Point2Point

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.

Check out more on my website:
www.thelongestwayhome.com

I have uploaded a helpful resource on Nepal based on my own experience there here

I also published an article called How to Hire a Guide in Nepal that might help anyone wanting to how its done!

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.

Check out more on my website:
www.thelongestwayhome.com

I have uploaded a helpful resource on Nepal based on my own experience there here

I also published an article called How to Hire a Guide in Nepal that might help anyone wanting to how its done!

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.

Check out more on my website:
www.thelongestwayhome.com

I have uploaded a helpful resource on Nepal based on my own experience there here

I also published an article called How to Hire a Guide in Nepal that might help anyone wanting to how its done!

"Can you build me a website?"

This was Narayan's big question to me as we watched the annual para gliding contest lakeside below. He was with his Babu (male baby) and I had a feeling I was not the only one he had asked in the past.

Trying to be practical I explained that if I did, if would take me a few months to be in a position to do this. I saw his eye drift away and was reminded of what some one once told me about Nepalese. They always want something from you, and once you give it, they forget about you. It was not something I believed was endemic to Nepalese, far from it. But it was one of those annoying things people say that sticks in your head.

In actual fact I have been to less well off countries and experienced a lot worse than I have in Nepal. If one looked around Nepal, and then tried to understand everyday life you can see the scale of poverty is not that of a starving African nation. It was of a country who's people are stuck between to power hungry rocks. India and China. What side will Nepal venture to, the worlds largest Democracy or the worlds largest Communist government. It is a poverty of a nations soul and moral incline. Their monarchy and self rule has failed. Now they are weighing up their future.

I spent my final days enjoying the sunshine and Shantaram on the Hotel Dharma Inn's rooftop. Kathmandu awaited, and with it came a more touristy offering. I looked at the pages of hotel recommendations in the LP. A short list was drawn up. The first one I called, Kathmandu Garden House had a ladies voice at the end of the line. She was clear, precise and was 400 for a private. I called another and it was a guy who took ages to even understand I wanted a room. I called the KTM G GH back and reserved with Sangita.

I needed to find a good guest house as I had Maeve and Alec coming to visit it me from there holidays in India. Maeve was a friend for many years, and was taking a RTW with her New Zealand boyfriend. They were in their 50's and I was worried that Kathmandu may not be there taste, my emails about come to Pokhara instead had gone unanswered.

Karenina the movie was not so special as the town itself, but it did give me time with Mamut and listen to his future plans of escaping to work overseas. I handed him the book "The Alchemist". I book which to me at the time was somewhat biblically written and although nice not so great. A book that still held an answer to one of my own problems.

I explained the concepts of the book to Mamut, and was surprised that he was taking it all in. He was a good little chap Mamut and I wondered if / when he would ever make it overseas if he would survive real life and people.

Chubby asked me if I would buy my ticket for Kathmandu from him, rather than go local. It was with Green line bus, Nepal's number one and most expensive company. He would get a free ticket for every 15 he sold. His honesty was such as he knew if he did no ask I would have gone with the cheaper, local option.

At 5 am I was up and Mamut had served me my last breakfast in Pokhara. I gave him some old clothes and a bag I no longer had room for, as always he was grateful.

The Green star bus was not so big from the outside. But it was spacious enough, and air conditioned. We were promised a 2pm arrival in Kathmandu, free water and buffet lunch. I sat back and watch the countryside whiz by. It was not so spectacular as the mountain trails, but then whatever could be?

The buffet lunch was good, a wide variety and plenty of it. Nepal knows how to look after tourists better than anywhere else I have been. The landscape was getting a little bit more industrial by about 1pm as we rounded a large corner that sported a big 'Welcome to Kathmandu' signboard.

We were still on course for a 2pm arrival when we ground to halt in what seemed like regular heavy traffic. Kathmandu was known for terrible traffic so I took it in my stride. Anyone whose taken buses in anywhere in the world will tell you though, get worried when the driver turns the engine off. Ours did.

Two hours ticked by. Some of us stood outside looking at the unmoving line of dense traffic. Only the occasional motorbike moved by along side the worrying stream of people traffic walking down the road.

"Dhere is a blockade, on dhe road." offered a middle aged French lady as she got off her phone.

She had been living in Kathmandu for years and said it was a fuel strike. And that the road was blocked until 5pm. There goes my hope of seeing Kathmandu today.

I thought about grabbing one of the passing by motorbikes and paying the driver to take me in. Two more French on board our bus shook there heads at me seriously.

"No no, it is not possible," said the bearded man. "It is Kathmandu, have you been 'ere before? Well the inner city roads, they are like... well they are too narrow even for a motorbike. It is simply not possible."

"And," Continued his English speaking French wife, "To be stuck in this traffic in this city, the streets, so narrow, a bad idea."

I though back to, Africa, Pakistan and even India on motorbikes. They were the given alternative the world over to escape traffic. Yet this was Nepal. Was it different? Kathmandu was old, and full of small streets. I imagined if the French had been there before they knew about the traffic too.

The French man scratched at his beard, "Do you know where you stay?"

I nodded, and decided to call Sangita at the KTM G GH. I explained what had happened and that I would be getting in late.

She was fluent in English, and a little concerned. "Oh, you got stuck in it then... You will not get here until tonight then."

I wondered why Chubby never told me about the fuel strike as Sangita talked on. "Is best to stay with the bus. And be careful eh?"

I thanked her and read between the lines. A blockade might mean angry drivers. I decided to stay. And stay we did another few hours until 6pm when the traffic started to move again, just as night began.

It was with luck that the French couple were staying nearby the KTM G GH, and once we were actually in Kathmandu I walked with them through the streets.

Kathmandu was quite. It was 7pm and although the streets had people, it was as if they had all packed up before and gone home. It was also cold. The Frenchman pointed out the best bank as we headed into the narrower lanes, his breath smoking in the cold air. I looked around and saw nothing of the super narrow streets that were impassable for a motorbike.

We entered Thames, the heart of tourist Kathmandu. Here there were bright lights from cafés and bars. Music thumped out of some spots and there were rickshaws trundling along the more crowed streets. The French man continued to point out the recommend guest houses, restaurants and bars as we turned a corner to our area call Paknajol.

Then it was dead. No lights, people, traffic or noise. It was as if the city had just dropped off the planet. Kathmandu was much larger than Pokhara so the nightly electricity rationing meant separating the the power cuts into different districts. The streets ahead were a pitch black as you could get. Heavy cloud sat above so the moon had little effect. A few passersby had torches but the city's walls seemed to absorb their light. This was of course the junction where the French couple said we need to part.

I took a right and they went straight. I fumbled for my pocket torch. I could see not street sign, nor shop sign clearly. Dark shadows brushed past. I was aware I had to keep moving, otherwise risk being picked up by a tout or chancer. I headed down a small hill, and knew it was a lost cause. I needed my map. I glanced at it and looked around, no markers no nothing.

I decided I would keep going until I reached the bottom of the hill. The LP attracted one attempt at trying to stop me from a local. I said I was fine and kept going. There was no phone coverage to call Sangita and ask which of the many side streets I should take. I stopped by a lifeless light pole and looked up at the various advertisements. Tibet Peace house. It wasn't KTM G GH but according to the map it was down the same road.

I took the right and walked up the pitch dark unpaved road. A primary school, the Tibet Peace house, the Yellow Guest house. The hill descended and I was in a narrow steep road. I continued on until I finally shone my little torch up at a small Kathmandu Garden Guest House sign.

One relief over, I now wondered what a guest house without directions or light would be like. I entered the empty reception and was greeted by a well built Nepalese, Madu. He gave me a big smile and a warm Nepalese welcome. My room was ready, and fairly nice. Not as big as in Pokhara, but clean and with hot water.

After a brief bit of unpacking I headed down to see what food was on offer. There were two French girls sitting by a gas Super Sir Heater. I also noted that since the girls were around, I received a lot less attention from Madu.

My questions about the blockade went largely unanswered. I asked for a menu and ordered a beer. An early night would be better, it looked like the city closed up shop in the evenings.

Sangita arrived just as my steak did. This saw Madu dissatisfy away from the French girls and back behind reception. Sangita was a tiny Nepalese lady in her late 30's with long black hair and a great smile. She was also full of life and questions about my journey here. It didn't take long before were all huddled around the gas fire. Kathmandu was defiantly colder than Pokhara.

The two French girls came to life around Sangita too. Stephi wore a heavy brown overcoat that swallowed her little frame. Only her dark hair and bright face were exposed, and even with a profile view beside me I could see she had one of those amazing smiles. Monique was taller, with long straight lighter brown hair as she sat further down the row of seat from me I could see her face more clearly. She had an elegant look. Very French. But she smiled at lot too, and with that came a more down to earth laugh.

They offer me advice on what to do with Maeve and Alec in Kathmandu. It was all the same advice, go to Durbar Square, take them shopping, go on a trek, how long are they staying?

The latter question was the only thing I could remember, one week. They would only have one week in a city I knew nothing about. I knew Alec was easy to handle, it was Maeve who would give me a tongue lashing if I didn't have a plan for them here. I need to sleep on it to come up with a plan.

It was pancakes in real butter for breakfast. Kathmandu also looked after it's tourists too. It was also over breakfast that I noticed Monique really did have quite the enchanting smile. Mix that with deep dark brown eyes and I could see why Madu served her pancakes first. Both Monique and Stephi were volunteers here in local monasteries. It meant I was on my own to find out about Kathmandu in a day for my impending visitors the next day.

I retraced my steps from the previous nights trail. Sangita had mentioned that Kathmandu had seemed really quite when she came over in the morning. I asked about the strike and they said there had been protests about the fuel price increase for weeks now. Again I wondered why the hell Chubby or Narayan had never told me about this.

Kathmandu was indeed empty. I wandered into Thamel and saw nothing but metal shutters and empty streets. A tourist girl walked by chatting to someone on her phone, the streets were so quite I could here the conversation clearly.

"No nothing, its all closed... I don't know... I know....Yes.... No, I will try Z street for breakfast... no, no work... OK later."

I almost stopped her and asked why everything was quiet, but I realized I was a little lost. I had to back trace. The least I could do for Maeve and Alec was to know how to get to the hotel.

Thamel had a large Carlsbad sign over a bakery, and it seemed that's where I kept ending up as I tried to make sense of the empty streets. Bookshops, trekking stores, cafés and more or the same made each street look the same as the other. Most with metal shutters pulled down.

I ventured further out down a long quiet street. A few locals walked by, some stood at the side of the road chatting and a few sat on the side of the road. I looked at one lady and saw she was in tears.

The air was cold and street up ahead was foggy. The stets were in a state of disrepair. Bricks lay strewn around the road, and buildings looked to be crumbling away.

I looked up into the foggy street ahead. The pollution was bad, my eyes were stinging. In fact as I looked around at some others on the side of the road they were having the same problem. My mind started to snap into reality just as 4 medics arrived, red crosses emblazon across their chests.

Something was going on. i took my camera out and started photographing the medics as they tended to a mans face with tissues. It wasn't fog, nor pollution, it was tear gas. I could smell it now as I reached the end of the street. My nose ached a little as the sulphuric like oder grew stronger. Unlike regular sulfur this smell seemed to seep into ones pores. My throat filled with the metallic, nasal taste of tear gas. I felt my eyes sting with a strange burning sensation not unlike having pepper or chili in your eyes.

I continued down the road and came to the junction. To my left the road went up a small incline where there was a mass of people all staring and pointing ahead. I turned to my right. The first thing that came to my head was that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. About 200 feet past a large crowd of semi masked Nepalese were two rows of black clad riot police.

Clear plastic shields in place the first row was kneeling down, the second row looking to be holding weapons. The crowd surged forward. I noticed some smiles. Was it a smile of nervousness, or was something else going on?

Photographs. That's what was going through my head. Now was an opportunity to add to my collection of Round the World photographs, the riots in Kathmandu. And I was in the middle of them.

I moved with the crowd as it pushed forward. They were mainly young student types. I few older people looked on from the windows of nearby houses. All shop fronts were sealed off with metal shutters. Some people had wrapped scarves around there faces, whether to protect from the gas or to hide from identification I do not know.

Raising my camera above their heads I zoomed in on the police line. I knew at any moment the police could fire off rubber bullets, more gas, or worse still open fire. But there were at least 5 rows of people scattered out before me, and an exit down the street I came in from.

The pictures were blurred. The clouds above were heavy, little sunlight and the foggy tear gas made the lighting hard to judge. This combined with the pushing crowd and the fact that my hands were not to steady meant I had to get closer for a better shot.

Moving along the far concrete wall I eased forward. I was out from the main crowd. I was sure the police could see a foreigner was there. With adjusted settings I started photographing again. Better results and as I was just zooming in on a police man pointing to the crowd a great cheer from behind distracted me.

20 or so students rushed forward, grabbing at debris on the ground as they ran. 50 feet out from the barricade off armed riot police the majority stopped and began hurling the derbies high in the air. The riot shields went up and the clacking of brink on heavy plastic echoed around the street. A few gutsy students went further forward and began hurling bricks closer to the squad of silent police.

Then just as we knew it would happen a loud thud rang out from behind the police line. Then another. The crowd ran back as did I. Rubber bullets I was sure. The sound of heavy plastic and body armor clattered behind me. They were charging forward.

Another thud. This time I saw the munition land. It was a Grey canister that was shooting white gas from one end. As if others had noticed it too some in the crowd turned around with me to glance back. The Police had moved up 50 feet and then set down their wall of shields again. The second row of police then began to hurl the debris once used against them back towards the crowd. Chunks of brick, bottle and wood sticks rained down sporadically. The crowd seemed to measure the distance well, and were just out of range of the barrage. Realizing this a few of the crowd leaders led them in a victorious cheer.

Another tear gas canister thudded into the air and as if expecting worse we all jerked reflexively in unison. The grey canister landed and bounced along near the front line of the crowd, its white poise instantly hissing out. A front line man of the rioters ran forward and quickly scooped up the cannister and sent it back in the direction of the police. It didn't reach them by a long shot, but it seem to settle the police back into a guarded stance once again.

It was this slow methodical method of moving forward the riot police used for the next 4 attempts at pushing the mob back up the road. During this time I was mingling well into the crowd. Strangely my nerves were relaxed within the crowd. Through scarf covered heads, blackened and dirt smeared faces I was greeted with smiles. Some it seemed appreciated me being there. Maybe so the photographs would depict their struggle to the outside world. Or maybe just being from the outside world offered me protection.

My guessing was that the riot was about the fuel price increase that had delayed my bus the day before. These were ordinary people protesting against this and not an anger anarchic mob out for blood. A few people asked if I was a journalist or tourist. I wanted to say the former in hope of getting some good close p's, as if the title afforded me that. Gut instinct told me to say the latter, which I did. I received nods of neutrality.

The police were becoming more frequent in their pushes forward. I had missed the turn off for the street I had arrived by as the crowd had moved back quite a bit. We were now on a steep incline along the road. It gave a full few of the police line as it charged forward. We all stood in agitated silence after a few youths would discharge a barrage of debris at the uniformed assault force. We knew what was coming.

Thud. Thud. Two rounds of tear gas shot into the air. The clattering of plastic followed as the police took charge and rushed forward by 20 feet. We turned tail and ran back. Always expecting the police to continue the charge I tried to make for a side street. Again the police charged. They were making a strong move forward. Perhaps a final attempt to break up the mob.

We were at the near the top of the incline on the road thus making the angle to acute to see further along the road. I wondered if we were being baited into a trap. Without knowing the area or seeing further down the road we could be between two charges of police. A rain of bricks began to fall around us as the riot police below fired their makeshift missiles in our direction. A small group of the mob darted down a narrow street to the left. I joined them in the hope it would lead back into the main Thamel area where I could circle back around if need be.

It was a bad move. Just as I entered the narrow lane a barrage of tear gas canisters rained down along the street outside. The white gas quickly filled the air as more debris fell along side it. Two people from the group I had followed rushed up beside me as if trying to make a break for it back in the main road. I looked back and saw why. It was a dead end. We were trapped.

I floundered for a second with some others. Should we move further into the lane in hope for a route out, or run back out into the main road that was now a mass of swirling white toxic smoke. A drift of wind blew a plume our way. Stronger than before I felt my eyes burn and throat seize up as more than one of us tried to block the gas from reaching our eyes. It answered the question though and we headed further down the lane way. Scarves, handkerchiefs and hands all wipes at faces as people tried to remove the gases toxins. I had swallowed a mouthful of the gas and was finding it hard to breath. My ears were in tears and my vision impaired. I could make out the blur of houses with little gates outside strong steel shutters that lined the lane. Everything was shut up tightly, a sign that riots were common place. It was true though, the lane was a cul-de-sac. We were trapped like cornered animals. All frantically looking around impassible walls and closed doors for an escape route.

With no choice but to wait I used my own scarf to press against my face. Waiting and hoping for the tear gases effects to wear off. At one stage I looked up and saw th blurry images of the others surrounding the dead end. Some were smiling nervously, others calmly wiping their faces.

"Are you a journalist?"

Wiping my eyes again I looked up to see a round face smiling at me. The man was resting against the wall, wiping away a smear of black soot from his forehead. I shook my head.

His smile widened. "Ah, a tourist. Not such a good place Kathmandu for you now."

I laughed, trying to brush off the comment. "I have seen worse. What's this about anyway?"

A frown appeared on the young man's forehead, "It is the fuel increase. To high. They increase the cost of city bus. The students cannot afford it. To go for education even is too much. The governments needs to help more. Where have you seen worse?"

Standing up straight I thought about taking pictures of us all cornered down here. But thought better of it until I could put this man's suspicions at east. "Africa," I lied, "Many riots there over bad governments."

"Really?" he replied looking down the lane way. "Well this is Nepal, things have to be changing."

The clatter of plastic shields had stopped, and the gas was subsiding. I looked around our little refuge. If the riot police came down the lane way we would be screwed. Even three armored men could make mince meat of us in such a small enclosure. I would have had to play the trapped tourist card, but was equally unsure that in the frenzy of a beat down I would be noticed nor cared about.

Taking my chances with a few others we ran up to the tip of the lane way again. Rocks, chunks of brick and what looked like iron bars were falling randomly in the direction of the mob. A man made a dash for it. A brick landed by his feet shattering into a puff of dust as he skidded alongside an abandoned car. A heavy iron bar clanked against a shop window and clattered noisily down the steel shutters.

From my vantage point I could just about make out that the riot police were a mere 30 feet away to our right. The mob was a safe distance up the hill to the left. I also saw that there were several buildings that had been in a state of repair nearby, hence the near unlimited supply brick ammunition. There was only one option. Staying put was asking for trouble should the police charge up any further.

There was no sense in timing anything. The bricks fell randomly. Only now they seemed bigger and more destructive them ever. Above me I heard them smashing down on rooftops, then sliding noisily down before plummetingover the side and crashing onto the street below. It would mean I would have no cover running beside the buildings. But then again I had no choice.

Taking a clear look at the line of black riot police to my right I emerged from the lane way and heavily stooped ran to my left. My mind ventured off to childhood war movies. News footage. A brick clattered onto a roof above me, I was two feet in front of it by the time it smashed into the ground behind. In an almost slow motion surreal moment time slowed as I scampered over roadside debris. Was this what it was like in a combat zone? Never knowing when you could be hit out in the open like this. I visualized a solid red brick crashing down on the back of my head. Would I stay conscious? Or be knocked cold. I remembered there was a medical team nearby. My mind was focusing on the noise from behind and above. Listening for any clue of an incoming chunk of brick.

A surge of student ahead of me pushed back with a counterattack and drew the random fire away from me. A half demolished wall to my left offered protection along with the company of a half dozen students. We were relatively safe as another lane turned off by this construction site. The site also offered up the rioters their own source of unlimited brick ammunition. Almost with military effectiveness one man stood behind the semi demolished red bricked wall and through full sized bricks to a colleague standing on the main road. The bricks were then dumped into separate piles where groups of people picked them up and smashed them down to resize them into smaller more manageable projectiles.

The riot police were at the bottom of the hill now. It seemed they were making up their minds whether to charge forward again or continue to absorb the flying mortar attack. A group of students were huddled around a burning tire in the center of the road. It was a meeting of strategy. A messenger would occasionally be beckoned over, given instructions and then pass over the information to the brick throwers on the front line.

A sudden cheer went up. At first I found it hard to see what had happened. Then looking down at the riot police I saw them falling back. Had they had enough of the infinite brick assault. Or were they more likely to be regrouping. The crowd moved forward. The leaders around the fire breaking away and shouting new orders to the mob.

The police continued to fall back. Walking backwards slowly, shields still pointing towards the lessening barrage of projectiles. First 10 feet at a time, stopping for a minute between retreats. Then, once out of projectile range, they turned and walked back up the road.

Cheers of victory filled the streets. I wondered for second if the police were not backing off because of some serious heavy muscle coming in. A tank perhaps. But no. As I looked around I saw something even more perplexing. The smiles and waves were exchanged between the rioters and a few police. As if it had been the a friendly little practice game between members of the same team.

A old man pushing a bicycle emerged from between the dispersing row of riot police. I watched as he walked emotionless up the hill, unscathed, unfazed and seemingly unimpressed by the whole event.

Check out more on my website:
www.thelongestwayhome.com

I have uploaded a helpful resource on Nepal based on my own experience there here

I also published an article called How to Hire a Guide in Nepal that might help anyone wanting to how its done!

After a rather dodgy introduction to a local Nepalese dish of deep fried goat sternum and sugar puffs Narayan finally played his ace in the pack.

The river Sai was at its driest at this time of year. The river bed would be nearly completely waterless. I was expecting some old east European or chinese digging equipment to be on display when we arrived. Even with that I wasn't sure we had arrived, I was too distracted by a red hammer and sickle communist flag flying over the local headquarters of a political youth wing nearby.

The first sign of an actual mining presence were the bright 3.5 foot yellow concrete sacks lining a dry dusty road. Trucks rumbled by, their suspension weighed down by the tonnes of rubble waste. There was no noise of heavy construction or digging machines. Just the odd truck.

We walked further down the road and into a steep incline. Then it all came into view. We here high up over the deep dried up river canyon giving us an eagle like view below. It was like a scene from an old slave movie. There below were hundreds of tiny people, and yellow concrete sacks.

One had the feeling that you looking at an ant colony. Everyone was moving. Some were busy digging in rectangular marked sections throughout the area, while others hoisted the giant sacks onto their backs and followed trails leading up the steep valley's side to awaiting trucks.

We headed down the rocky slope that took us to the valley basin. We passed men and women, both young and elderly on the way down. Wearing no more than rubber sandals they all plodded in a slow pace upwards in silence, a heavy sack the size or larger than their torso strapped to their backs.

From ground height the river bed looked more like a desert area. The sands were whitish, and the rocks grey. The silence was now more apparent than ever. In small 12x12 foot sections people worked on sifting through the river bed gravel. Some had shovels, others used their hands, to sift through the various grades of dirt. It was filtered on size. A 3 foot standing wire mesh sieve was used to separate large rocks, medium pebbles and sand. Then the three grades would be piled high and bagged appropriately.

It struck be quite quickly that people were working in groups. Family groups. Fathers, Mothers, sons, daughters, grandparents all toiled together on one plot. Ages varied between 7 to 70.

We stopped at a few plots so that I could photograph the work. I felt strange, it was still quite a visual image. One that had for me the hallmarks of slave labor. All that was needed was a man and a whip to make it all seem justified in some ancient way. But no, these people were there for survival or a different nature. Each sack was worth 11 rupees. Pebbles, rocks or sand it did not matter, the sacks all weighed 75kg. From start to finish, 11 rupees.

People were silent in their work, yet greeted me with smiles. But rarely did they stop work for the stranger amongst them. Nepalese are fairly proud as a whole. And though in the center of Pokhara one could easily class a few as being lazy, or not interested in work. It was different in the valley. They worked methodically, and without a break. Whole families worked together for a daily income of maybe 200 rupees.

One man approached me and asked Narayan to translate. It chilled me a little. He asked if I would take his son away. I asked Narayan to explain to me what he meant. It was as it sounded. The man had no money to send his son to school and was willing to give him up so that he could have a better life overseas. I told Narayan to tell him I was a journalist and was just capturing how hard life was here for the world to see their struggle. Narayan translated, and the mad nodded. Then posed for a picture. We moved on.

To stand in the center of this dried of river valley was quite a feeling. Silence surrounded us. Occasionally the echo of metal on stone rang out. If you listened carefully you could pick up on a constant flowing sound. The sound of sand and dirt on the move.

I heard a strange buzzing sound and looked up as the buzz grew into the droning noise of a twin prop plane overhead. It flew low and banked left, as if using the river valley as a marker. The tourist plane, taking people from Pokhara to Kathmandu. The passengers oblivious to the workers not full impact of the sight below.

We headed back up. A not so easy climb in itself. Something to put one to shame when looking at a 14 year old girl struggling with all her might with a 75 kg sack of rubble on her back. Behind her the girls mother said nothing as she overtook her daughter.

We waited at the top of the valley, I wanted to see the trek from start to finish that this tiny 14 year old girl was struggling to make. She stopped often to rest, but never to put the sack down. Doing so would hinder others. He climb complete the girl leaned against a pile of concrete blocks were her mother was waiting.

It was here her mother spoke to the daughter with a smile. The daughter leaned forward a little with a smile, and in doing so some sand slipped out of her sack. No more than an ounce. But still, as if gold dust, the mother scooped it up and placed it back in the open sack.

We followed them a little further to a loading area where trucks were waiting. They emptied out the sacks into a pile of similar sand. I wondered why the mother had but that small ounce of escaped sand back into her daughters sack. Nothing was weighed it seemed. I asked Narayan to find out in Nepalese by asking them.

The answer did not come as expected. Instead it a question directed at me. Where did I come from? Narayan answered. Then a short conversation ensued between them before Narayan turned to leave.

"What did they say?" I asked him, perplexed at the lack of forthcoming silence from my guide.

Narayan shrugged, "Nothing, not important."

I held out my arm, "Can you ask them how many sacks they carry a day?"

Again Narayan hesitated. Then reluctantly he turned and spoke to the mother. The woman smiled and looked around pointing to the sacks, then gave her daughter a nudge on forward.

"Too many," said Narayan with an uncomfortable smile. He moved forward as if trying to escape a situation.

"Wait," I replied with a look that Narayan knew all too well by now. He knew that I was aware more was being said than was being translated. "What is she saying? Tell me?"

Narayan scratched uncomfortably at his leg, "She wants to know how much for the girl?"

Check out more on my website:
www.thelongestwayhome.com

I have uploaded a helpful resource on Nepal based on my own experience there here

I also published an article called How to Hire a Guide in Nepal that might help anyone wanting to how its done!