I’ve been back barely a fortnight and my system is rejecting the very air I breathe. My throat feels raw, my eyes water and itch, and I’ve been sneezing like the Dickens.

Where’s the pleasure in tea without a bit of a burp?

Up and over a suspension bridge, past a tarp slipping off a bamboo frame littered with the aftermath of a bāluwā-gitti party – Himalayan Dragon Beer empties, half-devoured meals, a sodden fire, bike helmet, damp blankets.

Of a sudden I find myself transported to a cottage of my own, an hour from Pokhara, a dusty, longish bus from Kathmandu.

We can blame climate change for the scattering of our seasons, and the cultures they enable. This is no less than a remoulding of our imaginations. But how do we face up to our rebellion against Mother Nature, and her wrathful, deadly response?

Do I imagine myself visiting a gobargas project in the sticks to see if my environmental sins are being alchemized into virtue?

It’s not easy being green, as Kermit the Frog says. In a world of long-distance travel and consumption, the pursuit of consistently green living may seem downright quixotic.

Was it conceivable that I was leaving behind a world of cold cuts, fiery chwoela, crunchy sekuwa, tangy drumsticks, juicy steaks and unbeatable dalbhatmasu?

Soon afterwards, though, a party activist came up and shook my hand.