The Truck to Xinaliq

The Niva stayed in the valley for this one, because the men at the chaikhana looked at the road to Xinaliq, then at my tires, and made the small mouth noise that means no. The village runs its own solution: an old GAZ truck with wooden sides that does the climb with supplies, mail, and whoever swings themselves over the tailgate.

I rode standing on the bed with a dozen others, gripping the roll bar next to a student coming home for the wedding season, everyone's hair given fully to the wind, the dust of the road rising behind us like a slow signature across the mountains. Every pothole was a group event. Every switchback got commentary from the men on the sacks.

It is the best public transport I have used on any continent and I include several famous metros. You arrive filthy, windburned, informed about everything that has happened in the village since March, and slightly in love with the truck. Fare: whatever your hand decides, plus the story you now owe.