After breakfast, while we were ambling somewhat aimlessly down the street, we were accosted by Greg. He had attempted to catch a bus to the business end of town, yet had somehow ended up at our part of town. It was a happy chance – Greg was certainly the one we got on with best among the three, + we lured him off to the Hungry Eye for coffee. He was quite obviously horrified by the prices there, compared to what he was paying at his end (tho’ it was still very cheap really) but overcame this with good grace, then strolled out with us towards the immigration office, to catch the bus again. We were off to apply for another trekking permit, this time for 3 weeks, commencing in a few days up in the region to the north of Kathmandu, towards the Tibetan border. This involved a delicate piece of business, however. Legally, one was supposed to have changed US$5 for each day of one’s stay, at the official rate of course, + be able to prove this on one’s official exchange card. Not that one could possibly spend such a sum on the trail, but one could appreciate that they would want to encourage somebody to change his money at the bank. We circumvented this problem by a small piece of forgery: the addition of an 0 to Val’s card, converting 15 to 150 dollars. And this worked fine. The only problem now was one of our own making – once again we had managed to visit immigration without bringing the necessary photos. And this time we couldn’t even bring them later when we collected our permits, for they were able to do everything on the spot, there + then. Val trudged off to collect them, while I sat on the steps + wrote the diary… at least until there were some interesting people to talk to.
The afternoon was wet + miserable, + we spent most of it sitting on our balcony. Even during a storm – maybe especially during a storm – it was a fine pace to sit. Only towards the end of the afternoon did we succumb + roll a joint. At some stage I went out + bought Val a small bottle of rum + some coke (she has occasional cravings for the stuff mixed), a book for myself – a collection of essays on Kurt Vonnegut – + an airmail pad. They produce these locally, hand-made paper, with a printed design on each page. We had already sent a blank one to Mar as part of her birthday present, but had also decided to send one to Pete, only this time filled up with a long letter, of which we would write alternate pages. We managed a couple of pages each during the afternoon, one pre and one post joint. Then later, taking advantage of a lull in the storm, we trotted to the nearest restaurant. Not an easy matter, with the streets pitch-black, + having huge puddles every few yards. Not being ab le to see or negotiate our way round them, we had to splash thro’. The most exciting part of the evening was when a bolt of lightning struck the ground right outside the restaurant, while thunder, the loudest I have ever heard, seemed to shake the whole town.
Our apparent inability to remember something so basic as taking photos with us when applying for a permit really is incomprehensible; this must be at least the third time the same thing has happened to us (though actually that’s not fair – it is entirely our own incompetence.)
We still remember the lightning bolt as the most spectacular we had ever witnessed… though I suppose the dope would have multiplied the effect.
