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.
