Today was meant to be that day when, on this page, we were all to embark on a long maxi taxi ride to an undetermined destination. It was going to be one of those bigger minibuses packed to capacity with a rowdy bunch all wishing to choose radio stations or take turns at the wheel – including those without driving permits or knowledge of how stick shift works.
There are some who, upon recognising they are probably
on the wrong bus, and with a bell that does not work, end up shouting at the
top of their voice: “Bus stop, Drive!!!”
The first time, about half mile away from the desired
destination, the instruction is followed by a hiss and a cranking and a
screeching before the bus stops, the back door opens “clatacks” and two or
three passengers disembark in the middle of nowhere.
The second time it happens, a now more keyed-in driver
hits the brakes hard and those at the back are transferred like missiles to the
front of the bus, and two front seat passengers suffer chipped teeth and busted
lips on the windscreen.
One guy, in khaki shorts, sandals and socks, threatens
to sue. The lady with the broad straw hat and North American accent is on her
phone: “Come and get me now! And, no, I don’t know ‘exactly’ where I am!”
“And, by the way, where am I???!!!”
The guy who wants to sue, eventually pulls the driver
away from the wheel and takes control. There is loud applause. But the hard
right the new driver takes leads to inappropriate contact involving a fat guy and
a young lady in short shorts across the aisle with eyes fixed for hours on her
phone. “Sorry. Sorry,” the man lies. The fight does not last long.
On more than one occasion, when we stop, we have to
reverse as some poor soul has merely come off to pee before rejoining the cacophonous
rhythm section at the back of the bus. Then, when he returns, the arguments
resume about who needs the windows open and who prefers them closed with air
conditioning.
About two hours into the trip, while the maxi is at
full pelt, a child sticks her head outside and a bug flies in her eye. One guy
(who everybody knew got on without paying) encourages the mother to bend the
child’s head backward, keep the eyelid open between index finger and thumb …
and blow hard. Then comes a loud yelp, followed by the screams of a child with
a bug stuck, away from non-surgical human access, beneath her eyelid. “Pour
water! Pour water!” comes smug front seat advice.
Then, during one rare moment of relative silence: “Mister,
Mister,” a tiny child across the aisle turns tearily to me, “are we there yet?”
There is no truthful answer to the question. The maxi
taxi, now on driver number six, is hurtling, brakeless, through a crowded
market street. “Bus stop, Drive! Oh Lord! Bus stop!!!”
Yes, today, was the day to write about that fateful maxi
taxi trip to nowhere in particular. Perhaps it was the occasion when we finally
answer the little boy’s question, or at least have our bearings right and know
where, on the journey, we have reached.
I wrestled sleeplessly with the metaphors. The
storyline. How would it all end? Whose turn was it at the steering wheel. All
of that.
But then, on Sunday, came the news that Desmond Tutu had
died. For sure, on the imagined maxi taxi, I had more than once flicked to the “Library”
folder on my Kindle to find The Book of Joy – author Douglas Abrams’
reflections on a weeklong joint conversation with the Dalai Lama and Archbishop
Tutu. It’s not my regular kind of reading, but there it is between Baldwin and
Neruda.
“He is much more cerebral,” Abrams remembers Tutu saying
of the Dalai Lama. “I am more instinctual.”
“I guess,” Abrams surmises, “even great spiritual
leaders get nervous when they are journeying into the unknown.”
Hmm. “Journeying into the unknown.” There’s our maxi
taxi!
In the book, the Dalai Lama speaks of the “destination(s) of life.” Tutu notes: “Nothing beautiful in the end comes without a measure of some pain, some frustration, some suffering. This is the nature of things. This is how our universe has been made up.”
In a sense, lesser mortals on the maxi taxi reflect
the same tensions. Are we there yet? Maybe that’s not the question. Maybe the real
question has to do with destination. Not here, in the middle of nowhere.
