I had slept under adverse conditions before, but that night I couldn’t sleep. I lied still, passing the time by watching my breath materialize into fog and dissipate and listening to the sound of my ears popping from the elevation each time I would swallow.
I scanned the details of the simple room meticulously. The walls were made of plaster, not drywall. I knew this because the aged paint was peeling and several damaged areas revealed varying depths and even small holes all the way through the walls. All the glass that was once in the house had long been broken out leaving perfect square holes in the exterior walls with wooden crosses where window panes once stood.
Everything seemed to be slowly collapsing like the failing organs of a person in the last years of their life. I imagined that if that house were a person, it would have been an eighty-six year-old man who still insisted on smoking two packs a day, unfiltered.
I watched a mouse scurry across the floor searching for crumbs before disappearing into a crack in the wall.
I knew there was a reason I came to the Himalayas, but it was like clinging to the remnants of a half-remembered dream once awakened. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I was thinking of so clearly before just a moment before.

The next morning I sat on the porch holding my cup of chai with both hands just under my lips, as if I were about to take a sip, letting the heat rise to warm my face.
Only a few people in the village spoke any English, and besides an occasional smile or nod from passersby, my presence didn’t really seem to be noticed. Initially I was grateful for being ignored. I felt out of place and I was unsure of what I should do with my time there or what was expected of me.
Yousef’s friend soon approached me and through a game of charades encouraged me to take the horse and explore. I tried explaining through a few words and motions that despite being Texan, I had never ridden a horse.
He assured me via a quick demonstration that there was nothing to it. It appeared to be as easy as making a few clicking sounds and shifting my weight. So I grabbed my daypack with some basic supplies and mounted up.
My new roommates collectively pointed me in a direction of travel and slapped my horse on the flank to get me started.
I tried mimicking the demonstration I was given but it must have been painfully obvious, even to the horse, that I didn’t know what I was doing. He was less than thrilled about our proposed journey and my exploration of the valley quickly became a battle of wills as the horse fought to turn back and I fought to keep us on the path ahead.
We didn’t cover much ground that morning and although I knew it would be quicker and easier just to walk, it became my sole mission for the day to understand and utilize that horse.
After a lot of petting, nudging and a heart-to-heart talk, the horse more or less agreed to walk in the direction I designated that afternoon. I became so absorbed in self-admiration and asserting my minor dominance that I hadn’t realized just how far I had gone from the village.
When I finally emerged from the trees and uneven terrain, I found myself on a spacious green meadow. Feeling connected with my cowboy roots, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to step it up a notch and try galloping or even running.
But my ambitions were dashed no more than fifty yards into the clearing when a group of six men rode up on horseback and surrounded me while an onslaught of yelling in a native language began in surround sound. I fumbled momentarily with how to explain that I didn’t understand what they were saying as they started to dismount their horses.
They motioned for me to get down as well and I staggered ungracefully to my own feet. Then the man in front of me reached for a rifle that was strapped to his horse’s saddle and motioned for me to get on the ground.
I dropped to my knees and slid off my pack in the hope that this was just a robbery. I dropped my pack on the ground in front of me and kept my hands clearly visible.
I was impressed at how well I was keeping my composure on the outside as I began furiously playing out possible endings to this situation in my head:

These guys are clearly not from the village I’m staying at. In all likelihood they will take my daypack, and probably my horse, but it can’t benefit them to kill me. Unless of course it’s racially or politically motivated, in which case there is not much I can do except fight back. I can walk back to the village if they let me go. I know the way, more or less. I will find a way to repay Yousef’s friend for the horse he lost.

These thoughts were flooding my brain and I became so focused on convincing myself of their validity that I hadn’t realized the man with the gun was now speaking in English.
“Why are you here!?” he repeated as he raised the gun so that it was aimed at my thigh.
I launched into an overly complex explanation trying to come up with words he would know, but I didn’t even know the name of the village I was staying in. My words came out rushed and it only seemed to confuse him more.
“Who do you know?” he asked.
Now he had a much calmer tone and I didn’t know if that was comforting or more threatening.
“Yousef! Yousef sent me!”