This may be the last I write for a while. Tomorrow at 06.30 I depart Kathmandu for Lukla to start trekking to Everest base camp. The trek will take three weeks and I'm not completely sure they have oxygen that high up let alone Internet access.

My last day in Delhi left quite an impression on me. Although the roads are absolutely chaotic in India, I always said: "I've never seen a car accident in India". I can't say that any more.

An auto rickshaw is a three-wheeled automobile with what sounds like a two-stroke engine—they're also referred to as "took took" due to the sound they make. They're like motorcycles enclosed within canvas. Nothing solid. The sides are open so if they build up enough speed—which is near impossible—you could theoretically fall out. One important titbit of information: the drivers are fucking maniacs.

Walking to Connaught place with backpacks strapped on my front and back, I heard a mild commotion to my left. As I turned to look I saw a motorcycle speeding off and a stationary auto-rickshaw on a 45-degree angle, balancing on two wheels, about to topple over. And topple over it did: onto the head of the middle-aged woman inside. Onto her head!

About twenty people, including myself, immediately ran to help, righting the vehicle, lifting it off the poor woman's head and off the driver's leg. Both the driver and the woman seemed dazed, obviously in shock. But the woman was missing quite a sizeable chunk of her head! Flesh about half the size of a banana had been scraped off by the road, exposing her head to the freakin' bone. I still can't get the image out of my head. And of course there was blood pissing out from all around the wound—although, surprisingly, not as much blood as I would have thought with such an injury. I quickly searched around for a clean cloth or piece of material to cover the wound. But luckily another man had the same initiative. He pulled his filthy handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to the open wound, with pressure. I'm sure the fact it was saturated with mucus helped all the dust in Delhi stick to it, which may have helped to cauterise the wound. But all the woman was saying was "ay, ay, ay" continuously, the poor dear.

I left soon after: I had a plane to catch and everything seemed to be under control. An ambulance was rumoured to be called, they were frequently rinsing the blood from the rancid handkerchief using water from the rickshaw's engine, and they had brought a chair for the woman to sit in—a much better idea than letting her lie down, don't you agree? I left them there, crowded around an incomplete woman sitting in the middle of the road, to do things in the unique Indian way.