The United Colours of Benetton. That’s how today's Sydney uber driver described himself. Born in Nepal in the same year as me in the best year, 1971. He is a product of the enviable private British schooling, an enclave in Khatmandu, established by the Brits as a gift to the Nepalese for access to their formidable Gurkhas. This enclave had him using British stationery, praying on British kneelers, thwacking British cricket bats and being tutored in the King’s English, alongside the Crown Prince himself. His shy Nepalese manners took a back seat as he was tutored in British ones. Like all kids growing up, he absorbed it like a sponge and only realized as a teen how few Nepalese opened their classroom windows by flicking a brass latch made in England. He was one of the lucky ones.
This mini ‘Brit’ later moved across the mountains and further to Bordeaux, where he ran amok and immersed himself in all things French as a wishful college student. He proudly told me about his first paid job as a marsh guide, rowing a small boat for tourists while speaking his new language, within 6 weeks of landing there only speaking English and Nepalese. His experience of being an outsider was a truly positive one as he was roped into translating for the non-English speaking French in the area. He was a rare asset in Bordeaux and he embraced his new life, not missing home much at all. He had no idea how his career would map out, but he put his head down and achieved near perfect scores, enjoyed his life at uni and tried his best to flirt with the girls. Perhaps hope is a strategy after all.
The subsequent years were spent studying in gay-Paris, on a Fulbright scholarship, becoming a Hotel Manager. Moving then to the U.S, he built his skills in hospitality and continued to feed this wanderlust that would never leave him. Years later he ended up marrying then raising 2 beautiful daughters in Sydney.
So, a million adventures later he is collecting me from the very pretty Russell Park in Watson’s Bay, on what may be the perfect spring day; clear blue skies, a gentle breeze and very few people around, not being a weekend. Apparently this place is heaving on Saturdays and Sundays, so I was feeling extremely lucky to have enjoyed its serenity, its manicured expanse of soft lawn, the speckled shade of towering trees and even sound of little birds giggling and chatting as the seagulls and bin chickens hung around, trying to appear nonchalant while waiting to pounce on the first sandwich crust.
He pulled his Mercedes SUV over in the quiet street, rolled down his darkened window to ask politely “Joanna?”, I nodded, and slid onto the cool leather, noting the dark mesh under the skylight. Nice touch, Mercedes. Australia is far too sunny for state-of-the-art European features like big, hot, moving pains of shiny glass.
Mr Uber had the most indecipherable accent because of his travels. He was obviously Nepalese, yet he rolled his r’s like the French, there was a slight twang from America, many Aussie sounds were coming through while speaking with a rather obvious English plumb. He noted that as just another global citizen he wondered why modern Australia demanded box-ticking ‘inclusion’. Which part of me would they be including, he mused? I agreed, it would be a tricky task to have him tick only one box. It seemed rather preposterous to even try, seemed way easier for all of us to simply treat each other with mutual respect and curiosity.
He delighted in telling his unique story and how life had taught him many things. I wonder how many Nepalese men can brag about their grandfathers being Gurkhas, those formidable warriors who pushed the Brits back in the Anlo-Nepalese War, with their local knowledge, impressive military strategy and super-able lungs. The Brits couldn’t cope even with Khatmandu air, as this flatland was already 1000m above sea level. Once they climbed into the mountains their bodies simply failed them, I imagine. I also suspect that this uber driver inherited the fearlessness of his Grandad, and the intellect. Anywhere in the world, strength is measured by a mystical combination of physical and mental metrics. The Gurkhas sound like they had the mix just right.
Our chatter was broken by the unexpected sight, a yellow sandstone wall, complete with towering spire. The Hindu Mr Uber’s eyes lit up as he insisted that I should not leave Sydney until walking inside. All I could see when he pulled up were aged sandstone steps that had worn their fair share of city traffic grime, but once inside this epic-scaled Catholic cathedral I was transported to a European place of worship, complete with stained glass, exquisite woodwork, stone floors and tall, sandstone pulpits. The altar was intricate and it oozed style; nothing garish or in-your-face here. I was drawn to one of the pews where I sat, calmly, for far longer than intended, for this place was truly special. As the organist started his practice, the meetings and peopling of the past few days faded away, and again I felt centred, ready to return home and get stuck into the loans on my desk. Yes, I had learned a great deal about finance in the past days, had made more valuable contacts and mingled with peers, but the biggest effect on me was this moment in this place of worship, only metres from the financial and designer shopping precinct of down-town Sydney. I would get home and start a blog, a place that clients could come to get tips on lending, budgeting, and saving. A place where we could showcase ideas about property and interest rates, but maybe most importantly, a place for locals to find me, as to many I was now known simply as the broker lady.
