By KAEDENCE EAMES
My first full day in Nepal was filled with market shopping and aimless wandering. Through my jet-lag, I enjoyed simply observing the busy streets of Kathmandu. The sweat dripping down my forehead made me desperate for a shower. I wasn’t the only one being hit by the heat.
Feral dogs dotted the streets and sidewalks that we were exploring. I had a sort of radar set for them because for this trip I’m reporting on the management of their populations. But the reality of the feral dog situation hit me much harder in the gut than I was expecting. As a dog-lover, I found it hard to stay away from where they lay napping. However, the travel nurse I met with before this trip had warned me about rabies and mange and her voice was whispering in my ear, “If you don’t approach them, then you’ll be fine.”
They were clearly exhausted from the bustling city life and overwhelming heat. The majority of them sport thick fur coats that are meant for a Himalayan winter, but seem suffocating in a hot and humid city that’s blanketed by polluted air. Almost every dog I saw was lying motionless on its side, too hot to pant or beg from the people passing them by. The only time they moved was when someone directly approached them with an offering, which was rare. I saw a man scrape a mystery yellow food-like substance onto the ground while a dog licked up every last crumb. They were clearly desperate enough to eat anything, something I could relate to, but not indulge in.
One of my favorite parts about travel is immersing myself into a new food scene. However, as someone who has been deathly allergic to dairy and all dairy products since I was 10 months old, the luxury of tasting authentic cuisine is one that I’ve never had the privilege of experiencing.
Finding safe food through a language barrier was perhaps the most daunting and exhausting part of my first day in Nepal. I ate the bare minimum at breakfast, because I did not know if the food labels at the hotel’s continental breakfast were correct, or if any other guest had cross-contaminated a serving utensil by using it to scoop something that would kill me.
When my fellow group members first mentioned stopping for lunch somewhere that served a good, local meal, my stomach dropped and my body filled with dread. It seems impossible to get others to understand what it’s like to eat in constant fear, and I knew that it would be even harder to find safe food in a country that isn’t fluent in the same languages as me.
I skipped lunch knowing that accommodating my allergy would mean inconveniencing the greater group. A few of us did break off to a local grocery store in order to find exotic new snacks, but I was quickly frustrated at the lack of clarity about what allergens were or were not in the packaged goods. I left with three bottles of water and some freeze-dried strawberries that had “strawberries” as the only word on the ingredient list.
I was hangry at this point. I knew that there was no getting out of dinner, though I thought about it anyway simply because it would mean less hassle. Our waiter at dinner very clearly did not know what I was asking when I was inquiring about whether certain items were dairy-free. He nodded and said it was fine, but if I’ve learned anything from dining at home, it’s that the waiters never actually know which ingredients are being used in the kitchen.
I hesitantly ordered vegetable momo and prayed that I wouldn’t need to use my epi-pen on my first night here. This was the same thing that happened during the meals on my long international flights to Kathmandu, too, and I expect that it’s what will continue to happen for the next two weeks or so. I have my fingers crossed that I’ll make it through each meal without feeling that familiar tingle in my tongue and lack of air in my throat.
