Earthquakes and muscle aches

Kathmandu was just as I expected: a filthy, chaotic clusterfuck of a place. All-encompassingly captivating and unrelentingly exhausting.

Temples and shrines sit curb-side on pollution-choked roads where porters, hawkers and street dogs jostle for position. Entire streets look like they could collapse at any second, but somehow they stay standing, and somehow Kathmandu’s tired, exhaust-blackened heart keeps beating.

© Ryan Chapman

The Nepali capital had been on my radar since I was about eight, thanks to Cotton-Eyed Joe - the 90’s hit that took school discos by storm. Where had he come from? Where did he go? Well, for reasons that remain a mystery, I thought the answer was Kathmandu.

This misheard lyric had marked Kathmandu on my conscience indelibly, and it wasn’t until I’d booked my flights nearly 30 years later that I googled the words and noticed my mistake. Oh well, too late now. Luckily in the proceeding three decades I’d developed other motivations for visiting Nepal. Namely, to trek in the Himalayas and eat as many momos as humanly possible.

© Ryan Chapman

I had a week to mooch about before the trek so I swung by Chitwan National Park for a couple of days of reasonably successful rhino and elephant spotting, before heading to the lakeside city of Pokhara. People raved about this place but I wasn’t a huge fan. I found it to be just as dirty as Kathmandu with none of the charm (stick that in the brochure!). Sure, lakes are nice, but perhaps try fishing out the plastic bottles before attempting to coax me onto a pleasure boat.

One evening in Pokhara I was sat in the only bar I’d found that made a passable whiskey sour, daydreaming about effective waste management in the developing world, and considering a midnight momo dash. There was a live rock band playing classic covers so loud that no one noticed the earthquake. At least I certainly didn’t, but to be fair the sours were not only passable; they were strong. 

The next day it was the talk of the town. At least 150 people had died in rural areas to the west. The deadliest in Nepal for nearly a decade. And so then when it was time to head into the mountains, I did so with earthquakes on my mind.

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The trek was - perhaps unsurprisingly considering the Himalayas is home to 9 of the 10 tallest mountains in the world - relentlessly up. Up literally thousands of stone steps, up winding forest trails, up zig-zigging hillside paths. Occasionally followed by a little bit of down, but then twice as much up again. Even the flat bits weren’t really flat. The joke amongst trekkers and mountain guides is that the flatter parts are merely ‘Nepali flat’. I politely laughed at that pithy observation more times than I can count.

I had mostly put the earthquake to the back of my mind, but as I was checked into a my room on the first night of the trek I was suddenly all too aware. I couldn’t help but wonder how well this flimsy looking guesthouse, clinging to the side of the mountain, would hold up. Well, I was quite literally about to find out.

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I’d barely put down my trekking poles when the room began to shake. And it was then I realised I didn’t really know what to do. I’d heard something about door frames being a safer place if there were no tables to get under, and there were definitely no tables in my tiny concrete and ply wood cell. I ignored the door frame thing and swiftly left the way I’d just come in. For a split second I considered running, but I didn’t want to cause a scene.

No obvious damage had been done - apart from to my already fragile confidence of not dying in an earthquake - but the next day I read an article with a warning from scientists that the two tremors of the previous three days could be a sign that a “massive earthquake is imminent”. I really didn’t like the sound of that so I drank some local ‘wine’ to take my mind off it. It tasted like barely diluted methylated spirit, but sure, we’ll call it wine.

© Ryan Chapman

I had originally set off with just a backpack and a mountain guide called Chandra, but bonds with other trekkers formed quickly on the trail. I bonded with an old German couple as we bitched about the huge group of obnoxious Chinese trekkers barging and yelling their way along the trail, then bonded with a family from the Czech Republic as we drank beer and played cards. I bonded with some Brits over something about the weather and then told one of the Chinese blokes that if I saw him kicking a dog again I’d kick him back twice as fucking hard. Relationships that I’ll treasure forever.

With each night of the trek, as we got deeper into the Himalayas, the accommodation got more rustic and by the last night I was checked into a rabbit hutch with a wooden plank for a bed, dirty quilts, and gaps around the window that my finger could fit through, let alone the chilly mountain air.

But every single moment of discomfort was worth it for the sunrises. Words could never do them justice, so I won’t bother trying. One morning, after an especially early rise, I stood in stunned silence for over an hour watching the sunlight slowly creep across the mountain range, completely ignoring how cold I was. I was well and truly hypnotised and officially under the Himalayan spell.

© Ryan Chapman

After the trek, against my better judgement, I boarded a local bus back to Pokhara rather than the more tourist-friendly jeep option. Sure, the winding pot-holed mountain roads with sheer drops at every turn looked like a death trap, but how bad could it really be? Turns out very, very bad.

I could just about handle being squeezed in to a bus at least three times over capacity with people practically sat on my lap and others with elbows pressed against my head. I could just about handle the heat. And the dust billowing through the open windows. And I could just about handle being violently thrown around, clattering against a metal pole, and involuntarily shoulder-barging old ladies as we bounced along the mountain track.

But then, two hours into the ordeal - I guessed about half way - as I grimaced through the discomfort, there was an explosion right beneath me, followed immediately by a gushing hiss. For a few seconds I thought we were about to careen off the road into the valley below as the bus swerved side-to-side, the driver battling to regain control with only three of the four back wheels intact.

We didn’t immediately grind to a halt but when we did I wondered how long we’d be stuck there while they replaced the tyre, or even if they had a spare at all. To my horror, however, the bus had only stopped to let more people on and was apparently going to limp on regardless. Well, this was the final straw. I looked behind me and through the dirt of the back window I could just about make out my saviour: a man standing by his taxi waiting for a fare. I was off that bus quicker than you can say Cotton-Eyed Joe.

The following day, with my calf muscles screaming and barely able to function, I boarded another bus back to Kathmandu. Depending on the source it was going to take anything from 8-14 hours due to a miserable cocktail of holiday traffic, landslides and road works. I sat there wondering why I find any of this fun.

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Back in Kathmandu it was festival time. Shopkeepers were decorating their storefronts with strings of marigolds and everyone else hung garish fairy lights stuck in strobe mode. Kids set off fireworks whenever the mood struck them, which often coincided with when you were least expecting them. As if Kathmandu needed a reason to be more chaotic.

The second day of the annual five-day long festival is dedicated to dogs, who luckily didn't seem to mind the fireworks. They were all glammed up with garlands and tilaka markings and plied with biscuits all day to thank them for their loyalty. At least, most of them were. I began feeling sad for the dogs I saw getting no attention, so I went to a Hindu temple to witness an open air human cremation ceremony to lighten my mood.

© Ryan Chapman

All festival-ed out - and having seen one too many human corpses being ceremoniously set alight for one day, thank you very much - it was time to leave the clamour of Kathmandu behind. As my plane took off I surveyed the Himalayas from my window seat wondering which peak was Everest, reflecting about life and earthquakes. But mostly earthquakes. There’s nothing like a hefty registering on the Richter scale to bring the power of Mother Nature front of mind.

A month later and 40,000 people who survived the earthquake are still living under sheets of tarpaulin. This, in places where the temperature at night is basically zero. People - including mothers and their newborn babies - are dying in the cold. Simply put, Nepal is too poor to rebuild. The earthquake may have been deadly enough to get a Wikipedia page, but not quite deadly enough to garner sufficient international sympathy. I’m not judging - there’s enough going on.

So, um, give if you can..? I didn’t plan to end like this, but it’d be remiss of me not to share this link where you can support the ongoing relief effort. And then I guess the other thing you could do is give Nepal your tourism. Sure, for the food and for the culture, but mainly for those sunrises.

Cocaine, no gain

There’s so much more to Colombia than drugs and violent gang warfare, despite what concerned relatives might think. It boasts an abundance of natural beauty, vibrant cities and some of the warmest people you’ll ever meet. And I really wish I could say good coffee, but most of that is exported.

Cocora Valley, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

As for the drugs, Colombia maybe synonymous with cocaine, but the majority of Colombians are desperate to shake free from the narco state connotations.

And as for the violence, Colombia currently enjoys a fragile peace. A fragility that was emphasised by a divisive referendum in 2016 in which Colombians voted marginally against a peace agreement between the government and the armed revolutionary group, FARC.

It wasn’t rejected because people would rather live in a war zone, but because the terms of the deal compromised too heavily with the rebels, letting many of them off the hook. And the prevailing attitude was ‘hell no, farc them’.

As the New York Times put it, “the peace deal was always a tug of war between peace and justice. And the demand for justice won.”

Hummingbird © Ryan Chapman

Justice may have won the battle but it was at the cost of compromise, without which peace will seldom win a war. And no where is that more evident than in the city of Medellin and its once notorious district Commune 13. 

Until recently Commune 13 was a no-go zone. Not just considered one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in Colombia, but the world. Ruled by Pablo Escobar’s Medellin Cartel, it was trapped in a seemingly endless cycle of gang wars, military interventions and corruption.

Commune 13, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

Today, thanks in large part to art, music and dance, it’s a vibrant forward-looking community hellbent on social transformation. It’s the sound of hip-hop beats not gunfire echoing around the labyrinth of streets, and the once bullet hole-ridden walls are awash with colourful street art.

According to our guide for the afternoon however, despite its new look, Commune 13 never completely ridded itself of gang influence. “If we have a problem we don’t call the police, we call the gang” she admitted, before hinting this service doesn’t come cheap. 

That’s the compromise that residents of Commune 13 have settled on in exchange for peace. I asked her if the aim was to one day rid the community of gang culture altogether and her response wasn’t exactly filled with optimism.

Commune 13, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

In Medellin this yearning for peace and regeneration - at any cost - is tangible, and a trip to Commune 13 sets it in stone. In urban areas like this memories of a brutal past do still lurk in the shadows, but exploring the rest of Colombia the violence seems like it’s from another era. 

After all, what can be more peaceful than trotting through the verdant Andean foot-hills on horseback and stopping for a red wine picnic; or relaxing in thermal spas under naturally heated waterfalls; or sipping cocktails while the waves of the Caribbean splash onto surrounding palm trees. 

Palomino, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

Most peaceful of all, though, is the warmth and hospitality of the people. Perhaps in a conscious effort to counter the country’s negative stereotypes, but I suspect simply because they’re just really nice. Always welcoming, always polite, always going out of their way to help.

Any attempt to glorify Pablo Escobar is likely to be met with a frosty reception, but avoid the narco tourism and Colombians will warm to you like you've already warmed to them.

[Film] Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes

In a past life Vitae Shelter was a notoriously wild party hostel — now it’s on the frontline of humanitarian aid.

I first met Ian as a fresh-faced backpacker in the summer of 2009, when he checked me in to his hostel Carpe Noctem. He made me a cup of tea and spent 15 minutes telling me about Budapest, including all the ways we were going to ‘seize the night’.

Carpe Noctem was well on its way to winning Hostel World’s ‘Most Fun Hostel in the World’ award, so I knew to expect a party. But it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised what the name actually meant. I hadn’t learnt any Hungarian before visiting Budapest, and I sure as hell hadn’t learnt any Latin.

Over the next decade I checked in to that hostel about 20 times, seizing in excess of a hundred nights. It wasn’t long before I felt part of the furniture and I’d often book my next trip before I’d even finished the last. As the sign warns above the door: you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Carpe Noctem soon gained siblings and Budapest Party Hostels was born, growing to an empire of six hostels, comprising of over 500 beds. And although Ian is far too humble to admit it, there’s no doubt the hostels he co-owned helped propel the city of Budapest to one of Europe’s top backpacking destinations.

But then along came Covid to ruin just about everything. And a couple of years later along came Putin to ruin it some more.

In February 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine and refugees began pouring over the Hungarian border, Ian wanted to do something to help. “People wanted to go and fight Russians” he told me, with the hint that by ‘people’ he really meant himself, “but I think everyone realised they’d just get shot in the first week”.

Ultimately, Ian decided that his talents lay elsewhere. “Making beds and filling them with people - that’s probably the only thing I’m actually qualified to do which is any use at all.” So he decided to use one of the empty hostels that had been a casualty of Covid and turn it into a refugee shelter.

My film Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes not only tells the story of the shelter itself and some of the people who found refuge there, but also of its previous life as a hostel, and draws an unlikely parallel between the two.

Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes is online here:

If you'd like to donate the shelter’s GoFundMe page is still live. Alternatively, there’s the Red Cross Ukraine Crisis Appeal.