I have an idea of going to Mustang in the Himalayas and need to go through a trekking agency to get into a restricted area. I get a couple quotes and they were expensive, so I negotiate over several days. Finally, the agent says the plan is 99% confirmed. They want to go on the main travel route, but I want an alternative route. At least they concede I can discuss the plan with my guide as we go.

I meet with them and the plan starts to come loose. The price is higher and I am reluctant to proceed so I take a walk around the block to think. The final decision comes down to a toss of my lucky one yen coin and I am going tomorrow. Hopefully I will have some stories to share.

I put on my serious face for trek preparations and head out to the streets of Kathmandu.

I come across some super nice, helpful and honest people selling their wares. Other sellers are opportunistic, for understandable reasons, but their half-truths and manipulation grate against my sense of mutual respect. They seem good at guessing what you’re willing to pay. I try to shop where locals do, and get treated more fairly.

I meet a family friend for a cup of tea. He is very happy to look after my things while I go trekking. He refers to me as ‘my brother’. I learn to say this in Nepalese, which pleased him. He invited me to dinner after my trek.

We talked about life, family, work and opportunity. I asked about his views on tourists and how the locals felt. Like anywhere, there are responsible tourists and selfish ones. Some think that because they have money they can do what they want, without respecting local people and customs.

The rain is increasing as I walk but I refuse to bail out. In the evening I find a shoe repairer in a back alley to put a strap on my hat, then head to a bookshop.

I pick up a book by a linguist who travelled through Mustang in 1954. Traditional culture is still well preserved there, though modernisation is creeping in. I talk to the guy behind the counter about my sense that I did not really belong there as a Westerner. He immediately pointed out that they are very welcoming people, and gave some assurance that the tourism industry supports their livelihood. I try to accept that progress is inevitable, though am still uneasy.

At the hotel I paw open the book and start schooling up on Mustang. The area is inside the traditional boundary between Nepalese people and Tibetans. I do not understand the history of how the Nepal border with China was agreed. In any case, the peoples’ main language is Tibetan, as is their building architecture, dress, religion, and attitude to life. Nobody I spoke to in Kathmandu seemed eager to acknowledge this openly. Perhaps because Tibet is under Chinese control and people here keep politics to themselves.

A few things went unlucky this afternoon.

I was getting no power the sockets at the hotel room. I mentioned to the host the fuse might be blown, and they arranged a time for an electrician to come when I could be there.

In the meantime I started to cook lunch, and when I opened the packet of rice I bought, little black bugs came crawling out. Not so appetising.

Rain was forecast, and the electrician made it on his motor bike before then. I find out I was simply supposed to put the plastic card they gave me into a slot for the power to work. The room instructions explained this, though I was exhausted when I arrived from my flight and I overlooked the detail. That was embarrassing and I offered to cover the call out fee.

I put on a load of washing before it bucketed with rain. When I went to check it 30 minutes later, the washing machine on the roof was submerged in an inch of water.

Someone selling pumpkins for a living in Nepal would have a modest life, and yet I noticed people always carry themselves with a sense of dignity. There seems to be a lesson for anyone distracted by materialism.

Labourers transporting vegetables seem to have it tough, but they’re probably glad to even have an income.

Bargaining is an expectation, not an option in countries like this. Deals go on around the clock.

Market sellers would not get away with smoking back home. I thought she was tough for putting out a cigarette with her tongue.

It seems impossible to not stand out as different in a place like this. I resolve to still value what I have in common, and buying from street sellers seems like one way.

I visited a textile factory in Kathmandu for 4 hours. I liked meeting the workers, and could see the attention to detail and skill they had in making quality garments. One person I spoke to had been working there 33 years. He was a garment cutter and also made the clothing templates. He was happy to try and communicate with me even with neither of us knowing the other’s language well, though he understood English better than I understood Nepalese. The atmosphere of camaraderie reminded me of any workplace at home in Australia.

I wondered about their lot in life. Their aspirations are the same as everyone else’s overseas. People at this factory would have better conditions and pay than many in Nepal.

The machinery was fascinating. The knitting machines had about 100 switches, and the operator would slide a roller over the bench part and the needles would add a row of thread. Then they can program the next row with a different sequence according to the desired pattern. There could be four or more different threads loaded in at once. This style is not traditional hand knitting but it’s still hand made, and no stage in making garments is automated.

I thought of going to Nepal at the same time as dad without telling him and surprising him. I got one of my brothers to subtly ask what hotel he’s staying at, and just say it’s so there’s a point of contact if needed.

I went straight there from the airport. The hotel staff said he’d just gone out for the afternoon, so I asked for their help to call me when he returned. They were in.

I had just unpacked when they rang, and they kept it a secret. I had booked a place nearby and walked over. He was in the room so was completely unsuspecting when I knocked. He was definitely surprised!

The only downside was waking him up from a nap, leaving him confused for the first couple of seconds after opening the door.

I am the only white person on the flight to Nepal. I am pleased to be outside of my familiar environment.

We admire breathtaking views of the mountains flying across Tibet from China.

I took a selfie at Chengdu Airport in China to capture the moment of embarking on something new.

The in-flight program includes a series of pressure point massages to boost mood after the long flight. Everyone on the plane does them at the same time. I find this use of Chinese acupressure impressive and noteworthy.

Striving for eternity

Spectral Classes of Fixed Stars was published by the German Central Pedagogical Institute (DPZI). It’s hung on the hallway at my apartment and I’ve passed it a thousand times. My friend suggested I meet the authors, which sounded like a worthwhile idea, but I’m not going to have any luck tracking them down.

Directly affiliated with the Ministry of National Education, the DPZI was the central non-university research institution in the field of education and schools in the East Germany from 1949 to 1970. The institute was meant to become less scientific, but politically effective, by turning the “democratic school” into a more useful strength for socialist society.

My Own Private Idaho speaks to ‘being normal’ by juxtaposition. I identify with Mike’s unrequited love, failures, disillusionment and misfortune. The one thing dear, friendship, eventually jettisoned by a twist of social circumstance. Mike’s is life a microcosm of what is inevitable one way or another for everyone, intensified at the boundaries of what one human could bear, sharpening the question if 'normal’ is ever a reality for anyone.

The visceral but stylised tone of this movie made it one of my favourites.