Nepal has mountains to climb
If I was under any illusions of calm monks wandering the streets of a serene Shangri-La-like Kathmandu, those illusions are rapidly shattered. It’s a bustling city of narrow streets filled with mopeds, cars, tourists and locals. The exhaust fumes fill your nostrils as you’re regularly beeped out of the way as you wander the sidewalk-less streets. After two days my throat is sore from the air. There’s no animals here other than the occasional dog and the ubiquitous human. On our first day we wander the streets of Thamal, a district in northern Kathmandu. It’s the main tourist area, full of shops selling or renting trekking and climbing equipment. The shops are all roughly the same size and face directly on to the narrow roads, fuelled by an alarmingly complex web of overhead electrical cabling. Coming immediately after a week in India, there’s a conspicuous lack of Tuk-tuks and rickshaws, here the moped is the weapon of choice.
To be honest, I didn’t expect anything different from Kathmandu, despite my opening paragraphs. But for this leg of our travels with my wife, Jess, Nepal was firmly my choice. I chose the country at a time when stress in my life was at an all time high and I yearned to find peace, tranquility, and lonely distant scenery with no phone reception. As such, after a few days in Kathmandu I’m slightly frustrated by its intensity. That said, the view of sunset from our hostel roof is beautiful, and watching an old lady prune her plants on the adjacent rooftop reminds me that, beneath the surface, life here runs at a different pace.
(Sunset over the dense buildings of the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal)
We have around two months to spend in Nepal, but with a two week trip to Bhutan pre-planned in the middle. It’s early November and time is on our side. We initially spend four days in Kathmandu, renting the equipment we need for our first trek and recovering from the dreaded Delhi Belly of the previous week. We visit some of the city’s sights, including the UNESCO World Heritage Durbar Square in its centre. Famed for its large wooden and brick temples dating to the 4th-8th centuries. Sadly, many were badly damaged by the 2015 earthquake and are still being repaired. Locals sit chatting calmly next to walls that look like they’re one strong breeze away from complete collapse.
(Locals sit under a precariously supported wall in Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal)
The temples that remain are beautiful, if you can see past the awful steel lampposts, thousands of black cables strewn from pillar to post and the occasional waft of urine. It’s certainly not what I expected, but the reconstruction work on the main palace and surrounding buildings is excellent. The temples themselves can’t fail to impress. It’s also here that I see something that takes me a few moments to compute, it being so alien in the U.K.. As we stroll around, a number of local people are walking with sticks or crutches, but what makes them unique is their narrow withered limbs. It’s likely (I have assumed) caused by childhood Polio, a horrendous neurological disease caused by the Poliovirus. It was only eradicated from Nepal through extensive vaccination efforts in 2014. It’s a reminder of the medical healthcare challenges that still plague a country with such a remote population.
(Pigeons circle over the temples of Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal)
That night we go to sleep on the 5th floor of our hostel like any other night. At about midnight I feel a strange vibration unlike anything I’ve ever felt through the mattress. No jokes please. It’s like a humming coming through the very floor itself. The humming builds rapidly and the bed starts to move back and forth in a more violent fashion. I start to panic, realising it’s an earthquake. I start shaking Jess to try and wake her, but as quickly as it started it stops. Jess stirs briefly and then goes back to sleep. Given I’m half asleep myself, I don’t think much more of it and quickly fall back to sleep. The next morning I wake up to messages from friends in the U.K. checking if I’m ok, it was a 6.1 magnitude earthquake that’s caused multiple fatalities in western Nepal. I reflect on just how stupid I was to simply go back to sleep, what the hell was I thinking? Given that I knew nothing of its strength and had no idea what an earthquake feels like, it was pretty idiotic. For all I knew, an aftershock could have flattened the entire building. Being in an earthquake was certainly not something I ever wanted to tick off my bucket list.
The next morning we visit the Nepal Tourism Office in Kathmandu. One of the main reasons tourists visit Nepal, particularly from October-December, is for its mountain trekking. Typically, this involves multiple consecutive days of hiking (normally 3-7 hours each day) and staying in local ‘teahouses’ overnight. We discuss our options with the nice woman behind the counter, asking mainly about trekking the Langtang Valley. She suggests a trek that has ‘just opened up’, hiking from south of the valley, up into it, and back out again. She draws a rough sketch on a piece of paper and tells us the key stopping points. It looks like it might take about 12 days and starts well off the beaten track, which is just what I’d been hoping for. I naively take relatively little interest of the elevation contours on my own map. The nice lady says the bus leaves each day at 7:30am from the main tourist bus park, heading out to the small village of Ghangphedi. It’s absent from my National Geographic map, but shown as a rough area in Google maps. Suitably confident in our plans, we head back to the hotel and strip down our bags to the bare essentials. I’d estimate that with a couple of litres of water our backpacks probably weigh around 12-14kg each.
Given that one of my reasons for visiting Nepal was to find remote and isolated places, we have gone against the governments wishes and decided to do this first trek without a guide or a porter. In April 2023, the Nepalese government passed a law insisting that all tourists take a guide or porter with them on the major treks. In reality, this is not being enforced or implemented to any great extent. For me, trekking in Nepal was about escaping the regulations and rules by which our lives are normally constrained and, like Bilbo Baggins, heading off on an adventure. I don’t mind taking a porter or guide, I just didn’t want to be told that I had to and then have to follow them blindly along the beaten path. Would I make the same choice again? Probably not, but I don’t regret doing it just this once.
The next day we get to the bus park nice and early at 6:50am. We casually ask where the bus to Gangphedi leaves from. This is followed by a mad dash to catch the bus that’s driving out of the bus station gates. So much for it leaving at 7:30. It’s a local bus, so there’s no limits (at least none that are enforced) on how many people can get on it. It’s fairly full as we leave but luckily we get two seats. After 5 minutes on the road a strange techno style beat comes over the loud speakers which slowly morphs into a methodic sitar and drum beat. It matches the brightly coloured prayer flags and decorations on the inside perfectly.
(A hectic and entertaining bus ride from Kathmandu to Gangphedi, Nepal)
As the bus winds up through the hills out of Kathmandu, I can feel the pressure of the city lifting. I’m filled with a sense of freedom as the morning sun coats the city below in a hazy amber glow. The screeching vibrations of the buses brakes quickly bring me back to reality. I lock my knees against the seat in front to avoid being thrown around as we hurtle along winding roads composed of broken concrete, gravel and the occasional patches of aging tar. As the journey progresses Jess bangs her head on roof as the bus jolts. A nearby seat detaches from the back of the bus and topples forward. Multiple people vomit out the windows from the constant winding, and I reflect, that, in the event of any accident the chances of being impaled on a sharp piece of exposed metal are worryingly high. Even the supporting struts in the middle of the bus are crudely welded from three sections, and where the arm rests have been removed metal spikes stick up right next to you. All you can do is pin yourself in position and wait for the journey to end.
Just before 8am we get our first glimpse of the snow capped peaks of the Himalayas. We drive on through steep banked valleys covered with rice terraces where people hack away in the morning sun at last years weeds on the retaining mud faces. A family of four clean and shave a dead pig a few meters from the roadside, pouring boiling water over it to remove the hairs. The bus continues its winding way north along a narrow valley as a frothing and crystal blue river bubbles over boulders nearby, slithering southwards. The occasional steel rope bridge crosses the ravines, with prayer flags draped over the side rails, fluttering in the wind. For all the pain of the journey itself, I remember these moments vividly.
(One of the many valleys north of Kathmandu, note the suspension bridge running left to right)
After two more hours on steep rocky roads we reach the end of the line, having arrived at the small village of Ghangphedi. It’s mid-afternoon and we feel exhausted from the journey itself. There were no other tourists on the bus and the driver silently directs us up a hill with a vague wave of the hand. My wife and I exchange a nervous look that communicates that we may be way out of our depth. Nonetheless, we mount our back packs and start the ascent. I had downloaded the offline maps for both AllTrails and Google maps, but neither are showing an exact route to our first stop, the small mountainside village of Talu. We hike for 6km, gaining in elevation by around 1100m. The route is steep as we walk on through forest, climbing stone staircases in the steeper sections. Sadly, despite the complete lack of tourists on this route, there is a surprising amount of plastic waste at the side of the path. It’s a beautiful hike if you can avoid looking closely at the ground.
(The valley running south to Gangphedi, Nepal)
Finally, after nearly 4 hours, we make it to the village of Talu, a collection of no more than ten buildings nestled on the hillside with no road access. A man waves to us from a rice paddy and directs us to the only teahouse. We enjoy an evening meal of Dal Bhat, lentil curry and rice, with the four generations of his family sitting around the cooking fire. I notice how they first create a crater with their rice, then fill it with lentil curry, then slowly move the rice in from the outside of the crater to mix it in. It’s the same method my grandfather taught me for mixing cement, just on a slightly smaller scale. After dinner, the teahouse owner proudly shows me his fathers and grandfathers handmade Kugari knives, traditional Nepalese weapons. I weigh them gently in my hands and nod politely as if I have some idea of what makes a good one.
(A family gathers around the stove at breakfast, Talu, Nepal)
The next morning, with sore muscles, we set off again. The only sounds come from the wind in the trees, crickets, and the water flowing in the valley below. We climb up gradually through steep slopes covered in verdant rainforest and bamboo. After gaining another 800m elevation, I notice there’s some highly polished alloy at the side of the pathway, overgrown by the vegetation. It’s riveted neatly together but bent and twisted with what must have been an incredible force. There’s peices of cloth scattered and tattered over all the surrounding forest. Utterly confused, I tap the metal with my hiking pole and think silently for a minute as Jess hikes on, but I just can’t figure it out why it’s there. We are literally in the middle of nowhere.
(Jess tests out a suspension bridge over a misty valley on the way north to Phedi, Nepal)
The hike continues north. It’s brutal, with the weight of the backpack and the rapid altitude gain slowly taking effect. We discuss that perhaps we’ve bitten off more than we can chew. After a few more arduous hours, with the forest dissipating down to knee high bushes, we arrive at Dawa Baby Teahouse in Phedi. It’s shrouded in mist and the ‘village’ itself is just a single teahouse perched on its own. When the cloud breaks you can see beautiful waterfalls cascading down the valley. We’ve now gained 2300m total elevation in less than 24 hours and I’m feeling pretty rough. I ask the owner of the teahouse about the polished metal I saw on the slopes and he points me to a sheet of paper pinned to the kitchen wall. It’s a print out from Wikipedia and describes the fate of Thai Airways flight 311, which crashed in bad weather into the hillside north of Kathmandu in 1992. Realising that those clothes have hung on the plants for more than 30 years sends a shiver down my spine. Knowing they were packed neatly by people either travelling home, or on the trip of a lifetime, fills me with a sense of sadness. Life can sometimes be very cruel.
We settle in to the teahouse and handwash some of our clothes, hanging them out by the stove in the vain hope they might dry. That evening we’re joined by a group of 11 Dutchmen that have hiked via a different route. They sing English hits with a guitar they’ve brought along with them. Our accommodation consists of a poorly built wooden building with gaps between the planks. A stove is lit and provides some warmth, but the Nepalese don’t seem too bothered by the cold, leaving the door wide open despite the sub-zero wind whipping in. The single glazed windows form frost on the inside, only 18 inches from your head as night sets in. There’s also, rather surprisingly given the temperature and elevation, a complete lack of insulation in any of their buildings. I think, ultimately, the Nepalese are just made from much stronger stuff.
(Huddling for warmth as the temperature drops in Dawa Baby Teahouse, Phedi, Nepal)
(View from Phedi with prayer flags at sunrise, Nepal)
The next morning the Dutchmen are up and out at 7am for sunrise. As I drink a cup of tea, I watch them meditating and doing Yoga on a rocky outcrop. It’s probably -2 degrees Celsius, giving a new meaning to Dutch courage. I, unfortunately, have woken feeling pretty terrible, I have a headache, I’m exhausted, and I can’t bring myself to eat anything, all classic signs of altitude sickness. The rapid gain in elevation over the last two days is clearly taking effect, even though we are only at 3850m. We had intended to go up to 4700m today, but I just can’t do it. Instead, we trudge up to 4200m and stay at Suriyakunda high camp. The only teahouse here is fairly makeshift. It had to be completely re-built after the 2015 earthquake. Inside, this process is still underway, with hammers, planes and wood shavings at the end of the hallway. The stove in the main eating area is also fairly ramshackle, emitting large amounts of smoke into the room itself.
(Jess smiles through the smoke and cold at Suriyakunda High Camp, Nepal)
The temperature drops like a stone as night comes and we sit eating our dinner huddling next to the stove with all the layers we’ve brought with us. There’s no electricity, just a few light bulbs powered by a car battery that’s recharged using a solar panel by day. The toilet outside also reaches a new low, it consists of a shoulder high corrugated metal hut that’s been lashed badly together. The toilet itself is a hole in the ground surrounded by three stones on which to place your feet. It feels somewhat precarious to use, and the faeces lying adjacent to the hole is testament to the challenge other former users faced. Jess wisely refuses to use it and wanders off to wee behind a nearby boulder. I fancied the challenge and lived vicariously.
Whilst eating dinner we gather close by the stove and enjoy the sultry sounds of whatever is playing on the Nepalese people’s phones. They appear oblivious to anyone else in the room as a torrent of YouTube or Instagram plays out. TikTok was banned the previous month. It’s a very cold and disturbed nights sleep given the elevation, but I feel a bit better in the morning having acclimatised slightly. After breakfast, we hike up and over the Suriyakunda pass at 4700m elevation. As we reach the top we’re greeted with glorious views of snowcapped peaks and alpine lakes. A man sits meditating on the peak of the pass, surrounded by flapping prayer flags. It’s a beautiful scene, but the wind chill is vicious. I think I’ll meditate when I get further down….
(The sacred Gosaikunda lake, just after crossing the Suriyakunda High Pass, 4700m elevation, Nepal)
(A man meditates in freezing temperatures at the Suriyakunda High Pass, Nepal)
Having crossed over the pass we’ve now entered the Gosaikunda Lake trek, a route sacred to the Nepalese, making it slightly busier. That afternoon we descend from the high pass to the idyllic village of Sing Gompa. It sits beautifully on a hillside, surrounded by lush greenery and has a gigantic prayer wheel that it seems rude not to turn. We stumble into the first teahouse we can find to discover it has a solar powered hot shower, it’s like striking pure liquid gold after 4 days without one. We take a picture of the bathroom to remember the joy we felt, but ironically looking back it’s about the worst bathroom on our travels so far. Einstein was right, everything’s relative.
Over the next two days, we trek down through rhododendron and bamboo forest to the imaginatively named village of Bamboo, situated at around 2000m elevation. On the way, we traverse valleys and rope bridges and see Colobus monkeys, a Musk Deer and a Nilgiri Marten. The latter two were unfortunately two fast to photograph. We keep a constant watch for endangered Red Pandas, but we are not surprised we don’t see any.
(The town of Sing Gompa at sunset, Gosaikunda valley, Nepal)
(A Grey Langur monkey in the Langtang Valley, Nepal)
The village of Bamboo itself is little more than a few wooden teahouses perched at the side of the rushing and loud Langtang river. At this point we have entered the main Langtang Valley trek, a 40km long narrow valley running from east to west.
(Jess gathers around the stove for warmth in the tiny village of Bamboo, Langtang Valley, Nepal)
Over the last two days the route has gradually become busier. The Langtang Valley is one of the three major Nepalese treks, along with Everest Base Camp and the Annapurna Circuit/Santuary. For us though, there’s another, less typical, reason for choosing the Langtang trek. In a way, like the Gosaikunda Lakes, it’s our own form of pilgrimage. In 1974 Jess’ mother, Mary, came to Nepal as part of an epic solo travelling adventure. When she reached Nepal via India she decided to do a trek that “had a closed down Swiss cheese factory at the end” and “went up to 16’000 ft elevation”. Unfortunately, when she reached the end of the trek her lung collapsed, she contracted pneumonia, and then almost died making it back to the U.K.. It’s a story even I’ve come to love in the relatively few years I’ve known her. Like Jess, I take it as a personal mission to find this cheese factory. After some map-based detection work, there looks to be only one major trek with a cheese factory at the end, and that’s Langtang Valley. Let’s hope it hasn’t collapsed, otherwise there’ll be de-Brie everywhere.
The morning after our arrival at Bamboo we are woken at 5:30am by the Nepalese in the room to the left of us, talking loudly and playing videos on their phones. After they leave we fall back to sleep briefly, but then at 6:30am the same happens from the Nepalese on our right. At this point it’s become a running joke that we can expect to be woken up early, hear what’s being played on all phones in close proximity, and regardless of the temperature, expect the door to be left open. Although, in reality, only the phones actually bother me.
We pack up our things and start the trek to our next destination, Thangsyap. The path follows the river valley for its entire length. In areas you can see where landslides have washed dirt and stones right down to the valley floor. As we get closer to our destination a young lady runs up to us and asks where we plan to stay tonight. She hands us a card and tells us we should consider her teahouse in Thangsyap. She seems polite so we agree to take a look. Unfortunately, as the day wears on I become aware that my left knee is starting to hurt, just where it meets my calf. I can tell from the map that we are close, but just as we start the final ascent to Thangsyap I get a sharp shooting pain in my leg. I can barely take another step. Angry, I start cursing and hitting the ground with my trekking pole like a petulant child. I think this might be the end of my trek. I slump dejectedly on a rock but after a few minutes Jess manages to talk some sense into me. I get up and use my trekking poles as crutches to make the final 100m ascent. Of course, the nice lady’s teahouse is the last one in the village. The teahouse (Potala) is comfortable and clean, and that night we watch two elderly women, both easily over 80 years old, squashing Sea Buckthorn (a small orange) fruit for its juice in front of the fire. We chat with the two young teahouse owners, one of whom gave us the card, and it turns out that both of their parents were killed in the 2015 earthquake. They now look after the teahouse when they can outside of their studies. Dinner is great, with a large side order of Ibuprofen, swallowed down with the freshly hand-pressed Sea Buckthorn juice made by their grandma and her neighbour.
(Jess hikes up steps towards the village of Thangsyap, Langtang Valley, Nepal)
Thankfully, and very surprisingly, the next day my leg is feeling ok. I think my calf was just making a strong protest after slovenly swinging itself from an office chair for the last decade. We begin our hike to our final destination, Kyanjin Gompa, situated at the end of the Langtang Valley. On the hike we catch our first sight of yaks, which essentially look like hairy cows. We see large beehives hanging from the rocks above the valley floor, walk alongside miles of chorten prayer walls, and enjoy the sounds of prayer wheels set up to run automatically by water. These typically contain text or carvings containing the Buddhist mantra of compassion, and when spun are believed to send good karma out into the world.
(A chorten prayer wall along the Langtang Valley, Nepal)
As the trek progresses, we also continue the game of Russian Roulette with food. A pizza comes out covered in whole cloves of garlic, tomato ketchup and a sprinkling of yaks cheese on a flat crispy tortilla wrap, the noodles and pasta appear to be identical, the pancake arrives completely drenched in oil. It’s a fun game, and great for weight loss, but relatively quickly we learn to stick to the local food rather than continuing to roll the dice.
Around half way along the hike we also pass over an area of boulders and soil, the site of a huge landslide that occurred in 2015. Here, the entire village of Langtang itself was wiped out in an instant, killing more than 200 people. As the hiking path goes over the landslide itself it’s hard not to feel as if you’re violating somewhere sacrosanct. It’s a somber few minutes of trekking.
(New Langtang village, note the grey section on the right, an upper part of the 2015 landslide, Langtang Valley, Nepal)
As the sun starts to drop so does the temperature, and by mid-afternoon we’ve arrived at the surprisingly populated town of Kyanjin Gompa, at around 3900m elevation. It’s snowing lightly and a group of young Nepalese from Kathmandu jump around with happiness having never seen snow fall before.
The next day the sky’s are clear and we watch the yaks and horses graze with a stunning mountain backdrop. We hop from bakery to cafe to bakery and give our muscles time to heal. High mountain peaks and a large glacier sit just above the town to the north. You can hear the occasional cracking and crashing of ice from the glacier in the distance. As we walk up to get better views, we approach a small Buddhist temple, and it’s here that we finally find what we’ve been looking for. Not stunning scenic views, not nirvana, not even enlightenment, but a small closed Swiss cheese factory. Our mission is complete. After recovering, we take a day to hike up a mountain called Tsergo Ri, it’s a day hike from the village and goes just above 5000m elevation. It’s a tough hike, but the views from the top are spectacular, with 360 degree snowcapped mountain peaks. At the top we sit looking out over layer upon layer of mountains whilst chatting with three young Irish guys who summited around the same time. We exchange contact details in case we end up back in Kathmandu at the same time.
(Descending Tsergo Ri mountain with views across the upper Langtang Valley, Nepal)
Over the next few days we descend our way back out of the Langtang valley, finally arriving at the town of Syabru Besi. It’s been an amazing 12 days, hiking 118km and gaining more than 7500m in elevation. That’s more than the height difference between Kathmandu and the top of Mount Everest. I’m tired, proud, and in desperate need of a long hot shower and an ice cold beer. The next morning we leave the hotel to catch our bus back to Kathmandu. It leaves about an hour late because two locals have slept in. Multiple tourists voice their frustrations at the impact on their onwards travel plans, but it doesn’t seem to change much. As I sit at the bus window, watching the sun glide up over the mountains, I watch a small girl eating a packet of Oreo’s by the roadside. She finishes them and then casually discards the blue and silvery plastic wrapping on the floor which flutters to an expectant dog. She looks the other way as she does it, not out of embarrassment, but because of a complete lack of concern. It shows the true nature of the issues Nepal is facing, it’s one of education. The adults around her see her throw it but pass no comment and show no interest. The knowledge that the wrapper will tumble down the valley, into the beautiful gushing river and nestle itself inside a bank, a plant, or an animal for 50-100 years fills me with rage, but who can you blame? Certainly not the child, she clearly hasn’t been told any better. I’m readying myself to get off the bus and chase the wrapper down the street as the engine roars and Jess tells me it’s too late.
(Blossom in November, lower Langtang Valley, Nepal)
The bus finally starts to rumble its way through a series of tight switchbacks up and out of the valley. On the opposite side the morning sun shines on a series of small terraced villages, only accessible by foot or horse. Large patches on the hillsides appear as beige triangles in an otherwise sea of lush green, areas of landslide that look precariously close to some of the buildings.
As the bus continues to wind along it stops frequently to pick up more people. Some sit in the aisle, others hang on to the overhead rails as the bus lurches from corner to corner. There’s probably 70-80 people on the bus as the fun really starts. A nearby window is yanked open and the sound of vomiting fills the air. A man tries desperately to clamber over other people to reach the open side door, but he’s too late and vomits on another passenger who quickly removes his soiled coat. A standing woman, for want of more space, rests a bag full of empty bottles on Jess’ head without realising, it rests there for 10 minutes as Jess gives me half amused sideward glances. A small baby locks eyes with me from between the seats in front, then starts crying loudly. A man sitting cross legged in the aisle vomits into a small red plastic bag. He stands, leans across in front of me with the surprisingly full, thin, plastic bag swaying precariously inches from my face as he flings it out the window I’ve just opened. I realise, in that moment of crystal clear clarity, that sometimes, just sometimes, travelling can be a fully entertaining nightmare.
As we get closer to Kathmandu the bus empties and the fetid smell of humans and vomit starts to dissipate. As we pull into the bus station, I’m left pondering the country itself and the issues it faces. Nepal for me has been a country of two halves. It’s scenically stunning and offers something you struggle to find elsewhere. The mountains are beautiful, people exceptionally friendly, and it’s almost impossible to feel stress as you hike along gorges rushing with ice cold water lined with bamboo and forest. But, sadly, I feel the country has lost its way over the last two decades. I fear for its environment from the path it’s currently on and many locals speak with resigned anger about the level of corruption in government. The country is heavily reliant on tourism, it’s a model they’ve become dependent on. But tourists do not want to come to Nepal to find rubbish everywhere, to listen to digital media blaring from phones on remote treks, or to have their spines broken on every drive they embark on. Nobody is expecting perfection, quite the opposite in fact, but there’s a vision in the western mind of what Nepal offers. That vision was built from the people that visited Nepal in the 1970’s and 1980’s, its one of a pristine environment and place to breathe the fresh air. Maybe that vision is now just outdated. Regardless, I’m sad that the former pristine Nepal is rapidly disappearing, I hope it finds its way back onto the path quickly.
As our first leg in Nepal draws to a close we end it in Kathmandu and Patan, a former city state that’s now been subsumed into the sprawling umbrella of Kathmandu. The Durbar square in Patan is considerably nicer than the main one in Kathmandu and offers perhaps more of what I had hoped for, quiet beautiful old temples in a clean environment. Finally, before heading over to Bhutan, we end the trip in style. It’s my 40th birthday and the Irish guys just messaged, let the drinking begin….
(Jess enjoying the view from Sundari Chowk in Patan Durbar Square, Nepal)
(Top image: A lonely yak grazes on the slopes of the upper lang tang valley in Kyanjin Gompa, Nepal)