Point2Point

Moving on often brings me to think how things change when I am about to leave a place, or rather people. It's the emotional build up, departing ways, time to leave and never see again. Maybe its not so much the people, but the environment, the feeling. If you have ever enjoyed yourself with a group of people for a period of time, and then over stayed, then you will know what I mean. It becomes a disappointment. You struggle as a single person or as a group to keep the continuity of new experiences running. It never works. Instead we move up a level and people start to look else where for new interests. This can happen as a whole or as a single person. I am at that borderline.

None of this is was helped by Yeve's computer, or rather Yeve himself being thrown into another wall of depression. I was cornered again this morning. He had found a folder I had created to put Stephi's photos on, so naturally he suspected me for putting a virus on board. But hey, it was a different virus and we were not the only people to use the PC that month. Still the constant feeling I was getting was . . . time up, time to go.

The internet in Thamel was poor, as was the timetable for electricity. I wanted to finish up some last minute checks online. It was hard to believe I had spent so much time here. My old German friend was right, Kathmandu is quite a place. It holds the rare ability to be a sanctuary for a forighner and a place to break out into the street life of one of the poorest countries in the world.

As people know me on the street now, I walk largely un-hassled. I leave the touts to grab at the wide eyed newcomers. I nod greetings to the street dealers that know I do not buy. The cargo agency boss calls to see if there is any news on a possible European partnership with Melissa.

Even the Guest house is changing, filling up with strangers, new tourists; oblivious to the long term guests. Even we the remaining longterm residents stare at each other, each day getting quieter than the previous. Time's up. One by one we depart. Dante, The Kathy back to her Monastery, Paulo to India, and now me. Stephi and Anna will be alone soon, maybe for the better.

Of course my final goodbye night happened to coincide with Sheeva's birthday, the hashish smoking Hindu God. A trip to the sacred temples of Pashupatinath, a naked dancing Sadu priest and 50,000 semi stoned people started the day. On a day when the already rampant hash smoking scene was actually deemed legal, even the street kids held us up for ransom. That night we feasted on Sangita's Goat's cheese salad, the Stephi inspired tart au flet, finishing off with Madu's Ladu cakes. The latter seeming to be rocket balls of danger.

My actual final night was a lot more subdued the next evening. We went to the local Italian restaurant for a quite dinner. Too many hang overs for that many smiles. Then back to the guest house for an emotional hug to all the people I had shared my 7 weeks with. One last look and a "bye guys" and that was it.

It would have been better for me to leave last week, but for a credit card problem that involved the help of a forign bank and DHL. But then again maybe I should have gone straight to China and bared freezing snow after the first few days in KTM. Though I think not. For I would never have heard the words, "You are too old." Never had the challenge to prove youthful words wrong.

For me today was a better day, times up and my mind is already on the move, or at least getting there. I had been arranging my days in China and was gearing up for the end of the Point2Point overland. A failed attempt to find a home, but a success in an overland the "hardwayround".

Hard not in the sense of travel. Hard in the sense of accepting I was wrong in how easy it would be to find a home. In fact it hit me like a sledgehammer square on the crown. So hard I largely ignored it. The onl hard thing about my travel was the visa issues in Turkey. Then again in hindsight Iran's border with Pakistan could have gone horribly wrong. As could have Pakistan during emergency rule. A lot of things could have gone wrong but did not. This I excepted.

I had accomplished just about everything I could have as an overland traveller on a mission. Now with only a month left due to my short 28 day Tibetan pass I was leaving the one country I genuinely would come back to.

Nepal is not my home, nor do I think it ever will be. It is a place for me to live as the voice of experience. To enjoy high altitude adventure, cargo shipments, a roadside robberies, wheeling and dealing with pleasure, entering a brief circle of friends, coming face to face with reality; and of course enjoying the sheer adrenaline highlight of Riots.

But now, it was indeed, time to conclude things...

Dante's goodbye party had been a success. He even managed to escape the country unscathed. Life continued on as normal at the guest house. New volunteer's and travelers arrived. Some like a flowery dressed yet funny Italian arrived and were excepted into our little fold. We sat in our thrones of ridicule and passed rulings on all those who entered the guest house.

Hippies would be banned, aside from our new Italian Giovanni. He was too funny to take seriously as a hippie. Any remotely attractive female groups that caught the eye of Madu would also come under loud verbal ridicule. Couples were allowed, but no noisy old gay French men. Anyone arriving late at night could stay. But would have to pass our ridicule over breakfast in the morning. Sangita never seemed to care at our sometimes loud and verbal comments. She had no fondness for hippies either, and always approved of out choices. Mainly because those that were excepted into our little fold stayed for longer than expected.

Independent travelers who made it past the initial screening from our seated positions often times became regulars in our nightly movie sessions. Our core group remained steadfast.

Stephi still took as many days off due to a lack of work as Kathy did running from her hillside monastery in disgust at her living conditions. Anna had still done nothing in regards to her study work other than claim the money back from the Nepalese agency she hired to get her here. Giovanni had decided to sign up for meditation retreat. And we were now joined my an other young girl by the name of Rose. A sweet free spirited blond that was as innocent to life as one could could hope for if you were an 18 year old male student.

We insulted the world with our shared sense of humor. At least that's what Stephi and I had, a similar sense of the world, life and laughter. No one was immune to our daily barrage of verbal assaults. It was a case of if you can't beat them, join them. Kathy surrendered to countless jokes on the state of her single pair of pants and the host of usual German jokes. evidence aside Anna became labeled as a man hunter and matched up with anything that came through the door.

Stephi and I were fairly immune to ridicule, we backed each other up with fast comebacks. We were all going nowhere. Somehow our core group's initial plans at volunteering, travel and study all managed to get stuck in the same guest house.

Like all good things they have to end. It's what makes them good in the first place. We all new this as well. We often put off things that would take us away from the guest house and each other. The non volunteering girls could easily have found new jobs. Anna could have started her studies anytime. It somehow hinged on me. I was the one who was waiting on the weather to change in China. And change it did.

The snow had melted and the news headlines were reporting less on the thousands stranded. On line fourm searches revealed a small group of travelers moving freely once more.

Whats more, Stephi was about to change volunteer jobs. She may actually start to work soon. Kathy was running out of her list of preconditions at the monastery and was planning to move back in next week. And Anna. Well Anna was finally beginning to piss everyone off about starting her studies and never actually doing so. It was a good sign that it was time for me to leave.

Knowing it was all coming to an end, we headed off to Pokhara for a long weekend with the new French arrival Nichole. It was good to be back in the city of Oh Madi Padi hom. We stayed at The Dharma Inn, and thanks to Chubby I got my old room again. Narayan, my old guide, was out on a trek so I was not able to introduce him to the group. Mamut the the young helper at the Dharma Inn did make an appearence though. He had great news as well. He'd been excepted on a working visa to Australia.

It was his dream to leave Nepal. On my previous visit to Pokhara he had told me he wanted to work as a waiter in Saudi. This I could picture easily. Mamut was had a big smile and a humble friendly outgoing personality. The Saudi hotel would take him on board and look after his immediate needs in order to put him to work straight away. In Australia though I wondered how the naive Mamut could survive by himself. He needed to get his own apartment, and secure a job quickly. I offered some practical advise, but saw in his young eyes that he was already over there and taking none of my words in.

For the most part the girls headed out rowing on the lake or climbing up to the still closed World Peace Stu pa while I sat reading the last few pages of Shantaram in the sunshine. I was still reeling on what Stephi said to me on the bus journey there. While I knew we had a connection, and as any male would I often thought more of it than I probably should have. She announced to me that she saw me as an old guy. Not so old as in creaky old, but old enough for it to have me back down.

It's true. Since starting out on this journey 3.5 years ago it's been a factor that I was having to deal with. Before Nigeria I had blown it aside. Morocco with the Slovenians and then Portugal with Melissa was enough to distract any man from the age factor. Nigeria had aged me, I knew that. Whether from illness or living there in itself I saw the changes. Or more to the point I felt them.

The wrinkles, were they there before? Why am I wearing shirts instead of t shirts? The chili will make my stomach hurt. Was it age or practicality. Experience. My self denial selects the latter.

What was more evident was the boredom and irritability factor. Meeting people was no longer so much fun. Being taken to a bar was a painstaking experience to say the least. The Busy Bee with the girls was a prime example of good acting on my behalf.

"Let's get up and sing!" Announced Anna as we arrived through the main entrance.

An instant fear of singing gripped me to my core. I looked at Stephi for instant support.

Her dark brown eyes squinted at me as if to say you owe me one. "Non, non," she said pointing and distracting the others. "Let's sit my the fire before the seats are taken."

We gathered around the open fire, sitting on ornate chairs and flicking through the drinks menu. Ten years ago I would have tried one of everything. I empathize the work try. Now I look at each drink and think what it's effects the next day will be. While the girls ordered various multicolored and diversly named cocktails I opted for a Hymalain Beer, Nepal Ice was giving me a mild hangover.

As we settled in an English chap and two girls that Anna had met while shopping that day joined us. It was now that I felt where age was really effecting me. I took an instant dislike to the guy. His haven head and tiny goaty beard along with a loud talkative manner about all manner of subjects rubbed me badly.

The introductions always made me switch off. One m one people had to yet again tell the group where they were from.

As if accents could help the intelligent define a persons rough geographical upbringing.... and well who bloody cares where your from anyway?

Next up was the inevitable opener for further conversation, "what did you get up to today?"

Please goodness may someone say something more than, shopping, or the typical - not much, just hung out.

Kathy offered some hope, "I got some really nice photo's at the lake."

"Yeah," I interrupted the new English guy as he leaned back. "I got some good snaps too. It's too fucking cloudy though. You should have seen my photos from Dharam Sala..."

Oh bollox another backpacker in Asia going on about his unique time in bloody India. I switched off and played with my mobile phone. Was it my age, or had I heard all these conversations too many times before?

Again I felt the need to say it was the repetitiousness of the conversations we hear was travelers in every hostel, bar, or sight seeing activity that made me groan. It was the longest preamble to what we all really wanted to hear. Who has the best travel story?

We all want to hear from other travelers about the tidal wave of 360 degree toilet bowl torrents they are currently having. About the sacred temple off the beaten path that no one ever gets to see. We want to know about the great secret sights they have found out about, so that we may follow in their footsteps and pretend it was now all ours. And if all that is lacking, then at least we want to here about a cheap airfare website.

No, I had to put it down to experience and not age. If we can get bored of going to the park for a walk every Sunday back home, then we can get bored listening to how a backpacker found enlightenment in India.

Still, Stephi's "You're too old." Comment got to me. Are we forced to except age and move to the next level more due to our peers precepts rather than natures law. At the moment for me it was surely the former.

Back in Kathmandu I let my self down again in the current battle with age. Stephi had arranged with the new French girl Nicole to go indoor rock climbing. The idea had me intrigued, the practicalities had me terrified. I had never liked heights, even looking out a two storey window can give me the heebee jeebes. The indoor wall was actually outdoors and at least 50 feet high.

The multicolored plastic grips that dotted the giant concrete slab were broken up into 10 vertical lines of difficult climbs. The two girls harnessed them selves up. My initial hope that there would be no climbing shoes to fit me failed as 3 pairs were places before me.

The fear of heights aside, I was about to leave. The idea of slipping and breaking a leg, or twisting an ankle had me wrenched fast to my seat. To risk the end of my journey just to prove my manliness to a girl who thought I was to old anyway?

I swallowed my male pride, ego and aspirations and flat out refused. I settled on the excuse that I did not trust Nepalese engineering and that the bolts holding the whole climbing range looked very rusty. I saw the look on the girls faces. They tried to hide the "are you a man" look, but I couldn't help but see it etched permanently in their minds.

I sat back and photographed them as they both made it up the easy 1st section. The idea of climbing up 50ft feet with only a rope and a single metal hook to save you from dropping to the sound of a hearty splat did not seem appealing.

The second section was much more difficult for them and nether managed to make it. This was the only time I felt a desire to try, where others failed I wanted to succeed. It was too late though, the day was over and I had indeed failed. Whether I had failed either myself, or the two girls I didn't quite know. A little of both I would say. All I did know was that my high on being in Nepal was dissolving all around me.

Because of the words, "Your too old." I was floundering again in what I thought I had discovered years ago. Self discovery. Who was this 'old' guy I now saw in the mirror every morning?

Once in a while you read a book about an adventure, or see a movie, and then picture yourself in the shoes of the hero/s. Sometimes the next day you might be walking down the street with the same thoughts in your mind. A person may say something a little odd to you, or perhaps something quirky happens and you side step the situation.

Once in Kathmandu after the riots a local tout touched my arm and whispered "Are you a journalist?"

Like everyday touts I ignored him and continued on. Yet something always niggled at me... what if I had said yes? Would he have led me to an interesting place, or situation like the recent riots. Or, more likely, would he have taken me to Durbar Square and asked for 500 RP for the tour!!!

One night in the guest house I sensed such a situation coming about. And I this time I chose not shrug it off...

The days were getting warmer, yet by 5pm in the evening chill we were still all huddled around in the dinning area. Stephi, Anna, and Christine were all engaged in girl chat with Sangita while I sat thinking of what to have for dinner, just to pass the time. The menu never changed, but it was always something to pick on and look busy with.

Dante, the Italian volunteer, came in with his usual big Italian smile and "Nameste" greeting. As usual the girls all looked up, and then rather frustratingly, looked down again at his lower quarters. What's worse is that I watched them watching him too much.

Stefi was the main reason I felt that male ego twang of jealousy. Knowing that look of attraction in her eye, watching the gentle flirting between them. I shook it off.

Night was fast falling and Dante chose conversation with me rather than the girls. He was a pale Italian with a not so strong stubble beard that took away from his otherwise good charming looks. Never dressed in more than a woolen black sweatshirt and black jogging pants, he took the word causal and went with it.

"You wanna go somewhere for 30 minutes?" he said with a devious yet friendly pale smile.

I picked up on the sense of something different, "Sure". Life needed a pick me up, and I needed to get out.

We jumped a cab and headed out to a place Dante had asked me to keep secret.

"I wanna make the money," He said in a typical Italian accent as we pulled up into a warehouse car park. "And this here, is agonna be good.” He paused to look at be breifly, “Whatta you about the rum here?"

The warn out signpost in the parking lot told me were at the Kukuri Rum Distillery. I knew nothing about Rum, nor why Dante wanted me here.

I submitted my answer. "It goes good with coke!"

The Italian smiled, the devious smile creeping in again. "Is true. But this Kukari rum is very good. Good for the cooking you know."

"OK..." An Italian thinking of food, I was getting a picture forming in my mind.

Heading into the warehouse Dante lowered his voice a little. "This stuff is really good. Not so much, ah... for the table, but for the chef to mix with."

His hands began to get expressive with gestures as he continued. "I tried it with meringue. It taste so good I tell my papa. My familia. They own a restaurant. A small one, but is good. I want to see... if these... people they are. How you say? Exclusively, exporting already. Or, if we can do business?"

I was a little lost again as to my purpose here as a very fat Nepalese man in a white medical style coat came over to us.

"Can I be helping you?"

And so began an hour of Dante trying to explain to a group of Kukari rum management types his need to import their Rum into Italy. I still wonder what my purpose was there. Occasionally I offered up a suggestion, or more often made un-useful grunts at the conclusion of a conversation.

Maybe Dante just wanted a backup in case the Nepalese were not so friendly, or just moral support. Maybe someone had told him I was an expert on importing and exporting. In either case we left with the information Dante wanted, he could buy the Rum for export if he wanted to. He was happy.

Strategic thinking was only now coming to my mind and my questions to him about duty, insurance and taxes seemed to damped his mood. Either way he swore me to secrecy about the evening. No one was to know.

I thought little about our out of the ordinary evening again until a few days later over breakfast wit hthe group.

"You wanna go somewhere for 30 minutes?" He beamed again a devious smile.

"Sure thing?" I replied. It was not exactly as if I had a pressing day ahead. The snow was worsening in China, and there was no electricity at the Guest house or Thamel for that matter.

We took a local bus this time. Strangely Dante was a little more subdued than usual. Our conversation was about the rum, though it was mainly me asking and then answering my own questions.

We stopped off a dusty intersection and got out. Dante looked around as if expecting to see someone he recognized.

He looked at me and then over at a parked windowless bus. "Is the bus we must take."

I figured we were heading to another distillery and nodded in agreement.

Dante scratched at his stubble. He looked paler than normal today. His light brown hair was unkempt as if after a bad nights sleep. I figured this is why he was so silent, though the silence emerging from him bugged me considering I seemed to be doing him a favor.

Finally he let out a big sigh. "Ok, I 'ave to be honest with you. I am in the very bad situation."

Raising an eyebrow, I then frowned in concern at him.

Dante glanced at me briefly to see my reaction before continuing. "I used to work for an NGO called 'Children's Nepal'. It was last year sometime. They were very bad people I discover."

Frustration began to show on his anxious face. "They take the money people donate and they make their own houses. The big bosses. d'hey cheat the little children I was working to help. So I leave them." He nodded to himself. "Yes I leave and I volunteer with some good local people. At an orphanage. By myself."

A man by the bus entrance whistled. It was time for the bus to leave so we quickly boarded and sat into two adjoining seats.

"We were to be building the house for orphan children to live in." said Dante as the bus began to set off. "It was good. They had people that wanted to do the work. I help them raise money and we build the house."

He paused in thought. "Then, just before I went back at my home in Italy I receive an email from the boss. A landslide destroy the house, and kill two of the workers."

I feigned concern and wondered where all this was going.

“It was all quite terrible then,"continued the Italian. "So many people they lost someone they care about. So I get some friends and family back home to donate money to help rebuild. And we set'a up a bank account to have the monies put into. I came back again this time and help them with a new building. Is good. They 'ave new foundations. And..."

He paused again, with a frown he changed his tone. "I do not like this. But the boss I discover. He build a new house for himself."

A look of anger began to appear on Dante face, "And the orphan's, they live in an overcrowded house rented place nearby. He cheated me. And he cheated the little orphans. But already I get a local NGO to help with the new place. And this man he see the money there too. The grant dhey offer he need 21 children in the house he rents. Then he get more money to finish the rebuilding of the new orphanage.

Waggleing his finger Dante concluded. “But I now he will use the NGO money to build his own houses again."

There was silence for a while and I figured the story was over. "So you want to pull out from helping them?"

"No, no," he replied hurriedly. "I have so many of my family waiting for the good news. No, I learn worse."

He sat up a little in the seat, "This man, he lie to my face again. He just now put 12 of his own relatives children in the house. He make up the numbers."

"Well," I interjected, "He's cheating but..."

"No," Dante interrupted. "He lie to me before as well. The other 6 orphan children are his own. He make the fake papers. And the other other 3 children he take from another orphanage in the city."

"He kidnapped them?" I gasped. This was all getting very intense and underhanded to me. And I was somehow getting caught up in it.

"Who know. A boy at our orphanage tell me he pay a guard to look away."

"Are you sure?"

Dante looked at me with sad eyes, "I know for sure. I see them, and I have the copies of papers. The boss, he think I come today with money to prove to the NGO that he has a financial sponsor and support already. He know nothing about what I really know. He see only the money I can bring, he think he a big man now with the NGO helping. But I know he will use the money to build onto his own houses for his own family."

We fell silent. People often get themselves into binds, but Dante looked to be in a complex moral, financial and social bind that was tearing badly at his conscience. I wondered mysself what sort of bind I was getting into in accompanying him on the bus. Were we getting Rum? Confessing to NGO sponsors? Or just merely having a confessional bus ride.

"So what's the plan?" I chipped in, residing in the fact that the Italian had one.

"I will leave in a week." replied Dante with a nod, "Leave for Italy."

"Italy?"

"Yes," he said staring out the window. "My beautiful girlfriend. She comes in a few days. I will take her for a trek. And then...I surprise her and we will leave together."

"Ok?..." I really did not know if he understood my question or not. "I meant the plan today?"

Dante had no devious smile this time, it was a meek smile of hope. "We have to see how it goes."

Not the answer I was hoping for. Melissa had given me a near 3 years worth of a full list of Italian bred reasons why not to trust such unplanned ideas. Italiano spirit and passion was great. Some of the ideas had potential. Yet often times the implementation of all ended in a complete collapse.

"We go there," mused Dante,"an' we take a look at this new orphanage. I wanna take the picture of what work he really do."

So there was a plan. Again I thought of the many plans of Melissa, and the many hours I had to spend prying them out of her. Sometimes only to find them being more of an idea rather than a plan.

The bus pulled up and we headed out into the heat of the mid morning sun in Kathmandu valley. No sooner had I taken a brief look around the small breeze block roadside village we were in than a young well built youth approached us.

"Nameste Mr. Dan. How is things?"

Dante gave the greasy haired youth a handshake and a pat on the shoulder, "Nameste, Nihal, I am fine how are you?"

Strangely for Nepal I was largely ignored as we headed up the dirt road. Though that might not be a bad thing either. Dante was on a personal mission here, and for some reason had selected me to come along. Dante was a hurting man. His pride had taken a knock and he felt betrayed by the people that were meant to be granting him his great moral crusade. His motives were as unclear as his intentions today. His plight was one any of us could understand. He had been conned. Then took it about himself to establish something to make amends. But unfortunately it has all wound up in the same situation of being conned again. The fact that he mentioned his girlfriend was coming and he was sticking around for another week at least made me hope he was not going to anything stupid. In fact he even said he was just here to photograph the work on the new building.

We reached a high tree lined embankment beside the road. Our young guide Nihal pointed over the side to a foundation building site below and waved to the 7 or 8 workers. The men all turned up to look at us. Some had been lying down, some sitting in conversation, the rest smoking.

A rotund man in a grey t shirt shouted up. "Nameste Dante. How are we looking?"

"Is Chittaranjan," said Dante as he waved back. "He the Boss."

We scrambled a little way down the embankment and Dante took the opportunity to explain that this was the site of the new orphanage. While not being an engineer, nor architect or even a tradesman I found it difficult to believe they were building here.

The small plotted foundation below was nestled into a steep slope consisting of brush and thin trees. Was the first orphanage not wiped out by a landslide? Imagining heavy rainfall brought a similar image to my mind for the new project. Maybe Dante's plan was to prevent them finishing in order to protect the stupid. On the other hand maybe this Chittaranjan had no intentions of finishing the project anyway.

Camera in hand Dante took a few photographs of the area. He wanted proof of the work being undertaken versus the value donated to Chittaranjan's new orphanage. We made our way back to where the bus had left us off. The youth Nihal accompanying us and thus preventing me from asking any more obvious questions

"Chittaranjan is following?" Dante asked the young man.

The youth nodded as he took out his mobile phone and began to dial a number.

We walked only a few steps away from road into a dirt garden next to a rundown and ramshackle three story detached house. A few chickens pecked around the dirt and a dog lay stretched out in the shadow of an outhouse. We joined the dog as the midday heat was becoming intense.

A few teenagers shuffled by as Dante nodded at a chicken. "This chicken, I brought here. Remember Nihal?"

The youth nodded nonchalantly, more interested in the screen of this phone.

Meanwhile I clicked to where we actually were. "This is the rented orphanage?"

"Yes," confirmed Dante.

"So those guys over there are the orphans?" I asked looking over at a group of young men in their teens beside a table under a makeshift rice sack shelter.

Dante looked at me with a tinge of guilt. "Si, they are the orphans.” He leaned closer, “Chittaranjan's sons."

"They are all teenagers?!" I said looking around. "That one even looks like he is over 20."

An orphanage conjured up rows of babes, or at least toddlers. Not a a gang of teenagers fixated now with a game of cards. An understanding of the Italians guilt was becoming apparent.

The Dante nodded and looked around himself. "Nihal, where are the young ones to see?

The youth brushed back his hair and shouted into up at the house. A womans voice called back, and so it continued between them for a minute. Then out from the door led my a boy aged at about 14 were 5 youngsters ranging from a 3 year old toddler boy to a 10 year old girl.

Dante walked over to the young toddler. He was was wearing only a filthy rag as a t shirt. A girl grabbed hold of his hand as the Italian picked up the small boy. She was frail looking but her eyes had the protective glare of a sister.

"These are the young ones I tell you about." said Dante looking me squarely in the eyes as he walked over to me.

The group of youngsters followed and Dante patted a small boy in a blue torn t shirt on the head. "All of them ... here."

"He is coming or not?" Snapped Dante placing the toodler into the hands of his sister. "I need the forms I call you about. The identity papers for the NGO submission on Thursday."

Nihal nodded vehemently as he pointed to his phone, "I sent Chittaranjan a message. He reply and say he is on his way."

As we sat in the shade waiting I looked up at the dilapidated building. Chunks of plaster had come off from unfinished leveling. The windows has no frames and the whole structure looked like it leaned to my right. The young children sat in a circle, a beaten up plastic bottle their source of amusement.

"Do they own the building?" I asked.

Dante gave me a smirk, "No. They pay 150 Euro a month for it."

I gave him a look of disbelief.

Dante nodded. "Si. I only see it for the first time when I came back. My families money."

A huffing and sweaty bald man in his forties turned the corner. Chittaranjan shook no ones hand, instead he lit a cigarette. If ever there was a Nepalese lookalike for a grease ball, this was he.

Scrunching up his shiny face Chittaranjan blew out some smoke. "So everything good, no?"

Dante paused for an uncomfortable period before smiling widely. "But of course. But I am rushing. I ask for the children's papers. We have little time."

Chittaranjan snorted out some phlegm from his nose and spat into the dirt. "They are upstairs, locked away. You and this your friend can come and wait inside."

Dante shook his head, "No, is fine thank you. We wait 'ere. There is the last bus at 1pm, and I want to stop it before we leave."

It was already 12.30 and I was relieved to hear we would be leaving so soon. Chittaranjan nodded in agreement and disappeared inside the house with Nihal.

Dante remain largely silent. Only taking the time to tell me about the bus was rarely on time, and then something about a rooster in the yard.

Ten long minutes later and Nihal appeared again.

"This is alright Mr. Dan?" he asked holding up a bright blue folder.

Dante took the folder and opened it. There were single sheets of A4 paper inside, each one containing the details of the each child at the orphanage. Some contained color passport photos of the children, while others were just photocopies.

Taking each page Dante sorted through the pile, shuffling some from the others. From my angle I could see all those with passport photos were in one hand while the photocopies he separated out.

"We need to present all with the photo," Explained Dante as he looked at his watch. "Photocopy will do. Do you have? There are some without here."

Nihal seemed to be expecting the question. "Yes. I will do it myself today. I have the photographs upstairs. just the photocopy we don't have."

"And the original financial statements?"

"Upstairs in Chittaranjan's safe."

Dante handed the original forms in Nihal's direction, "If you can do the work in time, then I give it too you. Just be sure to have it done, otherwise. Well.. no money."

A look of uneasiness crossed Nihal's inexperienced face. A lack of confidence in himself was apparent.

Pushing the forms back towards Dante he spoke softly. "It is better with you."

Acting as though it was no bother Dante immediately set about shuffling through the sorted photocopied forms and handing them over the Nihal. The bundle of originals stayed with him and the blue folder.

Squinting in the direction of my watch Dante eyes widened a little. "What's the time?"

"Just past one." I replied, realizing at the same time the bus was now due.

For the first time all day Dante gave me his devious smile, "The bus! We might miss it. Is not so good as the next one is not until 4pm. Can you wait by the other side of the house and stop the bus as it passes? I come now to."

There was an urgency in his voice, and I suddenly felt the weight of whatever the Italian was up to come down on me. Walking briskly to the side of the dirt road I could still hear their conversation in parts. He wanted Nihal to fetch financial papers from upstairs. But stopped the youth as he turned too the door. He said something about registration forms for the grant, then something about the Nepalese government, then the building work. Dante was all over the place. He was stalling.

The sound and then sight of the bus coming down the road was probably the answer. Putting my hand up I hoped the driver would obey. Rather embarrassingly he stopped about 10 feet before me and let off some passengers on the regular route. The engine revved and I waved again. Quickly making my way over to the bus door. I glanced back in time to see Dante waving Nihal into the building with instructions.

The bus driver spoke no English and had no clue what I meant as i pleaded for him to wait for my friend. In hope of visual confirmation I pointed back at the building only to find myself tensing up a what I saw.

Dante was coming around the rented orphanage building with the small blue shirted boy in one hand and the young girl in the other; complete with toddler brother still in her arms. It was a surreal moment seeing him duck around the corner of the building in our direction. The Italian was attempting a daylight kidnapping of the only real orphans at the orphanage.

His run with the children did not last long though, and my body relaxed as the Italian left them by a shaded area and turned back alone. I was wrong, no kidnapping. Just sun sheltering. My attention turned back to the driver, but was quickly interrupted my one of the passenger who had already left the bus.

The middle aged and heavy set woman seemed to understand me. She held her hands up to the driver and pointed in Dante's direction. The driver nodded, and the buses engine returned to an idle.

Relief began to spread over me as I turned to thank the lady. But she was gone. I looked around towards the rear as I stepped away from the bus. Then looking back towards the building my heart began to pump quickly again.

There at a quickened pace was the middle aged lady hand in hand as Dante had just been with the three children. They were heading in the buses direction. Behind her came the Italian at a joggers pace, clutching onto the blue plastic folder he had left behind in order to first move the children.

I looked blankly at the bus driver who scowled down at me. I smiled and raised my head up while looking at my watch and shrugged. What else to do? The driver sniffed hard and turned to stare blankly out the window ahead.

The woman bundled the children on board and Dante patted my shoulder as he greeted me in Italian. I looked back at the crumbling and sad looking orphanage as the bus pulled out. Wondering if either Chittaranjan or Nihal were even aware of all this outside. Even the remaining group of teenage non-orphans remained engrossed in their card game, never once paying us any attention.

The woman was seated next to the children as Dante and I stood beside them in the center aisle. The woman was from the orphanage Chittaranjan had originally taken the three children from Dante explained. He never introduced me to the Monks that ran the orphanage when we got back, but at least I saw it as being for real. And, in a lot better condition than the rented one the children had been kept in.

My questions were more than a day could handle, but Dante only addressed the main one. Chittaranjan no longer had the original paperwork the donating NGO required for further funding. He had also lost his alternative income source in Dante. He could do nothing but hide his shady dealings while spending the remainder of Dante's donations quickly.

Dante would never mention that day again. As we made our own way back to the guest house that evening he spoke of his girlfriends arrival, and his flight home. Though my questions were plentiful I was very silent. My mind churning over all the little details that happened during the day. There was a lot to digest from many aspects. There was only one thing I sure of, the girls at the guest house would never know about this.

About me and this Blog

It was a few days before Chinese New Year, something which in Nepal was referred to as Tibetan New Year; Losar. Kathy had managed to spend a few days actually living in the Monastery, albeit with at least one afternoon at the Guest house. We'd promised to come and visit her at this place she describer as 'OK' but no water and terrible food meant she needed change if she was to stay and works there.

The Monastery itself was located behind the Monkey Temple on another hill. A 45 minute walk up the hill left both Anna, Stephi and myself breathless. It wasn't the altitude nor the pollution it was more to do with too much sitting around the guest house eating. I remembered my trek in the mountains and how fit I felt afterwards, how quickly it fades.

The monastery itself was painted a sunset yellow and gave its concrete walls a very clean look that was off set by ox blood red borders. A 20 ft blue haired statue of Buddha sat in the outer courtyard, while the inner courtyard was an open grassy space. At the north end was the entrance to the two story temple. What was notable was the mass of young 5-14 year old monks, whom we quickly dubbed as 'baby lama's.'

Cathy showed us around the small but well laid out monastery. There was an exterior open plan eating area to the west, and to the east the administration block. Dotted around both the exterior and interior courtyards were ox blood colored doors leading into the monks dorms. Kathy had her own room, one that surprised me in it cleanliness and utilities.

"There is no water," she proclaimed opening up the door to the small neat en suite. "And no hot taps. It's not good."

To be honest as much as the tall German made me laugh with her blunt comments, I couldn't help but be envious and think back to the various squaller's I had to deal with in nigeria. By gosh she even had a fan, and a well polished hardwood floor. Get over it Kathy.

She wasn't the only one complaining that day. We met a middle aged Swiss lady who had come up from her Eco village in south India to volunteer at the Monastery. She looked like an old style Eco warrior in her baggy Tye dye outfit and dread locked hair. She had an emancipated face that told me she her diet was poor. Indeed when we joined the monks for an offering of a Daal Bhat lunch she refused all but plain rice and some cauliflower. So did Kathy for that matter. I would normally have been fussy about mass produced monk food too, but it was actually quite good.

A discussion broke out that revealed several new facts to me about the girls and their volunteering. I knew they were paying to volunteer already. Something I had already voiced my opinion on. The fact of the matter is they were trying to make a difference in a few weeks, or even a matter of 6 months. With no experience of development.

I saw my own self doing the same thing as well in Nigeria. And with this I remembered the core training principles of VSO I undertook at the time. It was something that was seriously lacking in this independent or small NGO volunteering network. Kathy for example was fresh out of university, a graduate in Administration. She had only ever traveled in Europe before, and was now the sole English Language teacher for the young Baby Lama's. This was a girl with no prior teaching experience, nor English qualifications nor overseas experience.

She had paid an organization several hundreds of Euro to some and work at the monastery for 2 months. Taking over where previous volunteers had left off. However there was no set curriculum, and no records of previous work at all. I was aghast at this. How could anyone not set out a permanent curriculum? Classes were set out ad lib. And although I am sure Kathy researched and did her best to teach, her work would quickly be forgotten.

I explained to them that I would have preferred if Kathy would have spent her two months never seeing a monk and instead produced a set curriculum for future volunteers to follow. That to me would have been productive.

There were of course elements I was missing. And I saw the look of hurt on Kathy's face. She was young, this was her first taste of the outside world. Of poverty. Of teaching. Of living outside her element. The blame was not on Kathy's head, it was her organization. The one that was sending people out to the monastery for years. The one that readily took their money and then lost interest after they arrived.

Kathy's point of contact was a Nepalese man. I saw him at the guest house interacting with some of the other volunteers. He looked more like a messenger rather than development worker. And indeed a further relevaton by an upset Anna revealed this one day.

The NGO was run my an American lady in her early 30's. During one of Anna had summoned her to the guest house once to demand her money back for not providing a suitable placement for her studies. Their discussion was open to all in the dining area. The American lady had all the good intentions. Indeed several years ago she was a volunteer herself, then with the support of a large network of family and friends back home set about creating an NGO of good will in Nepal. She was out of her depth then. No prior business of development experience and a massive list of rounded up volunteers back home meant a recipe for disaster.

For all it's faults I quickly saw VSO in a better light. During my tenure with them I saw their faults stand out like a sore thumb. I was there experiencing their failures. And their successes. It was their experience that was the obvious difference in comparison to these Nepalese N Go's. Through failures VSO was at least learning and offered a good standard of training to their volunteers. The volunteers that were know my friends in Nepal had none of that. And all involved were suffering because of it.

We made light of the Swiss ladies Eco friendly determination of bathing all the baby lamas as her sole purpose. It was her one month goal, let them have at least one bath. OK, this in itself was somewhat of a good thing. After all they were seriously in need of a good scrubbing. Personally I would have tackled the well scented management first. But no the Swiss lady dove quite literally head first into bathing the children one day. She gave up in under an hour. The children had put up a fight at being plunged into an icy cold tub of water and fought back with a splashing festival. It was too much for the Swiss lady to handle, so she was packing it all in and going back to her Eco village. Though not before buying one Baby Lama a new coat, her contribution to sustainability.

This was something the others saw too, and it was good to see Stephi argue the same points I was making. The head monks had money, yet it did not filter down past their personal security guards at their private homes. Where was the life without material values there? It was something that became more apparent with Monique's story from living at her orphanage. She began dating a worker there, the head of the organization. A nice guy that I would personally not trust as much to believe every word he spoke. His partner in the orphanage was a celibate monk who it turned out was the father of all 14 little orphans Monique was looking after.

So the monks were not all that the movies and foreign media had portrayed them to be. They still put on a good show for their new years Losa festival.

Near 12 foot Tibetan temple horns blew a deeply resonant and haunting sound that rang out over the inner courtyard. Their sounds provoked images of old Asian war movies just before battle. Masked figures dressed in elaborate costumes danced out from the temple entrance as small baby lama's lined up around the courtyards border.

To say that the Tibetan costumes were different were very different from stereo typical Chinese festival costumers would be a lie. Sure there might be a significance in the red velvet pointed shoes, or in the combination of multicolored materials used to create such costumes. But at the end of the say to a bystander they looked pretty much the same. Either way they put on a good show.

Small dancing steps and slow motion turns heralded by deep base bursts from Temple horns and the low rhythmic chanting of the monks made it a spectacle not easily forgotten.

We had a privileged feeling at being invited. Whatever or individual feelings were about the monks lifestyle they did not ask anything of us. Though that might have changed as the rather potbellied and frail looking head Lama fired flaming arrows. He was aiming into a large kerosene soaked pile of straw as part of a banishing of evil spirits ceremony. Unfortunately the combination of too much kerosene and a sudden gust of wind sent several robe wearing monks running for pales of water.

Nobody seemed that concerned with the riots I had been in the middle of the day before. As I rushed to get the photographs to the BBC, others merely wondered if the stores would be open today. Sangita was more annoyed about no public transport due to the blockades than the fact that the newspaper headlines said the rioters targeted journalists and medical teams.

"I was there, it's not true!" My witnessed statements got no more than some shrugs and some sighs.

The French girls Monique and Stephi brought about my next worry. Stephi turned the page of the riot filled newspaper, "And, your friends. Dhey arrive at what time today?"

It hadn't escaped my mind that this afternoon Maeve and Alex were arriving. I had thought it more prudent to find out if the riots were going to happen again to day?!! No one knew, nor did they seem that worried.

Madu, the second in command at the KTM G GH added to my thoughts, "Maybe the airport is closed too."

"Because of the riots?" I returned.

He shrugged and unleashed a goofy smile. "Maybe. But the roads. They are being blocked too."

I remembered my own trip into Kathmandu. He was right. They were flying in at 1pm and had although I had sent them a very exact email with instructions on how to get tote guest house it would do no good if the airport was blocked. Still Madu promised to send a driver out to meet them, so that at least would help.

I went for a look around outside. It was as closed up as it had been the day before. I wonder over to the ring road saw that the tire burning was still in full swing. Riot police marched up and down the main roads. I groaned at the thought of Maeve arriving in the middle of all this. She was not accustomed to roughing it, let alone landing in the middle of a country that I had depicted as idyllic, relaxing and a good place to get away from it all.

By lunchtime both Maeve and Alec had both called. Luck was back on track. Their flight had been delayed due to weather, they had bumped into a a chap at the airport who explained about the 'fuel delays' and according to a radio report the strike was officially off.

I sat calming myself in the guest house with a beer when they arrived. All smiles and oblivious that for the last two days the city had been in a lock down.

Being new to the city myself it was the perfect excuse to head off with Maeve and Alec to see what was on offer. Though I had only been there myself for two riot filled days they seemed to make a great deal out of me going with them to all the tourist sights I must have seen already. No problem.

Kathmandu was as close to an ancient living city as I have come across. No where else have I seen a place where 1000 year old plus buildings en masse are used for everyday purposes in the same way they used to be. Couple that with smoke churning rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, narrow lanes and shops overflowing with metal curios and you can easily feel lost here. Thamel is not Kathmandu, its a part of it. And I found Thamel to be the least likable place. It was full of tourists, and tourist centered items. Not that I wasn't partial to a porterhouse steak in the evening while listening to modern music or a just released Hollywood blockbuster. It was the lure of the old world still alive and bustling on the roof of the world that I enjoyed the most.

Where else in the world could you find a Living Goddess hidden amongst a mini city of ancient Hindu temples. Sadu priests making blessings, praying and at the same time taking gullible tourists for extortionatephotographic privileges. The temples were awash with people, either selling flowers or other such paraphernalia, or just taking it all in. Hunched men with backs filled with stacks of carpets, singing bowls and even plastic chairs battled through crowds of neatly dressed students. And this was just Dubar Square.

Along the modern new road was the new version of commercialism. Watch vendors, game boy hawkers and camera salesmen all did battle for your money. Stores of electronics lined the road, Sony, Motorola, Panasonic, Dell, they were all represented in some fashion. Then a Royal Palace with a King present who's brother killed his whole family.

Outside beggars would ask once, or maybe twice for money. Their clothes and skiing more dirty from the polluted streets than any other I have seen. Street kids would lie in clusters along the roadside. Either emancipated from the night before or resting for this nights plea to fuel their drug centered addictions.

In the tourist hotbed that was Thamel, nationalities from all over the world dined on rich and well prepared foods. Shopped for cheap yet beautifully ornate jewelery, Kukri knifes and counterfeit DVD's. Or be seen spenedmany times less on fake North Face jackets that would normally cost 100's of foreigncurrency back home. It was here after night had fallen and the day time tourist touts looking to sell a chap tour had packed up you would find a grim scene. Street children would en masse for the few evening time hours that they knew the tourists would be out.

They were street children hooked on glue. Plastic bags would often cover their faces as they huffed in the toxic fumes that gave them a brief high before their eyes would glaze over. They would prey on tourists leaving restaurants, or new comers, their lost expressions giving them away. Full bellies and quite early evenings meant tourists were easily persuaded to part with some cash. And for the smart tourist what didn't want to give cash but offered food instead came another crash of reality.

Coming back one evening from an evening with the French girls and a new Italian Daniel who had lived here before I came upon a small girl selling embroidered purses. Colorful and ornate they would make a nice gift. The girl was about 7. Her face was smeared with oily soot, and her clothes tattered. All of the street children were boys, and it was unusual to see a girl out and about.

"150 Rupees." she claimed.

I laughed back, "Really, so much? It's too much."

"120." She fired back with a knowing smile.

"120? My dear I live here, I know the cost. Tell me the truth?"

She didn't frown, but I could see her weighing me up. "Last price 50 Rupees."

I nodded towards a group of boys ahead of us as I took a note out. "You're not going to do what they are doing are you?"

She shook her head frowning. "No, I not bold and stupid. They use glue. I sell purses and go to school."

It flickered past my mind that she would probably be more educated than the man she would be arranged to marry at some stage in her young life. The group of boys were following a large American looking tourist into a supermarket. I had seen this before. The tourist in good intentions had refused to give the kids money, knowing they would directly buy glue with it. Instead he was asking them to pick something out from the store that would directly feed them.

"He is stupid too," continued the little girl, following my eyes as the tourist left with a large bag of rice cakes. "He should open it first. The boys will take back and get money for it for drugs."

She was right. Once the tourist had left the group of boys charged back into the supermarket and exchanged the food for money. People were surviving here by any means necessary, so long as it did not interfere with the greater good.

With Maeve and Alec we stood idly by in a Gurkha knife store as it was held up by a youth with a sword like Gurkha knife. Never once were we threatened. Instead the thief got away with the 800 Ruppess knife. No police were called. No one chased after him. A call was made to the local Maoist group. The thief was a member. Later the knife would be returned by a bloodied ex-thief.

This was Kathmandu. A world of old and new. Of safety and danger. Poor and yet rich. Dependant yet independent and unique. It represented so much to so many. It intrigued people, scared them, compelled them and yet offered a safe haven to them. People went to India for spirituality, yet here in Nepal it seemed more genuine. The people were friendly, open to all. No jealousy nor crime was evident nor directed at tourists. Even the drunken ones stumbling home alone along darkened lanes seemed to make it back in one peace.

Maeve and Alec were aghast with Kathmandu, and regretted not having more time in Nepal. I helped them courier things home through a contact I had made at the London Cargo Company. And then waved them off in Madu's taxi. Their visit had been a success. It felt good to have friends visit me while I was travellingmyself. It felt even better that they had enjoyed themselves. Now I was alone again to head into China. Though I would have liked to have stayed longer, it was time to move on.

Stephi pointed to the front page of the Kathmandu Times. My eyes widened as I saw the thousands of Chinese people stranded at the train station. China was having its worst weather in decades. Over the next few days I spent time in researching my Tibet trip, and the situation in China. Monique had moved out of the guest house and into an orphanage where she worked. It was easier to live in a cramped bedroom come Hindu shrine than battle Kathmandu traffic.

This gave Stephi and me more time in exploring Kathmandu. I liked Stephi, she was young, early 20's yet well versed and independent. She knew Kathmandu better than me, and it seemed she had been living there for months. She knew the local bus routes, the cheaper options at the market, and what's more she shared a similar pessimistic style of humor as I.

Two new volunteer arrivals at the guest house rounded off the new permanent resident group. A German girl Cathrine who was quickly christened 'Sticky Pants' due to her lacking of clean jeans. And a tall blond head strong student girl from Holland called Anna.

Our mornings were filled with pancake breakfasts and jibes over newspaper articles chronicling the worsening weather conditions in China and the deft comments over Stephi's lack of volunteering work. My afternoons were taken up with one of more of the non volunteering group either shopping for night time cooking at the guest house, movie buying or general missions of a shopping kind.

On one occasion I went with Stephi and Cathy to Swayambhunath, the monkey temple. A place deftly named after the massive collection of baboon's that enjoyed pinching fruit from both tourist and locals pockets. We were more adapt at life in Kathmandu now. We all sported ID passes allowing us through Dubar Square for free. We also found ways to enter the monkey temple for free, albeit through a very round about way.

I was on a mission to find a quality singing bowl. My first had been bought for a mere 200rupees from an old lady in dubar square. With some practice it had become my pride in being the only musical instrument I could and still can play. It was basically a round metal bowl that when its rim was rubbed with a wooden stick would emit a high pitches tone. Not exactly rocket science, but then one has to start somewhere.

Swayambhunath was like most important Hindu temples in Nepal. After ascending30 minutes of steps you see the large stupa blanketed with stark whitewash above which sits a golden cubical structure with the eyes of Buddha looking in all four directions. What makes Swayambhunath a little different is both its high location, and it's alternative namesake of the monkey temple. Indeed there were baboons everywhere. Mainly in the search for food they could be seen as rather deft pickpockets to unsuspecting tourists.

It was the antiquities market surrounding the temple that interested me thought. I had been there once before and spotted a shop that was dedicated to my new found obsession of singing bowls. Stephi and Cathy were not so enamored with the little decorative bowls but thanks to my skill of persuasion or possibly there boredom were now listening to the shop owner recite their purpose.

Nepalese singing bowls were in fact Tibetan, but even the Tibetan ones were made in Nepal due to the Chinese restrictions on Tibetan culture. They came in different sizes, and classes. Some were for music alone, others claimed healing powers due to the vibrations they gave out. I fell prey to a live demonstration and was subjected to a 2 foot brass colored singing bowl being hit like a gong and passed up and down my body. A mere inch away from touching me I felt it's vibrations tingle through, a sort of sonic massage. One that became a little strange at the waist level and forced me to pull back.

With a little hand push from me Stephi had an up close experience with a vibrating bowl too. Her's however was possibly a little too comically surreal though. Our good intentioned, or possibly sadistically bored, store owner placed the large massage bowl upside down on her head. As if wearing some strangely designed army helmet Stephi stood there, half her head submerged in a brass bowl balanced on her head, her fist directed at me. She was too polite of Nepalese tradition to tell the man to get lost, and so she continued to stand there as he proceeded to hit the bowl with a wooden stick to the sound of a loud bong. Stephi's fists grew tighter as Cathy and I fought back the tears of laughter.

This would be our source of amusement for the day. An evening around the gas heater, steaks and laughter. The electricity blackouts were a curse but also a bonding occasion. Without the rip off DVD's we had little choice but to sit in candle light darkness and trade our day's stories. It was an old tradition that was working on us without effort. We began grew to know each other quickly, we could read each others thoughts and moods on instinct.

Stephi and Kathy were stuck with volunteer jobs that had no work for them. Though Kathy should have been living in a monastery she found every excuse to stay at the guest house. Her German mentality of either 100% yes or 100% to most things in life meant she gave the monks little option to keep her there. Stephi on the other hand did go to work in the mornings, but would usually turn up in the afternoons with a an amused smile about no children today at the orphanage. Anna was older, and more serious about her college work. Yet it was as if this was her first escape from a studious lifestyle in years, and was caught between an all out party seeker and a depressed student on a deadline. Then there was me, the exiled traveler trapped in Nepal due to the snow in china.

It would have been a weak excuse had the headlines on the news not been so daunting. First it was hundreds stranded at railways stations, then thousands and now tens of thousands. Snow storms were blanketing all parts of China. Roads were blocked and an upcoming new year festival threatened chaos.

It crossed my mind that is the group was not around would I still be there, waiting. Or would I have tested my luck, and gone for snow clad journey into China. I foraged information on the Internet. There were still travelers there, but many were obsessed with the weather story rather than telling if they could move around themselves. The Chinese new year, I had expected. And so my decision was to stay in Nepal until well after February 7th celebrations and allow time for the weather to pass.

Danilo, the Italian volunteer, rarely joined our nightly group. It was his second time in Nepal as a volunteer, and he was taking thing seriously. Still, his Italian good looks and friendly manner easily one the female contingent over when ever he appeared. His ability to cook good Italian food was also strong factor. I was the only male in a relatively young group consisting of international girls. It brought back memories of Morocco the 'Harem' of international wives we joked about then. It was a strange feeling, and I know the others knew it too. I had the experience and allure of the older lone male traveler. While the girls were all on their real first trip overseas and held the vitality of youth and the interest in seeking answers. In most cases this relationship would only work for a short period considering the diversity of characters involved. But Sangita was our gel. She was our base at the Guest house that was now our home from home. At least in the case of the girls, a home from home. For me it was a safety net. A place that at least I was happy to stay in.