Back on the bus - A reporter’s eventful trip to Moneague

By HG HELPS Editor-at-Large helpsh@jamaicaobserver.com

Sunday, January 29, 2012

It was 25 years since I had the 'great fortune' of travelling on a minibus in Jamaica.

So off I went Friday afternoon on a journey that was to prove more of an eye-opener than one could have expected.

I needed to collect a motor car from my nephew, a Jamaica Defence Force soldier now camped out in cool Moneague, St Ann and the quickest way of getting there, save for paying a tidy sum to charter a taxi, appeared to be by way of public transportation - specifically a minibus.

My usually dependable chauffeur when in need, Dr Patrick Dallas, could not make the entire trip due to prior commitments, and so, like a true Fortis (moniker for a Kingston College alum) he decided to assist a fallen brother with safe passage into the adjoining parish of St Catherine by temporarily relinquishing his vehicle.

Dallas jumped out of the car at a traffic light along Half-Way-Tree Road, very much like a policeman poised to apprehend a bad-driving taxi operator. The prospect of getting to his destination along Trafalgar Road seemed easier on foot, than if he tried to muscle his way through long queues of vehicles caught in the end-of-month bumper-to-bumper road rush.

Like a true Fortis man, Dallas was cognisant of the fact that, while 'yielding' was out of the question, if a 'fall' could be prevented, then it should be. So the keys were entrusted to me and I had the added blessing of being accompanied by a friend of ours whose job it would be to return the car from the sometimes volatile parish capital, Spanish Town.

An uneventful journey into Spanish Town ended with a stop opposite the Spanish Town General Hospital. The first image of gunmen shooting up the institution, as happened some months ago, came to mind. Then thoughts of the two gangs that law enforcers seem powerless to eliminate, Klansman and One Order, struck powerful cords.

It was then 2:35 in the afternoon and one Toyota Coaster bus started to gather its meal of passengers.

"Ochi, Ochi dung ya so," said Abe Dabdoub's favourite person, the loader man. (Abe Dabdoub, the former PNP candidate used the term controversially in reference to former Prime Minister Andrew Holness).

"But dis bus ya naah leave fi now. A only few people inna it," I responded in typical Jamaican jargon.

"No man, we naah wait till it full up, we soon drive off and go get passenger pon the road," the loader man hit back.

That 'soon drive off' took a further 55 minutes to become reality, and by 3:30 pm on the dot, the ageing Coaster was on its way, packed almost as tight as a sardine can.

The whole business of 'packing' a bus was something new. Even when there appeared to be no seats available, space was being found. The skinny passengers were sometimes rotated to other seats in order to accommodate the more meaty kind, one of whom occupied almost two seats, as her elaborate structure struggled to stay in the groove.

Approximately 60 metres from takeoff, came the first stop... another passenger had been crammed into a space that appeared non-existent before.

The first classic of the trip unfolded at a petrol station along Brunswick Avenue. Why in God's name would a bus driver not purchase fuel before the over one hour that he remained parked outside the station across from the hospital? No, the passengers had to be punished further, so another wait was in store, as he bought the fuel which was a mere few cents cheaper, per litre than the one from whence he came.

Naturally, the delay and pussyfooting resulted in a pile-up of traffic along the same roadway, that if I were forced to place a wager, I would go for a snail reaching the intersection quicker than the bus.

Oh how the pot got sweeter with the advent of the first official stop, by special request and eventual popular demand.

"You want pee pee?" a mother asked her young daughter who had only boarded the bus mere minutes before its departure.

"Driva, the little girl want fi pee pee," a semi-muted appeal went out.

"Driva, you nuh hear me... me seh the little girl want pee pee," shot the second appeal as the decibels increased.

Mission far from accomplished. The driver's right foot appeared to be stuck on the accelerator.

"Driva, driva, driva," the woman bellowed as the seemingly bewildered driver looked up in the rear view mirror.

"Me say the little girl want fi pee pee. Ducta, tell him fi stop right ya so," she pressed, all the time the situation apparently reaching one of desperation.

"She can't walk all the way from the back, so oonu haffi tek her out from the window," were the firm instructions issued to the conductor as the bus finally came to a halt. The mission to extract the youth was effected with speed of a spreading wildfire. Within a minute, the smile on her face told a story of great relief, satisfaction, jubilation and accomplishment.

"Driva, mek we move, man, oonu a delay too much," a male passenger said.

Further down the road, extended hands meant that it would not be financially rewarding for the bus crew to refuse to acknowledge them.

"Hey, oonu no see the bus full up. A wey oonu a go put more people? The bus full up, man, no more space no dey ya," another man said.

"Boss, you can open the window ya, the place a get hot," another man sitting close to me begged, even though the air-conditioning unit was switched on.

Pillows were clearly in short supply, so shoulders would have to do. Before long, heads were jumping up and down on a few shoulders, a sign that the activities of the previous day had taken a toll.

"Boss, you want a pillow," the Ducta poked fun at one passenger who was forced to bear the burden of an elaborate head that could not keep its original position.

Moneague beckoned and so did the cool air that gave early indications that the community was in sight. Those who had opened windows wide to get 'fresh air' kept looking at others as the breeze made its statement.

It appeared that even teeth were rattling, longing for warmer climate.

"Bway this ya place ya cold eeh man," one woman said.

"A Moneague you a go inna, you know. You no know say a so dung ya cold," another said.

Aah... the journey was coming to an end. The 25th anniversary of my last venture on a minibus (or Coaster if you like) was close to its climax. The entrance to the JDF base soon became visible and the latest chapter in another book of adventures would be closed within seconds.

Come to think of it, that was one of the better journeys on a public passenger bus, based upon other tales that were later released by commuters who depend on that mode of transportation daily.

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Back on the bus - A reporter’s eventful trip to Moneague