I entered Ruban from the Eastern end, and it took me nearly three years to walk its length. At first, among the new and modern concrete blocks, I traveled by bus, but as I neared the older heart of the city, I took to travelling by foot, stepping in rhythm to the songs of each neighbourhood, pacing the changes from block to block as the days passed by. Seeing that I was a stranger, I would be given a bed every night by the friendly inhabitants of Ruban, who were eager for the details of the happenings in the districts of a few days previously, and who charged me nothing but conversation.
I carried news of weddings, births, deaths, cultural scandal and political innovations from the East to the West of the city; other travelers, following the same route in reverse, likewise carried news from West to East.
Ruban rides the coast, divided into strips. The greasy grey tricklings over the river-mouth delta, which has been beguiled and pummeled into the shapes of human need by the farmers on this fertile land, are sucked into the city, guiding the traders from the heartland.
These traders, on their silent, wind-drawn boats find themselves brought into the docks in the strip of warehouses, a district of finely articulated language and unforgivably harsh negotiating skills, a line along the south of the city. The traders do not complain about the poor treatment they receive, for from Ruban emanates the gold and the rubies that the rest of the island see as reward.
From the strip of the warehouses, the incoming, unloaded goods are taken to the strip of craftsmen, beaten, reformed and repacked with the stamp of Ruban, moving, then, seawards through the strip of shopkeepers, the trade excess going to the inhabitants of the strip of banks and owners. Those objects that the Rubannia do not keep are discharged, by the strip of dockers and fishermen, onto the ships of the seamen waiting patiently offshore, to be taken to distant cities in thrall to Ruban.
The owners and bankers of Ruban keep the finest objects for themselves, and this attitude is reflected inwards, every inhabitant of each of the strips filtering out those of the trade goods that are of premium value. Ruban is, in part, a city defined by its junk; throwing its effluent outwards, to the lands of supplicants before the legend that is Ruban.
More precisely, Ruban is a giant filter, a island kidney, straining the trade to extract the nutrition, and discharging the rest.
As I walked the city, marveling at the general air of industry, marching along the strip of shopkeepers, examining their wares, hiving off to the strips of universities and churches to sight-see, taking two or thee days in each district or two or three nights if I was in the mood for dark bars and exotic restaurants, I became aware that the Rubannia themselves practised a principle of static. The strips run through all the districts; but the districts stay separate. The ships bring people in, but those immigrating never really leave the district in which they first come ashore.
A born Ruban may, in his youth, visit a neighbouring district or two; the very bold may travel up to seven or eight districts away, returning to marry a neighbouring girl or boy. If a very rare Ruban leaves to travel as far as the ends of the city, he or she never returns, and his or her parents will speak of him or her in hushed tones, as if he or she is dead.
I traveled the length of the city, wandering from one district where the inhabitants were pale skinned, and spoke in tremolo, to another where the average skin colour was bronze, and all communication was by the beating of sticks on shields. I walked through a different district, where, by edict, the inhabitants of the strip of entertainers and comedians were removed to the strip of churches. I stayed for several days in one district where, as an outsider, I was deemed not to understand anything, listening and trying to understand in my perversity; I slept in the strip of paupers. Always, I found the beat of songs from the strip of entertainers to time my pacing feet, and always, I found conversation in the strip of nightclubs and alcohol.
Those years seem like a dream, upon reflection. One night, in the district where the strips of artisans, technology, and dreamweavers converge, I conversed with another traveler. He was travelling West to East, as all the travelers I met were. This had bothered me for sometime, until I had realized that those travelling East to West in tandem with me would stay a predictable number of days ahead or kilometers behind.
He bought me a beer. I bought him one in return. As we dove into the foam topping the glass, licking our top lips in a sympathetic complicity, he asked me why I chose the direction I followed.
"West," I said. "Always West. Ruban makes directions easy."
"Ah," he said, "I am travelling West to East. But I have examined my choices. And I have my suspicions."
"This is a straightforward city," I said. "The rules are obvious."
"The rules may be," he said, "But nobody has set laws on direction."
"Do you mean that we may reverse in our travels?" I asked him.
"I have no answers," he said. "But I have often wondered if this city is not, in reality, a spiral, or perhaps even a moebius construction."
I was puzzled as to his meaning but the question was lost as the honey-skinned waitress brought food endemic to that district and later we had more intimate questions to ask.
When I left Ruban, on foot, through the cement blocks identical to those I had passed by on a bus coming in, I thought of this conversation, and wondered again.
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