Month: June 2024 (page 1 of 1)

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.