by Ning Cai
Of course, I didn’t want to be stabbed to death for my big mouth. It was all just horribly humbling.
NING
“Hey! We’ve been here since 8pm!” I grabbed the BFF’s hand and pulled her towards the front, only succeeding to land us smack in the chaotic middle. “What the fuck is going on?”
We were pissed off before, but now everyone was officially FURIOUS. Mullet woman was yelling at the security guard because he refused to let anyone in until we all formed one single line, clearly an impossible task now if you had half a brain (evidently this guy didn’t).
His colleague in a pair of low-riding baggy pants sauntered over, but instead of helping improve the messy situation, the security guard gave his buddy a funky high-five followed by a bro-hug before ambling away to chat up a Greyhound girl. It was as if he didn’t notice this loud mob of angry, tired humans. Which makes me wonder what Greyhound really pays its employees for.
I glanced at my watch. It was already 12:15am. Seriously, if no one in charge took control of the situation, we would be stuck here all night. I sighed and looked at the BFF, speaking in Mandarin like we always did whenever we needed a private conversation. “! Damn these useless pigs!”
Pam said nothing but the resigned look on her face said it all. People from the back were shoving us violently but we held our ground, sweaty hands making sure we had all our belongings with us.
Finally, the patiently-waiting bus driver got out and stood by the door to handle the situation. The pleasant-looking woman took people’s tickets while bags were set in the belly of the bus by a porter assisting her. If not for this sweet African-American lady, things wouldn’t have started moving.
The BFF and I finally made it to the front of the queue, but we were nervously crossing our fingers because the bus already seemed to be full. Passing the unapologetic security guard who had caused the mess, I waved and smiled coyly at the man, very sweetly acknowledging him in Mandarin. “. Motherfucker.”
Pam turned pink and coughed loudly, in a feeble attempt to cover up her giggling fit. With his fat arms crossed over a body abused by a lifetime of junk food, the grossly obese non-Mandarin-speaking guard gave me an authoritative nod as the BFF and I made our way through the bus gate and on to the waiting vehicle. We were incredibly lucky, there were only three seats left.
The BFF and I had to split up, but at that point, we were just really thankful to have secured a place on this midnight bus to Memphis. Pam took a seat somewhere behind me, while I sat next to an exhausted-looking African-American woman in her late 50s. We made some small talk before she pulled down her cap and leaned against the bus window to sleep. I didn’t blame her. If a 20-something like me was already feeling so drained, what about her?
Once back on the bus, our driver sincerely apologised, sharing that she was told to come for her 11:45pm shift and had absolutely no idea that we had all been waiting for hours. She didn’t understand why Greyhound didn’t take better care of us, but she was sorry for what we had to go through. I was touched by her gesture and hoped her company knew what a great asset this lady was.
The bus finally started moving and I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. I was deeply exhausted, drained both mentally and physically. I badly wanted to fall asleep but the stiff bus seats were cramped, turning my blessing of long legs into a curse. We had spent about an hour travelling on the road and I was at the brink of finally drifting off to sleep, when an incredibly powerful stench suddenly hit me.
I bolted upright in my chair, wide awake and feeling badly nauseated.
There it was again. My sensitive nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench of urine and I gagged. What the fuck? Here? In the bus? Seriously?!
I quickly realised that it was the sleeping woman next to me who had wet herself. I panicked. Raised as a hygiene-freak thanks to my mom who had worked as a nurse, I was terrified that the woman’s pee would soak the material of my seat.
Dear God! I gave an internal scream, horrified by the turn of events. Just when I thought that I could let my guard down and relax because the worst was finally over... it was truly Murphy’s Law.
The stench of urine grew stronger and I knew I was really close to throwing up. My sleeping neighbour didn’t budge, obliviously lost in the land of dreams. I checked my watch and realised that I had over eight-and-a-half hours more to go before our bus reached Memphis, Tennessee!
I willed myself not to hyperventilate, or I would surely throw up after sucking in more foul air. Out of desperation, I started to do the only thing possible at that moment. Pray.
God, I really can’t do this anymore! I’ve had it up to here, please, please have mercy on me. Help me out of this predicament... I’m so tired God, and I can’t stand it anymore. PLEASE!!!
Perhaps the reception to God was at a fantastic full-bar that night, since our bus was travelling along a quiet road in the wee hours of the morning. Not a second after I finished my fervent passionate heartfelt prayer, the loud crackle of our bus driver’s microphone sounded, making my eyelids fly open.
“Big trouble, big trouble,” our driver’s worried voice stirred everyone awake. “Engine’s over-heated and we need to get a new bus, now!”
Over a collective sea of moans, my heart did happy flip-flops. YAY!
Perhaps it may seem silly to you, but I sat there in silent awe at this incredible miracle that was so swiftly sent to me. It was unreal and too far-fetched to be considered a mere coincidence. Thank you, God!
PAM
We pulled over at a gas station along the road in the middle of nowhere, forced to wait for a new Greyhound bus to arrive. We were allowed to go down the bus, one by one, for a pee break or a smoke. We had no idea how long this wait would take.
Our driver estimated that it would take about an hour, but we had all heard that one before. If it took Greyhound four hours to get us a new bus earlier, how long would it take them now to get us a new driver and a new bus, and send them out our way in the middle of nowhere?
I told Ning that I was getting off the bus to pee. It was a very quiet gas station, and I admit that I was scared. But I knew that I would go mad if I stayed on the bus. I needed some fresh air. So I padded down the bus into the dark.
A wall of chilly night air hit me all at once. I was pretty sure the temperature had fallen to zero degrees Celsius. I pulled my jacket tightly around me and jogged over to the gas station office to get the key to the restroom.
What struck me immediately about the inside of the gas station was that the counter where the night-shift guy was working was completely surrounded by bulletproof glass. We had to carry out our transactions through a tiny window where he slid the key out to me, and I had to pick it up from a metal tray.
OK, that didn’t make me feel any more assured. I quickly did what I had to, returned the key to him, grabbed a chocolate bar, and scooted back up the bus.
The BFF was in conversation with a couple of other passengers. The old lady beside her who was fast asleep earlier had woken up and was heading down the bus for her turn to pee.
I was gleefully about to slide into the seat beside Ning, but she grabbed my arm before I could sit down. A sudden stench assaulted my nostrils at that point. I looked down at the seat beside hers and noticed a huge wet patch. WTF?
I looked at Ning with raised eyebrows, and she nodded with a disgusted wrinkle of her nose. I patted her arm in sympathy and slid back out to the bus aisle to return to my own seat, mentally preparing myself for a long, long wait.
NING
Close to two hours later, we found ourselves transferring our bags to the new bus but thankfully, Pam and I could sit together this time.
Near us, a woman was scratching her itchy scalp with a fierce vengeance. I silently wished nothing from her would fly over the aisle to where we were seated.
“I’m so tired,” the bleary-eyed BFF whined as she placed her ukulele in the upper stowaway above our seats, before flopping down on the creaky chair beside me. I lo
oked out of the frosty window, tracing my fingertips against the chilled glass. It was a cold Chicago night and we had been freezing in the broken-down bus while waiting for the new one to come, but I never made a complaint. I smiled at Pam.
“Hey Pam, you know how I’m always so cynical when it comes to God?” I asked the exhausted BFF, who had for years listened to my impassioned God versus Church argument. Pam is Catholic and a very non-judgmental Christian who tolerates my views. “Well, you won’t believe what just happened...”
PAM
When we reached the bus station in Memphis the next morning, Ning and I were completely exhausted from a restless night on the bus. We were supposed to have arrived at 6am but the fingers of the grand clock were inching towards 11am.
Thank God we were departing on the Amtrak train the next day! That would give us a whole day to explore Memphis’ famed Beale Street and Sun Studios, where Elvis did his recordings and ate his famous deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. We were looking forward to a good rest to make up for the nightmare of the last 24 hours.
As we lugged our backpacks towards the exit of the bus station, we saw our bus-mates rushing to the ticketing counter. A long, snaking queue had formed there. I heard Ning sigh in resignation. We were pretty sure none of them got a refund.
But how can these people not be compensated for this screwup on Greyhound’s part?
I felt indignant for these helpless and voiceless people. To me, it was a sneaky way for Greyhound to make money off the poor when they could jolly well take steps to improve their booking procedure, refund policies and customer service.
And they will get away with it again and again, simply because these folks are poor and do not have the money to file a lawsuit.
I came out of that experience appreciating the efficiency of Singapore. It irritates me when Singaporeans complain incessantly about transport. Hiccups on MRT schedules are blown up to “national crisis” status. C’mon, so what if we suffer a little inconvenience? Bear with it.
So yes, I’m grateful for our Greyhound grief because the rare insight changed me from the inside. It helped me to see my world, and the world around me, with new eyes. Travelling does that to you.
As American author and physician Oliver Wendall Holmes put it so succinctly, “Man’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.”
Arriving in Memphis, Tennessee, after 15 hours of hell.
08
voodoo dolls & ghostly whispers
New Orleans · May 2011
PAM
I shut my eyes tightly as the strong sprays of the shower sent frothy white shampoo suds down my face. Ning and I had just come back to Beth’s charming turn-of-the-century house after a day at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival – held at a huge open-air fairground on a humid spring day – and I was freshening up before our dinner with Beth’s family to celebrate her upcoming birthday.
Beth Harris, aka @scootergirl, is my Instagram friend. I fell in love with her photos of New Orleans on the popular photo-sharing site, especially those of the quaint French Quarter and the flamboyant Mardi Gras. When Beth found out that Ning and I were embarking on a 9-month world tour, starting with a U.S. road trip, she seeded the idea of us travelling down South to New Orleans for the annual jazz festival, a major draw on the city’s cultural calendar.
I could not pass up on that invitation because I’m a huge fan of jazz, and New Orleans – the capital city of Louisiana – has always fascinated me, with its French- and Spanish-inspired architecture, unique Louisiana gumbos and jambalayas, and even the voodoo tales that make New Orleans famous. In fact, voodoo is a major attraction in “Nola”, as the locals call the city.
As I shampooed my hair, my mind was happily reliving the events of the day: catching Aaron Neville and his brothers in concert, together with other world-class blues, big band and Gospel performances. And oh, the amazing Louisiana street food at the fairgrounds – from seafood gumbo to po’ boy, from crawfish to crocodile and jambalaya.
I was caught up in a blissful reverie, with my eyes closed and a silly grin on my face, when I heard it.
It was a clear and distinct whisper in my right ear. On hindsight, I’m not sure if you can really tell if a whisper is a man’s or a woman’s, but in that moment, I was positive it was a man.
My eyes flew open and my smile immediately faded. Who was in the bathroom? I instantly covered my private parts and listened intently, without moving.
“Hello? Who’s there?” I called out, after sensing no movement.
There was no response to my question. My heart started to pound. The voice had whispered something to me in a full sentence. I could swear I heard it because it was so clear that it jolted me from my deep thoughts, and I was not expecting it.
The voice seemed to have come from the other side of the shower curtain. Perhaps I had forgotten to lock the door and one of Beth’s sons had wandered in by accident?
Ning and I were staying on the second floor, in a spare room reserved for Beth’s mum when she was in town, and our room was beside Aiden and Ashton’s rooms, so we shared a bathroom with the teenage boys.
Gingerly, I drew open the shower curtain and peered outside. “Hello?”
There was no one there. The mirror was all steamed up, but the door was locked and the bathroom was empty.
Was it a figment of my imagination? After all, I could not make out his words. What was it he said? I frowned.
I hastily finished bathing and drying myself, then raced back to our room, my heart pounding hard against my chest.
“Oh my God, Ning...” I jumped onto the bed, where the dirty BFF was reading, startling her.
“Huh?” Her eyes flew open as she saw my pale face. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I made a face at her, my whole body still shaking. “I was washing my hair, and I... I heard... something... someone...” I stuttered nervously, and proceeded to relate the whole story to her. “Are the boys in? Did they walk past our room to the bathroom?”
“No... I think they’re out with Travis,” Ning said slowly and softly. Travis, Beth’s older brother, lives in New York City, but returns to New Orleans every year for the jazz festival. “I didn’t hear any voices along the corridor...”
Seeing the fear on my face, the BFF reached over and gave me a tight hug. “Are you OK?”
“Yah, maybe it’s just my imagination...” I sighed softly, trying to explain away what I had just experienced. But the clarity of the whisper and the distinct male presence was still haunting me. I don’t know if this counts for anything, but I have always heard stuff.
I don’t see ghosts – or at least I have never to this day – but I have heard them, usually in sighs or whispers. One that I consistently heard, over several years, was a lady in my old flat in the Holland area. But I only encountered her during the Hungry Ghost period.
The first time I heard her was between 2004 and 2006, because those were the years I was working from home, as a freelance writer for various magazines and newspapers. I distinctly remember being in the living room one afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor and typing on my laptop, when I heard a woman sigh deeply. It was a very sad and remorseful sort of sound, and the hair on my neck immediately stood on end.
I looked up, startled. It had come from the kitchen so I turned to look in that direction. I had a clear view of the kitchen because it was an open-concept kitchen, separated from the living room by a glass panel. But there was no one in the kitchen. I shook my head and went back to work. And then, I heard it again. Louder.
I attributed it to my over-active imagination so I didn’t mention it to anyone. Several days later, my helper Rowena came up to me, looking very grave.
“Ma’am, I don’t know whether I should tell you... I don’t want to scare you...” She said tentatively. “But when I’m alone at home ironing... I always hear a woman’s voice.”
I shivered at
her words. My heart was racing, but I took a long, deep breath and urged her to tell me more.
“I’ve heard her a few times already, ma’am, but no one was in the house,” Rowena said, sounding a little sheepish. She is a Catholic Filipino who had just arrived in Singapore that year, and probably ignorant of the Hungry Ghost festival. We are also a Catholic family so we do not practise the rituals of incense burning or food offerings.
“What sounds did you hear?” I asked her, trying to control the quavering in my own voice.
“It’s like a.... like a...” she struggled to find the words. Unable to, she let out a deep, long sigh. “It sounds like that.”
Unknown to Rowena, that sad sigh was the exact sound I had heard too, on several occasions. That was when I shared with her my own experience. I’m not sure how I felt knowing that Rowena had heard it too. Was I relieved that I wasn’t a nutcase after all, imagining strange sounds, or was I even more terrified that someone had confirmed the presence of a supernatural being in my home?
Not too long ago, my mother heard it too. And like me, she heard the woman in the kitchen while she was reading the newspapers in the living room. For her, the voice actually moved closer, till it stopped almost in front of her at the television console. That was when my mother threw aside the newspaper, sprung to her feet, and yelled, “Please go away and leave us alone! We don’t want any trouble! Go away!”
How brave she was! I would have scared myself silly if I had heard my own voice addressing a ghost! But would you believe it? The supernatural sighing stopped immediately and it never came back. I don’t know what happened to that female presence in my old Holland flat. We have since moved out of that flat because it’s been slated for en bloc demolition.
