by Paulo Coelho
When he was done with his story, he felt better. The girl had listened quietly without judging him. She didn’t seem to think that he had thrown five thousand dollars in the bathroom garbage. She didn’t consider him weak—and that alone made him feel stronger.
They finally made it to the windmill, where a group of tourists was gathered listening to their guide: “the oldest example can be found in [unpronounceable name], the tallest in [unpronounceable name], they were used in the grinding of corn, coffee beans, cacao, the production of oil, and helped our explorers to transform large slats of wood into ships, and as a result, we went far, the empire expanded…”
Paulo heard the sound of a bus engine turning over, he grabbed Karla by the hand and begged to go back quickly to the city in the same vehicle on which they’d arrived. Two days from then, neither he nor the tourists would remember anything about the uses for a windmill. He hadn’t come all that way to learn this sort of thing.
On the way back, during one of the stops, a woman got on, put on an armband that read TICKET COLLECTOR, and began to ask everyone for their ticket. When it was Paulo’s turn, Karla looked away.
“I don’t have one,” he responded. “I thought the bus was free.”
The ticket collector must have heard this sort of excuse a million times, because her response, which sounded rehearsed, was that Netherlands were very generous, no doubt, but only those with an exceptionally low IQ could think the country also had free transportation.
“Have you ever seen such a thing in any part of the world?”
Of course not, but he’d also never seen…Just then he felt Karla nudge him with her foot and he decided not to argue any further. He paid twenty times the value of the ticket, plus he was subjected to ugly looks from the other passengers—all of them Calvinists, honest, law-abiding folks, not one of whom had the air of someone who frequented Dam Square or its environs.
When they stepped off the bus, Paulo felt uncomfortable—was he trying to impose his presence on that girl who’d been so nice, though always determined to get what she wanted? Was it not time to say goodbye and let her carry on with her life? They barely knew one another and had already spent more than twenty-four hours together, joined at the hip, as though it were natural.
Karla must have read his mind because she invited him to go with her to the agency where she was going to buy her bus ticket to Nepal.
A bus ticket!
This was crazy beyond anything he could imagine.
The so-called agency was in fact a tiny office with a single employee, who introduced himself as Lars something or other, one of those names that was impossible to remember.
Karla asked when the next Magic Bus (that’s what it was called) was scheduled to depart.
“Tomorrow. We only have two spots left and they’re certain to be filled. If the two of you don’t go, someone along the way will stop us and ask to get on.”
Well, at least she wouldn’t have enough time to change her mind…
“And it’s not dangerous for a woman to travel alone?”
“I doubt you’ll be alone for more than twenty-four hours. You’ll have made it through all of the male passengers long before you arrive in Kathmandu. You and the other women traveling alone.”
How strange—Karla had never considered this possibility. She’d lost tons of time looking for a travel companion, a whole bunch of frightened little boys who were only prepared to explore what they already knew—for them, even Latin America must have posed a threat. They liked to pretend they were free as long as they were within safe range of their mothers’ skirts. She noticed Paulo trying to hide his agitation, and this made her happy.
“I’d like a one-way ticket. I’ll worry about the return later.”
“To Kathmandu?”
This Magic Bus made several stops to pick up or drop off passengers—Munich, Athens, Istanbul, Belgrade, Tehran, or Baghdad (depending on which route was open).
“To Kathmandu.”
“You sure you don’t want to see India?”
Paulo could see that Karla and Lars were flirting. So what? She wasn’t his girlfriend, she wasn’t anything more than a recent acquaintance, kind but keeping her distance.
“How much to Kathmandu?”
“Seventy American dollars.”
Seventy dollars to go to the other end of the world? What kind of bus was this? Paulo couldn’t believe his ears.
Karla took the money from her belt and handed it to the “travel agent.” This Lars filled out a receipt like those you get in restaurants, without any information beyond a person’s name, passport number, and final destination. He then filled a section of the receipt with stamps that in reality meant nothing but lent an air of respectability to the whole operation. He handed it to Karla along with a map of the route.
“There are no refunds in the event of closed borders, natural disasters, armed conflicts along the way, that sort of thing.”
She understood perfectly.
“When’s the next Magic Bus?” Paulo asked, emerging from his silence and his brooding.
Lars’s tone became slightly hostile. “It depends. We’re not a regular bus line, as you might have guessed.” He’d taken Paulo for an idiot.
“That I know, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“In theory, if everything’s in order with Cortez’s bus, he ought to get here in two weeks, rest for a bit, and then take off before the end of the month. But I can’t promise anything—Cortez, like our other drivers…”
The way he said “our,” it was almost as if he were referring to a large enterprise, something he’d denied being a short time before.
“…gets tired of taking the same route all the time. They own the vehicles they drive, and Cortez could decide to go to Marrakech, for example. Or Kabul. He always talks about such things.”
Karla said goodbye, but not before flashing a killer look at the Swede before her.
“If I weren’t so busy, I’d offer to drive you myself,” Lars said in response to Karla’s wordless message. “That way we could get to know each other better.”
As far as he was concerned, the girl’s male companion didn’t exist.
“There’ll be a chance yet. When I make it back, we can grab a coffee and see how things develop.”
It was at that moment that Lars, leaving behind the arrogant tone of someone who owned the world, said something no one was expecting.
“Those who go to the very end never come back—at least not for a good two or three years. That’s what the drivers tell me.”
Kidnappings? Muggings?
“No, none of that. The nickname for Kathmandu is ‘Shangri-la,’ the valley of paradise. Once you get used to the altitude, you’re going to find everything you need there. And it’s unlikely you’ll ever want to come live in a city again.”
As he handed her the ticket, he also handed her another map marked with all the stops.
“Tomorrow at eleven o’clock. Everyone here. Whoever doesn’t make it doesn’t get on.”
“But isn’t that too early?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the bus.”
Karla, who was a stubborn and headstrong person, had decided the day before, when they’d met at Dam Square and walked around, that Paulo had to go with her. Though they’d spent little more than twenty-four hours together, she enjoyed his company. And she was comforted by the fact that she would never fall in love with him, because she was already feeling a bit strange about the Brazilian, and this needed to pass soon. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing better than to spend time with a person before their charm dissipated, in less than a week.
If things continued their current course and she left behind in Amsterdam the man she still considered her ideal, her trip would be completely ruined by the constant
memory of him. And, if the image of this ideal man continued to grow in her mind, she would turn around halfway through her trip, they would end up marrying—something that was absolutely not in her plans for this incarnation—or he would set off for some distant, exotic land full of Indians and snakes slithering down the streets of its big cities (though she thought this second part could well be legend, like many other things people said about his country).
For her, Paulo was merely the right person at the right time. She had no plans to transform her trip to Nepal into a nightmare—constantly fending off other men’s proposals. She was going because doing so seemed to her the craziest thing she could do, something far beyond her limits—she who had practically been raised without any limits at all.
She would never follow the Hare Krishna through the streets, she would never fall victim to one of the many Indian gurus she’d met who knew only how to teach people to “empty their minds.” As though a mind that was empty, entirely empty, could bring someone closer to God. After her first frustrated experiences in that direction, the only thing left was direct communication with the Supreme Being, whom she feared and worshiped at the same time. The only things she cared about were solitude and beauty, direct communication with God, and above all a safe distance from the world that she already knew all too well and that no longer held any interest for her.
Wasn’t she rather young to act like this, to think like this? She could always change her mind in the future, but as she’d said to Wilma in the coffee shop, paradise—as conceived by Westerners—was a trivial, monotonous, and dull place.
* * *
—
Paulo and Karla sat outside a café that served only coffee and biscuits—none of the products they’d managed to find in other coffee shops. They kept their faces turned to the sun—another sunny day, after the rain the day before—aware that this was a blessing that could vanish from one moment to the next. They hadn’t exchanged a single word since leaving the “travel agency,” the tiny office that had also caught Karla by surprise—she had expected something more professional.
“So…”
“…So, today could be our last day together. You’re headed east and I’m headed west…”
“Piccadilly Circus, where you’re going to find a copy of what you saw here, the only difference being what you’ll find in the middle of the square. No doubt the statue of Mercury is much more attractive than the phallic symbol here in Dam.”
Karla didn’t know it, but ever since her conversation at the “travel agency,” Paulo had begun to feel an incredible desire to join her. More specifically, to see places one goes only once in a lifetime—and all for just seventy dollars. He refused to accept the idea that he was falling for the girl at his side, simply because it wasn’t true, it was still just a possibility, he would never fall for someone who had no desire to return his love.
He began to study the map: they would cross the Alps, travel through at least two Communist countries, arrive in the first Muslim country he had ever been to in his life. He’d read so much about the dervishes who danced and whirled about as they opened themselves to the spirits, and at one point, he’d gone to see a group that had been visiting Brazil and had put on a show in his city’s top theater. Everything that for so long had been only words on a page could now become reality.
For seventy dollars. In the company of people with his same adventurous spirit.
Yes, Piccadilly Circus was only a circular city square where people sat around in their bright clothes, where police went unarmed, the bars closed at eleven at night, and tours left to visit historic sites and such things.
A few minutes later he’d already changed his mind—an adventure is much more interesting than a city square. The ancients said that change is permanent and constant—because life passes quickly. If there was no change, there would be no universe.
Could he really change his mind so quickly?
Many are the emotions that move the human heart when it resolves to dedicate itself to the spiritual path. The reason could be noble—such as faith, brotherly love, or charity. Or it could merely be a whim, the fear of loneliness, a feeling of curiosity, or the desire to be loved.
None of this matters. The true spiritual journey is stronger than the reasons that lead us to it. It slowly begins to take hold, bringing love, discipline, and dignity. The moment arrives when we look back, we remember what we were like at the beginning of our journey, and we laugh at ourselves. We were capable of growing, even though our feet took to the road for reasons that we considered important but that were in fact quite futile. We were capable of changing direction at the moment this became crucial.
God’s love is stronger than the reasons that lead us to Him. Paulo believed this with every fiber of his soul. God’s power is with us at every moment, and courage is required to let it into our minds, our feelings, our breath—courage is required to change our minds when we realize that we are merely instruments of His will, and it is His will we ought to fulfill.
* * *
—
“I suppose you’re waiting for me to say yes, because since yesterday, at Paradiso, you’ve carefully been laying your trap.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Always.”
Yes, she really did want him to come along with her, but like every woman who knows how men think, she couldn’t say anything. Had she said something, he would have felt like a conqueror or worse, like the conquered. Paulo had caught on to the whole game—he’d even called it a trap.
“Answer my question: Do you want me to go?”
“I’m entirely indifferent to the matter.”
Please come, she thought to herself. Not because you’re an especially interesting man—to tell the truth the Swede at the “tourist agency” was much more assertive and determined. But because I feel better when I’m with you. I was proud of you when you decided to take my advice and ended up saving an enormous number of souls with your decision to not take heroin to Germany.
“Indifferent? You mean it’s all the same to you?”
“That’s right.”
“And, in this case, if I get up right now and go back to the ‘travel agency’ and buy the last ticket, you won’t feel either more or less happy?”
She looked at him and smiled. She hoped her smile would say it all—she would be very happy if Paulo were her travel companion—but she could not and would not put this into words.
“You buy the coffees,” he said, standing up. “I already spent a fortune today with that fine.”
Paulo had read her smile, her need to disguise her joy. For that reason she said the first thing that came to mind:
“Here women always split the check. We weren’t raised to be your sex objects. And you were fined because you didn’t listen to me. Okay what do I care if you listen, I’ll pay the bill today.”
What an annoying woman, Paulo thought. She has an opinion on everything—whereas in reality he loved the way she asserted her independence every second.
As they walked back to the agency, he asked her if she really thought they could make it to Nepal, a place so far away, on such a cheap ticket.
“A few months ago, I had my doubts, even after I saw the clipping announcing bus trips to India, Nepal, Afghanistan—always for around seventy to a hundred dollars. Until I read the story in Ark, an alternative newspaper, of someone who had gone and come back, and I felt I absolutely had to do it, too.”
She left out the fact she was thinking about simply going, returning only after a few years. Paulo might not like the idea of coming back alone across the thousands of miles that separated them from their destination.
But he’d just have to figure it out—life is all about figuring it out.
There was nothing magic about the famous Magic Bus, which looked nothing like the posters she’d seen at the agency�
��a brightly colored vehicle full of drawings and messages. It was just a bus that at some point must have been used for taking children to school, with seats that didn’t recline and a metal frame on top, where gallons of gasoline and extra tires were tied down.
The driver brought the group together—perhaps about twenty people in total, all of them looking like they’d stepped out of the same movie. They ranged from underage runaways (there were two such girls, and no one had asked them for identification) to an older man who kept his eyes locked on the horizon, with the look of someone who’d already reached a long-coveted enlightenment and had now decided to embark on a journey, a long journey.
There were two drivers: one who spoke with a British accent and the other who by all indications came from India.
“Though I hate rules, there are a few we’ll need to follow. The first: no one can carry drugs across borders. In some countries this spells prison, but in others, such as those in Africa, it can spell death by decapitation. I hope you’ve all listened closely to what I’ve just told you.”
The driver paused to gauge whether they’d understood. He suddenly seemed to have everyone’s attention.
“Below, instead of baggage, I’m carrying gallons of water and army rations. Each ration contains beef puree, crackers, cereal bars with fruit filling, a chocolate bar with nuts or caramel, orange juice mix, sugar, salt. Be prepared for cold food for much of the trip after we cross into Turkey.
“Visas are granted at the borders: transit visas. They cost money, but nothing too expensive. Depending on the country, such as Bulgaria—which is under Communist rule—no one can jump off the bus. Take care of your bathroom needs before we leave, because I won’t make any special stops.”
The driver glanced at his watch.
“Time to go. Take your backpacks onto the bus with you—and I hope you’ve brought sleeping bags. We’ll stop at night, sometimes at gas stations I know, but most of the time in the countryside, near the road. In some spots where neither option is possible—such as Istanbul—we know some cheap hotels.”