Taxis

Taxi drivers are the same everywhere. Here they charge by the ride, not the distance, so they are even more eager to zip and weave around mostly oblivious pedestrians and a few startled cyclists. Lacking stop signs or traffic lights, they blare the horn at every bend in the twisty, crumbling road. The streets are filled with potholes, but most drivers seem to have the rough patches memorized. Occasionally the taxi will screech to a halt to carefully crawl over a speed bump. The car stalls every time, offering a few jarring seconds of silence before the cabbie revs the engine maniacally and zooms off again.

A chartered cab is forty rupees (one dollar), but to jump in one already going in your direction is only ten. The cabs themselves are cramped boxy things with musty, mattress spring seats that lack anything resembling a safety belt. I have to hug my knees when I clamber in, but somehow we still occasionally manage to fix six passengers in a single vehicle. "Bong busty garnus," I say as I squeeze in next to Ansel. "Mountain hut?" the driver asks, seeing that we are American. We nod vigorously, and the taxi takes off. A moment later the driver stops, and a handsome young Nepali man climbs in next to us, grinning. "Mero saathi," our driver explains. "My friend." Along the way we introduce ourselves to our driver and fellow passenger. We try to use what little Nepali we know, but their English is far better. Just two dozen yards from the entrance to the program house, our driver interrupts our conversation and points out the window. "My home is here," he says happily. Apparently he lives next door.