Jammin.

I walk to the bus stop every day to get to class. But in South Africa, it’s not called a bus, it’s called a jammie. And they are baby blue instead of gray or yellow and they don’t play Coldplay on the radio they play Marvin Gaye turned up really, really loud.

The walk isn’t too far: it’s up Liesbeek Road, left on Main, and right on Chapel and then you are basically there. The moment of truth on this walk is when you start round the curve on Chapel, though, because then you are able to see Tugwell Station: the jammie stop. Its then that you can see just how many people are standing in line for the jammie and approximate how long you are going to have to wait in queue in order to board.

Sometimes, if you plan it right, you will get on the first jammie that stops at Tugwell. But, more likely than not, two or three Marvin Gaye buses are going to pass you by before you ever even get the opportunity to cram your legs, backpack and hair through those jammie doors.
So I was prepared for the jammie struggle this morning. I had on my game face and had walked through a mental prep talk, as was extremely necessary for any jammie related journey. I turned down Chapel Road and there it was: Tugwell in all its glory of cigarettes and iPods, weaves, warm skin and converse. It was going to be a fight today.

But then, as I stood and contemplated my strategy (elbows out for bulk, no smiling, close toed shoes) I was struck into an insightful and pensive mindset. “I wonder,” I thought and lowered my elbows, “who has the greatest need to get on this bus?”

Being human and intermittently narcissistic, I considered my own position first. “If I don’t get on this bus,” I thought, “I won’t be on campus early. That means I won’t be able to check my email before class. Which ultimately results in waiting an extra forty five minutes before I find out if my sister found a homecoming dress or if anyone liked my status about Bob Dylan on facebook, because it was really clever.”

Then, I looked to the girl to the right and tried to determine how badly she needed to get to campus. She held her books tight in front of her, like a shield. It was a good strategy; I had used that technique before. She didn’t look ready for the battle, though, she looked nervous. “If she doesn’t get to class on time, she will have to walk in late. If she walks in late, everyone may stare at her and the professor may even make some sort of rude comment. If he makes that comment she may get embarrassed and drop all those books she is carrying like that and then she will be even more uncomfortable. Ok, this girl gets to get on the jammie before me.” The struggles of a hyperactive imagination.
But my deliberation continued: I determined hypothetical life situations for all these people around me. And you know what? Most people had a better reason to get on the bus before me. After about ten minutes, I was on a roll. I had situations for just about everybody. Except for that boy in front of me. He’s dressed in khaki, black polo shirt and All-Stars. Some people are easier to read than others and he was from the townships, I am fairly certain. His dress, his manner, that’s what told me this. I have held an incredible respect since early on for those who were able to climb up out of those townships and attend the University.

“If he doesn’t get on the jammie, he may miss an exam and fail a class,” I began my game again, “If he fails, then he could lose a scholarship to come to UCT. He loses that scholarship, then he can’t go to school anymore. That happens, and there is no strong career path in his future. He won’t be that doctor he wants to be. He won’t be that scientist like he told his grandma he would be since he was eight years old. And he could have researched cancer cells, HIV, figured out some sort of cure.” I was actually kind of anxious now. This kid needed to get to campus.

A jammie finally rolled up to Tugwell. People pushed and struggled and persuaded their way in the bus line and their next move in life. I hung back, with the sudden decision that my presence on campus maybe wasn’t as dire as my neighbors. Soon, as the rainbow of voices and book bags trickled onto the bus, it became clear that there would be one person who wasn’t going to fit onto this jammie. That they would have to make it on a later bus. Soon there were only two of us left on that sticky cement: me and the boy in black polo; the one I had convinced myself had struggled to get into university and who wanted to be doctor and a scientist. The kid who was the first of his family to go to college and who was trying to help his sisters and his mother out by going to class and learning new things, big things. The man who, I had hypothetically reasoned, needed to be on that jammie and head up to campus more than anyone else in all of Tugwell.
He looked at me and kind of grinned, well aware of the predicament we found ourselves in.

"Go ahead, Sister,” he motioned toward the stairs on the bus, “I’ll catch the next jammie.”