Getting up when it's still dark, walking to the bus station here in the city. It is pitch dark - there are no floodlights anywhere, just the headlights of humming coach buses, smoke from drivers' cigarettes and engine rubber, and everyone moving, walking through crowds of young men, asking if you need a ticket or a ride on a pikipiki (motorcycle) somewhere. You find the man from your bus company and you follow him, weaving between and past the heat and hulk of worn buses, running lights and flashlights and yellow headlights lighting up the colorful, sometimes garish colors that the buses are painted. You manoeuver through luggage, crates of chickens, and piles of bananas, through steam and smoke. You haven't eaten breakfast but you smell the tea and the chapati frying at the stalls of the chai mamas. All you want is to take the bags off your shoulders and hands and drink hot tea and eat a fried coconut creation that you had the other day.
The bus is here and you dig the small ticket scrap from your handbag.
The steps to climb into the coach are steep, and the handrails warm. You know your hands will smell like metal and cooking oil.
You find your seat and peer out at the entropy that continues without you.
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