Precipice Road

The air is frigid, yet invigorating as well, aided by welling reserves of adrenaline and fear that must surely be palpable to anyone observing. But then again, both are pervasive throughout the bus so it mustn’t have been granted any special attention. I am not alone in this.
It’s an old, dilapidated vehicle, held together with fragile things. It is also filled to bursting with tourists and locals alike, myriad nationalities and accents and languages swirling about the space until all became formless, bereft of any single characteristic. I can almost hear the groan of metal under their weight, and imagine, again: the ancient vehicle crumpling, battered metals screaming, the cries of the inanimate object accompanying those of flesh and blood into the abyss at our side. Everyone is sweating despite the chill. Fear does that to a person. My hand is gripping the bar of metal in front me as if I was already in death rigors. Sometimes my imagination breathes into reality images far too vivid for much piece of mind.
Disconcertingly, the little old lady sitting in front of me smiles. She has crinkles in the deeply tanned skin around her eyes, which are a warm, friendly brown. The nature of my terror transforms this comforting visage into something off-kilter and horrifyingly strange: how can she possibly manage even a semblance of calm?
She speaks to me in a language I have no understanding of save a few stray phrases long escaped into a similar abyss in my mind, plunged there by the alarming speed of our ascent. It's a conversational tone, but senseless to my ears. My breath escapes me in frosted bursts even while beads of sweat creep down my neck.
Abruptly, another vehicle comes into view, sliding like a knife. It's another bus, emerged from the blinding sunset and suddenly upon our once solitary piece of road. It skids a little, inches to a halt. Unknown languages and voices take on a sharp and intense edge, the babble rising in chorus as two men emerge from either bus. It is almost like an impasse, a standoff of western influence, even colored by a setting sun.
My heartbeat comes in staccato.
The conversation is punctuated by frequent gestures of outrage, each intent on convincing the other of their deep and abiding wrongdoing. Eventually it draws to a sputtering close, little resolved yet a plan in place.
Above, the snow-capped peaks are lit gold. Majestic. My heart pounds. Embarrassing fear, yes. But also excitement, wonder and purity of adventure, all.