A Roadside

It was meant to be all so simple. A bus would take us up into the mountains. We would be dropped off at the trailhead, and then we’d start walking. At least that was the plan.

“What time’s the bus due?” Carol asked.

“Seven am,” I replied. “But they are never on time.”

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered. “Just asking.”

A smouldering cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, her dusty dirty-blonde hair advertising that it had been days since either of us had danced under a shower. Her jeans were more dusty than her hair. The singlet top had been blue, but it was now grey. And her boots — well, if you used your imagination, you could see them as brown.

I’d love to say that I presented a more relaxed, lived-in look, but in fact, my current state made her look catwalk-ready. Let’s just say it had been a long few days.

When you say that you are trekking in the Himalayas, it conjures up images of snow-covered peaks, torrents of icy water in deep gorges, and rock-strewn, desolate high passes. No one tells you about the dust, the heat and the dust. Yeah, the dust is everywhere. The huts are grey with it, the bushes are grey with it, the people are grey with it. The dust is grey, and when it’s not grey, it’s white.

“Time for a coffee, I reckon,” Carol said, stepping into what could generously be called a café.

“Always time for coffee in this place.” I followed her into the shelter. The sun was hot, and it wasn’t yet seven.

The coffee was as expected — instant, stale, and lumpy with powdered milk. The sugar helped.

Carol handed me a cigarette without looking up.

“Thanks,” I said, and flicked a match to life. The cigarettes were almost as bad as the coffee, but the imported ones had run out a week ago.

We sat in silence. Conversation had faded a few days ago. We’d been on the road for too long, and we still had too long to go.

“Could be the worst coffee I’ve ever had,” she said, stirring another spoonful of sugar into the cup.

“Look at what they have to work with,” I said, nodding to the smoke-blackened cupboard they called the kitchen.

A child no more than ten had boiled the water over a mud-formed fire; breakfast was not a consideration.

Seven am came and went, and the road was most definitely deserted. There were no other potential passengers, and the guy who had suggested the bus timetable had disappeared. The child chef had no idea what I was asking, and we were her only customers.

“Not looking good,” Carol said, lighting another cigarette.

“We don’t have much choice but to wait.” I laughed and stood to look down the dirt road. There was no tell-tale trail of dust around the bend.

“What’s the plan if it doesn’t come?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” I said, stepping onto the road. “But we’ll sort something out.”

There was silence. True silence — not a silence you’d know unless you had stood on an empty roadside in the Himalayas, miles from a village, other people, and any form of transport. You would expect chickens, children playing, old people sharing gossip. Nothing could be further from the truth. There wasn’t even the tinny sound of a cheap radio playing high-pitched Bollywood tunes. It was a true silence. There was no breeze.

“It’s not coming.” It was less a statement and more a resignation.

“Not looking good,” I replied. It was also a resignation. I had nothing else to offer.

“Soooo,” Carol said slowly. “That plan — how’s it looking?”

“Yeah, not too good.” I laughed and took her offered cigarette.

She held up a match and stood close to light it. It was as close as we’d been in days. Her faded, dust-grey eyes stared deep, and then she winked.

“We’ve been in tougher scraps than this.” A flicker of a smile crossed her tired face.

“Yeah.” I had nothing else, but I held her gaze and smiled back.

It can always be worse, was what we were saying to each other, and we knew its truth.

We sat in the shade of the café and waited. If there had been a wall clock, you would have heard the seconds tick by. We ordered a Coke each. It was warm, flat, and not surprisingly dusty. The sugar hit was welcomed, but the sickly sweetness clung to the mouth.

“That was probably a mistake,” I said, throwing the empty plastic bottle into the bin, knowing that the bin’s contents would just be emptied into the valley below.

“I’m regretting it already,” she said, shaking her head and launching her bottle to follow mine.

“Bullseye!” I said as her bottle landed squarely in the bin.

“My turn on lookout,” she said, and walked out onto the road.

Seven turned to eight and then nine. The bus was not coming, and it had probably never been coming. We played cards, we smoked, we drank another Coke. The bus was not coming.

“Do you remember what you said last time we were in the Himalayas?” she asked.

“Yeah, I know, I know.” I laughed. “I say it every time, and then we go and plan another trip.”

She was looking out of the café and up the road.

“You swore we’d never come back here again. The world is a big place, you said. There are so many places to visit, you said. We are never going back, you said.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what I said.” I was laughing at my own ridiculousness. “And yet here we are!”

“You are a glutton for punishment,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “But then again, so am I, I guess.”

“Yeah. Joined at the hip, I suspect.”

“Something like that,” she laughed.

“Yeah, something like that.”

By midday, it wasn’t just dusty and hot. It was humid. That’s the worst. You can manage heat. You can manage dust. But you can’t manage air so heavy that you can’t escape. And a warm Coke won’t cut it.

“Someone’s coming,” Carol said, glancing up the road.

He was almost invisible to start with. Heat, dust, and humidity will do that. Then he was a little bigger. Then he was the size of a man and standing in the shade of the café awning. He was a local.

Carol nodded. I nodded.

“Namaste,” he said, with a slight bow and a smile.

“Namaste,” we both replied.

He seemed to be waiting for something — possibly an invisible bus.

“Is there a bus coming?” I asked.

He nodded.

“We thought the bus was cancelled,” Carol said. “It didn’t come at seven this morning.”

He looked at us and frowned.

“It is Wednesday,” was all he said.

“Yes, it certainly is,” I replied. “But the bus didn’t come this morning.”

Again, he frowned.

“But why would it, on a Wednesday?” he asked, puzzled by our confusion. “On Wednesday, it only comes at midday.” He looked at his watch. “But it is never on time.”

And around the corner, at twelve-thirty, the Wednesday midday bus swung into view.