Loitering in South Asia

Hanging out of a microbus door has got to be one of the best (of a bad bunch) workouts here for the upper arms and shoulders. Yes, the physical fitness scene here is shite, loping around a cricket field is never going to get rid of that curry and rice pot belly everyone seems to have.

I’m cutting a terribly dashing figure, it’s as if I’m piloting a laser in a terribly prestigious sailing cup, squatting precariously out over a raging sea, face rugged and determined, licking salt spray from my lips and doing my utmost to beat those damn Yanks and bring glory and honour home to dear old England,

Not really. Yet again cheap public transport calls, and it’s a busy day…

Tea and toast await me at the end of this journey, but the aromas of street stalls and rainbows of fresh fruit at the street side (coated in fumes, but still preferable to cling film, Tesco) send tropical shaped doubts in to my mind, and I’m confused- the exhaust must be getting to my head- should I alight, ditch the pencilled-in chat about politics and gorge myself on papaya? Too late! (famous figure who never could decide), the express is off, and with a jet-like roar the engines fire up and we head north east ish.

Into the Abyss…

We race with other, rusty, clanking vehicles, horns for once welcome as they mask the spluttering and groaning our engine is emitting. I fear I must shoulder some of the responsibility for this, and I also feel that the blame for the craft being side-heavy and making no progress towards pole position in this race up the hill could, somehow, be laid at my feet. Not that there is much room at my feet of course, they’re being scowled at by at least four other sandaled pairs who are of the opinion that the ledge of the van was far too crowded even before my clumsy appearance, and that an accidental trip would do a favour to everyone.

Yes, space is tight, there’s no denying it. The bridge, only built for a single, slight Nepali navigator now has to accommodate a European, who’s shortcut-spotting and insult exchanging skills are definitely in the spring of life. My lack of combat experience is brought painfully to light as we approach the roundabout and the road widens out threefold and we are engulfed in shell fire from a rival dreadnought. I am almost thrown from the deck, saved only by a scrawny, sunburnt arm. Our driver doesn’t fail us though, and we emerge from the putrid smoke, weaving, ducking and diving through the melee of burning rubber. God! Was that a red flag with a hammer and sickle? Drive man, drive! We are a particular target for these ruffians, the pilot is wearing a Stars and Stripes bandana, some idiot is displaying his bottle of Pepsi for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see, and Britney Spears adorns the rear of the ship. So, the pedal is hit, we make haste, choking a couple of goats who were stupidly standing in our wake.

Many moons later…..

Trafalgar is left behind as we sail past lush rice paddies, dotted with large homes, the engine running smoothly, grandmothers back to berating anyone within reach and we have left the city and can look up in awe at the foothills of the Himalaya. Stupas and temples poke up from a lush green carpet and small waterfalls can be seen. Even the dogs seem to appreciate the clean air and there is a collective sigh of relief from everyone except the driver who continues to scowl from behind his battered cap and worries about how much longer the suspension will last.

It’s my stop. I bang on the terribly fragile roof, yell pompously at the minute conductor, hand over a sweaty ten rupee note, and step down and walk away, bag slung over my shoulder with all the swagger I can muster. When I’m out of sight I can thank my lucky stars, collapse for five minutes in a relieved heap, and go and talk about the Maoists over a strong cup of Earl Grey...