zona Rosa), is largely sprawling. This is the case, be it edge sprawl with Corbusian tower-in-the-park syndrome, or dense urban sprawl with entire blocks consisting of nothing but the concrete wall of some inhumanly-scaled building. These problems, this same leeching away of street life and movement, can be tracked largely back to when Corbusier came through in the 1940s and enacted a master plan of car-centric greenways, thereby subverting the original city grid. Corbusier, while a great architect, didn’t translate concepts well into city planning, and left physical (and academic scars) on the urban landscape that are still vivid today.

While most of the world has been subject to some amount of sprawl, there are still small Greek islands that have never felt the tonnage of an automobile. As I head to one of the most famous of these, Idhra, the gorgeous Mediterranean day turns ugly as quickly as I can turn my head. The seas start to get choppy as the wind picks up force but loses a cohesive and consistent direction, lulling to five knots (nautical miles per hour) and then gusting up to 40, whipping the waves ever higher.

Sailing a 42-foot sailboat on your own is a neat, if perhaps also impressive, feat, but I’ve been hugely aided by an integrated navigation system and self-furling main sail. This essentially means that I can manage sailing on my own, as the system does as much of the heavy lifting as I would like to execute at any given time. Except now.

Grabbing my knife, I start cutting the mainsheet
line, dropping hundreds of pounds
of canvas sail on top of me...

As technology tends to do, the system fritzes as things get rough. With winds like this, it is imperative that I get the sail down before the boat damages itself—and probably me—and possibly even tips over. The winds keep increasing, gusting up to 60, and the tension completely overwhelms the automatic furler and renders the mechanical furling option inoperable. Grabbing my knife, I start cutting the mainsheet line, dropping hundreds of pounds of canvas sail on top of me, quickly gathering and folding it out of the way while tying it down as best I can.

The immediate danger over, I am able to start up the engine and drive the boat through the fury until the storm passes, leaving me green and queasy, but otherwise no worse for the wear. By the time I get to Idhra, the storm has calmed and mostly blown over. I am able to anchor and take the dinghy in and contract help in the re-rigging of my mainsheet. And then, it’s off to explore the island.

Idhra boasts spectacular public spaces, be it its plazas, or stairways up the hillside between its buildings. The city is compact and vibrant, centered on the small harbor, and the rest of the island is close and ecologically pristine. Though it is telling that the only motorized vehicles on the island are garbage trucks.

The influx of tourism and cheap oil had weakened these isles' pre-existing self-sufficiency

Inhabited by farmers and herders as early as 3000 BC, Idhra has played home to as many as 16,000 people at once. Famine struck Idhra during World War II, when 80 percent of the population died of starvation; since then, the population has stayed in the few thousands and the island has ceased being self-sufficient. This was largely the case of the smaller islands I found in my journey through the Dodecanense and Cyclades islands. While each was car-minimal or car-free (and adorable, quaint and very healthy on a number of other levels), the influx of tourism and cheap oil had weakened these isles' pre-existing self-sufficiency. The residents had lost valuable cultural knowledge and skills along the way.

This story, of subjugation of healthy systems and movement, is generally true to some degree in my wider travels. Regardless, whenever I come to ground in a foreign city, I remain able to quickly orient myself and efficiently get around with little to no struggle—and no car. Operating car-free in an American city, however, is entirely another story.

For the past eight years, I have lived in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area and strived to use my car as little as possible. In college, living barely 45 miles away from my father, it would take me close to four hours—90 miles actually traveled—to navigate the light-rail, bus, metro, plus another bus and 3/4 mile walk to his house to visit on the weekends.

When I lived in West Baltimore and worked 14 miles north of home, I attempted to take one of two mass transit options: the light-rail, which, despite my living downtown and working in a highly walkable town center, left me walking over seven miles each day in addition to waiting for the infrequent trains. After taking a new job at the edge of D.C. I was excited to be able to start taking passenger rail and only have a mile walk at each end of the commute—only to be halted by the erratic schedule and high expense, as well as the fact that my bike wasn’t allowed on the train.

Soon thereafter, I moved into the city, primarily to be able to use the metro, though the better city life played a large part as well. Again, a change in jobs and a move to Arlington (originally a part of D.C. until 1847) led to difficulty.

My job had me riding a work bike
20 miles through the city streets, pulling
300 pounds of tree care equipment.

My commute to the kayaking outfitter was 30 miles, and even with traffic, took me 30 minutes in my car; by metro it took an hour and 40 minutes, time I could ill afford to lose. As I was frequently kayaking before and after work at the time, and there is no metro access to the Potomac River—nor are kayaks welcome on the metro cars—I wound up driving while working there.

Finally, a year and a half ago I took a new job with an urban tree canopy advocacy group that was 4.7 miles away, as the bird flies. Still, it took me 45 minutes of bus and metro train to get to work. I could ride my bike to work in that amount of time, and did, except when bitterly hot, bitterly cold, wet or rainy—or, as often was the case, when my job had me riding a work bike 20 miles through the city streets, pulling 300 pounds of tree care equipment.

Even bicycling, however, was a struggle because I lacked safe space to ride. I experienced no regard, or worse, from drivers. I was unable to take my bike on metro trains during commuting hours, and had nowhere to lock my bike once I arrived, and generally lacked of access to post-ride showers.

Facing these, and various other stumbling blocks to just commuting car-free—much less running errands and living the rest of my life that way as well—I hate to say it, but the tempting ease of using my car won out more than I would have liked. It takes either an incredible amount of dedication, time and money to stick with car-free living—or, such a lack of money that there is no other option.

Citizen groups in Dallas are pulling off
wildly successful guerilla efforts to take back
their streets from the cars,
rekindling vibrant street life.

In America, and likely in other cities and countries worldwide affected by sprawl and lack of functional movement, the story is the same. But the picture isn’t always so harsh. Bicycling as a commuting option is on the rise. “Sharrow,” the share-arrow painted onto street lanes, instead of separate and often dangerous bicycle lanes, has become a real word. D.C. Metro has embarked on an ambitious plan to begin catering to other modes of incoming traffic than just cars at their outlying stations. Citizen groups in Dallas are pulling off wildly successful guerilla efforts to take back their streets from the cars, rekindling vibrant street life. Cities across America are starting their own Ciclovia events, and car- and bike-sharing clubs are popping up everywhere.

No single approach will repair the situation we find ourselves in. However, our food is still shipped cross-country in semi trucks and our rail system, while being spoken frequently about, is a crumbling disgrace. A changing physical infrastructure is critical to success, but without an accompanying mental shift, it won’t go anywhere, and likely won’t even get built. More and more, we have people at the various governmental levels who understand and will listen, but if they don’t have the words and the voices, they can’t make a difference. Go ride a bike… to work. Go get your groceries… on foot, and when you have to walk for miles to do so, half of it without sidewalks, and occasionally having to run across eight lanes of traffic despite having a walk signal.

Call your representative—Hell, call them all. And keep calling. Keep walking. Keep learning.