A waiting trip in the station

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Posted on Dec 01 2015 7 minutes read
A waiting trip in the station
© Rabih El Amine
The «service» taxi driver who drove me to the front of the building, under the large bridge, stops as tells me, «this way.» I look in that direction and see a number of white taxicabs parked on both sides of the road, next to a bus bearing a colored advertisement for a Brazilian coffee brand I haven’t heard of before.
I get out of the car and cross the cement barricade that separates me from what should be a parking lot or a bus station. I walk toward the only lit-up container-office to ask about trips to Syria. In front of the container is a yellow banner, written in blue: «Tartus – Banias – Jableh – Lattakia» and above that, «Jordan.»
I stand in front of the window and wait for the employee to end a conversation on his mobile phone. The conversation drags on, along with my wait. I contemplate the advertisement posted on the bus and the car that is being offered as a prize. It is placed above a drawing of a coffee pot that was hastily done, or at least that’s how it seems to me. I imagine the taste of the coffee and its smell; I stopped drinking coffee around ten years ago, when I quit smoking cigarettes.
I turn once again to the employee, who is still on the phone. Perhaps he knows that there is no hurry with my request; the terminal is empty except for the two of us. There are no signs that a vehicle will leave before hours. There are no people, or passengers, or even taxi drivers in front of their cars. They’re the ones who usually run after every person who might be a passenger; they don’t let them out of their grasp until they can guarantee them as a rider for one of their seats.
The employee and I look at each other as he continues his telephone call, which appears to be a personal one – it was about his children, and paying for a doctor for his father, and the entire story of some halloum cheese that didn’t get to «Abu Wahid.» It’s as if he wants to get me involved in his worries; he gestures to me with his eye at the container’s door. I look at the door and enter without pausing, as if I was used to visiting the office. With a second movement of his eyes, I sit down on the chair that has a worn-out pillow on it; it’s taken on the shape of the chair and the shape of everyone who has sat there.
The employee turns around and looks at me. With a gesture of his eyes, he excuses himself as he says: «A long distance call.» I avoid answering and avoid looking at his eyes. Instead I look at a pile of newspapers under the table. If not for the bottle of blue cleaning liquid placed on top, I wouldn’t have known that the newspapers were for wiping the windows in front of us, with its small semi-circle opening at the bottom to allow for communication between the two sides, and the passing of money and tickets back and forth.
A wasp is flying next to the glass, from the inside, where the name of the travel company is reflected. It hits the glass agitatedly and then lands on a cup of tea in front of the employee.
Outside are two men, each with a shoulder-held travel bag, passing in front of us. I try to learn their destination but my eyes are busy with the fenced wall facing the road. The wall separates the absent passengers from the sea, with its commercial port. That’s what I assume from where I sit on a chair, near the place where various goods are loaded on the vehicles. On the wall is a simple drawing of two bicycles, also without riders; it’s as if the entire place, with its walls and the drawings, has lost its people.
The wasp leaves the cup of tea and goes back to hitting the glass screen. I stand up and head for the door and leave behind the employee with his interlocutor. Outside, there is no trace of the two men; it’s as if they have disappeared. Perhaps they went up to the parked bus, the one with the Brazilian coffee advertisement. I look at the windows of the bus, which are covered by purple curtains. I notice a man and a woman sitting at the front of the bus, waiting for it to leave. I pass the bus and head for the taxicabs and see one of the drivers placing bags inside his big trunk while his colleague hands them to him. The driver looks at me and asks, «Tartus?» I shake my head and his colleague asks me: «Damascus?» «No,» I say. The two men continue to pack the trunk with bags as I continue to the waiting area, where a semi-circle of cement seats stand. Some are gray, some are of pale colors and some are covered with cardboard. They’re originally cardboard boxes that were opened and spread out to make a bed and covers, to protect the sleeper from the cool air coming from the sea, which gets cold at night at this time of the year.
A few people – no more than ten – are sitting or walking around in the open space. Most of them are drivers or station employees. A person selling coffee is also there, memorizing the orders and disappearing for a while behind the billboard that is empty of any advertisements. There is a small heating plate used for water and to prepare coffee. He pours the water into cups and then returns with the drink while it’s hot; the cups are quickly passed out and no mistakes are made. The man takes LL 1,000 for the coffee in a small plastic cup or tea in a larger plastic cup and twice as much for instant coffee in a large cardboard cup.
The coffee seller approaches and asks me what I want to drink. Before I answer he leaves me and moves to a man sitting next to me, and asks him. Before he returns to me I leave the area and return to the container-office. From a distance I can see that the employee has finished his call. I move toward him, and arrive at where he is. I stand behind the glass. I look at him, hesitating a little. He looks at me. Like someone who has forgotten what they want, I stutter, and apologize, and slowly move away. I reach the road that separates the station from the wall of the port. I stand there and take a last look at the bus terminal, and the drawings of the bicycles. A «service» taxi stops in front of me and I ask its driver, «Hamra?», and I ride next to him.
As the car moves away from the bus station, the sea is gradually revealed to us. As I look at the sea, I think of the coffee advertisement posted on the bus, of the coffee vendor, and how the coffee he was preparing had no odor. Or perhaps I can no longer pick up the smell of coffee after all this time. I close my eyes and imagine what coffee might taste like as I drive the car in the advertisement along the streets of Brazil.

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