Welcome to Kathmandu

In July of 2010, I was sent on mission to Nepal. I was living in Switzerland at the time, and I had layovers in Munich and Doha. I knew I was in for a long flight. But I had no idea just how long my “welcome” to Kathmandu would take.

I was scheduled to land at 8:30 in the morning. As we neared our destination, the pilot came over the comms to tell us we’d be delayed due to heavy rain over Kathmandu. We flew around for a while. Then the pilot told us we were diverting to northern India, about an hour away.

We landed. We waited. We were told we wouldn’t be allowed off the plane since it wasn’t a scheduled stop and because many of us probably didn’t have visas to enter the country of India. Then we were told that the weather over Kathmandu didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon, and the pilot had to shut off the plane or we’d run out of fuel before we could make it to Kathmandu. Finally, the pilot broke the news that we had landed at a very small airport without power hookup for waiting aircraft. Everything would have to be shut down, including ventilation.

It was July. In India. The inside of the aircraft got hot. FAST. We asked for water. There was no water because the food service had already been delivered. I was in a middle seat between two human furnaces pumping out body heat at an unfathomable rate. We were all sitting in a sealed metal tube under a midday Indian sun. 

People started complaining. Everyone was miserable. The pilot requested permission to open one of the doors. I don’t know how many people had to give their permission, but it seemed like forever before permission was granted. When the door finally opened, fresh air rushed into the cabin, pushing out two hours’ worth of stale air and the stench of nearly two hundred sweaty passengers. There was cheering.

But it didn’t take long before the euphoria wore off and we were unpleasantly reminded that we were still sitting on a tarmac in the summer sun. We roasted.

 distinctly remember trying to sit completely still, burning the least amount of energy possible. I sat with my hands in my lap, eyes closed, trying to slow my breathing. Then I used the in-flight magazine as a fan to whirl around the superheated air. It made me sweat more. I even tried the mind-over-matter technique: “You’re enjoying a refreshing dip in a Florida spring on a crisp early spring day.” It did not work.

After three hours, we heard from the pilot. The weather had finally cleared over Kathmandu. He received massive applause from his captive audience. Then came the bad news. The bad weather had lasted long enough for our flight plan to expire. He would have to file a new one. 

Half an hour passed. The pilot returned to say the airport we’d been diverted to was so small they didn’t have the necessary equipment on-site to file a new flight plan. We’d have to wait a bit longer. (What the flight?!) But after another 30 minutes or so, we were airborne.

When we finally reached Kathmandu airspace, we joined the queue of planes waiting to land. Eventually we did. Then I joined the queue of passengers from eight-plus hours of delayed flights to go through immigration and customs. I don’t remember what time it was when I finally exited the airport, but it was dark out. Regardless, I’d finally made it to Kathmandu!!! 

But Kathmandu wasn’t done welcoming me yet.

Despite arriving incredibly late, there was an ICRC driver waiting for me at the airport. We quietly made the trek from the airport to town, and the driver deposited me at my designated hotel. I informed reception that the ICRC had made a reservation for me, and I handed over my passport. The receptionist said, “You’re very late.” I said, “I know.”

I think it was around 10 or 11 PM when I finally made it to my room. I hadn’t eaten in well over 12 hours, and I hadn’t slept in over 24. And I desperately needed a bath.

Somewhere around midnight, I drifted off to sleep. Then, in what seemed only minutes later, I was awoken by the sound of someone shouting outside. Given my exhausted state, it took a while to figure out that he was shouting only one word, and it was in a language that I did not understand.

I thought maybe he was drunk and looking for his way home. But the shouting continued. Just the one word. After finally deciding that the shouting wasn’t going to stop, I shuffled to my balcony and peeked over the railing. Upon seeing a small crowd of people downstairs and deciphering their hand gestures, I realized that my shouter was speaking in Nepali, and the one word he kept repeating was “Fire!”.

My hotel was on fire. Off to my right, I saw black smoke billowing from the hotel. Looking back down, the folks below me were clearly gesturing for me to get out. 

I knew the one thing that would make the following days difficult if it were consumed in flames was my passport, so I walked over to my small suitcase where I’d put it for safekeeping. Unfortunately, I kept it a little too safe. I’d locked the suitcase. Smoke was starting to creep under my door, and I was starting to get a touch nervous. After three failed attempts to unlock my suitcase, I grabbed the entire bag and headed for the door.

When I opened it, I was confronted by a wall of smoke. I shut the door and walked back to my balcony. I shouted to the small, scattered crowd to get their attention and asked if there was a ladder so I could climb down from the balcony. There was not. I looked down to the ground to assess the distance. It was too far to drop without breaking quite a lot. I would have to take the stairs. But on the upside (eh-hem), the fire was at the other end of the hotel. There was only smoke on my end. Lots of black smoke.

I took a second to recall where the stairs were: out the door, take a right. So, I steeled myself, opened the door, walked into the wall of smoke, turned right, and started feeling for the stairs. I couldn’t find them. I walked into a wall. I had turned right too soon. I had to backtrack.

When I found the staircase, I gingerly made my way down to the landing, then down the remaining stairs. Somehow, I remembered that at the bottom of the stairs I needed to take a right, so I did. Within seconds, I cleared the smoke and emerged to a small crowd waiting for me. When they saw me, they all gasped. “What?” I asked. Was I on fire? A nice man handed me a cloth and told me to wipe my face. The cloth came away completely black. I had forgotten to grab something to at least cover my nose and mouth. I looked down at myself. I was completely covered in black soot.

But I was outside. And I was alive. 

I sat with a group of Brits as we pieced together exactly what was going on. We learned that it was an electrical fire, thus all the black smoke. It had started in a small room and hadn’t spread far. We watched as hotel staff scrambled to find buckets from various maids’ closets to dip into the fishpond and throw onto the flames. No fire trucks would be coming to our hotel.

Overall, our small group of hotel guests stayed pretty calm about everything, with one exception. High up on the fourth floor, directly above the fire, was a family gathered on a balcony. Mom, dad, and an infant. Taking the stairs down would be too dangerous for them. They would have to wait and hope there was enough water in the pond to drown out the fire. I prayed I wasn’t watching the last moments of a young family.

Thankfully, I wasn’t. The fire was put out, and there were no casualties that day. Except for the fish from the pond.