Hustling London Transport

I was leaving my place, running late, to catch the 197 to Croydon Town Center, and I got to the bus stop only to find it empty. Not only that, there was a nice yellow sign that said, “This stop is not in service.” So I walked across the street to follow the route to the next stop, only I didn’t know where that was exactly. So I saw a gentleman who looked North African coming along with a buggy, read: stroller, and asked him for directions. He answered, in a Moroccan accent, “sister you cross there and go left”.

So I did, and my temperature began to rise as I power walked uphill to the next stop, only to find another yellow sign. “Come ON!!!” I thought while exhaling heavily in objection to the unfair treatment I was getting by the London Transport Authority. That was not all though, there was an old couple, or I thought so at the time, standing at the stop.

Pause for a second.

The reason the stops are all closed is because of construction projects that are surfacing all across Lewisham this week. These projects are part of a scheme the council gladly pulls every March. As the new fiscal budgets are assessed in April, they engage in all the large scale construction, repairs, and renewals to prove their worthiness for more funding the following year. God forbid if nothing needs repairs then they might actually loose money in the new budget. Money they don’t need, but apparently can’t do without.

Resuming the walk uphill I got to the stop almost out of breath and said, “excuse me.” Neither of them turned around. Then when I tried again, they heard me, so I asked if the 197 stopped here. Obviously the sign said it didn’t, but their standing there and the long walk to the next stop, made me hope otherwise. The old man stated the obvious while pointing at the sign, but told me that they were waiting for the 197 as well. And, told me not to worry.

This is the part where they let me in on their malicious plan.

“When the driver sees how old she is, he WILL stop”.

It sounded as reasonable to me, as the walk to the next stop did tiring, so I waited.

Minutes later the 197 made the same left I made a little while ago and began chugging up the hill.

Our plan was in motion.

Yes, OUR plan, I was in on it too. The little Muslim girl who probably doesn’t read English needs a ride as well.

The man whispered to the woman, “you come right to the edge”, helping her walk a couple of steps, “yup just like that.”

I was holding my breath and I walked two steps closer to them, as not to get left behind.

For some reason I recall the events that followed in slow motion.

The man flagged the bus, with his left hand, supporting the woman with his right.

Then I looked towards the bus, still chugging up the hill.

The tension was building, as I looked back at the old lady who had now lifted her cane to flag the bus.

Hoping this gesture was more convincing, I looked back at the bus.

Specifically his turning signal, hoping he would have the heart to stop for an old bird.

Then in slower motion the signal lit bright yellow and he began to approach the side walk.

Victory, I thought. These old folks were gangster and I was glad I met them.

The driver stopped the bus and let us on, while telling us the stop was out of service.

We didn’t care. He stopped.

We won.

The old man to my suprise didn’t get on with us.

I thanked him as I got onboard.

He winked, nodded and was out of sight.

That was the most interesting thing that I experienced in a long time.

Bits & Bobs – Lewisham Hospital

Clearly I have chosen the wrong shoes for this adventure, my boots were soaked and I hadn’t even been outside the house for two minutes. It is musty and wet, the rain still dripping, harmoniously if I might add, off tin rooftops onto the already saturated sidewalk. Both Asma and Zakariyya have blatantly refused to let me hold their hand and I feel like a lost mute that has no sense of direction and don’t have a clue where to head next. To top it off, their mom, Auntie Raaliyo, can only speak a handful of English words, the other handful is reserved for my poor Somali vocabulary, incase you were wondering where that went.

So we’re on our way to Lewisham hospital to visit Deeqo, my husbands sister who just had her baby girl, Safiyah. Chugging along with the kids taking turns slipping we made our way to a convenience store, or a corner shop (as Amina chimed in while watching me type this entry) where we picked up some juice and other small things, unfortunately he was out of daily bus passes. We went to the bus stop and caught one headed toward Lewisham. We passed a few stops one of them being PC World, big place, I’ll stop by there some day.

Then we made our way off the bus at the hospital that wasn’t really the building we think it to be but more like a compound with small connecting roads. In we went, I was naturally walking ahead because I am a fast walker, then reading the signs and confirming with Auntie Raaliyo’s nods, I began heading towards the Green Zone: Maternity Ward. There were pencil drawn portraits of ugly, and probably dead judging by their fashion sense, white people on the walls. That’s not the interesting part, its that they were screwed to the walls, 4 screws each. The idea that someone would want to steal such a hideous piece was mind-boggling.

Five stories higher we made it to Deeqo’s room where she lies in bed looking small and helpless. The baby on her lap, looking quite relaxed. Across from her was a teenage girl balled up in her blanket fast asleep. The other beds empty, a nurse came in and woke the girl asking her if she was done eating, “ I haven’t eaten yet, I will.” Then the nurse exclaimed rudely, “I’m cleaning up in half an hour, if you want it eat it.” She turned over and went back to sleep. Deeqo asked me if I was well and how I liked London. I answered politely and briefly.

Minutes later the balled up blonde had two visitors come in, joined by two more blonds in school uniforms. One of them a lady in her 40s clearly a drinker and a smoker the other a young man I assume to be the baby’s father. The girl didn’t want them there, “Leave me alone!” she moaned the mother responded in an inaudible voice urging another, “Just leave me alone.” Then she sprung out of bed and realized she was attached to an IV and screamed, “just cut it”.

After a few more minutes of awkward silence and two trips to the bathroom with Zakariyya and Asmaa, Auntie Raaliyo suggested that we get back to the house. Deeqo said her goodbyes and we headed out. On our way out of the room we passed the blonde’s bed, now empty, and walked through the double doors. We got on the elevator only to get out on the ground floor back out into the musty rain. It felt like about 40 degrees outside, and Sara Barelleis’s “Bottle It Up” began playing in my head as we began walking along. I saw the blonde’s visitors ahead of us, and in a corner to the right I saw the blonde herself. She was standing with her presumed “baby daddy” holding her IV in his hands, with her still attached to it. She was taking a smoke and looking troubled and relieved all at the same time, we headed on for the main road.

We stop, yet again, in a corner shop to pick up some more odds and ends – aka bits and bobs – paper towels, salt, bleach and fish sticks to be exact. When we got up to the register two gentlemen came into the shop one of them singing loudly “ They way I love you… Darlin’..” The other not as drunk but both reeking heavily of alcohol, told him to calm down, “were just here for the alcohol and were leaving”. “The way I… Love you… Darlin’…” He sang, his voice swelling to screaming this time, then he shoved his buddy and stumbled back a few steps from the impact. The man chuckled in response, “There’s no need to get violent mate, we don’t want any trouble, why don’t you sing me another song?” “You…Darling…” the other words trailed off as we made our way out of the shop.

We caught our bus and were home in a few minutes, then we walked into the neighborhood Asma grabbed the mail flap and knocked the door a few times, their neighbor on the left remarked to her “I like your shoes, their all shiny and stuff”, she stomped her foot again, queuing then to light up, as if to affirm that they were worthy of admiration. Then Zakariyya stuck out his foot and said “shoes” the man said, “Yes yours are nice as well.”