I was feeling confident. In the past four hours, I’d packed in breakfast and lunch in central and South America – Mexico, Colombia, Ecuador and Uruguay, in that order – before a trek through the Himalayas to Nepal for a snack, on my way to Bangladesh – my current location – for another. It was thirsty work, but I had to keep going. I had one hour left to visit Japan for sushi, India for sweets and China for tea.
It was 3pm and a low-slung November sun sat in the royal blue sky, turning little Himalaya a dusky pink. Traffic noise, Bangladeshi tunes and a distant rumbling train clashed in the air. Perched on a plastic stool, I sat in silence, scoffing a Bangladeshi street food dish called fuchka: small spherical semolina shells half the size of a tennis ball, chipped open, and filled with a mash of potato, yellow peas, onion, chilli and coriander – eight for $6 (£4.72). Drizzled with sweet tamarind dressing, and each eaten whole, a bite packed a comforting sour-sweet and earthy-hot punch in the late-afternoon chill.
