Stranded together
Her name is J. We met outside the bus station at Palm Springs. The station was unexpectedly closed with a notice stating “Be back at 3pm.” J was already sitting on the curb when I arrive lugging my luggage. With no other choice, I decided to join handful of people waiting and sat myself next to Jes on the curb. She threw me an empathetic smile and told me that she had been waiting for half an hour already. The group of us just sat there in the heat observing the flow of newcomers and offering the same empathetic smiles. It was quite amusing to see others arriving and displaying the same initial shock to find the station closed.
I asked J to take a picture of me with my luggage. “I am going to label it (Stranded in Palm Springs) “. We laughed and striked up a conversation, telling each other why we were in Palm Springs. Bit by bit, we began to exchange trivalities of our lives, our families, our homeland and its respective way of life.
J was a caregiver. She came from Zimbabwe alone. Had been in State for 8 years. Was in Palm Springs for her caregiving work but she lived in LA. Been married in States and divorced after 2 years. She had been single since and enjoyed her independence. She had always been a fiercely independent person from young. But, she missed her family alot, especially the womenfolk, her grandma and her sister. Her younger sister married young and had tons of kids. Hence, she couldn’t join J in States.
Bit by bit, she painted me a life that is totally foreign to me. A life in that is far removed from her life in States. A heritage and ties which she tried fiercely to protect and remain connected through weekly phone calls and mailing nice things back for her family. I admired her for her courage in seeking a better life in a foreign land, not only for herself but for those back home too.
Even with her obvious love for her homeland and those she left behind, it is obvious that she does not think much of her own people in a place she now resided in. “The bad thing about us blacks is we do not do enough to help our own kind. The blacks are one of the most selfish people in the world. And that’s why we are always the lowest on the social hierarchy. Every place that I go to, there are always social groups of different people like the Filipinos or the Chineses, advertising to welcome people of their own race to seek them out for help. You don’t ever see that of a black community here.” Despite this, she talked of her homeland with a yearning reflecting all she missed.
She is a combination of strength and kindness. When we were finally on bus and I was dozing off, she woke me up. Laying her own cardigan on her right shoulder like a pillow, she said “Here. Lean on me while you sleep. You will break your neck sleeping this way.” And she refused to take no for an answer. When we reached LA, she was nice enough to send me to the connecting bus to my hotel. We parted ways with a warm hug but no exchange of contact information or any suggestions to keep in touch. Somehow, it felt just right to part like that, once more strangers on the street. But, the memory of this stranger and her kindness lingers in my memory.
And this is one of my greatest joys of travelling. The people I met, each with their own unique perspective of lives and the random acts of kindness that touched me. Even the nasty experiences that seems funny retrospectively. All these experiences string together to form bits and pieces of my life.
