The sky was dark when we started for the bus stop. I had asked Kyra what time the bus came but her answer was vague. Seven o’clock, maybe, or eight or nine, if it comes. This is the small village of Zhaoxing in Guizhou Province, China and there is much that is vague. We stopped for a quick bowl of noodles for breakfast then walked to the center of town where, we supposed, the bus would stop, if it came. At seven, no bus. Kyra left several times to recheck the schedule. Always the same, maybe now, maybe later, maybe maybe. Her aunt sat with us for awhile, sharing juicy oranges and nuts. She spoke no English and my Chinese is limited to the most basic of pleasantries but she wanted to share in the waiting. Five past eight, we heard the clatter of a struggling bus coming up the main street, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Kyra stepped out to wave the driver down, otherwise he would have kept up his momentum and driven straight through. She spoke briefly with the driver, handed him a slip of paper and waved me onto the bus. I had the note with directions in Chinese she had given me the night before but I was happy to have someone sharing the knowledge who spoke the language.

It was a small bus and almost full but I found an empty seat where I was able to sit the necessary sideways. It’s a rare Chinese bus that allows me to sit any other way. I require either two seats or an aisle. I settled in for the 9 hour bus ride and waved goodby to Kyra and her tiny home town. I was on my own for the next four days with only a vague idea of where I was going and no idea where I would be sleeping. As the bus made its way along the rutted road, it stopped occasionally to pick up passengers until there was standing room only and my legs were swung out into the aisle. Two hours into the trip, the bus stopped.

There was a noisy discussion that seemed to indicate that this was unusual. Most of the passengers left the bus and headed toward another bus stopped just ahead. No one had said anything about a transfer point and we were a long way from anything resembling a town. A twinge of apprehension prickled my neck as I contemplated my next move. To stay or not to stay. The young couple who spoke just a little English started to leave just as the bus driver returned to the bus with note in hand and started pointing at me. The couple and the remaining people on the bus now came to my aid and started gesturing toward the exit. I got the message. Get off the bus. The first step was into a mud hole. Clearly the bus exchange was a result of the recent rains that left a portion of the road impassable forcing us to slip and slide our way through the muck separating the two buses. The good news was a bus upgrade to a newer, larger bus with seats for everyone.

Next stop, Kaili, where I did expect a transfer and was armed with my second note in Chinese and the correct pronunciation of Guiyang, my destination for the night. A semblance of a line was forming in front of a lone window and I dutifully joined it. Ticket buyers kept coming in from all angles to get to the window. Each, it seemed, had a special situation until I realized that they all wanted to buy tickets just as I did. With that realization, the bony elbows leapt from my side and became knives cutting through the crowd as I allowed no others to push past me until I reached the window, shouted my request and thumped my money on the counter. Success. I had the ticket and the body was intact. I boarded my third bus of the day and positioned myself nicely in the front seat with plenty of leg room only to discover that we had assigned seats and mine was in the back of the bus amongst the vendors and their overflowing bundles taking up the aisles. Knees pressed against the seat, onward, bus!