Dreams are made of this: flying into a landlocked country where a few years ago Maoist guerrillas roamed and a royal family played out Machiavellian intrigues that would culminate in blood and death. Kathmandu. Backpack. Boots. A foot trek of six days. Sleeping rough, walking tough, with promises of glaciers, spectacular mountains, remote villages. Oh, and leeches. The excitement about Himalayan adventures, however, overwhelms worries about blood-suckers and soggy boots. Kathmandu to Pokhara. A dressed-up bus chugs into view and we are on our way along narrow, winding roads flanked by hills of terraced, emerald rice paddies. No toll roads, no One-Stops. But many stops for samosas, masala chai and lassis sold by roadside vendors. Pokhara at sunset is like arriving in a wonderland. The light shimmers and speeds across a lake that hugs the town and disappears into the surrounding mountains. A path around the water is lined with cafes and bars, people boating, fishing, feasting. Chaos o...

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