Those people who stopped and watched you perform seemed to enjoy themselves. You catch a few eyes and they smile; you can tell, however, that this is not for them. They have different concerns and different tastes. If you could find out what those are, you could do something that they might understand more; adjust your work to make it more suitable/enjoyable to them. They might stay longer and dance or sing along. They might join you and show you their own creative expressions. Dialogue would be nice.
But you don’t speak the language here. It would have been nice to have a translator, but there is no one around, and so, after a while, you stop.
You gather your things and try to call The Organisers again, but the line is now dead. So, you decide there is nothing else you can do: you head back into the undergound and head back home. The train to the station and to the airport is uneventful: you are used to the rock of the train and the violent youth. The train doesn’t come to a full stop as you get off, and it rolls quickly on, along its rickety tracks into the darkness.
You notice a few others standing on the platform. They could be like you: waiting for a train to take them somewhere, and not knowing how the system works.