LOST

After a brutal five-hour car ride, Bibek finally stopped the jeep when he noticed how hard it had become for me to breathe. The fumes and cigarette smoke were trapped beneath the plastic tarp stretched over the metal cage, thick and oily in my lungs. I was dizzy, nauseous, struggling for air.

Without hesitation, Bibek pulled me forward and wedged me into the front seat, squeezed between Michael, Kiki, and the driver. Four bodies on a seat made for three. From that moment on, I could see where we were going, and I wasn’t sure which was worse.

Ahead of us, the road simply disappeared into blackness. The headlights caught the edge of cliffs, the loose gravel, the deep scars of last month’s landslides. The back tires slipped on and off the road, skidding just enough to make my stomach drop. Every second turn was too sharp for the jeep to take in one go. We reversed into pitch darkness, the driver seeing even less than we did, while passing groups of people walking uphill in the rain, exhausted, desperate, trying to climb into the car, reaching for the trunk, banging on doors.

The jeep danced violently over potholes, speeding through stretches that should have been taken slowly. Torchlights flashed past our windows, briefly illuminating rubble, broken road, and steep drops into nothing. Nepal felt fragile here. Raw, scarred, and barely holding together.

After a couple of hours, the driver slammed on the brakes. Bibek leaned forward, peering into the darkness, and muttered, “The way is shut.” Another landslide.

Rain poured down as Bibek threw our duffels onto his shoulders and took off, with us scrambling after him through mud and darkness. We crossed a hanging bridge with slick wooden planks, each step uncertain, the river roaring beneath us. Somehow, we made it across and found shelter in a remote, rural teahouse, barely more than a structure clinging to the mountainside.

Inside, Indian tourists sat slumped and silent; they had been stranded here for a while already. Bibek led us into a small wooden room where Nepali men were eating midnight dhal bhat. No smiles. Only tired eyes and guarded glances. It felt like we were intruding on something private and heavy. Bibek handed us water and disappeared back into the rain.

We waited, soaked, exhausted, confused, huddled in the wooden room. Then, without warning, the power went out. Darkness swallowed everything.

Headlamps and phone torches flickered on, carving weak circles of light into the room. Bibek updated us: “I’m managing.” We later learned that jeeps had been promised, but another group had paid off a driver and taken ours. We were stranded. Again.

More travelers stumbled in as time dragged on.

Then suddenly, chaos.

“Grab your things and follow me!” Bibek shouted.

He threw our duffels into the back of a random jeep and shoved us inside, his voice sharp and final: “Do not leave the jeep. Under no circumstances.” He slammed the door shut.

Outside, people were shouting, pushing, and almost fighting over the few vehicles available. We looked around and realized the rest of our group was in the same jeep. Relief washed over me instantly. Together again. Safer.

Through the fogged-up windows, we watched people scramble, trying to climb into trunks, being dragged back out again. Then the front door opened. A Nepali man crawled into the driver's seat. Without a word, the engine started.

We pulled away in a convoy of four jeeps, disappearing into the rain and darkness.

None of us knew if Bibek was with us.
None of us knew if the driver knew the way.
None of us knew where we were going.

But we were moving.