Tsering moved to New York in 1998 from Darjeeling, India, with his wife, Nima. A decade later, he seems right at home in the city, dressed with just enough urban attitude—camo pants, Gap sweatshirt, Skyy Vodka T-shirt—to look the part, Brooklyn style. Like most Sherpas, Tsering is a devout Buddhist, and behind the wheel he exhibits the blithe self-possession of a man at peace. He drives like an old hand, which is to say, at high velocity. But he skips the NASCAR tactics, uses his turn signals faithfully, and handles his cab—a 2003 Ford Crown Victoria that he owns—as if it were a brand-new Lexus. He speaks to passengers in four languages (Urdu, Nepali, Hindi, and English), shrugs off bad tips, and infallibly delivers his fares to the correct side of the street.
Near Central Park West, we picked up a blond, pointy-shoed power-luncher headed uptown. Spying Tsering's ID card on the cab's Plexiglas divider, she poked her head through the window between us. Um, she wanted to know, was he really a Sherpa?
Yes, Tsering replied, his expression stoic. "Wow!" she said, slumping back, trying to think of what to say next. Tsering is incredibly humble; he didn't mention his former job with the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, back in Darjeeling, training Indian soldiers for tours of duty in places like the 21,000-foot Siachen Glacier—on the disputed boundary between India and Pakistan—or the fact that his circle of friends and family includes dozens of elite alpinists.
Read the rest of Christian DeBenedetti's account of a Sherpa in New York.
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