Not about Everest

Walking among the madness of Kathmandu, I could be forgiven for comparing my recently adopted city of Beijing to a sleepy village in the depths of rural Ireland. With its non stop network of cars and motorbikes all culminating in a deafening chorus of beeps and revs, it’s a sort of organised chaos where each driver, rider and pedestrian appear to be perfectly in sync with each other. I may not speak Nepalese but there was no misunderstanding the universal sound for ‘get the fuck out of my way’, and I daren’t disoblige. However, I am certain it was not them who were contrary, it was me. I was the weak link in this sophisticated cavalcade of vehicles. Beijing had taught me some street smarts but this was on another level of hyper awareness. It sort of reminded me of when I had conquered the use of chopsticks during the first few weeks of living in China and then someone produced a bowl of noodles to share and it all fell to shit. It was next level skill, as in this current situation and I was far from mastery.

Upon arriving in the city at the end of January I found myself with almost no money when my Chinese bank card failed me and pre altitude ‘Alzheimer’s’ had me forgetting my pin number to my Irish debit card. Now cursing the amount of times I procrastinated on going to my local bank to organise some Nepalese Rupees to the point where I just never actually went, I looked into my wallet to see what I could piece together. With a ten euro note, fifty Australian dollars and some almost worthless Chinese Yuan, I’m not quite sure where the hell I thought I was going. Clearly ill prepared, I spent much of the first afternoon zipping around on the back of an almost strangers motorbike trying ATM after ATM in search of funds. After a failed mission and a co-ordinated dance (thanks to my driver) through Kathmandu’s fume filled traffic, I had to bring it back old school real quick and arrange some Western Union cash infusions and the crisis was averted.