K

essays written by K

Category: Uncategorized (page 5 of 6)

When we stop—in Saint Lucia: part2

I emerged at the ranch, on the other side from the University. There were the dotted horses in emptiness before me. The sun was still casting its ray all around. The ground had been consist of mud and gravel, though vehicles had worn it down virtually. I traced their ruts; the horses in a peaceful mood felt like a reprieve from the annoying things in my head.

There was enough space for children to play soccer. Some of the boys darted toward me, “Faster, faster, faster.” I ran with them, and then sped off rather deliberately. Although I felt like I was being chased, when I looked back they had long since cease to run and played soccer with their smiles; besides, I had overlooked the adults barbecuing over beer and reggae. Caribbean people enjoyed a happy, carefree life, unlike most Japanese, who tried far too hard.

The road in the ranch finished abruptly at its periphery. A little way ahead was a row of houses. There was a path through the jungle and among the big fruit trees, a path beaten by vehicles. I recalled an evening when I had run through it. The ranch had disappeared into darkness and I become aware that a vehicle was edging up to me, slowing to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Startled, I got caught in a branch of green plums beneath the franks of dark trees. “I’m just running, sir.” I replied to the police officer. “Look at me.” I tugged at my UNDER ARMOUR T-shirt I wore. He looked me from top to bottom and accepted that reluctantly. “You have to wear something glowing. Or else a car hit you.” I held out my left wrist. “Apple Watch shed light.” “No. Reflection,” he said sternly. Not wanting to put on what was not cool, I said, “I don’t know where to get it.” “Home Depot,” his eyes fixed to my face. “Next time, without it, take you to the police station,” he rolled his eyes and drove off. A short while later, I passed the black man running with no reflection, assimilated with darkness.

The sun had retreated now, purple layer like an hallucination loomed in a residential district full of luxurious houses, and before long I passed by a a matronly woman wearing an off-white Panama hat. “K.” I stopped, looking back, astonished. “Aisha. I didn’t notice. It’s been so long.” She looked younger than her actual age of sixty five. In Saltibus, we had hiked more than three hours a day to visit the clients until she retired. No other person in this country would be as diligent as her. I admired her wonderful energy and bright manner―she invited me to her house for lunch every work day and gave me many local fruits. “Yeah, I’m going to my daughters house. Won’t you come for dinner?” “I wish I could, but … .” I was so happy just to see her.

By the time I could see Laborie bay, where I sometimes swam, the sky was dark. I rounded the corner of the bus stop, going right along the highway with many ups and downs, past large houses hidden behind the woods. A breeze gently shook the shadowy coconut trees and some vehicles had driven past me. I would have been greeted by a soft horn of the bus driver perhaps I knew.

When I saw a pickup truck with several boys on the bed, I knew they would stare at me. “Hey, Chinese,” one of them stood up. “Ack-chooww!” he imitated Bruce Lee with his limbs; the other laughed out loud. I had at least three names in Caribbean countries. Chinese, Chinaman and Ching Chong. I no longer gave a shit, not because of what teenager said, but because everyday someone called me names.

For a while no passersby in sight, but the large trees thin out, and the Massy Stores with lights out here. The woman selling avocados was still there by it. Although I had often bought some, I did not pause and greet her. Once I asked her to sell one for four EC dollar. “Five,” she said soberly. Nevertheless, I did so one more; she resented, turning away and yelled something at a fellow worker in the distance in Creole. Since then I had never decided not to haggle, for she sold so much more delicious and bigger ones than others.

Past the Massy Stores, I had sprinted the path, which descended, the grass poking my feet. In life, there had been so much injury, and it was far from perfect. Crossing the main road toward a tunnel of trees, I did so again as if to obliterate my tracks.

Gentle palm trees rustled in the wind. Along streams stood small wooden terraced houses. Around one of them were some half-naked men, drinking beers and talking boisterously. The heavyset neighbor. I supposed. I had never been asked to join. “K. Watch out for the bricks. I’ve put them away,” he hold a Piton beer in his hand, and I thanked and treated him lightly. The friendly Caribbean people I knew was somehow lazy, unreliable, or irresponsible. 

As I was approaching my house, I could hear the distant music of Gregory Isaacs. Ahead of me, the three small kids played ball. When I came nearer, they broke into a trot. I had no choice but stop and exchanged fists―’yeah man’’―in turn with each of them. At the same time, I saw, just beyond them, stray dogs I feared might attack me.

*

I looked at the torii gate jutting out of the bay, the morning sun overhead. When the tide goes out, you can go there. Every day, I passed the elderly woman running recklessly―her shoulders stooped and her gaze forward―in her awkward movement. She looked diligent and stubborn,  however her several muscles were so lazy that her figure lacked beauty. Why could not she stop and face her own weakness? But no one would stop her because she would never stop until she could be ruined. Her self-righteousness hampered her from knowing another world.

When we stop—in Saint Lucia: part1

In Japan, I was running on the island. Office workers, rushing, can not stop except at traffic lights. Runners and walkers remained impassive. However, I sensed its perfection―skyscrapers and rows of houses, shopping malls and sports facilities, hospitals and parks. No inconvenient. These modern architectures and its ground had been clean and well-maintained. But, I never felt right about its beauty, the sidewalks draining my energy.

It was easy for me to become nostalgic, and there appeared to be much interaction on an island. I had lived in a magnificent house atop a hill. Here was where I seemed to develop a complete sense of isolation myself.

l opened the door and stepped out onto the terrace. There were bricks into pieces by my feet. I was hovering in the corridor anxiously; it occurred to me I had heard a thud yesterday. A raid on my house? It could not be.

The plantains (similar to banana) was covered with overgrown trees of my garden. It had been a year since the heavyset, half-naked neighbor opened a coconut and gave me, its milk dripping down and I sucked it immediately. I supposed he neglected to take care of my house.

Here was where this house commanded the colorful houses all the way to the clear sea. This was Saint Lucia, the beautiful Caribbean island, where the hot weather all year round and the old ways did not seemed relevant, where I was trying to invent myself.

“Hey. How are you? Are you enjoying?” A woman raised her voice. I could see the woman with her kids hanging out on the veranda of the orange apartment. “Yes.” I raised my arm feeling well.

On the adjacent property, there were the large trees that were a riot of mangoes; sometimes, I climbed up to gather them. I loved eating the big, ripe mangoes. It would be very expensive to eat such luscious ones in Japan, so I had done with every meal.

Recently, I had noticed a strange black woman sitting alone on the stairs next to my house. The beggar wearing filthy dark clothes did not seem dangerous. but I turned to the door, locked, and checked again. Indeed, I could recall the homestay in Gros lslet. The front door of the house was double with four keyholes―the way of turning the key was all different―I had been unable to manage to open. Protected with iron bars were all the windows of Caribbean countries’ houses. Once inside the house, you would feel as if you were imprisoned.

It was in the early evening and I turned on my Apple Watch on my left wrist, starting to run. The road had been descending steeply; past the imposing house where the rich white man resided. And at the same time I recalled a rainy day―that I had walked under my umbrella with the heavy bags after shopping at the Massy Stores. By the time a vehicle slowed to a halt beside me, I found I managed not to stagger along. “Ride on,” said a white-haired gentleman in a BMW, who picked me up and took me home.

Past the splendid pastured horse, at the corner of the two sky-blue drums that symbolized the Caribbean sea, a cat slinked about the overflowing garbage. The road now leveled. I crossed a small bridge and into the graveled path that rose. The grass field entered the picture―several goats that moved around, palm trees waving in the wind. There was no one there. I ascended the path for a few minutes, feeling clean inside, and here―the buses ran with the blare of music like reggae―was on the main road. If you raised your hand, the driver would jam on the brakes.

The path along the main road was uneven and uphill all the way, but I had a sense that I continued to overcome small obstacles. “K,” I saw the vehicle pulling up beside me; stopped running. “Everything is okay?” She was my colleague and on her way home. The aloneness of me would have made her worry. “Thank you. I’m all right.” “If you have anything, ask me. Okay?” she drove away and I felt light.

At the next bend, I was greeted by a black sign marked “GUINNESS” on the huge billboard; I would enjoy drinking it after running. To the left appeared Health Sciences University where the doctor next door, who was American over forty years old with no family, had worked as a docent. He seemed not to want to have much to do with me, perhaps because I was not a white-collar worker. A few months after I moved in, he simply said “good-by“ and left for Colombia.

On the other hand, there had been so painful things that I was wary of my surrounding. My memories was flashing before me―some off-leash dogs biting me. The owner scolded them at once, but showed no sign of apology to me, in spite of blood on my legs. Having barking excitedly at me, they tagged behind him, as though to have to defend their owner. At the sight of him surrounded by his loyal dogs, I was unable to say anything to him―you’re supposed to say something?

The other day, a fat woman holding her little boy’s hand pointed at me. ”Look,” she said to her son, laughing out loud. They started to march singing a racist song that insults Asian; I had ignored her with the utmost contempt. Who would not enlighten her on demeaning her own race before “Black Lives Matter?”

Expectations—in Saint Lucia

“K.” I heard a girl’s voice, and turning, saw the two cute girls skipping down the hill toward me. I stopped biting the mango, its yellow juice running down my wrist. “This is the invitation,” one of the girls said, holding out the card to me. “Oh, I knew you were going to graduate in September,” I wiped my mouth with my short sleeve. “Yes. You’d be a ‘welcome guest,’”she said. “Thank you. I’II go the ceremony,” I said in my teaching voice.

Covering their mouth with their hands, they faced each other, chuckled, and scuttled to the school, where I had taught 6th grade pupils yoga every Wednesday throughout the year the boys and girls thoroughly enjoyed my lesson.

As a matter of fact, I was reluctant to attend the graduation ceremony. Imagine a principal or executive giving a speech in the official language. It was just boredom. However, I supposed they prepared something special ―a gift or message cards or a photo album―so I could not let them down.

*

I sat an empty seat at the back in the auditorium. Colorful balloons strung from the ceiling adorned the whole room, people smartly dressed with dreadlocks: the men wore red, blue or green shirts, the women shimmery or partly patterned dresses. I was, in fact, unremarkable in a white shirts and black trousers with an Asian face.

The presumptuous speech of a principal and executives seemed to be no different from that of Japanese ones. Then, I was seeing each alumnus holding his diploma, taking a photo with his homeroom teacher, and it made me smile a little.

As I watched a slideshow of the alumni on the big screen, the yoga photos―several pupils lined up in wheel pose (yoga pose) by a seaside―was projected; I was delighted to learn they did it outside of class. And then a girl begun to introduce me. “K is from Taiwan … .” No, no. You are funny. I am Japanese. I am certain I had said that many times. Then a boy followed her. “He loves ‘Jackie Chan.’” I laughed. Not me, it was you who always mimicked his actions. I never even said the word, “Jackie Chan.” 

Some people exchanged a quick smirk and glanced back at me. Meanwhile, I had leant forward on my chair so that I would go up to the stage when my name was called. But the next moment, the yoga photos switched the other ones of a picnic in the woods―I was somewhat disappointed and sat back on my chair.

Now, one by one each alumnus handed his teacher or educator a small gift and hugged each other. What was in the boxes: food, drink, daily necessities? The presentation ceremony was nearly over; when I saw a pupil approaching me, I would get to my feet, reaching for him, and maybe I would pat his head instead of a hug. I would say something good and shake his hand strongly, and then I would take graduation photos surrounded by the alumni―that would suffice in what I could do.

There had been the lively hubbub throughout the auditorium. A number of guests begun to stand up, then I saw a couple leaving the room. No one pupil came.

I walked out of the auditorium into the narrow corridor, and made my way to the 6th grade classroom next to it, looking at its stage from outside the window. Just as my eyes met with a few pupils, they yelled at me. “Yogaman,” “Jackie Chen.” I smiled and waved to them, but almost Immediately they begun to fool around, barely paying attention me.

“K.” Hardly had I turned to a voice when a girl in a glittering ethnic costume tugged at my arm. “Come.” A tumult of shouting and laughing came from inside it, but she had kept her arm in mine and we now walked back down the corridor; descending the staircase. I was a “yogaman” with Asian face, notably popular with the locals and guessed there would be something of the hospitality to me, recalling the word “welcome guest.”

*

We were standing in front of a dimly lit door by the playground. The glittering girl opened the door and let me in first. The room was packed with people and some stuff; the air stagnant―in the slant of sunlight, a column of dust motes floated upward. At the corner, there was a pile of scattered tools: pairs of scissors, packing tape and crumpled paper. I could see some people eating around a few small tables, including the 6th grade homeroom teacher giving me a cold look with her languid posture, and others putting some food onto their plates from glass bowls.

“We’ll treat you to dinner,” she said, pointing at the plates. I obeyed her. The wood floors were shabby and creaky. I took a plate and regarded the choice: neither fried plantains nor green figs agreed with me, stewed chicken was dry, salad and fruits no fresh. I normally had eaten such meals, felt a little bad.

I put my plate on the empty table, being careful not to bump into the people stranded in the narrow aisles. Straddling a fixed wooden stool, back to back with the person behind me, I was forced to sit up straight.  Under the table, I  had stepped on a tube of paint and it had leaked.

After the dinner, I found myself alone in the playground, gazing at the pupils clustering around a teacher. Some children ran around with snacks. There was the convivial atmosphere around me―to pop music, the man and women in brilliant native dress dancing in a circle, other people enjoyed talking and laughing in little groups who would not have anything to do with me.

Hovering in the middle of the playground, I poised between solitariness and joviality amidst an aloofness just where I could be myself, and came to the conclusion that joining in such atmosphere was no part for me. I could recall the drinking parties, where I always feigned that I enjoyed myself. I sat awkwardly by myself on the tatami floor, giving a feeble smile, while people around me talked with much jollity and wandered from table to table. Not wanting to be seen as isolated, I expected someone to talk to me.

“K, hurry up.” Turning toward a girl’s voice, I was relieved to hear my name called again, since I had been isolated since the beginning. Whether home or abroad, I did not know how to interact with people. At the school entrance, a pupil beckoned me to follow her. Not expecting anything so special, I started walking in a trot to.

We both went through the school gate and stopped in front of the hillslope. “K, cross the road,” she pointed to the hilltop; the rattling sound of a bus (they call van bus) could be heard in the distance. “The last bus.” she said. I found myself at the bus stop in no time and raised my hand to ride on.

Just as I got into the bus, it begun to pull away. The reckless driver warned me of something; I noticed the door was ajar. “Disclosed … ,” he muttered.

Dastard—in Uyuni: part2

Sunset in Uyuni Salt Flats

The volcanos reflected in the lake. We started to take the photos of the view, even though I was not in a mood to―it was disgusting the way that bitch made an allusion to the nasty thing about me. Of corse, there is no one to be able to point out her insolence.

While I managed to disguise my agitation, the driver silently pointed in the direction of the sun that started to touch the horizon. I gazed at the orange shape glowing and inflating as if it provoked me to anger. The sun was now sinking into the ground and the sky had become deep blue. I had been extremely busy taking photos, walking back and forth. Finally the sky lost the color―purple layer loomed above the volcanos.

After sunset, as we huddled round the jeep, the driver said, “The starlight and the sunrise, more beautiful.” “Really?” said the plump young woman with curly, black hair. “Well then, let’s go, let’s go, see starlight,” another plump woman with brown hair was elated who might had yelled at me. What are they talking about? I was going to go to La Paz tonight.

“Oh, that sounds good,” the small man said, putting his tripod in his backpack, and the young man agreed with them, too. Are they serious? I felt so restless. 

“What do you think about that?” the plump woman with brown hair asked the newlyweds. I was worried that they would be talked into it, looking at them. The groom got closer to the bride and said, “Is that going to be a problem?” She flinched. She moved away from him a little, considering this for a moment and I studied her troubled face―she glanced at the others, especially the females, as though to care what they would think. “That’s okay,” she said, looking down.

“I have plan,” the plump woman with brown hair said loudly. I was outsider, but spoke out. “I’m sorry. I’m going to La Paz tonight … If the driver drove me alone to the station, no problem, but could leave you behind here.” I made myself heard them. There was no response―they had kept their face blunt.

They could not tolerate my refusal of the photos and it would have been perfectly controversial. To a loner, being among the Japanese who values harmony, not individual freedom, was encumbrance. “Of corse,”I should have said, because I could sense many eyes despised me.

The plump woman approached the driver. “I want to see it. I want to, please.” The driver was overwhelmed with her and said nothing. Then she went on, “Is there any good way? Since we’ve come all the way from Japan, we should stay far longer. Don’t you think?”she said in Japanese. He looked away from her and kept silence; the young man begun to translate her words into Spanish for him. “What did he say? What did he say?”she exited.

“Go back alone,” another plump woman said from where I could not see her. The bitch was behind the trunk of the jeep. On the other side of the jeep, there were the newlyweds alone. They stood close to each other with their backs on its windows and kept to themselves. I did not know what I was supposed to do anymore―it was impossible to slip out of the center of the lake.

Tired of looking at the conversation between the young man and the driver, the plump woman with brown hair started to talk with another plump woman, and the small man, despite being mature enough, pretended not to notice anything around him, groping in his backpack for something.

“Did your camera manage to take good photos?” the plump woman with brown hair asked him abruptly. He dug out his camera from his backpack and checked the photos in no time. “Yes, yes, of course. Good, very good,” he forced a smile, as if to humor her. Is he a moron? He was like her henchman.

Unlike the others, the young man turned up in front of me. “Can’t something be done?” he asked. I thought he was the closest to a decent person. “No, I have to go back. I reserved the ticket for La Paz already, That’s why I chose ’1day tour,’ ” I went on. “I’ve said nothing wrong, and the driver is here on business. He’ll have to go back to his office.”

There was an awkward moment, before him, being neither one nor the other. “Gals are still children. You should tolerate,” he said. Meanwhile, the plump woman with brown hair was looking at us. “Is this bastard still complaining?” she said, not looking at me and left. The way she had cursed me indirectly had been irritating me. If I could, I would have put her head into the salt.

The young man, wanting to fit in with the females, turned around and walked toward them. He started joking and laughing with them as if nothing happened; the plump woman with curly, black hair slapped his back. I sighed and got into the jeep.

*

In the jeep, the plump young women sulked for so long. They obviously took the lead, followed by the others, as if to be obedient to authority. No wonder that the plump women’s behavior―egotism, arrogance, and insensitivity―was justified.

On the other hand, I felt certain that the newlyweds had been standoffish. If I tried to talk to the groom, my effort would be painful. I knew well enough from past experience that if you were made outcast, nobody would talk to you, like you were not here.

I was not going to say―“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. For troubling you”―with such banal expression courtesy. If they thought I disturbed peace, that was okay. No matter how much they grumbled about me, I was right. I am used to being hated. Unlike these assholes, it is just that I have my own opinion. 

“Why don’t we share photos with everyone?” a plump young woman said in a soft, coaxing voice, trying to strike a chord with the others. I was certain this kind of woman was in fragile mind―the last thing she wanted to do was that the others left her.

“Our hotel is close to yours. Which lobby do you think is better? Somewhere cozy,” a plump young woman said to the two men, both of whom seemed to hesitate for a second or two. Once they had gotten along with the plump young women, it was hard to ditch them, so I felt contempt and pity.

We drove through the darkness. The driver said, “You couple, almost there.” I turned in the front passenger seat. The newlyweds, making themselves agreeable, bade farewell to the others. “I’ll send you the photos later,” the plump woman with brown hair smiled, showing off how close she was with them.

“Thank you for taking photos for me.” I said to the groom, but being busy bowing to the others had enabled him to ignore me. After stepping down off the jeep, the newlyweds waved their hand toward the backseat.

There was silence behind me that indicated the tenuous relationship between the newlyweds and the others had ended, but not sadness prevailed, rather as though they had done their stint. They started to mutter: “I’m hungry,” “I’m sleepy,” “My makeup came off.” The topic of the newlyweds would no longer come up.

The driver brought the jeep to a halt in front of the bus for La Paz. I jumped out of it, to extricate myself from the Japanese, who only cared about themselves. I raised the trunk lid and snatched up my backpack. In the jeep, there were four forlorn figures and silence reigned once again. I stared at their backs, wanting to shout abuse at the “cowards.” Instead, I confined them in what they called harmony, which allowed them to do so at me, and walked off toward the bus.

When I boarded the bus, the foreigner crowded the aisle. I made my way through passengers and sinked into my seat near the rear. I was too tired to think about anything. 

“It was good? Uyuni,” asked the blonde white woman next to me a few minute later. “Yes, yes, of corse,” I said, repeating a phrase I had heard the small man use on the plump woman with brown hair. “You doesn’t look like that.” Startled, I saw the slender woman turning to me; she appeared more appealing than when I had met her.

Dastard—in Uyuni: part1

Uyuni Salt Flats

April 2017

It was in the early morning and I was out of breath―3700m above sea level. The scene looked as if the snow settled lightly on the road. As I staggered along Av. Ferroviária of a lot of Uyuni tour offices, a local woman solicited me to join the tour; I could not afford to choose a tour company, with a headache and nausea that would not go away. I consented and followed her.

She opened the door encircled by messages on sheets of paper that flapped in the wind, most of which were written in Japanese―I was encircled by the Japanese messages on the numerous papers all aver the walls.

As I did the procedure, “Uyuni Salt Flats Tour 1 day + Sunset,” I noticed a young man, around twenty, sitting on the couch looking down. Maybe Japanese. Then I heard the door open and turned back. Two plump young women in the pink jackets stuck together. Japanese. They were both in her early twenties and looked exactly alike―the same height, long hair and shorts on leggings. The young man looked up, pleased to see the new women in front of him. They were chatting and greeting one another.

I walked right past the plump young women and out of the office. It was a little cold. Noticing there was a cafe nearby, I stepped inside. I could sense I enter a quite different atmosphere at the sight of Westerners having breakfast, who would go to the Salt Flats. I flopped into a green plastic chair at empty table and for a while caught my breath. At the far end, I could see the map and postcards of Uyuni on the cream-colored walls. And I was thinking about where to stay in La Paz tomorrow over fruit juice and mellow music.

When I came back to the office, I found a new small man in his late thirties mingled with them. They seemed to establish a friendship group. It was none of my business. I was a loner and preferred to get involved with foreigners who accepted various values, but this tour would be for Japanese.

We got into the jeep, I sat in the front passenger seat and the driver started the engine. We edged forwards on the rutted road like melted snow.  In the back seat, there was an attempt to strengthen a sense of Japanese unity: “So do I,” “I think so,” “I agree,” “You’re right,” “I’m with you,” and so on.

The small man, who was such a lame, said, “I’m a programmer and engineer.” It was a kind of boasting. “That sounds great,” exclaimed both young women, who must like players, feigning their emotions.

“Look, they’re Korean, unmistakably,” one of the young women said in a harsher tone, feeling proud of being Japanese. I glanced out at three men standing side by side. “Judging from their hairstyles.” she said, looking down at them. They had straight bangs of voluminous black hair. I felt somewhat uncomfortable with her words―a haughty demeanor, as many Japanese have, as though they are an extraordinary race.

On the way, the jeep came to a halt in front of the hotel. And then a couple emerged out of there and rode in. “Nice to meet you,” they said, bowing toward us and the man sat in the seat behind me. There followed a few words of welcome. They were newlyweds―the groom looked gentle and sincere; the bride was plain either in modesty or shame. Both young women, who tried to look so good, had turned their own language into something a little more formal.

There appeared to some interaction between Japanese. I was isolated in the front seat, not talking to anyone except the driver, who was never much of a talker. But only the groom paid a little attention to me, so I occasionally looked back, to make small talk; the bride, smiling, nodded along with him, to adapt her husband’s way.

On the way, we all were having lunch around a table at the restaurant. I felt myself exchanging a word or two―either “excuse me” or “thank you”―with all of them, simply to move plates or pour water into glasses. I did not have appetite, not only because I had altitude sickness, perhaps because I was with “the Japanese,” which made me feel more stifling.

As I was idling around the restaurant, I noticed someone speaking to me. “Hey, I saw you at Machu Picchu. You were hiking along the rail,” said a woman with long black hair behind her ears. She looked slender. “I got caught. Machu Picchu and Uyuni are the regular tourist spots. But what a coincidence.” “Yeah,” she widened her eyes. “We might happen to meet somewhere.” “I think so,” she laughed, disappearing; I felt the human warmth.

The jeep with splashes continued to run on the salt reflecting a ray of sunlight. Arriving at the small island in the center of Uyuni lake, Isla Incahuasi, we saw directly a lot of cactuses. They would hike in two groups: the two young women and the young man and the small man, and the newlyweds. Of corse I was going to do alone.

I ascended the stairway to the top of the island, where the newlyweds hold hands and looked happy―I became distance from them so as not to intrude on them. As I overlooked a lot of cactuses, they suddenly came right up to me. “I’ll take photos for you,” he was about to reach out my phone. “Sorry for the trouble,” I said. Then we enjoyed taking photos of one another. “I could take your photos anytime, so please, feel free to talk to me,” he said in a calm tone. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

As I had descended the steeply slope, I encountered the young man climbing up. He told me that the departure time got closer and pointed to the jeep far below. It was he who had translated what the driver had said in Spanish into Japanese. He was a good man and knew a lot about the world; I was curious as to how he did his business in Patagonia.

In the lake, we had driven to the certain point to see sunset. I could no longer see anything but the salt carpet with splashes out of the wheels. When we got there, the sky was clear. There was white after white all the way to the volcanos.

I walked on the salt for a while, squatted and touched the salt. “Why don’t we taking trick photos?” The groom said softly, the bride smiled a little, and I was glad I had a chance to take perspective photos―I stood in front and raised my arm,  palm upward, he posed far back and she took my photos: I manipulated a dwarf on my palm.

“Excuse me. Would you please join us?” a small man spoked to me for the first time. “We will have to make the poses together.” I did not want to waste my valuable time. I had never seen such a sight in my life. I wanted to sense the mystery of nature to my heart’s content. “I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t like having my photo taken.” I made an excuse. Not having anticipated that I said this, he took a little back and said nothing else.

I tried jogging on the lake. I felt good, so I ran as fast as I could. The huge void and cool air engulfed me―turning back, I could see them in the distance, posing for the camera on the tripod and after a moment, I stopped with my back to them. I raised my arms above my head, inhaling deeply; my heart filled with happiness. Suddenly I heard an exclamation, designed to be in a scarcely audible voice.

“It’s insane, that jerk. He must join us, or else get lost!”

I might be an introvert but could be a real man—in Trinidad Tobago

Once the taxi driver found out I was Japanese, he said, “I went to Tokyo last year,” “Kyoto is beautiful,” “I like sushi.” I had heard it hundreds of times. It was typical of so many clichés. I had been reminded of the annoying question: “How often do you eat sushi?” “Have you ever seen ninjya?” “Teach me karate,” and so on. The most baffling question: “How many times a week you wear a kimono?” … Only once as a child, maybe.

On the other hand, the taxi driver had a good conscience. I had negotiated with other taxi drivers at 200 TT-dollars (about$30) for a taxi charter, but he was only one who readily agreed, so I had to play along with his talk―he was supposed to wait for me for two and a half hours while I was on the tour to see scarlet ibis at Caroni Swamp.

In the taxi, I soaked in the afterglow of scarlet ibis and said, “The steelpan, I just think about whether to go see. There is still time.” “I highly recommend it, so traditional, I will take you right there.” “Oh really? But you will work after this, won’t you? Besides, a little far from Woodford Square, where I got into. Will it cost extra?” “No, no, no worries,” he did not mention this any further; I wondered if it made business sense, and said, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” 

We got stuck in traffic on the highway. Then after a long silence he said, “By the way, tomorrow, where are you going?” “Airport, I’m going to Tobago, though hurricane is approaching.” “As always. Would you allow me to drive you the airport?” I balked momentarily―outside was dark―that would be the demanding task for him. Not only was I going to be early tomorrow morning, it was expected that he would be late. This was a Caribbean country. A sense of time is entirely different from that of Japanese.

“No, problem, I make an early start. I’m leaving seven a.m, so I’ll use a bus.” “But, you must carry heavy baggage. After I’ll call you, l’ll head for your hotel. Around seven a.m, okay?” I was so punctual, that it was better to refuse his offer, but I felt like I should accept his act of kindness willingly.

The following morning, his taxi had not parked. It is time for him to come here. I made a phone call to him, but could not get through, not knowing if he was coming or sleeping. I made up my mind to wait for him a little―he had been very good to me. Fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, I felt uncertain about when I should I give up on him, wanting to believe him … I put my backpack on and rushed toward the main road, where I would take on the bus. 

Dry wind drafting, I was lingering outside airport in Tobago. “K.” Turning around, I saw a woman put her head out the BMW window and thinking she was Amanda (anonymous), Airbnb host. After she showed me the host house, she drove me around the town: grocery stores, restaurants, a ATM―her action was exactly the same as the reviews that I had checked in advance. I needed a bicycle to go there and asked her to drop in at a rental shop.

“No, 250 TT-dollars for five days,” the clark said soberly. After payment, I rode the bike and headed for  the ocean, where Caribbean Sea and North Atlantic Ocean collide. But as I pedaled it, my buttock hurt and noise―the creaking sound of the saddle. I went back to the shop to have it exchange for another one, but it was closed despite one p.m. 

That evening after cycling around the town, soaked with sweat, I wanted to take a shower straight away. The light in the bathroom in the host house was out of order. I left its door open and went into the room that was very dimly lit. When I turned the faucet, the water came out with tremendous momentum, which hurt my back. I assumed that water pressure was weak overseas. That was too extreme.

The refrigerator did not work, either. I texted Amanda, the host. Then her tall siblings came to check it around midnight. As the tall man examined the fridge, it occurred to me that a landlord had blamed me for breaking the TV before: I was seen as a Chinese and she claimed that I hit it many times.

He said I could use another one in the house next door that they owned. I was relieved that they did not think that was my fault rather than I could. Inconvenient though I felt, I said thank you very much to them; I was concerned about Amanda’s review to me and feared she might think I was a troublesome person. The bathroom troubles were small things.

Whenever I rode the bike past the bicycle rental shop, it remained closed. There was a limit to what my buttock could endure. One day, the moment I got off the bike by the sea, the thong of my flip-flops snapped. As I was at a loss what to do, I remembered Amanda’s mother, who gave me mangos and who I thought might repair it, lived upstairs in the host house. 

Barefoot on one leg, pedaling the bike up the slope lined with exclusive hotels, I heard a voice. “Hey, Chinese. Are you having fun?” Stopping, in the parking lot of one of them, I saw the man, the clark who had done sloppy work, sticking his head out of the window of his car and the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “Yes, of course. I enjoy myself.” I blurted out without meaning to―I might not have wanted to intrude on them, not saying anything about the bike. But he said, “Good. You have to return it before you leave. Have a nice day,” he drove off; I pedaled it again.

I showed Amanda’s mother my flip-flops. In an instant she fetched the tool box from inside the house. And then I saw her pierce the joint of the thong with two short wires, which was crossed and fixed on the back of it. I was taken aback by her quick wit and thanked her. When I was about to go downstairs she gave me mangos and a map in Tobago, on which she told me the sightseeing spots in great detail. I had felt her warmth without a hint of self-interest.

The next day, from Scarborough, the capital of Tobago, I took a bus for Englishman’s Bay that Amanda’s mother recommended me. I told the driver that I would get off at Englishman’s Bay and sat in the seat behind him. As the bus went through the mountain road with ups and down, it began to rain and I started to feel motion sick. After a while, I checked my location by using GPS on my phone; the bus approached the bay.

The bus, however, went past that area. I totally thought he would pull up near the bay or say something to me before reaching there. How would I have misinterpreted the map? I begun to wonder if I should ask him. Probably he took a detour to avoid some obstacles. I waited and saw for a while. Obviously the bus moved away from the bay. It was getting cold and the rain had fallen steadily―I had long since lost my desire to go. In the meantime, farther and farther. Soon the bus stopped at the end of the line, where I alighted from the bus.

In the afternoon, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, and I felt a little better, ending up in Nature Park, where there was a unique and quaint atmosphere. It looked like some wildflower garden that housed a variety of wildlife: apes, sea turtles and Tobago birds.

The owner gave me a tour of his park that he had made himself; teaching me about the animals, encouraging interaction with them, and he said, “I consider whether to go Japan. I want to learn pottery. But, there would be few Japanese who speak English, despite a developed country.” Not shallow, how profound insight he had struck home to me. Then he went on. “From time to time, Japanese groups come see the birds. They are not good at English. When I spoke to one of them, she seemed to be puzzled and asked others for help, giving me a little smile.”

“You observe Japanese well,” I said. He never asked the mundane questions about Japan. “Are you interested in sightseeing?” I asked, never having asked such a thing. He stood with his back on an ape eating peanuts from back pockets of his jeans and hardly hear me; I felt that his affection to animals was what he cared for. 

“Why do Japanese not change the job? They don’t look at things with open minds. I don’t understand.” He got to the very heart of the matter. I felt myself interested in talking to him.

“They are averse to change, not wanting to fail, while most of them are insecure about current situation. They’ve been patient, so they aren’t used to being assertive. And they’ll have to be very patient, even when they will be sick of it or go in the wrong direction. Patience, it’s virtue. In other words, ‘timidity.’”

Conservative man—in India

I got on the train from New Delhi to Haridwar and sat on a seat. What I had looked forward to was a train trip in India. I could feel myself relaxing, and I would be soon comfortably, savoring the view, the ambience and some refreshment. What the hell? I saw a portly man in his fifties with gray hair hovering near the train doors. Clearly Japanese. Stay away. I spread my legs, wrapping my arm around  the top of the seat next to me, and made it appear as if I was so nasty, hoping he would pass by me.

He looked around for an empty seat; I turned my face out of the window. Don’t come here, please. “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” he said in Japanese. What a disgusting man; he spoiled my mood. If I choose who I spend my time with, is not between Japanese, is between local people making me feel exoticism of India. It sucks. I gave a slight nod, frowning at him. He stood beside me and with sitting motion he said, “May I sit here?” He sat on the seat before I could answer. I sighed wearily. I was compelled to be with him for five hours on the train. 

He spoke to me: “Nice weather today huh?” “When did you arrive at India?” “Where did you come from Japan?”―a mundane talk. I said languidly a word, yes or no in order to intend that I was not going to talk with him, and then took a book from my backpack.

Hardly had I turned the page when he started to talk about himself; that was enough, leave me alone. “I had worked as a public officer for more than thirty years.” He flaunted his career as if he was decent person. I had heard that introductory phrase somewhere one gives a formal speech. It is virtue for his generation to work for the same place until retirement. But thirty years? I definitely can not, so boring that it is little less than killing me. No stimulating. For me, saying that is tantamount to saying you were not courageous to try something new. But for them, giving up halfway through as I did means contaminating their carrier, a shame or a failure.

Of course, he would have worked for family and devoted his life to his company. But, there would have been times when he encountered the unseemly situation―abiding orders that do not make sense, severe reprimands despite his good action, or personal changes against his will; there were no way around that. At the worst, he may have feigned ignorance for his colleagues who were treated unfairly―like bullies―while feeling pity for him. In any case, he proved to me that he had done whatever it took to survive in his company as wage slave, albeit good or bad.

“I retired from the work already,” he said with some dignity. “In Japan, up early every morning, I walk my dog in the park, and then relax at home all day.” He looked as if he had recuperated away from the battlefield, where he strived to survive for thirty years. I believed that the 50s and 60s are the most ultimate generation. The amount of his experiences that he has accumulated is immeasurable. He could have summed up his experiences that young people lacked and started up new business. Why let the special advantage go to waste? Young people would be animated by seeing older people be going to aim higher.

“On my last trip, I went to south India, where I ate curries. Those tasted different from the north ones,” he went on. “The south was good place, far more idyllic than New Delhi, it was tranquil. I recommend.” As he said this, I felt myself disarmed by his peaceful mood implying that he wanted to unwind and enjoy himself. He looked kind, but he was just a boring man with portly frame. I liked the person who poured his own passion and intensity into what he loved and who was always challenging.

Those who never tried doing many different things while young seemed likely to defend his own interest. I recalled my superior, who conceited himself and clung his position. He thought he need not improve himself any longer. And to consolidate the hierarchy between him and me, he often said he had worked so hard that he was now in a position to nurture young people.

Working so hard meant working long hours―work on a day off or overtime. Strange to say, getting results in a short period could be seen as cutting corner, laziness.

Meanwhile, however, I believed that the act of nurturing others meant that his own potential was reduced to zero. For instance, sports athletes culminate at the certain point. But soon or later, there will come when they will no longer able to earn money as active players. After that a retired athlete becomes a mentor to make room for others.

There would be a natural fear to be overtaken by young men who were competent. He knew it would be more difficult to find new job as he got older, so his first priority had to protect his own life and position; we all had lost sight of the essentials of the work—making products that ‘’delight our customer.’’

“This is my first trip to the north. I’m going to Rishikesh via Haridwar too, where I will take the cable car, to see Mansa Devi Temple.” He seemed to be full of life, and said, “Possibly I will encounter you in Rishikesh. Yoga, sounds interesting, I guessed, but not sure, I will try it.” It occurred to me that he would reward himself for making achievement and contribution for thirty years―he must have endured emotional suffering: demanding tasks, human relationships, promotion races, which I could not. As for myself, I just stood at starting point, to live my life by just doing what I liked.

We got off the train together, strolling for a while in Haridwar. He asked me. “Do you want to have lunch with me?” “I wish I could say yes, but I’m not hungry,” I said without hesitation because he is not my boss because this is India.

Japanese culture is based on vertically hierarchical relationships, a junior submissively follow a senior, and the atmosphere would not allow you refusing, even if the difference was only one year of experience among them. Whenever I went out for a dinner or a drink with senior, I just could not be myself by taking a back seat to him, and surmising how he really thought and resonating with his feeling, so exhausted.

I had once evaded my senior’s invitation for a drink. He said I was a kind of odd. Furthermore, I had tried to dodge it from my boss: “How dare you refuse my invitation,” he smirked. I was unpleasant that they said that. In Japan, being considered odd is as good as having no social skill.

“Oddball,” while it is unique, is far from ordinary people who devoted their life to one company. I loathed to do the same thing as others―just doing as you are told without saying your opinion, reading the atmosphere.

After He and I parted, I felt at ease. He would not have sensed he wasted my precious time. I wandered around the town, not wanting to meet Japanese any more. Every now and then, Indian stared at me. It made me feel exposed and in India where I was new.

I want to go to Varanasi

It had been a month since the Government of India announced the issuance of new 500 rupee and 2’000 rupee notes. When I came back to New Delhi, I was overwhelmed by an increasing number of people in a long line snaked around the ATM. They were quiet and seemed to be used to such a circumstance.

At New Delhi railroad station, I was able to 2 sleeper-trains’ tickets: from New Dehlhi to Varanasi, from Varanasi to Kolkata, using 2’000 rupee notes. I felt better than I had been; I imagined that, in Dashashwamedh Ghat, the main ghat in Varanasi, I waded through Ganges river and did my morning ablutions with local people, terrible smell drifting by cows. In some way, I might have tried to assimilate into India or sought something stimulating.

That evening I waited for the sleeper train to Varanasi, but it had not come. To check the monitor, I went back to the inside station square. It said the train was delayed for three hours. I sighed, banged my backpack down and killed time reading a book on a bench. Three hours later, I got to my feet and walked to the platform again. One train after another were passing by me in the darkness.

I looked at the monitor: five hours delay. It was past midnight; I was tired. In the square, hundreds of people in blankets lay on their own sheets, as if they knew it was normal that the trains was late. I made my way through them to find a space, where I lay down with no blanket: my head put on my backpack. Human heat somewhat kept me from the cold.

Before daylight, I picked myself up and trudged toward the platform. I awaited the train, meanwhile my stomach was getting worse. (During my stay in India, I had suffered from chills, vomiting and diarrhea.) I rushed upstairs to the restroom. The toilet was clogged with stools; the floor was littered with used toilet papers and a poop-like stain. I avoided stepping on, doubling over; it was time I thought about going home by plane.

On the other hand, I dreamed of seeing morning sun rising with mysterious phenomenon, flourishing life and death in Varanasi. I regained control of myself and hurried back to the platform to find that a freight train had stopped.

The new day had started. Paharganj close to the station, the main market place where I wandered around every night, was always in chaos―the bustle of cycles, motorbikes and rickshaws. This area could not help being filthy: in murky air, people whose clothes were not washed milling around the streets, the cows everywhere, the array of the run-down buildings. But, here was authentic Indian style I wanted to blend into.

I wanted to inhale deeply, but it could be better not to do. I was thirsty and needed some food. As I walked down the street, the scent of steaming soup filled the street connecting a narrow little alley. I tracked the smell, there being a man making thick, milky broths in the giant pot surrounded by local people. Something there was vibrant with me; I had the soup and got warm from inside. And then I stopped by my favorite stall. As the vendor offered me samosas on a paper, I stared at his black hands that looked unwashed, but found myself devouring them over a cup of chai.

When I went back to the inside station square, there was a hum of voices; the people was up and ate breakfast brought from home. I lay down in an empty space and basked in the morning sun dozing off. After a while I got a little cold, woke up and sat up. Outside the sun rose higher, brightening the street and in front of me was a family in dainty ethnic dress. 

The exactness of that time was what had worried me. “Excuse me,” I showed my ticket to the head of the family who looked like a father. “Do you know when the train will arrive? I’ve been waiting for it since last night.” “I don’t know. This is India. But it comes.” He tipped his head slightly; I exhaled, not saying anything.

The delay was further seven hours, then five hours, I was forced to think of another way while I enjoyed another night in Paharganj. Then five hours, as I wandered down the dimly lit platform, a young white couple spoke to me; we were in exactly the same situation. The affable young man, Argentine, told me that the train would come this morning.

It was not until the morning of two days later that the train arrived. I threw my backpacks to the side upper bunk, climbed in, and sat on hanging my legs. I saw an old man dressed in wearing white rags walking up the aisle― his long, shaggy beard touched the bottle strapped to his waist. As most passengers bought chai from him, so I did too. I took a sip of it to calm myself.

I had lain on the bunk. Looking out through the window, I mulled the rest of my trip over, and while I started to feel chilly―the sickening chill I had suffered from came back to me. I pulled the window down but it was very stiff. No matter how hard I tried, there was a gap 1cm from the windowsill. The draft from the gap chilled me to the marrow; the hard mat put too much strain on my entire body. I shivered with no blanket, trying not to cry, and in order to release from torture I hoped to get off to sleep.

Suddenly I sensed something touching my hair and woke up; I thought someone had walked past me, trying to sleep again. After a while, I overheard nearby teenagers, who may well be interested in my Asian appearance, giggling; I ignored them. The next moment I felt someone picked a few strand of my hair, the chuckle turned into a laugh, which became amplified. Sitting up half, I turned to them and said, “Hey, don’t touch.”

Although most of them exchanged a smirk, the boss of them was gazing my hair with a thoughtful expression and said, “Your hairstyle is very cool.” I was a little taken aback, for it was not humiliation, rather admiration. Thanks to not washing my greasy hair and rolling over a lot, it looked like spiky hair with a wax.

Owing to long stop intervals, I was three days behind schedule when I got to Varanasi station: I had nothing but stay in my hostel to be going to Kolkata the next afternoon. I was still in bad shape and was about to collapse. After I got off the train, I staggered down the platform, wanting to Iie wrapped in a lot of blankets right away. The rickshaws in array had paused outside the ticket gate; I was approaching the driver nearest me.

We reached a compromise at 100 rupees. I leaned against the back of the rickshaw, hoping he went straight to my hostel. Varanasi was a lawless area of sorts―bicycles often cut in, motorbikes running toward us as if to dodge the bullet; the men stripped to the waist sat in the middle of the road, vendors wheeling their iron cart loaded fruits or vegetables across the road. The shabby houses and the shacks were the reflection of their poorly manner. What was in disorder made me forget that I had been sick.

When I got out of the rickshaw in front of my hostel, he said, “Five hundred.” “What? You said one hundred.” I failed to tolerate his unfaithfulness and thrust 100 rupees at him. He shrank back, shook his head and was speaking something in Hindi. A hostel staff, approaching us, became aware of the fuss, intervened between him and me and saw that I paid the original price.

This time I reserved “a single room” whose price was relatively low, though I always did a shared room. I told him I was sick and wanted to go to bed straight away, and so he handed me far more blankets. I followed him up the stairs by the reception desk. We reached a floor and turned the corner to climb the next flight, walking past a few Westerners who lounged on the sofas―this process seemed to go on endlessly. I noticed that sun’s shaft fell on the end of the flight that led up to a door. 

He opened it to me and said, “In there.” I felt a strange sense because I caught a glimpse of concrete through the door. Crossing the threshold of it, I saw something of the shapes of a dozen triangular dimensions. There was full of sunshine and I had a view of the town. 

I got into the one of them and put the extra blankets I hold on the blanket that was there. Slipping beneath them, I curled up and felt myself falling into an exhausted sleep. What they call “a single room” was the most comfortable “private room” ever. Dead silence seemed to alleviate all the tensions of the days―out of cash, the card fraud, the train delay and food poisoning―even though I had never call a tent “a single room.” 

New rupee—in India

November 9, 2016

It was in the small hours of the morning that I arrived at New Delhi airport. As usual, I looked for an ATM to get the local currency rupee. Strangely, ATMs in the airport was all closed, so l exchanged money at a bank. After I slept a bit on a chair until dawn, I took Delhi Airport Metro Express to New Delhi station; it was modern design with great speed.

New Delhi station was a lot of hustle and bustle. It was very hard for me to proceed toward an exit. Once I got out of there, rickshaws, coming and going, jumped into my eyes. In stagnant air, there was full of life. I took a rickshaw to go to my hostel. On my way, I saw a crowd of people in front of a bank―they seemed to holler at banks. I thought to myself: “This is India. I’m getting thrilled,” and while I was checking if he took a detour by using GPS on my phone. Sure enough, He did it, but I condoned his act and overpaid to him because the fare was cheep.

I entered the hostel and went right up to the reception. In the registration procedures, I put the money on the tray to pay a deposit. “We can’t accept old bill,” said one of the staff. “What?” I was not sure what it meant. Then he went on,“New bill only. You check the news.” I rooted my pocket for my phone and read the articles: “Bank of India says it will roll out new higher security 500 and 2,000 rupee notes,” “Banks re-opened on Thursday to dispense new notes in exchange for old 500 and 1,000 rupee notes that are no longer legal tender.” ―the removal of black money. “What a coincidence.” I lamented with flashes of closed ATMs and of the crowd in front of the bank―my bills was all old ones.

The following day, The crowd was surging out from a bank onto the street.  For more than three hours, I had been stuck fast in them, until I applied for exchanging old bills for new ones that was all 500 rupee. To my relief, someone told me that ATMs would open “Tomorrow.” After a while, l noticed my jacket attached on the backpack on my back had vanished.

As a matter of fact, ATMs had remained shut, day in, day out. But I supposed the situation would change by the time I reached Rishikesh, where I was going to learn yoga for four weeks.

Unlike New Delhi, there were many tourists in Rishikesh. I walked with Lakshman Jhula bridge―its mark reddy poles―across Ganges river that lulled me into a sacred mood. Taking a long walk made me hungry. From time to time I stopped by food stalls, enjoying eating samosa and pani puri, which sold at reasonable price; I loved to know the local food.

While my yoga programs started, ATMs closures still continued and what’s more, the banks did not function properly. I supposed I should not to use cash, in case I needed something. The trouble was that the food stalls and local shops did not take credit cards, and so I could not help but eat at restaurants or cafes at times, though I was thrifty with money.

Eager to get cash, I checked if ATMs were operative day after day; however, they had showed no sign of starting to work. Dozens of tourists around them had been stranded and irritated. ‘’No cash, I can’t go home,’’ said a man, who squatted down and hung his head. What he said was exactly right. He would have to take a taxi, bus, or train to go to the airport―they only accept cash. Then an anxiety came over me as to how enough I would have cash to be going to go to Kolkata after yoga program.

On the other hand, I started to vomit and have diarrhea, like food poisoning, several days after I came Rishikesh. Having a lot of blanket covered my shivering body, thinking of my missing jacket, I had learned yoga.  

Winter nights in Rishikesh were cold. My bathroom in my hotel had no hot water and no heater; there was no way I took a shower. Only when my head got itchy did I plunge my head into the bucket filled with cold water and wash my hair in no shampoo. Now and then I had diarrhea in the middle of the night―I was on the toilet seat, having been screaming with the chills and the pain in my anus.

Amid yoga program, one evening I was browsing the internet on my phone, I came across the peculiar mail. The contents of them indicated that I had ordered several items separately in less than one hour. The total amount was more than 3,000 dollars. As I suspected someone had stolen my credit card detail, the same things happened again―some bastard kept on buying the goods like home appliance. I could not help imagining my bank balance was close to zero.

I made in confusion a call to the bank center for invalidating it. The operator said, “Do you have anything about them?” “No.” I said immediately, becoming impatient. “Isn’t there possibility, you used it yourself? Could you remember buying them?” “Not my fault, It’s a crime,” I said in a stern voice, not wanting him to ask any more question.

But that made me uneasy about whether I could receive a full refund; I had a hard time falling sleep that night. I was so exhausted. Nothing worked: out of cash, the card fraud, food poisoning. It was not until next day’s supper that I pulled myself together; my friend Frei, a yoga student who was Swiss, and his Indian wife Kaira emboldened me in my thing. And as I played my phone … No kidding―that rat had indeed started to use my card that was not frozen.

The next day, I could barely work up no energy. After lunch, Frei told the cook, a yoga staff, that I needed some help about credit card frauds. One afternoon, the cook summoned me and introduced to a middle-aged stranger, who turned to walk out of the school; I called for Frei to come and we followed him. “I knew the nearest police station. Ride on my motorbike,” he said, sit on it and started the engine. Frei sat astride behind the stranger; I sat after Frei and said loudly. “And, do you know where an ATM is open?” “Yes, I know. I’ll take you there,” the stranger said; I believed him.

We rode it down the steep hill, the cows bellowing in a wilderness and entering the town; foreign people swarming about ATMs, passing many rickshaws, through the alley, the motorbike pulled up in front of a house. We alighted from it and Frei and I saw the stranger walk into the house alone.

After a few minutes, he came back and said, “Here is a pawnshop, not the police station. I’m not certain where the police station is.” I winced, not expecting him to say such a thing. “Where is the ATM?” I asked tentatively. “ ‘Tomorrow,’ public servants come to activate them,” he said, cocking his head. I was not sure what to make of these.

In the days which followed, I noticed people lined up at the ATM. It was a long time before ATM began to work. There were all “new 2’000 rupee notes” and the limitation: 1 note per card―if you want more, you have to use other cards. I was so relieved that I was able to get 4’000 rupees … But that was only temporary. Not only food stalls and local shops, but also cafes and restaurants did not accept this new one, not having change for “new 500 rupee notes” that had run short. It sucks. It was no use getting big ones, unless I had a luxurious meal otherwise.

I wandered around the town aimlessly, wondering if I could buy a bus or train ticket using these big ones. I stopped at the bank and walked in, not expecting anything. Once I found the customers did some kinds of procedures, I turned to leave. “Hey, may I help you?” Looking around, I saw a woman beckoning me; I fluttered 2’000 rupee notes I had pinched, wanting to exchange them.

Soon she begun to draw a map that marked the location of another bank, with a kindly explanation. She handed it to me, “It’s thirty minutes’ walk from here. You can get small ones.” She rose from her seat and went out, “Keep going along this street.” “Okay, thank you very much,” I said, feeling a little better.

So plausible was hers that I believed her. I started to walk with the map; past groups of tourists, at the stall that sold samosa I often ate, and the long and gloomy road with a tunnel of trees, no one walking, rickshaws running at full speed. After a while I came into a sandy road dotted with cows and horses. There was a row of shabby houses and cycle rickshaws running. I saw a man, whose clothes were frayed, loading fruits and vegetables on the iron cart. I continued to walk. Each time a vehicle passed by me, sand danced, blown by wind, covering me, as if to feel mocked for my effort.

Old with new—in Laos

In Luang Prabang, there were small groups of Japanese tourists. The young man belonged nowhere despite Japanese, because he was a really doer―university classes, the part time job and he has been traveling all over the world. He knew he could move faster alone than in a group. He was appealing―short blond hair with fair skin, so unique, like a fashion model.

As he and I were strolled about the town, he said, “Why don’t we go to a sauna?” “Oh, that’s a good idea, where is it?” I said. “When browsing the internet on my phone, I found it. We just follow MAPS.ME.( GPS app).” I depended on its app too much―without it, I would be unable to travel abroad alone.

We were virtually right up to Lao Red Cross Sauna & Massage, but there was no such place that we roamed the street looking around. I recalled a decade ago I took long trips on my DragStar. Anytime I lost my way, I stopped and unfolded a map―what an arduous process. Sometimes I did not know where I was, while that was funny as it was.

The following day, we took a bus from Luang Prabang to Vientiane. Unfortunately, I was forced to hold my knees close to my chest because of a big bump on the floor in front of my seat, and in no position to stretch my legs. For ten hours, that was a harrowing ordeal for me. From time to time I hinted at this thing: “I can’t bear,” I mumbled in a fidget. “That’s unlucky,” he said, not paying me any mind while playing his smartphone or reading a book. If I were him, I would say: “Shall we swap seats?” That was odd. I thought seniority-based hierarchy was deeply rooted in Japan. I really envied him for not being a slave to such a custom.

In Vientiane, I collapsed clothed onto my bunk in our hostel. After a while I heard his voice from the upper one. “I will sent the photos of the elephant tour via AirDrop.” AirDrop? I had heard of it, but I had never used. Would he make fun of me for betraying my ignorance?

It occurred to me that most people in their seventies and beyond lived in no information technology. if he had been sensitive to the internet bubble( in the late 1990s), going to a computer class after retirement, if he tries to learn from young people who is into SNS, what will benefit him? He would enjoy communicating with his grandson on WhatsApp, posting pictures of his hobbies on Instagram and getting some information on Twitter. I only had to revealed my stupidity to enhance my life―he demonstrated how to use it and get done that quickly.

“By the way, tomorrow morning, you are going for a run, aren’t you?” he went on, “Could I come along with you?” I preferred to run alone at my own pace, but I could not help accepting his request, feeling hie zest. “I don’t mind, but you are too young. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.” I said, though I knew this was not likely―jogging was my daily routine.

“Let me make a suggestion. At first we will go to Patou Xay(the arch of Vientiane), then to Pha That Luang( the golden stupa) that was our goal. Jogging, simultaneously sightseeing, taking photos, therefore we can save us the trouble of going again.”

That was good idea, though he progressed at his own pace more agile than I, and while I admired his ability of gathering information. I assumed that young people today could reach a correct answer in the best way he shared it by using WhatsApp and Facebook, or read blogs and“googled” thoroughly.

His running form was not good at all, but he summoned a considerable energy that made up for what he lacked. I was glad that he tried to keep up his spirits, and while he seemed to force himself to continue to run, as if to get approval from me. From Pha That Luang to our hostel,  however, he shuffled his feet and I said, “You should get some rest.” “It’s okey,” he started to accelerate even more and thereby had muscle pains—only then did I think experience won over age.

After running, we got on the Tuk-Tuk to go to Buddha Park. We talked about the fees for getting cash from ATMs. He had researched credit cards and made a list of them, which took me aback and brought home to me his continuous effort. Having been exposed to the internet since childhood, he could have got financial knowledge no one taught in compulsory education.

When I was around his age, if I wanted to know something, I would had called or e-mailed my friends, or gone to libraries or bookstores. If I were to gain certain knowledge from my superior, I had to wait for him out of courtesy until his task was done. Those meant that I stole one’s time, and vice versa. 

Now that we can study anything to some extent by YouTube, one-clicking on Kindle Store and “googling,” I wondered if he needed to go to the university, where he could get a chance to join a Japanese large company when he would be a new graduate. He is now seeing more than a possible world I had inhabited.

We got to Nong Khai by bus from Vientiane and took a sleeper-train(from Nong Khai to Bangkok) to cross the border between Laos and Thailand. It took a long time, but I preferred to travel by train rather than by plane. Not just because it is cheap, but because it give me sufficient time for writing articles and reading books, and looking out the window, I come up with what I want to do in my life. The latter, however, requires some procedures: inspections, boarding, baggage claim and customs. In the mean time, I can not use my time effectively.

In Hua Lamphong, Bangkok Train Station, he scuttled between ATMs. The fee, he really wanted to avoid. For just two dollars. It was not until half an hour later that he gave up on it. I was a little irritated at what a wasteful time this was. It is like a housewife does store hopping, being so stingy with her money. Time is more important than money―by knowing what not to do, something else can be gained. With thirty minutes, he should glean fresh information on smartphone to cultivate himself. He lost two dollars, or rather if the process is sound, more money are likely to follow.

Frustrated at the fee, he walked towards the bus terminal, where we would part. “I’m going to Brazil for two weeks in October, my professor take us,” he muttered. “And so I need a lot of money. I’m considering renting out my room in Japan, by using Airbnb. It is a good way to make foreign friends.” “That’s awesome. You are a businessman,” I said. “It is good for you to be interested in ‘money.’ If I were you, I would do an internship overseas and learn about business. The larger the Japanese company, where seniority is valued, the slower it moves. You can take action faster than them.”