Hawasta

The world of Nepal is punctuated, underlined, by its sounds. Hacking. Spitting. "Miss, Miss!" Buffaloes groaning. The whir of generators. Farting. Burping. The silent moment of someone picking their nose with their long fingernail (specially grown for the purpose). That strange, half-laugh sound of women chasing the chickens away. The chanting songs. The rooster crowing. You haven't lived until you've heard a Nepalese band cover "Killing in the name of" by Rage Against the Machine. Or listened on hopelessly while a travel-sick goat bleats meekly on the bus.

These are all the things I will remember. The smells as well, but those I choose to forget. My days with squat toilets, and their sickening smell of sewage, are happily numbered. But, in the end, it really wasn't all that bad. You can get used to a lot, on the road. I sleep soundly in the guest house blankets, even though I know they haven't been washed that frequently. I eat with my hands. I shower when it becomes necessary. I am travel.

What a shock, then, to be heading to Europe. After five pristine days of trekking in the Himalayas, I'm having a hard enough time being in the grasping clutches of Kathmandu. But, with all things, one must move on. I'm embracing a different kind of adventure now. Learning a language. And surviving Europe on a budget of 20 Euros a day.

I will miss waking up, snuggled in a rickety guest house perched on the edge of the mountains. I will miss eating heaping meals of daal bhaat (for under a dollar). I will miss the joy and sorrow of Nepal.