Smugglers

by Carlie Davis (Australia)

A leap into the unknown China

I could hardly see through Kamala’s scratched sunglasses; the bug-eyed frames didn’t fit and kept sliding down my nose. I tried to be inconspicuous as I peered down to the rows ahead, waiting for the signal from Kamala that it was our stop. The gentle hum of the bus engine was interrupted only by the buzzing button announcing alighting passengers. I was determined to adhere to Kamala’s directive, aware of the consequences if I didn’t. I wasn’t sure where she had placed the smuggled item, I didn’t dare ask. My shoes weren’t right. Scuffed brown leather, tarnished from a week of trekking. They were a give-away, no one wore them there. I alternated between looking at Kamala and my shoes. If they questioned me would I pretend to be deaf? Surely, I thought, they would spot my shoes. I saw her rise and move to the front door. I moved to the back exit as planned and repeated her words in my head; ‘Don’t stop for anything’. The doors opened. The footpath was wide and clean, surprising after the amount of butter lamps lit at the festival. It was painfully cold and my exposed nose burnt with each sharp breath. My reflection appeared in the bus windows as it pulled from the curb; I looked like a child in dress up. A mauve pashmina was clumsily wrapped around my head leaving only my nose peeking between the dark glasses. I should have said no, but there was no going back now. Lhasa was filled with Chinese police after a monk self-immolated in Gansu province the day before. Kamala told me it was in protest, occurring just before the traditional lighting of the butter lamps commenced. Counting to ten, I watched Kamala bound down the pavement and the amber street lights flickered on above her. Doing exactly as instructed, I did not dash nor dawdle. I kept Kamala in sight but out of earshot and I did not stop moving. Momentarily, I lost her around a corner, and let out a breath as her small frame came back into view. I kept close to the imposing colourless concrete wall as if it would somehow shield me from detection until finally, I saw Kamala turn into the enormous complex; this was the gate. Kamala strode purposefully toward the security gate, pivoting to avoid collision with the four obstructive men in bible-black uniforms. Their peaked caps obscured their eyes so it was hard to tell if they had noticed her or not. I mimicked her pace and tried to repress the sense of paralysis creeping into my body. I could not hesitate and I could not stop moving. The universe fell silent, misjudging the gap between the men and the wall, my arm brushed one of the uniforms. Something was said in Mandarin and the violent image of being shot in the back overcame me. I pushed on, head down. Within a moment, I was out of sight. There were a few people milling around the cold concreate courtyard but none of them Kamala. I could not stop, so I slowed my pace, checking my pockets for an imaginary item as I approached a dead end. I saw the flash of a stainless-steel door open and a long black braid bobbed beside Kamala’s tilted head. As I stepped through, the thud brought a wave of elation and relief. We ascended the 5 flights of stairs in silence, I pondered the consequences of our day. On a small platform in the stairwell, a door opened and we were whisked inside. An elderly woman stood within. Softly weeping, she clasped my shoulders, pulling me down to press her forehead to mine. Her tears intensified and Kamala gently quietened her, fearful of the neighbours reporting something out of place. In her hand was the photograph I had smuggled so carefully into Tibet. The forbidden item that if found meant deportation for me and unthinkably worse for them. We sat and peered at the image. My spotty teenage face stared back. Beside me, the Dalai Lama’s sleeveless arm wrapped around my shoulders, both of us beaming. Kamala’s mother was wrapped around me in just the same way.