Jessica Anne Khalid had never had a passport. She’d never been out of the country. She would have gone after Mo to Pakistan in search of Leila, but that needed a passport and that cost money which she didn’t have, never mind the airfare. But a whole new world opened up for Jess Jeffries the day she decided to go to Nepal.
She sat in her Business Class seat on the Emirates flight to Kathmandu, via Dubai, and watched her fellow travellers boarding, slowly filling up all the vacant seats, many of them dragging carry-on luggage, most of them making their way to the economy section behind her. She was fascinated by the cross-section of humanity: white people, black people, Asians, Orientals, businessmen, backpackers, women and children, all ages, all shapes and sizes and all, apart from her, it seemed, knowing what they were doing because, in all likelihood, they had done it all before.
She sensed envious eyes on her from the economy passengers shuffling past her seat, no doubt wondering who had paid for her expensive fare. Rich kid? Sugar daddy? Well, either or both, she might have to concede.
Michael and Emma had taken her to the airport, and after a lengthy list of instructions from Michael, numerous dos and don’ts from Emma and a tearful farewell, they left her at the Business Class check-in desk. She was treated like royalty and a personal representative escorted her to the executive lounge where, remarkably, all the food and drink was free and plentiful. She was totally bewildered and thoroughly excited.
She watched her fellow Business Class passengers, fascinated. An Arab, resplendent in white thaub and keffiyeh, a woman in black abaya and hijab, exotic women in designer clothing dripping jewellery, and sharp-suited businessmen in crisp white shirts with laptops and tablet computers.
She foraged around in the pockets and compartments of her seat. A blanket, a pillow, a bag containing socks, earplugs, black eye mask and flat black slippers; another containing headphones and a leather vanity case filled with luxury toiletries. A tall, elegant flight attendant stopped by her seat, bearing a tray of drinks.
“Good evening, Miss Jeffries,” she said pleasantly. How does she know my name? “Would you care for a drink? We have mineral water, fruit juice or champagne.” Jess hesitated, unsure of what to say.
“Er, how much is that?” she asked. The woman smiled.
“It’s complimentary, madam.” Complimentary? Madam? Jess raised her eyebrows and beamed.
“Champagne, please. If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” The woman placed a small glass bowl of mixed nuts, a padded paper mat and a fizzing champagne flute on the console next to her. Jess turned her head surreptitiously to see what everyone else was having and noticed the Arabs were on orange juice and the businessmen on water. But, she spotted with relief, one middle-aged woman with obviously dyed hair, sunglasses and copious amounts of gold jewellery was holding a flute like hers. She looked around to see if anyone was watching and took a sip. It was cold, sparkly and glorious.
“Menu, Miss Jeffries?” Jess was taken by surprise, accidentally inhaling champagne through her nose, and looked up, coughing and spluttering. Another exotic goddess was standing over her holding out a stiff booklet, her make-up rich and dense, her teeth sparkling white and her smile as perfectly formed as her figure.
“Thank you,” said Jess after a moment, recovering her composure. The woman walked on to the next seat and Jess opened the booklet. There were no prices. It’s complimentary, madam! She giggled with delight and sat back in her seat.
She barely noticed take-off, the huge A380 betraying little sensation of movement, and in no time it was dark outside so there was nothing to see through the window. But there was plenty to keep her entertained on board; a three-course meal with wine, films and flight information on her personal screen, people constantly moving around and the flight attendants patrolling the aisles, seeing to their every need. She even had time for a sleep, once she had worked out which buttons turned her seat into a bed.
But three hours into the flight, movement in the cabin settled down and the lights were dimmed, leaving just the glow of one or two personal reading lights to punctuate the gloom. She decided she would find the toilet so got out of her seat and headed back down the plane towards the bulkhead separating Business from Economy. The cubicles on her side were occupied so she crossed over to the other aisle. She found the washroom, discovered how everything worked and used all the supplies, including the fragrant soap, hand lotion and complimentary perfume.
But when she exited, she turned the wrong way and was halfway down the opposite aisle before realising her mistake. As she retraced her steps, her eyes fell on a middle-aged man, forty or fifty, sitting in the last row of Business Class. His head was back, eyes closed, and he appeared to be asleep. He was scruffily dressed in jeans and crumpled shirt and she could see he was unshaven and his hair unkempt. Not your typical Business Class passenger. She chided herself for her unwitting snobbery. As if he could read her mind, his eyes suddenly opened and he gave her a warm smile. She felt herself blushing and moved on swiftly around the bulkhead and back to her seat.
The landing was as smooth and uneventful as take-off. Jess stuffed the vanity bag in her rucksack and followed the other passengers off the plane, accepting the best wishes from the flight attendants, all of whom looked as perfect and fresh as they had seven hours earlier. Her connecting flight wouldn’t leave for a couple of hours so she gaped through the windows of some of the designer shops in Dubai airport and then went to the executive lounge to freshen up.
She called Keira from the lounge.
“Jess, you only left this morning!”
“I know, but I can’t help it.”
“They’re fine. They’re gorgeous. Don’t worry, we’ll look after them.”
An hour later she boarded the Boeing 777 for the four-hour flight to Kathmandu, noticing with some disdain the plane was not quite up to the same standard as the previous one. Then she laughed at herself for being so fussy. Look at you now, international traveller!
She tucked into the food, but stayed off the wine. She was already feeling tired and knew it would be mid-morning when they landed, and she didn’t want to arrive with a hangover, however mild.
She spotted one or two of her fellow passengers from the London flight, including the scruffy guy in the jeans, but thought nothing of it. There was no reason to think she was the only person travelling from London to Nepal. Maybe he’s an explorer or mountain climber?
The plane landed and taxied to its gate. She disembarked, and in the heat and dust and sweat and filth and noise of Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu, Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal, her luxurious journey abruptly ended.
She needed a visa, readily available from one of the many desks, provided she fill in a form, get in a queue and hand over forty dollars and a photo. Sandy had said the easiest way to get one was on arrival, although having queued for thirty minutes in the increasing humidity, she was not so sure.
The visa desks were each manned by three or four mainly middle-aged Nepalese, each tasked with shuffling, stamping, folding and stapling bits of paper, the most senior one handling the cash. Eventually, she handed over her money and documents, and after much theatre, jabbering and gesticulation, she was given a receipt which she then had to take to another queue to get the visa.
The people queuing comprised mostly trekkers and backpackers; young and old alike, all kitted out, like her, in walking boots, tee shirts and cargo pants or shorts, all with a rucksack hanging from one shoulder. But there were also some conventionally dressed tourists, mostly European, all engaged in the visa ritual.
And then it was on to the passport queue where the visa, issued not more than a few minutes previously, was examined closely by severe-looking men in military-type uniforms, before being stamped ceremoniously and the holder waved through. Jess noticed a similarly chaotic process at the local immigration queues, where ethnic Nepalese waited impatiently to flash their passports and get home from their work in India or elsewhere.
But the humidity and cacophony in arrivals was nothing compared to the baggage hall, where chaos reigned. Kit bags, tent bags, suitcases and capacious rucksacks, no doubt stuffed full with fleeces, jackets and sundry all-weather gear, vied for space on the rickety carousels along with large cardboard boxes wrapped in clear plastic, boasting flat screen TVs, computers or similar pieces of electronic hardware. And to make space on the overloaded machinery, men in yellow tee shirts pulled items off the moving conveyor and tossed them onto the floor where they piled up like dead bodies, their owners clambering over each other like vultures to get to their belongings.
Jess looked left and right amongst the pile, searching in vain for her bag, unable to get close to the carousel, jostled and pushed by people of all ages, shapes and sizes, gripping her carry-on, beginning to despair of ever seeing hers appear. And then it did. A brand new North Face soft bag with her readily identifiable label flew on top of a pile of others, and she launched herself into the throng, grabbing one of the handles and hauling it to safety before it could be buried.
She staggered over to the exit, relieved it was all over, and the crowds thinned in the corridor as people made their way out. But it wasn’t over. Another security check. Men in military uniforms, some with machine guns, checking baggage tags with baggage receipts.
Then out through automatic sliding doors to the main concourse where the madness increased ten-fold. Hundreds of men, shouting, waving their arms around, some holding up cards bearing names of myriad nationalities scrawled in felt tip, others with official travel company signs, all shrieking at her and everyone else, while others tried to take her bags off her. “Taxi, miss. Me take bag. Good taxi.”
She clung on to her bags, trying to be polite.
“No, thank you! No, thank you!” she said while being pushed and shoved in all directions, the heat and dust increasing as she staggered and fought her way closer to the outside doors. And then, above the cacophony, a sound she recognised.
“Miss Jess! Miss Jess!” A Nepalese man grabbed her arm and pushed his way through the dense crowd of bodies, dragging her behind him to the relative safety of the fresh air outside.
“Oh God! What a nightmare,” said Jess, doubled up, trying to catch her breath, wheezing and sweating in the heat and immediately wondering if this air was fresh, what did they do for pollution?
“Miss Jess? Welcome to Kathmandu.” She looked up. Sujay Bahadur Gurung held out a hand, smiling broadly, still clutching a handwritten sign reading “Jeffries”, which she hadn’t noticed before.
“Sujay?” she gasped, still struggling for breath as her throat and lungs tingled from an acrid substance in the air she couldn’t identify, but guessed was simply something burning.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“How did you find me?” she said, still panting.
“It’s my job.” It sounded a simple enough answer to a stupid question. “Come. Let me take your bags.” With no perceivable effort he slung both of them over his shoulder and gestured to the car park opposite. He stayed beside her and held her arm as he dragged her across the road, holding up his hand from time to time to stop the traffic amidst the blast of horns while engines rattled and roared and black smoke billowed all around them.
“Is it always like this?” she shouted, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Oh, no. This is a quiet day,” he laughed.
They reached the car park and he helped her into the back of an open minibus. He slid the side door shut and got into the front seat next to the driver. “This is Mitesh, my brother.” Mitesh turned and gave her a crooked grin, pressing his palms together.
“Namaste.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and rammed the stick into gear and, with lots of engine revving and horn blasting, inched the minibus out of the car park and into the traffic.
“Is it your first time in Kathmandu?” asked Sujay.
“Yes.” Nobody comes here twice, surely?
“We have thirty minutes to your hotel. It’s only two kilometres, but” – he shrugged – “you know ... traffic.” She looked out of the dusty, dirty window. The roads and streets and pavements were crowded, heaving with cars and scooters and bicycles, carts pulled by horses, carts pushed by people, people moving in all directions, people just sitting around on their haunches on the pavement, skinny dogs trotting about, dodging the traffic, stray mules chewing languidly on dusty, dried-up vegetation and small fires burning everywhere, spewing out noxious black smoke.
Randomly sited and vertically challenged telegraph poles supported an impossibly knotted mass of wires, with hundreds of cables snaking out in all directions like tangled spaghetti. She stared at the buildings, their state of dilapidation leaving her unsure as to whether they were still under construction or being torn down. She had never seen anything like it.
“Dwarika’s is an excellent hotel,” said Sujay. “Very fine. The best place to stay in Kathmandu.” He nodded to himself in satisfaction. She felt a degree of comfort in that, but wondered why, if it was only two kilometres away, there was not yet any evidence that the dereliction she could see all around her might magically transform into luxury accommodation. Then the penny dropped, or so she thought.
“It looks like it’s taking time for things to be rebuilt after the earthquake.”
“Oh, no. This area was not affected.” She didn’t know whether to feel shame or embarrassment at her faux pas or to laugh out loud. Welcome to Kathmandu!
***
The street was lined with windowless buildings, some propped up on bamboo stilts, some without roofs, the shops at ground level open to the dust and filth blown around by the relentless traffic and the endless crowds going about their business.
The minibus suddenly veered across the pavement through an archway and came to rest in front of two giant oak doors. Sujay jumped out and slid the door open. Jess hesitated. This can’t be it.
“Come, Miss Jess. We are here. Dwarika’s.” He took her hand and she stepped down gingerly from the bus. A porter in smart uniform rushed forward and stood to attention.
“Namaste,” he said, hands pressed together in front of his nose.
“Namaste,” she replied and made a feeble attempt to emulate the greeting with her hands as he ushered her through the doors. She looked around for her bags and saw another similarly dressed porter following behind carrying them, Sujay at his side. She walked slowly on – and into paradise.
An oasis of calm and serenity opened up before her. Fountains trickled and splashed all around, marigolds sprung from raised beds and huge terracotta pots. Trees sprouted from gaps amongst the flagstones beneath her feet and swallows swooped above her head, chirping and tweeting, as if serenading the weary traveller with their unique welcome. In contrast to the mayhem outside, it seemed like she’d stepped through a portal into another world.
She looked up and around and she could see the hotel was built around four sides of a giant courtyard. Guests in smart clothes sat outside a restaurant, some eating lunch or just having a drink. Across the courtyard striped parasols and loungers were arranged around a swimming pool, from which could be heard the occasional splash and whoop of delight.
Two beautiful young women in traditional costume approached her and one of them placed a garland made from fresh marigolds around her neck, then stepped back and pressed her palms together.
“Namaste,” she said, while her colleague offered Jess a tray with a single glass of orange-coloured fruit juice.
“Thank you. Namaste,” said Jess, loving it already. The women bowed and stepped aside, gesturing towards the reception desk which was set in an open-air lounge furnished with soft leather sofas and black teak carved tables.
“Miss Jess?” she turned and saw Sujay was behind her. “Would you like to check in now? Then perhaps you might like some lunch or perhaps go to your room to rest?” Jess didn’t know what she wanted; she was so dizzy with sensory overload. But he led her over to the desk where a handsome young man in a fine suit looked up and greeted her.
“Namaste, Miss Jeffries. Welcome to Dwarika’s.”
“Thank you,” she said grinning foolishly, still sipping the delicious drink.
“Your room is ready. May I have your passport and a credit card, please?” He smiled politely as she fumbled in the leg pocket of her cargo trousers and pulled out the requisite items.
“Thank you.” He swiped the card and handed the passport over to a female colleague who disappeared into the office. “You may collect your passport later.” He thrust a white sheet of paper in front of her, marking three places with a cross. “Please sign here, here and here.” She did as asked and he handed her a large bronze key. “You are in room 601. The lift is by the swimming pool. Your bags have already been taken there. Please enjoy your stay.” He bowed stiffly and she nodded, still grinning.
“This is some place.” she said to Sujay.
“The best hotel in Kathmandu,” he repeated. “I suggest you go to your room. Have shower, or take bath, have some rest. I will come back at 5 p.m. and we can talk more then.”
“Thanks, Sujay.” He started to walk away but she called after him.
“Sujay?” He stopped and turned.
“I know it’s your job, but how did you spot me in that crowd? At the airport.”
He smiled.
“I just look for the twin sister of Miss Alisha.”