Pokémon: Gotta Catch 'Em All (Bucket List #113)

Glasgow, UK • February 2021 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

I’m writing this on the week of the 25th anniversary of Pokémon, with the highest-grossing media franchise of all time showing no signs of stopping as the demand for the Trading Card Game far outstrips the supply. The prices of rare holographic cards have hit eye-watering values and if there was ever a time to dig out your old binder from the attic, then it is now. A literal treasure chest of nostalgia.

My childhood is scattered with memories of the franchise, swapping trading cards in the playground, rushing home from school to watch the cartoon series, and spending countless hour bashing the A and B buttons on my GameBoy as I battled through the Generation 1 Kanto Region; seeing off my rival and the Elite Four on my way through Indigo Plateau to become League Champion. Despite the countless number of times I played through the game, however, one thing had always eluded me from becoming a ‘Pokémon Master’ and fulfilling my ‘destiny’ as the show’s theme song describes, and that was to catch and record all 150 Pokémon in the Pokédex given to you by Prof. Oak at the start of the game.

And for good reason. Not only are some Pokémon ridiculously difficult to catch, such as Kangaskhan in the Safari Zone or the legendary birds roosting in difficult to reach locations, but it’s impossible to catch ‘em all with just one game cartridge. Nintendo released three different versions of the original game: Pokémon Blue, Pokémon Red and Pokémon Yellow: Special Edition. Not only do you have to trade between these games for some Pokémon to evolve, such as Golem or Gengar, but there are also certain Pokémon that are version-specific. You can only catch a Magmar, for example, in Blue, and you can only find Electabuzz in Red. Suddenly, the difficulty of the task becomes very apparent.

Then there are the in-game decisions which, depending on your choices also limit your ability to complete the Pokédex. For instance, in Red and Blue, you have to select a starter from either Charmander, Bulbasaur or Squirtle, immediately preventing you from obtaining the other two and any of their evolutions. Six gone already. Then there is the Eevee which you pick up in Celadon City. This can be evolved via stones into one of Vaporeon, Flareon or Jolteon. Another two gone. If it was easy, however, then it wouldn’t be a challenge. With travel off the cards due to pandemic lockdowns, I put a fresh set of batteries in my GameBoy Advance, blew the dust out of my Yellow cartridge, named the rival after my brother for old time’s sake, and dived headfirst into the magical world that had captured my imagination for over two decades.

I chose to start with Yellow for a couple of reasons, 1) You are given Pikachu as a starter so don’t have to make the annoying choice above and 2) It was the only copy of the game I could find when searching my parents’ house. From initial calculations, I worked out that I could catch 130 of the 150 using just this one cartridge, which is a pretty good number to get started with.

The game commences in Pallet Town, the only city in the Kanto Region not named after any colour but an artist’s mixing plate. From here you have to fight your rival for the first time then deliver a package to Prof. Oak in return for the Pokédex so the challenge can officially commence. It’s then a short trip through Viridian Forrest to Pewter City to fight Brock and get the first gym badge. When playing the game as a kid I would run from almost every wild encounter at the beginning of the game, not interested in catching such common and weak Pokémon as Caterpie and Pidgey, but this time I was on a mission. I caught everything available before picking up the Old Amber fossil which is used to resurrect Aerodactyl on Cinnabar Island.

After defeating Brock I then made the long journey through on Mount Moon, picking up a Zubat and Clefairy, the latter of which can be traded for a Mr Mime from a person at the entrance to Digglet Cave. I also used a moonstone to evolve Nidorino into Nidoking, the choice of speedrunners and a ridiculously powerful Pokémon to have this early in the game. It’s also in Mt. Moon where you are forced to make the first limiting decision: the Helix fossil which can be turned into Omanyte, or the Dome fossil which can be turned into Kabuto. I made a note of my choice and battled through to Cerulean City where I defeated Misty, the trainers on Nugget Bridge and got the SS. Anne ticket from Bill. In Yellow, you can also get both Charmander and Bulbasaur from just talking to in-game characters, providing Pikachu’s happiness level is high enough. Similar to how Ash in the cartoon never evolves his Pikachu, it’s impossible to do so in Yellow meaning that Raichu is also off the cards. The image below (credit: Jrose11 on YouTube) depicts the 20 Pokémon I was unable to catch in Yellow alone due to the above restrictions.

YouTube: Jrose11

Over the proceeding weeks I played through Yellow every spare opportunity I got, spending hours at a time wandering through grassy areas searching for rare encounters and battling every wild Pokémon that crossed my path to slowly level up and evolve those I’d caught. I completed the game in the process, using the Masterball to catch Mewtwo and spending all my hard-earned cash in the Game Corner until I had enough coins to purchase the prized Porygon. In the Safari Zone, I biked around aimlessly for days until I’d managed to snare a Tangela and Pinsir, and the same in Cerulean Cave until I picked up a Chansey and Rhydon. When my Pokédex finally hit 130, after 60 hours of gameplay, it felt like a huge milestone had been reached.

With Yellow completed, it was time to turn my attention to Red and Blue, with the first challenge being to obtain working copies of the games themselves. After a couple of outbid eBay auctions, I finally got my hands on a copy of Red for £13.99 from a pawn shop in Blackpool. Having built up unnecessarily intricate knowledge of the game I raced through the early stages, this time selecting the Helix instead of Dome Fossil, the Hitmonchan instead of Hitmonlee, and catching a Pikachu that could be evolved using a Thunderstone. I also managed to find the version-exclusive Electabuzz in the depths of the Power Plant and chose a different Eeveelution.

The next stage in my quest was to find a way of transferring Pokémon between game cartridges. I borrowed a GameBoy Colour from my brother and purchased a link cable for £8.99 from Amazon for next day Prime delivery. This worked a treat, and I began the time-consuming process of trading Pokémon one-by-one and back-and-forth between games, using this opportunity to also evolve my Graveler, Haunter and Kadabra into Golem, Gengar and Alakazam respectively – the three of which only evolve through trading and not by level-up. When all was said and done, my Pokédex now stood at 146, with only Vaporeon, Meowth, Persian and Magmar left to catch.

After two weeks of scouring eBay daily, I won an £18.99 auction for a copy of Blue which was delivered painfully slowly via 2nd Class Royal Mail. It was then a formality of blasting through the game to the Pokemon Mansion on Cinnabar Island where I found a wild Magmar on the 3rd floor. I then transferred it along with the Meowth and Vaporeon into Yellow where my Pokédex climbed to 149. After a final morning spent levelling up Meowth it eventually evolved into Persian and I let out a jubilant cry. The level of elation that fit the image of a 30-year-old man sitting in his pants and simultaneously playing two GameBoy consoles for hours on end. All that was left was to collect my prize.

I had Charizard fly to Pallet Town and I entered Prof. Oaks’s lab, the place where this whole journey began. The most painful to catch of the 150 must have been Tauros, which constantly ran away no matter what combination of bait or rocks I threw at it. The most painful to level up was Dratini. I caught it by fishing rod at Lv. 10 and lost count of the number of Onix I had to water gun until it finally evolved into its final form of Dragonite at Lv. 55. My favourite? Clefable. Alongside Nidoking, I had it Body Slam and Blizzard through the Elite Four dozens of times and it was the only Pokémon to reach Lv. 99.

So what does Prof. Oak say to you after affirming his life’s work? ‘Your Pokédex is fully complete! Congratulations!’ That’s it. No hidden prize. No Easter Egg unlocked. Just: Congratulations!

Underwhelmed, I headed back to Celadon City to speak to the Game Freak developers holed up in one of the buildings next to the department store. There I was rewarded with a diploma for my achievement, not quite the fanfare I was hoping for, but some recognition nonetheless. Receipt of the diploma brought down the curtain down on quite the adventure, a trip down memory lane that had me fall back in love with the gameplay, characters and world that had engrossed my youth. It was almightily satisfying to cross off this Bucket List item, but also prompted me to enter the Trading Card Game hobby again and continue to Catch ‘Em all!

Top 5 of 2020: A Crobs Abroad Year in Review

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • December 2020 • Length of Read: 2 Minutes

Now in its fifth rendition, I usually revel in sitting down to write this annual review, arguing with myself as I nostalgically reminisce the preceding twelve months and struggle to cherry-pick just five highlights from the dozens of adventures, trips, and bucket list items I’ve had the fortune to experience. It’s with a more sombre mind-state that I type these words, however, with the worldwide pandemic, racial injustice, and incompetent global leadership contributing to 2020 being a year that most want to forget. I even considered not writing this post at all, but at the thought of disappointing my future self, I resisted. As one of my favourite musicians, Kip Moore, put it in a recent Rolling Stone interview, this year has been “a bit dark at times with a forced hopefulness.” It is this level of willing optimism that I have preciously maintained when things have taken their turn for the worse.

The enforced isolation at home gave me ample time to paint and decorate my new flat, meet my neighbours, explore new running routes, and provided the confidence that my job can be performed effectively and efficiently whilst working remotely, opening up a host of new possibilities in the future for a work/living relationship.

It also provided spare time to continue my reading and studying. This year was about breadth rather than depth as I explored a plethora of non-fiction and fiction genres. Five books that I couldn’t put down were Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, The Coddling of the American Mind by Jonathan Haidt, The Art of Resilience by Ross Edgley, Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey, and Billion Dollar Whale by Tom Wright.

As my Spotify year-end wrap-up will testify, A Rock by Hardy, What You See is What You Get by Luke Combs, Local Honey by Brian Fallon, Canyons by Gone West, and Tickets to My Downfall by Machine Gun Kelly were some of the albums that helped carry me through the gloomiest parts of 2020.

And as tradition states, here are the top five moments that I want to remember 2020 by:  

• Learning to Ski in Chamonix with my beautiful girlfriend

• Completing the David Goggins 4/4/48 Running Challenge in the Yorkshire Dales with Gadams and Jason; running 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours and raising over 2,000 for Age UK charity in the process.

• Competing in the inaugural Kiwi Kiwi Invitational Golf Tournament in St. Andrews with Gadams, Aaron, and Ryan; the three of us being united for the first time in three years since meeting in New Zealand during the adventures of my third book.

• Maintaining a program of General Physical Preparedness throughout the entire lockdown, mixing up and programming my training to get back to CrossFit in as good a condition as ever.

• Despite having to physically keep six feet apart, becoming even closer to my family and girlfriend with the continued realisation that love and friendship are what gives me the greatest satisfaction in life.

The inability to chase the next travel destination and requirement to live under governmental restrictions has bottled-up my desire to explore further and wider. So here’s to the decade ahead - vaccinated and uncorked as we enter the roaring twenties. It’s time to go a little bit Great Gatsby.

The Innaugral Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational

St. Andrews, UK • September 2020 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

“What on earth is a pizza crunch?” asked Ryan in a bemused tone as he eyeballed the chip shop’s takeaway menu. It had been a six-hour journey to get to the coastal town of Anstruther for the man from Sheffield, followed by a full round of golf, and he was ravenous.

“Deep-fried pizza, of course,” answered Gadams with a shiver as a strong North Sea breeze whipped over the harbour walls. I only had a t-shirt on for protection and my nipples had become rock hard in defence. “A local delicacy here in Scotland,” I added. “You can’t come here and not give it a try.”

“Gluten-free fish supper for me,” said Aaron quickly, Ryan’s playing partner for the day. The pair had enviously completed a round on St. Andrews famed Old Course that afternoon whilst I’d been chained to my desk at work and were on cloud nine. After a shaky start of laying up short of the water on the 1st from 116 yards, Aaron had eventually grown some balls by the back 9, culminating in a glorious up-and-down from the infamous 17th Road Hole bunker.

Three-and-a-half years had passed since we’d met flashpacking around New Zealand, our bond having been cemented with an epic outing to Queenstown Golf Club at Kelvin Heights. Gadams had taken the spoils that day, his victory secured with a nerveless birdie up the narrow par 5 closing hole; much to the delight of the nursing home fan club he’d managed to garner attention from under the beating southern summer sun.

It had been a long time in the making, but Ryan was anticipating a different outcome this time around, his handicap having plummeted thanks to the daily practice sessions and significant kit investment. I was still dubious, mind you, and was quietly convinced that he had all the gear but still no idea. We’d find out soon enough, with a tee-off time at the coastal Castle Course booked for early the following morning; our first of 6 rounds to be played over that long-weekend to find a victor of the inaugural, but already steeped in history, Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational.

Round 1 – Castle Course

“This man knows how to play Links golf,” chuckled the Starter as my ball drilled low off the 1st tee and skipped along the undulating fairway. I turned and gave a wry smile to my playing partner for the day, Aaron, doing my best to hide the fact that it had been a complete miss-hit knife of a shot and that my hands were still stinging from the impact.

“Cracking shot,” announced Ryan as Gadams then sliced a high moon ball 50 yards right towards the main road before it disappeared into hillock of dense heather. The man still had a lot to understand about Links golf, but as it would quickly become apparent he was a fast learner indeed.

Nervous punches were traded in the opening stages, net pars doing enough to level the scoreboard back-and-forth until we reached Briery Hill – the behemoth 518-yard par 5 4th hole. After a cracking drive down the left-hand side, Aaron left himself the option to lay up with his approach or to take on the burn guarding the green and reach the putting surface in two. “What do you think, Crobs?” he asked me, evidently in two minds. “You’re taking it on,” I said with no hesitation. “This tournament rewards the brave, not the meek.” Choosing his weapon, Aaron took a few practice swings before proceeding to smash the ball along a frozen rope directly towards the flagstick, his shot coming to rest no more than 3 foot from the pin. “Unbelievable,” gasped Ryan from the other side of the fairway, in complete disbelief as to what Aaron had just pulled out the bag. Did he miss the eagle putt? Of course, he did, we’re not professionals. But the game was now afoot and the first blow had been dealt.

A brief stop at the halfway hut for some bacon rolls offered up the most spectacular of vistas. “Dolphins were playing in the bay the other day,” said the Eastern European girl behind the counter as she served us, “and sometimes I even get a glimpse of the fighter jets from the nearby RAF base as they roar past on training exercises. It’s not bad for an office view.”

The wind bore its ugly teeth as we made the turn, our tee shots on the par 3 10th battering our balls straight left and into the gorse like swatted flies. Its full force was then felt on the par 4 11th as I ripped back-to-back 2-irons and still couldn’t reach the green in regulation. It was becoming less about good scoring and more about trying to finish each hole without a lost ball or unwanted trip into the dense, wispy heather. I managed my first birdie of the tournament after a dialled-in wedge on the course’s shortest par 3, but we got little respite and weren’t helped by the speedy 4-ball playing right up behind us.

“That’s Fife golf for you right there,” laughed Graham as yet another of my putts slipped by the hole and I let out a yell of frustration. Another dropped shot, and as we reached the signature 17th hole the match still hung in the balance. A daunting 200+ yards par 3, the tee shot needs to be hit over the side of a cliff edge as the roaring ocean to the right takes all your attention and whispers of ‘out-of-bounds’ circle in the wind… and your mind. Gadams and I proceeded to step up and banana slice our balls straight into the North Sea. Pretty much par for the course at this point.

It came down to some nerves of steel on the 18th green to break the deadlock, Aaron snaking in a 10-foot par putt to take the hole and claim the match-play spoils by the most narrow of margins. Although our team had won the match, however, the course had been the real victor, Ryan topping the Stableford standings with a measly 26 points and the rest of us only managing a depressing 21 points each. As we jumped in the cars and headed into the Home of Golf, each of us was praying for improved performance that afternoon.

Round 2 – Jubilee Course

There was not much to write home about for our second round. 29 points across the board proved that the Jubilee was an easier test of golf, but by no means were any of us firing on all cylinders yet. Ryan took the closest to the pins and long drive challenges, but couldn’t turn these opportunities into points on the scoreboard. I had to play the first 4 holes with a burrowing migraine, the covid-19 distancing measures in place meaning water and food were in short supply. Running on fumes, I was just happy to make it round in one piece and not give up too much ground on my opposition. Even the match-play element of the competition was halved, which meant that Ryan and I would be paired together once again the following morning during the 3rd round.

Round 3 – Eden Course

The easiest course on paper, the Eden is slightly inland and sheltered from the sea, but can still prove to be a tricky track if you don’t keep it straight off the tee or get your yardages incorrect. Feeling rejuvenated, Gadams and I set off hot out the gates, both of us taking advantage of a course that we had played before.

Saying that, however, Gadams wouldn’t be looking for a repeat of the incident that occurred the last time he was in town when his cousin shanked a tee shot straight into the chest of a fellow golfer standing on the green of a bordering hole. The man hit the ground like he’d been shot and lay motionless for a scarily long time before crawling back to his feet. Walking over to sincerely apologise, a heated argument erupted between the two parties before a course marshal passed by on a buggy and managed to calm things down.

A three-ball of older gentlemen were playing up our arses from the get-go, so we kindly let the play through on the 5th. With the casting eyes of four ‘youngsters’ watching over them, however, they proceeded to top each of their respective balls all the way from tee-to-green, somehow managing to claim that it was our fault in the process. After a bit of a spat on the 9th tee about our slow play, the highlight came when all four of us attached the par 5 in two, coming away with a couple of birdies between us – Legends.

Taking stock of the halfway scores on the next tee, a daunting and long par 3 back into the breeze, a foreign Goddess came jogging down the public path towards us. The beauty of St. Andrews golf is that all the courses are public land, and many people were out on this sunny morning walking their dogs, cycling and getting some fresh air. It was my time to impress, and I duly ripped my 3-iron straight onto the green. She, nor anyone else in the vicinity for that matter, even so much as blinked an eye.

Unperturbed, I continued in good form and strung together back-to-back birdies in the closing holes whilst Gadams faltered. It was enough for an impressive 7-over-par round 77, cutting into the lead that Ryan had built up after the first day and securing the match-play win in the process. I love the psychological process of facing an opponent; being able to wear them down with repeated banter.

Round 4– Jubilee Course

Making sure I was well-fed and watered this time round, I stepped onto the first tee at the Jubilee course with renewed confidence. I was playing better, had the layout of this course fresh in my mind from the day before, and was ready to post a low number. Life had other plans, however, and my opening tee shot was a massive duck hook about 30 yards left. I found myself playing my second from the Old Course and, despite my best recovery efforts, chalked down a bogey 5. This continued for the rest of the front 9 and as blisters on my feet began to form it was back to the drawing board.

Saying that, I was faring better than Aaron. Having not managed to break 90 in his first three rounds he was at the rear of the pack and had reverted to using a 7-iron off the tee for safety. A change of tactic which initially worked well, but things then unravelled on the 11th tee when he snap-hooked it straight left over the out-of-bounds-line and was welcomed with a splash as it landed in the ocean below. “Whoa, baby,” we commented as his face turned red. “Michael Jackson. Whoa, baby.”

By the time we reached the 15th the blisters on my feet had swollen to golf ball-size proportions and every step down the fairway was met with wincing pain. My chaffed arse adding to the discomfort, I somehow managed to hold myself together for the final four holes and post a respectable score but it was then straight to the supermarket to get plasters, antiseptic cream and dressing. After a lovely dinner in The Ship Inn in the nearby town of Elie, a wild Saturday night was spent tending to my wounds and watching Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows. Absolute banter

Round 5 – New Course

A 5:30am alarm clock awoke us from our slumber for the final day of competition, with the very first tee time on the New Course having our names against it. The wheels of my rented trolley picked up the early-morning dew as we marched down from the clubhouse; not a soul around. Despite lacking my morning coffee, the morning chills kept me alert as I basked in the serene silence. It was still all to play for in the main Stableford competition, with a much sought-after trophy on offer for the champion golfer who could come out on top. Ordered online and shipped from Asia, Gadams was required to superglue it back together after it failed to make it through the international postage service unscathed. A rather apt trophy for such a troubled and ego-checking golf competition. Win or lose, I think we all felt that the monetary aspect of the prize pot wouldn’t be wasted were it put towards collective group lessons.

Steady as she goes seemed to be Ryan’s motto for the New Course that morning as he strung together 10 straight pars to start the day with a bang. Gadams made a nice birdie two to keep in contention, whilst Aaron and I may as well have been playing tennis for all we were worth. We could have been locked up in Bantanimo Bay for some of the dreadful shot-making on display.

Ryan quickly realised that he was on track to break a personal record and things took a more serious turn. After a small wobble on the 16th to take him 1-over-par for the round, Ryan flushed a 3-wood on the long par 3 17th and drained the putt to take him back to level par standing on the 18th tee.

“I’ve never shot level par before,” he admitted, the fire in his eyes showing how much this would mean to him, especially on such a prestigious and challenging course. Putting his ball on the tee peg and taking several deep breaths, he then proceeded to splat his next two shots right and then father right, his ball coming to rest pin high but a good 30 feet off-target. A decent chip left a makeable par putt, but it was evidently Ladies Day as he left it short (does your husband play?) and had to settle for a one-over-par 72.

An outstanding and consistent round of golf nonetheless and proof that power and showmanship is nothing without the nuts and bolts tightened first. His fairway and green in regulation stats were remarkable for the first time playing a course and it was far and away the best of all 24 combined rounds played that weekend. The erratic golfer we had witnessed in New Zealand 3 years ago was nowhere to be seen and this was proof that hard work and persistent practice can pay significant dividends.

Round 6 – New Course

It was a déjà vu moment standing back on the first tee, the sun now beating down from the clear blue skies. To have had three rain-free days of golf on the east coast of Scotland is quite unheard of and to be able to tee up in short sleeves was other-worldly. Back-to-back rounds on the New Course wasn’t ideal, but there were no complaints. With sun cream all over my slippery hands, I pulled out my trusty 5-iron and knocked one down the middle.

Despite finding water hazard after bunker after out-of-bounds, I’d somehow managed to keep my scores ticking over and carried a 1 point Stableford lead over Ryan into the final round, himself with a 2 point lead over Gadams. Aaron was just happy to be there at that point, having amassed a score that would have been deemed exceptional at Lord’s Cricket Ground. Shot, shot, pint, shot, shot, sick.

Playing from behind, Gadams took on an aggressive game plan and quickly made up some ground. A martial was sat in his buggy right behind the tee box on the par 5 8th hole; timekeeping and ensuring that there were no choppers out there destroying the course. Becoming slightly nervous with a figure of authority present, my attempt to smash the life out of my drive resulted in a 15 yard top straight into the thick gorse barely in front of the ladies tee – much to Ryan’s delight. What he didn’t count on, however, was me finding the ball, ripping a 4-iron back into play, and then ripping another 4-iron straight over a blind summit right towards the green. We got to the top of the hill to see that my ball had come to rest less than a foot from the pin. “Golf just isn’t that difficult,” I trolled as I knocked it in for birdie.

Alas, this moment of heroics wasn’t enough to save the day, however, and Gadams ended up making a par on the 108th hole to clinch a 3 point victory over Ryan and myself who ended up in a tie for second.

We nudged elbows in a congratulatory gesture and headed across to the Old Course Swilkan Bridge, one of the most iconic images in golf, for the presentation ceremony. I took great honour in donning Gadams with a charity shop-bought Tweed Jacket as Aaron handed him the weighty trophy and Ryan read out the final scores. Gadams then made a short acceptance speech thanking some of his most trusted believers in Bantersaurus Rex, the Bantom of the Opera, and Banter Claus, before proposing we spend our winnings on a trip to Pizza Hut (13 slices) followed by a full cooked breakfast at Weatherspoons the following morning. A perfect send-off to an incredible weekend with a bunch of legends.

Official Results as sponsored by AWG Electical - Professional. Friendly. Reliable.

Namaste to Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal • November 2018 • Length of Read: 8 Minutes

“It’s going to bloody hurt,” admitted my GP somewhat gleefully, making no effort to hide the grin on her face. I’d developed a severe ear infection which had kept me up for three days and was now sat in the doctor’s surgery pleading with her to prescribe me with a course of antibiotics to numb the pain. “I’m getting on a long-haul flight to Nepal tomorrow and will be trekking at high altitude,” I explained. “Is there nothing that you can provide?”

“Painkillers won’t help you, I’m afraid,” she shrugged. “The worst-case scenario is that you perforate an eardrum, however, and they usually repair themselves eventually, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Understanding a lost cause when I saw one, I thanked her for the diagnosis and rose to leave. My doctor had simply told me in medical terms to ‘man up’.

Dad and I were travelling from Glasgow to Kathmandu, where we would have a handful of days to adjust our body clocks to the new time zone before heading into the Himalayas and attempting a twelve-day trek through the Khumbu Valley to Everest Base Camp. We commenced our journey by flying with Emirates through Dubai to Delhi, the Marvel Cinematic Universe franchise keeping me engrossed enough to distract from the continual popping of my ears.

Landing in India we were required to transit through customs before checking back in for our onward flight to Nepal. After a chaotic shuffle through the arrivals hall, we eventually reached the front of the line where a smartly-dressed Immigration Officer demanded we provide a printed out paper copy of our electronic visa - effectively mothballing the online application -  but I thought it best not to argue the point. Especially as he seemed sceptical as to our true relationship, confused as to why I had a beard but my father did not. I muttered something embarrassing about me being the lion of the family and he grinned before stamping our documents and wishing us safe passage.

Nepalese Airways operated as the carrier for our final leg of the journey and I found myself sat next to a young Nepalese girl who had moved to London to study economics. She was returning home for the first time in three years to partake in the Diwali festival of light celebrations and could barely contain her excitement the whole flight. It was pitch black by the time we made it through the further immigration checks upon landing, and we exited the bustling arrivals gate to a babble of taxi drivers pawning for clientele. Trying to find our host was a bit like a real-life role-play of ‘Where’s Wally?’ but Dad’s eagle-eye eventually caught sight of a grubby sign with our surname on it being held up by a well-turned-out middle-aged man, his beaming smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat.

Gyan, the owner of the trekking company we’d booked our trip with, greeted us with a warm Namaste as he put a garland of fresh flowers over our bowed heads before leading us to the waiting car. His motor-mouth then proceeded to chat the entire way to our hotel, letting out a high-pitched Billy goat laugh following anything he, or either of us, said. He was almost more excited for our trip than we were. I loved his enthusiasm.

The Nepalese drive on the left-hand side of the road, a stark reminder of past British East Indian rule, but that’s where the similarity in Highway Codes ends. Forget using lanes, traffic lights, or stop signs. Getting from A to B through Kathmandu felt like a game of Mario Kart. Attempting to bring some form of semblance to the madness, suited and booted police officers took active roles as exquisitely dressed lollipop persons as they waved and whistled vehicles through each junction. We made it from the airport to the tourist district of Thamel in one piece, however, and with Gyan still talking we made arrangements to meet at his office the following morning whilst a bellboy carried the luggage up to our room.

Dad had already tipped the baggage handler at the airport and Gyan’s driver, cleaning out our petty cash, but when the bellboy turned around and coughed, Dad pretended to scrape around his wallet for more loose change. Unsuccessful, and with the glaring eyes of the receptionist leering over us, he ended up handing over $5 for the pleasure which, considering we were only on the first floor, was complete money for old rope. Neither of our bank cards had worked in the airport ATM, so we were relying on Dad’s foreign currency reserves from his last trip Stateside, and that was the smallest denomination he had remaining. It reminded me of Rowan Atkinson’s classic ‘Mr. Bean in Room 426’ sketch, where the bumbling protagonist hands over a lozenge instead of a tip to the hotel porter.

With the horrific air pollution hanging above Kathmandu, however, and the locals coughing non-stop as a result, the next couple of weeks became rather difficult to interpret who was rudely asking for a tip and who was genuinely in need of ailment.

Over breakfast the next morning Gyan issued our itinerary and answered any burning questions before offering us his driver for the day so that we could go and explore the Nepalese capital. Approximately 1 million people live in the bowl-shaped Kathmandu Valley, a poverty-stricken area of the world that was still recovering from a devastating earthquake that hit in 2015 and tore the city apart. Hinduism and Buddhism are the dominant religions, with dozens of temples, alters and elaborate shrines showcasing the importance of faith to the Nepalese people.

“If you run over a bull here then you can get fined and charged with up to six years in prison,” our driver nonchalantly announced, swerving around one of the lumbering animals that had drifted onto the carriageway. We were being escorted to one of the world’s most famous Buddhist temples, where devout followers the world over make the pilgrimage to at least one in their lives.

Upon arrival, we were hijacked by a random bloke wearing a lanyard who took great pleasure in guiding us around fertility temples, across a sacred river, and through a crematorium. There was nothing about the bloke to suggest that he wasn’t being genuine, but I have to put my faith in the following being true. Wearing a lanyard doesn’t immediately give you tour guide credentials, and we could have been spun a complete yarn, but at the risk of offending…

Hindu worshipers wait three days until they cremate the dead, as this is how long it takes for the soul to leave the body. Buddhists, on the other hand, don’t bother sitting around for the 21 grams to disappear and get straight down to the grieving. Taking a seat on the banks of the heavily polluted, but holy, river, we witnessed a genuine dead body get unwrapped from a carpet and scrubbed clean by a family member in the stinking, dirty water. Downstream, peasants dressed in rags were sieving for precious metals, seemingly unperturbed that the river they were waiting in was also being used to prepare a dead body for cremation. I think the only gold they were going to find, however, was the golden arc of urine coming from the monk relieving his bladder on the opposing bank. It was really quite the scene.

Once purified, the corpse is then lifted onto a funeral pyre that other members of the deceased’s family had constructed. Bodies are burned at different platforms along the river depending on their Caste, and depending on the wealth of the family different types of wood are used for the pyre – sandalwood being the most expensive option. Once ablaze, the family will then watch on for hours, mourning the loss of their loved one until the ashes are taken skyward and nothing remains.

Returning to Thamel after this enlightening afternoon, we headed out to explore the maze of colourful night markets and wound up at The Little Buddha Bar for dinner. I’d decided to go completely vegetarian for my time in Nepal, not wanting to risk eating any undercooked meat and end up doing a marathon on the toilet as opposed to up and down the mountain. I opted for the lentil curry dish of dahl baht, a meal that would become a staple part of our diet for the weeks to come.

I was delighted that Dad and I were again getting to share such cultural and adventurous experiences. It was the first ‘boys’ trip that we’d embarked on together in a decade and as we clinked beers together with a cheer I was over the moon that a throwaway idea one Christmas Day had formed into a trip of a lifetime.

Himalayan Helicopter Ride (Bucket List #76)

Lukla, Nepal • November 2018 • Length of Read: 8 Minutes

Nestled high in the Nepalese Himalayas, a multi-day trek from the nearest freeway, lies the small mountain village of Lukla. The gateway for hiking expeditions up the Khumbu Valley to Mount Everest, its economy pairs the unusual combination of rural agriculture with high-end mountaineering. You can walk from one side of Lukla to the other in a matter of minutes, meandering through the rabble of tea houses which offer up basic lodging, decrepit huts retailing the latest North Face gear, and bars that serve the finest moonshine your rupees can buy.

At the far end of the town is its lifeblood – the Hilary-Tenzing Airport. Nothing more than a small shack surrounded by a chain-link fence, the terminal isn’t exactly a sight to behold… but its scary-as-shit runway sure is. Every bit of the 12 degrees downward gradient is required to get departing prop planes airborne, with the narrow slice of tarmac collapsing off the cliff-edge only a couple of hundred metres away. The same goes for incoming flights, with a tall brick wall the final measure in place to stop those planes screeching in from Kathmandu. Throw in the regular rolling fog, thin atmospheric pressure, and bone-chilling icy winds, and it’s not difficult to understand why Lukla is often referred to as ‘the most dangerous airport in the world’.

This thought was omnipresent in my mind as I slouched over my duffel bag on the floor of the Kathmandu Airport domestic terminal, leafing through a paperback copy of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 as the minutes ticked into hours. Perched to my left, my Dad raised his voice above the babble of concerned backpackers as he tried to politely obtain any information he could out of our trekking guide, Kim, as to the delay. We were scheduled to depart on the third flight leaving Kathmandu that morning, but the low-lying fog at our destination had kept everyone grounded. With sunny skies in the Nepalese capital, the first flight had taken off without a hitch, but having travelled the full 45-minutes to Lukla it was forced to circle back after an aborted landing.

“We will be on our way soon,” Kim shouted back, the party line that he’d been treading along all morning. His eyes told a different story, however, and his eagerness not to displease his paying guests was getting on our nerves. Whispers began circling the departures lounge that no fixed-wing flights would be taking off for the remainder of the day, but another hour came and went to the same reply. “The fog will lift soon. The fog will lift soon.”

When it hit mid-afternoon, Dad and I felt that there was no other option but to make a firm decision. If our flight was cancelled then we’d be sent right to the back of the queue and would be lucky to get another ticket for that same week. Getting an overnight bus to another town was also out of the question, so this left one final option: to charter a helicopter. In high demand, this came with an eye-watering price tag attached, but we managed to strike a partnership with a German couple to fill the remaining seats and split the cost 50/50.  I was ecstatic, primarily because we were finally on the move but also because I’d inadvertently be ticking off another bucket list item in the process.

Before we could get the show on the road, however, we first had to step on the scales and weigh both ourselves and the kit. For safety purposes, helicopters need to ensure that they are never over-loaded and more so than ever at high altitudes. Therefore, it came as much of a relief to see our guide doing mathematical calculations on the back of a napkin as we took it in-turn to step on a set of scales more designed to weigh the vehicle itself rather than its passengers. Once we’d all taken our turn, I looked towards Kim as concern swept over his face. “I think if I just leave my rucksack behind then we should be all good,” he finally concluded after a long pause, stuffing his essentials into the tiny first-aid kit strapped around his waist. How comforting.

Passports checked, we were squashed into a truck with our belongings and shuttled to the helipads. Anticipation lurched in my stomach and nerves started to take over as we then buckled ourselves into the chopper, the burning afternoon sun reflecting off the glass windshield with greenhouse-like intensity. There we sat stationary for a further 30 minutes as I continued to bake like a slow-roast leg of lamb. No sense of urgency, no instructions and no shared agenda. It reminded me of when I was once waiting at a bus stop in Fiji and asked the lady beside me when it was due to arrive. “The bus will come when it needs to come,” she answered, bemused by my sense of urgency. “Stop worrying. No bus in Fiji has ever been late as a result.”

Eventually, a skinny, ginger-haired guy appeared out of nowhere and hopped into the cockpit with a revived sense of purpose that I was beginning to think had been lost in the world. “We have a small window from air traffic control to take off,” he said in an American twang, professionally flipping switches and making final checks as the rotator blades whirled into motion. “Let’s get this bird airborne.”

Swooping away, the bustling pictures of Kathmandu were soon replaced by a panoramic vista of lush green wilderness across the horizon. Dad has been in enough helicopters over the years that he could have fallen asleep, but despite our pilot’s expert manoeuvering I found the first twenty-minutes of flying to be rather tense until by body calibrated to this new form of transport. When that happened, however, I was able to sit back and enjoy the towering peaks coming into view from the distance, snow-covered knives slicing through the lush canopy. A front-row seat to witness nature in all its colossal glory.

It was as we began our descent that the mist rolled in, swallowing up massive chunks of the landscape as it swept across the sky. We rounded one final gap in the hills and there it was, a sliver of grey amongst the endless vegetation. A speck of dust in a gaping chasm. The runway at Lukla. Blink and you would miss the turnoff. It immediately dawned on me why we had been shacked up in the departures lounge all day. This was some hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-raising stuff, and I counted my blessing that we weren’t hurtling towards it in a thirty-seat plane.

As we drew in closer buildings began to appear, then people. Dozens of people camped out on the runway and playing the same waiting game. The yin to our yang. Unlike our fresh-eyed naivety and gusto about the situation, however, the Australian’s I began chatting to upon landing safely showed a more haggard and lackluster appearance. The Base Camp trek had taken its toll on them, physically and mentally, and all they wanted was to return to civilization for a hot shower and proper meal. “We made it to the final camp at Lobuche before I had to turn back due to altitude sickness,” professed a stocky and rugged bloke of similar age to myself, unable to hide the emotion of how gutted he was.

We wished them safe passage home before making our way passed livestock, kids playing volleyball and locals going about their daily chores, before sheltering down in a little guest house called The Nest. What a rollercoaster of a day it had been, and we hadn’t even set foot on the Base Camp trail yet. It suddenly donned on me that this was no joke, and there was a chance that I, myself, may not make it to our end goal at 5,400m.

With that, my stomach wretched and I immediately felt the need to drop a number two. Rushing through the door with the universal toilet sign on it, I took the stairs to the basement three at a time and dived into one of the cubicles to find that it was nothing but a hole in the ground. Having mastered the art of the squat drop in South America, however, I dropped trowel and let it rip, the watery substance free-flowing in this improved angle of release. As comfortable as Western toilets are, they are not conducive to an effective squeeze, the hunched-over posture closing the gut and preventing easy passage.

My insides empty, I reached to my left for the toilet roll, only to find that there was nothing there. Shit. Figuratively and literally. I swept my surroundings looking for something. A flannel? Wet wipes? Nothing. ‘Oh well, here we go again,’ I said to myself as I fashioned my left hand into a pooper scooper. ‘It’s going to be a long two weeks.’