George Mallory was found 75 years after he, along with fellow mountaineer Andrew Irvine, went missing in June 1924, less than 250m from the summit of Mount Everest. Mallory’s remains — and Irvine’s ice axe — were discovered in 1999 and it is still a matter of debate and research if the British duo was the first to scale the peak.
Sitting in the lobby of Kathmandu’s Hotel Annapurna, named after the massif that is considered more challenging than Everest, I kept thinking of the Irvine axe. It was early morning — 4.45 am to be precise and not the most advisable hour to be thinking of tools that can also be used for murder. (There is no healthy hour to be thinking of murder, anyway, but you know what I mean.) But it was the second day in a row that I was going to miss the sunrise at Everest, the (dis)credit for which goes to a clutch of Indian journalists I was travelling with.
The tour guide, looking equally murderous, tried to cheer me up by saying that the sunrise that morning was likely to be less impressive than usual. He had said the same thing the day before, when we reached the Kathmandu airport more than 30 minutes after our mountain flight had left for the sunrise trip. The latecomers showed or felt no regret. They looked confident and smug as they descended the wooden staircase on Day Two of late arrival, singing paeans to the virtues of bed tea in kick-starting a day.
We drove to the airport again, in the bizarre hope that every other passenger on the flight shared the group’s general disregard for punctuality. We were wrong. The Korean and the Chinese journalists were on time. So was the sun. I returned from Nepal without a dekko at the peak that even George Everest hadn’t seen. Maybe he, too, was stuck in a group that runs on Indian Stretchable Time.
Lack of punctuality was just one of the problems. Among other things — the trip was almost 10 years ago, so there are some instances that my memory has auto-deleted — I still remember my “ISD-wala” phone being passed around the group for urgent “home calls”. The tones of those calls were surprisingly relaxed, and the conversation moved anywhere from the new school shoes for Gunnu to the non-availability of cabbage momos at Durbar Square. And in the middle of an elephant safari in Nepal’s Chitwan National Park, after two very convenient sightings of radio-collared rhinos, a woman — a TV anchor — decided to shatter the silence of the forest with an announcement: That her elephant was not listening to the mahout. The communiqué was loud enough to alert every Chitwan creature of the presence of Indians in the Terai. By the end of the trip, I didn’t even want to return to India.
The same feeling resurfaced two years later, on my maiden trip to Japan. Punctuality wasn’t an issue that time around — being late in Japan is tantamount to inviting social boycott. I was really glad to see fellow travellers skipping breakfast in order to reach the hotel lobby on time. I was equally appalled when the same bunch demanded their pound of paneer for dinner. “Only vegetarian,” said the loudest (proudest too) of them all. He added “Indian vegetarian” for effect, driving the mild-mannered Japanese guides up the Tokyo Skytree. The set Indian meals — naan, paneer tikka, dal makhani (carnivores got butter chicken instead) and kheer — were straight out of a horror show. As were the restaurants that claimed to be as Indian as the samosa (oh wait, that’s Central Asian!). But nothing seemed to affect the dedicated vegetarian bunch — neither the growing irritation among fellow travellers who wanted only ramen and tempura nor the agony of the tour organisers, who struggled to find Indian food round the clock. The trauma ended when we moved to a small town in Hokkaido island, where no one had heard of paneer or paratha.
The Indian thali — if there is such a thing — fascinates many Indians, especially when they are abroad. Eyes well up at the mention of jeera, lal mirch (red chilli) triggers the flow of tears and the desi ghee stirs memories of a home that you left barely a day ago. The combination of such emotions can subvert discretion and judgement, making you forget that when in Rome, you don’t do a Haridwar. If you must keep away from animal protein, there are things such as breads, curries, pastas, cheeses and grilled vegetables. But trying to sell this to the “hardcore veg” is like trying to sell a dream to a pessimist. So be it Durban or Dublin, you are likely to spend considerable time in ensuring that they eat well. Else the duck leg confit won’t sit well in your stomach.
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If not by food, many travel groups are often polarised by money. How much is too much when it comes to duty-free shopping? Or how little is little when it comes to tipping. The first concern is a lesser beast (though the debate over how much time is needed for shopping remains inconclusive). The second — when it comes to rewarding the chauffeur or the porter — can expose you to a fellow traveller’s financial galaxy.
On numerous occasions, I was told that two euros make a significant difference to a family’s weekend movie budget; that a hundred Thai bahts is the other name for a bathrobe from Lajpat Nagar; that money is not everything; that plastic fridge magnets are vehicles of “pyoor” love and appreciation; that CTC tea leaves from an unheard of estate on Nicobar island carries the fragrance of India. Conversion rates have no role to play here; even in countries where the rupee is stronger — a rarity, really — you will encounter the tight-budget version. And in the country where the rupee has to compete with only itself, tipping is an even rarer phenomenon.
The easiest way to avoid looking cheap — collectively cheap — is to shell out more from your own pocket. That probably will affect your amaretto buying or the acquisition of the cast-iron paella pan, but it’s better that a Ronald or a Thapa remembers you for being thoughtful. If, by chance, your group decides to buy a gift for the main guide, you may have to foot the entire bill. Even if it means that you don’t have money left for even a coffee.
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Coffee, or whatever it takes to make your mornings perky, can be another source of conflict. There are few who budget for beverages that are outside the package. Even if it means being thirsty, and badly behaved, for three hours. But someone who insists on a flat white before the museum tour can be tough to handle. Guides may have to run three km in each direction to find the brew. And if it’s not flat or white enough, then the rest of the day could be about how even sawdust tastes better in another city in another country on another continent.
No matter how bad the coffee or the kahwa , the world must see it. Correction: The world must see you with it. In order to facilitate this world-view, you need photos for Instagram. This could come at the cost of missing a musical or the last train to Munich. Don’t oblige the Insta addict; pretend you don’t know what photography is. Or you will be the “cameraperson” for the rest of the trip — up to the immigration counter.
When you are finally back home, after helping “severely jet-lagged” group members to their sedans at the arrival terminal, you can laugh over the many takeaways from the trip. It takes all kinds to make the world, is what I am told every time I return with fewer hairs. You can’t always have the good companion/s. Be it in life or your dream vacation.