After a ridiculously satisfying Thanksgiving dinner, we are sitting on the couches, drinking wine, carrying on individual conversations, when I hear someone say, “If you’re not boring the person you’re speaking to, then you’re just not passionate enough about the topic.”

I look around the room and wonder what people would describe as their passions. I have some guesses but out of curiosity, I pose the question to the entire room, “So what is it that you’re completely passionate about?”

One person talks about bikes: different types of bikes, bike parts, bike resources, bike races, biking legends, bike clothing, bike bags, biking records, local bikers.

Another talks about photography: lenses, cameras, lighting, subjects, how to order rare cameras, how to change the lighting (with duct tape), films, where to buy film, his first camera, shutter speeds.

Another talks about sewing machines: old versus new, sergers, computerized machines, buttonhole makers, bobbins, thread weight, garment construction on various machines, valuation of antique machines, machines found on eBay, Bay Area fabric stores.

And yet another talks about mushrooms: varieties, how to grow them, composting, poisonous versus non-poisonous, recipes, mushrooms around the world, festivals, kits.

I’m a curious type of gal. But none of the above topics are ones that I would say I’m particularly passionate about or interested in. However, the conversation tonight was scintillating. Hearing someone talk about something that they truly believe in, that they absolutely love, is a joy. The questions flow naturally, the conversation doesn’t lull. And I learned a little more about fungi, photos, bikes, and buttonholes.

I sit down at the outdoor café in Phnom Penh, glad to have the shelter of the porch; it’s just begun to pour down rain. I breathe in the heat and the humidity. I love this city. The waiter brings me a menu. I smile and thank him. “Where are you from?” he asks. I smile and tell him the United States. He appears shocked. “The United States? Really? The way you look and dress, I thought you were from India.”

Now it’s my turn to be shocked. I’m dressed in western clothes — jeans, t-shirt, and scarf. I don’t feel I look particularly Indian. I’ve had people guess I was from Greece, Italy, Spain, Canada, Israel, but never India.

Because of connections (or rather lack thereof), I must spend one night in Bangkok. I am excited. I have never been to Thailand.

The airport is overwhelming. It is steel and glass and modern and there are lots of people crowding the space. I stare a lot. It is already nightfall once I clear immigration.

I direct the taxi driver to take me to the night market, the famous one, Lumpini Night Market. I’ve heard of it from other travelers. It’s overwhelming, but in a different sense than the airport. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of small stalls crammed together in an outdoor space, selling the same things: small coin purses with elephants on them, Thai silk pillow cases, knockoff designer glasses frames claiming they are the original, t-shirts with bad slogans printed on them, soaps and candles, and more. The shop keepers seem tired. They don’t even look up when I walk by. They continue to read, or eat, or massage each others’ backs. There aren’t many tourists.

I sweat as I wander through the stalls. It is much warmer here than in Kathmandu and the air is completely still.

I get offered many massages: head, feet, body. I stare, then decide no. I would fall asleep immediately if any part of me was massaged right now.

I walk by a pharmacy and notice armpit cream. I am curious. Armpit cream? Is this deodorant? No. It is armpit cream, which guarantees whiter armpits in just 7 days. I almost buy it just because I am curious. I decide my armpits are white enough.

While looking for a taxi, I accidentally wander into the food market. I weave in and out of the stalls selling fresh fruit juice, noodles, curries, and am intoxicated by the smells. There is a concert going on, a small Thai woman in an orange dress and matching orange thigh high boots belts out Thai pop songs. No one seems to be listening to her.

The beer girls surround me, trying to get me to purchase their brand of beer. I smile politely and say no. I would fall asleep immediately if I drank a beer right now.

I try to find a taxi, but I keep wandering into new market stalls. I see tables of hair clips, sparkly, bright and shiny hair clips. I ask the woman to show me how to use one. She cannot reach my hair. “You so tall, just like model,” she shrieks. I bend down and she twists my hair into a fancy do. I probably pay too much for the clip; I probably won’t be able to replicate the style on my own. She is happy.

I finally find a taxi to take me to the hotel. The roads are wide and the cars aggressive. Neon lights illuminate the city. People are out, enjoying the hot and humid evening.

I arrive to the hotel. The receptionist, a tall, slender young man, hands me my room key. I notice he has the most beautifully manicured fingernails of anyone I’ve ever seen, male or female. His nails are long, perfectly shaped, and painted an elegant pearly white. He wears outlandish dinner rings made of diamonds and rubies on two of his fingers. I wonder if he is a hand model.

I try to follow walking tour #1 in the Lonely Planet guide. I turn down an alley and I’m suddenly in the middle of a procession. Men in red jackets play brass instruments. It’s loud and the sound reverberates in the small alley. I’m in between the trombone and a drum. I try to move to the side of the alley and I’m trapped, so I march along. I’m in a red salwar kameez, the loose Indian pants and tunic, so I match the men in their red outfits, with the exception that I am the only woman. They stop marching and I continue. I come upon another band, this one made up mostly of drums. I move to the side and suddenly out of nowhere men carrying a huge, brightly colored shrine appear. They are struggling to keep it above their shoulders. I can’t figure out if this is a celebration of a funeral procession. Is it appropriate to take pictures? People seem to be in a festive mood; I see a Nepali boy snapping photos with his mobile phone. My camera comes out.

I watch the procession. People in the alley are offering donations to the shrine – flowers, rice, money. I stand back, watching, in a daze of colors, heat, sound, people.

I walk, occasionally stopping to consult my Lonely Planet map. The streets have no names; I can’t match the shrines to any on the map. I wander. I must be in old Kathmandu, the alleys become smaller, people sit in the street selling their wares – cooking utensils, blankets, safety pins, hair bands. Every turn exposes another shrine or temple. I’m not sure where I am, but I’m enjoying it.

Another short day, only four hours of hiking. All straight up steps.

We are almost to our destination when we are stopped by four young men. “Maoist check point. Must make donation,” they say. I know this is complete crap. From what I’ve read about the Maoists and spoken to locals in Kathmandu, the Maoists are a bunch of thugs. Julie and Tobin’s porter and Mark’s guide try to speak to the Maoists, reason with them. Min, my guide, tells me, “You need to make donation. Maybe 500, 600, 700, 1,000 rupees.” I look at him like he’s crazy. He is crazy.

I smile. “Why do I have to make a donation? What will happen if I don’t?” Min shrugs. “Maybe you go talk to them.” I smile again. “No, maybe you go talk to them. You are my guide. That is your job.” He walks over and talks to them. Through his body language I can tell he’s a supporter. After several minutes he returns.

“How much you like to donate?”
I ask him, very seriously, “Do you understand donate means voluntary?”
He stares at me.
I try again. “I would like to donate nothing.”
He shakes his head. “No, donate 500, 600, 700, maybe more rupees.”
“No.”
He stares at me.
“If I were going to be forced to give money, which is what this feels like, I will not give more than 100 rupees.”
He goes back to talk to the Maoists.

The other porters and guides are encouraging their clients to “donate” money.

I’m sitting on the stone wall, resting, furious. This is ridiculous.

The other trekkers walk away. I don’t realize they are gone until the guides and porters surround me. “You must pay. Everyone else leave. You pay.”

I’m staring at their faces. This is a difficult situation. I don’t want to give a single cent to the Maoist cause, out of principle. They forcefully take land from landowners. They kidnapped a colleague’s brother-in-law for ransom. They killed two tourists on this very trail.

My guide won’t look at me, he’s hob nobbing with the Maoist thugs. This angers me.

I look into the eyes of the other guides and realize they don’t want to be here any more than I do. I know that if I don’t pay it could mean trouble for them later.

Angrily, I pull a 100 rupee note from my wallet and hand it to the Maoist with my left hand, an insult.

Another Maoist thanks me and tells me this is for the good of Nepal.

I stare at him icily. In a cold voice, I say, “Good? You think this is good? No, sir, this is very bad. This is bad because every trekker will go back to their country and tell their friends, ‘Don’t go to Nepal, Nepal is a very bad country because the Maoists force you to pay money when you don’t want to.’”

He interrupts me, “You misunderstand.”

“Oh, no, sir, I understand perfectly. Do you know the word extortion? That’s what this is. Extortion. You say this money is for development. I see no projects. I paid fees in Kathmandu and in Chame to be on the trail. THOSE fees are for development. These fees are a lie. You are taking advantage of guests in your country. This is very, very bad.”

I continue to stare. The four Maoists are looking down at their feet. They won’t look at me; they won’t look at each other.

I take my Maoist receipt and leave.