An immigrant tells his story to The Prisma. “It was my first Saturday in London, with many places to discover, but finding work was the most important thing at that time”.
Hernán Darío Villada
“The only contact I had been able to make from Medellín was my girlfriend’s friend’s aunt, who had gone to London more than ten years before.
My plans were to recoup the money from the journey and the English course that I’d paid for, save up to do a tour of Europe and return to Colombia to continue my career as a business administrator with excellent English and lots of stories to tell. But, until now, the stories are the only part that I am certain I will take with me.
I headed to the address that my girlfriend’s friend’s aunt had given me, a café in north London. I went round and round for half an hour but I managed to arrive by midday as we had agreed. The lady introduced me to her boss, a Moroccan with a shiny bald head, and his wife, a tall lady with blue eyes and a strong English accent.
She told me that there was no time for training, and I should leave my things in the staff room, put my uniform on and serve the customers. I had told them that I’d worked in several restaurants in my country, but it wasn’t long before it became apparent that this was a lie. I barely understood what the customers were ordering from me, I had no idea how to lay or clear the tables and I had never worked a coffee machine. The English woman called me over and showed me the door, saying “This is not working. Get out!”.
The English woman shouted at me to get out in front of everyone there and all I could do was lower my head, give back my uniform and leave that place as quickly as possible. Five minutes later, I realised that I didn’t have my suitcase where my documents were. The last thing I wanted to do was go back there, but my passport was in there and I couldn’t leave it behind. I turned round, took a deep breath and went back into that wretched place for the second time.
As I was leaving, I heard the bald Moroccan man calling me: “Friend! Friend!”. I stopped and he apologised for his wife’s personality. He said that one of pot washers hadn’t come to work and, if I wanted to, I could take his place. In another situation, I would have told this bald guy to go to hell, but this time was different. I needed the money and I had nothing to lose. “Ok, sir”, I told him.
“I’m not a ‘sir’, call me Chucks”, he replied.
When I got to the kitchen, I bumped into something. I looked down and there was an 8-year-old boy. “I’m sorry,” I said. He had barely got up before he yelled at me, “Are you blind? You are fired…Again!” and pointed to the door with the same gesture his mother had made less than 20 minutes before. While I was thinking about knocking this brat’s block off, I heard guffaws from the other workers and the customers who had heard it. The bald guy came over and told the boy, “It’s not funny, son. It’s not funny”.
What happened next was incredible. I have never seen so much work in my life. There were five of them but they were doing the work of 10 or 15 people. A Filipino man was washing dishes with me and told me that Chucks was a very good person, as was his wife despite her personality, and that the only one he hated was the “f***Ing b*star” son. However, I didn’t have much time to chat. Every 15 minutes, they brought a load of dishes to wash while Chucks went past, saying “Faster, amigo, faster!”. At six, the Café closed.
It took us another hour to clean up the business, and while I was mopping the kitchen, I was trying to remember the last time I had washed a dish or grabbed a mop in my own house.
We finally finished and the Moroccan called me over, paid me £42 for the hours worked and £3.20 from the tips while he shook his head from side to side in the universal gesture for “Poor man, he doesn’t know what is waiting for him”. He said that I was too slow and my English wasn’t good enough. “Good luck, amigo, good luck”.
The truth is, I don’t know if I won, lost or drew this day. Father, mother and son waved me off from that place, and I had £45.20 in my pocket. I definitely didn’t know how much I was going to discover and learn in this city, and even if I would achieve my plans. But what I am sure of, is that I am not going to be lacking in stories.”
(Translated by Donna Davison – Email: donna_davison@hotmail.com) – Photos: Pixabay
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