I don't know.
Come on, I hear you say; you must know. You must have pages of journals, photographs (woops, sorry, you had the camera stolen.)
Actually, some people I met are sending photographs, so I'm not picture-less. And yes, I do have two exercise books full of notes.
This was a very different trip from my visit to Nepal. There was no cyclone. No tiger - well, actually, there were tigers, but tame tigers, which is definitely not the same thing at all. But at no time did my stomach go flippy-flop and leave me wondering how I was going to survive this time.
It was a trip full of questions - about the country, and how people live there now, after the years of bombing and then the closed decades of unremitting communism. It was a trip for gawping at astonishing scenery - mountains and rivers and waterfalls. Of listening to roosters at dawn and tree frogs as the sun set. A trip of wandering into local markets where there was nothing for sale but a few root vegetables and dead rats. A trip with monks rubbing shoulders with tourists whose behaviour can best be described as rapacious. A trip of wandering around towns and villages, trying to find someone who could speak enough English to answer my endless question, and meeting mainly tourists - a few, like me, trying to make sense of the place, and most of them young and looking for adrenalin thrills and parties.
My task, now, is to unravel all that and see if there is a story there. I shall transcribe the diaries and then begin to untangle them, pick out the highlights, look for stories, and maybe even draft a book. Then I shall show it to others - and ask, is this good enough?
Bear with me - this will take time. I'll let you know how I get on.