Kathmandu Will Take You Down A Peg Or Six
I owe this entry to the day I skipped writing. November 25th. Arrival day. The day everything got very, very real.
On the flight in from Bangkok, the mountains appeared in the window and I just — stopped. I don’t have better words than that. They were like nothing I could have conjured from a guidebook photo or someone else’s trip report. The scale is wrong in the best possible way. I started getting nervous before we even touched down.
Immigration took $40 out of me in visa fees and photo costs before I’d even properly arrived. Welcome to Nepal, here’s your bill.
Outside: chaos. Pure, undiluted, sensory-overload chaos. Then — finally — I spotted my name on a board held by a man named Jyoti. He got me into a car and we drove into the Thamel district and holy @#%@#$, I was not prepared. Dirty. Polluted. Hovels stacked next to hovels. People everywhere, seemingly doing nothing, going everywhere. Cars and motorcycles playing a constant game of chicken with each other and with any human foolish enough to be on foot.
The pollution hit me physically. I had genuine trouble breathing. The dirt wasn’t just outside — it was in everything. The shops, the restaurants, the air itself. It’s like the city is just slightly coated in a layer of Kathmandu that you can’t wipe off.
But: trekking permit sorted. Schedule squared away. Checked into Hotel Dynasty (down three back alleys and around a corner, somehow legitimately nice). Back to the Eco-Trek office with Kazi and Jyoti, then off on foot to Swayambhunath — the Monkey Temple. 360 stairs to the top. A Buddhist monastery sitting up there with real monkeys just running the whole operation like furry little landlords. It was worth the climb.
Came back. Had a good chicken dinner at a place called the Everest Steak House. Did some bargaining for pants (a skill I am aggressively developing). Changed cash with a black market vendor who, sensibly, only dealt in cash.
Back at the hotel — I passed out. Woke up at 10PM in the middle of a full panic attack. If there had been a flight home in that moment, I would have been on it without hesitation. I am not exaggerating this.
The next morning: bus to Pokhara. What a sentence to write casually. It was a near-death experience dressed up as public transportation — buses playing chicken with each other on mountain roads that have no business being two lanes. Kazi sat next to me, calm as a man who has done this eight hundred times, which he probably has.
Pokhara is different. Still third world, still a long way from a Marriott, but there’s air here. Space. A lake. The vibe is about forty degrees lower in temperature (emotionally, not climatically). And then Pat showed up. Just seeing a familiar face was like someone turned the anxiety dial down six notches.
Everest Steak House again for dinner — I may be developing a pattern. Wandered around afterward bargaining for pack covers. Then sleep. Deep, grateful, collapsed-into-the-mattress sleep.
