Sucker Punched

Kathmandu is a humbling place. Jeannie’s initial description was poignant. As we glided over the city in our approach to the runway, she spied the town below and said, “It looks like its falling apart.” She has this unique ability. So often she utters the most simple of comments that strike me as so profound. I looked over her shoulder at the city below and instantly related to what she saw. From the air, Kathmandu looks like an unraveling patch. The valley metropolis is formed by layer upon layer of tireless humanity. It is alive. If you look closely you can see it breathing, its chest rising, its heart pumping. Action flows through its narrow streets like blood through veins. Bandaids cover old wounds. Splints support moldy buildings. Sutures mend cracked roads. Where the skin is broken, and it does bleed, the colors are blinding—yellow, green, red. And brown, even brown is brilliant in this place.

It is an assault we did not anticipate. Kathmandu is a sucker punch in the belly. For me, Nepal has always been cloaked in mystery. I can’t speak the name and not immediately think of the unknown. And it remained this way for me until my heels were on the ground. I’ve been overcome by preparation for the other destinations on this journey—so much so that this three day jaunt in Nepal has arrived entirely unplanned and unresearched. Had I opened a guidebook, or even glanced at a website, I’m quite sure our first two hours in this shrouded and distant land would have transpired much differently. It’s a good thing for me that my travel companion is determined, resourceful, and enchantingly persuasive. Were she to lack these qualities, I might still be spinning wheels in customs.

As fate would have it, the Nepalese government requires the purchase of visa documents upon arrival at Tribhuvan International Airport. They are happy to accept your payment of 25 US dollars per visa in the form of American, Australian, or Canadian currency. I dipped a nervous hand into my pocket and produced a fistful of Thai baht, three Chinese notes, one Hong Kong dollar, and a cache of Malaysian ringgit, totaling out to a sloppy and meager 13 US dollars. We were 37 short. I scanned the foyer for an ATM machine. No luck. A dusty currency exchange counter was the closest substitute, and we had already determined that would be of no service to us.

Jeannie held our place in line while I pleaded with the customs agent to allow me five minutes of sovereignty, just enough time to run downstairs to the only existing cash machine in the airport. After gaining his reluctant approval, I snaked my way through the musky crowd and took to the stairwell, two steps at a time. Once outside, the sun greeted me with a smack on the forehead, and illuminated the presence of fresh meat to the mob of cab drivers on the curb. I waded through them to the shattered sign that marked the ATM. A stoic guard filled the doorway to the machine. “Broken,” he said. And nearly was my resolve. I took a look, just to be sure. There is no way that cash machine has produced a bill in ten years time.

Five opportunistic merchants, perceiving my situation, jumped to my side. As they would tell me, there was no shortage of solutions. One had a car waiting. The other would loan me cash. A third would sell me the visas direct. My trouble bone began to itch.

I retreated inside the airport, and out of their clutches, to convey the direness of our situation to Jeannie. She had moved two steps forward in line since our last contact, and had a new bead of sweat on her furrowed brow. I contritely reported the series of calamitous events that had emerged since my departure. Jeannie swallowed the circumstances. We were between a rock and an immigration officer’s baton. My mind was hot, and void of anything resembling a resolution. And then a flash of hope glanced off Jeannie’s lip. She grabbed her daypack and spun off in the direction of the murky money exchange counter.

From my place in line, I could see she was getting animated with the bearded man behind the desk. She was waiving in her hand what could only be one thing—an American Express Gift Cheque we had received as a wedding gift from her Aunt Joy. We have been carrying these cheques for weeks, attempting to exchange them for cash at every bank across Asia. We even spent the better part of an hour haggling with the Hong Kong branch manager of HSBC—the largest bank on the continent. No amount of conversation was able to produce cash in return for these cheques. We had established that. Yet there she stood, giving the bearded man a demonstrative earful. Even from thirty feet away, I could see she was methodically breaking him down. He fought and resisted. Jeannie cajoled and coaxed. Hands flew in ten directions at once. He stuttered and spit. Steam billowed from behind his beard. His eyes glazed over. And then finally, he collapsed. I will never forget the sight of those crispy green bills being pulled from his register. And I will always remember the look of expected victory in Jeannie’s eyes. All this on my dad’s birthday. Sometimes, I swear they share a soul.