Compunction

At a roadside shack of a restaurant I waited for a bus. All buses going in my direction inevitably head to Lubik Basang, where I would change buses to head to my next destination in West Sumatra, Indonesia. It didn't take long, and I squeezed into the open middle spot in the 5-seat back row of a medium-sized bus. I guess you get used to being stared at after a while, and it isn't that bad. It helps that the staring usually varies from day to day. In big cities and areas frequented by tourists, it is easy to feel accepted.

A heartbeat away from me was an old man with soft, weather-worn skin, a grey shawl spread from his neck to knees like a blanket. He looked at me, disgusted. I looked away, but when I turned back he looked me in the eye, then shifted to a woman in front of us, to another woman between us, back at me. He rubbed his thumb against his middle and index fingers, indicating "money".

The old man looked at me, pointed at me and his hands momentarily went together, then seperated as if in an awkward, slow-motion clap, indicating a stack of money.

"You. You have big money, " he was saying with his hands; "I have nothing," with his eyes.

As soon as I could, I changed seats.