This is a serialized feature, describing my travels in Nepal during Feb and March 2016. Entries are posted two or three times a week, varying in length from 250-1000 words. This is essentially a book-length travel memoir. Working title is “In Praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness” but I’m not wedded to that. Everything in here is true. A few minor details may be changed in order to accommodate the fallibility of memory, protect identities, or improve narrative flow, but that’s all.
It’s a pretty good story with a solid emotional core. I hope you get something out of it.
I awoke to the sound of jackhammering outside, and a narrow beam of dusty sunlight waving me good morning.
My shoulder and hip hurt from where they had pushed through the thin mattress.
My first morning waking up alone in a foreign country. Ever.
[This is a chapter from my travel book. There are lots more chapters posted on the blog, but if you’d prefer to read them all at once, sign up for my e-mail newsletter and I’ll be sure to let you know when they’re available in a condensed form!]
I could have hugged that kid. He must have been no more than 15. It was midnight, we’d been delayed by a whole hour, I’d never confirmed my booking or put down any deposit on my room, but still: there he was, standing in the rain. Waiting for me.
Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu is universally recognized as one of the worst major airports in the world. It is little more than a large brick shack, dirty inside and out, and staffed by surly, unhelpful agents who aren’t much better than the TSA.
Apparently, if you arrive during the day, the visa hall can back up for hours, all chaos and cutting in line. Luckily for me, we had to be one of the last flights in that day, as the airport was deserted.
As my layover in Delhi drew to an end, I worked my way back to the gate. It had filled up significantly since I had last been here: full of hippies and fortune-seekers looking to find inner peace in the high mountain sanctuaries of Nepal. Backpackers, families, mountain climbers— these were my people. Still, the nervousness was starting to set in.
When I finally got to the counter, I told the agent I’d lost my ticket.
“What’s your name?” he asked, bored.
I told him, and he handed me my original boarding pass. Someone must have found it and turned it in.
“Try and hold on to it this time,” he told me without inflection.
I took it without further comment.
thisisyouth 