the exact wrong job...for me at least

There’s a man and he has a job. At first glance nothing worth a second glance. Men have jobs, women have jobs. Jobs lead to taxes, which, aside from death, is the only thing of which we can be certain.

What makes this man’s job special is that it is the exact wrong job for me. This job was designed for someone with every quality I lack. I look into this man’s eyes and I gleam no comprehension; his motivations are a mystery, his inner-workings that of another realm.

This man is a bus shepherd, and we, humankind, are his sheep. We travel to and fro, fro and to, and this man keeps us organized. He herds us as if we were truly his herd, and for that time, from when the bus pulls into view until we sigh with relief as it leaves us gasping for fresh air, we are his herd.

Bus shepherds in Goa work under extreme conditions—the buses are half-size, for no apparent reason, and I doubt for any unapparent reason. The half-sized bus pulls up to the stand, known to foreigners as an unmarked area of pavement where vehicles spontaneously gather and chaos generally increases, with a flourish of honking and yelling. Deep bellows emerge from small Indian men, all across India, You need to hear it to believe it. So in the tradition of small Indian men the bus herder is bellowing deeply something sounding vaguely like the destination of the bus. He’s leaning out the door waving his hands. As the bus approaches he leaps down and starts to herd. With great intensity and vigor, as if this bus getting to wherever he is yelling about was of such great importance in this land where nothing seems to relate much to punctuality. Oh how he herds! He scolds, he argues, he encourages, he shoos, he urges, he is relentless, he is persistent. He has a way of asking if you are going at the same time as he guides you onto the bus so before you know if you are, you are.

It’s been many seconds, maybe almost a minute. The bus has been steadily filling up thanks to our shepherd. The seats have long been occupied and the isle slowly jams up. Now the isle is full and a group of men have gone to sit up with the bus driver in his little cockpit. Now the entryway is full, feet cover all floor space. Yet the shepherd still herds as if the bus were empty. He is not yet satisfied. He wants every last sheep on this vessel. None shall be left behind. Sweat and tears will be shed before he is through.

Finally we’re all accounted for; we can all breathe and if we try and fall we won’t get far. Except one of course. The shepherd must now play both herder and sheep as he maneuvers himself onto the bus. So after all the yelling, shoving, organizing and general clamoring the bus shepherd squeezes himself into the tiniest possible area, always close enough to the door to push it open and snatch up a stray. He is sweaty and breathless, but oddly satisfied with is work, which he performs for over 8 hours a day in squelching heat.

Oh yeah, I almost forget, now he must work his way through the people, often appearing from under an armpit or beneath the curve a sari, and collect the fare, and give change, and remember who’s paid and who hasn’t, and make sure to yell and herd at every stop, and organize people according to their destination, and tell the driver when to go and when to stop, and for God’s sake I’m happy to be doing anything else. I really am. I really really am.