What a fucking fantasy. I thought the scabies had died out. Invariably, each night, what with the heat and humidity, it felt as if the scabies were crawling beneath my skin at once. It’s fucking scabies. With my eyelid and hands swollen, my cock like a cod roe and my shins raw and bleeding whose spots marked my bed sheet, I was unable to sleep through the night without drinking rum.

In my office, I showed my eyelids and hands to my colleagues to prove that the itch still had not gone away. I could feel their sympathy while they wondered why it would not have done. Of course, I washed my underwear and the bedding every day. When I was about to leave my office, I could see the staff spraying alcohol where I was. 

*

I arrived in Union Island in St Vincent in the early evening. At night I had walked down what looked like a main street. There were local males lingering about a few small grocery store. I had emerged at a small sidewalk cafe―the decor and music were exotic―with no customer standing alone. I took a seat, smelling salty winds from the sea. There were many art panels hanging on the walls, one of which said “LIFE IS BETTER AT THE BEACH.”

Here was a utopia surrounded by perfect blue. Tourism was inactive and the island quiet, which felt wonderfully refreshing. After solitary walking or running each morning, I striped down and jumped into the sea, where nobody come. Now this was comfort―I floated with my back to the sky, seeing tropical fish. The itchiness I had suffered was consigned to oblivion.

The wooden house I had rented for a week was large, inside was clean and the well-organized living room with the curtained window that looked out to the sea. The days stood hot, so I was in the house during the day, wishing I could stay here much longer. I had read manga about investment that was imperative to make my life easier, and concluded that money would work instead of me. Then I walked in the direction of the town. I became a regular at that cafe since I ate a tacos over special Caribbean drink. 

*

Autumn was so hot and the water was irresistible. My colleague, Aisha, sixty five, who had always tried her best for her clients, said that seawater was effective for my skin; I had believed this since I swam in Union Island. There were a few teenager playing on the beach in Laborie. After changing into my swim trunks, I soaked in the sea; scrubbing my face, scalp, especially my crotch, including pubic hair rather than washing. I did not know what that would be like. Then all at once I dared to swim, but at the same time, it was pitiful that this passed as a distraction.

I had long since ceased visiting clients and endured the itchiness with fortitude―ice and Permethrin seemed to help paralyze it. However, I have enough time to mull over my life. I did not really like my job. As a result of neglecting to study when I was young, I was a blue-collar worker. Never having admitted this, I was the least bit ashamed of what I did for a living. 

Winter was a little cool. The itchiness and rash had subsided. In the morning, I got up when I wanted to, because there was no work, and yet nothing had been schedule. In the kitchen, dozens of grapefruits I got from my colleague and a blender rested on the well-built shelve. I peeled one of them and put in blender.

After a leisurely breakfast, I checked the DBS news on Ipad sipping a strong bitter coffee. My favorite thing was to study English: I must have read the English text books in the daytime. When I was hungry I cooked dinner: crispy toast, fried eggs, and big local chicken. Though I was thrifty, but the meal delicious. Every single day. Every evening I went running and worked out at home, able to conquer myself.

At night, my spacious bedroom was dimly lit from above by just one or two lights. Unlike hot season, taking a shower offered catharsis. I had settled on the sofa―the fan blowing straight at me―drinking, listening to grunge rock such as Pearl Jam, whose sound reverberated within the bare concrete walls. I no longer wanted to go back to Japan.

It was spring when I detected the sign of the itch. As usual, it had proliferated rapidly. Why could not I heal completely? I was diagnosed with the itch, so naturally unable to work. I had made the best of it: cleaning my room, washing my underwear, using medicine and going to the sea. Of course, I do not have any pets as dogs and cats. What more can I do? It was hard not to think of it as the itch. If not, is it something like allergy? No, no. Because I had never one since I was a child because when I ate mangoes, as you might know, I felt happy. 

I had washed clothes by hand in the sink outside. That was so outdated. How dare that bitch. The landlord’s wife blamed me on breaking the washing machine, an old one with twin tub that took time and effort. As I scrounged them and wrung them out, it felt like the skin on my hands were torn. I lifted the bundle of laundry and put into a spin tub that worked properly. Unable to wait until that was done, I walked into the trees on the adjacent property, and there, hanging in bunches, were mangoes. I climbed up the tree to a big one.

I enjoyed the benefits from the lifestyle in a Caribbean country. Above all the secret that I could not speak of, I did not work hard all the time like the Japanese do; I had learned to slack off at clients’ houses―leaning back against the couch, chatting with the clients or enjoying tropical fruits that were abundant in this country.

May was hot. It had been eight months since I came to Saint Lucia. As I loitered about my house, I found a riot of mangoes in the dense cluster of trees on the property, where sheep was grazed. As I moved closer to them, I saw my neighbor’s dog barking at me. I gingerly climbed up a tree, picked  big green pinkish ones, and dropped between the rocks covered the weeds. My arms full of them, I went to my house. It took at least five days to ripen. I had done so occasionally, and as I choose a ripe one and ate, I felt giddy that I was doing something different from my regular meals.

*

Feeling my hands was itchy, I had woken up in the middle of the night. There were mosquitoes everywhere and I had had rashes on most of my body. One night, I could not bear that anymore, especially between my fingers, even my cock. It occurred to me that I had scabies because I had done that before. I rushed to the bathroom slipping off my clothes. While taking a shower, I had let out a scream of the itchiness of my skin. The more I scratched the rashes, the more I felt better, so that it got even worse.

In the morning, I headed to VFort Health Center. “I think scabies live in my skin,” I said, embarrassed a little. I stood still, naked, in front of the dermatologist, who examined my entire body. “That’s for sure,” she sat down at the stool and turned to the laptop. “Do you have Ivermectin(anthelmintic)?” I asked. “I know it’s a potent pill. In Japan, I had used it before. It worked much better than the ointment.” She seemed to look something up on the laptop. “Permethrin is enough for the rashes. They could be better soon. Every one had been healed. But, if you want it, go to St Jude Hospital. You may be able to get it.” I sighed, but smiled at her, covering my disappointment. “I will go from now.” “Okay. Next Tuesday. Come. I’m going to be here.”

St Jude Hospital was a sports stadium with olympic symbol. The interior was converted into a medical facility. It was a rainy afternoon and a dense humidity I could barely agree with induced the itchiness. I had shown the pharmacist the rushes between my fingers in an exaggeration. “You could get it at Victoria Hospital,” the pharmacist said. “Or America.” That upset me to guess there was no Ivermectin in this country. No matter what, I wanted to avoid going back to Japan, where Japanese never stop. I want to have time to breath and live in Eden like Saint Lucia.

As soon as I came back home. I put the doormat away and cleaned my house. Every morning I put my underwear and the bedding into hot water, washed, and had them dry under the sun. Applying Permethrin to my whole skin gave me temporary relief of itch and rash―to the extent that I slept through them somewhat. But after a couple of nights, I had found myself scratching my hands and felt anxious about the itch that was sure to return; craving to get Ivermectin I believed would obliterate the scabies. At least I have to keep getting Permethrin.

“Why isn’t the skin doctor coming? I’ve been waiting for her since early in this morning,” I said, wishing I could have set a time. “I didn’t know,” said a caregiver wearing the well-tailored yellow outfit. “I suppose she is at home and spend with her family. You should wait.” Her words did not astonished me, recalling my colleagues was always late and that they sometimes skipped work: eating lunch with her family, visiting her friends or shopping at Massy Stores. The only thing I did not comprehend was that grown men was at home during the day; drinking Piton beers on the terrace in a breeze. I was jealous, but how wonderful it would be to enjoy a happy carefree life.

It was past three. “Do you know when the skin doctor will come?” I asked another caregiver. “I’m not sure, Perhaps she is on vacation.” I did not know what to made of this. Next day, a physician prescribed me Permethrin.

The route from Vieux Fort to Castries―by bus of some sixteen minutes―was the steep winding road in the woods. I had seen the Japanese doctor via telemedicine and had my mother send me Ivermectin. It took two weeks to arrive. I loathed waste of any kind, and when receiving some parcels, I needed to go to Castries, the capital, and when the reckless driver jolted, I felt sick. But now I was going to become free of the itch that drove me mad all night, so I dreamed of Union Island in Saint Vincent―the waters is far crystal clearer than those of Saint Lucia. It thrilled me that I would make the most of my vacation.

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.

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?”

“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.

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.

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!”

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.’”

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.

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.”