Now I know it’s Visit Nepal 2011 and we should be focusing on all the points that defend Nepal’s visit-worthiness.
So for those to whom my tone is difficult to decipher, my sarcasm is actually coded with pleasantries.[break]
You see, for the past year and some change, I’ve been complaining about the un-public transportation.
You need only skim past my blogs and most tend to teeter on the topic of how much I hate it.
“It” is un-public because the state actually failed to organize and maintain the system.
I hear stories from mothers and uncles of days gone by wherein the Sajha Yatayat buses not only made it through the maze of this city but did it with order - Shock! Horror! We’re told of a time when you received actual paper bus tickets, of an era when buses had routes, of decades when women weren’t harassed on a daily basis, and when schoolboys didn’t have to haggle about the fare with khalasi dais every morning.
The most puzzling part is, it’s all true, it all happened right in our dear Kathmandu with which most of us have an intense love-hate relationship.
I’m not sure where things went wrong, but pretty soon, after the system was placed, it fell apart. We can play the blame game, but the point is that it’s over and we’re here today to mourn its death and to be puzzled about its reincarnation.
What we have instead is a network of privately-owned fleet of taxis, micros, buses and tempos - a handful are owned by the drivers themselves in which case you can’t call your taxi driver “Guruji” but you should refer to him as “Shahuji.”
Anyway, rented or owned, they all report their driving to an owner and not the government.
There may be a central authority to report the way in which fares are hiked everyday while services are dragged through the ground every minute, but no one seems to know about it.
The department of transportation, and maybe that of the roads as well, are somewhat responsible.
But when the bus I ride on is private, how can I resort to a public entity to complain about it? I’ve to find the shahuji, and no one wants to give you the boss’s name or contact. I know. I’ve tried. And I’ve failed.
So what we’re left with is the grand option to make do with what we have. And, in making do, I’ve come up with a short list wherein I mention what I’ve discovered - a method to the madness. Add your own to it or take from it, as you please:
1) There’s no actual “Bus Stop.” So situate yourself in the general vicinity of huddled people, and chances are some are waiting for a bus.
2) When your’s comes, don’t look for a line. While some may call it uncivil, I’m now the first to say pushing and shoving is actually quite acceptable because you know “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!”
3) If you are new to Kathmandu or just in a new part of town, know then you’ll probably end up paying double the actual amount. But the busboys and fellow passengers will be happy to help you with directions. It’s kind of win-win, even if just partly.
4) If you got into your vehicle, congratulations. If you found a seat, consider yourself royalty - or revolutionary, whichever way your politics lean - for the day.
If you didn’t, welcome to the position of mere mortals. Hang on to your two square inch and avoid men who are reaching over you to grab a handle - they have ammunition loaded in their armpits. Its scientific term is difficult for me to remember, but in colloquial terms, it’s BO - body odor - and I’m warning you: it’s deathly!
5) Listen to the directions of the busboys - they are experts. Experts I tell you when it also comes to packing too many bodies into illegal amounts of space. If they tell you to face one way, breathe in one way or crouch a certain way. And just do it because sooner or later your body will be locked into one position or another.
6) There’s no privacy on the bus. Enjoy the ramblings of mothers directing daughters how to soak the daal, of schoolgirls in uniforms giggling and commenting OUT LOUD, and of fights taking place over the cell phone. We’re one big happy family!
7) Along the lines of point 6, please note that if you’re seated, you’re obliged to take a 2-year-old onto your lap, just as you’re expected to carry the heavy bags of fellow stand-ers. Seeing as you’re seated, it’s only fair your lap is loaded.
8) Though most like to stay up front, to have easy access to the exit way, my personal experience has taught me it’s always better to scoot to the back. You’ll have to burrow your way out through bodies regardless and it’s always less crowded the further back you go.
9) Be nice to your khalasi dais. It’s only the right thing to do. But seeing so few saying “dai” and “thanks” and making small talk, I’ve learned that with the niceties come the oddities. More often than not, I’ve been surprised to see crisp new bills are handed back to me. They may be further down the socio-economic ladder, but if you read anything on subaltern histories or peasant revolution, you’ll know there are different ways of taking revenge. The crumpled, torn and not-even-taped-together change may be given to those who aren’t to the liking of the khalasi dai. Just saying!
10) Finally, if you’re ready to get off, be prepared to be dropped anywhere within a two-mile radius. I take the same route multiple times a day, and while hopping on seems to be encouraged most anywhere, dropping people off is considered based on if “traffic” is around. If a traffic cop is around, you won’t be dropped off anywhere between Kupondole and Shahid Gate. But if there isn’t a traffic cop in sight, you say anywhere “Dai, eta roki dinuna!” And he’ll be obliged.
Or just be prepared to walk!
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