THE OTHER DAY I SAW a man almost get hit by a bus. If he had been even an inch closer, he would’ve surely been mowed down. The young man was keeping to the side of one of many streets where pavements and pedestrian crossings are non-existent. Maybe it was not as close as I imagined, but a jam-packed public bus coming in from behind seemed to narrowly miss him while whistling by. And it all happened too quickly for the unsuspecting pedestrian to even notice.
The incident described above is so commonplace that it may not be much of a big deal in Kathmandu, where instances of bikers or pedestrians being run over by a big van or a truck make it to the newspapers every day. In some cases, even when the victims’ alive and struggling, truck drivers have been known to switch to reverse gear to make sure they breathe their last. Then one night, a big supply truck swerved past a temple (that also served as a roundabout) from the wrong side at great speed. The truck driver culd have been drunk or did so for an amusement. But it could have been a matter of life and death for people sitting behind the wheels of a car or a motorcycle coming from the opposite direction.
Every year, especially during Dashain and Tihar, the nation’s media is replete with reports of injuries and deaths in highway accidents as people head home to celebrate the festival with their near and dear ones. The cause is all too familiar: drunk driving, fatigue, poorly-maintained roads, over-loaded vehicles, or just a mix of some or all of these makings.
I got a grasp of how many of our countrymen cheat death every time they travel back to their home when my housemaid, who is from a remote village in Kavre, narrated her narrow escape from what could be a tragic bus accident. She said the rickety bus she was on was crammed with passengers (inside as well as on the roof), and the young driver seemed inexperienced – that while navigating a difficult turn, iut almost veered off the road to plunge hundreds of meters down into the fast-flowing river. She said she had her heart in her mouth. But despite the perils of the hilly road, she travels to her village every year to celebrate the festival marking the victory of good over evil with her family members.
Meanwhile, deaths from motorcycle accidents have increased sharply in the country over the last ten years. Hardly a day goes by without news of someone or the other being injured or killed. But despite the high fatality rate, motorcycles are and have always been the ride of choice for many people in Kathmandu. And despite the exorbitant registration taxes for motorbikes, the government does very little to put a check on motorcycle accidents.
One time I was returning from a day-long hike from the Shivapuri hills. As it was already late, there were no other vehicles in sight, and my friend and I had no option ut to board a microbus. The driver was a lean guy who looked to be in his teens and his assistant (or khalashi , as we call them) was a boy of 12 or 13. The vehicles soon took up speed on the tiny strip of road, whizzing past vehicles and pot holes alike recklessly, even almost colliding head on with an approaching vehicles. Only when the passengers complained did he slow down a little. I was sure that the drive had only recently received his driving license, or maybe he was not even properly trained to drive.
As we approached Ring road, the bus stopped in front of a hospital where an elderly couple was waiting. The man seemed to have just been discharged and looked frail and pale. The elderly couple was lucky enough to find a seat.
However, the microbus was not going all the way to the final stop because, according to the Khalasi, “it was very late”. The driver said he was heading to the “garage” and we were dropped halfway from our destination. It was sad to see the elderly couple walk away at a slow, tender pace. They didn’t hope to find another public vehicle at that time of the night.
We found a cab after walking a while. The driver seemed to be straight out of Martin Scorsese’s cult movie “Taxi Driver”, as he immediately started complaining about bad traffic, the filth and dirt in the streets, and how corrupt netas and officials were milking the country’s resources and, in the process, ruining it to the point of no return.
I enjoyed listening to the cabby, but when we reached our destination and I looked at the meter while reading for my wallet, my heart sank: The meter was tampered with and tallied up a much higher fare. He was no better than those very corrupt politicians he hated and had so fervently complained about.
The next time I was returning to the city from the outskirts in a friend’s car. It was Saturday and the road was pretty empty. We discussed how when we were kids there were very few houses on either side of the road and how the sight of paddy and mustard fields made the drive to town enjoyable. The nostalgia was short-lived , however, when my friend had to slam on the brakes to prevent crashing into a motorcycle that suddenly appeared in front of us.
“Does he think of himself as some kind of a Bollywood hero?” my friend glared at the motorcyclist fuming as the rider dropped his friend, and drove on, nonchalantly.
When we were about to reach the city, a traffic jam greeted us. We could understand this happening on weekdays, but not on a Sunday afternoon. Frustrated while waiting for the jam to clear, the friend asked the traffic police what was causing the delay. He said they were stopping the vehicles to let the president’s motorcade pass. There was a kilometer long buildup both sides of the road. But we could take heart from the fact that a minister’s car behind us was also stuck in the jam.
Having nothing to do but wait, we came up with some interesting remedies for the growing traffic problems in the city.
K suggested that the government should invest more in upgrading the city’s infrastructures to make it a vibrant metropolis. He said the government must start building wider roads, flyovers, subways, and even better, more efficient means of mass transportation including a fleet of public buses and underground railway system that run all night.
“With the number of vehicles in the city increasing every year, in ten year’s time even walking in these narrow, congested roads will be difficult, let alone driving,” he said.
While he was speaking I thought about the poorly regulated public transport run by syndicates and “transport mafias” that don’t follow any timetable (one reason why Kathmandu comes to a grinding halt after 8 in the evening). And those of yore that did- government run Sajha bus and China gifted trolley – are already rusting in the junk yard.
Then another friend said that even if the government finally provides infrastructures and improved the condition of the roads and highways in the city, of course with the help of some donor or friendly country, (we Nepalis hardly seem to be able to do anything on our own), the problem of excruciating traffic jams and reckless driving will still not be resolved.
“This is because Nepali people are still devoid of any civic sense,” she said.
She could not be more right. People blow their vehicle horns ceaselessly and reckless, park their vehicles anywhere they want, drive recklessly (and with the headlights on high beam while driving at night), and they don’t yield the right of way to pedestrians. And despite the risks, pedestrians are somewhat used to jay-walking and thus account for the majority of traffic fatalities in Kathmandu.
K argued that people should not be blamed, it is the government’s responsibility to lay the foundation for a modern, vibrant city. And to implement rules and regulations, even forcibly if need be, to ensure that everything functions smoothly.
“The concept of urban planning and development was never really understood by city planners,” he said.
Then as we turned left to a side road to avoid the traffic jam, I saw a young couple walking down the street. A public bus was racking fast towards them from behind. There was no sidewalk. The man, as if knowing by instinct that a bus was behind, grabbed his partner’s hand and pulled her close to him.
