On the cab
Liza was listening to peak-hour traffic reports, unwillingly. The taxi driver turned on the radio so loudly that she had to take off her earphones. "Congested... traffic accident..."
The taxi driver turned over and grimace, "looks like its going to be quite a trip, ma'am."
A thought struck her. The smallness of the island she lived in; the unwanted trappings of living in the modern city. Over congested roads, traffic reports to help navigation, GPS to help sought the road maze and cab drivers, trains, buses to facilitate the never ending rush. Would rural Mabara need it?
Liza was reminded of a shinkansen trip between Kyoto and Odawara. Leaving the rich culture of Kyoto, she was heading for the onsen Mecca, Hakone. The train sped past many small towns that were gradually cooling as they headed north of Japan. Green field were turning yellow, roofs were turning darker in the backdrop of whitish blue skies. Houses were sparse and cars were getting countable. Few were walking on the streets and if there were any, they were tiny. Then came a mountain ridge, the train was entering Shizuoka. Immediately after it, green fields instantaneously disappeared and fields gave way to snow. Everything was covered in thick white fluff. The glass that seperated Liza from nature was fogged by her breath. Molds and molds of whiteness rose one after another and another. No civilization was in sight.
The mountains gave way to a sparsely populated town. On the landscape of white, akin to cold white slabs of vanilla ice-cream, thin lines thread across the snowy surface. Those were roads and an occasional car rode against the falling snow. Yet was an atypical bright and sunny day. The silence was deafening and imaginary. Surely, there are people out playing snow at this moment. Surely, their mothers are preparing a warm meal by the heater. Surely, there is an expectancy of festivals so iconic of Japanese social lives. Even then, there is a peace and calmness beckoning to the busy city dweller. Like the insides of a lover's arm, wholly accepting, wholly unquestioning.
Liza wondered if they have radios to warn them of traffic jams, accidents and lanes to avoid. They don't seem to have the roads, let alone the demand to slot in any traffic programs. Huddled in the warmth of the oak panel radio station, the DJ must have a glass window, wide and clear, to stare out at the snow scene before her. A hot cocoa by the side, headphones on, papers spread out and pencils ticking away minor changes to program and requests. The topic will be about the coming new year, a review of the past christmas and the warmth of spring. As she looks through her selection of music, she smiled. They were a compilation of song requests and her favorites jazz pieces designed to accompany the stay-home mum looking after her toddler, the young college student in reminiscence of the past year and anyone who will tune in on a midweek afternoon.
A message came and the DJ smiled. She was not expecting it so soon. She put on the last track, checked against the boxes that indicate "yes" and packed her stuff into her bag. The next DJ entered and nodded to her, " Quite a looker at the door, is he yours?" She smiled as she brushed her dark locks and left. Yes, the "looker" is hers.
Thus on the cab, Liza pondered and wondered, what it might be to be free of the traffic and modernity and live simply like a DJ in Mabara.
The taxi driver turned over and grimace, "looks like its going to be quite a trip, ma'am."
A thought struck her. The smallness of the island she lived in; the unwanted trappings of living in the modern city. Over congested roads, traffic reports to help navigation, GPS to help sought the road maze and cab drivers, trains, buses to facilitate the never ending rush. Would rural Mabara need it?
Liza was reminded of a shinkansen trip between Kyoto and Odawara. Leaving the rich culture of Kyoto, she was heading for the onsen Mecca, Hakone. The train sped past many small towns that were gradually cooling as they headed north of Japan. Green field were turning yellow, roofs were turning darker in the backdrop of whitish blue skies. Houses were sparse and cars were getting countable. Few were walking on the streets and if there were any, they were tiny. Then came a mountain ridge, the train was entering Shizuoka. Immediately after it, green fields instantaneously disappeared and fields gave way to snow. Everything was covered in thick white fluff. The glass that seperated Liza from nature was fogged by her breath. Molds and molds of whiteness rose one after another and another. No civilization was in sight.
The mountains gave way to a sparsely populated town. On the landscape of white, akin to cold white slabs of vanilla ice-cream, thin lines thread across the snowy surface. Those were roads and an occasional car rode against the falling snow. Yet was an atypical bright and sunny day. The silence was deafening and imaginary. Surely, there are people out playing snow at this moment. Surely, their mothers are preparing a warm meal by the heater. Surely, there is an expectancy of festivals so iconic of Japanese social lives. Even then, there is a peace and calmness beckoning to the busy city dweller. Like the insides of a lover's arm, wholly accepting, wholly unquestioning.
Liza wondered if they have radios to warn them of traffic jams, accidents and lanes to avoid. They don't seem to have the roads, let alone the demand to slot in any traffic programs. Huddled in the warmth of the oak panel radio station, the DJ must have a glass window, wide and clear, to stare out at the snow scene before her. A hot cocoa by the side, headphones on, papers spread out and pencils ticking away minor changes to program and requests. The topic will be about the coming new year, a review of the past christmas and the warmth of spring. As she looks through her selection of music, she smiled. They were a compilation of song requests and her favorites jazz pieces designed to accompany the stay-home mum looking after her toddler, the young college student in reminiscence of the past year and anyone who will tune in on a midweek afternoon.
A message came and the DJ smiled. She was not expecting it so soon. She put on the last track, checked against the boxes that indicate "yes" and packed her stuff into her bag. The next DJ entered and nodded to her, " Quite a looker at the door, is he yours?" She smiled as she brushed her dark locks and left. Yes, the "looker" is hers.
Thus on the cab, Liza pondered and wondered, what it might be to be free of the traffic and modernity and live simply like a DJ in Mabara.