Reality Check

They often hurt. Mostly because they are brutal in their honesty. But also because they come when you are least prepared for them.

An innocent conversation with a taxi driver in Kathmandu. Our journey commences with him asking if I need air conditioning. He looked relieved when I told him no. A gentleman taxi driver.

He starts first. He learns I live in Sydney but that I am originally from Queensland. Now, it’s my turn.

He is from Kathmandu. He lives with his family and has a son who is 15. I was interested in what age he would get his licence and how the system worked in Nepal. So I asked the innocent question, “does he drive a car yet?”

A pump of the breaks, a turn of the head and a horrified look. “No, he will go to university.”

At that moment I realised that he had understood my question to mean “Will he drive a taxi like you?” The reaction was merely an illustration that this gentle man wanted more for his son than to drive a taxi each day.

I then asked how the university system was funded in Nepal. He said he would have to pay. “Very, very expensive”, he said, “but I will find a way.”

Check 1.

I told him I was certain he would.

We arrived at Swayambhunath. He told me he would wait for me an hour so not to rush.

I entered the temple complex: it’s an important place for Bhuddists living in Kathmandu. The driver had told me that each morning, many of the towns practicing Bhuddists walk the 365 steps to the temple and back down again for “exercise.”

There were ten monkeys to every human (at least this is what it felt like). A man came over and asked me if I wanted a guide. I politely declined . Then, I realised that he was not going to take no for an answer. He told me I could pay what I thought it was worth. A gentleman guide.

He had a detailed understanding of Bhuddism, having lived in a monastery until he was 20. We then discussed how he became a guide. He mentioned that before the earthquake he had built many businesses from nothing: he had started working as a guide and had then went into producing cashmere and organising tours.

He then told me that after the earthquake, his European business partner had paid him only a “small amount of money” when he was owed a large amount. “He was a very bad man” he told me.

The desperation in his voice made me feel a sense of urgency.

“I now work from the streets.”

By this he meant, he has had to start again, asking (sometimes begging) for work. But he was convinced that one day soon, he would be back where he was before the disaster. When I asked why, he answered “Because I already know the steps to take to get there.”

Check 2.

I told him that I was certain he was right.

I paid him what I am sure was well above the going rate, at least I hope it was.

I walked back to my gentleman driver and he asked me whether I wanted to go somewhere else. No thank you. Back to the hotel was good, secretly hoping he would pick up another fare.

I will find a way. I already know the steps to take to get there.

Get lost. Stay curious.