Chapter 4
Nepal
The arrivals hall in Kathmandu was chaotic, noisy and four-and-a-half thousand miles from home. My eyes were gritty, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without a shower. I had begun to fantasise about a decent cup of coffee and fresh underwear.
Edgy and overwhelmed, I nudged my way through the swarm of travellers. Stay positive, I thought. I’d done the hard thing; I’d arrived in Nepal and my mini gap year was underway. What had started off as a crazy notion had quickly turned into a challenge I was determined to complete.
After finding out that Bronte’s intended first stop was Nepal, Kat had said goodnight and headed home.
I’d taken Bronte’s gap year book to bed with me and read through the first couple of pages.
Bronte had been right: I was freaked out by the mention of the Himalayas.
I’d have been worried to death if I’d known she was planning to go mountain climbing.
Funny how your perspective changes; given the choice between an adventurous child and one I’d never get to hug again, well, that wasn’t a choice at all.
The following morning, I’d booked a one-way ticket to Kathmandu before I’d had chance to talk myself out of it.
Then I’d reserved a room for two nights at the guest house Bronte had mentioned.
Preparing for the trip had given me a goal and a deadline, something to focus on other than the fact I had been banned from work for the next three months.
Since then, I hadn’t even opened Bronte’s book.
She was going to be my guide, I was going to go where she wanted to go, I’d allow the adventure to unfurl as I went, letting her surprise me with her words and delight me with her drawings every time I turned a new page.
I already knew I’d be heartbroken when I reached the end, but right now, the connection I had to my girl was giving me something positive to cling to.
Once through customs, and reunited with my suitcase, I found myself in a large area opening on to the street.
A crowd of taxi drivers, tour guides and hawkers waved at the new arrivals, shouting to attract business.
My driver would be waiting somewhere, but a sign for the ladies’ toilets drew me like a magnet.
I had no idea how long the drive would be to my hotel and no woman my age would pass up the chance for a wee, so I joined the queue.
‘First time?’ The woman in front looked me up and down. She was wearing serious trekking gear, her mouth partially obscured by a fringed scarf around her neck.
I was in the white kaftan Bronte had bought me, perhaps not the most practical choice, but it had felt symbolic to wear something chosen by her as I embarked on her journey.
‘In Nepal, yes. A spontaneous trip on my own.’
‘Wow, that’s brave.’ The woman looked sceptical. ‘I’ve been many times. But never alone.’
‘It must be good then,’ I said, ignoring the comment about not travelling solo.
She gave a dry laugh. ‘Either that or I’m a sucker for punishment.’
I hoped it was the former. ‘Any tips for a newbie?’
She listed them on her fingers. ‘Don’t drink the water. Don’t get money out of ATMs without checking the fees – it’s practically extortion. Avoid the local brew; only drink branded spirits. I’m serious about that – I heard of someone who lost their eyesight drinking unlicensed booze.’
‘Right, thanks,’ I said, beginning to wish I hadn’t asked.
The woman hadn’t finished. ‘Never accept the first price you’re given on anything – you must always barter.
Always keep an eye on your bags. Let your hotel organise your transport.
Never, ever get into a car which stops on the street for you, or heaven knows where you might end up.
And don’t, under any circumstances, stroke stray dogs, no matter how cute they look.
Rabies is not pretty. Oh, and don’t touch the cows either,’ she pulled up her sleeve and showed me a red mark on her arm. ‘Ringworm.’
‘That’s quite a list of don’ts,’ I said nervously. ‘Are there any dos?’
‘I didn’t mean to put you off.’ She laughed airily. ‘Go slowly, take time to acclimatise yourself to the altitude, and listen to the advice from the experts.’
‘I’m not trekking to Base Camp,’ I told her. A pair of Nike trainers and a bobble hat was the extent of my outdoor kit. Right now the temperature was in the low twenties and inside the building it felt muggy. Hopefully, I wouldn’t even need the hat.
‘What are you doing here then?’ she asked. A cubicle became free, and she darted towards it. ‘Oops, sorry, I’m desperate.’
Which saved me from replying that I had absolutely no idea.
‘Your room is not ready, mam.’ The man behind the reception desk of the Ganesh Guest House returned my passport to me after photocopying it.
‘Oh dear.’ My heart sank. So much for that shower I’d been dreaming of.
‘Do not worry. You may leave your suitcase here and come back in a few hours.’ He waved an arm to the space behind his desk where a heap of rucksacks were piled on top of one another.
It didn’t seem very secure. Everything I needed was in that case, and probably a number of things I didn’t, since I’d had to pack for every climate. I’d even brought a small tin containing some of Bronte’s ashes, so that I’d always have her with me. I’d be devastated if I lost that tin.
‘Thank you.’ I glanced outside. Most buildings were either boarded up or abandoned; there was a pile of rubble on the opposite side of the street and the view of the sky was obscured by an overhead lattice of thick cables and wires, some of which hung dangerously low.
Was I ridiculous to be attempting this trip, I asked myself?
I could have been on a beach in Florida now, watching the sunset with a cold drink in my hand.
‘You’ll be quite safe, honey,’ a woman piped up in an American accent.
She was sitting on the floor with her laptop plugged into a power point, a steaming cup of tea beside her.
‘Five minutes in that direction,’ she jerked her head, ‘you’ll be right in the centre of things.
There’s even a Starbucks if you’re not up to experimenting yet. ’
‘Thanks.’ I replied, mildly affronted that I looked like someone who would only stick to international chains when abroad. Starbucks, though … what an unexpected treat.
‘Perhaps you would like our chauffeur, Lila, to take you somewhere?’ asked the receptionist.
The chauffeur, who’d been watching TV in the lobby, gave me a toothless smile and waved his hand towards the minibus which had collected me from the airport.
‘That’s very kind, but I think I’ll take a walk and get some air.’ My knuckles were still white from the journey, and I was feeling queasy.
The hotel was costing me about twenty pounds per night, so I hadn’t expected to be picked up in a limo.
But neither had I expected the taxi to be crammed with five large men on what seemed to be the equivalent of an Indian stag weekend, or missing a driver’s door, seat belts, and a chunk of the floor near my feet where the metal had rusted through.
I picked up my backpack and, remembering the warning from the woman in the loo about leaving luggage unattended, I collected my suitcase and set off through the narrow pot-holed streets in search of coffee.
‘We’re not in Honeybourne anymore, Toto,’ I misquoted to a small fat puppy fast asleep behind a lamppost. I bent to stroke it before the dangers of rabies came back to me, and straightened again. ‘Sorry, pup. Better safe than foaming at the mouth.’
I knew from the guidebook I’d bought at Heathrow that the tourist centre was called Thamel.
And within minutes I found myself in an area where ribbons of fluttering prayer flags criss-crossed the streets.
It was crowded, colourful and confusing; a cacophony of sound making my head spin.
People advertised their wares at the tops of their voices; they tooted car horns, revved scooters, and blasted music from doorways.
My ears rang with the melodic sounds of singing bowls being thrust in front of me and demonstrated by insistent sellers.
Cashmere pashminas, silk scarves and yak blankets in every size and hue were waved at me, along with buddha statues, incense sticks, and elephant-printed baggy trousers.
Bronte would have loved it, but I was tired from my travels, overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle.
Plus, I was having major regrets about bringing my suitcase with me.
What had I been thinking? It was impossible to steer the wheels over the cobbles and I kept bumping into people. I felt stupid, naive and very alone.
Finally, my senses overloaded and my stomach rumbling, I found a café with a menu in English, which lured me in with the smell of freshly roasted beans and the promise of high-speed internet.
As soon as I was settled with a large coffee and a cake, I logged onto the wi-fi.
Instantly a barrage of emails came in from ShopSwift.
George wanted me to read over a report he’d written, the finance department had a raft of queries on recent invoices, Anna messaged to wish me luck and remind me that under no circumstances should I respond to any work emails and, disturbingly, Lee wanted details of the terms I’d agreed with Vap-A-Rise.
I answered all the emails except the one from Lee, to which I replied by reiterating Anna’s instruction not to do any work and referring him to her.
I felt a prickle of unease at the thought of him muscling in on my clients as soon as my back was turned, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Correspondence complete, I FaceTimed Kat.
‘Mags!’ my sister squealed. ‘Thank goodness you’re still alive. I haven’t slept since dropping you off at the airport.’
‘Ditto.’ I said, yawning.