JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi Daniel Linden (feel good novels txt) 📖

of the most exotic cities in the world. We stretched and yawned as we slowly worked our way down the aisle of the huge airplane. I was looking forward to seeing how the guys would react to the utterly foreign culture waiting for them outside the terminal. Once we managed the long line at customs we gathered our luggage and moved through the old brick building and out onto the sidewalk in front. There, small minivans and other not so modern conveyances waited to take us and the other departing passengers into the city. I saw an excited driver waving and walked over.

“Can you take us to the Kathmandu Guest House?”

“Yes, sure, how many?” he asked.

I pointed over toward the sidewalk and nodded and the guys walked over carrying their luggage.

“Yes, of course. Six hundred Rupees.”

“We’ll pay four hundred.” I told him quietly, smiling.

“But I could not make any money this way.” He shook his head and waited.

“You are correct,” I said, “I see I have made a mistake. I will pay you five hundred rupees.” I waited.

“I still could not make any money doing this.” He asserted.

“Okay.” I said and picked up my bags and began to walk toward the other drivers waiting in line. I really don’t like to haggle, but I know that one hundred rupees is a days wages here and I don’t mind helping the economy and maintaining the man’s vehicle, but there were others who I could just as easily help.

“Wait, sir. Perhaps, if you might consider using this taxi in the days during your stay I could make an exception to carry you and the other travelers to your destination,” he said.

“Okay, I’ll let the desk at the hotel know to contact you for any traveling we will do, but you must keep the price fair.” I lifted my bag in the door and shoved it under the seat and we all climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze. I knew what was coming so I did not want to be on the side looking out a window. I managed to grab the middle seat in back and the guys were all happy as they thought they were going to get a good look at the old city as we drove to our hotel in the heart of the Thamel district. They were. Just not the kind of look they were expecting. Celine and Esra took the front seats behind the driver. They are experienced travelers and have been in cabs in the hearts of old cities before. I saw them looking for solid hand-holds.

Drivers in Kathmandu have a vocabulary that I do not understand. It isn’t just that they keep shouting at each other in Nepali, but that they keep pushing their vehicles forward at top speed in ever closing ranks until someone backs off and allows them space to wedge themselves into whatever moving space is their excuse for a lane, here. There is no rhyme or reason. But that is not all, that much happens in New York or New Orleans; here they honk their horns.

The driver pulled out into the oncoming traffic as if it were not there at all. He began to honk his horn and the drivers that were careening toward us somehow swerved and avoided killing us at top speed. We were off. The driver continued to honk in a staccato rhythm and as I closed my eyes and desperately avoided looking out the window I could feel the van sway and rock up on its hubs as the driver slammed us through the busy metropolitan streets. It didn’t stop. Not once did the driver even alter the rhythm of his honking and this is what I mean by a language I do not understand. It is clear once you hear this honking, this rhythm, this concert in motion, that here is certainly an understood communication.

These drivers spend their days in this metallic conflagration without regard to the passengers and what they endure. They deal with the others, the drivers who are the flow and force of the roads they move upon and they manage to convey their feeling and intentions with a nudge of a wheel, a turn of a tire and the incessant honking of the horns. The truly amazing thing is that with all the threats and near collisions and menacing that the drivers are constantly in motion and facing, there are very few cars with any collision damage. It is the only comforting thing to ponder while being slammed back and forth across the seat. We were really rocking back and forth.

I heard Christian groan. Then I heard Curtis, who had spent a year in Korea in the Army, say, “If you puke on me I’ll throw you off a mountain.”

“I thought I loved roller coasters,” he said. “This is horrible.”

“If you have to, look out the window and pay attention to what you are seeing,” I said. “Look at the people and the store fronts, and look for the elephants.”

I felt him move in the seat and then he said, “Elephants? I don’t see any.”

“Well, they’re there. Keep looking.” I knew that if he focused on the distance it would be like a sailor that keeps his eyes on the water line in the horizon. It stops the nausea. At least he stopped groaning and started making comments about what we were passing.

“Sensei! Is that a Ghurka soldier? There on the sidewalk?”

I kept my eyes closed and asked, “Is he in front of the Royal Palace?”

“Yeah, well it’s something like that. Big with…

The cab rocked and jolted and the tires squealed. So did Celine.

“If he’s in front of the Royal Palace and he is holding a machine gun and wearing a hat with the side pinned and turned up and has a big-ass khukuri knife in a belt then it’s probably a Ghurka.” Yeah. I