A Kathmandon't

Well, that ended badly.

I went to Kathmandu for five nights and at the end of second full day I got sicker than I’ve ever been in my life—bearing in mind I’ve had covid twice and once woke up upside down in a wheelie bin after a night on the tequila—keeping me confined to my hotel room—and one smaller room in particular—for the rest of the trip. Literally: the next time I emerged was to check out and go to the airport. First question at reception: did you enjoy your stay?

Nepal seemed nice. I saw it mostly from the air or through taxi windows. I had a morning of sightseeing in which I got scammed by a “tour guide” and his “artist” mate: an old guy who was obviously trying to scam me gave me a guided tour of a buddhist temple, taking me into rooms I’d never have found myself otherwise, while giving me local gossip about the people we passed in the street before taking me to his friend’s art shop where I bought the kind of scroll painting I’d already planned on buying before arriving for a price I was very happy with. I was “scammed” for 60 dollars for which I got a tour, a painting, and entertainment, a fair deal in the end. I also found a brilliant book of short stories by a local writer (legit, this time, full review in my monthly round-up).

I had pizza and beers in an excellent rock bar where I saw David Baddiel play (joke for British people around in the 90s).

I attended the first day of the conference and did my presentation.

And that was it.

I was careful. Brushed my teeth with bottled water. Used alcohol gel. No street food. Something still got into my system in the way that Musk got into the US government and I had the exact same reaction.

Exact. Same. Reaction.

I’ll never go back to Nepal.

That isn’t a dis on Nepal. Everyone was lovely. I really had a great time for two days. I know it was bad luck and no one’s fault.

But I won’t go back. Once was enough.

I saw little, and not all of that was because the toilet window was too high to look out of. The pollution in the city meant I couldn’t see the mountains. THE mountains. The Himalayas. I saw them on the flight in. I saw them from the airport (which is outside the valley and therefore free of the smog). I saw them again from the air. The photo at the top looks like there are some hills: behind those are ranges and ranges. As the sun set, they were silhouetted. There are stunning peaks in that photo but you—and I—can’t see them for the haze.

But mainly I won’t be back because:

Danny Glover was 40 when he said that. I’m 44.

I wish I’d gone to Kathmandu when I was 25. Man, I’d have had a fucking time.

Those days have gone. The times, they are a changing. The spirit is willing but the body just cannot cope. Certainly, the digestive tract can’t. Minori and I are talking about New Zealand for the summer. Wineries. Rental car. Airbnb. Food hygiene standards and water purification plants. I’m not at all-inclusive resorts yet but I am starting to see the appeal.

I’m mostly joking. As I write this I have a strange rash on my leg that I can’t explain. It appeared in the airport and hasn’t gone yet. My stomach hasn’t returned to normal and I lost more weight in those few days than in months of dieting and exercise. Right now, I’m done with adventure. This line from The West Wing keeps going round in my head:

KAREN: I don't know, maybe the job wasn't for me. I like land, I like dirt... I like things that live on land and dirt.

TOBY: I like hotels. I like a good concierge.

I started life as Sam; I am becoming Toby (bollocks, I was always Toby, wanting to be Josh).

I digress (seriously, I just deleted four paragraphs on Sam and Toby…)

It is the most shattering experience of a middle-aged man’s life when one morning he awakes and quite reasonably says to himself, “I will never backpack again.” When that moment comes, one is ready for a timeshare.

I guess the Enterprise could explore strange new worlds because they had a medical bay and replicators. Picard could get Earl Grey and Kirk could get penicillin. I don’t even have the NHS anymore. Thanks gods I have a nurse for a wife who put packs of stomach/intestinal medication in my suitcase that saved me from having to visit a Nepalese hospital or humiliate myself during take-off and landing.

Insert your own turbulence joke here.

No doubt, two years from now I’ll be looking at that scratch-off map of the world in my office and trying to find a conference in Ulaanbattar, Yangon, or Thimphu (pub quiz question for some of you there) but for now, I’d like a good concierge and maybe a dermatologist to explain this rash. My nurse/wife said it’s a heat rash or a tic bite or an allergy or something else. Which narrows it down.