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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Random Musings

April heralds the season of showers. A time when the sky is packed tight with grey, pregnant clouds. The dark afternoon formations suddenly leave a mysterious canvas in the blue sky, and the bright hue swiftly evanescent with no prior notice. The onset of rain brings with it an air of positivity. It's the rhythmic drumming of raindrops for me; how they impinge upon the earth releasing a natural aroma and filling the air with a delicious scent.

There's a palpable sense of delight when you're snug in bed and the downpour begins, your heart palpitates with joy expectant of splendid slumber. It's a sign that you will have an awesome night, rich with the sounds and scents that you long for. The rain ushers in serene peace and sobriety, offering a harmonious blend of calm and a hint of sensuality during the ambrosial hours. A juxtaposed palette of real tranquillity with a sultry feel.

As usual, the rain presents the perfect time to indulge in a steaming cup of tea. One that is delicately light and creamy with a hint of mint, ushering in cherished moments and wrapping around the neck like a warm scarf. The mug that you tightly grip with your hands, and the warmth sinks into the bones. It provides a little solace, with the steam rising across the face to spread warmth on the nose and cheeks. The drink provides a momentary escape, a soothing elixir that transports you beyond the shadows of the past, the discomfort of the present, and the uncertainties of the future. 

Sometimes, I take a gander through the window to observe the straight, silvery, and smooth streaks spiral into a torrent of deluge. How the heavy, hopeless raindrops strike and seep through every crevice, leaving a feeling of adhesion and cohesion. The way flashes of lightning precede a long thunderous sound like some grand piano, then it settles into a continuous soft rumble. The way thunder can terrify with significance and have an overwhelming scope. You feel like the current ebullient regularity should continue irrespective of it giving vibes of a beautiful, delicate crass.

At the year's outset, I found myself striding through the rain. January panned out differently. I had somehow mistaken the gravity of the situation, hardly noticing the clouds were converging in a confident sky. I fondly recall how cool breezes coursed into transparent eddies. The winds shifted from soft to strong in less than a minute, roaming at large like an unannounced visitation.

Vulnerability sets in once the heavens open to let fine drops furiously outpour in an unmetered way. The sudden torrents force you to shelter under an extended balcony, as the narrow streets are further constricted by balconies that jut out, encroaching upon the space ordinarily reserved for roads. As the rain intensifies, people vanish as if by magic, revealing our collective apprehension of the rain. I met a certain lovely young lass, fresh out of high school, who engaged me in a conversation, and she wanted to be employed.

She was an irrelevant teen I felt like I could fall in love with. I had to highlight that part for no apparent reason. She expressed a desire to engage in honest and legitimate work, eschewing the path of illicit endeavors like working as a stripper. My encounter took place in Githurai, a locale unfairly stigmatized by a reputation for crime and substandard housing. Although crime is prevalent in the area, I have always remained unscathed, feeling safe walking on the cabro-paved roads during the day.

After showing signs that the rains would subside, I decided to saunter back to my crib. When it rains for a while, it feels like freshness is poured back to earth, resulting in a new creation. The solemn thunder has tremendous powers in the way it roars, evoking raw power during the aftermath of rain. I had to cover a distance of about 2 kilometres, and I was thoroughly soaked to the skin by the time I arrived in the house.

I chose to straddle back instead of vehicular motion. I didn’t care, though. I took in the sight of how the ivy clustered on the walls of solitary residences and the lurid marsh green grass blades lined the curb. Huge drops of rain smote my face in earnest. The liquid spines soaked my hair and poured down my forehead, running down to blind my eyes and stream from my nose. My lenses blurred and I could not see clearly as tiny raindrops did not provide enough oomph to overcome water’s tendency to adhere to the glass. After it all I went back to the devoted warmth. The well-disposed threat of familiarity of my house. Then I felt the elusive sense of ease breeze in. I realized am not a pluviophile.

Hasta La Vista, Baby.

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