There are basically three types of taxi drivers in Kathmandu—the silent type, the chatty type, and the ‘let me get as much money as possible from you’ type. That’s not to say the silent and chatty types are not trying to increase their earnings. In fact the chatty type may get a tip just because he is so engaging while stuck in a jam. On other days I’m less inclined to answer the standard questions about my place of origin, marriage status and place of work. Nor I am really wanting to take the guy to my country to drive the car that he believes I have there.

On the days when I am quite hap­py to reply to the questions, the answers may vary slightly depend­ing on the (perceived) character of the driver. But I always have a (fic­tional) husband waiting at home and two children (one of each) either here, or at university in Britain or off travelling the world. Some days I work for an NGO, other days I am a trainer, or a housewife.

Meantime, the driver who is try­ing to get more money out of me is out of luck! Having lived here before many of the drivers were old enough to reach the pedals, I know the approximate (and sometimes the exact) cost from A to B. And I know the shortcuts.

But give credit where credit is due: I have never had a Kathmandu taxi driver try to take me the long way round in order to increase the amount on the meter.

I remember a time when it was really hard to get a taxi, because there just wasn’t the same number on the road. And those that were available were horrible old cars that had no suspension and were built for midgets. You know the ones—those that were eventually sent off to do the airport run. Tall tourists with huge backpacks or suitcases squeezing into those oddly narrow vehicles. What an introduction to the country!

Yellow and black ones

Thankfully the taxis on offer at the airport are now much more comfortable and the pre-paid ticket takes the strain out of communica­tion for arriving tourists. Meantime, while we are reminiscing, do you remember auto-rickshaws? Those yellow and black ones. Nostalgia! In fact I was quite upset when auto-rickshaws were removed from the streets of Kathmandu because they were so much cheaper than taxis—it cost me Rs 11 to ride from my apartment to Lazimpat (a 15-min­ute walk). And they were quite fun to ride in as they zipped through the traffic and down small roads which should really be gullies. It made you feel like you really were in a different place!

On the other hand, the brand new cabs have heaters for those cold nights. Which can, if you shut your eyes, make you feel like you are indeed in a different time and place.

Finally, the silent type. While it’s nice after a hard day to drive in silence (maybe some Bollywood on the radio), those silent types can be a little creepy. They don’t respond to a cheery “Namaste”, seem unim­pressed by your thorough knowl­edge of the road or your limited Nepali language skills. Hopefully they are just concentrating on the road, and not burdened by a person­al problem which might make them less than reliable drivers. Or, even worse, fingers crossed they are not some psycho madman.

The latter thought only seems to strike when it’s late at night and seems to grow along with the silence. I know Nepali friends who take down the number of the cab to text home before getting in. But, realistically, who am I going to text? I never get those silent types to drive me right up to my door but ask them to stop a bit down the road. The local dogs then offer their friendly faces and escort me home. In the morning of course it all seems so silly—until the next silent taxi driver.

I believe there is now the equiva­lent of Uber in Nepal. Having never taken Uber I have no idea how this works. But I am reliably told the idea here is that you call, and they turn up. Interesting! How on earth do they find my house? And is that really easier than me walking to the chowk? Which brings me to the question of street names and house numbers, or lack thereof…

 

Jackie adds a Scottish flavor and an expat take to her column—sometimes with a twist of sarcasm