Roja

The fragrance of eucalyptus caresses your nostrils as the bus wheezes up the second hairpin bend. You crane your neck out of the window and see tall trees on top of which God probably lives. Lowering your gaze, you find wild flowers and small plants growing almost impossibly in cracks between the rocks. Water from up the mountain comes in small rivulets down the sides. Drivers have their own code up in these areas, you observe, when they let another vehicle overtake, they both hoot their horn in acknowledgement. The small bus you and your wife are in is full of newly-weds, just like you and the teenage boy in the bus next to the driver says how these trees grow up to hundreds of feet ‘without sea level’. He means from the sea level but prepositional mistakes only enhance the trip. The tape in the sound system of the bus seems to be on a never-ending loop as you hear this sing come up again.