The dust on the mountain

Sophie realizes that her shirt is getting wet. Hurrying to catch the bus, she swings the cloth bag over her shoulder. She can feel that her body heat and the popsicle are beginning a sticky dance. She made sure she bought all the items on the list first, and then chose the kiosk closest to the bus stop. But the bus is late. And there is a long queue.

The 345NB on a Wednesday is normally empty, because those who needed to get home are home. No one is in a rush. Other times she chose to walk the seven kilometres from the market. There is certainly less dust on the road, then inside the bus. But she promised to buy the popsicle. And no reasonable person feels like tackling the walk in this heat, anyway. It is 15.55 and the bus pulls up. She only finds a seat at 16.15. It is 16.27 when the dusty trip begins.

It is a damning choice between choking from the bus fumes and the unbearable heat in the bus; or choking from the enveloping dust outside the bus as it makes its way into the mountain. Where she lives, the ground is dark and fertile. The red dust of the market place is a reminder of the inability of nature to settle or rest in this place, as men, women and children continue journeys disguised as purpose. Due to the bus size, the attempt to avoid potholes is a rather unsuccessful one. Mothers hold on to their hats and children cling to their mothers.

Teenage boys brave the heat, as they entertain each other with stories of bravery, haircuts and the battle in understanding the attitudes of the girls. One chases a stray dog into an unknown backyard, another finds success with the tail of a lizard, and yet one other stand smiling as he waves at Sophie. She notices a missing front tooth and lowers her gaze.

In the distance, she recognizes her best friend's brown roof. A truck tire is lying at the front gate. With no sign of life, the place looks forlorn.

She is taken by surprise as the bus slows down at the field which surrounds the little tattered church. She never knew about that small stop. But no one is waiting. Then Mr Boon starts to rise. Positioning his cane in the aisle, his other hand steady on the railing of the seat in front of him, he shakes to a vertical position. He stands there for thirty seconds, and then slowly moves down the aisle. It is a precarious descent down the stairs, as the collective holds their breath. He makes it safely out the bus and everyone makes themselves comfortable again.

An orange puddle is now forming in her right pocket. She focuses on the little boy who is climbing all over his sleeping mother. He starts by standing on her arm, then moves his way up onto her shoulder. He decides to put his foot onto a breast, but the foothold is not solid. He starts to fall. Sophie decides that she does not want to witness the inevitable. She is about to close her eyes, when the mother catches him mid-air. She straightens him onto the space next to her, and closes her eyes again.

The bus crosses the little bridge. She once had a dream about the bridge. She dreamed that when they reached the middle section, a strong wind picked them up and deposited them in the field behind the church. They had to restart the drive again from that point. They then arrived at the bridge again. The same thing happened. They were deposited back at the field. She started to panic. She would never get home. Was she the only one who was worried? She looked around at the other passengers. Then she saw that they were all sitting with numbers. She started to look closer. Whenever they reached the bridge a number would disappear. People were disappearing in numerical order! That was the reason nobody was panicking. Everyone just waited their turn. Just then number twelve disappeared. She looked down at her own number. Hers read: 6 458. She then woke, having scared her sibling in the bed next to hers.

They are now at the incline, and the bus starts to do a stubborn gallop. About a month ago the bus stalled completely, on that specific spot. All the passengers had to disembark. The road was too narrow to wish for any speedy rescue. The human line went up the hill, and then down on the other side. The line consisted of potatoes hoisted on heads, children onto shoulders, and plastic bags at sides, like numerous scales of justice.

Her heart is beating fast. She is uncertain whether it is the exhausting heat, or the anxiety finding a lower resting place in her body. Either way, the danger of its continuation is well-known.

Up the hill they crawl and finally, as the exhaust relieves heavy toxins from the belly of the bus, they start to descend. Sophie gives an audible sigh. She refuses though to check the status of the popsicle.

On the second bend, she makes her way to the bell. Pressing it, until she herself can hear the sound over the head of the driver, she moves down the aisle. The bus stops. The rusty door opens with a cranking sound. She steps into a heat much more appealing to her lungs, and starts to run. This is the only place in the village where the river is not yet muddied. Normally she would stop and allow the water to flow over her hot feet. But she is in a hurry. Clutching the basket filled with butternut, squash, carrots and potatoes, she moves fast.

She can see the red roof in the distance, desperately in need of a fresh coat, but still majestic against the brown of the landscape. She runs up the small staircase, and enters the darkness.

Sweating and in much discomfort, she is sitting in her favorite chair, with a facecloth on her forehead. As Sophie approaches, she reaches for her reading glasses. Sophie drops the vegetables, and grabs a saucer from the shelf. She carefully places the cloth bag on the table, and reaches inside. Most of it is still intact and iced. She places it on the saucer and hands it to her.

Sophie watches as she place her thick lips around the melting popsicle, and close her eyes.