what do you think of this travel writing?

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my charging station. I find that if I keep everything here, everything has power, and everything makes it into my pockets, and onto my wrists. Useful, and not completely unattractive device. Best part is that it hides the wires.

Question by name21: what do you think of this travel writing?
Lost in Kathmandu

‘One unpleasant aspect of the airport orientation experience is the leech like young men that gather outside the airport.’ The Rough Guide to Nepal.

‘Where are you from?’ The suited man next to me asks.
‘England.’
He smiles and raises his eyebrows.
‘Ah very good country, and what will you be doing in Nepal.’ As we speak, the plane starts to dip into the Kathmandu valley.
‘Just… travelling.’ I shrug. What will I be doing in Nepal?
‘You are meeting friends, family?’ My shoulders tense.
‘No.’ His face stops between pity and surprise.
‘You are only one?’
‘Yes, only one.’
For the rest of the journey, I focus on the window view, too awkward to talk. What am I doing , what am I doing? I feel like I’ve thrown myself into a sea of uncertainty, condemned myself to six months of suffering. I have two months to spend in Nepal, before flying to South East Asia.
Stepping off the plane, I get my first taste of a tropical climate, heat hanging in the evening air. The runway is a concrete strip in a field used for grazing cows. A warm , fertile smell fills my nostrils and a hint of excitement tingles in my stomach. After the formalities of customs, I enter Nepal.
They swarm around like maddened bees.
‘ I give you free taxi, I show you good hotel.’
My backpack digs into my shoulders as I try to get away, to get a second to think, they cling to me, shouting , tugging. I let one pull me aside .
‘ I show you good hotel.’ His breath reeks of whisky. I get in his taxi. As he starts the engine, a teenage boy in blue uniform runs up to the car. The driver door swings open, the teenager shouting in Nepali, beating the driver with the cane, pulling the driver out of the car as it circles to a sputtering stop.
I get out of the taxi.
‘Me Nepali police. He is drink man. Bad man.’ The boy tells me, he is a foot shorter than me, but his spine is straight and his chest swells with authority. I nod and turn away, the touts smelling money and rushing toward me. I let one take me to his taxi, and as we pull away I see the whisky man in the rear view mirror.
The Whisky man runs after us, shouting in Nepali. He pulls the drivers’ door open and throws himself on the driver, legs dangling in the dusty air. Angry words fly with the car slowing and the policeman catching up, pulling the whisky man out and knocking him down with his cane.
The taxi jolts me into Kathmandu’s streets. The buildings are lopsided and dirty, the streets narrow and chaotic. Incense hangs in the air, a small boy sells bananas, and a vegetable seller chases a thieving goat, almost tripping on her sari. Dark stalls peer out of buildings, my driver horns madly at stalling rickshaws, exhilaration outstrips tiredness, and I wind down the window, overtaken with wonder.
A beautiful woman in a purple sari welcomes me to the hotel.
‘Namaste, welcome to Nepal.’ She bows, her hands held in a prayer position.

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