When my more than obliging mechanic offered to accompany my car for its annual NCT for a nominal fee, I seized the opportunity, remembering how I always feel like an expectant father peering anxiously through a hospital ward window, as my poor old jalopy is put through its paces. It was also an excuse to try out the Bus Éireann twice-daily Dublin route.
The handful of passengers on board, like me, appeared to relax, recline and relish the pastoral jaunt to the ‘Big Smoke’, all the while utilising the on-board wifi.
However the time spent in Busáras awaiting my homeward bound service was a ‘scéal eile’.
Busáras is not merely a pick-up/drop-off point, but also a draughty resonant cavernous character-less hall, filled with anger, frustration, negativity and hopelessness – unquestionably one of Dublin’s eyesores in dire need of remodelling, or at least upgrading.
I chose a seat next to the phone-charging station. The seating area is located in one corner of the terminus. On the opposite side there’s a café, ticket-office, newsagent, barber, and those obligatory vending machines. I locked my iPhone into a small charging-station locker, and for a mere €2 my iPhone increased its charge from 18% to 39% within 40 minutes – a bargain.
Pay-phones have become an under-used, almost exotic rarity. However in Busáras there was a steady pay-phone queue of homeless people using a free-phone number in order to secure a hostel bed for the night. Mini celebrations erupted each time news of somewhere to lay a head for the night was received – another world, further proof that our recession is far from sorted.
Vagrants and drugged-up zombies brushed by me, one falling against me. A tortoise-eyed couple opposite, high on their chosen substances, engaged in full-on foreplay, like some cheap dodgy porn movie, thankfully saving their climax for the hostel bed they’d secured just minutes before. Two Loreto nuns, in Mother Teresa-style habits, engaged in susurrated chit-chat, seemingly oblivious to the emerging sex-scene just feet away.
A rough burly husband invaded his timid wife’s personal space, screaming in her face, questioning her stupidity as to her sandwich choice for him. As he stormed across the terminus shouting, I leaned across and asked her if she was ok, if she needed help. “I’m fine”, she smiled. Her moist eyes told a different tale, and I wondered how ok she’d be when she arrived home.
High above the retail area an extensive electronic timetable regularly updated itself. Beside it a huge flashing TV screen advertised sun holidays, newly-released Hollywood movies, and other luxury lures.
A diminutive octogenarian, laden with shopping, looked on terrified as the assembled cast of oddballs drifted by her.
Nature had been calling me for some time now, so I decided to brave the basement conveniences to answer her call. But I made a hasty exit from this stinking filthy den, passing a crackhead (perhaps pothead) as he verbally and physically abused a tap!
As I retook my uncomfortable seat a very enthusiastic “James, it’s been forever!” erupted from across the hall. Thirty years after we’d first met in college, Miriam – automaton-like – asked me if I’d finally allowed Jesus in, and that no matter how happy and successful my life was I had no hope whatsoever until I unreservedly opened my heart to the Lord Jesus Christ. My bus was called – there was a God – I had to go, but not before Miriam scribbled her mobile number on a tatty old bus ticket, which lamentably I mislaid minutes later – in a bin.
Just ahead of me in the queue was a recognisable face from my town, sadly recognisable for all the wrong reasons – Cath is locally renowned for offering sexual favours for a mere €20 a pop. People in my town are incredibly warm and friendly. Cath, on the other hand, has a face like a Pug sucking wasabi, with personality, charm and charisma to match. Cath was the sloppy icing on my cheap and tasteless Busáras cake, as she grabbed her ride home.
An American writer once claimed that “if hell had a hell” it would be the New York Port Authority Bus Station. Our humble Irish version, in my humble opinion is equally shocking and hellish.
Busáras – you’re old, ugly, seedy, tired and worn out – get a facelift.
