The Call of the Road

On the steps of a temple in Kathmandu, by Sharell Cook (stock.xchag)

Sometimes, just as I'm drifting into sleep, I'd hear the silvery tingles of wind chimes, dancing in Shwe Dagon's pavilions across the Ocean. Other times, I'd hear the click-clack of cattle bells swaying on the necks of camels, part of a caravan crossing the Gobi desert.

At San Francisco International Airport, as I wait to board my flight to Vegas or Boston for a tech conference, I'd wonder about the planes taking off several terminals away, heading to Ulan Bator, Lhasa, or Kathmandu. Now and then, while watching PowerPoint presentations peppered with marketing jargon, I'd wonder about the way people say "Hello" in far-flung places.

"Sain baina uu!," a Mongolian cowherd with a fur-lined cap would say.
"Tah-shi de-leh!," a Tibetan novice draped in maroon would greet me.

On chilly mornings, as I wrap my neck with a scarf before stepping out, I imagine the tiffin wallahs in Mumbai fixing their turbans. When I'm strolling through farmers markets, I'd listen for the echoes of street vendors in Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok's outdoor markets.

In my dreams, I can smell the yak butter tea, served in a chipped bowl by a tribal chieftain in a multicolored vest. I can feel the wild mountain air filling the nomadic tent like tailwind filling a ship's sail. And I can hear the heartbeat of humanity, alive and pounding elsewhere. Yet, try as I might, I can't seem to find my own pulse.

I'll tell ya, this stagnant existence is worse than food poisoning. I think the only antidote is to answer the call of the road.

Photo credit: Original photo by Sharell Cook, Melbourne, Australia, distributed royalty free at http://www.sxc.hu. Enhanced with Valencia filter, Instagram.