industrialisation, even out here in the wilderness.
The miles bounce away under the tyres and each one of them carries me further away from the mountain and the black lake. For four days we travel towards the southeast, stopping in the small villages to eat and to try to sleep. The driver, Jinpa, knows someone in each of the settlements and finds us rooms for a few yuan. I’m not sleeping well. I don’t know what happened on the mountain. Part of me just wants to forget.
T HE FLIGHT IS on time. We take off from one of the highest airports in the world, over the sandy razor-peaked mountains and turquoise rivers meandering through the dusty valley basins. One day away from home, thank God. One day away from a pint of beer, a hot shower. Chips and curry sauce. Anything that’s not tsampa and sodding butter tea. The gloss will wear off before I’ve unpacked my rucksack, I know, but until then, I’ll savour it all.
The wilderness becomes patchy, obscured by blotches of white cloud, succumbing to dense, grey fog. The engines whine and shudder over some invisible bumps in the sky. Nothing out of the ordinary. A ping announces the seatbelt sign is switched off. A couple of people make their way up the central aisle to the toilets. One of them is a monk, not unlike the one with the crumpled face from the monastery. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with turbulence.
Other worlds. Some physicists believe in an infinitely expanding cosmos full of parallel universes, all budding off every time we make a choice about anything. Just another theory, and not one that’s cost me any sleep. So how come the monk’s superstition is getting to me? It’s ridiculous. One fairytale with a bad ending and I want to keep the light on. I look down. My fingertips are gripping the armrest. The seatbelt sign is switched off, but mine is still tight around my waist. This is the third time I’ve checked that it’s secure. What the hell’s wrong with me?
“Are you alright, sir?” The air stewardess is frowning at me. Her perfume announced her approach five seats away. Her face is the colour of a tangerine, and quite distinct from the colour of her neck.
“What? Eh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Not keen on flying?” She purses her scarlet lips and inclines her head, giving me that look that mums learn to give to children when they graze their knees.
“No, I don’t know what’s got into me this time. I’m usually fine with it.”
“Just relax and try to get some sleep. We’ll be there in no time.”
I can’t wait. What for, I’m not quite sure.
I WALK AMONGST the droves of people striding through the corridors of Manchester Airport, yawning and rubbing my eyes. My muscles feel like they’ve been locked in a dusty cupboard for a month. Outside, the early morning light bulges between grey clouds on the other side of the large panelled windows. We arrive in a foyer with shops – shops that sell things you didn’t realise you had to have until they reminded you, like miniature bottles of shampoo and shower gel in case you feel compelled to wash your hair on the plane. There’s something about entering an airport that plays on the idea that you’re escaping to something better – leather bags to give you that executive look, perfume to make you smell like a film star, whatever that scent may be, jewellery modelled by some heroin-chic stick insect. Maybe, if you’re here long enough, you have a party in your own head, where you are that executive, or film star or stick insect. And all at a price that’s a snip if you move in circles where having second homes in Paris or New York is commonplace. And if you don’t? Well, why not just pretend, for a little while? Make the most of the daydream.
I don’t like daydreamers. This is Manchester, for fuck’s sake.
I make for the coffee stand and join the queue. My watch, a genuine 1993 Swatch watch, tells me I’ve got two hours until the next
The miles bounce away under the tyres and each one of them carries me further away from the mountain and the black lake. For four days we travel towards the southeast, stopping in the small villages to eat and to try to sleep. The driver, Jinpa, knows someone in each of the settlements and finds us rooms for a few yuan. I’m not sleeping well. I don’t know what happened on the mountain. Part of me just wants to forget.
T HE FLIGHT IS on time. We take off from one of the highest airports in the world, over the sandy razor-peaked mountains and turquoise rivers meandering through the dusty valley basins. One day away from home, thank God. One day away from a pint of beer, a hot shower. Chips and curry sauce. Anything that’s not tsampa and sodding butter tea. The gloss will wear off before I’ve unpacked my rucksack, I know, but until then, I’ll savour it all.
The wilderness becomes patchy, obscured by blotches of white cloud, succumbing to dense, grey fog. The engines whine and shudder over some invisible bumps in the sky. Nothing out of the ordinary. A ping announces the seatbelt sign is switched off. A couple of people make their way up the central aisle to the toilets. One of them is a monk, not unlike the one with the crumpled face from the monastery. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with turbulence.
Other worlds. Some physicists believe in an infinitely expanding cosmos full of parallel universes, all budding off every time we make a choice about anything. Just another theory, and not one that’s cost me any sleep. So how come the monk’s superstition is getting to me? It’s ridiculous. One fairytale with a bad ending and I want to keep the light on. I look down. My fingertips are gripping the armrest. The seatbelt sign is switched off, but mine is still tight around my waist. This is the third time I’ve checked that it’s secure. What the hell’s wrong with me?
“Are you alright, sir?” The air stewardess is frowning at me. Her perfume announced her approach five seats away. Her face is the colour of a tangerine, and quite distinct from the colour of her neck.
“What? Eh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Not keen on flying?” She purses her scarlet lips and inclines her head, giving me that look that mums learn to give to children when they graze their knees.
“No, I don’t know what’s got into me this time. I’m usually fine with it.”
“Just relax and try to get some sleep. We’ll be there in no time.”
I can’t wait. What for, I’m not quite sure.
I WALK AMONGST the droves of people striding through the corridors of Manchester Airport, yawning and rubbing my eyes. My muscles feel like they’ve been locked in a dusty cupboard for a month. Outside, the early morning light bulges between grey clouds on the other side of the large panelled windows. We arrive in a foyer with shops – shops that sell things you didn’t realise you had to have until they reminded you, like miniature bottles of shampoo and shower gel in case you feel compelled to wash your hair on the plane. There’s something about entering an airport that plays on the idea that you’re escaping to something better – leather bags to give you that executive look, perfume to make you smell like a film star, whatever that scent may be, jewellery modelled by some heroin-chic stick insect. Maybe, if you’re here long enough, you have a party in your own head, where you are that executive, or film star or stick insect. And all at a price that’s a snip if you move in circles where having second homes in Paris or New York is commonplace. And if you don’t? Well, why not just pretend, for a little while? Make the most of the daydream.
I don’t like daydreamers. This is Manchester, for fuck’s sake.
I make for the coffee stand and join the queue. My watch, a genuine 1993 Swatch watch, tells me I’ve got two hours until the next
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