It’s my third week here and the cicadas have just begun singing. We should be done with the hardware installation by week’s end. I’m going to celebrate. I will take myself off to see the Daibutsu. As my hosts have explained I will need a short train and a longer bus ride. All five have pulled me aside to explain the route and made me repeat it back. I’m gaijin. While I’m treated with deference as the project lead, my cultural ignorance is tolerated as one would tolerate a child who doesn’t know better. Finally, they are all satisfied I will be back on the job Monday morning.
Saturday morning, I go to the appointed spot and get on the bus. You enter at the rear and exit at the front paying what you owe as you exit. There are already passengers, but more enter. I stand to allow elderly passengers to sit. Passengers get off. More get on. I’ve lost track of where we are on the route and the electronic sign is in kanji and kata kana. Inside the bus is the quiet murmur of Japanese. Outside the bus, fields of rice forming magnificent pictures if superheroes, trains, samurai. I have no idea how they are made and lack sufficient language to ask.
We’ve stopped at the base of a mountain, and the majority of the passengers have gotten off. I’m alone with the driver, and three women, two of whom whisper back and forth, appear to be talking about me. The third, more girl than woman, sits demurely looking at her sensible shoes. Her hair has one red streak down the right side. The bus goes into a tunnel. Once back in daylight, the two women gather bulging net bags from under their seat, they keep glancing at me. The girl picks up a backpack. The bus comes to a stop. Everyone gets off. The driver shouts at me, pointing to the door. I take his meaning and exit. I haven’t paid. He follows, shuts the bus doors and walks away.
I have no idea where I am. No one knows where I am. There’s no one from the bus left. I’m relatively sure the Daibutsu is not here. The only thing I see is a small, I’m assuming, ticketing office. I try there. There is a man reading manga behind the counter.
I approach saying “Sumi ma sen.” The catch phrase all gaijin should know. It will garner forgiveness for a multitude of trespasses.
I ask “Daibutsu?”
He points to a brass relief map. I had studied Chinese, not Japanese, fortunately the Kanji is mostly the same. I recognize the X marking my spot, and the kanji for Big Buddha. There are mountains and rice fields between us. I point at the bus; I mime a steering wheel. He shakes his head, points to the clock on the wall, holds up three fingers. Not bad, a ninety-minute wait. I wander outside finding a tree with a bench. I sketch what I see. I keep the bus in sight at all times. I can only hope at 3:00 it will be returning to Kobe; I will sit on the opposite side and photograph the artistic rice fields. The Daibutsu will wait for another time.
— Lkai
Saturday morning, I go to the appointed spot and get on the bus. You enter at the rear and exit at the front paying what you owe as you exit. There are already passengers, but more enter. I stand to allow elderly passengers to sit. Passengers get off. More get on. I’ve lost track of where we are on the route and the electronic sign is in kanji and kata kana. Inside the bus is the quiet murmur of Japanese. Outside the bus, fields of rice forming magnificent pictures if superheroes, trains, samurai. I have no idea how they are made and lack sufficient language to ask.
We’ve stopped at the base of a mountain, and the majority of the passengers have gotten off. I’m alone with the driver, and three women, two of whom whisper back and forth, appear to be talking about me. The third, more girl than woman, sits demurely looking at her sensible shoes. Her hair has one red streak down the right side. The bus goes into a tunnel. Once back in daylight, the two women gather bulging net bags from under their seat, they keep glancing at me. The girl picks up a backpack. The bus comes to a stop. Everyone gets off. The driver shouts at me, pointing to the door. I take his meaning and exit. I haven’t paid. He follows, shuts the bus doors and walks away.
I have no idea where I am. No one knows where I am. There’s no one from the bus left. I’m relatively sure the Daibutsu is not here. The only thing I see is a small, I’m assuming, ticketing office. I try there. There is a man reading manga behind the counter.
I approach saying “Sumi ma sen.” The catch phrase all gaijin should know. It will garner forgiveness for a multitude of trespasses.
I ask “Daibutsu?”
He points to a brass relief map. I had studied Chinese, not Japanese, fortunately the Kanji is mostly the same. I recognize the X marking my spot, and the kanji for Big Buddha. There are mountains and rice fields between us. I point at the bus; I mime a steering wheel. He shakes his head, points to the clock on the wall, holds up three fingers. Not bad, a ninety-minute wait. I wander outside finding a tree with a bench. I sketch what I see. I keep the bus in sight at all times. I can only hope at 3:00 it will be returning to Kobe; I will sit on the opposite side and photograph the artistic rice fields. The Daibutsu will wait for another time.
— Lkai
Really good. We accidentally got on a slow train in Japan years ago and missed our plane to Atlanta. Our business class seats went empty but the turnstile guy had gone home and wasn't coming back.
ReplyDeleteVery descriptive. I can see the place through your writing.
ReplyDeleteIt was still an excursion, with its learnings and fulfillments! Very adventurous of your character. ---Macoff
ReplyDelete