The train stopped in its tracks – literally.
The lights went out.
It was silent except for the musky smell of the old seat fabric. (As if a smell could make sound.)
Passengers began whispering and curiously looking around in wonder.
Under their breaths, panic lurked.
An intercom message riddled in a haunting static buzz broke the murmuring mix.
In Japanese, a train official announced, “The train has stopped due to violent weather conditions.”
Damn! …and here we left our hotel early just to avoid this very thing from happening,
yet, here we are, stuck somewhere between Miyazaki, Tokyo, and five frail foreign passports.
After three attempts, buses were finally dispatched to pick us up.
Two hours passed, no buses, no light, no sound, we began to feel we were forgotten in this ancient dark.
Another hour later, the buses arrived, but were parked on the other side of the rail crossing,
a crossing that was about to prove to be a challenging trek.
Neck to neck, we piled out into the typhoons treacherous temperament.
Up the stairs with the tempest at our backs, we were pulverized, over baptized, pelted by the storms wet fury.
Worry turned to woe upon reaching the other side, where the stairs leaded back down.
As the rain beat their faces in, little Japanese children yelled “Itai , itai!” (It hurts, it hurts! – in Japanese)
I tried to stand in front of them, shield them, lead them down, but I did not speak the native tongue, and could not communicate my efforts.
Eventually, all made it to the buses, wet, throbbing, and in shock.
It was another two hour bus ride to the hotel,
and given the circumstances it was no surprise when my one year old niece-in-law spewed mid trip on my “better half”
filling the bus in the scent of vomit.
Then she to, already wet and now also layered in puke, became nauseous.
Rocking, bumping, swaying along the road for another hour, she fought it out.
It was an adventure to say the least, all are good now, and we have this story to take with us.