Two things I notice when I wake up—the neighborhood is unusually quiet, and the sound of rain. Rain in Kathmandu also means two things—the roads will become both dust-free and muddy, and no one will be on time for any appointment. In fact, in my experi­ence, this phenomenon is reflected across the whole of Nepal and South East Asia. Whether the roads be dusty/muddy tracks or tree-lined boulevards, Asia just slows right on down when it rains. I guess that’s because in countries like Nepal where really it doesn’t rain that often—yes, yes, there is the monsoon of course when it does for around 90 days—people just aren’t used to moving around in the wet. Being from Scotland, where it must rain 365 days a year (Google says its 265 but I’m quite sure that’s an under-estimation) we are hardened to going out in the rain, winter, spring, summer and autumn.

Meantime in Nepal, children are late for school, parents are late for work, and appointments are can­celled across the board the moment the skies open. Eventually, during the monsoon months, we do seem to get used to the idea of having to go out in the rain and unless it is a heavy downpour, Kathmandu does get moving. But should it rain ‘off-season’ so to speak, then for­get about anyone getting out of the house.

We all know the rain causes flood­ing that makes it impossible to drive or walk down some of the roads. Several times I have had to choose between walking through knee-deep water to get out of my street or stay­ing at home. Although I know what holes lurk under the water in my street, I’m in despair if I’m faced with wading through overflowing sewage and rainwater on a road less familiar.

Missing manhole covers, unex­pected collapse of the top tarmac, and newly dug holes for whatever reason can mean there are hidden traps under the water. We have all seen the footage and read the horror stories of children falling into ditch­es and sewage channels. It makes me shudder.

But if there is no reason to go out, I love winter rain. Because it reminds me of home. It’s the perfect time to huddle up with a hot drink and listen to the patter of rain on the roof. Somehow it feels ‘cozy’ even if it’s cold outside. I imagine all over the city families and groups of friends are sitting around chatting over a steaming cup of tea, a brief respite from the usual daily winter routine.

However, the summer monsoon rains are a different animal alto­gether. If you have to go out on foot, it’s impossible to wear a proper rain coat because it’s generally too hot. I have, over the years, had a variety of ponchos but why do they all leak around the neck? If a ‘hands free’ approach is required then the hood is also required. But the water always manages to snake its way in through the seam between the hood and the body of the poncho. What’s with that?

Thus, aside from when my hands are full, an umbrella is my constant companion from around March till November. The umbrella is both sun-shade and rain protection. Unfortunately, umbrellas seem to die young here. Something about Kathmandu affects the longevity of these essential items and they are all left broken, with limbs poking out and exposed, on rubbish heaps. RIP trusty friend.

For those who drive a scooter, motorbike or cycle, the situation is much worse. Avoiding pot holes and gushing sewers becomes daily routine. I’m sure helmets provide some protection from the rain and those interesting ponchos that are somehow attached to the bike come into play. But I will never get used to seeing women sitting on the back of a bike trying to keep dry under an umbrella which is being pulled this way and that by the jet stream wind.

Okay so perhaps ‘jet stream’ is a little overkill given the slow pace of traffic here, but you know what I mean. I feel sorry for those women; why do they never seem to have a rain jacket or poncho? Sometimes I want to shake their husband/son/brother and ask them why they don’t buy extra rainwear for their female passenger. Of course I also want to ask them why they don’t spend a little cash on a crash helmet too…