Not so funny when it happened
What is it about stories about travels that have “gone badly wrong” that interests so many people? Everyone has suffered the same problem. The writer of the story goes to Madagascar but their luggage goes to Montreal. It happens to everyone. Perhaps it’s simply a case of schadenfreude, a German word meaning “pleasure derived by someone from another person’s misfortune.” Or maybe because the story is funny because the writer knows how to tell a tale well.
In his classic book simply titled Bad Trips, editor Keath Fraser presents some of the best writers of his day confessing about their own nasty travel experiences, but of course the real attraction lies in their writing. For instance, esteemed Canadian writer George Woodcock shared his travails back in the fifties in the Peruvian Andes.
“Monterey had become a parody of a European spa,” he wrote. “The neglected baths were now green with weed. The hotel was dingy. The food was heavy in the Peruvian way, many dirty dishes served about ten at night. I was already suffering from the mountain sickness locally called soroche, a bit incoherent, fainting in the dining room. Then, in the middle of the night, Inge and I were both seized by violent attacks of dysentery. At the same time the electricity and water supply failed simultaneously, and no servants answered our plaintive calls for candles when we ventured into the dark corridors.”
“So, attacked by recurrent spasms,” wrote Woodcock, “we would make our way to the bathroom, to shit and vomit, nauseated once again by the rising stench, until we would fall back exhausted on the bed. But even then, weary as we were, we could not sleep even fitfully for it was the night of an Indian festival, which is where all the servants had gone. From farmsteads near the hotel came the beat of drums and the high-pitched chant of women singing Quechua songs….”
The first time I read this story, lying in bed before sleep, I burst into laughter. I had no idea why. There is nothing funny about people suffering from dysentery or food poisoning, or a terrible hotel with a drum festival erupting below your room. Yet somehow I felt the story to be hilarious. It was like a sock that begins to run. Once it starts, there is no guarantee it will stop. Yes, certain events while travelling can be unpleasant, but sometimes there is no end to the nightmare. There is even a series of books called Not So Funny When it Happened.
Over the years I have ventured to Nepal several times. I confess I have been ill on each trip from “Delhi belly.” On my last trip I was invited by a producer of a prospective Reality TV show to be a guide to his crew. He found me and my wild adventures on the Internet. Hey, a free trip is a free trip, so I went. Getting there wasn’t bad, if you don’t mind spending a few days on planes doing so. The problem was that Kathmandu is one of the most polluted cities in the world. The electrical system constantly fails, which is when the diesel generators kick into high gear. We were there for two weeks and after one week no one could speak their lines because we were coughing up dust. The TV crew was also horrified when I took them to Pashupatinath, the “burning ghats” on the Bagmati River where bodies are publicly cremated. Hey, you want “reality TV,” here you go, but the crew was already freaked out by Kathmandu, where you took your life in your hands just walking down the street.
There were other issues with which some members of the crew took exception. We stayed at a guest house in the Tibetan district known as Boudinath, where over 40 monasteries dot the landscape. The centre of the district is crowned by an enormous stupa, where pilgrims come to pray. You might also notice the feral dogs that come to sleep there in the sunshine. This is because they hunt at night, in packs. That is one good reason not to wander the streets at night, in the dark, because there is usually no electricity. A German couple showed up each day to offer medical treatment for the dogs. There are, I am told, about 100,000 dogs wandering the streets of Kathmandu, hunting for whatever food they can find. On our first night one dog wandered away from its pack and was attacked by another pack. Sadly this happened right underneath our windows so we were treated to the sound of a dog being torn to bits, which took quite some time, and then eaten. There were only a few bones left in the morning.
“My God,” said the girlfriend of the producer in the morning, a European lady used to finer accommodations, “I didn’t sleep a wink. Did you hear what happened last night?”
“Welcome to Kathmandu,” I replied. “It’s reality for sure.”
After a week the producer came to the conclusion that we needed to leave the city or else some of the crew would drop dead, so he asked me for some story ideas. I was aware that there was a hotel called Everest View, perched high above the Kathmandu Valley, above the deep haze of smog, with excellent views of Everest in the distance. So far I had not been able to ascertain any semblance of a script for the show. Apparently this is called “Reality TV.” The producer simply looked for trouble wherever he could find it, dropped the crew in the middle of the action, and filmed what happened. There was an excellent parade/riot one day with tens of thousands of people participating, and some of the crew became somewhat alarmed that they might not live through the violence, but it made for good footage. What we would do at the Everest View remained to be seen, but at least you could breathe the air.
Anyone who has ever travelled to India will be aware of the traffic. There are several hundred million people driving in different directions all at once. I wrote about this in my book Negotiating India; Never drive in countries where they believe in reincarnation. It’s like the first rule in a knife fight. Which is, there are no rules. But at least in India they have traffic lights, even if everyone ignores them. There are no traffic lights in Kathmandu that I can recall ever seeing. I don’t recall any traffic police either, but I remember seeing a lot of car crashes.
Then there is the condition of the roads. Nepal is a very poor country. In places there is some pavement, usually adorned with pot holes into which you can drive, although your vehicle may not emerge from the other end. Thanks to the civil war that had just ended, the city had tripled in size of the population. Escaping from Kathmandu was a necessity in order to continue to breathe, but doing so in one piece can be challenging. We rented a large van, crammed in the crew and equipment, and set off with high hopes, so to speak.
The road to the Everest View was to the east, out of the valley, and up a hill to the top. I use British understatement here so as not to exaggerate. There are no “hills” in Nepal. There are mountains, and very steep mountains they are. The higher we climbed, the worse the road became. The pavement finally gave way to mud, allowing the van to slide around like a pinball in a video game, but this was no game. I deliberately sat behind the driver so I could keep an eye on things, even though I had already learned that in Nepal it was best to sit at the very back of the bus, with your eyes closed, in order to reduce the size of the knot growing in your belly as you watched the horror around you evolve, but in this case I was prepared to jump out of the vehicle if we managed to slide over the edge.
There was a sliding door on the left hand side of the van, which I slid open surreptitiously to have a peak. I could not see the edge of the road. This meant the tires were over the edge, as soon the van would be. I received some harsh admonitions from the driver and the TV crew, but I kept one hand on the door handle ready to jump if we went over the edge, slipping and sliding as we crawled up the side of the mountain. There was a direct drop of about 7,000 feet down to the valley far below, and I had neglected to bring a parachute.
Opened in 1971, Hotel Everest View has been listed on the Guinness Book of World Records as the Highest Placed Hotel in the World at 13,000 feet. According to its website, “hidden on a ridge overlooking the Everest range, Hotel Everest View is a remarkable establishment that blends gracefully with its spectacular surrounding.” Also: “We are able to offer several options in your journey to reach the hotel. For those who are short on time and prefer to travel in luxury, we can arrange for direct helicopter flights. For the adventure seekers who want to experience trekking first hand, we can arrange for trekking to the hotel from Lukla village.” In other words, unless you wish to terrify yourself, don’t drive the damned road up the “hill” with a driver who may believe in reincarnation.
The phrase “hidden on a ridge” refers to the fact that the hotel is perched high above the valley far below, like a Mexican cliff diver jumping into the ocean at Acapulco. If you are afraid of heights this is not the hotel for you. My guess is that elevators are hard to deliver and install at 13,000 feet, or perhaps they don’t work at that elevation. Anyway, there aren’t any. The hotel is built at multiple levels, necessitating a life-challenging descent or ascent from one floor to the next. Heavy smokers or anyone who has just spent a week breathing the poisoned air in Kathmandu are advised to take the helicopter option.
We spent a few days trying to stay alive and avoid walking anywhere, until it became obvious that everyone wanted to leave. Our escape was complicated by the fact that taxis were required to come all the way from Kathmandu to pick us up, and that everyone had a different flight to a different country leaving at different times. My flight was not until night, so I had the choice of hanging around the hotel all day and risking death from cerebral edema, or catching a ride with the early birds. Discretion being the better part of valour, I stood at the front door of the hotel with my bag packed ready to go, and snuck into the back seat of the first taxi that arrived.
I can’t say much about the drive down the hill because I kept my eyes closed the whole way, thereby enjoying the feeling of the car sliding around in the mud like a wounded turtle while listening to the crying of the lady sitting next to me, proving that she could still speak even if I couldn’t. Tribhuvan airport is not an architectural marvel by any stretch of the meaning, but I got down on the ground and kissed the pavement when we arrived and thanked my stars for still being alive.
But the real journey was just beginning. As I discovered to my dismay, since my flight was not until the evening, I was not allowed to hang around the airport all day and envy the sight of airplanes taking off for cleaner destinations. In fact, I was stopped at the door and told by an armed guard at gunpoint to leave, immediately. The parking lot at Tribhuvan lacks scenic appeal. Usually it is full of taxi drivers smacking each other with clubs in order to grab a fare to downtown, but today there were no taxis. Lucky for me, after several trips to Kathmandu I was familiar with the lay of the land, so I stood on the road and flagged the first taxi I could find and survived the ride back into the city, shaken but not stirred.
The Kathmandu Guest House in the Thamel tourist district is a pleasant respite from the utter cacophony that lies outside its gates, with a nice garden and a little restaurant where I had stayed and eaten before, and if you spend some money they don’t through you out right away. I read a book until lunch time, and then ordered some chicken while checking my watch and wondering if I took another taxi back to the airport if I would get chucked out on the street again. Not wishing to push my luck, and having to take two more taxi rides through what passes for pavement in Kathmandu, I dawdled. After spending much of the afternoon there, I went back to the airport again, three hours early but this time allowed to enjoy the sumptuous luxury that is the passenger lounge, although given there were half a million people swarming the building I had to sit on the floor.
After three previous trips to Kathmandu I am aware of a trap that has snared many visitors departing the city by air. Nepali currency (the rupee) has absolutely no value outside the country. Even in India, which has its own rupee, no Nepali currency is accepted. Those who are aware of this usually get rid of their currency in the Tribhuvan gift shop, where tacky souvenirs like fridge magnets can be purchased at the usual exorbitant prices. I have a nice plastic Buddha fridge magnet myself. What I learned on my first trip to Nepal has stood me in good stead.
An intrepid traveller such as myself soon learns to keep an Uncle Sam Twenty tucked into his shoe. American money is accepted in many places around the world, although I would decline to offer it for payment in China if I were you. You never know when you need an emergency stash of cash. After you have spent all your money at the airport gift shop, and pass through security, you may notice a small sign on the wall saying “Departure fee $20.” It may be the airport authorities have subsequently removed that sign because of repercussions. Those who have divested themselves of worthless Nepali currency tend to go into shock. On three trips to the country I have seen innocent tourists break down and cry when faced with this extortion. Worse yet, they are forced to break down and beg other passengers for money, which can be embarrassing.
For some reason, at this time I forget what airline I used to take me home. I can attest it wasn’t Biman Air, a Bangladeshi airline I had taken once before and somehow lived to tell the tale. Airlines should never allow passengers to fire up Bunsen burners in the aisles to cook their dinner and i always prefer doors on the toilets. Google the phrase “worst airline in the world” and see what pops up. At any rate, the aircraft took off successfully and we escaped into the void, heading for a 5-hour flight to Hong Kong and then eventually back to Vancouver, many hours later. I settled into my seat, fully aware that I would not be able to sleep but happy to be on my way.
There was a long delay to change planes at Hong Kong airport, and I was exhausted, so I simply installed the lock I had brought for this purpose to my wrist, to the bench on which I was lying, and to my bag. Sleep did not come, but I managed to keep awake long enough to switch planes, because the only thing worse than driving in Nepal is missing any plane when it takes off. As it turns out, there are some things worse than missing a plane, and one of them is wanting to get off the plane before it arrives home.
We were about halfway across the Pacific when it started, first as a growl in my stomach. I am a fearless flyer; I don’t get nervous on airplanes. I assume that there is someone in the cockpit who knows how to fly a plane, and my only responsibility is to sit in my seat for an eternity and suffer silently. Air sickness bags are always available in the pouch in the seat in front of you for the nervous, but I had never used one, although I had the pleasure of sitting next to my son one time when he came down with food poisoning flying from Thailand to Cambodia, and thank goodness for towels, both above and below so to speak. I know of someone who once sat next to an elderly man when that gentleman died, an experience I don’t wish to explore further, so we won’t discuss that now.
The first impulse came very quickly. One moment I was suddenly feeling unwell, and the next moment I had deposited my lunch into the paper bag provided for such emergencies. To say this event did not go over well with the passenger next to me is more understatement. The odour alone was enough to put you off your own lunch, if you had eaten any lunch, which I had done in the lovely shade of the Kathmandu Guest House. I had been violently ill before in Nepal (a parasite obtained on a month long trek over the Himalayas) but in that instance I had the luxury of regurgitating in the privacy of my crummy toilet in my crummy hotel room. This was different.
I was forced to get up, either to the satisfaction or annoyance of my seatmate, and take my business to the toilet, from which I returned both shaken and stirred. Sad to say, the fun was just starting. Sitting back in my seat, I could feel things stirring on the other end of the spectrum, requiring me — and my now ex-friend — to take off our seatbelts and get up again, and again. Although I am sure he wanted me to get off the plane, this did not prove feasible. Racked by spasms, I had to return yet again to the toilet.
Taking one look at my face, a flight attendant brought me a bottle of water. She also offered professional device that I should simply stay in the toilet, possibly because she didn’t relish the possibility of cleaning up my seat. So I did, and every hour or so she would tap on the door and offer me some more water. There I remained, like Rodin’s statue of the Thinker, head in hands and posterior on the bowl, turning around only when nature compelled. I could hear the muttering of voices outside, and the occasional tap on the door, there being a restricted number of toilets aboard, but I lacked the energy to tell the savages where to go.
The airport in Vancouver is located south of the city and is serviced by a subway, which I rode to downtown, where I walked (perhaps I should say “crawled”) to the Seabus to cross the harbour to the North Shore where I lived, and transferred to a bus, getting off a block from where I lived. It was a very long walk home, more of a stumble, dragging my suitcase behind me. I managed to open the door and drop face first on the bed. It had been 36 hours since I had last slept and even though it was only mid-day I went out like a light.
My dreams were awful, including the nightmare that I was dying, which caused me to sit upright, shaking with fear or something even worse. There was an odour emanating from beneath the sheets. An error had occurred and required immediate rectification, if you catch my drift. Completely exhausted, nonetheless I was forced to remake the bed, before falling back beneath new sheets, dead tired but not yet dead. When I woke up several hours later, I realized I needed to go to a hospital or clinic immediately. Once there I was required to provide — surprise, surprise — a stool sample.
The results were delivered the next morning. I was suffering from campylobacter, a dangerous form of food poisoning usually obtained from undercooked chicken. I was determined to be a “health hazard,” requiring medication and treatment, although I assumed that main health hazard was to me in case I died. The disease, if you can call it that, lasts about a week, during which time you are advised to stay away from other people but also to stay close to a toilet. As George Woodcock wrote in his story about his similar situation in the Peruvian Andes, it was “only a bad trip,” and, as he said, there was still a worse one yet to come.
So cheer up! Life is beautiful! I’d even go back to Nepal again, if offered another free trip, although I may give the fried chicken at the KGH a miss. If you are a fan of schadenfreude, this is your chance to enjoy a good laugh, although I have to admit the experience wasn’t so funny when it happened.