In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.
They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.
After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.
My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.
"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."
A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.
"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.
Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"
It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.
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