Rambling Rose

We were stranded. Forty kilometres from where we wanted to be, we sat and sipped cool Fanta and discussed our predicament.

The last eight days had been spent walking the Annapurna Sanctuary trek in the Nepalese Himalayas. Our days had been filled with crossing rickety bridges over raging torrents, fighting off bloodthirsty leeches, climbing towering flights of stone steps and fending off head pounding altitude sickness. The spectacle that greeted us at the South Annapurna base camp is the only view that has ever caused my jaw to physically drop in amazement. It was a satisfying reward for our efforts. We stood approximately 4000metres above sea level while the magnificent mountains towered a further 3000 – 4000metres above us. As their peaks penetrated the clouds, their shoulders stood side by side so that they enveloped us. The technicolor prayer flags fluttered in the cool dawn breeze, sending prayers up to the heavens. Splashes of red, green, blue and yellow rippled against a dazzling snow-white backdrop, a reminder of those souls who have been claimed by these mighty mountains. The essence of peace and tranquility almost resounded around the basin that we stood in.

During our return hike down the trail we got incredibly lost and turned proposed sessions of six hours walking into eleven, amid torrential rainstorms and landslides! We were filthy, exhausted and dreaming of hotel rooms and hot baths. We had finished the walk in a little village called Naya Pul. This was a basic dust bowl village with tin roofed huts lining the meandering narrow streets. Children played alongside dogs and goats and families of ducks paraded from house to house in a linear fashion. We now sat in a small open fronted wooden shack gazing onto the desolate road in front of us. In normal circumstances we could have caught a bus or taxi from here to deliver us to our hotels in Pokhara but today it was different. Today there was a commercial transport strike. Today, no taxi, bus or lorry was to drive on the road. Today, all the vehicles would be parked up while their drivers congregated in the streets to demonstrate their need for lower fuel prices. Why today?

In the distance we heard a low growling sound. Minutes later the beast emerged revealing itself to be a large truck laden with cans of drink. Naturally we ambushed! A local man acted as translator and negotiated for the 5 of us to travel in the truck to Pokhara for 2000 Nepalese rupees. As we really had no other option we disregarded the extortionate price offering 1000 Nepalese rupees now and the other 1000 when we arrived. As we piled aboard, the former cabin occupants gracefully clambered onto the roof where they remained for the duration of the journey. Each of us had hurriedly abandoned our trusty walking sticks that had assisted us on our trek. We had intended to perform an emotional farewell ceremony for them by casting them off down the river into the Himalayan valleys. Instead, I looked back to see each of them solemnly propped up against a buzzing fridge brandishing the Coca-Cola logo down one side.

Due to the heavy load and steep uphill winding road, progress was slow. Along the way we stopped to pick up several Nepalese people; a mother with children and an old man with a walking stick (which simply rekindled feelings of guilt). At one point there were ten of us in a four-seater cab when the driver decided to take an unannounced fifteen- minute chai stop leaving all of his passengers wedged inside his truck!

When we finally reached the outskirts of Pokhara we noticed something was unusual; the streets were unnervingly empty of traffic. As we progressed slowly onwards we saw many lorries, buses and taxis parked up at the roadside. There was a large crowd of people up ahead who, on seeing us approaching moved into the middle of the road and began flagging us down. As we moved ever nearer, the sight of their angry faces informed us that these were the strikers. The sly smirk of guilt that spread across our drivers face conveyed to us his knowledge of wrongdoing and his realisation of the trouble that was imminent. As the truck ground to a halt the shouting became audible. Somehow we felt safe high up in the cab despite the fact that the only word that we could decipher in English amid spits of Nepalese was ‘tourists’.

One man released the valve on the tyres, effectively deflating any potential get away plan that the driver may have been plotting. Another reached up and opened the driver’s door and aggressively pulled him down from the cab. An old man wearing a grubby white vest was the most irate and was pushing the driver and yelling into his face with fire in his eyes.

A couple of smiling, friendly faces looked up at us still sitting in the lorry a little confused by the whole situation, and motioned for us to get out and leave. Naturally we obeyed and stepped out into the jeering crowd. We walked away up the street as instructed so as not to encourage any further uproar. We turned back to see skinny arms thrashing about from beneath a grubby white vest and some younger men holding him back. Confident that this was no more than a verbal dispute we continued walking.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, we heard advancing behind us. As we turned round, our eyes caught sight of the chubby disheveled truck driver racing down the street towards us, red faced and panting. I had to admire his courage in breaking away from the angry mob but was unsure whether to credit it to bravery, stupidity or greed. I guess he was just more determined to retrieve the remaining 1000 Nepalese rupees that we owed him, due to the assault he’d had to endure!

The memory that stays with me from that day is the two happy faces that smiled up at us and told us to leave the scene. To me that is the true character of the Nepalese; laughing in the face of adversity.

Published on the eyebooks website: http://www.eye-books.com/

Shoe shine boys, ‘Lustrabotas’, live and work on the streets of La Paz, Bolivia. They wear masks to hide their identity as they are often discriminated against for working on the streets. Often from broken homes, they are some of the poorest people in society.

A black out, a young tout,

A childhood, neighbourhood stake out.

A slow day, with low pay,

A rate with no gate to a better way.

Submission, a mission,

To view in front of you an apparition.

The shop floor, a stop for

The suits with the boots that you long for.

A black out, a young tout,

A prayer for a stair with a way out.

Whilst travelling on an overnight bus in Bolivia, a young girl climbed aboard during a brief stop and tried to sell cheese to all the weary passengers.

She climbs aboard the bus and takes a deep breath;

Trying to crush the doubt in her mind that no one will buy.

Still she tries.

‘Queso?’ she utters meekly as she tiptoes up and down.

With her woven hat and sleek black plait, she emanates a certain humble beauty. I sense an innocent wisdom from a childhood that’s slowly being devoured.

Aged 8 or 9, it’s half past 10 and here she is still working.

Her shoes transfix me. Once black, now dust covered, they rock side to side as she leans and waits. Thin buckles hold them in place and the toes are worn right through. She’s walked a thousand miles in them but for her they’re good as new.

I look up and meet the gaze of her dark eyes and for merely a second, just a second, our worlds collide,

‘Queso?’