600 Bighas

How big is a bighas? (It is said big-a, the a as in apple). I honestly have no idea. I know it's an area of land, but what it relates to, I haven't the foggiest concept. So, when I visited a place called Chha-say (600) Bighas, near Rajghat in the Terai region of Nepal, I didn't know whether it would be the size of a large town or just 3 houses. We were going to Chha-say Bighas for a Sapta - a hindu celebration where religious stories are told by a priest - at Aama's sister's house. Aama had left the previous week to help them get ready for the Sapta, and Buwa and I were going to come along. I would stay for a day or two before returning to Kathmandu, whilst Buwa would then stay until the end of the celebration.

This would be my final farewell to the Terai. I had bought my ticket home. Money and time had run out. In 3 short weeks I would be heading back to the UK. My emotions were very mixed. I didn't really want to go home. Of course, I missed my friends and most of all my family in the UK. But I still hadn't achieved what I set out to do. Nothing had been accomplished in Rajghat - in fact now there was talk of the land now not being available for the health post. The work I had been doing with PEEDA on Low-head Pico Hydro units was at the proposal writing stage, trying to find donors. I didn't want to leave my friends who I had spent a year getting to learn about, their language, their culture, the way they survived from day to day. And for a lot of them, it was survival, nothing else. If anything helps you appreciate what you have, then it most certainly must be that.

Normally when going to the Terai, we take the morning Makalu bus. This time however, we were going to take the bus to Bharathba, a large village towards the Indian border, then walk the half hour or so to Chha-say Bighas. The problem was as we were going to a village, the bus wasn't going to be big or fast, but is was going to be packed. On taking a first look at the bus, I knew it was going to be one of those interesting journeys. They had obviously forgot that people required somewhere to put their legs as well as their backsides as when eventually I contorted myself in a reasonable sitting position my feet were off the floor and almost touching my bum. Combine this with my bag covering on what was left of my lap, and I immediately knew one thing - this was going to be uncomfortable.

As we left Kathmandu, I noticed one of the truths of Nepali life. As the buses' documents were being prepared to be given to a policeman a small pile of around 300 rupees was put inside. I watched as the policeman picked up the document, extracted the money and without looking handed the papers back. All the way along the route, money exchanged hands at several police posts, through a variety of methods. I thought the most ingenious was the loaded newspaper. Unfortunately, a reality of Nepali life is that many public servants get paid a pittance, and so need the bribes just to get by.

We stopped for food, and Buwa went off to get some apples to give to Samjhu, who we were hopefully going to meet at the bus park in Hetauda. (It was Samjhu's wedding I went to recently in Hetauda - click here). The bus all packed up and we waited for Buwa. 5 minutes went by, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, where had Buwa got to? Everyone on the bus thought that he had gone to get me food, as obviously I couldn't eat the same as a standard Nepali. The kalashi - conductor - eventually went down the road to find him, and after a further 10 minutes they both came back looking slightly flustered. Apparently, normally where they would sell apples, oranges and all sorts along the road side, they weren't today. Buwa had had to walk nearly 2 miles before he could find someone selling fruit. When we got to Hetauda we couldn't find Samjhu, and so all the waiting was in vain. Typical.

In Hetauda, we heard rumours of strikes further east on the highway. A child has been knocked over and the family were protesting wanting compensation. However, we carried on, ignoring the rumours. However, as we travelled further eastward, there were fewer and fewer vehicles passing us in the opposite direction. When we reached Chhandranigapur there were hundreds of trucks and buses parked up. This wasn't a good sign. We drove further along the road and eventually came to another queue. This was the queue waiting to get by the blockage. However, as this was Nepal, instead of being british about it and taking our place in line, we jumped the queue and went hurtling along the empty side of the road. At some points we had to leave the road to avoid other cars, but eventually got to the head of the line, where the protest was taking place.

In the middle of the road lay a body wrapped up in a sheet. Leaning over it was a distraught mother and father, their grief all too obvious to see, and a mob of people holding bamboo sticks and chanting. This was the way in New Nepal. Money ruled, if you kill my child I expect money from you and the government. If you don't give me it then I'll block the road until I get what I want. A real democracy? I'll leave that for you to decide.

This was going to be frustrating. The protest was taking place on the bridge between Sarlahi district and Bara. Once we crossed the bridge, it would only be a further 10 minutes to Bharathba. We reached the man who was in charge of the mob, and the kalashi negotiated our way through - telling the organiser we were all from this district. I hid. I guessed he would realise where I wasn't from. Somehow we got through, the first vehicles to get through all day. We were the drip that started the flood, and hundreds of lorries and trucks from both sides of the bridge tried to get through. When we arrived in Bharathba, it was just as I remembered it from 2 years previously. It was one of the places I had been most scared in Nepal, there were mobs of Madeshi going round and looking for trouble. When we got off the bus, a group of people surrounded us. They started asking questions: What is this white boy doing here? He doesn't belong here... Is he rich? Where is he from? Why doesn't he go back there? Although I couldn't understand all that was said, I got the gist - I wasn't welcome. One of the first times in Nepal I felt in the wrong place. However, Buwa and I started to walk off down the road, and the group dispersed. Maybe it would come to nothing.

We arrived in Chha-say Bighas after a half hour walk and found Aama's sister's house. It was a big house, all prepared for the celebration. I was given a seat and told to sit. Aama had obviously told them that I like sel roti - the round doughnut like bread - and yoghurt, as for the next 2 days I was constantly offered these both. The time I spent at the Sapta is a bit of a blur, I have to admit. The Sapta itself involved people sitting down and listening to a priest reading from the Hindu holy texts. As I was not a brahmin, or even a Hindu, I was not allowed in the holy area. However, I was allowed to watch and listen - not that I understood it at all.

The Sapta

I met Jivan, Aama's nephew. Jivan, he proudly told me, was a member of the PLA - the People's Liberation Army. This scared me a little. The PLA were the Maoist's army, before the peace accord was signed 2 years previously. Now most of them were confined in camps around Nepal, with their weapons supposedly locked up. However, most believed that they had only given the UN monitors the weapons they didn't want. Jivan, however, seemed perfectly normal and was very friendly. Tentatively I asked him about cantonments and his time in the PLA, but he didn't want to say too much, so I left it there. I also met the rest of the family who were typical Nepali - really friendly and open, ready to welcome you into their homes and family.

I also met someone that the family called Mr Sir. Mr Sir was one of the forgotten refugees in Nepal. Everyone knows about the Tibetans that escaped China and live around Kathmandu, but many forget about the Bhutanese refugees, even though there are many more of them, over 100,000. In the early 1990s, Bhutan in an effort to protect its culture began a process of ethnic cleansing, and threw out all Bhutanese of Nepali descent. These people had been living in Bhutan for generations, but if they could not prove this, then they were forcibly removed. These people, left without a home returned to Nepal, and were put in refugee camps in the far east of Nepal. Slowly, the refugees are being relocated in the USA and other countries, but many of them just want to go home to Bhutan. I shared a room with Mr Sir, when i say shared a room I took his bed, and slept on the ground. Did I feel guilty? Oh yes...

A walk around Chha-say Bighas

One day, I went for a walk around the village with some of the kids in the family. They showed me their schools and we walked through the fields. They asked about life in the UK. Their questions were not quite what I was expecting - even after almost a year in Nepal. What work did I do in my office? How did I get to the office? Who cooked in my house? When I thought about it afterwards, I think they were just trying to get the idea of what life was like outside Nepal. I tried to make sure that I answered truthfully, without rose-tinted glasses or cynicism.

We sat down in a little bandstand built by the community. There was something slightly different about this though - it was covered in Maoist symbols. There was the PLA logo printed on one of the posts, a picture of Prachandra - the Maoist leader - on another, and photos of when the bandstand was opened. To be honest, it was just a bit odd, I didn't really feel comfortable there. However, there was something good about the way the community came together to build it, spend almost a thousand pounds to do it. Maybe community spirit wasn't dead.

I left Chha-say Bighas after a couple of days and headed to see Didi and Bhinajyu outside Lalbandi, with Buwa. This involved a walk into Bharathba and a bus then, for my first time in Nepal, a ride in a Tempo - the three wheeled rickshaw. The tempo journey was probably the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. To fit in the back, I had to be bent double, sat on metal bars, and then on every bump in the road I hit my head on the metal bars on the roof before returning to earth onto the metal bars beneath my rear end. To add to the comfort, there was very little room to breathe in the back of the rickshaw, people and goats my fellow passengers occupying all available space, and being choked by the fumes from the exhaust. Fortunately before asphyxiation set in we gracefully extracted ourselves and walked to Didi's house.

It was time to say goodbye to Didi. I enjoyed being with Didi, she worked hard and had great dreams for the future. That was something I admired, she had a vision for the future, how to make her life better, how to improve things for her family, and she wasn't afraid to work hard to achieve it. That attitude could teach us all a lot.

I said my goodbye, and finally was allowed to do something I had wanted to do for a long time in Nepal - travel alone. From Lalbandi, I took the bus to Hetauda and then from Hetauda caught the Jeep to Kathmandu. In Hetauda I tried to find Samjhu, whose new husband's shop was along the high street somewhere. However many times I walked along the high street though, I couldn't find it. It was a shame, as I wanted to see Samjhu too before I left.

Preparing to say goodbye was hard. I arrived back in Kathmandu and knew there were so many people that I wanted to see in the next 2 weeks. How was it going to happen?

SAM

The Elections

I received an email from the Foreign Office two days ago. It noted the update of the Nepal political profile. The update said something along the lines of:

"There are student elections happening at Colleges across Nepal for the next few days. These can often cause violence. Stay away from large gatherings."

I also received a phone call at the same time. Well, I didn't actually receive it, Achut did, but it was for me. It was from one of the Student Union leaders at Patan Multiple Campus, and they wanted me to come and vote. And everything all came flooding back to me.

In September, I was knee deep in visa mud. The visa that I was told I could get by the Immigration Department was not possible, as I didn't work for one of the large INGOs. So, I had to find another way or leave - and there was no way I was going to leave that early in my year. My options were severely limited. There was a man outside the immigration office who offered to get me the paperwork for a marriage visa for a small fee, or I could get a student visa. I am a hideously bad liar, and despise the moral quandary that lying puts me in, but I wanted to stay. So, I pursued the route of a student visa. I enrolled in a local college on an MA Sociology programme and got all the paperwork I needed in 3 days. But this was only with the help of the one of the college's student unions and an aspiring political leader, Gyanu.

So, when Gyanu called Achut and said it was time for me to fulfil my part of the deal, I was a bit concerned. It wasn't about the message from the foreign office. They send out these messages to cover their backs in case something happens. But in Nepal, student politics is very similar to mainstream government politics.

There are many different student unions, all with mainstream party support. Gyanu's party was the Communist Party of Nepal - United Marxist Lenin, known as the UML. There were also Maoists, Congress and all the other major and minor parties going to be represented. As well as this, all the political leaders from the past 60 years of "democracy" in Nepal have come from the student unions. So, it is the place where everyone wants to be the leader to ensure a cushy life after 5-10 years. Politics is seen as an easy career, where you have power, money and people respect you.

As I said though, student politics and mainstream governmental politics is not very different. So, there is also the fighting between the rival parties and their vigilante forces. That's what I was scared of. What if I were associated with one of the parties, whose policies and aims I didn't necessarily agree with, and paid the price? There had been stories in the Nepali media for the last few days of clashes between parties, the Maoist's Young Communist League fighting running street battles with the UML's Youth Force. On several campuses the elections had been postponed due to violence. In the east of the country, someone was even killed.

So on the morning of the student elections I woke up with a rather large lump in my throat.

And then I thought I saw my way out. "Achut, I can't vote today, I don't have a Student ID card." I breathed a sigh of relief. But it was short lived. "That's OK, Gyanu's made you one. He'll get it to you when you arrive at college." Expletive. So, at 7.30 we headed down towards the college. About 200m from the gate we were stopped by riot police. A good sign. From there we had to walk. Bikes were not allowed.

As we walked onto the square, there were thousands of people queuing. This was strange to me, as Nepali people are appalling at queuing. I suppose it wasn't the most organised queue in the world, but it was a queue all right. The queue was split into male and female. We met one of the UML student union's leaders and he presented me my student ID card. I was concerned at the fact that I would have to stand at the back of the queue, which didn't seem to be moving at the moment, and so it wouldn't be until lunchtime probably that I would get back home again. However, I was pushed to the front of the line.

An Armed Police Force man was blocking the gate, not letting people in. He looked rather officious stood there, an 8 ft long bamboo pole in his hand, body armour and a helmet protecting him. But in his eyes there was something else. It was fear. The knowledge that this mass of hundred and thousands of students could explode at any moment and he would be caught in the middle of it. He stood in the way, letting some people through, but not me. Why should he let me though, he asked. That was a good point. As I have just said, I effectively pushed in front of almost a thousand others, just because I was white. Surely this was not on. But, my minders and Achut somehow got me through, the gift of the gab was on their side.

I walked down a passageway. On either side it was lined with more APF men in various states of body armour dress, some carrying rifles, others machine guns, and some - like the gatekeeper - the thick 8 ft bamboo pole. These guys were laughing and joking, but still the same wariness was in their eyes. Achut, for some reason, had not come down with me. I kept on walking and approached a gateway which led into a small courtyard. There was a basketball court on my left hand side, on the right was a university building - concrete with peeling yellow paint, and huge posters of the candidates - and in front of me were two lanes, one for the females and one for males.

I walked into the lane that seemed to have the males in it and ambled slowly to the front of the queue. Achut still hadn't arrived, I was getting worried. I was in a strange and potentially violent place with people I didn't know lining up for my democratic right as a student. I noted the irony as I had never exercised my democratic right in the UK for one reason and another, but coming here to the world's newest federal republic I was going to vote for the first time. Finally Achut turned up. He was in his element, surrounded by people he knew, his ability to talk his way around, through and about anything and surrounded by people who exuded the cockiness that Achut mimicked. He promptly pointed out a big piece of brown paper next to me and told me I would be in room 4 to vote, and then ambled off.

I was now in the line with 20 or 30 people behind me. I tried my best to blend in, but being white and 6 ft 3 it was quite difficult. I started to read the brown paper next to me. It listed all the subjects being studied at the college and where they would need to go to vote. Suddenly I was accosted from behind.

"Hello Comrade!"

This was the first time I had ever been referred to as comrade. I felt I was back in the Cold War USSR.

"Hello" I replied.

"I'm going to vote for the Revolutionary Free Students Union [the Maoist associated union]. Who are you going to vote for?" he asked.

"I'm going to be voting for the UML." I said, pointing at the huge picture of Gyanu and his party members staring at me from the paint-peeling building. I couldn't quite remember what their party was actually called.

"Why are you voting for them? They are all corrupt, steal money, the Revolutionary are much better." He said.

And just as he finished, Jitendra, the leader of the UML student union at Patan Campus, came by and gave me a big handshake. After that, my comrade friend stood rather quietly behind me. Jitendra handed me a piece of card and said "Vote for these people, second column on the sheet" and pointing out the list of people on the back of the card. So it was going to be easy to get it right, as long as I wasn't slipped a different card...

The line in front and behind me started to get agitated. We had been waiting for an hour or so already, voting should have started 20 minutes before. The line, supposed to be single file, was becoming fat. So when election officials tried to thin down the line, the line didn't move, but just tried to squash more people in a smaller space. I was squashed between the comrade behind me and a lanky Madeshi in front. Both of them, I noticed, had rather bad dandruff. I hoped I didn't.

In the line opposite, the females were standing looking slightly unimpressed. They were in a mix of clothes, some in kurta surwals - a traditional Nepali/Indian fashion, others wearing t-shirts and jeans, but all looking stunning. Some were quiet and reserved, whispering amongst themselves. Others were giggling and laughing, People walked past wearing huge poppies for their respective parties, chatting with friends and  supporters. This election didn't seem about policy or idealism - it was about personality and family loyalty. You voted for the person you liked or the party your family liked.

After a large time of procrastination, waiting and general confusion, people started to go in to vote. 5 at a time were let in from each line, then a couple of minute wait. Eventually I was let through. My student card was checked and I was allowed past a scary looking police man carrying a radio - the reason he was scary was his height, nearly the same as mine which is huge for a Nepali. Achut guided me into a quadrant inside the yellow paint-peeling building where there were hundreds of election officials. I was led over to a table and I handed my ID card over. The man in front of me looked through his list. He found my name, or at least a version of my name - Samwily Jemeson. Three other people then checked my name against their sheets before my nail was inked by a young lady and I was handed a huge ballot paper. I walked into the room with my card of the people I needed to mark and found the second column. I noticed Gyanu's name and Jitendra's also, so promptly ticked all the names in the second column as I had been instructed. Then, feeling happy with myself that I had finally repaid my debt to the student activists at Patan, walked out of the room and posted my ballot in the box.

After voting I was ushered through another pathway with many APF men waiting around, but I tried not to hang around too much. Within 5 minutes we were back on the bike and I was home for breakfast.

My hand, my student ID and the card telling me who to vote for

In the evening, after the voting had finished I heard there were running street battles between the Maoist YCL and the UML's Youth Force. I even heard one of my minder's in the college during the day had lost their tooth. The next day there were big celebrations for Gyanu and Jitendra, they had won. Not only had they won, but the UML had also won in the neighbouring Pulchowk Engineering campus, so a large celebration march took place down the main street in Patan with flowers and red powder - the signs of celebration.

Gyanu (in front) and Jitendra (a little behind) celebrating their victory

After the victory, I asked Achut what it would mean now. Student unions in the UK being fairly inert organisations I wasn't sure what they did in Nepal apart from fight each other. Apparently, Jitendra, the new Patan Campus Student President, would now be second to the Principal of the college, effectively controlling it. he would command a large budget and able to influence the way the college moves forward. Not a bad job I suppose.

So, my first brush with democracy since the ill fated mock European elections of 1999 whilst attending 6th form - we were the countryside party, on the country's side - and I didn't get beaten, killed or intimidated. Not only that, but my team won. Most excellent. I now have friends in high places!

SAM

The Orange Sun

The sun today shone down orange. It might sound nothing abnormal, but it was a bright orange colour - just like someone had plucked it out of a tree and placed it in the sky for no real reason but that it looked good. And it did.

It's been an odd couple of weeks for one reason and another.

Two weeks ago I headed off on my long awaited trip to go and see some pico hydro projects in the Gulmi district of Nepal - south of Pokhara - with a colleague from the PEEDA office, Biraj. There were of strikes in the Terai, but we didn't pay too much attention to them, as rumours generally turn out to just words and no action. However, they have the desired effect with people staying at home and changing their plans in fear of them. Our bus down to Butwal, the industrial heartland of the Terai was simple enough. And when we got to Butwal, the rumours became stronger and stronger. Buses and jeeps weren't going to be running the next day, and we were to go to Tansen in the hills above Butwal that day, before making our way into the rural hills of Gulmi.

The next day came, and after our morning meeting in Butwal, we found that although there were no buses running south of Butwal, the buses north to Tansen were running. So we jumped onto the next bus heading north. Biraj stopped to get some water, and the bus drove off without him. It promptly stopped a couple of hundred metres along the road where a slightly panicked and sweaty Biraj caught us up. As we left Butwal, a motorbike swerved in front of us and made us pull over. A banda-wallah, a person enforcing the strike, came onto the bus and looked around before talking to the conductor and taking a large handful of cash. This is a huge problem with Nepal, that there are many legitimate reasons that people call strikes here but some just jump on the wagon to make money.

We wove our way through the foothills of the Himalaya, making our way from Butwal's 200m to Tansen's heady 1500m or so. We saw Tansen from a long way away, perched on the side of a hill overlooking a fertile green valley full of barley and wheat. As we pulled into Tansen bus station, we noticed the lack of activity. This wasn't going to bode well for our plans. We spoke to the ticket counter, and they said they didn't know what was going to happen the next day. Jeeps might come to go to Gulmi. They might not. But they did know one thing; if they were going to write us a ticket it was going to cost 10 rupees - a bit stupid when the ticket only cost 70 rupees.

We climbed through the streets of Tansen, which reminded me of the Alpine and Pyrenean villages I had walked through when I lived in France, and made our way to the royal palace. However, the palace was just a building site. In my guide book it says that the palace is amazing. And I'm sure it would have been, if the Maoists hadn't destroyed it in a battle with the police during their 'People's War'. On a side note, it is always interesting to see that on building sites in Nepal there are a large number of women, who lift, shovel, carry and do all the menial work. It makes me feel very sorry for them. But then in a way it is good as well. They are working, more independent, and somewhat empowered. I just sometimes hope that they are not working to feed a lazy husband.

The destroyed durbar (palace) in Tansen, with one of the women working in the background

Tansen's streets were very reminiscent of an alpine town - cobbled and always pointing to the sky

The sun rising from behind Srinagar Hill in Tansen

After some frantic phone calls in the evening, Biraj and Krishna, a local hydropower installer whose village we would be visiting, managed to secure some seats in a jeep to Tamghas - the district centre of Gulmi - and reserve the same jeep to drive us out to Krishna's village called Bhanbhane. So after our morning's work was done in Tansen, we waited for our jeep. Several jeeps past us as we waited at the appointed place, all fairly empty. Then one came that had people hanging off it at all different places. It stopped in front of us. Surely this wasn't going to be ours? Oh, but it was. I had been promised a seat in the front, due to my excessive leg length compared to Nepali people. However, the man in the front wouldn't move. He reminded me of one of the characters in a comedy show here in Nepal. He had a small moustache and a high pitched squeaky voice, with hand movements that emphasised every word he said. And he was stubborn. He said that he had booked the seat 3 days ago and wasn't going to share it with any long-legged whitey (the Nepali's have some slang words for westerners, mainly referring to the colour of our skin). So, instead of the spacious front of the jeep, I was squeezed into the small seats at the back, just enough room for my bum to touch one steel pole and my knee to touch another. I was joined there by Biraj and Krishna, and Krishna's grandfather who was coming along back to the village to stay for some time. We all climbed in and the people on the outside of the jeep hung on whilst the jeep sped off in a cloud of dust.

At the appointed place we stopped for lunch. I tried my best to climb out with dignity, but the bruises that were now top-and-tailing my upper leg made sure that any dignity I could have hoped for vanished. I fell out of the back of the jeep and stumbled into a restaurant for some food - as we hadn't really eaten yet. I went on an expedition to find the toilet, and was pointed to the top of some stairs. As I climbed the stairs I struck my head on a steel bar holding the roof in place with a resonating clang. For a few seconds my vision was double. This was obviously going to be a good day.

After lunch, Biraj decided he couldn't take it any more in the back of the jeep and would ride on the top. He asked me if I wanted to join him. I politely declined. Although there would have been a lot more space there, there was also the high risk that I would fall off - as clumsy as I am. So Biraj rode on top, which should have made my life a little more comfortable inside, as there were now only three people on the back seat. However, a new steel bar seemed to press itself in the base of my spine for the rest of the 3 hour journey, meaning that after arriving in Tamghas I didn't want to sit down again for a week.

We arrived in Tamghas and the jeep refuelled before taking us to Bhanbhane. The road to Bhanbhane is a dirt track, and our jeep driver relished in driving along it as fast as possible, constantly asking me whether I was scared or not. To be honest, I wasn't. The road was badly maintained, potholed and had some rather scary drops if anything should happen, but our driver seemed very capable, so it didn't really worry me at all. We arrived in Tamghas after nightfall - the dirt road in the dark was a bit more daunting - and made our way to Krishna's house for food and sleep.

The next morning, a whole host of people were waiting for us as we woke up. They were the user committee and hangers on of the pico hydropower projects that we had come to visit. For those who don't know, pico hydropower is a small hydropower unit that generates under 5 kilowatts. The units in Bhanbhane were just 200 and 300 watts. However, this was enough to give electricity for 15 to 20 homes per unit. We spent all morning being shown around the pico hydro sites in the village.

Two 300 W pico units using the same water
Most traditional pico hydropower units need water to drop more than 40m in order to generate electricity, known as head. When I was in Bidroha's village, their unit needed 120m head to generate 2kW. The advantage with the units in Bhanbhane are that they only need a small head - between 2.5m for 300 W and 7.4m for 5kW - but with the small head means they need more water flow. These units can be built into existing irrigation canals, dotted all over the hills of Nepal, and so do not require much work to install them. Unfortunately they are currently underused and out of production, so the project I am working on here is to get them better utilised throughout Nepal. More information can be found on the PEEDA website here.

The 300 W unit

The benefit of electricity - light without the need for firewood, kerosene or batteries
We visited a location where a Dalit community could build a unit to supply their village. The Dalit people are the lowest caste (class) in Nepali society, often considered as untouchable, especially to high caste Nepalis. Everyone in the village was very pleased with their electricity. They could have electricity 24 hours a day, 7 days a week - something that made us jealous with our 16 hours a day of power cuts. Of course, what big donor organisations like to see is people using electricity for light and so on, but the richer people also enjoy watching TV, charging mobile phones and laptop computers with their new found electrical power.

Biraj talking to the leader of the Dalit village about the possibility of electrifying their community
In the afternoon, we were invited to the local school for the 10 class leaving ceremony. The School Leaving Certificate (SLC, equivalent of GCSE in the UK) exams were going to be starting after 1 month, so the students were being sent on study leave. The ceremony reminded me very much of mine, 10 years previously. Sombre men stood up and talked about the future. People sang songs. There was even a political sketch with G.P. Koirala, the octogenarian politician who refuses to just go away, and Prachandra, the current Maoist Prime Minister. Biraj and I were welcomed as honoured guests with tikas and flower mallas, and everytime some talked they would mention "hamro bideshi paahun" - our foreign guest, i.e. me. The students were then forced to come up one by one and read out aloud a sentence written for them on a piece of paper. Most of these were embarrassing, causing them to recoil when they read it. One by one, each student would nervously amble up to the stage, read out their humiliation before racing back to their seat to plant their head in their hands, whilst their peers laughed at them. At the end of the proceedings each student was given a tika and malla, before eating a plate of goat curry and beaten rice.

The class 10 students

Me receiving my malla
The next day we went to see new possible sites for the units, as we would want install some quickly when the project fully begins. However, we had one small problem that we were delaying. How would we get back to Kathmandu? The strike was now in full swing, 2 people had been killed by the police the day before, as well as a policeman being murdered. There was very little petrol to talk about, and buses and jeeps were even more infrequent than normal. Somehow, Biraj and Krishna managed to negotiate a way for us back to Tansen. We hoped from there we could get to Kathmandu the next day.

When we arrived in Tansen bus station, the ticket counter people were just useless as they were a few days before. They didn't know what buses would come, whether we'd be able to get to Pokhara, from where we should have been able to get to Kathmandu. All they could tell us is we should be there at 6 am and they'd see what they could sort out. So we went back to the hotel and sulked.

The next morning we woke up and were advised by the Hotel owner to head a little bit out of Tansen, to a junction on the Butwal-Pokhara highway. This highway is known as the Siddartha highway as it links Pokhara with Lumbini, the birthplace of Siddartha Gautam who became Lord Buddha. He had arranged a seat on a micro for us to take us back to Kathmandu he said. So we sat there and waited. After 2 hours of waiting for the micro, and at least 5 other buses going to Pokhara had past us, our micro finally pulled up. The driver took us slowly along the serpentine highway, a road that he had never driven along before obviously, and 10 hours later we arrived in Kathmandu. The journey was unmemorable, apart from one incident. As we were climbing up to Kathmandu's entry checkpoint at Thankot, a kid threw dirty water at our micro. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, but as I was feeling a little travel sick, I had sat next to the window with the window wide open. I got a face-full of drain water laced with green leaves and mud. Just what you want after 10 hours in an uncomfortable minibus. The reason the brat threw the dirty was was that in 2 days time the festival of Holi was going to be celebrated, where water fights and people throwing paint powder at each other were the main tasks of the day.

When I returned to Kathmandu, I learnt that Buwa's niece, Samjhu, was to be married in Hetauda, a town on the edge of the Terai but still accessible from Kathmandu despite the continuing strike. So we headed to Samjhu's wedding a couple of days after I arrived back. The wedding was a most beautiful and simple affair at Samjhu's family home. Samjhu displayed all the poise and dignity required of her as a Nepali bride, and for that I admired her greatly.

Samjhu and I after the wedding
SAM