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Sitting atop the bus
with other travellers soaring down a frigid
Himalayan highway, we approach a low, narrow tunnel and realize
the
driver isn't going to let us off. Those on the edge jump into the
snowbank, while those of us in the center burrow beneath the luggage,
wondering if the darkness will ever end. After we survive, the driver
stops the bus and seems disappointed to see no fatalities. Now that
the
road is safe, he insists we remain inside the crowded bus.
"Last week an Australian
lost his head going through a tunnel
like this," a tourist reports. "I thought he'd stop. Our
driver must be
into Nirvana, thinking he's doing a good deed by rushing others
into
another life."
All the seats are taken,
people are piled on top of each other,
so we stand. Being a woman, I"m offered a seat on a man's lap.
I'd
decline and remain crouched in the aisle. I miss the panoramic view
experienced on top of the bus. The locals don't seem to travel much
and
are heaving out the broken windows. Jagged edges cut them while
vomiting. Parents lean young children out the window so they can
relieve themselves. I sing "Proud Mary." English speaking
people sing
along. The locals clap their hands. Some howl. Could Nirvana be
better than this?
Diane
Payne lives in a dry town and teaches writing at the University
of Arkansas-Monticello. Her nine-year old daughter derives great
pleasure knowing there's not a beer for miles.
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