Backpacks and Bra Straps (12 page)

I was bracing for free-falling weightlessness when I heard and felt a loud BANG as the back fender made contact and we came to a crashing halt against a guardrail. My saviour!! It was so hard not to become at least momentarily religious when we saw that a small section of short but sturdy railing had been placed exactly on that ledge. I leaned over Mom to glance out the side window, and the view made me dizzy. There was no way we’d have survived that mile-long drop without a parachute or some sort of divine intervention.

The driver stepped out and circled his rattletrap Lada, inspecting it for damage. I wondered if it was even possible to memorize each dent, given how many there were, but he just grunted and got back into the car, stepping on the gas before the door was even fully shut. He sure was determined to get where he was going.

“Whoa,” I sat dazed for a bit. Never before had I feared for my life like that. The reality of how close we’d come to hurtling over the side of the mountain kicked in, and my heart started pumping rapidly, probably trying to make up for all the lost beats.
Yes, yes. We’re alive; I hear you already,
I thought as I tried to calm my nerves. Everyone was undeniably shaken up – even cool, collected Mom. It took something this drastic to finally wake her alarm bells, but she just as quickly tried to smooth it over.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “What are the odds that there was a guardrail exactly where we needed it? That’s just about the only one I’ve seen so far. I guess everybody must hit that spot.”

“Yeah. I wonder how many cars went over that edge before they decided to invest in three metres of guardrails,” Ammon said. “All I know is, that was unbelievably close, you guys.”

“We definitely had our lucky stars with us on that one,” Mom said.

“So you’re saying that our guardian angel was sitting on that guardrail?” I said, seriously considering the possibility.

A while later, Bree asked, “What if we did fly off? How would anybody ever find us again?” Our What If games usually involved improbable questions, but not today. “How long do you think it would be before Grandma started wondering where we were and called someone?”

“Who would she call?” I asked.

“Don’t talk like that, you guys. We’re fine,” Mom said, characteristically ignoring as many negative factors as she possibly could.

“Plus, with so much distance still to cover and another steep pass to survive, do you really want to jinx yourselves?” Ammon said.

“Now that’s very comforting,” I said, between clenched teeth. “Thanks a lot!” It was a picturesque drive full of beautiful lakes and rocky peaks, but with that oh-so-sheer drop still hugging our right side and our recent close call, it was impossible to enjoy the scenery. We prayed at the edge of our seats.

What the heck are we doing here? Why couldn’t we just go to Disneyland, like normal people?

Ch. 11-15 photos
here

Drugs, Police and a Watermelon
16

H
ours later, we rolled into a small town where we stopped to repair a flat tire. The men who came to help us all sported tall
kalpaks,
traditional hats made of off-white felt, generally with fashionable, thick black stitch work. Men belonging to the rural Kyrgyzstan ethnic groups in the South wore them.

Taking notice of them, Ammon said, “According to custom, a man can’t be hurt or killed or even get sick while wearing a kalpak.”

“Bree, you go steal us one of their hats,” I said. “I think we’ll need it for the rest of this drive.”

“Don’t even think about it!” Ammon barked when he saw her perk up at the challenge.

Having been told by the driver to wait in the car, we waved at a young roadside merchant sitting on a small stool in front of a pile of fresh watermelons. She presented us with a beautiful green melon for a small fee, and I began salivating. Cooled by the shade, the thick, smooth peel felt heavenly when I rubbed my hot face against it.

“I wonder how many dogs and donkeys peed on that before they picked it out of the field. Do you think they washed it before she sold it to you?” Bree asked.

My lips tightly sealed in a grimace, I said, “Thanks for that, Bree. What on earth would I do without you?”

After repairs were completed, we found ourselves driving around the town’s side streets. Making occasional pit stops was normal during long-distance journeys, but randomly driving down narrow neighbourhood alleys was not. I knew something wasn’t right.

When asked where he was going, the driver would simply say, “Okay, okay, okay.” I didn’t know if this meant, “It’s going to be okay,” or “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you later.” We were always eager to stretch our legs any chance we got, but the driver kept holding out a hand, signalling for us to wait whenever he got out.
Okay, so I guess it’s not a lunch break. What the heck is he doing, then? The
others didn’t appear to share my unease; they were just annoyed by the delay. But trying to guess what was happening was quickly wearing me down.

At one point, he disappeared for about fifteen minutes. When he finally opened the door, he ducked down under the steering wheel to pull up the rug and reach for something beneath the pedals. He held the small package surreptitiously at his side before he left again, so we couldn’t see what it was.

“I would say it’s starting to look a bit dodgy,” Ammon said. “I bet he’s dealing.”

“What do you mean, dealing? You guys make me do that every day when you beat me at Jerk,” Bree said.

“Not cards, you dork. Drugs!” he said, and Bree reacted by bolting upright in her seat to stare out the back window.

“Stop that,” Mom said. “You don’t want to draw attention to us if that really
is
what’s happening here.”

“He can’t be dealing drugs, can he? Seriously?” I said.

“Sure, why not? Kyrgyzstan is known for heavy drug trafficking,” Ammon said.

“How do you know? Maybe it’s just…” I paused, trying to think of another likely possibility.

“Like a birthday card for his mom? What?” Ammon coaxed.

“No, but maybe…Oh, I don’t know… Delivering someone’s lunch?”

“From under the floor mat? Perhaps it was an explosive sandwich,” Ammon said sarcastically. “This area is known for its heroin trade. A few tons of it enters Kyrgyzstan each year. Osh is a major drug capital, so his delivering drugs wouldn’t be too far-fetched.”

“How do you know this stuff?” Bree asked.

“I just do.”

“Do you have some kind of secret addiction? Is this something we should be concerned about?” she teased, leaning toward the front seat to give him a closer look.

“Yeah. It’s called Google. They say a quarter of the world’s heroin goes through Central Asia on its way to Russia and Europe. A huge portion is coming from Afghanistan. And I don’t need drugs, thank you very much. Not when I’ve got you guys to mess up my brain.” The notion that we were following the same route as drug-traders was both terrifying and exhilarating. My eyes were being opened to all walks of life. Witnessing it first-hand was like living in a newspaper or being a journalist.

Maybe Ammon is just trying to freak us out. I’ve only ever seen drug dealers in the movies, but I know it’s going on everywhere all the time. Could I be sitting in the same car with a real, honest-to-goodness drug dealer? In a country hardly any of my friends even know exists? Is this really my life now?

Apparently there was much more to know about this ancient Silk Road in the twenty-first century than I had initially anticipated. I wondered if anyone from home was learning these kinds of things from their textbooks.

“Now we know why he was in such a hurry, and why his price was so cheap. We weren’t ever his priority. We were just a way to make some extra cash on his way to Osh,” Ammon said.

“Like, we’re part of his cover?” I asked.

“It always helps to have a cover,” Mom said.

Though his behaviour could potentially have us locked away for being “accomplices,” I was just grateful that he didn’t take us to some strange mafia hideout and have us all shot, or sold into slavery, or something equally horrific.

By the time we’d figured out what was going on, the taxi driver and his friend, or client – whichever – had made their way outside and were talking at the rear of the car. My eyes widened in amazement, and I couldn’t help but spy. I didn’t want to look too obvious, but I just had to move to the side and stare in the rear-view mirror. They were distracted by their conversation and took no notice of me, but I was careful not to draw attention from bystanders.

After a swift handshake the two men turned and went their separate ways. It was done so smoothly that it was difficult to tell, but that had surely been the moment of exchange, and my imagination began running away with me again.
Now that we’ve seen this, does it mean they have to get rid of us?
I quickly buried my face in the pages of my book.
I’m not here. I didn’t see anything. I swear it.

The combination of the dealer’s insanely unsafe driving and then this was by no means earning him any brownie points in our books. He continued to make quick stops, picking up and dropping off small packages from various cubbyholes within the car. Each time, we tried to guess where the next hiding place would be. Stuff was pulled from under the hood, inside the doorframe, and underneath the stick shift casing. Any doubt we may have had was now totally vanquished, but we remained in a state of denial and continued to just sit there in the car as the drug dealing went on all around us.

As we approached Osh, Ammon was busy checking road signs against his map. Shortly after we entered the city, though, our driver pulled over and signalled that this was the end of the road. The way Ammon was rapidly looking outside and then back down to his map was not a good sign.

“This isn’t where we want to be. Look. We’re somewhere around here, ‘cause I just saw the palace off in that direction. We’re on the outskirts of town, but we want to be here,” he said, showing Mom the map. “It’s still another few blocks, so why is he stopping here?”

“He probably doesn’t want to go any closer because this isn’t a proper taxi,” Mom said.

“And ‘cause there might be cops,” Bree added.

Our mad driver soon returned with a local city cabby, tugging on his shirt by way of introducing him and saying something like, “Here. This is your guy. Go with him.”

Ammon remained calm until they started to quote prices, at which point, he practically exploded. “Oh, no. It’s basically just around the corner, for goodness sake! This is completely bogus. He wants us to pay another three hundred som to get there, which is, like, nine bucks. That’s nearly a third of what this whole ride cost. There’s no way we’re paying that.”

After a heated argument, the local driver relented, “Okay, okay.” He would do it for half the price he’d been quoting. We were outraged at being asked to pay extra to be driven to the bus station where the first driver had already agreed to take us. When we refused to comply, he eventually got back into his car, slammed the door, and sped away, leaving us once more in the hands of our psycho driver.

“I’m not going to give in to his scams,” Ammon said, his blood already boiling. “What a crook!”

“You’d think after twelve hours of this, the least he could do is drive us the last kilometre,” Mom said.

When we finally got to within a block of the bus station, the driver started claiming forcefully that we owed him an extra two hundred som for our luggage – a charge that he’d conveniently neglected to mention. When Ammon tried to pay the sum he’d agreed to in the beginning, he refused to accept it and threw it back at us. As the altercation between Ammon and the driver began to build, Mom quietly warned me to forget about the watermelon cradled in my arms.

“No way. I’ve been holding this thing for five hours,” I said. “We can’t just chuck it.” It had come this far with us; it was going to go all the way. Plus, I wouldn’t wish the fate of being stuck with that man on anyone, not even a poor watermelon. Obviously Ammon’s tight-wallet-syndrome was rubbing off on me as I had no intention of wasting the nickels I’d put out for my treat.

“You don’t want that big heavy thing weighing you down,” she said, fastening her daypack onto her chest before loading her big pack behind her, “in case we have to make a quick escape.” But I kept refusing and hung on to it.

Mom put the agreed amount of money on the hood of the car and we turned on our heels, determined not to pay his outrageous additional fee. No common language was needed for the driver to understand that our answer was “no”. He reached out and grabbed Ammon to keep him from walking off.

That made Mom furious, and her mother bear instincts kicked in. She started pointing at him and throwing thumbs down in his face, at the same time yelling, “Bad Man! Dishonest!” He yelled right back in Kyrgyz, his face growing purple and getting downright steamy round the edges.

“You guys just start walking that way,” Ammon said. “Now!”

We were trapped between the car and a high traffic-barrier brick wall. In order to get to the raised sidewalk on the other side, we had to go around the driver. When I turned to walk past him, he actually grabbed me by the arm. I was shocked that he would try to physically restrain a young girl. Ammon instinctively stepped forward and shoved him to the side, forcing him to release me. I took this opportunity to sneak by him, watermelon in hand. It added significantly to the fifteen kilogram (35 lb) weight of my backpack, but pure adrenaline kept me moving.

The driver wouldn’t let Ammon pass, and began dancing side-to-side as he threatened, “Police! Police!” and pulled a phone out of his pocket.

“Good. Call them,” Ammon said, making a welcoming gesture and then pointing to the ground. “Bring them here. And what were you doing all day, eh? With that stuff under the rug?” he said, demonstrating looking under something. “What will the police think of that, I wonder?”

Not two minutes later, a couple of military men heard the commotion and came closer to investigate. As soon as our driver caught a glimpse of them, he lowered his volume. Their presence dissuaded Ammon from escalating the argument, but once he saw they didn’t seem ready to step in, he took advantage of the driver’s stunned surprise. Pushing him backwards, Ammon reached up on the wall, and as nimbly as a deer, he sprang over it in a single bound, pack and all. It was an impossible feat that impressed all who witnessed it (even him, I think).