Move Along

I’m at eighteen thousand feet above sea level. The signboard proclaims the road as the highest road in the world. My friend and I get out of the jeep, eager to stretch our legs. We’ve been on the road for three days now. Five hundred kilometers of the most treacherous roads I have been on and I welcome any opportunity to get out. I make my way to the other side of the road to get a glimpse of the world below. I jog across, to avoid another jeep passing by. There’s less oxygen here and I am gasping after jogging just twenty feet. I put on a brave face, waving to my friend to join me. But it takes effort and I sink onto my haunches.
The clouds are below me as are all the birds. The road back to the city slithers all the way to the horizon. A few stray trees and bushes on the side of the mountains fail to dent the undulating view of the rocks and the snow. It is both starkly bleak and beautiful. I take a few photographs for a planned photo-blog. My head is dizzy. I massage my forehead slowly. I feel like a hangover without a single drink. It’s been two hours since breakfast and I am hungry again. Damn this cold. My friend has forsaken the view to take shelter in the small shack on the side of the road. Covered in only a light sweater, I rub my arms in a futile attempt to stay warm. It’s not yet winter, I tell myself in encouragement. I stay out, taking a few more photographs, coaxing the camera battery to run for a few more minutes. But it is as vain an attempt as it is to stay warm and I go inside the shack to join my friend and our driver.
The heat from the fire stove hits me as strongly as the wind outside. The smell of spices and burnt wood wafts around. Our driver flashes a wide grin – he had warned me against physical activity. I sit down as close to the fire as possible, rubbing my palms. The cook is as good humored as the driver, clearing some more space for me with half an eye on the food, smiling throughout. Language is a barrier, smiles are not and I grin back. Food is served in a few minutes. A hot plate of Maggi noodles and a boiled egg. This is the food I eat at home towards the end of the month when I don’t have money. A poor substitute for real food. I want to ask if there is anything else on offer. But a combination of hunger and a desire to not insult the food already prepared makes me stay silent. I accept the food with thanks. At least it’s hot, I tell myself. I take one bite and then another. It is the best meal I have ever had.