A Meeting on the Bus
by David Koch
One of the unique things about Macedonia is the connectedness of the place. I always say that if
you know somebody from any random town or village, if you go to that town or village, most likely
you will run into that person. This is why it is so hard to hide from people here. I often meet
people, we share stories, and I expect never to see them again, but we inevitably find each other.
Perhaps my strangest and most memorable chance meetings were two parallel incidents on the bus
between Kicevo and Struga.
Sometime in the middle of May I found myself, as I often do, on the road to Skopje from
Struga, except this time I was on my way to Gostivar. I boarded the moderately full bus, paying
little mind to the other passengers, only taking note of where they were not so I could choose an
empty row and sit alone. I noticed that a woman sitting by the back door was surrounded by a
buffer zone of empty seats, so I sat next to her with little thought. As I situated myself I soon
realized why this part of the bus was so free of other passengers: I had sat behind a Roma woman,
and across the aisle from her lay her son, probably about twelve or thirteen, enveloped in blankets,
pillow and winter hat. He looked to be somewhat misshapen and deformed, and incapable of
ambulation or speech. He squirmed a little in his makeshift bed and made a nonverbal call.
Noticing me observing him, his mother said “ nogu plashi!” squeezing her hands to signal fear. “He
m
gets scared of the twists and turns on the road, she explained without my asking. I put on my most
”
understanding expression and prepared to move somewhere else. “No no! Y can sit there, you’ e
ou
r
perfectly fine. Y don’ need to move, she insisted, so I stayed put. I settled into my seat, hoping
ou
t
”
for another quiet and otherwise uneventful bus ride. I took out my book, a collection of Pushkin
stories, in which I happened to be in the middle of the story Tsygany, or “The Gypsies. As the bus
”
got moving the woman attempted to engage me in conversation again.
“Where are you going?”
“T Gostivar.
o
”
“
Ah, Gostivar. Beautiful town, Gostivar. I’ve been there, with my son of course. Were going
’
to Kicevo, also a beautiful town.
”
I nodded and was happy for the distraction of the ticket collector. He asked the woman for
her ticket, and she said that she didn’ have one, and when pressed for money, emphasized that she
t
didn’ have that either. There was a bit more back and forth until the collector moved on to me. She
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muttered to herself as I dutifully handed my ticket over. Should I offer to pay for her ticket? What
about her son? They were apparently going to let them stay on the bus without any further trouble
however, so what would the point be? I pulled out my wallet and was relieved to find that I was out
of money anyway, so there was no need to feel guilty.
The rest of the ride passed without incident. As we came closer to Kicevo the woman
engaged me again. “Dechko, the man over there helped me bring my son in when we got on, and I
put his chair down below. If he can’ help us when we get to Kicevo, can you help me?” I agreed,
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hoping the man would help again, and if not, I would volunteer to get the wheelchair out while the
woman carried her son down. As we pulled in to the station, she called ??????????????????????+?q9???????t????????????????????????????????????????????????%?????????????????????)??????$???????????????'?d???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????)?)???????????????????$????????????????M???????????????????????????????????????????????)????????????????$??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????)??????M????????????????????????$?????????????????????????????????$?????)?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????d)??((??((0