K

May 18, 2023

During COVID-19 I read books and wrote essays. I spent three and a half years in my room. As the pandemic winded down globally, I had a strong urge to travel. In other words, I knew I must develop myself—what to do, how to feel, and what to learn form the world. Every single one could have his own private goals. I have no goal. How long to stay? I do not know. All plans based on coercion are fruitless. I just choose a direction and a destination and obey my heart. When I am attacked or robbed or assaulted, that will be the end.

There was a genuine worry about infectious diseases. I had already had three shots of COVID-19. Bangkok was a stopover so I could get vaccinated: rabies and yellow fever. It was more affordable than in Japan. Bangkok is enjoyable in life but not in writing. I knew that sooner or later I would have to go to Myanmar to the north of Thailand, which amounted to terrible things. Those who read newspapers will know them, reluctance to go.  If you want to go, it is time to go anyway.

*

My fright was no pleasant because of the coup in 2021. I had searched myself with a kind of fear—I am fortunate to be able to be flexible, for I do not have a family to take care of. I had been sitting in the cabin, the young man next to me restless, writing the arrival card. As I knew what he wanted, I passed my pen to him. He bowed politely and set his mind at rest. Then he handed it back to me bowing again. I felt a little better—the first person you meet in a country you have never been to must be the country itself.

It was so humid when I stepped off the plane, that I felt a sense of anticipation about the trip. I proceeded towards the baggage claim, and then took my backpack out from the carousel. I had a habit of checking my valuables over and over, and when I looked around, there was no one. I hurried toward the exit as though it would not wait. As soon as I went through it, there was only three people on the floor, seemingly police or security guards. Outside, I saw the dense crowd behind the barricades—the yelling rang out. In no time the three was about to force me out of the airport. “Wait, wait. I want to withdraw money at ATM,” I was extremely perplexed, pushed violently outside and into the line of march between the crowd. They just made more noises. I was at a loss what to do, standing awkwardly on the way, where the important persons would walk arrogantly. Their voices changed and roared and cheered with joy. Are they expecting me to be the clown? I did not know what was what. Anyway I trotted, head down, along a barricade. After a while I had come out onto another entrance of the airport, where there was baggage inspection. I asked to a security staff. “What happened?” “What?” I pointed at the crowd. “Ah, it is the events that are always held,” maybe he said so, but I was not sure. “Can I enter inside?” “Why?” “I have to withdraw money and get a sim card.” I put my smaller backpack on the table and opened it. “Medicines!” the young female staff said loudly amidst the smirks and sniggers. I would have been disgusted by her mean manner. I might have edged into a quarrel because I can not continue my journey without them and they would have been able to evict me with good conscience. “Medicine is okay,” a male staff casually.

I went through the entrance and found this was the check-in zone, but it was all closed. Nor passengers nor airport staff were on this zone. In the faint light I walked from one end of it to the other, but there was not a single person. What is that all about? A creeping fear of loneliness engulfed me—her visage lingers—she have been in prison or under house arrest. I walked back the way I had come, past the check-in zone, and I could find ATMs and an information center, at which a young woman sat. 

While I was standing at an ATM, airport staff and police and soldiers passed by me. I felt very nervous in the absence of ordinary people and of foreigners. Where did those passengers I was with in the cabin disappear to?So scared, I wanted to get out of the airport anyway. I went to the information center and asked the young woman. “Please tell me where I can get a sim card.” She sprang to her feet with a wry smile. “The cheapest,”I added and without saying a word she scurried to the tall men, who wore light blue polo shirts with the word “Telenor,” and they exchanged a quick smirk. The tall men approached and surrounded me at once; this bitch walked off pleased. I stepped back, keeping as far from them as possible. I had a conviction that I would be got screwed. “You wanna a sim card?” “How much?” “Forty. Very cheep.” “It’s okay.”

People in the same uniforms walked constantly through the airport and they were going in the same direction. They wore white shirts and hung their IDs on their chests. I did not know whether they were airport staff or part of some organization and there was no tension at all. All the restaurants and shops were closed, but only KFC was open, where a large colored man ate fried chicken. I was so relieved and tentatively walked toward him. “Excuse me.” he stopping eating abruptly. “Sorry to interrupt, what happened in this country now? Everything closed, no foreigners except us.” “I don’t know. I’m new,” he said thoughtfully. “I almost got ripped off, I was suspicious of every single person.” “Yeah,” he agreed, and I went on. “Anyway, I wanna go to the town. Do you know the airport bus is running now?” “Yes. After I’m done, I’ll ride it.” He explained to me where the bus stop was, raising his hand in a vague gesture. “Thank you so much.” “Welcome.” I pretended to understand, for I looked it up online in advance.

The cloud crossed the sky, covering the sun. I walked around, looking at the photo of the bus stop on my phone, but nowhere did I find. Perhaps I had been told pre-COVID-19 information that was too old to be trusted. One by one, people hanging their IDs from their necks walked to the airport. I asked a few of them about the bus; unable to understand English, they walked past me. My backpacks were so heavy, that the more I moved, the more I just drained off the energy. I waved at several cruising cabs, but they were all taken. When a cab pulled up beside me, I could not contain my excitement. “I go to the town,” I showed him the map on the phone, but he tilted his head and drove away. No matter how many times I tried, the result was the same.

As I sauntered over, I found one private house with ground, where the kids were playing together, and in the distance I could see a woman hanging the laundry. “Excuse me,” I yelled out and then waited for her to finish her thing. She walked slowly toward me and perhaps she would not understand English. “I want to go to the town. Bus or taxi?” I spoked clearly. She stared at our surroundings. And she caught a cab and talked to the driver. I waited for her to say something so we could go on. But she went back home. “Wait, wait!” I said loudly, entering her property. “Do you know the bus stop?” She trudged to the road. She made a gesture with her arm and hand. “Bus,” she murmured. Is the direction accurate? I was afraid I would get even more lost than I was.

Across the road and on the side walks there were no one. I plotted under the weight of my backpacks, only to see tall dark trees lined the road. Then the road curved and narrowed. It seemed hours since I had arrived at the airport. It was helpless feeling—a kind of desolate feeling. Could that woman let the total stranger who claims to be lost stay at her house? Either way I would be too hungry to walk on. I went the way I had come. Just then, a vehicle stopped a little ahead of me and a man stuck his head out of the window. “Where is it you want to go?” I hurried to his side in spite of myself. “You speak English!” I was about to cry and said. “I’m trying to get to the town,” I showed him the address of my hostel. “Okay, ride on.” “Thank you, thank you, all of you.” I got into the car, saying, “Everyone don’t speak English. You saved my life,” I leaned back over the backseat, my heart pounding. “You said ‘the town.’ It’s not good. Everyone is confused,” he said. “ ‘the town’ is ambiguous in meaning. It includes areas ranging from a small village to a downtown area.” “Why do you speak English?” “I went to the English language school for two years. English is the language of money.” Steven, the cab driver who was really talkative, continued to speak, so I supposed I hardly listened to him. He turned his phone to me from the driver’s seat. “This is my wife,” he had me scroll through. “Are you Japanese?” he asked. “Yes.” “I have Japanese friends,” he took out his phone from me. As just I saw the two young Japanese beside Golden Rock, I apprehended his meaning. “Myanmar is a beautiful country. Tomorrow I take you to either Golden Rock or every pagoda. I’m sure you’ll love Myanmar.” I am a backpacker in old clothes who seeks out off-the-beaten-path independently. “Tomorrow, I’m going to meet my Japanese friend,” I told a lie. “When?” “From noon.” “Okay, I’ll take you and your friend over the city.” I was sitting totally exhausted, emotionally no doubt. Only when I looked out the window did I realize it was pitch black outside. “I’ll be strolling about the city ‘by myself,’ ” I messed up… “They are very far apart. I’ll show you all the pagoda. Everything.”

He was explaining something to me at length and pointing at buildings—I took no notice of his remarks in the same way Japanese women give in to boosting men. “Look,” he pointed at something glittering in the darkness. “Oh, amazing,” I blurted out. “Shwedagon Pagoda, the most famous one,” he said, and now for the first time I became aware that this is Myanmar. After a moment he was looking for 36th street and into the narrow street. “Here. This is Hood hostel.” “Oh, thank you so much.” “I’ll call you tomorrow.” “I don’t have a sim card yet.” “Show me your QR code of Line.” I was forced to compromise, as I could not but feel grateful to him. “I’ll text you,” he said and I got out of the car with my backpacks, saying, “Perhaps I’ll be sleeping ‘all day.’ ” “I’ll give you a call, anyway,” he said and pull out into the road. I opened Line app, saw a message “Hi” from Steven, and then blocked Steven.

After checking in, the hostel’s student lifted my backpacks and begun to ascend the steep stairs. “Oh sorry, thank you,” I said and followed him. He opened the door. The second floor was now in utter blackness and in the middle of it stood a massive pillar. There hung a shady, underground atmosphere that seeped up from the concrete floor—it smelled like a place where under-the-table-deals went down. I could not see him at all, but I could hear his footsteps. When he turned on his phone light, his face came into view. Maybe it was not anything to be scared of. I had seen lazy guys sleeping all day in dorms. When the student opened another door, I could see a lit room. My bunk was cleaned and prepared.

It was eight in the evening. A quick shower, then I washed my clothes in a plastic bag with water and detergent and hung them up on my bunk. I preferred it that after cooling down I put on clean clothes and went out into the night. This is a part of my ritual. There is a new world as my mind changes its color. The darkness of night kindled my curiosity as I wandered through the street. The women were about to close their stall, a few guys loitering in front of buildings. I was so hungry I was stranded at a food stall, where an older man ate something. A young man standing next to the owner pointed at a convenience store across the road. He meant it was closed today. At the store I was thinking about what to eat, which beer to buy, and how to pay. I had found shopping for groceries to be a more enjoyable way to learn a new culture. Why is this expensive? It’s imported? Then I google.

It was restless night for me. My room was so cold that I put on my down jacket and spread my thermal blanket on the top. I always wondered why they preferred such a cold temperature that made me shiver. After all, I lay on the bunk. But sleep would not come to me. There has been questions that I did not understand at all. The mysterious disappearance of the passengers, in the airport, where not only the check-in zone was all closed, nothing else worked either. The strange mixture of fear came over me. How many people have seen or heard or felt something outraged? Or do they not care too much? People conceal their true feeling for ”fear.” Either way I would have to learn to be alone in my trip.

Dry air from AC always bothers my throat, so I developed a persistent cough while sleeping. I slept hours but awakened in the middle of the night. It was so hot in the room that I threw off the cover, got up and took off my jacket. I opened the curtain of my bunk. A man lounged about the room and told me. “Generator off. Electronic issue.”

Early In the morning, the world was remade. I found out that the second floor I went through with the student yesterday was a common space with sofas. The streets had begun to come to life; each street had a number that was easy to understand. The women cooked at their stalls, and I was glad of that. In Southeast Asia you can find food stalls, pretty reasonable and tasty. I love street food more than restaurant food without love. I spotted a woman cooking, surrounded by the middle-aged men eating noodles. Her face was hard, and the men were very still. The spot that the middle-aged men flock to in the morning is a hidden gem, so I took a seat at the counter and pointed at noodles in the silver bowl. She put hot seaweed soup down in front of me abruptly, but it warmed my heart. After a while, she served the noodles mixed with potato and bean sprouts. They were delicious; her face remained expressionless and quiet.

The sun was coming over the city. There were many shops and stores downtown; I bought a sim card, food, water, sunscreens I particularly needed. Yesterday’s fears were so far gone that I walked around the city about ten miles. I walk as much as possible on my journey because there is so much to smell. I might have visited Shwedagon Pagoda and Chauk Htut Gyi pagoda. I would have found them beautiful, but that was it. If I did not go I would be considered crazy. I had seen many golden architectures in Thailand. As I am not neither an architect nor a Buddhist, I can not tell the difference.

The next day I went to Aung Mingalar Highway Bus Station. The bus pulled out in the early evening, heading northward to Bagan famous for remains of antiquity. The bus was really cold inside, so I wrapped myself in my thermal blanket. The passengers were silent, their eyes fixed on a point in the distance. I wondered what brought them to Bagan. Such people spread a grayness about them. On the other hand, I coughed hard from a scratchy throat. I never admitted my concern about getting infected with the coronavirus—I got three doses of the vaccine in Japan. The bus ahead of us marked its rear window with 成田空港 直通高速バス(Narita Airport Direct Express Bus). 

We stopped that night for the inspection. Suddenly the military police barged in with their rifles, the figures sitting in the darkness with no faces. As they walked down the aisle, the eyes were cold and a little cruel. I simply showed a man my passport, but the terrors of the unknown made me uneasy. At the side of the highway were parking places for military vehicles, around which police were stationed. After going through the inspection, the bus bucketed and lumbered. I brought up questions that I can ask no one—repression, discrimination and violence. In 1989, when Burma became Myanmar, I was a kid. That was long ago. I wish I could have gone to Burma. If I had, I might have noticed the changes in the country. Before dawn the bus had parked for two hours, and all the passengers were sleeping.

When I arrived at Bagan, a Tuk tuk driver from my hostel was waiting within hailing distance. As I rode, in from all directions blew the fresh morning wind, and the road was broad and straight, revealing a vast emptiness of land before us. I saw the sun up over the green in the lower sky, and I felt the feeling of this place.

The hostel with a fairly large pool is designed for Westerners. The low buildings are painted in a variety of colors—yellow, orange, and light blue. Now I felt slightly relieved, for I saw tourists having breakfast at the cafe. The room was so clean and comfortable. I took the shower before strolling around the local area. And, more important, I applied sunscreen all over my face evenly. If I wanted to be white, I could feel like I am white. I had been called “China” by black people in a Caribbean country, which was part of my experience I find inexplicable. Therefore I never go out without sunscreen. This is my answer against them. If they were racists, I might be a racist, but actually it is just that I protect my skin from the sun.

I rented an e-bike at a shop and whizzed around the temples. The sun was overhead, and the dry fields heated by the intense light. Not a single visitor was to be seen. After a long day of exploring, I got back to the hostel in the late afternoon. I felt like I had a fever, so I lay on the bunk in my room, but the AC did not work. My body was hotter and hotter. I got up and complained to a staff about it. “The generator will provide electricity. Please wait a moment,” she answered. I was sick, and due to get sicker unless I could find some way.

I submerged for a while in the pool, and its water brought me back to life. The sun threw their shadow on the house so that I could swim in the shadow. When I backed to the room, by good luck the AC started to work. I lay down on my bunk instead of eating dinner, writhing in coughs. At night the power went out again. I staggered to the pool dripping with sweat and lusting for coldness. Now the surface of the water glinted in the soft moonlight. I stripped my clothes and sank into the water.

My sleep was restless. I went to the bathroom and turned the water, every time the cold towel on my forehead felt warmer. It was not until early in the morning that AC started to make a noise.

I could barely work up the energy to pack my things. Yesterday I had bought the bus ticket to Nyaung Shwe from a hawking woman in the hostel. I had longed to see Inle Lake, inspired by Hesse’s “Siddhartha.” I went to the cafe area with my backpacks and ordered breakfast from menu. It was locally delivered food, the artful noodles. As I savored it, a white man came up and sat down across from me. “Would you mind if I ‘sat’ here for breakfast?” I was displeased that he had already sat; besides, I do not like strangers trying to be friendly. If it came out that I am Japanese, they would arouse interest and perhaps questions—more than a hundred times about this topic in my travels. It can be an invariable pattern as follows:

“I went to Tokyo last year. And Kyoto. Where are you from?”

Me: “Fukuoka, to the west of Tokyo.”

He tilts his head.

“I ate sushi. Do you eat sushi every day?”

Me: “…”

“I love ramen too. Do you know Ryo? He is my Japanese friend.”

Me: “…”

He shows me the pictures of him.

He wore t-shirt and shorts and his hair was black-gray. He looked about forty five. His face wore a look of seriousness. “I have to tell you the important thing.” His eyes fixed on space, and turned inward on the thought that was living in his head. “Wait a minute,” he turned his body to the right, crossed his legs, begun to operate his phone and asked. “Where are you from?” “Japan,” I did not lie. “I’ll show you,” he stared at his phone. “Tell as many Japanese friends as you can. Your colleagues, and your family,” he scrolled through. “Very, very important thing,” he said. “You are safe, but these people are different from any in the world.” I stopped eating. Is it what I think it is? He let me see his phone screen. I leaned forward, and looked away when I saw the cruel images. “ Genocide,” he muttered. “I know.” “I tell you this site. Tell them, tell your friends, tell all Japanese,” I sat quietly listening. “I think of humanity to find itself. Corona changed the world. But this is very important. I’m afraid the world will be forgetting this important thing.” I felt a little taken aback, unable to respond. “Are you a journalist?” “No, I’m a traveler. I stay in Myanmar about one month a year.” “What brought you here?” He shrugged and for a moment seemed to be thinking over. “Could there be any danger?” I asked. “No, not at all. This country is very nice. People are friendly, food is good.” “Have you been to Sagaing?” “No, no,” he shook his head. The waitress came to take his order. He frowned, as though he did not want to be interrupted. 

“Where are you from?” “France.” “When will you return to France?” “I don’t know. I have no house, no family. I move to a country every month.” “Good. Where are you going next?” “Singapore.” The waitress brought him his breakfast. I began to eat hurriedly because the mini bus was coming to pick me up. “What are you doing this morning? Do you have time?” he asked. “Unfortunately, I’m going to Nyaung Shwe.” He felt silent with a troubled expression as though he caught off guard. “I must tell you about the page,” he started to demonstrate how to access it on his phone. At that moment I heard a car door slam shut, and then I saw a group of young foreigners with backpacks, looking much jollity. I rose up to my feet, looking around to see if this was the right bus. “This bus isn’t going to,” I said to the French man. Near the reception desk women hugged the staff in greeting, and a guy seated in the chair, begun playing the guitar and singing. I stood bemused by this transformation and did not notice a man until he came right up to me. When I was about to leave, the French man seemed disappointed and said, “Tell of the story. Raise awareness.”

I wanted to talk with that French man more. A learned man. For some reason the pickup bus did not go to the bus terminal, where I would transfer to a large bus. I found out later that this minibus was going directly to Nyaung Shwe and that a VIP bus was cheaper than this cramped one. The fact that hawker cheated me while I felt sick made me even angrier. I was doubled over, coughing, and muttering to the passengers “Sorry” from time to time. I was trying to steady the uneasiness creeping inside me—I am leaving the country in five days. If I was infected with coronavirus… I was dazed. It had been a hot and stuffy day. I drank coke in a can and that was lunch.

The bus reached Nyaung Shwe in the afternoon. I was besieged by the middle-aged men. “Taxi!” “Bike!” “Taxi!” “Taxi!” I slipped out the circle, walked away quickly, and sat on a bench under a patch of trees. I checked the location of my hostel on my phone; however, they turned up, distracting me. “Where are you going?” “I introduce good hotel.” I ignored them, even though they were now standing very close to me. When I felt hands on my shoulders from behind and a head peering into my phone screen, I jumped up to my feet shocking off his hands violently and shouted, “Get lost!” But they did not, so I shove my phone in my pocket. They were grinning at me. I seated myself on the bench and crossed my legs. And I said tiredly. “I’ll take a break for a while.” I leaned forward, my chin resting on my hand, as if to daydream. They were hanging around me and a man sat down beside me. At last they gradually disappeared among trees, and I could see forlorn figures on their backs. I gave a sigh and looked at the location on my phone again. Ten kilometers? I was expecting my hostel would be closer. I rose up from the bench and looked for those men. On the side of the road a motorcycle parked and I found a man urinating in the brush. When he had finished, I staggered to him and asked him, “Do you know Song of Travel Hostel?” He zipped his pants. “Sure, ride on.” I sat astride behind him and we rode straight on. When we came through a village, he slowed the bike, staring around. After a few moments he brought it to a stop. “Get off. Find it yourself,” he said flatly. “You said you knew. Ask someone!” I commanded. He started the bike and pulled into the road. And I had seen him pull over and ask other riders.

I was the only guest at the hostel, so I had it all to myself. Its location was so inconvenient that the owner kindly lent me a bicycle. I set off for the center of the village only when the darkness fell. The houses I passed were dark with no obvious signs of life, and a few restaurants I saw obscure. Afterwards, reluctant to end the day, I found myself strolling through the streets. As I walked with the bicycle, I saw men sitting at the stalls, where fried food leftovers piled up. I bought a pastry like Indian samosa, and naturally it was not good, so I went to a grocery shop. I was browsing for food when a shop girl, who looked about thirteen years old, came up to me and stood right beside me. Whenever I moved, she clung to me as if I was going to take something. She did not utter a word with a self-satisfied smile. I was a little annoyed and spoke to her. “I want to enjoy shopping as a foreigner. You followed me around. What do you think about it?” She is confused now by my English, and staring around. Then she moved shyly away and joined a woman at the counter.

The next day I rode the bicycle to Inle lake. I pedaled on, past the golden temple and the private houses, along the river that would connect to the lake. A few boats were drifting on the river, and the sun grew hot and bright. Up the narrow path, the way was longer than I had thought and my buttock on the saddle hurt. I was aimed at Inle lake and I ignored tiredness.

Inle lake was very nice. It was like a large version of Mecong River, murky but tranquil. An older man with a straw hat stood on the boat, the water shimmered in the yellow sunlight. There was something special, but the lake had something I did not know. Something rich. Something elegant. I was contemplating the lake, touched by the past. If you saw that river at noon, you would say dirty. The road and the footpath run parallel to the river. I would have liked to run down the river at night. In the summer, through the bushes cricket chirped, so sharply, that I could not listen to the river. In the winter, the cold air engulfed me, so I could not afford to feel the river. Even though I never feel one with the river, I am drawn to the river. When a man came and asked me to get on the boat, the sun was well up by now.

Tiredness and hunger had weakened me, but this was countryside. There were just a handful of houses dotted around here. I googled for restaurants and found a few options. Unfortunately, When I got there, they were closed , perhaps due to Covid-19.

In the night no fever tormented me, but I lay awake due to coughing. Thank goodness that if someone were in here, he would have furious with me. I have been in Nyaung Shwe for two days now, but I did not see any tourists. Is it the right thing to come here? I did not know at all. I found myself recalling quite vividly the certain conversation with a French person I met in Bagan. Lying on my stomach, I opened that cruel website on my phone but closed it straight away and laid my phone down. Then I must have been asleep.

It took me nearly twelve hours for the bus to arrive at Aung Mingalar Highway Bus Station in Yangon. I felt secure as if I had come home. But it was only a brief moment. Cab drivers swarmed around me as soon as I got off the bus. I walked away quickly, making my way through the buses and the crowd, but a few men chased me, so I increased my speed. The cab drivers were incredibly persistent, never giving up—I thought India was still better than Myanmar. I instantly crossed the road and gave them the slip in a crowd.

The Grab driver took me straight to Hood hostel, where I stayed a week ago. I saw at the reception desk the pleasant young woman. “I came back,” I smiled. “Welcome,” she said, and she took something out of the drawer. “Oh! Thank you. Thank you, all of you.” It was my well-loved sunglasses that I lost somewhere. She told me that my bunk was not cleaned and prepared until noon. I understood it and went out to eat breakfast. I stood by the stall, where I had eaten the delicious noodles before. When the cooking woman noticed me, I raised my hand in greeting. The woman stopped cooking, come out from behind the counter, pulled out a plastic stool and tapped it a few times. “Yes, yes,” I said and sat on it. Then the woman’s hands went down and picked up stuff and stirred the noodles in the silver bowl—rhythmical and knowing hands. It was good to see. I knew she worked from early in the morning till night. There was the physicality of a woman who lives her daily struggle with integrity yet who is appealing.

In the afternoon, I went to Junction City, a shopping mall. Most of the people there were quite sophisticated. I like watching fashionable young people and happy families. They seemed completely detached from the terrible things that happened in this country. It was an odd thing. They earn more money and have higher social status. It is cruelly so for those without resources. It occurred to me that working-class men, such as cab drivers who tout, make ends meet. It is vast disparity in all countries expect for Japan. Furthermore, it is beyond cruelty for those who fought for their lives and lost them. So I left the mall, because it is off the line, out of my journey.

I spent the afternoon savoring a variety of street food. Then I started to walk toward Yangon river. Across the river gray clouds filled the sky. It started to drizzle. As I wandered along the river on the boardwalk, the young couples were in there and all going in my direction. The couples were so typical, and there were something sweet about the way they talked to each other in a reserved manner. Then darkness crept down and the rain poured now, so I took shelter under the eaves of a shop nearby. The rain continued to drum on the road and the brown river increased its flow. I was just standing alone, feeling a sense of longing for something more. The clock in the shop ticked sadly. A monk, wrapped in his saffron robe, spoke to me. I do not remember what we talked about, but the sound of his voice was like a grace. At last he said. “There are night stalls,” he pointed at the direction. “Enjoy,” he disappeared into the rain, as though to have something to do.

The rain had eased, as if it fell into a spell like that monk. As I walked I saw older men drinking beer at the tables under the event tents, even though it was still past five. It was in one such street that young couples sought evening’s entertainment. I sought to preserve my unique image of Myanmar. They have their own path to follow, and I go my way. The countryside must have been beautiful. River flows into lake, however, and river was river. I found myself seated at a stall and ate mohinga, soup made with rice noodles that would be my last meal in Myanmar. Since soft rain began to fall, I decided to go back to my hostel.

I asked the young owner at the hostel reception. “Tomorrow, I’m going to the airport. My flight is at seven in the morning. Could I catch a taxi at three?” “Yes, I’ll reserve a taxi on Bolt for you.” “Oh, thank you. But the staff must be sleeping at that time.” “Push the bell, I do get up.” “Oh, sorry to trouble you.” “No, problem,” he said. Some time later, I realized my mistake. This is a hostel, not a hotel; besides, the owner is too young. I know they fail to wake up and that has been my experience. My little sleep was troubled and uneasy.

In the small hours, I got from the bunk and packed quietly. I descended the stairs to the street; it was dark and quiet outside. I rang the bell on the door, then called out, “Excuse me, Anybody here?” No answer, nothing. It was a quarter to three. I sat on the step beside the door to await the owner. After ten minutes I pushed the bell strongly a few times. I looked through the door, but there was none. It was approaching three, so I banged on the door. I hovered and was helpless. Then, the owner whose hair was a mess showed up, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you,” I said and went to the reception. he operated his phone, yawning. “Stay here,” he mumbled and went back to his room. After five minutes, I breathed a sigh of relief when the cab pulled up beside the street. 

The city did not sleep; cabs were driving around. We sat in the car in silence as the car rolled smoothly forward. I was still coughing, but at least my voice was back to normal. I had recalled the way it was at the beginning. A week ago. That scared, bewildered memories seemed to have faded away. No matter what I remember or forget, I have the ticket to Bangkok, where I was going to get my second rabies shot after my flight.

When I looked at the map on my phone we were already approaching the airport and I was surprised to see how heavy the traffic had become. We came to a halt amidst three lanes of vehicles. “Traffic jams,” I muttered. For the next few minutes we edged slowly forward. I looked at the time and map on my phone then asked the driver. “What causes traffic jams?” “The police check point ahead,” the driver said. I leaned forward and peered thorough the windshield, but I could not see anyone who looked like that. The vehicles in the long lines came to a complete standstill and out of blackness one face had appeared so large before me. I was momentarily speechless and whispered to myself. “You look very respectable.” Her face was hard, and her eyes steely. “You are devoting your life for your country. I leave you alone because I am alone.”

I was getting restless, “My flight is seven.” “Don’t worry. We are very near to the airport,” he said. “I’ll walk to the airport.” “No, no. You wait.” The car began to inch forward. Suddenly he turned back, “Do you have a passport?” “Sure.” His gaze was fixed on a distant point and turned back again. “Hurry.” I took it from my security belt and saw a figure standing by the preceding vehicle. When the driver opened the side window, I handed my ID to the officer. Once we passed the checkpoint, the road was wide open. The car glided silently and I could see the airport adorned with twinkling lights.

October 1,2023

The bus moved off in the mid-afternoon. It takes about one day from Windhoek to Cape Town. The bus of Intercape had two levels. I wished I could have booked the seat in front, where you can enjoy a constant succession of great landscapes.

The seat was more comfortable than any bus in Africa. The trouble was that the plump woman next to me had stretched her legs out onto my leg space. She sang along to Youtube videos, occasionally talking on her phone with a man. I could say nothing because I had recalled a large woman, big of buttock, big of beast, powerful and sure. This creature placed her sweaty forearm on that of mine; she meant no harm at all. In fact, had I opened my mouth, I might have driven her into a frenzy.

However, thanks to this plump woman, I could listen to music without earphones, not following Japanese manners. As I had great time, someone patted me on the shoulder. I turned and saw a young Spanish woman sitting across the aisle from me. “Tru, tru. Tru, tru,” she said, beating her ear. I was a little annoyed. Tru, tru? After a moment, she fell asleep on her boyfriend’s chest.

When the night fell, I was asleep. “We’ll soon get to the border, prepare,” the driver announced. It was hard to get up in the small hours. There was a dead silence at the border. I stood at the end of line behind the Spanish couple, a young blond woman in Patagonia trainer and a well-built man. I knew that some white women hold aloof from Asian men, so I kept a distance, as if there was none.

After the inspection, all the passengers, dozens of them, lined up with their luggage. The security staff opened them and checked each item one by one. When all was finished, a staff gave out a yell. At that moment, the passengers burst into excited applause, exchanging the words. It was the same way everyone clapped their hands when Qatar Airways landed safety.

After coming back to the bus, I slept lightly, only to awaken when the starter whirred and caught, and whirred again. The engine caught and died, and the bus had stopped for long. In any case, there was nothing to worry about, for I had enough food and drink. I had remembered and believed that every one said Intercape is good.

Not wanting to think about anything, I tried to sleep. Fuck. There she goes again. In the darkness, the plump woman started talking on her phone. The Spanish woman was awake and glancing at her. In the seat in front of her, kids were playing a game on their tablets, suddenly full of excitement. Having stared at anything, she covered her ears with her hands, and without saying a word flung herself into her boyfriend’s arms. I disgusted her, throughly disgusted. Perhaps it was cowardice. I glared at her and was about to say: “It’s noisy around us. I wished you would shut them out. But you looked the other way because you’re timid. You looked down on me. You know I’m alone.” Instead, I gestured around with my forefinger. “Silence.”

I awoke to the light from between the curtains. Half of the passenger had vanished, and I heard a female voice: “Splendid view. The mountains are beautiful.” I made my way down the aisle and stepped down off the bus. The air felt refreshing after the stuffiness of the bus. I saw the sun rising on the top of the rocky mountains, and the thought struck me that I had begun to stress out needlessly. The bus was parked alone in the large parking lot. There was no one at the border except us passengers. Some people were taking photos of their families as if there was a famous tourist spot.

I strolled about the parking lot, then set off in search of the restroom. After five minutes of walking on a boardwalk, I entered a hut. The smell of pine wood was good. I turned the water and held my finger in the stream. I washed my face, and then brushed my teeth. Just as I felt better, I heard a voice from outside. “Sir, hurry. The bus will leave soon,” said a small janitor.

I dashed away, anxious that I might be left behind. A shoulder bag slung over me, so I could not as fast as usual. After a while, in the distance I could see the bus starting its engine. When I boarded the bus, the bus driver bellowed something over his shoulder and started to move. I hurried down the bus, sank into my seat and gave a sigh.

The driver drove slowly and carefully through the rocky mountains as though the driver feared to go on. Since we entered South Africa, the landscape changed dramatically—beautiful, rugged mountains, and bordered plains. Not only did the mountain create a cosy atmosphere inside the bus, it provided me that I was not expected to question or to think.

At noon the bus pulled up at the large gas station. Outside I had a sweeping view over the surrounding countryside, palm trees dotted. The sun was warm and bright. There were a SUPERSPAR and a Nissan dealership nearby. When I came back to the bus, only a few people were inside. I noticed a　blanket, a fancy bag, snacks, and drinks on my seat. I picked up the things instantly, throwing them next to my seat and I sat down and spread my legs lest she occupies my space.

I had been waiting for the bus to leave while the plump woman ate fried chicken. I wished to reach Cape Town as soon as possible; it is dangerous to walk alone at night. Then I noticed that people were passing things and exchanging smirks. I moved forward in my seat to get a better look. A young Spanish woman, carrying big bags, came down the aisle handing out hamburgers, fries, and drinks. I started flashing back to a time I was in the group at the hostel. The young white woman had handed out candy one by one and she had come to me last. She asked, “Do you want?” and reluctantly put it beside me, as if to feed a dog. The bus driver turned back and yelled, “Everything is okay?” “Yes,” the passengers laughed in unison.

The plump woman ate everything, painted herself thick, and started to talk on her phone with a man. I saw overweight people as lazy, but I did not comprehend what “large woman” meant in the world. I had eaten only one hamburger slowly.

The sky grew darker when we arrived at Cape Town. The passengers were getting up from their seats, so I stood up and put on my backpack. They had now started to disembark, and more people pushed past me. I involuntarily turned to the plump woman.

“See you.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “See you again.”

The skyscraper lofting in the sky. I saw the back of the Spanish couple flirting around the bus. Bye-bye. I started to walk as fast as I could, gazing thoughtfully along the darkened street. It was about a mile to my hostel. After a few minutes I could see across the little square a family of travelers. I casually got closer as if to melt into them, but they were just loitering and taking photographs.

I saw only a darkness in the streets. Iron gates were closed, the silence ominous, and one police car was parked nearby. The guys wandered around like ghosts. Whenever I passed by one, he looked like a kind of murderer in my monstrous delusion. At the corner, some guys hanging out whistled at me, whereas the others walked lightly across the road. Anyway I had been maintaining a steady trot.

I had come out onto the heart of Long Street. The tall office buildings shining along the street. In the distance, red and green neon flickered. I continued to walk, looking here and looking there, and noticing grocery shops were alive; in contrast, bars and nightclubs cast shadows, their music blaring from inside. The guys were milled about freely. And, some facades were adorned with unique and intriguing artwork. I was not expecting it, and it was amazing.

When I got in the hostel, there were several backpackers at the reception, and among them was the young English man I had seen on the bus. He had a beauty with blond hair and seemed to be well brought up. I then recalled the immigration process—and it struck me it would be a good opportunity to ask him why he is going to Mozambique alone. It is chaotic but interesting. The moment he spotted me, he turned to the owner. “I know him—on the same bus from Windhoek,” and ascended the stairs.

I was lounging around at the hostel the way I always do. The balcony was reasonably spacious, with several tables where guests could chill out. Absorbed in the PC was that English man, whose face was somewhat stern, and he seemed like aloofness, so I looked past him into the underworld.

The next morning when I went out of the hostel, the town had begun to come to life. A stocky woman was walking around eating bread. In front of the nightclub, a man raked the sidewalk and put the garbage in the can. I wandered down Long Street past shops, confectioners and bakeries, then past a pleasant-looking café. Its customers seemed to be locals, older people who were unwinding over a coffee and newspaper. I felt good walking in the fresh air and sunshine, which allowed me quickly to forget whatever scene I had seen yesterday.

Table Mountain was sometimes visible, but the tall buildings often blocked my view. By the time I walked around the foothills of the mountain, I had passed joggers and cyclists. There was a long line of tourists at the cableway station. I ignored them and I started to climb the path that zigzagged steeply; the scenery was diversified. As I contemplated the little stream on the flat rocks—a good reposeful sound— woman overtook me briskly. The next thing I knew, I managed to keep up with her, following thirty feet behind. She continued to go up at a steady pace; exuding something of indisputable beauty with pride and confidence.

The path grew ever steeper and steeper, and as it did the rocks grew larger. After the last arduous part, I walked to the cliff’s edge, the scenery unfolding before me. I thought my father would appreciate this view even more than I do. However, as I saw many travelers on the summit, my enthusiasm gradually cooled. Feeling extremely hungry, I entered a fast-food restaurant that was crowded. I sat alone at a table, wrapped in the merry hubbub. I ate a hamburger and drank a beer thirstily—goodbye—and in no time I stood up. I can not afford to dawdle in the generality of people.

September 27, 2023

The scenery was monotonous from Maun to Charles hill. A straight road go on endlessly, although you can see the animals from the windows. Safari are popular among tourists, but I did not go. I never do what ordinary people do. Buitepos Border had long queues of trucks. The sun was hot, and no wind stirred sand. It was the first time I had ever hitchhiked. The driver was so good and kind, that I did no worrying until I arrived at Gobabis.

Gobabis was a stop-over. A few supermarkets here and there. This is no longer Ethiopia or Tanzania or Malawi. I loved Ethiopian coffee a woman poured in front of a corrugated iron shack, which warmed my heart.  I loved street food, the simple potato-egg omelette (Chipsi mayai) popular in Tanzania. And nice enough pubs, dimly lit old pubs, where the locals welcomed me. All of that was very nostalgic. I walked on and on toward the guest house, following footsteps in the sand. The concrete road shone like a mirror under the sun. SUVs passed on and left emptiness behind.

Namibia night was cold, but hot coffee compensated for that. The private room was sweet and comfortable; Netflix or Youtube were available on TV. There was no need to be stoic. However, idleness was a sin, and watching TV, which was laziness to me. I felt that people having a good time were wide open to mere mediocrity. Ordinary people go to tourist attractions, eat good food, and stay in hotels. When it is finished, they settles back to normal living. Some backpackers conquer every single countries in the world. That is it. A real man who achieves greatness can not afford to dawdle.

I cut connection with one person after another, because they intrude on my time. And it was significant to feel the world by myself. But after six months of travel, the extraordinary had become the ordinary. I knew how my insides were empty. It was time for change, so I started to search for flights from Windhoek to Japan on Skyscanner. It was similar to investment, for I was very happy when I got the ticket at the lowest price. On the other hand, I was ashamed that I could not buy instantly a first class ticket.

Windhoek looked like European cities. It was fun to visit new towns, where I loved aloneness and became a new person. However, I had been sick of seeing beautiful buildings, fancy restaurants and Westerners taking photographs. I should not have come here, feeling as though to flounder in generalities. It was not necessarily the local life that was important, nor adventure, nor getting out here. 

Back at the hostel I had been looking for the flight again. I had an embarrassing choice of tickets. Since I had come all the way, I would have to have a go at Katutura to see the meaning of life. I tried to whip up my enthusiasm with thought of kapana (grilled meat), but I could not go. I had been traveling a long time, and perhaps my energy was low and my resistance down. It was high time I was making a restart. After all I decided to go back from Cape Town(100,000yen was very cheap). Then I booked the bus to Cape Town. Intercape turned out the best company in Africa.

Near the reception desk in the share longe two young Japanese men were always talking. The cool guy and the short legs man. Both of them were backpackers like me. Sometimes I was eavesdropping. The cool guy was a student at an Australian university and yearned a Chinese girl he met on dating app. “I wanna go out with her, but perhaps she thinks of me as a friend,” he said in a sweet sorrow. He was good looking and extroverted. I’m sorry I am different from you. I do not spend my time huddling in ordinary people talking about dumb things any longer. They would have noticed that I am Japanese, but I was too purposely aloof, eating alone, reading books and working out in my room. I never ever make a friend, regardless of races. That is to say, aloneness is the virtue that had built over the years.

At night I put on a down jacket drinking coffee, the guard stood listening to the wind rustling outside in the leaves, and there were none in the dimly lit lounge. When I seek for the solution of myself—for deliverance and for freedom—I find myself listening to music. My favorite is Robert Miles; Children. It has always been for me a deep consolation. It saturated my very being, which melted in tune into a world. I have had an aesthetic sense, unlike ordinary people in harmony who breathed stuffy air that causes to die. Kurt Cobain died alone in a beautiful world. I can not die simply because I must attain to perfection.

The morning, at breakfast, I enjoyed the fresh taste of tomato on a loaf of bread. A male staff carried the bowls, talking to one white woman after another with a fatuous smile. I finished and put my plates in the sink and then I noticed the male staff looking down on me. “You have to wash them clean,” he said icily. How dare you speak to me like this. You are just serving breakfast, cleaning the rooms, and doing the laundry, all day long. Don’t you know the women does not go down to your level? You had better try to hit on the bitch who follows any man.

After checking out, I stayed in the lounge; the bus departs at three thirty. Behind me I overheard a voice saying in Japanese: “The problem is how to maintain the relationship with Mari-chan after returning to Japan.” Turning back, I saw a young Japanese man talking with someone on his PC. The debate was going on. “Where does Yuri- chan live? I like Yuri-chan too, she is cute.” His round face and lazy body leaned over. He had black bobbed hair. Then this Japanese Busu (it means ugly monster) had named about ten woman, seriously comparing and carefully analyzing. Display yourself in the light! Not wishing to be distracted from an article I was now reading of The Wall Street Journal, I moved another area, where a football match was on TV.

There was the guard sitting across from me, leaning back in the sofa. He had watched the match and after a few minutes had made some light-hearted remark. As I felt the beauty of football when he put to me some question, something about Japan, I brushed him off somewhat coldly—it must be that all Japanese are alike in something. I do not eat sushi or ramen every day.
I found myself recalling the impact the players had had. Roberto Carlos’s free kick, and Zidane roulette. Each had its glory and its beauty, and it was truly art.

I went shopping to prepare for the long bus journey. And I came back after one and a half hours. “I think about meeting Rie-chan in Nairobi. Rie-chan is waiting for me to come.” This desperate fool has been arguing about women for three or four hours, which perhaps had made me sick with weary nausea. I was sure such bitches could not care less about him at all. If he chased after them, they would build the walls against him. I wished he would go to Kabukicho, where pretty whores has been awaiting him. They would never know a woman likes a man who likes being a man.

September 20, 2023

The evening I arrived at Fawlty Towers in Livingstone. When the staff opened the door in my room, a plump young woman sat up on her lower bunk, guffawing on her phone. Her belongings scattered on the floor. I hate vulgar woman. Ugly. As soon as I put my backpacks on the floor, I went out of the room. The shared lounge was sultry and in a chair a young Japanese man fiddled with his phone. He had heavy sunburned skin. Stupid. I never burn my skin because I am no longer blue. I want to be white. And gold.

After shopping in Shoprite, I came back to my room. Then quite suddenly a middled-aged Russian woman, approaching, spoke to me. “Don’t drink in the room. Don’t eat food in the room. Do you understand?” What the hell? “If you use your phone, go outside. No alcohol! No snack!” she went back to her bunk and closed the curtain. A fan faced toward her. She deserves to be single for life. I thought.

I headed to the kitchen to put food and water in the refrigerator. Near the front of its area, a Japanese man and woman stood talking. Ordinary Japanese. There was sense of decency in their conversation, so I wanted to talk to them, however, and went quietly past them. 

When I came from the kitchen, the door of my room was locked. I gave a sigh and turned back. The Russian woman with grim face wandered around the shared lounge, keeping her eyes out for me. “The door is closed,” I said to her. “You locked the door,” she came to the door and turned its knob. “Shit,” she knocked it. No response. “I’ll fetch the key at the reception,” she said and stumped out, forced by rage. I followed her and said: “I’ll go instead of you.” She ignored me.

I woke up often in the middle of the night, although that plump woman was silent. The room was hot and dry. I moved slowly out of the room after what seemed a long time. I trudged off toward the shower stalls and took off my clothes. Cold water felt so good that I became fully awake. And then I put on shorts and hoodie, went out of the building and into gray morning.

In the courtyard I was completely alone, and I walked up toward the kitchen. The birds sing in the cool air that carries their songs. There was a woman cutting something on the board. “Good morning,” I said. “Good morning,” she turned back to me. She was the Japanese woman I saw yesterday, so I switched to Japanese. Her name was Nao. I had the impression that she looked older, but probably we were around the same age. After small talk, she asked. “Do you write a blog? About your journey.” Then I shrank back, for I had written essays of making fun of Japanese. “I’ve just started…this is not something I can show yet,” I said with embarrassment and went out in the courtyard.

I took a turn among tall trees. A slender naked tree had red flowers on the falling leaves. When I took a video at the poolside, I saw Nao taking a photo of the terrace and coming around me. As I talked with her, an Indian man approached Nao. “I am interested in Tanzanian trail. I overheard it. I had worked in Japan for two years,” he said in broken Japanese and joined the conversation. “Are you on Facebook?” he asked her. “Yes,” she began to struggle with her phone. I knew Indian man like Japanese woman, so persistent, that I walked away as if casually.

On that afternoon, I had sat on the sofa in the bar of the hostel, looking up Bolivia on my PC. And in the distance, I noticed Nao speaking to a cool young Japanese guy. I knew she is a social butterfly who talks with me as with the others, mere with the curiosity of her. A cool guy looked bored, and at the same time I remembered how much he enjoyed talking with a young girl in the morning. 

Sure enough, Nao sat down on the sofa in front of me and said: “Sorry to interrupt your work.” “It’s okay, just browsing.” “I went to the waterfall at noon, but I felt sick and was about to get heat stroke.” “Oh, you should rest,” I said. “It would be better to do sightseeing in the morning. I learned it in the hot countries, especially in the Middle East.” “I thought so, but I feel somewhat better now after a little rest in my room.’’ “Good, good,” I said. “By the way, did you get any good postcards of Zambia? Souvenir, what you said in the morning.” “Yes. At the post office. But it would have been cheaper to buy at that falls.” “Did you watch it from Zimbabwe side, too?” “Yes, but…” she tilted her head. “Dry season,” I said.

Next early morning, I met Nao in the kitchen again. She asked, “If you don’t mind, could we exchange contacts?” I was reluctant to do that, but asked, “Line?” “I was not used to Line, but I’ll try.” I sent a message: “Please be careful of heatstroke.” “I can’t receive it,” she was confused. “Would you like to have breakfast together?” “Sure,” I blurted out.

She stopped at the terrace. “Look, look. This skirt I bought yesterday.” I would have to say something, and said, “Nice.” She pinched it, pulled, smiled and said. “I suppose it’s a little long.” I managed a smile, and after ordering, we sat at a table.

“Today, I was going to Botswana,” I said. “Every one had short stays, come and go.” I nodded and fell silent for a moment. “In my case, I had just wanted to watch Victoria Falls. During this journey I’ve been interested in the local life. Livingstone is a tourist spot. It’s not my style,” I said. “I see,” she went on. “I was going to Lusaka tomorrow, so I’ll buy a bus ticket after eating. After Lusaka, via Dubai, I’m going to Thailand, where I’m staying at a little good hotel.” She had had bread crumbs on her lips. “You are busy working, aren’t you?” I asked. “I took a ten day off.” “Oh, it’s very tight. I’m not working. I’m free,” I laughed quietly, judging whether she winced a little. “That’s good,” she said. “Travel with savings?” “Yes. And investment. I have to prepare for New NISA.” Her eyes looked blank but which was as I expected. That seemed to be a little turnoff for her. “Ah, I must be going to buy a ticket,” she said. “I recommend Power Tools. It was the most comfortable bus I had traveled in Africa (Ethiopia, Tanzania, Malawi, and Zambia).” “Power Tools?” I hold out its photo on my phone. “It was the best, at least in Africa, but would be by far the worst in Japan. This is Africa to the backbone, not Japan.” “I’ve understood. Thank you very much for good information. I’ll buy it exactly there,” she was pleased.

As I went back to my room, there was Nao talking with a young Japanese man with round glasses. When I walked past them, I heard her saying: “Do you write a blog about your journey? If so, please tell me.” “No, I don’t.”

After checking out I had walked to the taxi stand. It occurred to me that I left Nao behind without a word of farewell. She was somewhat better than a bitch who likes touching her hand to any man. I felt a little mean pain, so I did not even text by Line.

It was only after I waited for two hours that the shared taxi was nearly full. I had sat on the passengers seat. “When do you leave?” I asked the taxi driver. He was small and gray-haired, perhaps in his mid-fifty. “She is still  shopping in Shoprite,” he said. The passengers sighed heavily. “She is coming,” the driver suddenly said. Through the window, I could see the stocky woman with a yellow plastic bag getting into the back seat. I heard her muttering to the others, and then someone patted me on the shoulder. I turned back. “Do you have a charging cable?” the stocky woman asked me. “What type?” she showed me her phone and battery. “Sorry, I don’t have this type.” “Why?” Frowning, she mumbled something I could not hear and asked, “Are you Chinese?” “No. Japanese.” “You look like China.” “If you think so, could be.”

It is forty-two miles to Kazungula Border. It was impossible to enter Botswana in the morning. I was thinking of Nao. I would never meet her. I got on my phone—it would be too late to text—and ate a doughnut and slept.

We rumbled up and down on the sandy road, parallel to the highway that connected to the border. I said to the driver. “I’d like to go to the border.” “Yes! We go to the border,” the stocky woman said loudly from the back seat. The driver had mumbled something vaguely diplomatic. The taxi pulled up in a shanty town of Kazungula and two passengers got off. Then I looked at small stalls selling sweets and clothes through the windshield. The stocky woman had been so pissed at the taxi driver, however, and I did not know what they are disputing about.

After a while, the taxi pulled out on the road, turned left and into the dead end between the sand cliffs. “If you go to the border, pay twenty per person,”the taxi driver said. I could never imagine this small older man resorted to a dirty trick. “What?” the stocky woman asked. “Who do you think you are? You have to go to the border. We don’t pay. Fuck yourself,” she talked fast and furious. “You have to say the first,” I interrupted. “Yes, right,” the stocky woman agreed. “Go to the border,” I commanded. The car did not move. “Go.” I said inflexibly. “Dirty.”

The small man went back the way he had driven before. And on the highway there was an intersection, where you can choose a course to Namibia or Zimbabwe, or to Botswana. The taxi pulled up beside the road two kilometers before Kazungula Border. We got off without a word. A stocky woman said to me: “If you wanna pula, you’d better exchange here.” “Thank you,” I said. A huge transport truck stood on the roadside. There is Botswana just over Zambezi River. The sun was overhead. The bridge showed white. At the intersection four or five guys huddled against a railing, so I approached them. “Can I get Botswana pula?” I gave a man Zambia bills and he tried to hand several coins to me. So tiresome, I said, “It’s okay. Return the money.” I stood amid the smirks and the sniggers: somewhat reluctantly he began to count the bills.

I had walked on the Kazungula bridge. Few cars went by on the highway, but the transport trucks rattled and banged by at intervals. When I turned back, no one was there. I saw ahead of me in the distance stocky woman and her friend walking briskly. I crossed the border, getting the stamps, past the stationary taxis. The border guard stopped me. “How are you?” “Thank you, good,” I feigned imperturbability. “The sun is hot. Taxi is over there,” he gestured toward a taxi behind me. “I like walking. My hotel is very near,” I smiled. “Oh, good exercise. Welcome to Botswana!” he extended his arms. “Good luck.”

I walked down again past a gas station, and past the mall toward Elephant Trail Guesthouse. The long concrete road shone under the sun. And I came into the deserted path. The trees thinned out, but there were a few signs of human habitation. A voice seemed to come from far away. “Hello.” Three children was waving. I hold up my arm with my thumb up. After an hour of steady walking, I threw my backpacks in the green grass. Stretching my back, I sat on the ground, took the bottle, and drank water.

The path had brought me out onto a rutted road. I stared hopelessly straight ahead, along the brush-lined road that grew gradually steeper and steeper. I had regretted not buying food and water at that mall, because I had never seen a single grocery shop ever since. Over the hill, the road was flat. From a house a woman yelled. “How are you? Where are you going?” “Elephant Trail.” “Go straight along the road.” “Thank you very much.” “I do hope you enjoy Botswana!” I raised my arm in a gesture of goodwill. After crossing the border it seemed to me that people were open and friendly.

At the reception of the guest house, I said, a little proudly. “I walked from the border. It was a long walk.” I was pleased to able to do six miles with my backpacks. “Crazy. Why didn’t you use a taxi?”asked a pleasant young woman. “Walking, drinking water, which makes me feel alive,” I put on my bags on the couch. “Can I get water?” “No, but we have beer.” It was funny that there was no water bottle in the rural area of some African countries.

I followed behind a staff into a house and climbed the narrow, steep stairs, which squeaked restlessly on steps, and this perhaps caused me to hesitate. When I enter a room, I was startled. “I know her, met in Livingstone. The same route.” On the bed lay the Russian woman in Pajamas, chilling out and grinning at me. Then suddenly she removed expression on her face. “This room is only for women,” she said in a steady voice, as though to hate softness. “Yes, yes. I’ll go another room.” We moved to the next room. There were two half-naked bodies sleeping on the beds. Laziness is a sin. I thought. Only ignorant men were lazy—and somehow criminal. 

I began to prepare for a shower and, going slowly down the steps of the stairs, I was afraid the creaking noise might upset her. But then, as I was investigating the shower stalls, I passed by the Russian woman with a mysterious smile. When I came back to the room, an older man sat on his bed against the wall. His hair was a grizzled gray, hie eyes inward, his chest fuzzed with tangles of white hair. Stomach was flabby. After a while, his mouse opened for a word, and remained open. “If you wanna use charging points,” he said lamely. “you see,” turning, he pointed at the wall on his bed. I moved closer and said. “Thank you, sir.” I looked secretly at his old eyes for some response. Then he said: “I came from South Africa.” he got on his feet and walked quietly up to the window. “That’s mine.” There was one black bicycle with bags. “I am going to Europe.” “By bike?” It was not Trek nor Bianchi nor Specialized. It was just a rickety bicycle. “Yes,” he said in a gentle voice. I try to do everything I need, but would not do that. “I’m sixty,” he muttered. 

After an awkward silence I slipped out of my room, going downstairs. There was no one behind the reception desk. I was wandering across the deserted lobby, waiting to pay for accommodation. Behind me I heard a step, and I turned back. The Russian woman was emerging from outside, as I stood looking at the safari information on the blackboard. “The sunset is very beautiful.” I cringed, for I had never heard her speak in such a tone. “Tomorrow I’m going to join this tour,” she pointed at Sunset tour. “But it needs at least three.” I said nothing—memories stabbed me. “Very cheep,” she smiled. “I’m just thinking.” And I remained silent. “It’s no problem, if you don’t want to. It’s up to you,” she said. Then a moving figure caught our eyes. That older man seemed to draw closer. His body was as straight as that of me. She told him the same. “Okay, I’ll go,” he spoke definitely. Then they had been talking slowly and aimlessly for a long time.

September 19, 2023

I emerged from Lusaka Backpackers and went out into the morning light. It was a strange time—an extension of the middle of the night. When I arrived here at one o’clock in the night, I could see nothing in pitch-blackness. Now the sun was in the gap of the big trees. I had been walking along the large white houses. A woman sat cutting pineapples, alone in the shade under the tree. I was hungry—I ate nothing but biscuits yesterday. I knew Lusaka was a big city, so I headed to the most nearest mall, Levy Shopping Mall. Along the road, there were purple-green trees and pedestrians walked past. I had always been wondering about this tree since I saw it in Tanzania and it looked like Japanese cherry blossom colored by an evil spirit. I thought Sakura was fragile as if from some distant memory. It would be gone within two weeks. Perhaps my father could know this beautiful tree. At last I got around to using Google Lens app. 

Trees color in Spring

Old blood in “Jacaranda”

I always wondered

What it meant of Africa

Calmness but toughness

Jacaranda fascinated me while several young men spread clothes to passing cars in the center of the road. As I approached Levy Mall, I was greeted by a sign of pizza on the huge billboard, and a young man in a Nike jersey running. I felt like I was in America. Inside the mall I saw stylish young men walking on the large clean floor. In Hungry Lion young women enjoyed talking and whispering and eating. These were simple, peaceful people. At the same time, I hated to be a bore about these, and there had been a complication. Perhaps because of such convenience, you can get anything as if to shop at Aeons Mall in Japan, so I went straight away to Pick n Pay, not seeing the tenant shops at all.

On the other hand, I was curious and pleased, for I found a scrupulously clean salad bar. I had been craving for healthy food and there were plenty of choices—boiled eggs and boiled squash and cheese and beens, and fresh sliced cabbage. Besides, it was a reasonable price. I thought I would take out a salad and eat pool side at Lusaka Backpackers, then in the evening I would order a big steak and beer watching a football match at its bar. And tomorrow morning I would better leave Lusaka with good feeling. I had plan and the first thing I had to do was buy a ticket to Livingstone.

I went out of the mall. People walking along the pavement in front of stores seemed to be well off, the cars neatly parked. And it was the first time I saw a bookstore in Africa. I walked toward the intersection a hundred yards, and then crossed it. Before long, I could sense a new tension in the air. I looked along to the bus terminal and noticed garbage in a long ditch. Strange older men sat on the bench under the tree. As I waked past Hungry Lion, the three young men was coming this way with light steps, blasting hip-hop from a phone. “Hello, Chinese,” said one of them. His necklace was bling.

After a while, I walked by men in shabby clothes wondering aimlessly on the mound of dirt. Some stopped to look at me, while others followed closely behind. On the other side of the road, cloud of steam rising up from chicken on the wires, locals sat on the ground in a gathering.

Around the bus terminal there were buses coming and going. A crowd of men swarmed about the stationary buses. Once I stepped into this area, mighty guys came from all directions with vigorous sprit. The atmosphere was radically different from any other developing countries. “Where are you going?”a tall, rangy young man was closed to me. “Livingstone, tomorrow,” I said. “Okay, come along,” he strangely exhilarated. I ignored, walking on. He stuck close to me. When I increased my speed, he stood in front of me, and so I dodged him trotting away. There were dozens of bus companies ranged in front. It was difficult to find the sign of Power tools. “China,” one voice after another echoed. Staring at anything, I had been too scared that I might be robbed of my possessions.

“I introduce the good company,” the tall man said. “It’s okay,” I said bluntly. Many guys hovered about me, looking at me. I quickly walked around looking for the sign while he kept close to me. “Don’t follow me,”I said angrily and was at a loss as to where to go. He did not speak at all, but stayed. “Don’t follow me. I don’t buy from you!” I shouted and then broke into a run to give him the slip in the crowd. In no time he chased me. At the bus terminal in Myanmar, the touts followed me endlessly and surrounded me, and as I had almost lost control, however, I was not scared because they had slowness of middle-aged man, but this beast was exceptional. I stopped, pivoted on my foot and ran on. In the end the tall man stood blocking me. Around and around I moved, “Help me,” I said helplessly at a few man. “This guy been following me.” He had said something to them in their language.

“Go away,” I said fiercely. I walked away. he followed me. There was no way out. “Okay, explain to me, the bus detail.” “Of course, come,” the tall man gestured toward a dusty booth, where an older man in ragged checkered shirt sat dozing off. He had white frizzle hair. The tall man said, “Just sign here, your name,” he pointed at the page of the notebook, gleefully trying to get me to hold a pen. “Sorry, please wait. I just want to be thinking.” He barely heard me, soliciting the dozing older man for a kick back, and almost immediately I ran off, yelling, “Please tell me Power tools.” “Power tools!” “Power tools!” One man started to lead me without saying a word. I could see three persons in yellow uniform standing straight in a booth. “I’ll buy a ticket to Livingstone,” I said, somewhat in relief. Turning back, that son of a bitch was no longer there. 

September 18, 2023

I got accustomed to this noise. As the bus stopped at the shanty town, the street sellers banged its windows with their fists. Drinks and snacks, vegetables and fruits, toys and sunglasses—came into sight. And the aisle that was too narrow to pass each other was thronged with the vendors. Who would buy such a pair of sunglasses that was lame? The drinks are kept at outside temperature. And drink bottles are not necessarily full, sometimes two-thirds. However I had managed of late to have a weak bladder, but which I had been trying to ignore by not drinking.

When I looked out the window, the wind raised a cloud of dust. The market bustled with street vendors and people. On the corner in the town there was a shady ATM at no bank—I had recognized well—I had decided to withdraw money at a bank in Lusaka.

I realized the bus had come to a halt on the way. It was hot in the bus. No wind comes in through the windows. No air conditioning in the bus. Most buses in African countries do not have it—just crazy. I pulled my foodie over my head to shut out the sun. I stopped thinking about anything and began to doze off in the seat. I did not go quite to sleep, for I remained aware of the engine falling off, and of the half of the passengers standing outside. There was something wrong with the bus. 

A woman was on the phone. “The bus broke down,” she sighed. I could not help eavesdropping. “Maybe another one is coming from Malawi. But it would be stuck at the border, so I don’t know when it’ll coming.” You’ve got to be kidding. I have never experienced a bus breakdown since I was born. 

I ate a biscuit, now conscious of how hungry I had been. And then I sipped tepid water out of a bottle that was one-third full. From the window of the bus, I saw tents now, and small houses, reed-roofed and huddled. It was pretty lonesome place here. I rose listlessly from my seat and stared at passengers. An old lady sitting behind my seat was talking. Her black clothes was a high moral tone. But I had felt faint disgust at her carelessness—now and again she put her hand over the top of my backrest, mechanically holding my hairs which protruded from a bun, and so when I moved my head I felt a little bit pinch of my scalp.

“Excuse me,”I asked this lady after all. “The bus is broken?” “Yes. I’m going to catch a vehicle. It’s a waste of time. Maybe no refund,”she spoke firmly. “Do you know when another bus come?” “I suppose it’ll be coming sometime. But, I don’t know… If you in a hurry, hitchhike,”she said. I had never done it, so I was getting nervous. “I have no Zambian kwacha, though I do US dollars. I have all the time in the world. If another one comes, I’ll wait and climb on. If not, I’ll god damn near die, because I can’t buy food and drink,” I said with a slight exaggeration. “I have biscuits if you want,” she said. “How much kwacha do you need?” she zipped her purse. I was taken aback to see a bundle of bills in it; she was obviously lady of fashion. “I’ll have to get them, but…” I opened Currency app on my phone. “What is it you do want? If you want kwacha, you have US, so I give you,”she rushed me. On the other hand, I was afraid to lose US dollars I stashed just in case, but there was no guarantee that the bus would come. “Thank you for your kind, please let me think about how much I need. After estimating, I’ll tell you.” I said. “Yes. Don’t make it long,”she said harshly, brushing past me.

The motor roared up for a moment. As I made my way down the aisle, three men in blue work uniforms knelt around the driver seat that was off. I stepped down off the bus, not expecting nonprofessionals to fix the bus.

There were stretches of dead grass. I edged through the people in the shade of the bus. The sun was hot. From somewhere far off came the sounds of horses’ hooves plodding on the highway. In that direction I could see a few gray shacks alone. I stopped and turned about and watched. It was difficult to tell where a wilderness of grass ended. I felt anxious when I imagined all hours in the middle of nowhere. At last I went back to the bus to protect myself from the sun.

The driver seat had been out of place and the three workman stood on the other side of the highway. Near the door a dozen bottles of orange juice. Everyone out here always had some kind of juice. You should drink water. I thought. Anyway I sat down heavily in my seat and tried to remain calm. All things considered, I could probably not buy food and water, even if I got Zambian kwacha.

I heard quick knockings on the window beside me, from which the old lady with a grim look yelled at me,“If you want kwacha, exchange. I’ll be going pretty soon.” It had a sound of authority. My hand went quickly into the envelops in my bags, took a fifty dollar bill and darted out of the bus. I showed her the rate on my phone; I received Zambian kwacha, counted it, and said, “Okay, thank you very much. It’s going to be a relief.” “ Welcome,” she said, rode on the car and vanished.

I had leaned back in my seat to avoid wasted motion and dissipated energy. As two plump young women were about to sit in their seat, I had suddenly straightened. They had the plastic bags and took out of the bottles of juice and snacks from them. I got to my feet and moved a bit closer to them. “Excuse me,”I said. “Where did you buy those?” They were a little taken aback as if she did not look good to Asian. “Go straight this road. Approximately two hundred meters. You can see a white house on your right side,” one plump woman said sullenly. “Did they sell water there?” “I don’t know.” Then the plump woman gulped down apple juice.

The concrete highway was edged with the tangled, broken, tall grass. I waded through them in the direction she said, looking into the distance ahead, along the road, along the solitary road. Among the dead trees a few obscure houses, quite isolated, were visible on the right. I had doubted the grocery shop could be in such a deserted place, that somewhat reluctantly I moved off the trail toward an unpainted house. At first glance it appeared to be an old private house. It’s door was open. I entered slowly the house without causing someone to turn toward me. 

Near the open door a few men stood, and my eyes wandered into the room; I was relieved to see drinks and snacks behind the counter. A man had bought apple and orange juice. “Do you have water or some refreshments like doughnut?” I asked an old woman, who went to the shelves with feeble slowness—and then rummaged in. “No. This is everything we have.” “Do you have anything cold to drink?” “Sorry, no.” I thought it was much better than nothing. “I want that”—I pointed to biscuits and orange juice—“and that”—and energy drink.

I handed her fifty and she put five on the counter. And although I was not very used to Zambian kwacha, I noticed there was something wrong. “I paid fifty,” I said with emphasis. The old woman had mixed them in scattered bills on the counter. “No,” her anger came through to her face. The two men on either side of me laughed, and they explained to her to give me the exact change, but she pretended to be confused. One snatched the money from her, counted it, and handed me the change. And this crazy old bitch was muttering furiously.

The dusk came. In the gray sky the sun became less red. The bus was empty now. Dozens of people crowded thickly along the highway. The men were silent and did not move often—a few bicycles whisked near. The two woman walked with their baby and kids. I stood well back where no one could talk to me—“Are you Japanese?” “Yes.” “I have Japanese friends…”—These annoyed me. Why was it anyone’s business?

“The bus is coming,”someone called. I looked where a man was pointing and saw beyond the crowd a bus slowing to a halt. Turning quickly, I went to my backpacks on the grass and lifted them. The people thronged around the bus door, muttering some pleasantly. The bus was a little smaller and distinctly dirtier than the former one, so that the aisle were filled with passengers sitting on buckets and sucks. The kids on the floor. I sat with my backpack on my lap.

The bus was moving at a good speed on the lumpy road, and a heavy silence fell in the bus. It was damn near two hundred fifty miles to Lusaka. I looked around the bus, wondering if they were ever hungry, for I had never seen them eat anything but snacks. They had preserved their calmness, regardless of age or sex. There was something admirable about their toughness. 

It was quite dark outside. The bus pulled to the side of the road and parked. “Just five minutes, break,” the driver said. “Hurry.” I saw a crowd of the passengers were getting up from their seats. Many pushed past stepping over stuff, and I was squeezed by. After stepping down off the bus, I followed the people, who went into a relatively clean shop. The smell of roasting chicken came wafting toward me. And I felt highly elated to see the water bottles, and—in a refrigerator, where a young woman stood in the bright light. “How much?” “Three,”she said with a small smile. So cheap I was even more pleased.

After that, I backed in my seat, exchanging pleasant talk with the man in his mid-fifties. The cold water had sufficed my entire body. The bus driver built up the speed and the rattle increased. I had clutched the backrest in front of me. “Is Lusaka danger at night? If I walked two kilometer alone.” “You should sleep in the bus until dawn.” “I guess the bus will arrive until midnight.” “I don’t know, because there will be many pumps on the road.” Indeed, the bus slowed down only when there was the road pump.

It was almost pitch-black. No traffic light. No street lamp. I could not see parsons at all in the blackness.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” said a woman’s voice.

“I was going to work… I’m tired. I’ll sleep all day. I do nothing.”

September 15, 2023

In the morning I went to Mzuzu bus station to go to Lilongwe. The bus staff told me that the bus was going to leave soon. After I bought the ticket from him I boarded the bus. It was empty of people. Then the next moment, I thought I might be worst accommodated. All the seats were devilishly painful and some backrests leaned slightly forward. I advanced down the bus, trying to find a seat that was not dirty. I sat down in one seat, and as I pressed the button, this backrest remained standing in the neutral position.

The sun was elusive with an overcast sky while I sat waiting. However, there was no sign of some one getting on, so I made my way down the aisle and got off. I asked a man wandering about the bus. “Are you sure the bus will leave?” “Yes. It’s not full yet,” he said. I gave a sigh and boarded again in case of its departure. I had been waiting, an hour, then I strolled around the town and went back to the bus by the other route. Then I had seen the situation before me. A mediocre man looked out of the window. And a ragged middle-aged woman, lying on the seats, had been of a sort of sleep or unconsciousness… I regretted having checked out of the lodge in the early morning, remembering about the epic days and all that. What a loss these would be. At any rate, I had to be patient. Just waiting. That’s all.

I was sitting in the seat with my eyes closed, without thinking, so as not to be oppressed with some apprehension. Then, sometimes eating, sometimes reading, and sometimes dazing. It was not until the late evening that the bus departed. I saw the bus was very full and prosperous. Then I supposed perhaps we could reach Lilongwe in the middle of the night, and It occurred to me I should stay in the bus until dawn. Before long, however, I realized there was a chance to get on the bus to Lusaka, by skipping Lilongwe. I had been thinking it all over while the bus was moving at a good speed in the night. All the weariness of the day—the long waiting time, the disruption over my schedule, the unconformable seats—seemed to come over me and I felt myself going into sleep and slept.

I was awakened by two babies crying and the passengers played with their phone, whose lights contributed to the late night. All over the bus, people never minded that now, except for me. The bus had stopped in the middle of nowhere; the crowd of passengers began to go off. I followed them. The bus headlights made the earth lucent, so that people forced their way into thickets. When I came back to the bus, in the darkness I saw a mother suckling her baby.

The driver built up the speed as we approached Lilongwe. And ahead, the feeble lights of the town made no impression in the blackness. It was three thirty when the bus arrived at the bus station. I half awakened and watched around. The passengers were fast asleep, some people snoring. Living my backpacks in the bus, I edged through the aisle and went down. The bus driver slept too. I could see a few dirty men going into what looked like a restroom. After taking a shit, I carried the water from the outside tub, sent it down the toilet.

I walked along the road a hundred yards, wary and watchful—and then stopped and listened into the stillness. I inspected the skyline in the direction, a huge cloud of diaphanous white. Now I walked slowly to the right of the road and turned down a side street, “Devil street” every local call it. The smoke hung low to the ground, and a few figures wondered. There were the bars on the both sides of it. African music turned low the way it is when no one is listening. A woman grilled the meat and salted them on the wire. The fire flared and dropped. Inside a bar two or three men stood gnawing something on one plate. In the groom ahead of me some drunks loafed around. I put my hands in my pockets and walked quickly away toward the end of the street that turned abruptly. There was one bus on the ruined concrete, and in letters on its sides—ZAMBIA-MARAWI.

In front of the bus, I could see the signs—KOBS BUS SERVICES, TIME: 05:30 BOARDING TIME. It was such good timing. No one moved in the night. I was about to went back to the way. Then foot steps from Devil street, and the two men approached, “You want a ticket to Lusaka?” asked a man. “Yes. How much?” “80,000 kwacha.” “Expensive,”I walked away, but they stuck to me. “I don’t have enough money.” “Let’s go to the ATM, I’ll show you.” “I do know where it is. I’ll come back at five, then buy the ticket, okay?”I asked softly. “Yes, sir. We’re around here,”I gave them the slip in the darkness, and went back into that creepy street. Several young men stood huddled together by a bar. Seeing I was being noticed, and I opened my chest, swaggering through the street.

For a while I walked along the street, only to see a darkness in the dark. As I had expected, across from the bus terminal there was a gas station with a row of ATMs. Having considered how much money I needed, I operated the panel, but I could not figure out, so that the time was up; it went back to the first screen. I waited and waited… I felt that I had blundered on some magic.

It sucks. I screwed up. I wandered in the gas station, bewildered, needing help. It was four twenty in the morning. I should really have abandoned the card because I had the other cards. But I had a foolish notion I should be there in case the ATM disgorged my card. There was no one around me; the moment was right. I ran and fetched my backpacks from the bus.

The dawn was coming. The inhabitants of the town came to life—the gas station staff cleaning up and the folks standing in a line in front of the ATM. I had told some people about my situation, but in the end had no choice but to go to the bank myself. The morning was advancing rapidly. I put on RAY-Ban sunglasses and a mask to cover my face, and by pulling my foodie over my head. Tired and cowardly, I trudged off toward Crown lodge that I had googled.

Despite the early morning, the owner of the lodge showed me to my room. Once the door had closed behind him, I collapsed fully clothed onto the bed. After a few minutes I decided there was little point in worrying so much until after a sleep.

I awakened at ten and headed for the bank in a hurry. There was a winding line of a good many people by the bank. While waiting my turn, I doubted I could take back my card because today was Saturday. I was feeling all the more frustrated that I waited a long time, over an hour and a half. However, I was relieved a female staff treated me with warmth and led me to the boss’s room. At some impressive desk a man sat eating a doughnut. He was about fifty. “Excuse me, sir”—I was now animated in expectation—“The ATM ate my card.” “Where?” “That gas station. Ah…near the bus station!” “I know. What kind of card? Visa or…” “Master,”I said, then he shook his head sadly. “It was not good,”he frowned, as though he had known the machine trouble. “If you could meet the officer of the headquarters, you could ask about your card. Sorry, this is a branch. There’s nothing I can do. But it’s not far, ten minutes walk. Cross the bridge, walk down M1 road, it’s on the right side.” The boss, using my phone, pointed to the location on Google Maps.

By the time I came up to the headquarters, I was feeling tired and disheartened. Its door was closed. I peeked through the glass door to see who was inside. A small guard lounged slowly around the bank. “Closed?” I asked him. “Yes, until Monday.” “ATM swallowed my card. Tomorrow, I’m going to Zambia. Could you work out?” “It’s difficult…business hours is from Monday…” Then he walked toward the door—I followed him—only to make sure that the door was locked.

It was more than two miles that I walked on. Damn hot day and no wind. M1 road was crowded now. On the sidewalk of the bridge, a women sold on dirty white sheets odds and ends: bottles, dish sponges, a pile of toothbrushes and used clothes. The men in white tank tops and black pants sold old junk: socks, sandals, colorful rags like scarf. In the river by the housing construction site, men wash, and a young men brought in a bucket a water. I walked, threading my way among folks, cars, and motorcycles, to my lodge.

I passed a Airtel section, and along a long narrow ditch—the dirt pile and a mass of derelicts. The traffic grew sparse, and before long I spotted the locals up ahead, sitting on the ground in the shade of a crumbling wall. I rushed along the edge of the sandy side road, head down, so that no one could see my face. Nevertheless, women voices could be heard chattering away: “China!” “China!” Then the women let out high-pitched laugh. I could see the vulgar women in the absolute shade beside junk. 

“Fucking dumb bitches. Rubbish.”

The dusty side road opened at left angles to the market, where people sold grilled meat and fish, and vegetables. The smell of burned dust was in the air. A ragged boy with bare feet ran at me and hold out his hand, “China! Money! Ah?” Suddenly I lost my temper, “What is Ah? Shut up, brat, go to hell!” I glared angrily at him, but he was so persistent. “Get lost, scum!” I said all these words in Japanese. Always. Everyday. China, China, China! This boy left a smell of vengeance on me, and calling out, he went quickly toward a poor bunch of bastards, into a huddle. I saw them looking at me, giving me a feeling that I might be hunted. In no time I speeded my walk without turning back. 

I wanted to leave this town. In my lodge I lay down on the bed with my hand crossed under my head—pondering —figuring. At seven, I went out in the square and past the gatekeeper. “Sir, where are you going?” His voice had insinuation that it was unsafe at night. “I’m hungry. I just want to eat something,” I said. “Let’s go with me. You shouldn’t walk alone. The bad guys hang around.” He had gone through the gate. The road was straight, revealing an expanse of a gray nervous clouds before us. We walked—a little way—and fell into a silence. The road ahead was virtually empty. 

I changed my mind and asked him. “Do you know where the nearest bar is?” “Yes, sir,” he turned abruptly, and went back the way. “Come.” In a second he walked close to a brick wall and slipped into the narrow gap like a shadow. Slowing to a thoughtful pace, beyond the wall, I could see an obscure house—so much so that I stopped and stared at anything. Just as I went away, he appeared from the gap. “Come. Don’t worry.” Afraid to stop the flow, I followed awkwardly into the opening.

Troubling at something foreign, I stepped into the entrance. Dust particle floated by an candlelight, spreading out in the air and a phone on the counter glowed in the darkness. I saw that behind the counter stood a specter of a woman. Black Label on the shelf. She looked taciturn and unfeeling, but there was a certain decency in her appearance. I sat at a small round table. My eyes traveled from one corner to another. In one corner two men finished playing cards. Another man in overalls, resting his elbow on the counter, stood by the taciturn woman. Just all of a sudden he ballooned his cheeks, lifted his head up and gulped down a big coke. He abruptly put the empty bin with a thump on the counter and disappeared perhaps the way he thought he was super cool. She stood looking blankly straight ahead, and then she opened a beer with a dour expression.

September 13, 2023

The lodge was made of cedar, with a shake roof, and encircled by the tall trees. I heard wind rattling on the roof. When I awoke to the barking dogs, I felt oddly at peace. I opened the door that led onto the sprawling front porch overlooking the little camp site. A slight chill air was fresh, and the bamboo rustling in the breeze. That had brought me a sense of calm and well-being. Not that I have a heart to feel—it is like being warped in the time being—but today I could experience such a sensation, nevertheless. 

I took a turn in the camp site. Somewhere far away a dog barked, the weeds whispering my steps so clear the two dogs noticed me. From between the bamboo, birds was warbling in beautiful voices. There was no one there, just the two dogs silently playing together. 

Thanks to Azu, whom I met at Iringa, Tanzania, I enjoyed Mzoozoozoo Lodge for the three days. As I was getting ready to check out I left the door open. A brown dog peered uneasily at me a little distance away, wagging his tail and whining. I did not know why he looked so sad because I do not like street dogs. Barking. Biting. Then I will be covered with blood. So much so that I got the rabies vaccine before this long journey.

I had read a closely written note about Malawi that Azu gave me. The note said Soul Rebel Lodge in Nkhata Bay just opened half a year ago. “I love hidden lodge.” To which she had said: “I highly recommend. You will surely like it.” I was aware that the brown dog walked away whining.

I went over to the iron wall of the Lodge. The guard opened the door, which squeaked on its hinges, simultaneously, three dogs ran out. “Oh no,” I said, a little confused. “It’s okay, see you again, sir,” he walked off. The three dog—black, white and brown—came trotting up the road, mouthes open, tongues lolling. Their tails curled, and they wagged pleasantly in the air. I started to walk : the three followed behind me. Every now and then the dogs ran a little ahead, lured by something. The black dog went off the road, sniffing, and moved around the dilapidated area : a row of humble huts stood on each side of the street.

When I stopped, each stopped too, waiting for me to start a walk. On the red earth people sat selling the vegetables and garments. I could see people look at us—one Chinaman with three dogs which caused the people round about to laugh. I trudged along toward the bus station, the sky in a frump of gray clouds. One guy came closed to me and led me to the taxi for Nkhata Bay. And, consequently, this guy seemed to get a kickback.

Two dogs wandered about litter on the red dust. I had left the passenger door open under which the brown dog lay. Occasionally he came mounting and sniffing me. “Your dogs?” two young women broke into a smile in the back seat. “No,” I grinned. “Yesterday I went to the restaurant, walked three miles with them. Once I stepped into its garden, this brown dog led me into the restaurant. Though I ate fancy pasta, he waited quietly beside me. He is wise. After that, we went back to my hostel together.” “They like you!” “Ah, I think so,”I smirked.

The taxi driver started the car and pulled into the road. I looked through the window at the brown galloping full speed, and he soon overtook us. It was a little hard to see owing to the deep cracked windshields, however, my eyes followed the brown. He made his zigzag way through the vehicles far ahead. And then he stopped in the middle of the intersection. He was careful with restless eyes staring at cars, motorbikes and bicycles. As we approached him, the driver beside me blew his horn ; he was disoriented, dodging helplessly and run off to the left.

As we moved on in the mountain, I recalled my dog Andy—I had quite forgotten about his existence since I started living alone. I had once gone back to my parents’ house on my DragStar during a winter holiday. From then on, I had heard say that every time Andy saw motorcycles, he barked excitedly at them, despite the long years of my absence. He was dead ten years or so ago… The car rolled down the mountain into the town and Lake Malawi came into view.

In Nkhata Bay, the stalls sold many fish, and at that time of the morning, when the market place filled with tomatoes and casually strolling people. On the sidewalk, the traditional women marched in single file, with their great load on their heads. It was on a little hill that I came across a restaurant with Rastafarian color sign—ONE LOVE CAFE. It has an art gallery: carvings and handcrafts. Once inside I could overlook the lake on the porch. The owner welcomed me and served coffee—the fishing boats were coming into the harbor—I ate Nshima, fish and tomatoes on a plate.

Soul Rebel Lodge had the superb terrace with view across to the lake, great for chilling and reading in the gentle wind. There were two houses against which the long sea beat, as if to float in the sea, and I had never seen such a clean and spacious dorm, with two shower stalls. I turned the water on a little and held my finders in the stream. Hot water right in the pipes. At night, the sea coming closer, I drank a beer on the sofa, the music drifting through the air and soft light seeping out of the town.

The light of the dawn slanted through the windows when I awakened. Birds sang gently. I got up and put on my black down jacket. I saw an elderly couple fidgeting beneath blankets on an upper bunk. A woman spoke under her breath, the two of them giggling, half childlike. They had gray hairs. I eased to the open door and overlooked the lake. Water lapped the coast—it made a rhythm. Last night it was so loud, that I was not sleeping nice. That was what Azu’s husband had said: “Every thing was okay…but…”

I was going down several stone steps. The air was cool here, and a white man stood alone on the rocks watching the sea. I stepped onto the small cove at low tide. The sea and birds sang. From far off, I could see a black figure paddling a canoe on the lake, and into the sun. No other ones were in sight. There was a manly beauty in nature. It was the very virtue that had built such an unique over the years.

After a while, as I edged to the wooden table where westerners prefer to chill, I saw the sun, still on its morning ascent, growing softly between the trees. I stood at the table. There had a clear view across the lake all the way to the horizon. I stared at an intense orange, the effect was of a single, but with a variety of outlines. The gap of sky was a pale and a blue now. Wishing my father could be here, I observed how sky on the water has such a coloration. He is a true man in the art. An epic no one reachs at he writes.

September 10, 2023

After getting the stamp, I stepped out of the building, into the sunshine. A few guys sat astride their bicycles in the distance. Thoughtfully I took the bottle from my backpack, unscrewed the cap and sipped the water. At Malawi side the ATM did not worked. As I strolled down the road, money changers had not emerged from the locals. A money exchange counter was shuttered, a notice pined. Someone spoke to me. “Today is not business hours.” I found I had quite forgotten today was Sunday, and this was a different country now. 

There were a few small shops—where the inhabitants near the border bought their grocery—nothing but snacks and drinks in no refrigerator. I plodded along, sweating now. Ahead of me, beside the road, the smell of smoke was in air. I watched it from a distance and then moved closer. In front of the dingy brick walls a low fire burned, and a woman sat on a plastic stool cooking grits. The smell of the fish was strong and fine.

The two guy stood beside her. And the woman loaded one plate with Nsima (Ugali), and with a big smoked fish. When she passed the steaming plate up to one guy, I stood stiffly and looked at a dish. Would it be good? I was being ignored completely. Then turning, I walked away. In the shade I took off my backpacks and leaned down. And I worked my whole body comfortably until I finished eating the remaining biscuits. After drinking water, at last I moved up the road, watching the low mountain range.

I could see the empty road ahead curving into the distance. One motorcycle slowed and pulled to a stop beside the road. A young guy turned. “You go to Karonga?” “Yes, how much?” “3000.” “1500 !” “No, it takes about 1 hour.” “1500.” “No, no,” he shook his head. “Well, know where money changers are?” I asked. “Near the border. Go back the way,” he pointed to the border, and then roared away.

I retraced my steps under the sun. On the road, a few guys and bicycles passed by. And from the border the trucks moved in and parked near the border. I stopped a middle-aged man and asked. “Do you know where I can exchange the money?” “You want to meet the men?” “Who is the men?” he pointed to the house on my left under which I could see some stone steps commencing an ascent. I hesitated for a moment. The man, however, had already been upon the steps. “Where are you going?”I asked. “No need to worry. Follow me,” he said. As I came up to him, I saw the three men beneath the eaves playing cards, noticing me. “Welcome. Join us! Join us!”one of them beckoned with his one hand. I stepped slowly backward. A flighty randy man rose to his feet and came close to me. He wore black pants and a yellow checkered shirt.

“Let’s play porker, my friend.” “Sorry, I just want kwacha, then I’m going to Karonga.” “Okay,” he took quickly a bundle of bills from his worn black leather bag, flipping them. “Play porker anyway.” “I don’t know the rule at all.” “I teach you. Relax and enjoy yourself for a little while.” “My English is poor, so I would bother you.” “Where are you from?” “China.” “Welcome, Malawi,” his face had little expression.

From my pocket I took 20,000 shillings for his eyes. “Sorry, small money though.” “Okay, okay,” the randy man used his calculator and showed me the figures. I was a little surprised to find that it was good rate. “Yes, okay, no problem.” At the moment, however, I was more cautious. “I wonder if you could let me see the bills?” “All right,” he said and handed them to me ; I did pinch my shillings between my fingers. Then I counted kwacha awkwardly, comparing the genuine bills on my phone. “You doubt me,” the randy man laughed. “Not fake. Look closely,” he pointed at the display on it. “Yes, yes,”I said embarrassedly.

The two men on the porch stopped playing cards, eating something : maybe curry with Nsima. I supposed at a distance. Apparently this house was restaurant. The randy man seemed to see me. “You want to something to eat?” Of course I had wanted to eat. More than that I never wanted to eat in such a black market. “Sorry, I’m not hungry. I have to go to Karonga. Please tell me. How can I get there?” “Taxi,” turning, he pointed down to parallel parked cars that were the ordinary vehicles : there were no sign of the taxies at all. “Thank you, I’ll go right there,” I said. “Well, brother. Good luck.”

I went down and crossed the road. “I’d like to go to Karonga,”I said to somebody. “Ride on.” A lean man in ragged black T-shirts gestured for me to get into the vehicle that was empty. The seat was hard as expected. I sat waiting for ten minutes or so, alone in the car.

I had never taken a shared taxi before, but in Tanzania, I had watched so many people get into minibuses, their postures and expressions, how they sat in no seat, that there was nothing that came as a surprise to me as the vehicle was crammed with people. When the lean man was behind the wheel, I handed him 5,000 kwacha out of the back seat.

It seemed to happen in Malawi as well as the other countries. The lean man moved casually around the car—I was squashed now, so I lost sight of him, but I created no delay. “Hey, please give me the change,” I said out of the windows, turning my head restlessly from side to side. It is so tiresome—tedious—to demand, that I really hate taxi driver. It also make me feel I was stingy…exposed.

The lean man had disappeared from my view—I suspected he was not a taxi driver. The locals, I could see, did not mind at all how many people were in the vehicle—children gazing at my face and a woman holding her baby, an elderly woman with a big bucket of vegetables and a young woman with a Chanel bag, and a ragged man in overalls. I was uneasy, looking away from the passengers. The lean man moseyed along, exchanging smirks with his fellows. When he came near the windshield, I saw him bring the bills. “Give me the change,”I said loudly, writhing in discomfort. The fellows outside mimicked my voice in a mock-hurt tone : “Give me the change.” The passenger laughed a little in harmony. Before long the lean man opened the door and sat on the driver’s seat. His face seemed steadily. He turned back holding out 2,000 kwacha. The engine started and the vehicle lumbered away.

September 10, 2023

On Sunday morning I had moved from Mbeya to Kyela. The mini bus driver raced across the village while I could feel the little rumble through the ground. I said to the driver: “I go to the border.” He did not reply, looking ahead. Boda Boda(motorcycle taxis) drivers was stationed in front of the little roadside restaurant, and some of them wondered around freely. The grocery shops half awakened in the sun.

When I arrived somewhere in Ipinda, a dozen guys shouted outside—how excited they all were—their eyes followed my Asian face, and when I went down out of the bus, of corse they said : “Border!” “Border!” “Come!” I only wished I could stroll around and have breakfast. In a split second I changed my mind and looked around. “Wait, first I wanna go to the toilet,” I shook off the guys and walked away ; a few followed me. At that moment, one motorcycle pulled up beside me. “Hurry up! Let’s go to the border,” a young man patted its back seat. I said loudly. “Two thousand(about 1 dollar)! ” “Yes, yes. Ride on!” Then his motorcycle moved forward, spouting steam, tuning back to me. “Come!” the other guys let out a bellow of rage, I advanced on him and sat astride behind him—and the Boda Boda swung around and pulled out of the village. 

The motorcycle roared and speeded up down the road—Songwe Border three miles to the south of Ipinda—and we stopped near the border. I paid the man, who turned and sped back. And I looked around speculatively at the border—the guys sauntered over—and conjectured the money exchangers may well come up to me.

It felt like middle of nowhere, and the sun grew warm and bright. I begun to walk to the border, wishing to get to Karonga(Malawi) before it is hot. In front of the barracks the middle-aged-men huddled together. One of the standing man spoke to me. “Where are you going?” “I go to the toilet,” this time I really wanted to—every time I was in nervous…especially before the border. “That building,” the man in gray, dirty overalls walked toward it. “Come.” I went to the building ; inside was Passport Control. “I’m getting along with you,” the man said and led the way into the building. There was the washroom. “Okay, thank you,” I said to the man.  

After urinating, I applied the sunscreen on my face in the mirror. When I saw the man standing in the floor, I hurried out and walked recklessly ; wandering back and forth, back and forth along the long corridor where the rooms were arranged. The man in overalls and nothing else, ragged patched overalls. His hair was grizzled, and his face streaked with dust. He sidled near. “I have to get the stamp,” I blurted out, without looking in his direction. The ragged man walked a step or two ahead of me and turned. “This way,” he gestured with just his eyes. 

I had got the exit stamp during which the ragged man awaited my return. “Let’s go to the border,” he said excitedly. “Sorry, sir, I’m not just in the mood right now. Yesterday I was stolen all my money in my hostel. I have no cash!” I sighed with sadness, and his countenance fell. Of course this was an outrageous lie. As soon as I went out of the building I was away from him. For a while I had been watching him going back to the barracks.

I walked again toward the border. A boy, prowling about, came close to me. “Do you need SIM Card?” I stopped and faced him. “I already have one.” And I continued to walk. From Malawi side the bicycles constantly whisked past—I wondered how Malawian crossed the border, and where they were going.

Sure enough, there the confidence men moseyed around. “You want kwacha?” I ignored them and went through the border, however, and one guy jumped on his motorcycle following me alongside, trying to pitch his exchange rate. “Let’s go, my shop. Ride on,” he said. “I was tired now and should be rest,” I sat on sidewalk steps and took the biscuits out of my backpack and ate slowly. And then I saw him idling near the border, conversing with his fellows. I jumped to his feet, putting on my backpacks and walking briskly down the bridge.

With some helpful directions, I found a brick building to get stamped into Malawi. I handed an immigration officer my ID and yellow card. “Do you have a visa?” “No. I’m going to get a visa on arrival,” I answered the stocky woman. “Did you get E-Visa?” “No, because I am Japanese. I heard my Japanese friend was able to get an Arrival Visa here.” she said nothing and took her leave from the tiny space containing an old desk and a chair. 

I stood waiting, a nervousness discernible for several minutes ; drifting away then finding there were none in the little room. I sighed, wishing I had bought a SIM Card at that time, even though it might be counterfeit. For the next few minutes I found myself gazing out of the window. On the road, tracks and bicycles passed by, but not so many, maybe because it was Sunday morning. “Excuse me.” I turned to find a grim-faced woman in her late thirty. “Do you have wifi?” the woman looked reproachfully at me. “Sorry, I don’t have SIM Card.” “Come.” I was taken to the hallway to be greeted by the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

The doors to the room were closed. The woman disappeared. I stood helplessly comporting myself with proper frigidity and dignity—what shall l do? After a while, the woman walked toward me, opened a door and went inside. I followed her. “Let me show you,”she held out her palm, on which I put my phone. Then a sense of oppression gave way to a expectation that I could enter Malawi, for I got a clear glimpse of the E-Visa text. “Oh, thank you very much,” I said. “I enter my details right away.”

I had already seated myself on a worn-out stool and followed the procedure in my phone. The trouble was that once I uploaded my photo, it backed to the start. Occasionally one person, accompanied by an officer, came to the room and talked with the woman, who released him or her. As my struggles continued, I could see the woman watching me with a disgruntled expression, waiting for the thing to be done.

“Excuse me,” I went to the woman. “Ah…I failed every time I tried,” I showed her the display. “Change the size!” she said harshly. “I know, I know. But…” I came quickly back to the stall.

I drank water from the bottle; and let out my breath, pressing down the dismal fear. She was silent. Time flew away—a separation between her task and mine. It was an hour later that I found a way out; I rose to my feet, stepped to her and said, “Succeeded!” “Okay,” she said with a wry smile. “Do you have the invitation letter?” “Letter…what?” I pretended not to know. “Where are you going to stay?” she went on. “Do you have a reservation?” “Yes. I’m sorry. I did my best but I couldn’t get the letter,” I open the Booking. com app. “I’m going to stay Sumuka Inn…” I said, though I had no intention. “Send an e-mail,” her relaxed face tightened. At the window she loitered there fingering some papers, her back to me as though she went about her new task. Almost simultaneously, I gave up any attempt. “It seems to be impossible to get, I’m sorry for the trouble… I’ll come back to Tanzania.” I gave confused answers and sat on the stall, and fidgeting with my backpacks.

The stocky woman came into the room. “What’s become of him?” she asked the woman. “He doesn’t have the invitation letter,” She was the same taut, undefeated woman. The stocky woman tilted her head to one side, a finger raised to her chin. I thus found myself sitting alone helplessly. On the other hand, I half expected to go through the border. However, there was a conversation that had nothing to do with me. After a few minutes the two were about to go out of the room. Then the woman suddenly turned to me like she would had just remembered something else—and beckoned me to follow her through the door.

“Wait a minute,” she said and entered the next room. The officers loafed along the hallway. The woman came out of the room, “Come!” she said, holding the door open. I entered the room. My attention turned to him, a man who had been sitting by himself in the armchair. At first glance I saw that he was the boss ; he was portly, perhaps in his mid-fifties. “How are you?”he asked, exuding authority. “I’m fine.” “You want to go?” I hesitated but said it anyway : “I’m sorry. But I don’t have the letter from accommodation,” I said, hoping to enter Malawi. “Confound it !” he muttered. Then he turned his chair to make it easy for him to work on his PC. “Sit down,” he pointed to the back in the room, and his face was neither friendly nor unfriendly. For a second or two, I vacillated. Then I went to the disparate assortments of chairs. 

I became restless in the chair when he sat with hard condemning face and watched the display. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, eating the bread. My eyes moved secretly up to the face of the boss, and watched for his lips to move. Then I took my phone from my pocket. With tiredness, I started to reenter my details again. After several minutes I went by instinct toward the boss and said. “Whenever I upload my photo, the error occurs again and again.” He turned to look it and said,  “Your phone(iPhone8) is too old.” That seemed odd—Malawi is a poor country. 

His face hardened. “Yes…” I recoiled. Then he said with some irritation. “You are going to stay Mushroom Farm,” “I’m sorry,” I said, genuinely puzzled. “Mushroom Farm? Very far. You mean, do I have to stay there?” “No, listen,” he said. “I help you.” His expression grew severe and he put a paper bluntly before me. “Take a photo. Attach your visa.”

*

Dear Sir / Madam

We are writing this letter as an invitation and request for Laurent Stephane  K to enter Malawi on 08/09/2023. They will be traveling across the border and staying at the Mushroom Farm during their time in Malawi. Thank you so much for your consideration, and we hope they will be welcomed into Malawi. 

Sincerely

Fiskani Mhango

Mushroom Farm, Manager