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 ground 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. 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.