Traffic In Kathmandu

Each building lining the main road is marked for demolition.  The red-bricked chicken momo shop is marked.  The towering beige wall of the Japanese embassy displays the same signage.  Each shop whether falling down or long established will be torn down soon.  The government is enforcing encroachment laws and I am expecting a new series of protest when the structures are reduced to rubble.

The property owners were compensated for their property over thirty years ago but the inept government is just now starting the project.  In Nepal a good idea might take 30 years to implement.

In the morning I drive Jesse to work.  We ease out onto the street and a shining blue and silver jingle bus flies up from behind us honking non-stop.  Hurried motorcycles pass on either side weaving in and out of traffic.  A man carrying a refrigerator tied to his head for support waddles down the edge of the pavement.  His progress is steady but slow.  Three bull calves covered in runny manure chew a clump of dingy grass.  They share the same grass and the same painful fate.

A motorcycle comes to a complete stop ahead of me.  His wife rides clinging behind him and his baby sits in front of him holding a rope tied to the handle bars.  The motorcyclist answers his cell phone and chats happily deep in conversation in the middle of the road.  I swerve to miss him.  A small private bus moves without regret into my lane.  This is a head on game of chicken and he flashes his lights at me.

Anger is choking my throat.  This is the Nepali driving habit I hate the most.  A driver flashes his lights demanding - "You stop for me."  I doesn't matter that he is driving head first into your lane.  I am becoming more Nepali every day and flash my light returning the obnoxious demand.  I chuckle to myself.  Nepal demands a strong sense of humor.

The police are motioning drivers to either side and issuing tickets for expired licenses or lack of registration.  They do not issue speeding tickets.  There are no enforced speed limits in Nepal.  I bypass the checkpoint thankful for diplomatic immunity.  A motorcycle weaves in the gap between  two cars so small a person can hardly stand. 

I ease into the turn lane marked by orange cones and a man changes the spark plugs on his motorcycle in the middle of the lane.  A young woman walks awkwardly in the street.  Her heels are pretty and she does not want to walk on the dirt shoulder.  She pretends not to notice the traffic jam growing behind her and pretends to be prettier than she really is.

I honk loudly and she responds only by sticking her hand up in annoyance.  I am now joined by a collection of irritated honking drivers and she finally relents moving onto the dirt shoulder.

I drop my husband off at office and wave to the guards.  One eager police officer  tries to stop traffic to allow my car onto the street but he is ignored.  I finally wedge my car forward irritating drivers in all directions but demanding my place on the road.  Slowly I am forgetting all driving courtesy and becoming a Nepali driver.