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I was looking for something a little more authentic after spending months in the safe haven of Manali. As much as I loved the backpacker resort town, dotted with Israeli restaurants, German bakeries, high altitude adventure seekers and free spirited tourists, it was time to move on. I bought myself a ticket to Spiti Valley, the cold desert mountain located high in the Himalayas, between Tibet and India. Full of enthusiasm, I jumped on board a beaten up tank of a bus with fifty locals to journey deadly steep roads thousands of feet above sea level. It was obvious early on these death defying tracks were only wide enough for one vehicle, god forbid if anyone dared to pass. It wasn’t long before I saw twisted wreckage lying at the bottom of the valley hundreds of meters below. Petrified, I thought to myself, ‘the drivers who dare to do this job are beyond crazy, clearly leaving this journey in the hands of the gods that they devoted their lives to.’ At breakneck speed, the betel nut chewing driver with his decaying teeth, would occasionally take his bloodshot eyes off the gravel road and spit the gunky remnants out the window. Hurtling around the mountainside at full throttle I began to panic. ‘Oh my god, we are going to die, this is the end and there is no way out,’ played in my mind like a broken record. I looked around the bus and everyone seemed relaxed, singing as we passed strings of coloured prayer flags blowing in the wind. Hearing their mantras, I was sharing an experience of tradition and devotion which expressed peace of mind. It should have been enough to put my mind at ease, right? ‘Focus on the breathtaking views and enjoy the scenery of snow clad mountain peaks. Put all these mindful mediation skills you have learned into action,’ I told myself. But it was to no avail. This was the first time in my life that I can actually remember crying because I was afraid. We passed a small group of women, sitting crossed legged on the side of the road, babies strapped to their backs, breaking rocks with mallets. ‘How do these people survive’ I wondered, as we passed them. I didn’t want to imagine how the flying splinters of rock might pierce their unprotected eyes, and all for 50 cents a day. I looked down at my hands clutching the rusted metal rail of the seat in front of me, my knuckles white from my iron grip. Goodness knows what that was going to do to help save me if this chunk of metal was to hurtle off this mountain. If our drugged up driver misjudged a corner by so much as a millimeter, we were going to be catapulted to our deaths no matter how hard I held on. Just ahead there had been a landslide. The driver had no option but to brake, coming to a grinding halt. Without a flinch, he began doing what was going to become a ten point turn. Passengers began yelling and jumping out the back window to save themselves. What on earth was this guy thinking? Did he have a death wish? ‘Stop, stop,’ I screamed. He finally turned to see me frantically jumping up and down. He stopped long enough for me to get out. I glared at him yelling obscenities. I dragged my backpack away from the edge of the road and sobbed with relief. Then as the initial panic subsided, I began to focus on my breath in an attempt to calm my racing heart. Next thing I knew I had to follow the rest of the passengers across the rubble to another bus. I watched small rocks continue to fall, praying that something bigger wasn’t on the way. I held my breath and ran, arriving safely, thanks to the encouragement of my fellow travelers who seemed unperturbed by this horrifying incident. There was no judgement, no one rolling their eyes at me after witnessing my performance, just compassion for a fellow being in distress. A true testament of living in the moment and acceptance for what is, hairpin bends and all.