We wake to the clatter of tin pans
To the sound of hawking and spitting
To the blaring of lorries horns
We wriggle an arm out of the sleeping bag and check the phone
Six, twenty it says
We wriggle back inside until we have to get up and pee.
We get a cup of black tea to start our day
We get a lunch box for sustenance mid-day
We get a wave goodbye, “see you at sunset” they say
How to describe the daily trek down the mountain
How to describe the terror of the great trucks hurtling towards you
How to describe the clouds of dust and diesel and the gritty feel on your teeth
How to describe the bikes and cars freewheeling to save fuel
And all the time the constant blare of horns
Get out of the way they say
Get off the road they say – but there is no path
Get out of the way I am coming around the bend
Get out of the way, it is my road
Get out of the way I am overtaking, a road made for one
And sometimes to say hello
We stop at the Temple and sit under the Peepal tree
Are we becoming enlightened, are we becoming like Buddha?
No just stopping to eat our lunch for breakfast
We look over the valley, the most beautiful valley I have ever seen
We see fork-tailed pariah Kites circling lazily in the sky looking for their next meal
We wave to the children on their way to school
What is your name?
Where are you from?
How old are you? They all ask, the same questions every day.
Beautiful brown eyes, beautiful smiles
So cute in their school uniforms
So interested in the strange white women sat under the Peepal tree
We resume our walk, dodging buses, dodging, lorries, dodging motor bikes, dodging nasty prickly seeds that stick to your clothes.
Tinpiple comes in sight, six roads converge
Bikes, trucks, rubbish everywhere.
We make for the local café
50 Rupees for a hot milky coffee whilst waiting for the bus, best drink of the day
And we will do it all again tomorrow.
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