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What if the future of Nepal’s tourism lies not in building new trails, but in rediscovering how we welcome people? For decades, the world has known Nepal for its bravery and beauty—the courage of its people and the majesty of its mountains. Yet beneath those summits lies a quieter, equally powerful strength: hospitality. From the warm “Namaste” of a villager to the tea shared by a stranger on a trail, Nepal’s identity has always been rooted in kindness. But as tourism grows, one must ask—are we still carrying that spirit as high as our peaks? Adventure and nature-based tourism are expanding faster than ever. The global adventure travel market is projected to exceed $1trn by 2030, while Nepal welcomed over 415,000 international visitors in the first four months of 2025, many seeking authentic, meaningful encounters. In this new era, the competition is no longer just about altitude or adrenaline. It’s about experience—and the soul of that experience lies in hospitality. Hospitality, however, isn’t only about hotels or service standards. It’s about behavior—the way we treat those who cross our paths. Do we, as Nepalis, truly enjoy hosting people? Do we take pride in sharing our home, our food and our stories? Do we greet a visitor with warmth or with the weariness of routine? Both the professional side of hospitality and the personal one matter. One builds an economy; the other builds emotion. And when the two drift apart, so does the essence of travel. To understand where that gap may be widening, I chose to look closely at the Everest region — specifically Phakding, the village that greets trekkers on their first night of the journey toward Everest Base Camp. For most travellers, it’s little more than a resting point; for me, it became a window into how first impressions are formed—and how they can shape the image of an entire country. Phakding lies quietly beside the Dudhkoshi river, its suspension bridges swaying like ribbons against the mist. At sunset, the air hums with footsteps and laughter—a blend of excitement and exhaustion. Over five nights, I watched the rhythm of arrivals and departures, the quick exchanges between guests, guides and lodge owners — moments small yet revealing. One evening, I overheard a young Filipino and his British friend talking to their guide. “Is the hotel in Namche better than this one?” the Filipino asked, hopeful. The guide, clearly experienced in climbing but not in conversation, replied, “It’s in the middle of Namche… top ten.” The guests chuckled: “So, the tenth of the top ten then.” It was polite laughter, but tinged with disappointment—cramped rooms, uneven bathrooms, Wi-Fi and hot showers that cost extra. The guide smiled awkwardly, unsure whether to explain or empathize. In that silence, I realized how much storytelling matters—how the right words could have turned complaint into curiosity. Nearby, a group of Chinese women debated the price of beer. “Can we go out and buy it elsewhere? It’s too expensive here!” they laughed. Their guide could only shrug. The Everest region’s economy is complex: rooms are cheap to attract trekkers, but the costs rise in food and amenities. Everything here—every plate, plank and bottle—is carried on the backs of animals and people. Zopkyo, the sturdy cross between yak and cow, and khachhar, the hybrid of horse and donkey, carry supplies along steep stone paths. Their bells echo through forests and clouds. Each item that reaches Phakding bears the mark of effort and endurance. And yet, few travellers ever hear that story. It struck me then: if every meal came with its story, the experience would change. Imagine a host announcing, “Tonight’s dinner is prepared by young cooks from this valley — using ingredients carried on the same animals you saw along the trail today.” Suddenly, the price of a meal becomes not a cost but a connection. That’s what true hospitality does—it turns transaction into meaning. What I witnessed in Phakding isn’t a failure; it’s a reminder. A reminder that Nepal’s greatest advantage is not infrastructure or altitude, but empathy. We don’t need to outbuild others—we simply need to out-care them. If we can pair the professionalism of tourism with the heart of Nepali warmth, we can redefine what visitors remember when they leave. Phakding, in that sense, is more than the first night of a trek. It’s a mirror—showing us what the world first sees of us. But it can also be a destination in itself: a riverside retreat, a place where travellers and Nepalis alike pause, reflect and reconnect with the rhythm of the mountains. Perhaps that is where our tourism story must begin again—not at the summit, but at the welcome. As I rode up toward Rimijung monastery above Phakding, I passed the small wooden house where Bikas, my horse caretaker, lives. It was simple but serene—a clearing that felt like a slice of heaven on earth. Bikas, a young man in his early twenties, has chosen to stay in his village and rear horses for trekking. Watching him, I felt both hope and concern. Hope, because here was someone who had found purpose in his own landscape; concern, because so many of his contemporaries from equally beautiful corners of Nepal now live in cramped rented rooms in Kathmandu, far away from their roots. Bikas represents the future of Nepali tourism—not in infrastructure, but in attitude. We need more young people like him, who love their hometowns and see value in preserving their culture. Only when young Nepalis fall in love with their own land and stories will they become the kind of hosts who can show visitors a Nepal that is authentic, responsible, and deeply human. The day I reached Rimijung monastery, a grand Lhabab Düchen puja was taking place—celebrating Buddha’s descent from Heaven back to the human realm after teaching the Abhidhamma, or higher philosophy, to the gods and his mother, Queen Maya Devi. As I stood among the monks, I noticed walls filled with centuries-old scriptures—each page carrying the wisdom of generations. They reminded me of the stories our country and culture hold, yet often forget. These are the stories that can retell Nepal’s identity to the world—stories of compassion, coexistence and courage that people everywhere would want to listen to. For generations, Nepal has been known for its altitude. For decades, the world has known Nepal for its bravery and beauty—the courage of its people and the majesty of its mountains—for the summits that pierce the sky and the courage of those who climb them. But perhaps our next great ascent lies not in meters or milestones, but in mindset. The climb ahead is inward—toward an attitude of self-love, one that rekindles pride in our own stories—Nepal’s stories that the world longs to hear. True altitude will only mean something if it’s matched by gratitude. When a traveller from across the world chooses Nepal, it isn’t just tourism—it’s trust. They are choosing to become part of Nepal’s story. That should fill us with joy, not routine. Too often, we measure success in the number of arrivals rather than the depth of their experience. Our goal should not be to attract more visitors, but to raise the quality of how we receive them—to lift our hospitality behavior to match our natural beauty. People like Bikas remind us what this new attitude can look like. A young man who stayed in his home village, raising horses along the Dudhkoshi, Bikas’s open-mindedness and contentment reveal a truth we’ve forgotten: happiness doesn’t have to be imported. It can be cultivated right where we are. If more young Nepalis embraced that mindset—to live with curiosity, pride and purpose in their own hometowns—Nepal’s tourism would no longer need to be “developed.” It would already be thriving through love. At Rimijung monastery, as monks chanted for Lhabab Düchen and the walls shimmered with ancient scripture, I was struck by another realization: we must rediscover curiosity about ourselves. Our stories—once whispered through valleys and carved into temples—are fading from our own memory. Yet these are the stories that can once again enchant the world, if only we learn to ask the right questions and tell them with conviction. To every guide, host and agency shaping tomorrow’s Nepal, the climb is clear. Take pride in being Nepali. Learn from the world’s best storytellers, then become one for your own home. The true spirit of hospitality is not service—it’s storytelling with sincerity. The world will always come to Nepal for its mountains. But it will return for its warmth. Our next great climb is not to the top of Everest — it is to the heart of who we are.