The Price of Wonder: Trekking in Nepal Then and Now

Ridges in the Chukhung Valley, a side trip on the way to Everest Basecamp

Then and Now in the Kathmandu Valley

When I first went to Nepal, you could wander through Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, dead broke, with a camera in one hand and a two-cent samosa in the other. Seriously. My budget was stretched so tight you could hear it creak every time I took a step.

So, I just spent time hanging out in the square. It was dusty, chaotic, mesmerizing—and free.

Well, not anymore.

These days, Kathmandu’s Durbar Square has an official ticket booth, and it’ll cost you 1,000 rupees to get past the men in uniforms and into the world of crumbling temples, stubborn pigeons, and colorful sadhus.

And it’s not just Kathmandu. Bhaktapur, one of my favorite cities in the Kathmandu Valley, now charges foreigners a jaw-clenching $18 just to enter the city. Not the palace. Not a museum. Just the city.

Patan’s Durbar Square? Also 1,000 rupees.

There’s a price tag hanging on the ancient rooftops all over the Kathmandu Valley now, and someone’s making sure you pay it.

Sunrise over Kathmandu's Durbar Square

Trekking in Nepal Then and Now

And it isn’t just the cities.

Out in the mountains, it used to be that all you needed for a trek was a sturdy pair of shoes, an out-of-date Lonely Planet, and gumption based on a vague belief that you’d figure things out along the way.

On my way to Everest Basecamp, I got lost. I followed yak trails. I stayed alive and healthy only if I had the wit and the skill to do so. I took charge of my own destiny. It was beautiful.

But that isn’t all. Trekking independently is what made my trek to Everest Basecamp possible. Remember that creaky budget of mine? I would simply not have been able to afford to pay the daily rate for a guide.

But a Nepalese trek was the perfect place for a broke backpacker to be. It was cheap. All your entertainment was staring up at the rock and ice plunging skyward above your head.

Finding a place to sleep was cheap. Food was cheap. There really wasn’t much to spend money on.

But that chapter is closed now. After flirting with restrictions for the past ten years or so, as of 2023, independent trekking is no longer allowed on Nepal’s trails. You need a licensed guide. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a requirement.

That means no more wandering solo into the Annapurnas or piecing together your own route in Langtang. You’ll be hiring someone, filling out forms, and flashing your Trekkers’ Information Management System (TIMS) card like a badge of legitimacy. Yes, it’s still called TIMS. And yes, it is just as uncool as it sounds.

Trekking Costs Today

If you’re planning to trek in Nepal, here’s a sample of the basic fees you’ll pay:

• TIMS card:

  • 2,000 rupees if you're not from a SAARC country(Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Maldives, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka)

  • 1,000 rupees if you are

• National Park or Conservation Area Entry: 3,000 rupees (both Everest and Annapurna Regions)

• Municipality Fee (Everest area): 2,000 rupees

• Guide: ~$30/day if you're good at bargaining and not in peak season (NOTE: peak season is when you should probably go)

• Restricted Areas (like Upper Mustang): $500 USD per day (!!!) for the first 10 days, $50 USD/day after

So, 5,000–7,000 rupees in fees for the Everest or Annapurna Regions. But if you’re on a budget, just cross most restricted areas off your list.

When I trekked in the Everest region in 1999, I trekked for 20 days. So the cost of my trek would have gone up by at least $600USD for the mandatory guide if the same rules had applied then.

At that point in my life, I didn't have an extra $600. Under the current rules, I would not have been able to trek to the summit of Kala Patar and take in the views of the mighty Sagarmatha.

Sagarmatha. Chomolungma. Everest. Seen from Kala Patar

The Upside of Regulation

There are good arguments for Nepal’s increasing costs, of course. Requiring guides for trekking probably will cut down on travelers getting lost—which, yes, does happen. The trails in Nepal aren’t amusement park paths with neon signs and churro stands. Every year, a handful of trekkers vanish into the mountains, usually solo, often ill-prepared. A mandatory guide isn’t a bad idea if it means someone is there to point out that your tea lodge is in the other direction, or to strongly suggest that you not attempt a high mountain pass in a snowstorm with a plastic poncho and a packet of Oreos.

Sure, it’s a little frustrating that we all have to bring a babysitter now just because a few people wandered off into blizzards in flip flops and without a map. But I guess it is what it is.

The other upside to all the new fees is simply the money. Money for the guides. Money for conservation and restoration. Money to rebuild temples that have cracked or crumbled or just need a little less pigeon poop on them. These fees help protect Nepal’s culture and landscapes, and they create jobs. That’s not nothing. In fact, it’s a lot.

Honestly, in the wake of the 2015 earthquake, I was more than happy to pay all the fees to visit the new sites. Nepal needed the money, and we had it to give.

At the Cost of Access?

But the downside is trickier.

Here’s the thing: if these fees and rules had been in place when I first came to Nepal in 1999, I simply couldn’t have gone. I didn't have it to give back then. I was on the kind of budget where every dollar had a name, and that name was usually “lunch.”

The beauty of Nepal back then wasn’t just in the mountains and the temples. It was that you could wander and discover and make it up as you went along, with almost no money and no plan—just curiosity, blisters, and a willingness to eat momos and garlic soup three times a day.

If the costs had been what they are now, I would have skipped Nepal entirely. I might have gone somewhere like India’s Spiti Valley instead (Spiti has fees these days, too. But they tend to be less than Nepal). I would’ve had a similar experience—maybe less altitude sickness—but Nepal would’ve gotten zero of my money, instead of the little it did. And while I recognize that super-budget backpackers like me don’t exactly float a nation’s economy, we do add up. One hostel night, one thali plate, one shared taxi at a time.

So it’s hard to say if this is a total gain or loss for Nepal. On paper, more fees equal more revenue. In practice, some travelers reroute. Or just stay home. There’s a fine line between smart tourism policy and pricing people out. Between wanting Nepal to benefit as much as possible from tourism, and wanting travel to remain accessible to as many people as possible.

And ultimately, it’s Nepal’s decision. It’s their mountains, their temples, their rules. I respect that. But I also reserve the right to have an opinion.

The Rwanda Detour

A couple of years ago, my wife and I went to East Africa. We wanted to see mountain gorillas. We looked at Rwanda—gorgeous, well-managed, and a place I’ve always wanted to visit. But Rwanda had jacked up their gorilla trekking permits to dizzying heights, the kind that seem designed to keep everyone out except hedge fund managers and rare coin collectors. The logic, I assume, was exclusivity. Fewer people, more money per head, less impact on the gorillas.

So we went to Uganda.

Not only did we see the gorillas there (10/10, would quietly panic again in the presence of a silverback), we didn’t even cross the border into Rwanda. If they didn’t want me, that was fine. I took my middle-class travel budget and my gorilla enthusiasm elsewhere.

And that’s the gamble. Make tourism more exclusive, and you may get richer tourists. Or you might just get fewer tourists. Or different tourists. Or no tourists. Or tourists who go to Uganda instead.

Because travel is about costs. And benefits. And choices.

PS—I still love Nepal. Go if you can.

Young love blossoms (?) among the temples and pigeons of Kathmandu's Durbar Square