Waiting At the Bus Station

Patricia Curtin

The mother and her son stood closely together. The sun shone on her jet black hair which was gathered in a long plaits. She \vore very colourful clothes and judging by their features, I understood them to be South American, maybe from Peru. They spoke in low tones and her son suddenly pointed to an approaching bus. He checked the tickets and nodded to his mother. He walked purposefully to the bus with his mother following, her eyes trying to adjust to the strange surroundings. They both had two big colourful plastic bags filled with clothes, shoes and other household items. They did not look like holidaymakers; maybe they were coming to meet extended family or to find work and make a new life in this part of Europe having great hope for the future. Ho\v much different will this life be here in this part of Spain. Will they be able to settle in their new surroundings?   A Spanish man sat next to me on the benches outside the bus station, both of us waiting for our buses. He was old and bent and plastic bags surrounded him, his groceries for the week, I presumed. He was eating from a box in his hands. He had an old kitchen knife and was cutting up pieces of cheese and an apple. A few pigeons eyed the man and his food, but received very little from him. Every piece of cheese was neatly sliced before being put into his mouth and each piece of apple was sucked almost dry by the toothless man before the birds received the little bits of apple that were left.   Even though it was January, the sun was shining with a little heat, and the air around us was filled with wonderful smells and aromas from the nearby markets, and the sing song voices of the stall holders as they shouted above the din of the shoppers trying to sell their products. There were diesel fumes from the buses going and coming into the busy bus station. The old man continued to eat from his box without lifting his eyes. He sighed; maybe he was thinking of bygone days.   As I had thirty minutes to wait for my bus I was people watching. On my other side, two low-sized Spanish women talked loudly, in a long stream of words that I did not understand. One woman hardly finished her sentences before her companion would cut in with a fast flow of words, while waving her hands. I would have loved to know what they were talking about. Was it the price of the shopping in their bags? How long had these two local women been using the bus station, and had they noticed the great changes that were happening around them in their local city in recent years?   Many different nationalities passed through the bus station, as well as locals, holidaymakers, and new arrivals from all over Europe who had bought property in the surrounding area, to escape to the sun when possible. The bus station was busy and included people from North Africa and Eastern Europeans, who were hoping to make a better life for themselves in this part of the world.   All this time the old Spanish man was peeling and slicing and eating his food slowly. The pigeons had long gone, aware that there were no rich pickings in the scraps they got from him. The young school children eating their crisps seemed a better bet for some food for the birds.   At last my bus arrived and I rose to go. The old man, not even raising his eyes to check the bus, slowly packed what was left of his lunch into one of his bags and with a stick made his way to the same bus as me. I sat behind him and as the bus took the back road through small villages I wondered how long this man had been travelling this route home. After about five miles he alighted from the bus at a small tin-roofed house by the side of the road. He gave a curt wave to the bus driver and started to walk the dried earth path to his home. This consisted of maybe two or three rooms and his garden - possibly a small holding - giving fruit such as oranges, lemons, a few grape vines and local green vegetables and potatoes. Life had not changed very much for this man and looking at these surroundings, his life style might not have changed for thirty years or more.   As the bus moved away, I thought it sad that he was slowly being surrounded by high rise apartments, villas and the twenty first century, which was very quickly closing in on him. The more I thought about this man and his life style, the more I began to realize that maybe he was right after all. He was living the life we all were aspiring to, sunshine, good food, easy living. He did not have to worry about his apartment, house or villa being left idle during the winters months when most of the residents went back to their own countries to work to pay for the property they enjoyed for just a few weeks in the summer.   At last I arrived at my destination, a new village in the making. Around the bus stop was a local shop, a restaurant, chemist and two banks still being build. As far as the eye could see there were houses and apartments. Rows and rows of white buildings, each house looking the same as the one next door. More people from different parts of Europe buying their own little bit of sun.   Most of these houses remained empty for many months of the year. We, as new house and apartment owners, were changing this part of Spain in many ways and maybe not for the better. W were all bringing different cultures to one tiny part of the country. We were squeezing the old man and his way of life from this part of Spain. We are changing their lives for ever. Does he want it? Copright © 2004 Patricia Curtin