We rode a rickshaw over to the LSF office, where we conspired with Ramesh and Nutan to build an infallible series of workarounds so we don’t end up having to go home without interviewing our principals subjects. It was hot, the rickshaw was in sad shape, and we ended up pushing it a fair bit of the way.

We finally got down and quietly overpaid, just because it felt like more trouble to be sitting up there while this old cat sweated and grunted than to just walk the last quarter mile.

Lots of good planning, and we resolved to try to bash out way across the city to see Pragya and her mom. Trip back to the hotel to grab the tripod (we hadn’t thought of shooting video, as our interviews are audio only), then fortune smiled and we found a young maverick taxi driver, name of Dependra, who was willing to try to make it over to the outskirts we were headed for.

Dependra and Nutan were in a good-natured battle of wits over who could guess at the best route (and avoid bands of cricket-bat wielding students and union thugs).

Kathmandu is a city of ridiculously narrow, crazily curving streets anyhow, but we took the chutes-and-laddersiest of them, and after 70 minutes of driving (normally a 20 minute ride), and much feeling of our way through uncharted back alleys, we arrived. 

Wow. We made it. The girls were delighted to see us; lunch–which we brought as a courtesy–went on the stove, and the gear got set up. Literally as the recorder was switched on to test mic sound, the first raindrops fell on the corrugated metal roof.

And we’re like, ohh, dang. It being monsoon season and all.

After a lunch in which we fretted about not just the on-again-off-again rain, but also the tractor tilling the field next door (100 feet away from the microphones) for rice planting, the rain let off, and Ramesh and I walked out to shoot some B-roll while Amy and Nutan got started on an interview with Pragya.

Cautious optimism prevails, as I set up the camera on the tripod to get a wide establishing shot of the neighborhood. I’m hoping to track one of the dozen or so international flights that approach the nearby airport every hour, including the girls’ house in the shot. 

The neighborhood kids gather around me (like they do), all vying for a look at the viewfinder. Ramesh is, with his quiet valor, trying to keep them out of my way without actually saying anything to them. Dark clouds are rolling in and it begins to rain. Lightly at first. I just stand there. The camera can take some rain–as I learned a couple days ago with the rice paddy ladies. 

After probably close to 30 minutes standing there, it’s clear that the clouds are too low, and the flights are likely circling, as they’re certainly not landing. And anyway, Amy’s sure not to be getting anywhere, given that the rain’s back.

As Ramesh and I walk back to the house, somehow I managed to keep a cloud of scribble from forming over my head. Our feeling of being defeated is largely offset by our sense of good fortune at being here in the first place, doing this job in the first place. 

I mean, I know it sounds kind of foo-foo. But it’s like that. We had a nice afternoon, with nice people; we set up some plans that must/should/could/might result in our reaching all of our subjects before we leave; and we just kind of really feel that way.

Disappointed but lucky. 

Only, most people here earn no more than a dollar or two a day. If your job requires you to take a bus, you might have been spending 20 or 30 rupees (67 rupees=$1US) each way for your commute. Does not compute.

And that was before the recent fare hikes. I’m no economist, but I can see this is pretty much an untenable situation.

Strikes are a tremendous burden on the economy, but they are probably just an organic expression of the untenability. Make everything stop, and you can draw attention to a thing that needs to be fixed. It’s clearly not an ideal means of addressing a crisis. But it is just as clear that no ideal means exists.

So, the strikes are a pain in Nepal’s ass and all, but really, this is all about us. And what does this mean for us?

Rickshaws, baby. Human power. No petroleum.