A $50 day in Kathmandu

After about 3 weeks in Kathmandu, I have become accustomed to living a non-tourist life. A walk is free and a cross town microbus is 10 Nepali Rupees ($0.12). Most busses going into the city stop at Ratna park, which is a short walk from almost everything. If you see a microbus pass you on the street, you wave and yell “Ra-ta-na, Ra-ta-na, Ra-ta-na”. That’s if the boy hanging out the side of the microbus doesn’t yell it first. Many of the ‘local’ restaurants have two menus, one for locals and one for tourists. If you sit down and they bring you a menu, you just got the tourist menu. One exception is the tourist restaurants, where they only have the tourist menu. The other exception is my local favorite “Underground – Cheap & Best” where the menu sits on the table. I eat a massive meal there for 95 Nepali Rupees ($1.18) at least 5 times a week. The owner who takes my order usually smirks when I order the same thing, again. Many times the day starts and ends with some sampling of variations of Nepali trail mixes. A giant bag is sold for 79 Nepali Rupees ($0.99) at the local supermarket. There are also plenty of Nepali teas. Even drinking multiple cups a day, I still have yet to go through my first 100g bag bought for 120 Nepali Rupees ($1.50). Including my room in the local guest house (hostel) the average day costs about $10.

The Nepali holy day is Saturday, making Friday here share the same stigma that it does in the United States. I had caught the cold going around Kathmandu a few days earlier, but was feeling a little better. Throughout the day, I shared the American adage, “Feed a cold, starve a flu.” Or at least that what I remembered it to be, so that was the plan for the day. I woke up late to ensure enough rest to fight off the cold and started the day with some tea. Getting out to the street, I realized that I definitely needed to eat a big breakfast before meeting my friend at the Royal Palace, which had been converted into a museum only 1 month ago. I knew just the place to go, the nearby Australian restaurant visited almost exclusively by tourists. With time running out, a non-Nepali restaurant was my only chance of eating breakfast in less than 1 hour. With my cell phone out on the table keeping time, I had my ‘Red Dingo Big Breakfast’ of 1 hash brown, 2 eggs, 3 sausages, 2 slices of toast, 1 grilled tomato, 1 cup of beetroot juice, and 1 pot of ginger tea.

After breakfast I needed a quick taxi across town to be on time at the Royal Palace. Knowing that there are slow taxi meters for locals and fast taxi meters for tourists and that I can’t yet tell the difference, I negotiated my ride before getting in the taxi. At the Royal Palace, I got in the already long line to take the tour. Having been open for only 1 month, all of the locals want to see the palace more than anyone else. My local friend had told me rumors that lines were 2-3 hour waits. After 5 minutes of waiting, my friend joined me, we were about 100 people back and the museum opened in 1 hour. After a few minutes, a traffic police officer walked by and informed us that we were in the Nepali line and that we needed to go to the tourist line. There, we were second in line, although my tourist museum tour rate was 5 times my Nepali friend’s rate. We sat in line, lamenting that we had shown up so early. We did get a laugh about how my friend didn’t have to wait for 2-3 hours because she was my ‘guide’ and could wait in the tourist line with me.

Inside the Royal palace was the guided tour with no photography allowed. We were the first tourist group in that day and we were led through some of the various rooms that ran the spectrum from ordinary to extraordinary. Some rooms looked like a nice 1940s American home, other rooms had forty foot ceilings with paintings, carvings, silver and gold statues, and extravagant taxidermy that has long since been outlawed. During the tour I learned why it’s best to keep Nepali and tourist groups separate, and it’s not the language barrier. I could see the look of discomfort on most westerners faces as they were subject to the Nepali definition of personal space when a local group caught up with us and crowded through. I spoke with an older Canadian man, joking about keeping the two groups separate at the same time as local elderly grandmothers and schoolchildren alike bumped against us passing through the room. Later, when it was just tourists again, we were shown the area where the royal massacre had taken place 8 years earlier. The building had been torn down, but they had marked in the foundation and in the nearby garden where each family member had been murdered. Even the bullet marks in concrete walls and statues were pointed out. Shortly after, the tour concluded and we left, satisfied with the Royal Palace tour but longing for some photos to take with us.

It was around lunch, and I explained to my friend that I needed to eat a lot so we should go to a restaurant instead of her house. I didn’t want her mother to have to cook to fill my appetite for cold-curing calories. Walking into the nearby tourist section of town, she led me to a place to eat that seemed a little familiar. After a few minutes, I realized that there was a picture of it on one of the few color pages in my guide book. I ate a large plate of Indian curry and rice to satisfy my appetite. We parted ways and I headed for Ratna Park to catch a bus home. Looking over the streets as I walked, I realized that it was the time of day when walking was faster than a taxi or bus, so I walked about an hour back to the guest house, to rest for a while.

At the guest house I enjoyed more cups of tea and hot water, relaxing from the long morning. This time when leaving the house, I had plenty of time to get to my destination, right next to Ratna Park. I was meeting a retired ex-Pat and a young Nepali NGO worker and going with them to the big concert of the night. A French jazz band was in town and their posters had been up all over the city for the past month. Walking to the nearby roundabout I saw a microbus pulling away so I ran and yelled, “Ra-ta-na”, and the microbus stopped. I got on and was pleased with the decent amount of room, as this one surprisingly wasn’t over-packed to the point that necessitates standing inside. Arriving at our meeting point an hour early, I took a short walk over to the main square. There, street merchants sell the same statuettes and figures to passing tourists. Having 11 months to go in Kathmandu, I wasn’t interested in buying anything, only seeing how low a price I could get. I had fun walking from vendor to vendor seeing how much lower the prices got the further I walked away from each one. Every one had the same final pitch, “How much do you want to pay?”

Easily on time, I met up with our small group and we walked over to the “Army Club Auditorium” where the concert was held. Buying tickets at the gate, we opted for the more expensive of the two types, this one labeled ‘Front Rows’. Knowing the Nepali NGO worker’s monthly salary from dinner two nights ago, there was no way I was going to let her pay for her own ticket. Paying for her ticket and mine we all went in at the advertised concert start time, which in Nepal means showing up extremely early. Walking into a nearly empty concert hall we decided to sit in the first row. As we conversed about NGO work in Nepal, the room slowly filled with people, mostly French nationals and their local friends. The people who took the two reserved seats next to us turned out to be the French ambassador to Nepal and his wife. After many thanks from the jazz conservatory promoters and a short speech from the ambassador, the concert began. Without a doubt, they deserved their reputation as one of France’s best jazz groups and their award for the 2006 best jazz band in France. The saxophonist and trombonist were remarkably skilled, the drummer was soft and articulate, and the guitar player fit seamlessly into everything. The best song of the night was the encore where the already amazing bass player strung together a scat that was by far the highlight of the evening. After an hour and a half of jazz that was on par with the best New Orleans clubs, everyone left pleased with the show. Refusing to call an end to the night at 8:30, the retired ex-Pat asked us if we were up for dinner. We wound up back in the tourist section of town at an infamous Pizza and Ice Cream restaurant. Looking around inside, I told our group that I felt like I was in San Francisco more than Kathmandu. The young Nepali woman added that this restaurant was known to be the crown prince’s favorite place to eat pizza. The three of us ate well and talked more about NGO work, cultural nuances, and local savoir faire. The night coming to an end, we parted ways and I got a taxi home, accepting the higher nighttime rate.

Getting back to my room at the guest house I added up the expenses for the day. Breakfast at the nicest first world restaurant in my neighborhood, a ticket to the most popular new attraction in the country, lunch at the only photographed restaurant in my guide book, two tickets next to the ambassador from France at the biggest advertised concert in the city, dinner at one of the crown prince’s favorite restaurants, and taxis to quickly take me between them all. Final price on the day was about $50.

The outlook for today, probably $10 or less, but it is a different feeling to know that some of the experiences that are out of reach in the United States are well within reach here in Kathmandu. Sometime before I leave, I need to remember what hotel boasts the clay tennis court. I need to check that one off of my bucket list and I think that one’s much closer to my reach here in Nepal.

(For my adventure traveling granola eating friends, I’m sure that you’re annoyed that I talked about bucket list items in my reach and haven’t mentioned Annapurna or Everest. I didn’t forget. I’ll save those blog entries for later in the year. For now it’s French ambassadors and clay tennis courts.)

Back to Reality

During my first two days in Kathmandu, I left the guest house several times to walk around and explore Patan. Each time I took my guidebook with the map, a small snack, some water, and my hand sanitizer at a minimum. In those days I practiced getting lost and then found, crossing busy streets, and eating in various restaurants of varying reputability. I felt confident in my ability to navigate my way around Patan, take care of myself, and venture out alone in this tourist friendly country. On the third day, I headed out of the guest house without much thought to anything.

Being that it was Monday, I decided to see if I could find exactly where I could enter the university campus. With my to-do list notebook in hand I walked down the street at my usual quick pace. After the expected ten minutes of walking, I saw the main gates of the campus, but they were closed. As I quickly approached them, I felt a rush of blood to my head, an uneasy lack of balance, and the feeling that I was about to pass out. Instinctively, I turned around to look at where I had come from. All I saw was this familiar part of the main road, where I knew it was ten minutes back home. Ten minutes walk seemed like eternity at the moment. A man that had been walking behind me took a long look at my face as he passed, surely seeing the panic I was displaying. Fortunately, my whole life didn’t pass before my eyes, just the recent events. The breakfast I had skipped in lieu of two cups of black tea. The newspaper article I had read that morning about the high levels of pollution in the valley that day. The one mile elevation change I had made 3 days ago. The bottled water in my room that I hadn’t touched this morning. I saw a staircase nearby and decided to sit down.

Sitting down hadn’t helped too much. I wasn’t going to fall over, but not much else was better. In my haze I decided to correct the situation as best I could. I needed food, but was out of range of my usual restaurant choice. I got up slowly and walked a block down, where there were two restaurants across the street. Hoping that I wouldn’t pass out crossing the street, I waited for the best two second break in microbuses and motorcycles and crossed to the center divide. I waited there for another break in traffic and then made my way into a very clean and large restaurant. I was relieved to step inside, only to have my hopes crushed when they told me that they didn’t open for another two hours. I stepped out on the street again, back at square one. I walked into the small and dingy tandoori restaurant next door. I ordered hot lemonade and a chicken dish from the menu. Sitting not far from the tandoori oven, I watched as the cook/cashier/owner put a few bite sized pieces of chicken in. As I waited, the smoke from the oven filled the small restaurant with the only fan there insufficient to clear the air. As I felt sicker I called over the waiter and pointed to a coke in the refrigerator. I drank it down instantly, trying to get some quick sugar energy into my system. I also realized the size of the dish I had ordered was too small, so I called the waiter back again and ordered a curry with rice dish. He asked, “With rice?” I confirmed, thinking that the rice was the only thing I cared about.

As my first dish arrived, I ate the undercooked chicken and turned away from the table to put my head between my knees. I rested there for a minute and the cook came over to ask if I had a headache and offer me some pain killers. I politely declined, thinking that any drugs on this empty stomach would make things much worse. Next the curry with rice came and I ate it quickly in the chokingly smoky restaurant. I thought about taking a break to go outside, only to realize that the pollution from the roadside was what sent me in here in the first place. Upon finishing the meal, I let it sit for a minute, feeling worse. I got up to give the phone number of the guest house to the cook but took it back when I realized that it would do no good. You can’t call a taxi in Kathmandu, you just have to go out to the street and find one. I sat back down thinking about basic human needs and what was missing. I called the waiter over and ordered a large bottle of water. In a few minutes I had drank it down, paid my bill, and was ready to head out to the street to hazily find my way back to the guest house.

Stepping outside, I sat down in front of the restaurant to gather my energy under the roadside pollution. Realizing I needed to go to the bathroom, I went back in and asked for the restroom. I was directed to the room with the expected eastern toilet and water tap dripping into a bucket. My heart sunk a little as I realized that my hand sanitizer was at the guest house. At least I had eaten already. After using the facilities, I stepped back out on the street, this time with the fullest understanding of the cultural rule in which the right hand is the only acceptable hand for eating with. Feeling slightly better, I decided to start a slow walk back home. The whole way I fought the urge to walk faster and get home quicker, knowing that this was a slow march that couldn’t be sped up no matter how bad I wanted it to end.

Arriving at the guest house, I lied down in my bed. Glad to be safely back home, but back in the reality of my physical limitations. Across the next few days, I ventured out carefully, remembering the newspaper article stating that things would not get better until the next rain, which was a ways in the future. Headaches became the norm. I got used to feeling lightheaded when I stepped outside a building onto the sidewalk. I often mimicked some of the locals and held my shirt over my nose and mouth when walking on a busy street. In a cab ride across town I rolled down the window completely, in case I was going to be sick. Yesterday, I decided to venture out and get a pollution mask that the occasional motorcyclist and pedestrian wore. I made sure to walk slowly the entire way. I found one at the local supermarket, next to a sign that read, “We have Mask.” Of the various choices of regionally made masks, I chose the one from Bangkok, thinking that they would know best how to make a pollution mask. Stepping outside I donned the mask made for a much smaller person, accepting that nothing in this region of the world came in my size.

After a few days worth of use and non-use, I can definitely say that it helps. I took it on and off several times, finding that it did make a difference. After a few sizing modifications, it fill well enough to work on a repeat walk up to the university and back. I will definitely be wearing the mask until the pollution is knocked out of the sky by the monsoon season. Although, when I wear it I do feel like a G.I. Joe action figure I once owned as a kid.





The top is a view of a sunset with no rain for the past 90 days.
The bottom is a view of the afternoon, shortly after a very light and brief rainfall.

Wedding Day

When I asked my friend from the Delhi airport if she would like to go out on Holi, she instead invited me to her sister’s wedding. I agreed and she told me when and where to show up to the party. The day of the party, I pulled out my nice clothes that I thought would be reserved for making presentations to Rotary groups and others. I negotiated my cab ride to the party palace and was on my way. Upon arrival I saw my friend, but hardly recognized her in her wedding attire. She told me that another American traveler we had met, Nick, said that he might come but was unsure.

My friend took me to the front of the room and sat me down in one of 6 chairs on the stage where the bride and her closest family were. I watched as different family members approached the bride, gave her gifts, and in return the bride gave them a carefully counted number of nuts. Sitting next to the grandmother of the family, I felt a little out of place on the family stage. After greeting guests, my friend returned to ask me how I was doing and to make sure I wasn’t bored. I told her that I couldn’t be bored because everything was all so new and interesting to me. As we talked, the grandmother got the attention of my friend and softly mumbled something to her in Newari. My fears were that the grandmother wanted to know what this stranger was doing here. Instead, my friend told me her grandmother said she was glad that some of the people from the other culture had made it. I turned to the grandmother and tilted my head to the side, the general motion for approval or “OK” in Nepal. My friend took me down from the stage, and brought me to a cousin who spoke great English.

While sampling the many appetizers and drinks that were being ushered around the room, I spoke with the cousin about culture in Nepal. As it turned out, I was at the bride’s party that night. A Nepali wedding is done over the course of several days. The bride and the groom have their separate parties. Next there is a ceremony where the groom will take the bride from her home to his home. Finally, the family will visit the bride in her new home and the wedding festivities are concluded. The more we talked, the more I realized how similar our two cultures were when it came to marriage and traditional relationships. Our conversation was interrupted by my friend handing me a cell phone and telling me that Nick wanted to talk to me. As expected, Nick had the same fears about being and outsider, but when I told him about the grandmother’s comments, he decided to come.

The cousin invited me to eat dinner with him and his wife, so we went into the dining hall and continued talking about Nepali culture. Afterwards, he excused himself and his wife and I found Nick. The two of us engaged various English speakers in the group, with Nick having a great knack for bringing out people in small talk. I hesitantly accepted the offer of our second conversational group to join them for dinner, telling them that I just ate dinner but would join them anyways. I was finding it very hard to eat in moderation with my Newari hosts and hostesses doing their best to make sure I wasn’t hungry. At the second dinner, I learned about some of the many challenges people face in trying to do business in Nepal. One woman in the group came from a family of poultry farmers. Their business had been greatly disrupted by a recent avian flu scare in eastern Nepal that led to an eradication of all poultry in the region. This was just one of many stories of people facing the business challenges of Nepal.

After dinner, we continued talking and eating more appetizers being brought around. My friend returned to the group, to invite me to the wedding ceremony tomorrow where the groom would come for the bride. I agreed, but Nick had to decline as he was starting a trek the next day. I asked Nick about the length of his vacation time from work. He responded that it was one of those things where he had to quit his job to do it. I told him I had done similar things before, what he was doing was definitely worth quitting his job over, he would be happier in the end, and I jokingly added that he should call it a sabbatical since it always sounds classier that just quitting. We called it a night shortly thereafter, with me and Nick splitting a cab ride that I had negotiated the rate on. He was more than happy to join me since I had negotiated a 50 rupee savings for him. Even though it is only 70 cents, it always feels better to be paying a little less than the common tourist rate.

The next day I woke up early, put on my nice clothes, and called to get the location of the next wedding party. I got a cab ride out to the intersection I was supposed to go to, on the complete opposite side of Kathmandu. After calling my friend and asking where to go, the phone staring making all kinds of noise. Puzzled and far from home I was a little worried, until her brother knocked on the window of the cab, as he had left the house with the phone to come get me at the intersection. We walked back to the house together as he practiced his English on me. The ceremony at the house lasted most of the day and of course included multiple meals, servings of tea and lassi, and plenty of snacks as well. Again, I was reminded of how similar the cultures were as I watched all of the sisters make a handicraft welcome sign to put in front of the house, and yet again as I watched all of the women in the family cry in different parts of the wedding.

The woman who cried the most was the bride. One of the sisters told me why this was so. In Nepal, a family lives together in their family home with little or no exceptions. A child living in their own home on the other side of the city would be unheard of. The home we were at today was where the bride had lived since she had been born. Today, the groom would take her to his family’s home and that is where she would live for the rest of her life. The sister said, “For her, there is so much uncertainty. Even though she knows the family she will live with, she does not know exactly her life in her new home. She does not know what it will be like. All this uncertainty builds up inside and it comes out of her eyes.” Later in the day, I got several questions from the brothers about how people in America do not always live in the same house as their family. I explained that many families live in different homes that are very close, so that they can see each other often. Otherwise, families that live far away meet together for important holidays.

After the bride left with the groom, I talked with the family more. Again the issues of business difficulties in Nepal came up. I spoke with a brother who ran a machine shop. Due to load shedding, his shop only had power for 4 hours a day and 4 hours in the non-working time of night. A good example would be from Noon-4pm and Midnight-4am. He explained that a seven day job often took three weeks when there was load shedding. After talking a little more I said my goodbyes, saying that I had to go home, home to Jawalakel. A family member escorted me to the corner where I could get a taxi. I had him help me negotiate a taxi rate, but still couldn’t get any lower than the amount I paid to get out there. Satisfied with my negotiation skills, I got in the cab for the long ride home, home to Jawalakel.

Throwing Color

During my layover in Delhi, I asked my new friend about a holiday I had seen listed in March, Phagu Purnima (Holi). She told me that it would be 3 days after I arrived in Kathmandu, but it was not a very fun holiday. On this day, children lean over rooftop ledges and throw water balloons down on passers by. People paint their faces and walk through the streets throwing water balloons and red powder on people. Translated into English, they call it “throwing water” and “throwing color”. I asked her if she would like to come out with me on that day to an area that would have a street parade. She commented that she had grown up in Nepal and had already had enough of throwing color. Especially since little boys will often target the girls to throw color at.

After I got to the guest house in Patan (South Kathmandu) I asked the young operator of the house about the holiday. He said that for the most part it was not bad. Many people would ask you before throwing color, although sometimes children throw water without asking. He continued by saying, “I do not like this kind of game. I think that if both people want to play and throw water and color it is ok, but if one person does not like to play then they should not have water and color thrown on them.” I called my friend from the plane ride to ask her if she would go to the street parade. She said that her family was keeping all of the girls inside that day so she would not be leaving the house. With her sister’s wedding the next day, it made sense that people did not want to be covered in red powder that doesn’t necessarily wash off right away.

On the day of the holiday, I had to move from one guest house to another due to a large reservation moving in at my current guest house. The walk was only about a mile, but I had to make it twice to carry my bags. The first time, I was hit with a few water balloons from the rooftops, but on a hot day in the valley it didn’t feel bad. Several men came up to me asking to put red powder on my face, saying, “Holi, holi, holi!” Each time I politely declined and while they would ask many times none of them threw color without permission. On the second trip, I walked with a lively 80 year-old volunteer surgeon I had made friends with. He had offered to let me stay in the second bed in his room at the new guest house, saving me from taking a room at lower grade guest house. The two of us walked to the new guest house together, taunting some of the rooftop water throwers and laughing as some balloons hit us and many missed. We encouraged children in the street to try to hit us with water balloons, dodging their attempts. The neighbors of the guest house had both children and adults throwing water balloons and we took some extra time in front of the house encouraging them to throw water at us.

After going inside I got my camera and went back outside to ask the neighbors if I could take their photo. With their permission I took some photos of them on the rooftop and the children started running downstairs to meet me. The properties were separated by two chain link fences and just as I was inside the guest house, all the children were at their fence motioning and calling for me to come back so they could throw water. With them was also an older man who had a bag of red powder in his hand. I took some more photos from inside the doorway and then decided to put my camera in my pocket and go outside. They were all motioning for me to come around to their side of the fence. I motioned back for them to throw everything through the fences right before I held my arms out sideways and closed my eyes, giving the body language that I was ready to be the target. In a few seconds I felt a barrage of water balloons all over and a handful of red powder hit my face. I laughed and waved at the family across the fences, they were laughing too and saying, “Holi, holi!” Coming inside, the operator of the guest house was surprised at the neighbor’s behavior, but I told him that I asked for it and he was satisfied. I asked him to take some pictures and he kindly obliged. Some concerned tourists coming down the stairs looked worried for their color-free safety outside. I told them that I had asked for it and they seemed satisfied enough to continue going outside.

You only live once and I mostly regret the things that I don’t do. I sat on the balcony upstairs, satisfied that I hadn’t turned down the opportunity to participate in the holiday. In fact, in usual fashion, I had gone over the top and made sure that I wouldn’t be concerned later about not giving it my all.

They’re all Nepali people?

I got off the plane in Delhi and began the cat herding path that the airline had laid out for us. All of the passengers transferring to Kathmandu had to divert through a number of hallways, corridors, and passageways before arriving in the room where we would wait out the 8 hour layover. I spotted a beautiful young woman about my age that had the distinctive appearance of looking Latin American. I though I would start a conversation, so I asked where she was from. Surprisingly, she said, “I am from Kathmandu.” A little puzzled, I continued talking to her about where she was coming from and why she was returning home. She had been working in an internationally flavored hotel in the USA where the staff came from all over the world and would greet guests in their home language while wearing their traditional native clothing. She was returning to Kathmandu for 16 days to attend her sister’s wedding and visit her family.

After talking for a little while, I left to use the restroom, when I cam back she was talking to an older man who looked Indian and when I sat down she said that he was Nepali. “Nepali people can always spot other Nepali people”, she remarked. The man spoke English and told me that he was returning from Dallas where he had been working for the past year. After a few minutes of conversation, he left to walk around a little. My new friend showed me some pictures of her in the US and we talked some more. An hour later the Nepali man returned, but with 4 more men with him. The first man was elderly, had thick glasses, wore a sport coat, and looked as if he was a Cantonese businessman. The second man was young with very fair skin and curly black hair, seemingly of Middle Eastern decent. The third man had a round face with tan skin that looked as though he was a farmer from western China. The fourth man was young with dark skin and hard features that had the appearance of being Native American. My new friend looked at me and said, “They’re all Nepali people.” Apparently, the man returning from Dallas had walked
through the waiting area and found all of the Nepali people there.

I talked with some of them about where they were coming from or going to. The young fair skinned man was headed to Israel to work there for a while. The man who looked like a farmer was returning from work in the US, also from Dallas. Both of the two Dallas workers were having a spirited conversation trying to find out how close they had lived to each other. I asked my friend if the more recent man from Dallas was a Tibetan living in Nepal. She replied that he was not and she named two of the tribes of Nepal that he was most likely from. She added that she was Newari and the area of Kathmandu that I would be living in had many Newari people living there. She added, “Over time you will learn more about the nine tribes of Nepal and their people.” The group left again to walk around and I showed my new friend some of my pictures from traveling to Haiti. A short while later the group returned with a beautiful young woman added to the group. She had very dark skin and big pitch black eyes. She did not speak English, but I found out that she had a family member working in Holland and she was going there to work as a nanny. I asked my new friend if the other young woman was from the Terai and she responded, “See, you are getting better at recognizing Nepali people already.” We all continued talking in the group until it slowly dissipated with each member having to leave to catch their respective flights.

I stopped and thought about the people I had met. Their appearance was deceiving, as it seemed as though they were a collection of people from all over the world. Instead, they were a collection of people from all over Nepal, representing only some of the country’s nine tribes. What they did have in common was that they were Nepali and they were traveling all over the world for work in far off places.

Arriving Safely in the Kathmandu Valley

I am thankful to have arrived safely here in the Kathmandu Valley, and although a little jet-lagged, I am in awe of the voyage I have made in the past 9 days.

9 days ago, it was February 26th and I had one day left of work at American Block in Houston, TX

Friday, February 27th: I decided not to skip out on my last day of work and at 4pm I started driving to New Orleans, LA to spend the night at my favorite hostel, India House. By coincidence, while en route, a student of mine called to ask me how to get to the hostel, since he was going to New Orleans for the weekend. Upon arriving I saw some of the staff I had gotten to know in my stay there over a year ago. I told them that I wished I could stay longer, but I was on my way to Kathmandu and had to leave the next morning.

Saturday, February 28th: I woke up to find my student, sleeping in the bunk under me. I got some coffee and sat on the front porch, relaxing for a few minutes and looking at the familiar wall of the Catholic Church across the street. A young German woman asked me how to get to the store so she could get breakfast. I told her that it was too far for her to walk alone and I got some fruit from my car and gave it to her. She offered to give some fruit back to me later that day, but I told her that I would be gone and the favor did not need to be repaid. Before leaving, I found my student still sleeping so I woke him up, told him what Jazz club to visit that night and to be sure and invite the young German woman, along with anyone else that would come.

I left the hostel and drove into Mississippi on a lovely calm morning. By the time I drove out of Mississippi, I was in the midst of a Memphis snowstorm. Driving 30mph on the highway and trying not to rubberneck the cars that had fallen in the ditch, I made it to Nashville to have dinner with an old friend and roommate. She had returned to Nashville to be with her family after staying for a few months in Houston, TX. I was glad to hear how well her life was going, and very happy to hear what seems like storybook good fortunes for her and her fiance. After dinner, I decided to get a moderately priced hotel in East Nashville, instead of the most budget priced one.

Sunday, March 1st: Waking up well rested, I was glad I made that choice. If there is nothing to say about a hotel room, that is good, usually the only things said about road trip hotel rooms is how bad they are. I drove on to Washington, D.C. encountering 2 snowstorms and 2 rainstorms along the way. Arriving at my friends house in Baltimore at 11:30pm, I was greeted by him and his fiance. We all talked for a while, and after his fiance went to sleep, my friend and I stayed up until 4am talking about all the good fortunes we had in our respective cities in the past 2 years.

Monday, March 2nd: I stayed in Baltimore for the day, sleeping in, eating Thai food, unpacking the car, repacking everything into a few bags, and concluding the day by getting a notorized bill of sale, to sell my car to my friend.

Tuesday, March 3rd: We woke up at 6am and after a short time getting ready, made the cold walk down to the metro rail stop. A few train and bus changes later and I was purchasing a ticket to NYC on the Pennsylvania Rail Road (this time not playing Monopoly). I slept for part of the way to Penn Station in New York, and then called my sister to tell her what time I would arrive. After my sister picked me up, we returned to her burrough of Brooklyn, ate a Japanese lunch, and returned to her apartment before going into her job in Manhattan. From 6pm to 2am, I sat in the corner of her restaurant working on the Haiti assessment trip report on my tiny laptop. We took the subway back to her home and made it to bed around 3am.

Wednesday, March 4th: After sleeping in a little we decided to both do our laundry at the local laundramat. I was in need of laundry since I was on the travel diet of clothes, having only about 4 changes worth. While the clothes were in the washer, I took some time to go to a drug store down the street and pick up some vitamins and other odds and ends before leaving. After laundry, we returned home to get ready for dinner in Manhatten with my sister's boyfriend. We had a nice dinner together and I got to meet him for the first time. Returning home on the subway at 11pm was reasonable. I went to bed after packing everything in a little tighter, taking care of last minute items on the apartment's wi-fi connection, and putting out the next day's clothes.

Thursday, March 5th: I woke up and got dressed for the near48 hour journey to Kathmandu. After a very speedy lunch we left for JFK international airport. Arriving as planned about 5 hours early, I took the time to call my grandmother and mother to say goodbye before calling my cell phone provider and asking them to terminate my service. Getting on the plane at 5pm, I said goodbye to the USA.

Friday, March 6th: Somewhere between Thursday and Friday, we landed in Brussels, where I had a 2 hour layover. I realized in my half aware state that I needed Euros to buy something from the soda machine, I read passages from my Nepal tourism book, and I managed to get onto the next flight to Delhi, India, without issue.

Saturday, March 7th: At this point it is uncertain when one day begins and another ends. During an 8 hour layover in the Dehli airport, there was confusion for all the passengers with their boarding passes, where they had to wait, and what exactly was happening. I reminded myself that it wasn't this specific airline, as I had been told a few times aleady in Houston, "Good luck getting out of Dehli!", from experienced travelers listening to my itenerary. During this time, I did get to meet some Nepali people and I'll go into more detail in another post. After many hours of uncertainty, and a few hours of confusion, I found myself on the airplane to Kathmandu, relieved that I had "made it out of Dehli" on the first shot.

Arriving in Kathmadu I had a slow but sure path out of the airport. Getting off the plane, changing money, going through the one visa line servicing our incoming flight, finding my baggage, and being waved through customs. One of the Nepali people I met in Dehli helped me to get a pre-paid and safe cab ride to my Guest House. Once there, I headed out to look at other Guest Houses, since the room I had was reserved by someone else in three days and I would need to pick another lodging by then. Walking the streets of Patan (Lalitpur), a city adjacent to Kathmandu but now officially part of Kathmandu, I saw many things for later posts. After eating the local dish "momo" at a cafe and visiting several guest houses, I returned to my current lodging. I took a quick shower and after a change of clothes I took an unintentional nap in my room. Waking up at 9:30, I knew I was out of the load shedding time for this region and we would have electricity until 12 midnight.

I am thankful to be in Patan safely. I cannot help but think about the changes of the past 9 days and everything it took just in that time to get here. 9 days ago, I was on my computer at work in Houston, TX. Today I sit at a computer in my guest house in Kathmandu, furiously typing so that I will be complete when the rolling blackout arrives as planned at 12 midnight.

Thank you to all the Rotarians in Houston who have helped in making this possible.

Also, momo is fantastic and I plan to each much more while I am here!