Roads in Nepal are a practice in the life lessons of mindfulness. And if you are a naive volunteer like me, you better be alert.
It’s like this. There was an urban legend at my university. Get hit by a car while crossing the streets of campus and your entire tuition is covered. Loose logic wrote this off as something to do with avoiding liability. It happened for your friend’s roommate’s older sister’s ex-boyfriend’s fraternity brother. Or maybe it was his lab partner. But it was policy. Nowhere officially retrievable of course but a known secret protocol. Like ordering a Cold Buster at Starbucks.
This was wildly appealing if you were a student straining under costs AND you were a young person who still felt the invincibility of lingering adolescence. I mean, come on, no one was going fast on those streets. Just a flesh wound. Maybe a broken bone. And FREE COLLEGE (Go Cats.) So we all stepped off that curb with our head held high like the brazen punks we were and the world around us knew to slow down. It was just how things were done. Cars don’t slow unless you step off and you don’t hesitate once you step. Sure, you would also hear stories of someone getting hit by a car, maybe even seriously. But you still stepped fearlessly off the curb because YOU hadn’t been hit.
So you see, I was primed for Kathmandu. I just had to remember how to be 19 again.
Rules are more like guidelines on the roads of Kathmandu, the teeming capital of Nepal with millions of people and the infrastructure of a dilapidated mall. The first of Nepal life lessons: vehicles of all kinds can zoom in at least 9 different directions on the same road simultaneously. We’re too linear here in Western societies, thinking there are only two directions on just one road. Roundabouts exist here and they are truly jaw-dropping. Every time we went in one I wasn’t sure what really happened. You just cross your fingers and close your eyes and somehow you get spit out in a new spot.
I know you dear readers with more expertise in developing countries are smirking here because isn’t this the way of all unpaved, overpacked, underfunded places everywhere? Maybe so. But Kathmandu was one carefully calibrated traffic machine. It can blow up spectacularly. Or it can be a work of art. Much like life.
So a few suggestions. If you’re a pedestrian and you need to cross a street there are two strong recommendations. One, look behind you to make sure a motorcycle isn’t overtaking you, even if you’re standing on a sidewalk. Don’t kid yourself; those mopeds come from everywhere. (Also, looking side to side is pointless, yes there is traffic. You hear it. You smell it. Done.)
Two, walk out in front of everything EXCEPT buses. Here’s the thing: when you get to Nepal you may think that drivers of buses, motorcycles, mopeds, cars, rickshaws and carts are very bad. Actually, they are very good. They know the speed they’re going, the speed other people are going, how many centimeters are necessary to pass, how much to slow, and occasionally when to stop. Don’t expect a stop, just a speed adjustment.
Except the buses: they’re the lions of the traffic kingdom and they are not going to adjust thank-you-very-much. The next of Nepal life lessons: be predictable. Step off the curb and proceed at a confident but unhurried pace and adjust your speed according to common sense. If you don’t have common sense, maybe don’t go to Nepal.
Your common sense has already alerted you that you are not driving in this country. Laughable. You have no idea what you’re doing so don’t do it. So there are a few options: bus or taxi/hitch. When my good Nepali friend Dilay heard I hadn’t been on a bus yet he gave a wicked smile and asked me if I knew how to dance. “The bus in Nepal will teach you how to dance. Remember that.” Of course he was right.
First, buses don’t necessarily have a uniform look. Keep an eye out for a bus bulging with people and at least one young man hanging out a door, shouting out to the people that this is a bus and you can get on (in Nepali of course.) Hail it like you would a taxi and the young man bangs on the door and the driver stops. Get on and begin your dance.
Nepali roads are unpaved, potholed, hot messes so prepare to salsa around the bumps. Hold your gear tight for safety and respect. Don’t expect a seat and try to stay near the door. Suck it in because your sense of space is changing rapidly. If you did sit, expect that someone else may sit on you. The Nepali people are of slight build, you’ll be fine. Sharing is caring. Have your 20 cents ready when you near your spot and let the young man whose toes are now the only thing actually in the bus know you want off. Hand him your money and expand your ribcage again upon departure. Done!
Maybe you don’t feel like dancing. Taxi it is, usually between 4 and 7 USD for up to a 30 minute drive. Gotta haggle it though because you are self-respecting and you don’t want to have to argue again at the end. Once in the car just relax. Your driver knows what he’s doing. If a bus is barreling down the road in an elaborate game of chicken with your taxi, it’s ok to close your eyes for a bit. Peek-a-boo: bus is all gone! One of the most astounding things about Nepali taxis is that this is daily life for these men who are driving you through this chaos for the price of a value meal and they DO NOT YELL.
Our Roman taxi driver would be gesticulating and shouting in beautiful Italian about what an incompetent son of a whore the other driver is but the Nepali driver simply shakes his head, makes one simple “tsk” and sighs. Pretty sure this means, “I am disappointed that life has to be so vexing.” More egregious behavior gets two “tsks.” Stupendously stupid behavior, difficult to do in a place of mere guidelines, gets the rare three “tsks.” This roughly translates to, “I am aggrieved that you are going to be receiving an unpleasant experience after this life because you appear beyond hope.” It really is inspiring. If I were in the driver’s seat I would be shouting a word that rhymes with duck and slamming the steering wheel.
But in Nepal, you have to let that nonsense of inconvenience and control go. I found myself on my last day absent-mindedly shaking my head at another car at the same time as my driver, disappointed, slightly amused, and resigned. This, ladies and gentlemen. This is the key to Nepal life lessons.
Nepali people, as a whole in my experience, are extremely generous and accepting. This doesn’t mean they don’t want better or even demand better as they strive for a more functional country with their new democracy. But they appear to know how to let things go more and trust in some greater design. So I’m taking my same road rules survival attitude into this new year. I’m packing my common sense and only misplacing it a few, brief times. I’ll remember how to dance and adjust. Share more. Maybe close my eyes and take a breath when I need to because white-knuckled panic never changes the things out of my control. And I will try to just shake my head in commiseration of the fate of the stupidity in the world because we all have our moments. Most of all though, I’m going to step of the curb with confidence.
Namaste, travelers. May the road rise to meet you and may your step off the curb be confident.
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