My trip to Muktinath, a sacred temple in Nepal’s Mustang district, began as a spiritual pilgrimage. I expected silence, mountains and maybe some personal clarity. What I didn’t expect was that the road itself—the actual journey—would teach me something deeper: why nations like Nepal struggle, not because of poverty or geography, but because of broken systems. The Himalayas were everything I hoped for. Vast, ancient, silent. The mountains don’t speak, but they say everything. In that silence, something inside you wakes up. You feel tiny—but not in a diminished way. You feel connected, humbled, part of something timeless.
And then, the road reminds you: you’re still in Nepal.
At first, everything was smooth. Well-paved stretches give you a sense of order, of progress. Then suddenly—no warning—dust, potholes, mud, cliffs. No signs. No explanation. Just a sharp jolt. That’s when it hit me: this road is Nepal. Not just physically, but politically and economically. It reflects how the country moves. Or fails to move.
Economists Daron Acemoglu and James A Robinson, in their book Why Nations Fail, say that nations don’t collapse because they’re poor or small—they fall when their institutions become extractive. That means systems designed not to serve everyone, but to benefit a small elite. When power is centralized, unaccountable and unresponsive to the people, things fall apart. Just like the road. That road had moments of beauty—and then chaos. Like when a traffic jam would appear out of nowhere. No rules, no traffic police. Just honking, pushing and disorder. Yet somehow, people moved. It was dysfunctional, but it functioned. That’s Nepal. A country where people no longer expect the system to help—but find ways to survive anyway.
Our driver embodied that spirit. He was fearless, navigating landslides and blind turns like a local James Bond. I was terrified. “Why are you scared?” he said. “There’s nothing to be scared of.” It wasn’t bravery, it was normal for him. Because in Nepal, danger isn’t an emergency. It’s routine. At one point, we passed a fresh landslide where the road had barely been cleared. No warning signs. Just a man standing in the dust, motioning to drivers. No uniform, no authority, just someone stepping in where the state had stepped out. That moment stuck with me. In a nation where public services falter, ordinary people fill the void. Not because they have to—but because they must.
And this is the tragedy: people become excellent at surviving systems that should have protected them in the first place.
Nepal’s economy feels just like that road. It’s moving—but always at risk. You can plan but never predict. And yet, life continues. People open shops, raise families, guide tourists, offer tea to strangers. They trust not in government, but in each other. That kind of social capital is rare—and powerful. On those roads, I saw something remarkable: trust among strangers. No road signs. No clear rules. But still, drivers cooperated. Because they had to. That trust wasn’t built by policy. It came from culture. From the deep understanding that if people don’t care for each other, no one else will.
But culture isn’t enough to build a country. Why Nations Fail makes it clear: without inclusive institutions—where opportunity is open to all, leadership is accountable, and policies are shaped by participation—no amount of individual effort can fix systemic collapse. When policies are made by people who never walk the road, they forget where it leads. I couldn’t help but ask: how often do our leaders walk these roads themselves? Do they feel the same jolts? Do they see the villagers’ patching holes with rocks? Or the mothers selling noodles near construction dust while their kids play in broken corners of concrete? Or do they see only blueprints and budgets?
Nepal’s institutions feel just like those road bumps—sudden, unexplained and dangerous. Too often, leaders govern without grounding. They change policies without clarity. They promise without delivery. And still, people adapt. They move forward because it’s the only direction available.
At Muktinath, I finally reached stillness again. Cold wind, ancient stones, sacred silence. You don’t need to understand everything to feel something shift inside. You just breathe. And for a moment, it’s enough. But when I looked back at the journey, the literal road and the metaphor it became, I couldn’t ignore the deeper lesson. Nepal doesn’t lack potential. It doesn’t lack spirit, creativity or community. What it lacks is leadership that walks the same road the people do. Institutions that work for everyone. Roads that are built not just to impress, but to endure.
Acemoglu and Robinson remind us that even countries that start the same—like North and South Korea—can end up in vastly different places if one builds extractive institutions and the other builds inclusive ones. One stagnates, the other grows. It’s not fate. It’s a choice. Still, I believe change is possible. I see it in the eyes of young Nepalis—those who question, who leave and return, who imagine something better. I see it in those who fix what isn’t their job to fix. In communities that cooperate even when the state fails.
So yes, the mountains healed me. But the road taught me the truth.
Nations don’t fail because their people are weak. They fail when their systems are weak. And unless we rebuild those systems—with inclusion, accountability, and connection—we’ll keep driving blind, hoping to avoid the next collapse.
And still, despite it all, Nepal moves forward. Bumpy. Risky. Beautiful. Still going.
