It’s plum rain season, which means that when it rains, the drops are quite fittingly, the size of plums. Often the drops fall in such intensity that they merge into one cascading wall of liquid misery. It’s not even refreshing rain, as it’s so hot it just feels like the sky is sweating. In between the downpours (which have caused rather severe floods elsewhere) it’s about as humid as a Turkish bath house. Or just a bath.
It’s in this comfortable climate that I stood in an actual pool of shite today. I was going for a quick pee behind an advertising hoarding after some victorious pool playing, when I lost my footing and plonked my foot right into a small pit of human excrement. It was obviously the spot where the nearby tuk-tuk drivers go to relieve themselves. And it was now the spot that I placed my pristine white trainer. It went right up to the ankle. Aussie Ben heard me swear repeatedly and then got the laugh of the day as I staggered out from behind the hoarding with one white shoe and one sloppy brown shoe. Truly disappointing.
Also disappointing me this week was the Indian Consulate who informed me (after two days of searching for the bloody place) that in order to obtain a visa for their country I needed a plane ticket INTO the country. I told them I was entering overland from Nepal. They shrugged and told me I needed an air ticket. I told them I wasn’t taking a plane as I was entering overland from Nepal. They shrugged and told me I needed an air ticket. I murmured that this would be perhaps pointless as I was crossing the border from Nepal in a bus and not in a plane. They shrugged. So I left. That afternoon I received an e-mail from a friend telling me Indian visas can now be obtained at Katmandu (with no air ticket). So that will have to do. James Bond never had to bother with this pish.