Joyrides

My feet have been my mode of transport in Nepal prior to yesterday. There was the 1960s-era, toy plane I flew into Pokhara on before the trek. A ten-seater. Security? None. Walked up to the plane on the tarmac when I was ready. A boy was on a step stool, washing the windows of the plane with a squeegie. No flight attendant. Just us and the pilot who chatted the whole way. He balanced us according to weight. We flew real low, weaving in and out of the mountain folds . Felt sporting. I loved it.

The bus ride to Kathmandu yesterday was quiet another story.

Look. Y'all know I am not a faint-hearted traveller. I will roll with many-a-sketchy situation. But that ride was just not right. Ten hours of hairpin turns, up and down Himalayan mountain passes with death drops on each side of the crumbling road. Side of the bus covered in puke. And I would have been fine with all that. It was our driver's lust for passing constantly around blind corners, as though he was on a suicide mission, that drove my hands over my eyes so frequently. The true reminder of our mortality was the dozen or so burned up, accordian-resembling, crashed buses, just like ours, that dotted the side of the road. It's no wonder all the buses have Hindu deities painted on them. Shiva, have mercy.

I wish I could say I was relieved when we pulled into Kathmandu. But that would be a lie. I was alive, but the city hit me like a slap in my dirt-caked face. Incessant car horns, bloody, dead goat heads for sale and a touch of food poisoning from a veggie burger passed to me thru the bus window.

Last mode of transportation for the day: rickshaw. It was a truly a joyride. Have a quick look. Meet Bhopal. Turn the volume up for the conversation.