ABC Trek: A Family Adventure in the Annapurnas

Having trekked the Himalayas myself many times, I was eager to bring my kids into the fold. The Annapurna Base Camp (ABC) trek felt perfect: under seven days, accessible by jeep, and well-traveled enough for beginners. My eldest, Riddhi, 13, and Hrig, 10, signed on immediately. When my sister Jyotsna heard of our plans, she jumped in too. “You aren’t doing this without the aunt!” she declared.

Three of us were novice hikers, so a guide was non-negotiable. We found Mountain Ram Adventures through Ram Saran Upreti’s YouTube videos, where he shared treks with clients in a mix of humor and passion. Those videos had built his business and eventually funded his Seven Summits quest. For us, he assigned a calm, experienced guide, Pawan, and two young porters - who amusingly were named Hari and Krishna.

Our adventure began with a jeep ride from Kathmandu. I imagined a smooth Land Rover gliding along Himalayan highways, but the reality was a beat-up Indian made Mahindra Bolero, dustier than the roads outside, threadbare shocks, and no air conditioning. Every bump on the nine-hour drive to Ghandruk, the starting point of our expedition, had us ducking for cover so our heads did not hit the low roof. 

Upon reaching the village, we hiked fifteen minutes to our guesthouse, the view of Annapurna South, Huinchuli, and the iconic Machhapuchhre (Fishtail) mountains had us all in awe. The adventure had officially begun.

Day one of trekking brought its first test: Jyotsna’s stomach. Battling diarrhea, she struggled just five minutes into the trail. Meanwhile, the kids zipped ahead like seasoned hikers, leaving even our guide impressed. I liked to think our weekends in Singapore, spent hiking, biking, and kayaking, had planted a bit of grit in them.

The climb from Ghandruk to Chhomrong was steep, but the trail surprisingly empty. By late afternoon, we reached Chhomrong’s bustling teahouses, and Jyotsna, exhausted and shocked by the length and pace of the hike, declared, “This is insanity!” It took some family calls and reassurance from other trekkers before she accepted the Himalayan reality.

A view of Annapurna South and Huinchuli from Chhomrong

By Day 3, everyone had settled into the rhythm of trekking. Misunderstandings added humor - our guide initially mistook Jyotsna’s babyish face for a third child - but spirits were high. The forested trail to Dovan offered solitude and beauty, while Hrig impressed passing college-level trekkers with his determination and flawless Nepali - especially since they assumed he was a foreigner given his eye-catching trekking gear.

Day 4 included detours. A snow-damaged trail required bushwhacking and river crossings to reach Machhapuchhre Base Camp (MBC). Atop a snow hill, Hari turned Hrig into an improvised sledder, a last burst of pure joy before fatigue set in. Dinner at MBC, however, was a stark reminder of high-altitude culinary limits. Vegetable momos and fried rice lost their magic, but a guesthouse dog happily cleaned our leftovers.

Day 5 was the climax - Annapurna Base Camp, 4,130 meters above sea level. We left MBC at 3 a.m. to catch sunrise, trudging through freezing dark. Hrig struggled, but with toe warmers and Hari’s careful support, he found a second wind. The sanctuary opened before us: Machhapuchhre behind, Annapurna South and Hiunchuli to the east, and Annapurna I straight ahead. Jyotsna and Riddhi snapped photos like influencers, Hrig played with a dog at one of the teahouses, and I quietly reflected on the peaks, memorials, and the family standing beside me.

Family photo at Annapurna Base Camp - 4130M

Descent brought its own surprises. At Himalaya village, Hrig complained of stomach pain that quickly escalated into dramatic screams, prompting thoughts of a helicopter rescue. Relief, however, came not from turbine winds but human-powered ones.  “I farted. The pain is gone. Now I’m fine,”  Hrig announced, much to everyone’s astonishment.

Having lost precious time in the morning, we raced towards Chhomrong at 1.5X speed, pausing only for a slice of deluxe carrot cake mid-hike - a sweet treat that turned out to be more of an overpriced tourist trap than a mountain oasis. Still it fueled us for the final steep climb into Chhomrong, where indulgent dinners and friendly conversations with fellow trekkers reminded us that trekking isn’t just about trails or peaks -  but also about the people and connections you make along the way.

The last stretch to Jhinu Danda was leisurely. Winding past boutique guesthouses and ending with a memorable crossing of a 230-meter suspension bridge over the Modi Khola. On the jeep ride back to Pokhara, while everyone else had dozed-off,  Hari shared his story - how portering was not just a means of income, but an opportunity to engage with the world, learn, and grow. In fact, with such thin business margins, some porters weren’t even guaranteed pay. They traveled simply for the adventure and the hope of a decent tip.

The massive suspension bridge below Jhinu Danda

We were deeply grateful for the care of Pawan, Hari, and Krishna and tipped them generously. The crew was absolutely thrilled - and so were we. To this day, my kids still talk about the ABC Trek, always asking when we’ll set off on our next Himalayan adventure together.

A Night at the Ritual: My Encounter With Ghost

Ghost front man Papa V Perpetua

Last week, I once again found myself swept into the world of Ghost - the Swedish occult heavy metal/hard rock band whose concerts are known as “rituals.” This time it was in San Diego - their lone stop in California supporting their new album Skeleta - on the smirkingly titled Skeletour. The experience was nothing short of mesmerizing and calling it a concert almost undersells what Ghost delivers: it was pure musical theatre. Eight masked band members commanded the stage, unleashing thunderous riffs amid dazzling lights, immersive video backdrops, and explosive pyrotechnics, every element was meticulously crafted to pull the audience deeper into their world.

Pyros exploding during the ritual

What struck me most is how Ghost has managed to do something very few newer rock acts can: sell out an arena. In an era when rock music often feels overshadowed, Ghost is proving that classic rock, hard rock, and heavy metal genres still have a place in the cultural spotlight. Their music doesn’t just echo the past - it reinvents it, creating a bridge between generations of fans. Everyone was standing, singing, moving. Even my son, who has wandered into the hip hop realm lately, couldn’t help but get caught up in the energy and walked out impressed.

And what a fanbase it is. Everywhere I looked, there were passionate devotees dressed in elaborate cosplay, blending gothic, theatrical, and metal aesthetics. The crowd was beautifully diverse: younger fans, decked out in gothic glam or treating the event as a parasocial pilgrimage, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with black-t-shirt metalheads who’ve been banging their heads for decades. That mix of old and new, serious and sarcastic, gave the ritual a vibe unlike any other.

Ghost's passionate fans - many in cosplay

Part of Ghost’s genius lies in their lore - dark, satirical themes that play with the occult while never losing their sense of humor. The theatrics, the storylines, and the tongue-in-cheek delivery are as much a part of the experience as the blistering guitar solos and pounding drumbeats.

Walking out of the arena, my ears were ringing, my adrenaline still high, and by the end of the night - as one of Ghost’s newest single declares - I was fully Satanized.

(Photos courtesy of Ghost's official social media channels)

Trekking Tales: Saved by a Cigarette on the Helambu Trek

Below is an excerpt from a set of short stories I am writing about my Himalayan trekking adventures.

A view from Tharepati

The third day of the Helambu trek was supposed to be a manageable journey - two strenuous uphill sections from Kutumsang to Tharepati. On the trekking map, the two locations were just an inch apart. The estimated hiking time? Six hours. My reality? Nearly ten.

It turned out to be one of the most unforgettable days of my trekking adventures - not because of the breathtaking landscapes or the serene beauty of the Himalayas, but because of the near disaster that unfolded at the end.

I’ve never been a fast hiker, and since I was trekking solo without a guide to keep me on pace, my short rest stops stretched longer - scenic pauses turned into extended breaks, and lunch time doubled in duration. Despite my leisurely pace, I felt good upon reaching Mangengoth, the midway point for the day, where I stopped for lunch. It was 2 PM when I got back on the trail, reassured by the lodge owners where I was eating my meal that Tharepati was just two hours away.

That’s when things started getting strange.

I found myself stopping constantly to pee. Every time I tried to replenish the lost fluids, the cycle repeated. Almost every 200 meters, I had to stop. This constant start-and-stop routine added at least an hour to my journey. Then came the treacherous parts - sections of the trail wiped out by landslides, leaving me to traverse narrow paths with 50-meter drops. Alone in the wilderness, fear began to creep in.

I hadn’t seen a single soul since leaving Mangengoth. The solitude was turning into loneliness, and it was suffocating.

By 5 PM, the clouds rolled in, and the first sounds of distant thunder sent a chill down my spine. Rain would make this increasingly difficult trek exponentially more dangerous. As darkness fell suddenly, I reached for my headlamp. The visibility dropped to near zero - I could barely see two meters in front of me, as the trickling rain and night fog rendered the light almost useless. Each step forward became a calculated risk as I pressed my hiking stick onto the ground, ensuring I wasn’t about to slip off the mountain’s edge.

Then, a glimmer of hope - I stumbled upon a small cabin. Relief washed over me, only to vanish just as quickly. The cabin was abandoned, in no condition to spend the night. I knew there had been a trekking party ahead of me that had left Mangengoth right when I sat down for lunch. If they made it, there had to be a lodge somewhere. But where? Was I even still on the right trail? Doubt and panic set in.

The rain intensified, and thunder grew louder. I reached the point where fear paralyzed me. Taking another step felt like choosing between three equally terrible options: slipping off the mountain, encountering a wild animal, or being struck by lightning. My mind raced - was this it? Was this how my trek would end?

Then, a miracle.

I heard voices. Villagers, perhaps? But where? The rain and darkness distorted direction. I strained my ears, desperate for any clue. Then, something unexpected - cigarette smoke. The unmistakable scent drifted up from below. Like a cartoon character hypnotized by an alluring aroma, I instinctively followed the scent. Step by cautious step, I made my way down a slope, slipping on patches of snow that had accumulated at the high altitude, until I finally stumbled onto a wooden porch.

Two men stood there, smoking. Recognition hit me - I had seen them at lunch back in Mangengoth. Relief flooded over me. I made it. I was safe.

That night, as I sat by the fireplace at the lodge at Tharepati, shrouded in a blanket, sipping tea, and listening to the storm rage outside, I reflected on the absurdity of it all. Who would have thought that, of all things, cigarette smoke would be my guiding light? In the end, it wasn’t years of trekking experience or sheer determination that saved me - it was a couple of guys taking a smoke break at just the right moment. That night, I learned that sometimes, survival hinges on the most unexpected things - even a cigarette.

How I started Nepal's first sports website

Long before sports news was just a click away, finding information on Nepali football - let alone sports in Nepal - was a challenge. Growing up as a massive sports fan, I followed international soccer and all the major North American leagues. But due to my Nepali lineage, I was always curious about the sporting scene in Nepal.

Back in the 1990s, however, that curiosity was difficult to satisfy. The Kathmandu Post was the only Nepali newspaper publishing online, and even then, only one sports story would make it onto their site each day. Reliable information on Nepali football was scarce, scattered across the farthest corners of the internet.

A university experiment turned passion project

When I started university in 1997, I wanted to develop my computer skills and figured that creating a website would be a good way to do so. But on what topic? Then it hit me - why not build something that could help others like me? A dedicated website for Nepali football.

Armed with a book titled Build a Website in 24 Hours, I got to work. Within a day, the Nepal Football Homepage (NFH) was live on Geocities, a free web hosting platform. It wasn’t fancy, but it was the first of its kind—a digital home for Nepali football news.

At first, NFH barely attracted any traffic. Maybe 100 clicks a month, most from international football fans curious about football in far-off places. But soon, opportunities started knocking. International media outlets like Futbol Mundial, FourFourTwo, and Football Asia reached out, interested in covering Nepal’s football scene. They needed local insights, and I was happy to provide them.

Screenshot of Nepal Football Homepage
 via "Wayback Machine"

Collaboration with Bhakundo.org.np

By the early 2000s, a fan group called the Nepal Football Fan Club launched a rival website, bhakundo.org.np (not to be confused with the current Bhakundo.np social media channels). Since they were based in Nepal, they had far better access to information than I did from halfway across the world. Instead of competing, I saw an opportunity to join forces? And so, Nepal Football Homepage was absorbed into bhakundo.org.np.

That collaboration lasted until around 2004, when GoalNepal.com came onto the scene, providing real-time, hourly updates on Nepali football. At that point, I knew the landscape had evolved, and it was best to pass the mantle to a platform that could deliver the level of coverage the sport deserved.

A digital footprint that opened doors

What started as a simple university project turned into something much bigger. Through NFH and bhakundo.org.np, I was able to connect with people across the Nepali football ecosystem - players, officials, clubs, media, and fans alike. That early digital footprint ultimately led me to be involved in Nepali football in other ways - at the club, youth, and grassroots levels. 

Looking back, it’s fascinating to see how a small experiment in web development became Nepal’s first dedicated sports website - and furthermore, launched my career in the global sports industry.

Soccer's soul being challenged by spectacles

Reports suggest FIFA and Coldplay are collaborating on the first ever World Cup Final halftime show.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned (even though I try to see these things through the eyes of my three teenage kid), but I just don’t think this is a good idea for global soccer long-term. Sports evolve, but history proves that no sport’s dominance is guaranteed. Boxing and horse racing were once kings. College football overshadowed the NFL. Baseball was America’s pastime before the NBA surged past it.

I remember when MLS thought cracking the American market meant shootouts, flashy team names, and countdown clocks. It didn’t take long to realize that fans craved the authenticity of global soccer - that hipsters mattered just as much as soccer moms.

Soccer's global passion comes from its working-class roots, ultras culture, fierce derbies, and pure simplicity. Save the halftime shows for the NFL and NBA. Short-term gimmicks might boost engagement, but long-term they chip away at the soul of the game - building its funeral pyre one spectacle at a time.