Author: Patrick

A culturally insensitive, politically incorrect and historically inaccurate account of trekking in the Hermit Kingdom.

A rival group with a movie-star mountain guide strolls across the pass like it’s a Sunday hike. We stay behind, drowning in whiskey, envy, and the wisdom that “regrets build character.” Allegedly.

Snow waist-deep, ponies stuck, and a guide who prefers sulking to guiding. With blue sheep dodging rocks and Dzambo running wild, we discover our greatest talent: giving up gracefully.

John arrives with a 12-kilo medical kit and enough snacks for an army. Bagger brings nothing but regrets and complaints about trash. Between them, Bhutan looks both magnificent and mildly disappointing.

Roger grows mutton chops and reinvents himself as “Ashley Gideon,” a 19th-century adventurer who probably never existed. Forestry rangers catalog plants, we hunt for beer, and yak cheese proves harder than iPhones.

Bhutan never lost to invading Tibetans, thanks to fortresses on hilltops and monks with attitude. We, however, are losing badly to our guide — a man who wants authority but not the work that comes with it.

Ben grew up herding kangaroos into cross-fire kill zones with AC/DC blaring. Now he’s in Bhutan, battling altitude pills that make beer taste like sweaty socks. Survival, Australian style.

At 4,000 meters Bagger is still talking, which is impressive given the lack of oxygen and his surplus of opinions. Our guide introduces Bhutan’s Warrior-Monks; we counter with beer, cynicism, and a wooden phallus.

In St Petersburg’s White Nights, Europe feels like a flawless stage set—Hermitage halls, postcard canals, bohemian hotels—magnificent and a little contrived. As our rail odyssey ends in the West, we look ahead and place our bets on Asia.

Between a brass-and-mahogany museum car and a sleek bullet train, we side with slow travel: samovars, proper plates, and thick carpets—plus a babushka who decks a shirtless soldier. Speed impresses, but the old rails steal our hearts.