Black Sheep International

The landscape commanded awe, but all I felt was envy. The subject of my begrudging being one of my clients whose life, to my mind, was teetering on undeserved perfection. The three of us were stood on Bara-Larcha Pass—a black, snow dappled mountain ridge stretching towards the horizon like a vast ream of zebra skin before soaring into glistening, glacial peaks. Elka, a freelance producer, was dictating her inspirations into a voice-recorder, whilst Christian, her camera man and lover, captured the scenery with slow, sweeping shots. Awaiting the end of their take, I quietly unpacked my motorcycle saddlebags and laid out a traditional Indian breakfast on a picnic blanket. ‘The Himalayan region of Ladakh is a pristine wilderness,’ Elka dictated in her strong German accent, ‘only permitting vehicles for four months of each year, when the summer’s heat melts a passage through its icy terrain...’ At twenty seven—a galling two years my junior—this woman seemed to have it all: unfathomable wealth; a glittering career; and, unbeknownst to her, Christian was due to propose marriage later that day. Finishing her musings, Elka took a seat on the far corner of the picnic blanket and eyed the spiced chai and potato stuffed flat-breads with distaste. ‘I don’t do wheat or dairy,’ she said, in a tone that suggested I was a moron for not knowing these hitherto unmentioned facts. Visualising my end of journey tip I forced an apologetic smile and said, with the merest hint of irony, ‘it’s the only way breakfast comes at 16,000 ft above sea level.’ I struggled to hold her cold stare and reluctantly realised that even with a scowl on her face Elka, with her high cheekbones and cascade of chestnut curls, looked gorgeous. I, on the other hand, felt like shit. We’d abandoned our tents pre-dawn and though my alarm had been set for 4am, breakfast preparations had swallowed any time that could have been spent preening. Not that my appearance could have been much improved without a hot shower and a moisture surge conditioner, (who knew what high altitude did to bleached hair?) A woolly hat and shades were my only saving graces, my own brand of beauty too dependent on pots and potions to survive in the wilderness—not that I usually cared. ‘Looks can only carry you so far,’ my Gran used to caution when she caught me pouting in front of a mirror. The thought of her always made me smile, knowing that if she’d still been alive when I’d made it to art college—let alone all the way to India—she’d have hung my portrait in a gilded frame and demanded that everyone on the housing estate pay worship to her ‘golden girl.’ But bathing in the pride of dead ancestors can only do so much for your self esteem and confronted that morning by Elka’s disparaging gaze and platinum life, my golden one felt decidedly frayed and shabby. Christian turned off his camera and bounded over to the picnic. ‘Awesome, I’m starving,’ the sandy-blonde Californian exclaimed as he reached for a flat-bread and accepted a cup chai. ‘Did you even sleep?’ he laughed amidst mouthfuls, considerate enough to wonder how I’d found time to rustle up a meal. ‘Ahh, nectar,’ he sighed, downing the spiced tea and gladly accepting another. ‘Thanks for this Maya,’ he offered with a broad smile, the morning sun bringing a sparkle to his eyes, ‘and for getting us up so early,’ he added, ‘the light’s been phenomenal.’ Before I could respond to Christian’s praise, Elka purposefully broke our line of sight, leaning across the blanket to press a kiss to his amenable mouth and speak softly in German using a sweet tone that she reserved solely for him. He responded in her language and they kissed again, this time with an intensity that made me turn away. ‘Go ahead if you’re bored Elka,’ Christian suggested as she finally relinquished her grip, ‘find the next epic shot, we’ll soon catch you up on the bikes.’ They shared a lingering kiss and then she strode towards her rented jeep without even casting a glance in my direction. Is a guide so lowly an employee, I fumed, as I watched her expensively clad figure climb gracefully into the black vehicle, that you feel entitled to treat them like nothing? As his partner disappeared, Christian began the painstaking ritual of repacking his reinforced bike luggage with cameras and accoutrements. Gadgets which he professed to never leave out of reach due to the world’s propensity for presenting cinematic wonders at unexpected turns. With Elka out of the way, I’d instantly relaxed and, after stowing the breakfast things, I rested against my motorbike—a classic Royal Enfield—inserted my headphones and selected the perfect tune to enhance the majesty of my surrounds. At such extraordinary elevation I could see ridge upon ridge of mist hazed mountains surging towards the horizon like colossal waves, their shimmering snow caps seeming reflected in the heavens by the drifting clouds above. With soaring spirits, I smiled with a memory from the previous night. Huddled around a camp fire with Christian—Elka long since in bed—I’d begun quizzing him about his humble You Tube beginnings in film, and become audibly impressed about how cool his rise towards conventional success had been. ‘No Maya,’ he’d responded shaking his head, ‘I’m just one of life’s lucky cowards. I hide behind a camera, peeping at the world through a lens, whilst you...you fully live; you thrive amidst the madness, the shining star of your own unfurling movie.’ Lost in the pleasure of recollection, I was unaware of Christian’s approach until his shadow fell across my face. Extracting a headphone I regarded my new friend with an easy smile. ‘Ready?’ I said. ‘I’m about there,’ he nodded, ‘how far now?’ he enquired, referring to the stunning location, where due to my painstaking efforts (and his handsome payment) a group of Ladakhi musicians and a bottle of champagne were awaiting his and Elka’s arrival. ‘About an hour and a half away,’ I replied, using time to map the journey for there was no point describing the distance in miles as the road conditions were forever varying between rubble, mud and river crossing. ‘I feel terrified,’ Christian groaned, his brow deeply furrowed, ‘this could turn into a disaster: what if she says no?’ I made a show of pausing my music, winning time to muster something appropriate to say. I knew that a better woman would automatically offer bolstering words but for me silence itself was an act of generosity. The voice of my old foster father resounded in my head, ‘truth is vastly over-rated,’ and perhaps he’d been right, for what good would it do to tell Christian—having only known him for a week—‘if your girlfriend says no, then she’ll be granting you a lucky escape’? And if I’d permitted myself to say that much it would’ve unleashed my torrent of thoughts on the matter: Can’t you see what a bitch she is to everyone but you? She’s only where she is because she was handed everything on a platter and it’s your ten years of film making that made it possible for her to pitch this project to her daddy’s friend at National Geographic, so stop being so obscenely grateful... Struggling against temptation, I took a deep breath and composed myself. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ I offered, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile, ‘Elka would be a fool to say no. You’re attractive, intelligent, funny, kind... even I,’ I continued in a jokey voice, ‘would have made a play for you if you weren’t so obviously besotted.’