Of Trains And Hipsters

If you ride the city metros you must no doubt have noticed the many morsels of…wait (wait still)!!! of spit that sometimes dot the waiting bays where passengers herd to await trains. They are quite a site, right? Many who board these trains seem not bothered by the morsels, though. They stand right next to them, in the midst of them, on top of them. They are just cool like that. Like they are wildebeests and zebras of the Mara (if you’ve seen how those animals roll; similar to the way Kacie and Jojo did back in the day – laid back, relaxed, each not minding the other). It’s an art that must take a lot of metro riding to perfect, if you ask me. It separates the seasoned riders from the rest of the herd who still cringe when dope changes hands two seats away, or feel uneasy when a rider at the back of the coach gets carried away by a phone conversation, like when say he's telling about a nudist club he visited over the weekend and starts to paint (in words of course) his adventure just loud enough for the passengers on the other end of the coach to hear without them purposely trying to eavesdrop. These fellows occupy the top tier of the food chain. They are the ones who are never moved by drama - that common feature of commuter train riding.

There’s also another category of riders. These guys are not so chill with the whole idea of standing between morsels of spit in the name of waiting for damn trains (am mad). They will avoid them like the plague, choosing where they step in much the same way that a female guinea fowl chooses where she lays her eggs – very carefully; almost like a ritual. They will annoy you sometimes, these people, because they are the sort of chaps who will be squeezing themselves through an already crowded space, making eye contact with you while at it to offer apologies for doing that, just to avoid stepping on one of them morsels. I know you must now be wondering who, in their right mind, talks about nasty stuff like this. Hang on man…be easy. Am headed somewhere with this.

A few days ago I rode the metro late at night. It was the last train headed for the part of town I wanted to go and, because I was running late and the train was almost there, I decided to run, literally, to the station to catch it. You gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. So there I was, rushing madly to get to the train, panting so hard, skipping and jumping over morsels like someone avoiding landmines, my eyes on the prize all the while. And just when I was about to get through the door, in my mad rush, I bumped into someone and then I heard a shrill voice say something about my mother – a woman’s voice I swear it was. These fellahs are crude I tell you. I turn to look and, guess what I find…holy cow! A super skinny folk, man. Super skinny folk in tight pants and a Mohawk. He’s holding a girl’s hand, also skinny like him (his girlfriend I think). Her hair is shaven clean. She reminds you of a Gestapo cook. On his other hand the guy is holding something wrapped inside a brown paper bag. The voice didn’t match his frame, though, and so for a moment I wasn’t too sure I had my guy. There’s a way your mind is trained to place women’s voices within certain octaves and men’s also in their own proper ones. Call it natural ordering. It’s how things operate in the animal kingdom, you dig? You don’t go to school to learn that; nature teaches you it for free. I can swear that fellah’s voice was his mum’s (now we are even, I guess).

He seems embarrassed by the comment, I can tell, and he makes a labored attempt at an apology and am like, “Ohh…don’t mind it bro. I got your back”. I lie. I didn’t say that but I would take a bullet for that guy any day. He was a likeable chap (save for the Mohawk on his head hehehe). You should have seen how he treated me like royalty after that. Some self-righteous readers in here will probably say he was overcompensating for his earlier ill manners but I disagree. He was just a man (a good man) caught flat-footed in a fleeting moment of chaos. He had to do something godamn it! I would do the same if it were me. I would say something undignified about your mama and then apologize. There’s a degree of satisfaction that comes with that too. Try it out, just for kicks.

Anyway, the guy lets me go in first (like gentlemen do) and then comes and sits on the vacant seat next to mine, his girlfriend in tow. I retract; there are two vacant seats next to mine. They sit there. I flash out my phone to read a text message and for a short while there’s just silence save for the rattling of the train and some passengers a few seats back who are having a heated debate about Lebron James. Two are fans; the other is not. The non-fan is monopolizing the debate. I like his style. He doesn’t let the two fellahs speak.

The guy next to me turns and says, his voice still high-pitched, “Hey brother, sorry about that incident at the door man, I didn…” I cut him short:

“Don’t be bro. Am the one that should be apologizing here. I ran into you. I nearly knocked you down!”

“But still, that statement about your mother…well am so sorry”. Seeing that this argument was going to proceed in circles, I shrugged my shoulders like it didn’t matter and steered the conversation to other topics. We talked about a lot of things. His girlfriend, Nora (that was her name. And he was Jimmy) chipped in a few times to clarify something here and there that she figured he did not explain well to me or to ask questions.

At some point she asks where I’m from and I say Kasipul Kabondo. Of course I lie. She looks confused.

“Where’s that; is it in the US?” She presses on, determined but jolted a bit.

“Oh no,” I almost laugh. For a moment I wonder what state looks Kabondo-ish. I mean red soil and sacks upon sacks of potatoes by the freeway. “No it’s on the other side of the world,” I reply, “just below the navel of Lake Victoria.” I said it as if random people on a train should already know all these names.

“Oh my Gosh…Lake Victoria. I’ve heard of that. Wow! We learnt about that in school, right Jimmy?”  turning to look at skinny Jimmy (cool name huh?) who was sort of just playing it by the ear now. He nods. “You’re from there for real!!??” (That was both a question and an exclamation). She was now facing me, expecting an answer.

“Yep,” I replied slowly, nodding sagely and looking straight ahead like someone with weighty stuff on his mind, “Even Miguna Miguna is from there…Onyango Oloo also.” What!!! I couldn’t believe I was saying these stuff. Anyway, I gathered they were hipsters and we talked a lot about farming and since I had mentioned the lake, we talked about the lake too. I lied to them that I owned a small canoe, and that in the evenings I push it out into the lake to get my dinner and to catch sight of the sun as it sets. They loved it, these two beautiful people. They also told me about Teulon (google that if you think it’s a name of a drink). They talked about how beautiful it used to be till the new mayor (a particular Mr. Benninger) started issuing licenses to wealthy lumbers and real estate owners from Montreal who are now cutting down anything green and building houses and office complexes all over Teulon without regard to the effects these might have on the ecosystem. You could feel the anger in their voices and the passion when they told the story of Teulon and its woes, and the love that is not lost for this birthplace of theirs. I felt for them man; I really did. You don’t want someone messing your town like that. I’d follow you and bite off a piece of you like a zombie on crack if you tried that on my town. They left Teulon, though, at some point. They packed their bags and left after a couple of unsuccessful street protests. They could not farm anymore and tall buildings just wasn’t their thing. They traveled the Caribbean, stopping to stay at one place a few months at a time before moving to the next. Skinny Jimmy was all lit up with joy as they narrated their Caribbean adventure. Nora wouldn’t allow him to finish his sentences, though. She always felt he was not stroking them with enough paint. Poor Jimmy. He was omitting certain details, she said.

They thoroughly enjoyed the Caribbean. Thoroughly. They stayed longest in Trinidad. I asked why and Nora shot back, “It was paradise”. That’s quite something. It’s not every day that someone describes a place as paradise. I got curious. I made a mental note to check out Trinidad when I got home. I was itching to know what it is about this place that would make a hippie couple fall so deeply in love with it. Is this place all indie-rock and clothes screaming with color or acres upon acres of organic greens…or farmers’ markets? I would find out.

Skinny Jimmy reached for something inside a knight bag that Nora was carrying and came back out with a sheet of paper and a pen. He proceeded to scribble something on the paper before handing it to me. Their email address! They have a joint email address. No phone, no facebook, no twitter, nothing. They are people on the go. These other stuff would tie them down. Would put limits on them which they don’t fancy. They are free spirits, without borders and they live by that creed. I told him to write mine down too, spelling it for him just to be sure he got it right. I have learnt overtime that a lot of people I meet can’t seem to get my name or my email address right the first time. I’ve often wondered why. Maybe I hang out in the wrong places, or with the wrong crowds. Just then, the train ground to a halt and skinny Jimmy and Nora rose to go. I stretched out my hand to shake theirs and said something about wishes (some line I read in a book, that I cannot remember now). They blushed. A weird hippie blush and said thank you. They stepped out to go but a second later Jimmy stepped back in and shouted, “Danieli! Shoot us an email buddy, will you?”

“I sure will, skinny Canadian! Take care”.  I said the “skinny Canadian” part under my breath. Nobody heard it but me. He smiled and stepped back out, as if he had the mischief I was up to there all figured out. The door closed after him and the train left.