Not finding Shangri-la
Tuesday, June 19th, 2007Sun-Wed, 10-13 June 2007
I never thought I’d miss Vietnamese men in any way. But I was wrong. On the bus to Zhongdian I fervently longed for their compact, small frames. In comparison, Chinese blokes match their country when it comes to taking up space, firmly lodging themselves with the same puny disregard for their neighbours’ right of space.
Call me petty or fastidious, but a stranger’s arm rubbing up against mine drives me to rabid distraction.
So my 5 hour journey to Zhongdian started with a silent but critical elbow wrestling match with the over-expansive body mass next to me. I tried desperate tactics: I positioned the rough edges of my bracelet in such a way that it would dig into his skin. But he clearly had enough blubber on him not to be bothered. I knew it was a hopeless battle, and in the end I had to resign myself to entertaining sick thoughts about amputating his arm.
I opened my window and tried to concentrate on the magnificent scenery. My appreciation of the surroundings was short-lived. The guy in front of me was leaning out the window and spitting at the trees, like a pissing dog marking its territory. I prudently closed my window.
I looked round the rest of the bus. The vinyl on the side panels and ceiling was peeled off, exposing the loose and rusty rivets like decaying teeth. The curtains had died long ago and been reborn in the lower caste of kitchen rags, tied in a knot and hanging lifelessly from 1 or 2 hooks. With every death rattle this sickly carcass was begging for scrap yard euthanasia. [read on]
vynckemichelle