Travels with trees

After three days in the sticky heat of Delhi, we decided head to The Mighty Himalayas.
We caught a train late in the afternoon, arriving in Haldwani just after sundown. We headed to the bus station - a tumult of people and vehicles. We made our way through the dark and dust to the ticket office. Following numerous wild gesticulations and hopeful repetition of the word Almora - our intended destination - we followed the bemused-looking ticket officer back into the madness of the bus yard. However, after tracking back on ourselves for the fifth time, we began to have doubts.
Suddenly he stopped, looked me in the eye and raised a hand. Upon recollection the meanings for this gesture are threefold –

1. You guys wait here. I’ll be right back with relevant information.

2. This is it. This is where the bus will arrive.

3. And finally, the most likely option. I’m done with you fools. I’m off!

After 20 minutes I headed back to the ticket office and found him sat reading a newspaper. He tried to avert his gaze as I approached. Eventually, recognising my intent, He shrugged and leant his head to one side – a gesture widely known as ‘Sorry, no luck.’
I felt my blood-pressure rise, but heard Charlie’s frantic call, telling me that he’s found it, and it’s leaving now. I grabbed my bag and the man offered a smile and a gentle head wobble.

The bus swung wildly through the night. The rattily engine roared without fault. The suspension, however, was clearly passed its best, as it leant unnaturally into each corner, and over a steep drop into sullen darkness.
After 12 unexpected hours of travel, the world began to take form anew. The sun rose as we entered Almora, a small town perched on the inexplicably steep side of the mountain. Lindsey, my partner, turned to me, the morning sun shimmering off of her sweat-laden brow, the cool mountain air rushing through her hair, a look of fear upon her face. Her cheeks were bulging. I quickly slid open the window and she welcomed our new town with yesterday’s biryani. Namaste Almora.
The bus stopped and we collected our bags from the roof. We caught a cab - a tiny fiat panda, and rode in intimate silence to the foot of a steep slope. We slowly tramped over the brow and were greeted by a breath-taking sight - an alpine slope with cottages dotting the hill-line, and in the distance great snow-capped mountains. We had arrived at khim’s guesthouse, a pearl in the closed shell of the Himalayas.