Our Contribution To The Insurgency
We were a hundred miles outside of Raxaul and Birgunj on the Indian border with Nepal, headed south for Varanasi. There was no moon.
The bus had dead shocks and it was covered in neon acrylic daubings for spiritual protection. Many of them were faded. The driver was a small man who played trebly bhangra at full volume through blown speakers to remain conscious. He wore a collared beige shirt and slacks pressed with an immaculate crease. Both were stained.
Sparse jungle. From the depths of a footwell (I had offered my slatted bench to a middle aged woman in a turquoise sequinned sari) the weak headlights flashed off coconut palms and sequoia trees draped with vines. Out of the rear window, a dust storm rose in swirling clouds burned a deep red by faulty brake lights that were jammed on.
Books had informed me that tigers lived within these trees, prowling the forest floor for infant monkeys fallen from the nest. They hunted alongside rhinos, hippos, cobras, and spectacular ants with fat bodies who could devour an abandoned baby in minutes. I never saw any of these things.
The bus came to a sudden and obvious halt, as if the driver had been forced to stop for a landslide.
Voices outside. The door prised open. Automated interior lights on to a burst of shouting. Then the bus driver shouting. Passengers awoke and slowly sat up.
A gang poured in, filling the central aisle. There were big and powerfully built farmers, small and twitchy sons, and old, lithe men. Their jet eyes flashed with adrenaline through the gaps in handkerchief balaclavas. One of them shouted at the driver to turn off the bhangra. They carried an assortment of weapons - the old man nearest me held the kind of hooked machete a butcher uses to gut a pig. he smelt of patchouli and hemp oil and I thought of his wife for a second.
He thrust the polished blade at my throat and as I shrunk back against the wall of the bus, I could see the thousands of tiny hammer marks that had beaten his steel. Then I looked him in the eyes. He was shouting something at me.
The woman in the turquoise sari had gathered up her legs and clutched at them like a little girl.
‘Money. They want money,’ she said to me tremulously. I turned my head slightly on this remark and saw that the sequins around her shoulders were shimmering in the yellow cabin light. She was shaking.
The butcher held up the four beautifully twisted fingers of his free hand. I took that to mean a demand of four hundred rupees. He pushed the blade an inch closer to my throat.
I slowly removed the only note in my pocket, which happened to be five hundred rupees, and held it out. He switched the machete to his left hand and took the note sharply from my grasp with his right, withdrew the blade sharply and turned to check on the progress of the gang.
Other travellers were being liberated of banknotes. An Israeli fresh out of national service had been struck across the face and his nose was broken and bleeding badly. He was spitting on the floor. A young, frail looking bandit stood over him with his club raised, shouting indecipherable local dialect at the back of his head. I assumed the Israeli had offered misguided resistance or machismo, since when I had spoken to him upon embarkation he had talked with a guttural enthusiasm of Palestine and his role as a gunner.
The entire ambush took no longer than three minutes. They dissolved into the dangerous jungle, and I saw that one man had his arm around the shoulder of his son.
*
Be aware of how the language of the International News Bureaus subtly shapes our impressions of world events. Thirty years ago they talked of Rebels, twenty years ago it became Freedom Fighters, ten years ago it was Armed Factions, five years ago it was Militants, and now, now, very now we have the Insurgents. Beware of the International News Bureaus - they know what they’re doing.
The bus had dead shocks and it was covered in neon acrylic daubings for spiritual protection. Many of them were faded. The driver was a small man who played trebly bhangra at full volume through blown speakers to remain conscious. He wore a collared beige shirt and slacks pressed with an immaculate crease. Both were stained.
Sparse jungle. From the depths of a footwell (I had offered my slatted bench to a middle aged woman in a turquoise sequinned sari) the weak headlights flashed off coconut palms and sequoia trees draped with vines. Out of the rear window, a dust storm rose in swirling clouds burned a deep red by faulty brake lights that were jammed on.
Books had informed me that tigers lived within these trees, prowling the forest floor for infant monkeys fallen from the nest. They hunted alongside rhinos, hippos, cobras, and spectacular ants with fat bodies who could devour an abandoned baby in minutes. I never saw any of these things.
The bus came to a sudden and obvious halt, as if the driver had been forced to stop for a landslide.
Voices outside. The door prised open. Automated interior lights on to a burst of shouting. Then the bus driver shouting. Passengers awoke and slowly sat up.
A gang poured in, filling the central aisle. There were big and powerfully built farmers, small and twitchy sons, and old, lithe men. Their jet eyes flashed with adrenaline through the gaps in handkerchief balaclavas. One of them shouted at the driver to turn off the bhangra. They carried an assortment of weapons - the old man nearest me held the kind of hooked machete a butcher uses to gut a pig. he smelt of patchouli and hemp oil and I thought of his wife for a second.
He thrust the polished blade at my throat and as I shrunk back against the wall of the bus, I could see the thousands of tiny hammer marks that had beaten his steel. Then I looked him in the eyes. He was shouting something at me.
The woman in the turquoise sari had gathered up her legs and clutched at them like a little girl.
‘Money. They want money,’ she said to me tremulously. I turned my head slightly on this remark and saw that the sequins around her shoulders were shimmering in the yellow cabin light. She was shaking.
The butcher held up the four beautifully twisted fingers of his free hand. I took that to mean a demand of four hundred rupees. He pushed the blade an inch closer to my throat.
I slowly removed the only note in my pocket, which happened to be five hundred rupees, and held it out. He switched the machete to his left hand and took the note sharply from my grasp with his right, withdrew the blade sharply and turned to check on the progress of the gang.
Other travellers were being liberated of banknotes. An Israeli fresh out of national service had been struck across the face and his nose was broken and bleeding badly. He was spitting on the floor. A young, frail looking bandit stood over him with his club raised, shouting indecipherable local dialect at the back of his head. I assumed the Israeli had offered misguided resistance or machismo, since when I had spoken to him upon embarkation he had talked with a guttural enthusiasm of Palestine and his role as a gunner.
The entire ambush took no longer than three minutes. They dissolved into the dangerous jungle, and I saw that one man had his arm around the shoulder of his son.
*
Be aware of how the language of the International News Bureaus subtly shapes our impressions of world events. Thirty years ago they talked of Rebels, twenty years ago it became Freedom Fighters, ten years ago it was Armed Factions, five years ago it was Militants, and now, now, very now we have the Insurgents. Beware of the International News Bureaus - they know what they’re doing.
posted by Rory at 1:11 AM
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