Feeling invigorated by some resting days in Doha, I put on my white shirt and pack a light crew bag for my next layover in Kathmandu, this time the fatigue felt on my last flight to the Nepalese capital refreshingly not in sight. The flight to Kathmandu is again an interesting mix of passengers, which range from the poor labourers waving passports and wrinkled boarding cards, to the rich Westerner backpackers, Moleskine in hands.

Simple in behaviour, the labourers do not seem to be familiar with the toilet facilities, which at a point in the journey have to be closed, and spend their time flicking through the in-flight entertainment and sleeping, call bells constantly pressed by mistake in a constant festival of blue overhead lights.

Their tired faces show years of battling heat and slavery in the Middle East and perhaps only light up at the passing of the drink cart.

     ‘So there I was on my little taxi , picture here , picture there, car here, car there, tuk tuk here , tuk tuk there, COW! those are sacred. Every curve was a thrill as the road is wide enough for only one car and sometimes you could see the car in front of you on the curve having to break immediately and give some room for the car to pass by. My taxi driver was just laughing so much at my reactions and the fact that I kept saying: ‘Be careful’, ‘You can take as much time as you want , as long as I get there alive’.

Behold Mount Everest.

In front of me, only a broad valley separates me from the base of the mighty Himalayas. The peaks transform in colour and shape as they gain altitude, acquiring tones of grey and white eternal snow at the very top. Wow, just wow.
I breathe the pure Himalayan air and desperately try to soak it all in. The food shack next to the outlook viewpoint plays the relaxing tunes of arbajo and bansuri, the Nepalese music in the background turning the experience complete and suspending it in time for good.

Exhausted, I fall asleep on the return journey, somehow becoming oblivious to the narrow mountain road and the lack of traffic laws.

At the hotel, I sleep for an extra couple of hours and hit the treadmill on the top floor of the hotel, whilst the sun sets against the distant mountains of the Kathmandu valley. At night, I once again indulge on small dishes of curry and paratta at the hotel before I retreat to my room to watch the Swimming World Championships in Rome and finally fall asleep.

In the morning, a heavy Airbus sends shock waves of pure engine thrust as it climbs for its Bangkok flight, our flight being next to roar across the hollow valley. We sharply turn left and see the top of Mount Everest protruding from the clouds in the turbulent morning sky.  Foul-smelling mutton is served and passengers fall asleep before the midday arrival into Doha.

I meet my friends for lunch at the Souq and a birthday present turns into a memorable souvenir of dish-dashes and abayahs.
Bicycles are bought next in an attempt to become fitter amidst the Arabian summer, the cycle home to become a short sample of pure heat torture.

With the minimum rest completed, I return to the airport for an Abu Dhabi night stop. With only thirty five minutes between take off and landing, a sandwich and a drink are handed to the few passengers on the half-empty plane in which most are sleeping.
At midnight, the airport in Abu Dhabi is busy with connecting traffic and I wander around the duty free shops looking for any interesting item to buy, returning to the aircraft empty-handed.
Passengers board our aircraft at sunrise and we hop across the sea to Doha, where a hazy heat finally welcomes me into two days of relaxation and much needed sleep.

With all debts now finally paid, I guarantee I will indeed have peaceful dreams.