An eventful bus journey back to our car (1)

My wife and I were looking forward to Saturday. Notte Bianca in Valletta offered spectacular activities and historical visits. These attractions satiated our thirst for entertainment and culture.

We decided to challenge the rumours that dressed Arriva. We made it to the bus stop in Mellieħa. Waiting did not bother us. Senior citizens have no grudge against time. The bus stopped. We sighed in relief. The crowd of waiting passengers rushed madly before even the doors squeaked open. The Maltese had forgotten the British manners of queuing. Four passengers wriggled out of the mass. Thankfully, being in front we were lifted up the bus step.

A bevy of exuberantly happy young girls had crowded the driver’s cabin, blocking the door entrance. We squeezed into spaces down the aisle. An elderly gentleman gave up his seat to my wife. “Chivalry is not dead in Malta,” I thought. Only to discover he was an Englishman.

The lack of space for 30 standing passengers was claustrophobic, the heat intolerable. The air conditioner was out of order. The smell of sweat, spray and cheap perfume was nauseating. Perspiration spurted from pores on our faces and armpits. A man with tobacco-stained fingers exuded a sharp smell of cigar smoke. That was sickening. We had to grin and bear it.

The bus stopped again. One passenger fought his way out. The rush of humanity nearly pushed the young girls into the driver’s cabin. The immediate episode was hilarious. The driver shouted orders that the bus was full. Repeatedly they disobeyed. The driver switched off the engine. Protests rose in chorus.

The extra passengers made a retreat except for two Eastern European passengers. They refused to budge. Instead they hurled insults at the driver. They resorted to the four-letter words. Daring passengers answered back with a chorus of a similar words. They made a quick retreat. Half an hour passed and we were no way near to Valletta.

Soon after a woman with her face flushed in anger wriggled forward.

Using a plethora of rude Maltese words, she accused the driver that he had missed her stop. No belligerent argument would convince him to stop. She left the bus shouting, “We were better off when the buses were worse,” forgetting that the old boneshakers had spewed polluting fumes.

The bus left Mosta. The girls constantly communicated with their friend. She was waiting in front of the McDonalds at Birkirkara. They convinced the driver to pick her up. He did. He forgot that the bus was full. Eventually we reached Valletta. All made an orderly descent.

At midnight, we returned to the terminus. The return tickets we held were no longer valid. We bought two others. We joined the mass of humanity waiting at stage G. We waited. The driver cautiously and fearfully slowed the bus into the bay. The doors opened. Pandemonium broke loose. Shouting rose to screaming, swearing gave way to fist fights. The situation was not merely chaotic but dangerous. My wife was hysterical crying to get out of the human press.

We caught a taxi. We paid through the nose. We arrived home in comfort but safe and sound. Going through the garage door, I stroked my car with a loving caress, “Never again,” we chanted exuberantly.