the streets of kathmandu

The thick, brown air weighs heavily in your lungs as the smell of incense, exhaust and decay crawls into the back of your throat.  Your sweat mixes with the dust, the sun bakes it on your already dry skin which smells metallic, from the weak-tea coloured water you showered with in the morning. The taxi driver tried to rip you off, but you stood firm by your price and now he's grinning at you in the rearview mirror— funny foreigner. You bump and shudder at top speed, swerving past mounds of rubbish, leather-faced ancients roasting ears of corn over mysterious-smelling fires, children playing, women laughing.

The colours, the colours! Colours so bright they have no name, but are best described by what they resemble: marigold, mango, blood, sky, sprout, amethyst. Cows and motorbikes negotiating road space, people packing themselves into and onto cars, trucks and vans, bumping and shuddering in the same jerky rhythm as your own. Through the grime and the chaos, your heart soars. Your chapped lips curl into smile, you are happy.