(Somewhere on the land border between Botswana and Zimbabwe.)
We're at the Plumtree border, clocking our fourth hour here. The sun is now bright. As the 4am chill in our skins starts thawing, our bodies forget the sensation of cold.
Customs officers are checking bags. Or rather, sacks. One of them demands that a sack be emptied so that he can inspect the items. Two men handle, haul and wrestle with the sack as the officer stands by. Out come potatoes, and a pack of butternuts. There is also 2 kg pasta, a few feet of wire and random cans of beans. The men are gently amused and they put back the items. The potatoes go in first.
The lead conductor is in his element. He's walking around in his bus t-shirt, jacket tied around his waist, chewing gum with vigour. He's segregating bags, pouncing on the occasional passenger with customs-forms advice, and summoning his stout, hard working colleague with a gruff "Bighead -- Bighead!". He doesn't seem too concerned that we're steadily heading into our fifth hour at this border post.
Bighead works steadily, and is unassuming. He has a friendly face and is much slower at writing (filling in our passport details on the ticket sheet) than at shifting around heavy bags. His deftness with the big sacks is an interesting contrast to his in-bus persona.
Everyone is waiting, waiting good-naturedly. They're mostly Zimbabwean, and are calm and pleasant. Though there is the occasional worn-out youth who was up all night in the bus since the "standing" section of the bus were encroaching on his aisle-seat, sitting in his face and propping their legs up on his knees. He tries to catch a wink of respite out on the border-post platform, his bag propped under his head.
L, the worn-out youth, is now sipping coke. He brought a straw with him, I don't know from where. He looks buffeted and resigned as the sweet girls next to him laugh gently at something.
There's a single tree with big red flowers against the canvas of the sky. A woman sits eating a banana. In my line of vision she's directly under the tree. Life is so pretty.
Customs officers are checking bags. Or rather, sacks. One of them demands that a sack be emptied so that he can inspect the items. Two men handle, haul and wrestle with the sack as the officer stands by. Out come potatoes, and a pack of butternuts. There is also 2 kg pasta, a few feet of wire and random cans of beans. The men are gently amused and they put back the items. The potatoes go in first.
***
The lead conductor is in his element. He's walking around in his bus t-shirt, jacket tied around his waist, chewing gum with vigour. He's segregating bags, pouncing on the occasional passenger with customs-forms advice, and summoning his stout, hard working colleague with a gruff "Bighead -- Bighead!". He doesn't seem too concerned that we're steadily heading into our fifth hour at this border post.
***
Bighead works steadily, and is unassuming. He has a friendly face and is much slower at writing (filling in our passport details on the ticket sheet) than at shifting around heavy bags. His deftness with the big sacks is an interesting contrast to his in-bus persona.
Everyone is waiting, waiting good-naturedly. They're mostly Zimbabwean, and are calm and pleasant. Though there is the occasional worn-out youth who was up all night in the bus since the "standing" section of the bus were encroaching on his aisle-seat, sitting in his face and propping their legs up on his knees. He tries to catch a wink of respite out on the border-post platform, his bag propped under his head.
***
I of course, am feeling quite at home on this random border in Africa. Existential thoughts start whirring and settling. Why do I work so much? Do I need a break between jobs, and can I take one? I run so fast to keep up with life. Why don't I write everyday? I borrowed K's book and reading soothes me so. Why am I not reading more? What do I want to read? Am I on the way to becoming the person I want to become? I'm 24.
***
L, the worn-out youth, is now sipping coke. He brought a straw with him, I don't know from where. He looks buffeted and resigned as the sweet girls next to him laugh gently at something.
There's a single tree with big red flowers against the canvas of the sky. A woman sits eating a banana. In my line of vision she's directly under the tree. Life is so pretty.
