Nepal.... is strange. She’s feeding me scrambled egg burrito-chapattis. “Eggs!” she raises a finger to exclaim. “I make you eggs!” She blinks softly at me, and I almost see a whimpering tear. I can’t refuse; it’s the way of ....Nepal..... “Ahh, I have only one egg.” She tilts her head to and fro telling me her sad misfortune. “I buy eggs. One moment.” I dash out to the hut in the street waving 20 rupees, and saying “Unde dinos!” I get smiles and eggs, no problem.

“Ah! You buy eggs.” I can’t tell if she’s asking a question. I sit and wait, telling her that for four or so days now, I’ve had bad guts. She doesn’t hear. She only says “Don’t eat street stalls!” I nod. I’ve only been eating her food, and she’s clearly oblivious. And it’s this cycle that’s going to be my downfall. There’s a proud old Nepalese lady, living in dirt, and filth; rotting pieces of food in the sink, under the cupboard, on the table. Flies and bugs crawling, brown splash stains on walls and surfaces. She rinses the frying pan in the dishwater and says “I clean using iodine water!” I try to smile, but I can’t anymore. I can only look forlorn. She’s proud, and she wants to make her guest comfortable. Unfortunately, without knowing a clean standard of living, you can never know how to serve a clean standard of living. However, in ....Nepal...., that doesn’t stop them. They will try to imagine how you will like it, and then give it to you with a smile. And the trick is, you can’t tell them that they are wrong, or they get a complex.

So she serves me scrambled eggs, which are actually delicious. Wrapped in a chapatti, and, I mean this, smothered. Literally smothered in parmesan cheese. “I like cheese! You will like cheese!” she says. I have to like cheese. It tastes salty and toe-like. I read the cheese container. “Parmesan Cheese. Use by: 20/12/2006”. I sigh a little. “How did you get cheese?”

“American lady give to me. She is very nice” Clearly, I will like this also. I actually like breakfast burritos. I like the egg, the roll, the melted cheese. But I have never really been too enthusiastic about parmesan cheese. And there is an equal egg to cheese ratio going on here. Time to take measures. I’m smart, you see. I figure, if I am being given no control over my dietary intake, I must use sleight of hand. When she’s turned to the stove I pick the egg, and roll up the burrito, and stuff it into my pocket. She turns soon after and smiles in satisfaction, thinking that I enjoy her cooking. “One more!” I have no choice. It’s on my plate before I can speak. I take two bites; chew each one for a minute, taking regular swigs of water to make it go. Then I stuff it in my pocket. “Ahh! One more. You like egg.” I can’t tell if it’s a question, because she says it and then serves it, before I have chance to respond. “Okay, last one. This is enough for me thank you.”

“I think you no like my egg.” She does the teary blink. But I don’t connect. I don’t make eye contact with the medusa, I resist. As she’s spitting into the sink, with the pan, I bite another end off, and stuff the burrito into my full burrito pocket. “Thank you. That was lovely. I think less cheese next time, but very good. Thank you. Thank you.” I slip off while she is still speaking, and find a bag to bin the burrito.

I have to find some control here. I must find a way to prepare my own food; I need to find good clean food. I’m getting sick, and it’s not funny anymore. I’m going to have to upset an old Nepali lady. To make an omelette, you have to break a few eggs.