The drive from Kathmandu to Pokhora is like nothing I have ever seen.
Our jeep clings to the side of the mountain, while Suman gracefully guides the wheel. Dodging between buses and motorcycles, left side of the road to the right.
They all have different sounding horns, war calls of beasts playing a fierce game of chicken with our lives.
The cliff is sheer at times, and the roads (mostly paved) are filled with crevices which could consume a small child.
We pass through a constant stream of villages. People going about their day.
I look out my window and see mothers washing their children, people tending to their field and animals.
I glance back at the road and suddenly there is not one but two buses heading straight for us.
Suman edges to the side, narrowly missing them both. Claudia and I make eye-contact and I know exactly what she is thinking without saying a word.
The result of years of close friendship.
The beauty in undeniable.
The river seems to follow the road down below, and there are spots of people washing their clothes.
Shops on the roadside sell Coca-cola, fruit, liquor, and snacks.
Many houses still lay in rubble.
Some have been partially rebuilt. Often there are piles of bricks outside homes. Lives and dreams that have yet to be rebuilt.
Healing that is left in limbo.
Ladies in brightly colored sarongs carry baskets and children and hundreds of years of tradition on their backs.
They wear gold earrings and smiles that could light up this whole valley.
"Road King" are the words I see, printed on the bus heading straight for me.
He swerves at the last minute. Back into his lane.
The mercy of a king is sweet, and timing is everything.
