Help from the Rastifarian

Connor, Laynie, Glen and I lined up before 9 am at Victoria Station, for Wicked Tickets again.

I took my camera along for an hour of practise.

At Trafalgar Square I was running around behind a hawk. In front of the theatre I had to keep my place in line, so there was no running around the square.

I would lean against the building and occasionally take out my manual to check on how to detach my lens from my camera, or figure out how to play with the dials I have been learning about.

Glen and Connor played hacky sack.

Glen and I were both looking for good pictures, but we had different points of view. I saw a homeless person dragging a sleeping bag along the street. He was looking at the Security Guard, a Rastifarian, who was signalling when the taxis could move up in front of the station.

“Get that guy’s picture,” Glen said, looking at the Rastifarian.

“I am not going to take a picture,” I said, looking at the bearded homeless man, still dragging his sleeping bag along the pavement.

I continued to take pictures at the side of the theatre, looking at the mix of concrete and metal engraving there.

“Asking people if you can take their picture is one of the rules of photography,” Glen replied and he ran off down the street, but stopped at the security person, telling him, “My sister would like to take your picture.”

“No one can take my picture. I am working. What is wrong? Is she afraid of Rasifars? Oh, tell her to come over and take my picture.”

Well, I was in now for at least one shot. How can I be afraid of Rastifarians. I have only seen them in movies, and though tonight I have done a little research, enough to know that theirs is a new age religion, clean living, vegetarians, believing they are God’s chosen race and using marijuana for heightened spiritual experience.

He and I exchanged information when the photo shoot was over. He said his hair is down to the bottom of his back, and that is why he keeps it contained in his hat at work where it would get to dirty.

I told him that my hair is pretty long as well. He said he had noticed.

Glen and Connor went back to playing hacky sack.

Soon Mr. Rastafari was back talking to Glen.

“Don’t play hacky sack here,” he said.

“This is where the homeless sleep all night. The water marks on the pavement are not water, but urine. You don’t want to pick up your hacky sack from there.”

Glen nodded in agreement and shot off across the street to pay his 30 pence to wash his hands in Victoria Train Station.

Connor leaned down to pick up his hacky sack using a food wrapper, not wanting to touch it either. I heard him mutter, "I have to take a bath and wash out my nap sack when I get home. Sanitize it. Yes, sanitize it."

I continued to take shots of Victoria train station.

Arta