#Tsum tsum springy hair full#
#Tsum tsum springy hair free#

She pulls a few notes from a fold of her robes, tosses one to the bus boy, and sighs heavily as she rests her buttocks on Sissy's shoes. All she carries is a long, beautifully hand woven hemp rope, perfectly coiled by her side. An old lady boards and squeezes herself on the floor in front of Sissy, resting her back on Sis legs. There is less plastic, a lot of woven baskets stuffed with market goods, and a few live animals. After a few attempts, the vehicle is bump started and 3 dozen passengers board, most of them on their way back to some remote hill villages after taking care of worldly business down town. If yesterday's bus was of the local type, then today's is squarely rural. We walk to the bus stand, and board a bus to Soti Khola, the road head some 15 or 20 ks away. We are showed to our room, a 2 x 3 plywood box with 2 inches mattresses. Never mind, they will loosen up further afield, There are a fair few trekkers around, most of a non interactive breed. We soon arrive to a small cluster of guest houses, lights flickering to the hum of private generators. The electricity fairy is off duty tonight. We arrive in Arughat 4 hours later, as night falls, and walk across the large village in complete darkness, headlamps on our foreheads. I share this top heavy information with the smiling Ganesh figurine dangling by the driver, who winks at me in return as it takes a mighty swing at the end of its little chain. A glimpse of our shadow in the low sunlight reveals that our human cargo has now spread to the roofrack of the bus and I build in my mind a stability model of our human load the equation is worrying. We are now high above the valley floor, navigating around a complex networks of rice terraces, precariously clinging to the hill side, the whole bus rocking madly on the unpredictable waves of the road. WeВ leave the tarmac, to wind our way up a dirt track, a deep rutted road climbing sharply up the foothills of the Himalayas. Our painful progression has lost at least one of its most insidious dimension.

Then back in the box for an other hour of asphalt we are in luck, the music system has died, and the shrieking speaker above our head has gone silent. We soon leave the highway, crawl on to lunchtime on a country lane and enjoy a road side dhal bhat, cheap and good. The engine roars, the cargo of flesh settles and we head off. Yes! we are out of fuel, may the god be praised for their leniency! And half an hour later, a triumphant conductor returns on the back of a motorbike with a 20 l can of diesel. Nothing serious though the excited conductor wields a small tree branch, getting every passenger to witness its dryness after a ceremonious dip in the mouth of the fuel tank. Inevitably, the engine coughs, splutters and dies we drift to a halt, stranded on the middle of a blind bend on the busiest road in Nepal. We overtake and get overtaken in an endless concerto of horns, winding our way down on the steep single lane road linking Kathmandu to the rest of the world. Finally, we speed on, joining the crawling line of trucks, buses and unidentified wheeled objects heading out of the valley. We crawl through Kathmandu, picking up more bodies on the way in an incessant shuffle of objects and flesh.

#Tsum tsum springy hair free#

Yet, the end result is a fairly compact human mass, every free space filled by some passenger's limb or precious belongings. The process is painfully slow, senseless, even infuriating in its total inconsistency any notion of efficiency lags far behind the freedom of individualistic fantasy.

We are the first to take our seats an hour of chaos ensues as a slow trickle of passengers boards, each little group with its load of canvas or plastic bags of all shapes and forms - 'Hello Kitty' design is a local favorite - discussing at length seating arrangements, stepping on each other (and everyone else) for no understandable reason. There is plenty of that around the driver, who resides at the heart of a mini Hindu Disneyland, each tiny holy figurine decorated with painted flowers and plastic ribbons. It looks like any third world rural workhorse, in a state of controlled and functional decay, leaving little doubt as to the necessity of godly protection. The local bus is also a 4x4 machine, its structure built in India and strung together in some local Kathmandu workshop. Marketing ploy or psychological boost, all dignified trekking departures seem destined to take place by 4x4, even if just to switch a few minutes later to a far less glorious form of transport.

#Tsum tsum springy hair full#

A full sized 4x4 truck picks us up from our little guest house in Thamel and ferries us all the way to the bus station, only a few streets away.