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.
