September 18, 2023
I got accustomed to this noise. As the bus stopped at the shanty town, the street sellers banged its windows with their fists. Drinks and snacks, vegetables and fruits, toys and sunglasses—came into sight. And the aisle that was too narrow to pass each other was thronged with the vendors. Who would buy such a pair of sunglasses that was lame? The drinks are kept at outside temperature. And drink bottles are not necessarily full, sometimes two-thirds. However I had managed of late to have a weak bladder, but which I had been trying to ignore by not drinking.
When I looked out the window, the wind raised a cloud of dust. The market bustled with street vendors and people. On the corner in the town there was a shady ATM at no bank—I had recognized well—I had decided to withdraw money at a bank in Lusaka.
I realized the bus had come to a halt on the way. It was hot in the bus. No wind comes in through the windows. No air conditioning in the bus. Most buses in African countries do not have it—just crazy. I pulled my foodie over my head to shut out the sun. I stopped thinking about anything and began to doze off in the seat. I did not go quite to sleep, for I remained aware of the engine falling off, and of the half of the passengers standing outside. There was something wrong with the bus.
A woman was on the phone. “The bus broke down,” she sighed. I could not help eavesdropping. “Maybe another one is coming from Malawi. But it would be stuck at the border, so I don’t know when it’ll coming.” You’ve got to be kidding. I have never experienced a bus breakdown since I was born.
I ate a biscuit, now conscious of how hungry I had been. And then I sipped tepid water out of a bottle that was one-third full. From the window of the bus, I saw tents now, and small houses, reed-roofed and huddled. It was pretty lonesome place here. I rose listlessly from my seat and stared at passengers. An old lady sitting behind my seat was talking. Her black clothes was a high moral tone. But I had felt faint disgust at her carelessness—now and again she put her hand over the top of my backrest, mechanically holding my hairs which protruded from a bun, and so when I moved my head I felt a little bit pinch of my scalp.
“Excuse me,”I asked this lady after all. “The bus is broken?” “Yes. I’m going to catch a vehicle. It’s a waste of time. Maybe no refund,”she spoke firmly. “Do you know when another bus come?” “I suppose it’ll be coming sometime. But, I don’t know… If you in a hurry, hitchhike,”she said. I had never done it, so I was getting nervous. “I have no Zambian kwacha, though I do US dollars. I have all the time in the world. If another one comes, I’ll wait and climb on. If not, I’ll god damn near die, because I can’t buy food and drink,” I said with a slight exaggeration. “I have biscuits if you want,” she said. “How much kwacha do you need?” she zipped her purse. I was taken aback to see a bundle of bills in it; she was obviously lady of fashion. “I’ll have to get them, but…” I opened Currency app on my phone. “What is it you do want? If you want kwacha, you have US, so I give you,”she rushed me. On the other hand, I was afraid to lose US dollars I stashed just in case, but there was no guarantee that the bus would come. “Thank you for your kind, please let me think about how much I need. After estimating, I’ll tell you.” I said. “Yes. Don’t make it long,”she said harshly, brushing past me.
The motor roared up for a moment. As I made my way down the aisle, three men in blue work uniforms knelt around the driver seat that was off. I stepped down off the bus, not expecting nonprofessionals to fix the bus.
There were stretches of dead grass. I edged through the people in the shade of the bus. The sun was hot. From somewhere far off came the sounds of horses’ hooves plodding on the highway. In that direction I could see a few gray shacks alone. I stopped and turned about and watched. It was difficult to tell where a wilderness of grass ended. I felt anxious when I imagined all hours in the middle of nowhere. At last I went back to the bus to protect myself from the sun.
The driver seat had been out of place and the three workman stood on the other side of the highway. Near the door a dozen bottles of orange juice. Everyone out here always had some kind of juice. You should drink water. I thought. Anyway I sat down heavily in my seat and tried to remain calm. All things considered, I could probably not buy food and water, even if I got Zambian kwacha.
I heard quick knockings on the window beside me, from which the old lady with a grim look yelled at me,“If you want kwacha, exchange. I’ll be going pretty soon.” It had a sound of authority. My hand went quickly into the envelops in my bags, took a fifty dollar bill and darted out of the bus. I showed her the rate on my phone; I received Zambian kwacha, counted it, and said, “Okay, thank you very much. It’s going to be a relief.” “ Welcome,” she said, rode on the car and vanished.
I had leaned back in my seat to avoid wasted motion and dissipated energy. As two plump young women were about to sit in their seat, I had suddenly straightened. They had the plastic bags and took out of the bottles of juice and snacks from them. I got to my feet and moved a bit closer to them. “Excuse me,”I said. “Where did you buy those?” They were a little taken aback as if she did not look good to Asian. “Go straight this road. Approximately two hundred meters. You can see a white house on your right side,” one plump woman said sullenly. “Did they sell water there?” “I don’t know.” Then the plump woman gulped down apple juice.
The concrete highway was edged with the tangled, broken, tall grass. I waded through them in the direction she said, looking into the distance ahead, along the road, along the solitary road. Among the dead trees a few obscure houses, quite isolated, were visible on the right. I had doubted the grocery shop could be in such a deserted place, that somewhat reluctantly I moved off the trail toward an unpainted house. At first glance it appeared to be an old private house. It’s door was open. I entered slowly the house without causing someone to turn toward me.
Near the open door a few men stood, and my eyes wandered into the room; I was relieved to see drinks and snacks behind the counter. A man had bought apple and orange juice. “Do you have water or some refreshments like doughnut?” I asked an old woman, who went to the shelves with feeble slowness—and then rummaged in. “No. This is everything we have.” “Do you have anything cold to drink?” “Sorry, no.” I thought it was much better than nothing. “I want that”—I pointed to biscuits and orange juice—“and that”—and energy drink.
I handed her fifty and she put five on the counter. And although I was not very used to Zambian kwacha, I noticed there was something wrong. “I paid fifty,” I said with emphasis. The old woman had mixed them in scattered bills on the counter. “No,” her anger came through to her face. The two men on either side of me laughed, and they explained to her to give me the exact change, but she pretended to be confused. One snatched the money from her, counted it, and handed me the change. And this crazy old bitch was muttering furiously.
The dusk came. In the gray sky the sun became less red. The bus was empty now. Dozens of people crowded thickly along the highway. The men were silent and did not move often—a few bicycles whisked near. The two woman walked with their baby and kids. I stood well back where no one could talk to me—“Are you Japanese?” “Yes.” “I have Japanese friends…”—These annoyed me. Why was it anyone’s business?
“The bus is coming,”someone called. I looked where a man was pointing and saw beyond the crowd a bus slowing to a halt. Turning quickly, I went to my backpacks on the grass and lifted them. The people thronged around the bus door, muttering some pleasantly. The bus was a little smaller and distinctly dirtier than the former one, so that the aisle were filled with passengers sitting on buckets and sucks. The kids on the floor. I sat with my backpack on my lap.
The bus was moving at a good speed on the lumpy road, and a heavy silence fell in the bus. It was damn near two hundred fifty miles to Lusaka. I looked around the bus, wondering if they were ever hungry, for I had never seen them eat anything but snacks. They had preserved their calmness, regardless of age or sex. There was something admirable about their toughness.
It was quite dark outside. The bus pulled to the side of the road and parked. “Just five minutes, break,” the driver said. “Hurry.” I saw a crowd of the passengers were getting up from their seats. Many pushed past stepping over stuff, and I was squeezed by. After stepping down off the bus, I followed the people, who went into a relatively clean shop. The smell of roasting chicken came wafting toward me. And I felt highly elated to see the water bottles, and—in a refrigerator, where a young woman stood in the bright light. “How much?” “Three,”she said with a small smile. So cheap I was even more pleased.
After that, I backed in my seat, exchanging pleasant talk with the man in his mid-fifties. The cold water had sufficed my entire body. The bus driver built up the speed and the rattle increased. I had clutched the backrest in front of me. “Is Lusaka danger at night? If I walked two kilometer alone.” “You should sleep in the bus until dawn.” “I guess the bus will arrive until midnight.” “I don’t know, because there will be many pumps on the road.” Indeed, the bus slowed down only when there was the road pump.
It was almost pitch-black. No traffic light. No street lamp. I could not see parsons at all in the blackness.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” said a woman’s voice.
“I was going to work… I’m tired. I’ll sleep all day. I do nothing.”
