Self-deception

Lies make the world a better place, sometimes. Let me explain. We live in a world that is full of deceit, low on empathy and an abundance of selfishness, which is seen as a virtue rather than a vice, just to name but a few. That being the case, the world is still a better place. As humans, we are tasked with making it much better. Better than we found it. To make it morally sound and just. Make it work for us and the future generation. Upholding common decency and coming up with a treatise that holds up in theory and practically. 

Back in high school, our principal used to tell us, 'You have to make your heaven here on earth.' A perspective that was shaped after his maiden trip to New Zealand. He saw firsthand how the country was flourishing. The streets were clean. The housing was orderly and well-executed. The systems were working and no miscreants were on the streets asking for alms. The picture painted was a society that is efficient and functioning as planned. 

As a visitor, you are never shown the other side of the story. Rarely do you find an opportunity to exploit the places that give a different impression of the country? Instead, you are taken to areas with beautiful scenery to spend time and money and savour life's best. After all, even those who sell slum tourism do it because of the material gain. 

Not much is documented about countries like New Zealand. Rarely do you find individuals visiting the island because they have yet to prioritise tourism and visibility. Instead, like the Inuit, they have kept their country closely knit. I am biased, to say the least, the much I know about New Zealand is limited. What comes to mind is the Māori All Blacks Rugby team. Other than rugby, I have no idea what the country excels in, though it is developed. 

A cousin asked if Western European nations were rich because they used resources from different continents. New Zealand is a developed country because they decided to get their act right. So many factors can be attributable to the lack of development in African countries, but I would pinpoint one of it- lies. The kind of deception that we are entwined in is just amazing. The president lies to win a political seat. People lie to win deals and we have accepted it as part of our culture. Whoever can craft the best lie and convince the other party that he can deliver will win the deal. 

The culture of dishonesty has become a gem. Anyone with the moniker 'fundi' is considered a liar. Yet they have accepted the tag because society has made them inclined to lie. You go to a cobbler to drop off a shoe for repair and the man will tell you to go back at a certain time to find it ready. When you return, that is when he remembers that your shoe needs to be fixed. 

A certain chap once told me that if you find yourself repairing any item, be it clothes, a pair of shoes or a gadget, then it's high time to donate it to someone needy. 

I asked him 'Now that my pair of jeans is slightly torn at the pocket and I have three pairs, should I donate it to charity?' He replied 'Absolutely. Once you donate it, you give yourself a chance to refresh your wardrobe. The same applies to shoes. Don't take them to the cobbler if you can buy a new pair. Repair then donate to charity.' 

I saw the sense in his argument because it was valid to an extent. Most of us hold onto items we do not need. For instance, I have two wallets. The cousin who asked me about the issue of development wanted one. I told him to give me some money for it. Since he is a campus student, he could not afford a dollar, which we normally equate to 100 bob though it has since appreciated or inflated depending on your point of view to 130 or thereabouts. I still have the wallets though I only need one. 

I rarely carry wallets because I rely on mobile money for payments. If one day I happen to go to an office that requires a physical identity card, I may be denied entry because of not bringing it along. 

A couple of times, I pondered about the issue of worn-out and defaced items I no longer need. Once, a relative visited and I offered my unused monitor and its outdated processor. I asked if he needed them because they were gathering dust in the house. He quickly accepted them after confirming they could still work. I also gave him an old home theatre because lately, I don't love loud music. My ears feel clogged when I listen to loud music. At a certain age, it makes sense to listen to loud music. Solitude has made me prefer quiet environments. 

The sound of silence fills me with utmost ease. That's the only way I process ideas that need to be acted on later is in silence. The concatenation of ideas can only be fine-tuned if they sound cogent. And you tailor the thoughts well in silence when weaved into a silken thread that results in something tangible. Not that I hate owning such devices. They are simply distracting. Once I start listening to music or watching a movie, I get absorbed to the extent I may lose track of what I had planned to undertake.

You may have told yourself that you are going to cover a certain online course, but you don't do so because you don't want to push yourself to do what would develop you. It is about the lies. Self-deception is with us. Times on end, I have told myself that I shall be accountable to myself. The whole idea is to ensure that I achieve what I had planned to do. Some are simple tasks when seen from a layman's lens flare. Like waking up and spreading the bed. Brushing the teeth, showering. And then there are other medium-intensive tasks like sitting down to pen an article. 

I lack discipline when it comes to what I am doing. At some point, I told myself that I would be having my blog post ready by Thursday so that all I do before uploading it is edit and fine-tune it. Well, I have not managed to achieve that dream. The kind of entanglement I get absorbed in. I sometimes feel I need to have a personal assistant to help with prioritizing my schedule. And it comes with penalties for not undertaking certain tasks. 

It's easier said than done. We rarely want to be controlled. But it is also through control that you can be able to achieve results. Like I had intimated in a previous post, I would want to avoid sipping alcohol because it robs me of a lot of important free and activity time. With a good assistant, a human one and not a digital one, I can be held responsible. I can be reminded that, by a given time, I need to have presented my blog post. I need to have covered a certain course and so on and so forth. So many to-do tasks are gathering dust and a layer of cobweb has formed over them because I normally say, 'Í will do it but I don't.'

Hasta La Vista, Baby.

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A bus ride

I prefer window seats when I travel. They usually offer ambient and mediative panorama as the journey progresses into the lush and verdant countryside away from the bustling and polluted city life. The visual empathy that comes with watching the changing terrain, the clouds blossoming and the sky turning azure offers an intimate connection with the surrounding flora and fauna. It's an enchanting experience full of joyful memories that unfold like chapters of a cherished novel.

Once in a while, I hop on a bus to take a trip from the city to the tiny hamlet where my ancestors roam free. Most often, it feels good to travel when the weather is fine and just right. When the sun is soft and warm, and a cool breeze wafts in the air. It usually feels like a movie because of the serene scenery and aesthetic allure. At some point, you will find yourself lulling in a peaceful slumber. The voyage is normally cinematic and therapeutic. Only movie lovers are acquainted with these familiar sensations.

I enjoy the convenience of booking a bus when travelling solo. The waiting bay is usually immaculate and the service is persnickety. You avoid the chaotic hubbub of the bus station and enjoy the hustle-free alternative. The bus is reliable, punctual and runs on schedule. You know exactly when it will depart. Time is money. As much as time is money, I cannot afford an air ticket. Despite time's worth, I have not grown richer enough to easily grab an air ticket the way I can quickly board a bus. Talk of financial constraints. Instead, I endured an 8-hour bus ride that would have been a 45-minute flight.

Once on a bus, after getting a physical ticket, I normally march up to my seat and stow away my bag or items in the overhead compartment. I love the reclining nature of the seats. They have plenty of legroom and are comfortable. There is also a small pouch to store a water bottle, a book or essentials for the trip. Though smaller cars are cheaper, they require you to wait until they are fully booked. Waiting can test your patience, especially if the journey is long. Who wants to wait for more than 2 hours, even if it is a faster alternative? When the bus engine roars to life, it is a sign to be prepared for a lengthy and tiring ride. 

The beauty of bus travel is the expansive field of view it offers. You are at an elevated oblique angle. The passing views seem like a rewatched movie. Fields of growing crops stretch across the rural tapestry. Neatly-pruned tea plantations kept as lowly manicured shrubs invite fantasies of pitches where a football match can be played. 

As the bus meanders through the forested expanses, trees rise and dot both sides of the road in infinite patience. Symbolic of nature's artistry free from human interference. Like silent sentinels, the trees patrol the road in a parade-like formation. As the bus passes through, it feels like it’s inspecting a guard of honour. At times, you feel the wheels rhythmically roll over the road, greeting the slopes and the bumpy ride of the uneven landscape. Your thoughts kiss the horizon as you meditate and the mind is liberated from past anxiety. It's a moment of detachment from being in areas you are not used to. And the brain afforded time to drift into a daydream and relax, cradled by the gentle motion of travel. 

The journey on a bus is usually full of memories that transport you back to childhood nostalgia and novelty. The days we would rush to the back seats or even book them in advance. And it meant cherry-picking your seatmate. Someone you could banter with for hours. With such a mate, you could gossip about the couples who broke up and the teachers rumoured to be banging right under your nose. And most obviously you break into a chuckle for some silly, witless joke. 

If you knew the road, you showcased your grasp of the areas, as if a local tour guide. I still don't understand how some individuals can brag about being able to drive certain routes with their eyes closed or even half asleep. I have never been tempted to try that as much as I am familiar with certain roads. However, it's always fun to share stories with others about your previous interactions with certain areas. 

Over the weekend, I travelled to the countryside using a bus. I love the fact that bus companies have made it easy to book your favourite seat online. I love a seat by the window, on the side opposite the driver. It gives the best views. You enjoy watching the winds rustle shrubs and houses with rusted iron roofs pass by.

Another reason I prefer the seat is that it spares me from awkwardly staring at strangers. You might be caught gazing at someone's toes.  Those who remove their shoes and reveal ugly toe nails. At that point, you cannot point it out. If you do, you risk being given a disgruntled look. How do you even start a conversation about ugly nails? You will quickly ruin someone's mood because they may have always thought they have the best feet. Or you can make them squirm uncomfortably because deep down they know.

Travelling alone, there's no telling who you'll end up sitting next to. The beauty of solo travel is the tranquil togetherness associated with being among strangers. You can sink in chilled-out music, and watch the miles slip away. I love it when I am not behind the wheel. My mind drifts into worry when I am the one to drive and it is usually erased upon arrival. It is a normal psychological response that helps me be extra cautious even though I am not a conservative driver. 

I worry a lot about getting fatigued and causing an accident. The fear that some reckless driver will hit me in a head-on collision or from the rear-end. Or the car won't slow down soon enough to safely stop when it is supposed to. That especially applies in the meandering and steep Sachangwan stretch, where you can lose your brakes if you don't drive well. On top of that, the traffic cops are stationed at various points, ready to pull you over for lack of lane discipline, minor car issues, or overspeeding. The mixture of worries eases when I focus on the road ahead. 

However, when I know I am being driven by a professional driver who is used to long distances, my heart is at peace. I enjoy steady and moderate speed. Rarely do they overspeed to the point where an oncoming car is forced onto the curb to avoid a collision. You don't find yourself silently praying or  murmuring "This speed is crazy." When I am in a car and one is overspeeding, I am always on the edge, terrified as fuck and tense as much as I may not show it. It's not comfortable at all. 

As long as you are not in control of the situation, it will be pretty scary. At least some long-haul bus drivers are never in a hurry. They are after ensuring safe arrival—arriving alive. I am sure they have been educated on the dangers of overspeeding. They are usually in control. Here, I am talking about bus companies that operate like a body corporate and have proper structures to ensure that all the staff is vetted before they are allowed to carry passengers.

A long journey does not guarantee that you will be awake the entire time. At some point, the lass seated next to you may doze off and lean on your shoulders as a pillow. What do you do when someone decides to lean on you? If I feel uncomfortable, I adjust myself. To gently alert her that she did not pay for bed space on my shoulders as part of her ticket. At least, you subtly reclaim your personal space without making her uneasy.

Before long, the bus arrives and you have alight and hop on a motorbike to your humble village home. Your back aches and the rumbly untarmacked roads make it worse. Oblivious to your discomfort the rider is busy engaging you in stories of how the local politicians have not seen it fit to tarmac the road. They pilfered the money allocated to its tarmacking. At least, you arrive safe and sound. Upon arrival, you had to remove scabs of mud from your trousers. Thanks to the rain,  you had to walk for a section the motorbike could not cruise through.

Hasta La Vista Baby.

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