Robert Lalah, Assistant Editor-Features

Adjusting to the new facility takes a while for some commuters.Ricardo Makyn/Staff Photographer

Shuffling slowly into the fancy, new transport centre in Half-Way Tree around midday on Tuesday was Sheffield James, a 70-something-year-old mechanic from a place called Bombay, high in the hills of Manchester.

Looking spiffy in a brown sport coat with matching bow tie, his eyes widened as he stopped to look around. Sheffield paused a moment, motionless. He removed a sand-coloured hat from his head, wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow, and then, quite unexpectedly, spat on the ground beside him. The man was whispering something to himself. His expression suggested that he was grumbling, but when I went over to him to say hello, he changed his tune.

"Oh, hello man, hello! And you are who again?" he smiled, leaning closer to me. I revealed to the elderly fellow that we had never met, and that I was simply wondering if this was the first time he was entering the newly built centre.

Face reddened

He looked around a moment, then said: "No man. Mi did come here about two years ago when mi was going embassy wid mi grand pickney dem." He said this quickly and without looking at me. I suggested to him that perhaps he may have been mistaken, since the building wasn't open then. His face reddened.

"Well, mi nuh really come a town more time you know man. Mi do mi likkle mechanic work inna Manchester and only come here when mi have to," said he, seemingly flustered. I asked him what had brought him here, this time around.

"Mi grand pickney dem send something fi mi birthday, so mi haffi come up here come collect it from a woman inna town yah. Bwoy, di place change up bad though," he said, seemingly warming up to me. "When last mi come, mi used to haffi outa road deh a hop on pan bus. Mi did was hear about dis place yah, but mi never memba bout it till mi come see it. Bwoy, what a sinting. Inna fi mi old age yah now mi glad dat di ting a get likkle more decent," Sheffield said, with a smile.

"But a tell you something though, mi nuh know which part fi turn now and it a get late. Mi nah mek night ketch mi yah so. Wait deh, oh, mek mi go ask a de place deh," he said, and lumbered off.

Greasy little man

Before he got far, a greasy little man in a red merino and blue jeans slithered up beside me. "Boss, mi can sell you a gold chain?" he asked, his eyes covered with dark sunglasses. His hair was curly and looked wet and he smelled like a combination of day-old roast beef and bulk syrup. I told him I wasn't interested. "Boss, mi can give you a good price, you know," he pressed. I reaffirmed my disinterest. "Just gimmi tree grand," he whispered, trying to put the chain in my hand. I started to walk away. "Alright, five hundred," he shouted, as I disappeared around the closest corner.

Unfortunately, this corner was little better. You see, this is where I made the acquaintance of one Danny Simpson, a self-described labourer from rural St Catherine who, within the first two minutes of meeting me, he related what seemed to be his entire life story. As if that wasn't bad enough, he seemed to have been under the impression that we were somehow related.

"Do uncle, from morning mi deh yah waan tek a bus go Trelawny, but nothing naah gwaan fi mi. Mi babymadda promise fi set mi up pan a fare, but you know how woman tan. We get inna one likkle cass cass and now she a gwaan wid her antics. Mi other pickney madda a wait pan mi inna Trelawny from morning and all now mi nuh lef yet," he said, looking worried. I chuckled at the thought of him being afraid of the woman, until I realised it was true.

"Uncle, mi a tell you di truth, mi nuh really waan reach too late still, for she hab a temper deh weh mi cyaan badda wid. Mi a beg yuh just mek up mi fare mek mi go weh mi a go and avoid all crosses," said he.

Luckily for me, the little man was distracted, apparently, when he spotted someone he knew who was, perhaps, more likely to buy his story.

I overheard two burly men in blue jumpsuits complaining about having to join a line to purchase tickets to get on a bus.

"All dem badament yah now mi cyaan badda wid you know. Dem just a waste man time," said one to the other who just stood there with a look of confusion in his eyes.

robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com

What better place to vend than right next to the no vending sign? - Ian Allen/Staff Photographer