Our friends haven’t arrived, so we sit down on our backpacks and take stock of what has just happened. My head is reeling. In the space of less than an hour, we’ve gone from smiling aircraft staff to gun-toting soldiers and manhandling touts. Feeling a little panicky, I look at Mal. He glances back, giving a half smile. He too appears a little uncertain. Sebastian on the other hand is waving at the touts and laughing, ‘Ha ha, they can’t come in here.’
Half an hour later, our friends arrive. Rushing in, dishevelled and distraught, they are crying uncontrollably and my mind goes into overdrive.
‘Oh my God, what’s wrong?’ I ask, alarmed at the sight of them.
‘Nothing, we had a great time,’ says one with tears running down her cheeks. She flings her arms around me, nearly concussing me with her bright purple velvet bag sporting an Om sign, and filled with something metal, and clanging. Bells?
‘Fabulous, fabulous,’ cries the other, ‘but we’re so late. Tell you all about it back home.’ She hugs Mal, then turns, mumbles something about Boudha and hugs me with such force I’m left breathless. As she pulls away, they both look at each other and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Before we can ask anything more, they rush through the airport scanners in a flurry of coloured bags, scarves and more tears, leaving us staring after them stunned and bewildered.
I turn to Mal, ‘What the hell was all that about?’
Mal shrugs, and looks out the glass doors to the car park. He says slowly, ‘I hope you’re ready. I think we’re the only ones left.’
We are devoured in a sea of arms grabbing and pushing.
‘Good taxi,’ yells one.
‘No, I have better,’ hollers another.
‘I have big taxi and very good price,’ interjects someone.
I remember seeing a counter outside the Arrivals door with a sign advertising taxis to the iconic Kathmandu Guest House for a set price, the princely sum of two hundred and fifty rupees (just five Australian dollars). Perfect! The KGH is already on my ‘one day I’m going to do list’ and with nothing pre-booked – that’s right, we’re free-falling into my lost horizon – a prepaid taxi will take us directly there, without an argument, or so we think.
We’d been told any backpacker worth their weight in baksheesh and bribes knows hotels give taxi drivers a commission to bring them the tourists. Usually this commission is geared into the price of the accommodation. Understandably, or maybe deviously, some drivers will tell you everything and anything to entice you to ‘his’ hotel, such as, the place you want is closed, burnt down, fallen down, blown up or doesn’t even exist. They may even drive you round and round until you give in or just get out.
After paying the man at the counter the fare, we watch with fascination and amusement as he begins an animated haggle with the touts. Arms wave about and lots of fast dialogue and pushing ensues. A small, wiry, moustachioed youth (glancing around, I notice most of them are of small, wiry build with jet-black hair and thick seventies-style moustaches) in baggy trousers and a colourful waistcoat wins the ride. As he leads us towards the taxi, yelling excitedly about his win and waving the green booking ticket in the air, we’re followed, pushed, shoved, and jostled along by all the other touts.
‘That’s a taxi?’ I exclaim as we stop next to a little beaten-up orange Mazda with ripped seats, missing door handles and a battlefield of dents. Perched on its dashboard sit oodles of little idols and colourful objects that wobble and tinkle, and I’m sure won’t allow much view through the windscreen.
Getting into the taxi becomes a feat of wills. Still surrounded by jostling touts, Mal removes his bag and throws it into the boot of the car. As he turns to take mine, someone declaring he will be our porter and can get us a better taxi whisks the bag out.
‘No thanks, mate, give it ’ere,’ Mal grabs it back from the ‘porter’ and shoves it into the boot. Quick as a flash, it’s whisked out.
Laughing, ‘Nah, mate, nah,’ Mal retrieves the bag and returns it to the boot. Two seconds later, it’s out again.
‘Bloody hell!’ Mal snatches the bag with such force he almost pulls the ‘porter’ chap over. Throwing it into the boot, he growls, ‘Leave it,’ and lifts his foot onto the bag to stop its removal. With one foot up and precariously balancing on the other, Mal tussles with another ‘porter’ who is trying to take the pack off my back.
Meanwhile, Sebastian is having his own wrestling match. Released of my pack, I push Sebastian into the back seat of the car, grab his pack off a ‘porter’ and follow, pulling the door shut.
The ‘porter’ knocks on the window, ‘Rupee, madam, rupee?’ he calls.
Sebastian is stunned. Men bang on the side windows and one chap climbs into the front passenger seat.
‘This is crazy, mum,’ he giggles.
‘Bloody ridiculous.’ I too start giggling.
Up front, our driver jumps in and starts the engine. Another self-proclaimed ‘porter’ climbs into the front passenger seat – there’s no room for Mal. Having stashed the bags in the boot, Mal now stands at the car door and stares half-bemused, half-stunned at the two men sharing his front seat. He laughs aloud.
‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’ He points to the tarmac. ‘Out, please.’
‘I your porter,’ replies one.
‘No, you’re not, out... now.’
‘Porter, sir, porter.’ They both refuse to get out. Mal continues pointing at the tarmac. It becomes a standoff. From the backseat, I tap the closest one to me on the shoulder.
‘Please hop out,’ I ask ever so nicely. He ignores me. Sebastian starts laughing. The chap outside my window keeps tapping and requesting rupees. All the other touts crowd around the taxi.
Now losing patience, Mal grabs the first chap by the scruff of his shirt collar and hauls him from the car, then does the same with the second. Both protest very loudly, declaring they are our porters and must come. Seat cleared, Mal jumps in but before he can close the door, the second ‘porter’ climbs onto his lap.
‘I come, I take bags.’
‘Bugger off,’ laughs Mal and tries to push the ‘porter’ off his lap. The porter braces himself against the doorframe. ‘Get off,’ and with a huge shove Mal pushes the ‘porter’ out of the car and onto the ground. Mal grabs the door to close but the other ‘porter’ holds it open. Turning to the driver, Mal yells in his best ‘get-away’ voice, ‘Go, go, drive now!’
With a hard yank, he pulls on the door, causing the ‘porter’ to head-butt it as it closes. At the same time, the driver accelerates and we shoot away, narrowly missing a couple of touts loitering near the front of the car. I’m horrified at Mal’s ‘manhandling’ but can’t help myself and I burst into giggles, along with Sebastian.
Horn honking, we drive at neck-breaking speed through the rough and tumble streets of Kathmandu. There are people, cars and animals everywhere and as the car swerves to miss them all, we’re tossed about inside. At first I forget to breathe, tensing up at the near misses.
