I'm swaying back and forth, vision blurred. I have no idea where we are but, then again, I would have been lost as soon as we left Thamel if I was stone cold sober. And by this point, its half past midnight, I'm drunk as hell, and the city has gone dark.
Maybe that last Ghorka beer was a bad idea.
Sunil is supposed to be guiding us home but thanks to my mile long stride I keep ending in front and almost losing the group. This is how I end up breaking away and going down a side street, where a man on the side of the street walks up to me, puts his face right up to my ear, and whispers:
"Hashish?"
I stare at him and giggle. This is an extremely common occurrence in Thamel but I've never been drunk enough or alone enough to take one of the city's many enterprising hash dealers up on the offer. I finger the rupees in my pocket.
"How much?"

---


"Yeah man, we can go to some local bars tonight, it will be so cool. Sunil knows all the best places in Thamel."
Our always enthusiastic friend and guide gestures over to his cousin, Sunil, sitting in the corner looking over a massive sitar in his lap. He does not play the sitar but he's sure as hell trying.
I'd been dying to get drunk from the moment I'd stepped into the first of many airports that brought me here to Kathmandu and so I tell him, already a little buzzed from the two Ghorkas I'd had with dinner, that this is a great idea.

---

"I think this is the place. He said it was right by Kathmandu Guest House." We look around outside the gates of the place and we spot it. The Buddha Bar. Sunil sees us and bring us inside. It's dark, loud, and crowded, just a like any good bar should be. I miss the comforts of home, I'm dying for some McDonalds or some Starbucks, but at least the bars feel familiar.
"This is my favorite bar in Thamel. I'm friends with the owner," he shouts over the cover band. Every bar in Nepal has a cover band, to the point that I think they might be required by law. We take a seat by the window and a waiter brings over a big hookah and places it on the table. We all order a round of drinks. And then another. And then another.

---

I'm bent over the toilet, knees on the damp tile floor, and she's rubbing my back and whispering soothing words. Thank god she's awake. And thank god for the western toilet in the house, because vomiting into a Nepali squat toilet seems even more unpleasant than normal toilet vomiting. I find myself wishing I'd acquired some hashish -- something to calm my stomach -- but Sunil found me before the hash dealer could even give me a price. "He is a crazy man," He told me, "don't buy anything from him." To be fair, my drunk ass, still getting used to the value a rupee, would have spent much-too-much money on the hashish. When I try again to buy some, sober this time, the dealer tries to charge me "one fifty USD" for 10 grams. I'd later discover that, at "Nepali price," this should be about 1500 rupees, roughly fifteen bucks, but here in Kathmandu, I get the "Tourist price" which means at least a 100% markup.
The next morning, when I refuse breakfast because my stomach isn't settled, Shrijana, woman of the house, says to me "Yes, I heard you last night after you all came home. I'm glad you're enjoying Kathmandu."