The Dream.

A great storm raged with limitless violence, the wind tearing brutally at the surface of huge, undulating swells the size of hills. Were the elements of air and water able to feel pain, their agony would be indescribable, so violent the friction between them. For days, or weeks, maybe since the beginning of time, the storm ranged over the ocean and all the creatures that were able, flew from it, or dived as deep as possible to escape it's punishing force.

And in the very centre of the turmoil amid the roaring gale, sat a small child in a brightly coloured inflatable dinghy, blue, red and white. The dinghy had a small wind-screen of clear plastic but for some reason, no bottom. Between the childs feet was a simple hole, so that he was able to gaze down into the black, opaque depths below. This he did once, but the fear of what was down there was so great, that he tried not to look again. Without even a small paddle, the two-year old boy sat rigidly, gripping onto the little handles on the side of the boat, in a state of absolute terror. How he had managed to find himself in the middle of an endless ocean in a hurricane, he simply did not know, but he had hope, for one reason only. The ring on his finger. When that ring slipped from his hands and plopped into the black hole, to disappear forever, all hope was lost.

I was this child and the dreams I have had of the sea have punctuated my life, infusing it with the deepest energy. They are not all as harrowing as the dream of the storm and stem surely from my experiences on holiday in Devon, where my family and I spent every summer of my life. I actually remember having a dinghy, identical to that in the dream, though with a hull. I never had a ring and the meaning of the dream is still a little obscure to me, but I think I get the general idea, since my fear of the great ocean of life is still present. The holidays in Devon, in a rented caravan, were for me, the highlight of every year. The end always came too quickly and the sandcastles, Cornish Pasties and all the other children on the caravan site, receded into the past as we drove back, down the M4 to London and normal life.

By the time I was sixteen, I was surfing. It was hard at first, the small, pointy boards of the '80s and '90s proving impossible in the weak summer surf in North Devon- so I made my own board out of balsa wood, big and floaty enough to catch any wave on the planet. It worked, and my deep love affair with the sea entered a new phase. I found communion with the sea, returning to the scene of my infant horror and delight, to face that dark, seemingly infinite beauty. While I learned to ride, I would sit on my board searching the featureless horizon for the essence of the truth of the world. The mysterious energy of the sea challenged my perception. Why did it produce these waves, such strange entities; alive, yet not sentient? What force drew the entire body of water into and away from the land? What elements of the weather would present us with the ideal conditions for good, clean surf? From time to time, among the many days of windy, rainy chaos, everything would come together perfectly. Tide, swell, wind and weather operated in absolute harmony and I would awake to the sound of well-groomed sets of waves booming on the pushing tide, turning themselves inside-out and leaping from the grey-green wind-mottled surface to become living vortices, as they broke in perfect form from left to right and right to left, the essence of elemental consciousness. As I sprinted into the water, alone, I truly found my self.

The act of riding a wave is at once totally logical and absolutely bizarre. Humans evolved through the struggle for survival, between the limits of earthly existence and bound by hunger, fear and desire while released from these by joy, achievement and love. With increasing intelligence through chance adaptation, people solved problems and built culture out of a background of danger and survival. But when did someone paddle a piece of wood into a wave, for the first time, just for fun? That's something we will probably never know for sure, but it is well known that in Hawai'i and surely throughout the Pacific at various times, people have long been riding waves. To lie prone and catch a wave, leaping to ones feet to fly faster than a man can run, in the gyrating caress of a breaking wave, is in a sense like experiencing the whole of evolution from the sea life we once were to our present state, and even further, in a few seconds. The joy experienced is indescribable, and leads to a deep experience of consciousness, of reality. The act lasts but a short time and is over when one falls or jumps off the board. But the involvement is total, especially in larger surf; the courage, poise and split-second reaction required to temporarily join the path of the breaking wave leaving no time for any sort of thought. Those moments are empty of thought, of mental activity, as they surely must also be, when jumping to avoid a pit in the forest when chasing a Tapir during the hunt, or when leaping off a cliff, or fleeing a mother tiger. Hunt the wave, surf the wave and you become the wave, just as the hunter places his consciousness in the mind of his prey, tracking it down for hours and finally killing it, before sitting with the body, hands laid on in reverence as the animal spirit moves into the next realm.

Nothing I know gives access to all these areas of human consciousness as surfing does. As soon as the ride is over, it is forgotten and it takes a few years to realise that one cannot cling onto the joy of those moments. One must also understand the natural desire to hold onto them and chase the beauty again and again, but it is not only a good mental and physical exercise, it is also valuable education in this life we lead. And what a life it is!

To me, sitting in the lineup at Putsborough on my wooden board is a sort of reality, a separate dimension from everything else I do, or anywhere else I can possibly be. It remains with me, within me, whatever 'I' am, all the time. The silent swells, the rhythm of their dramatic end on the sandbar behind me, the birdsong from the cliff, the silence of the distant headlands on either side, tinted a grey blue as they appear through the humid air. The sun and the clouds. It is within me, all of it, emerging at various times into consciousness to remind me of something hugely meaningful. Maybe it is the whole point of existence to me, or perhaps I will one day meet my end in the wide expanse of the Atlantic or Irish Sea, maybe on my board or in a tiny inflatable. I have no idea, but I simply could not count the times that that world has emerged into view, when I am not there. There is nothing as beautiful as being there, nothing I have ever experienced, apart from playing music to people, or being truly connected to people, but these are totally different things altogether. The essence of humanity and sharing that essence, can never be reached in the same way that one reaches the essence of the elements or of nature, though all are one and the same. It is just the way we see things.

Well, I found myself near the Ganesh Himal mountain range, in Nepal and not so long ago, when the sea and my home erupted into my view and diverted it deep inside. Though I was looking up at the giant snows, my heart fled to the sea in Great Britain. What a strange feeling it was, and not for the first time in my ten months or so away from home. There have been times when the sight of some unspeakably beautiful place has failed to move me, and a deep sadness has appeared in my heart, sadness for the pain of the past, from what I left when I flew to Shanghai. Sadness for the world and it's suffering, for what is the use of feeling good and looking at rain-forest or glaciers, when people are in agony somewhere around the corner of the earth? It hit me a few times, but I got through it, kept on moving on the path.

But how did I get to the Ganesh Himal? To the mountain stillness, remote Tamang peoples and Rhododendron tree forests? From Pokhara, where I last wrote to you all, the resort town by Phewa Lake, I travelled to Damauli and K.B.Gurungs magical farm where myself and my friends stayed some days in a bamboo house up in the hills amid the Orange trees. Oranges that are the source of the viciously potent home-distilled orange wine that got everyone totally hammered and arguing with rare vehemence, sitting on the mud floor of Baba Gurungs kitchen, his wives and daughters looking on in amusement.

A crazy time, indeed. But I thirsted then for my space, after months with these wonderful friends and so I headed back to Kathmandu to prepare my bicycle for a ride alone, out of the Kathmandu Valley and onwards to Sukaura and Badri's house, that idyll in the Brahmin hills. The weather was getting hotter as April approached, but the ride was beautiful, save for the first part out of Kathmandu, like leaving hell by touring bike, escaping from the thousands of filth-belching trucks on the Kalimati road, past the brick kilns, and then out of the valley rim and down, down, and still down, for at least two hours along the Prithvi Naraiyan Highway. I stayed near Maleku after stopping from exhaustion at a poor Brahmin family's home. Such sweet kids, a fifteen year old boy and his Eleven year old sister. I entertained the family playing Murzunga, while the father ate meat and drank Raksi. 'He's a vegetarian and he doesn't drink!', she boasted to the neighbours, about her strange and exotic guest. I was a little embarrassed, but spent a restful night in my tent a little up the hill on a terrace. In the morning Shakti Thapa, the handsome young boy, who looked for anything like an ancient Aryan priest to be, woke me up, and handed me a big branch of weed. "From my grandfather.' he informed me. 'Well, thanks!', I said and after breakfast I headed off to start the harder ascent to Dhading, thirteen kilometres away, and then a real climb up to where the pine trees grow and the wind goes 'Shhhhhh', day and night. It was hard, hot and I hadn't cycled properly for a really long time, but I ground my way up until at last I could race down the other side, on as rough a road as I had ever ridden a bike on, small river-rounded stones and fine dust like talc everywhere. It was hard going down, too and I more than once almost lost it, swerving into the bank or coming close to the edge of a sharply dropping terrace, or to some injury beneath a lorry coming the other way.

Eight hours after I left, I arrived exhausted at Badris and washed gladly before being escorted out to the usual sort of evening with my good, but sometimes trying friend. Badri loves Raksi, the millet wine of Nepals hills and when he drinks, he talks, but really a lot. We sat and drank and Badri talked to the assembled Nepali fellows, until I made my excuses and went back to the house to sleep. In a couple of days we were to leave for the Ganesh Himal with Gopal, the Rai, to explore the area and further the collective plans of the Universal Peace Foundation, in particular to explore a new trekking route that Badri hopes will become popular with trekkers and people who wish to volunteer in the area. But for now I wanted only to sleep and rest my battered body. I had forgotten what cycle-touring was all about. Exhausted, I wondered what 'it' was all about, if anything at all. Where was the ocean within me then, I wondered?

The Chicken Guru.

A Sadhu or 'Baba', as he is commonly known in India and Nepal, is a holy man, who has renounced the world in his search of 'Moksha', or liberation. Baba means 'Father', or 'Uncle' in many languages in India. I had seen many such men in Kathmandu, in their mean habits, the colour of the ground, or naked, as in the case of the 'Naga' Baba, with painted faces and Mala beads, particularly during the festival of Shiva, Shiva Raatri, but while at Badris village, I was to meet a very strange man, known to all as 'Baba' or 'Guru'.

Badri came to me that evening and said that he had met an extraordinary man, who could read peoples lives, and their future. I 'had to come' with him, so I did. The man was holding court in a house in the village, right then, and we went over. I was still so tired and a little sceptical, but I went along with it. We arrived and I stooping to enter the packed room, simply constructed from wood, stone and finished with light brown mud, as all Nepali houses are, in the villages. The smoke was choking, there was hardly a gap between the assembled folk for me to see what was going on, but soon enough I wedged myself into position and looked on. The man was sitting cross-legged, in a trance, chanting in breathy couplets, his diaphragm pumping the words out, his arms and body convulsing occasionally from the obviously taxing supernatural effort. In front of him was a brass plate with rice and flowers and a subject was listening, riveted to the Baba's utterances, as if his life depended on it. This Seer looked to me all the world like an eagle, with a hooked nose and sunken eyes, very thin, but otherwise with nothing very distinguishing about him, save for the impressive Mala that he held in his twisted, wiry hands. It was made from red corals and Rudraksha seeds (Rudraksha being a sacred tree with seemingly indestructable seeds, that heal and connect one to the spirit world. The tree only grows in Nepal, and all people of Hindu sects and especially Sadhus revere their power).

The patient was suffering from a stomach ulcer, and along with the gathered crowd crammed into the small room, gave the occasion an unmistakably medieval flavour. They were all taking him absolutely seriously, and while the Baba whom he had never met before, told the mans life to him, in a trance, he gasped in astonishment at the accuracy of the details, looking round at his relatives to convey his amazement. All he had done was take a handful of rice and hold it, before placing it back into the brass plate with the rest. From this the Baba managed to know the man. He told him a few details of his future, and professed to have cured the ulcer. Believe it if you will, but this man, a week or two later-when we came out of the Ganesh Himal, insisted that he was now much better, thanks to the Baba.

This Baba had been travelling India and Nepal for forty years, Badri told me. And to earn a keep, he 'heals' people and tells them what will happen to them. Coming from an empirical educational background, grounded in a base of rationality, I wanted very much to get 'read' and disprove the man as a fraud, being in such a bad mood and weary from the bike ride. But read me he did and though his reading was obscured and mostly lost through translation, nothing he said was untrue. I had left a tumultuous relationship behind, he said, to travel East. True. But from now I was to travel only West. Also most likely true. I tried my best to look unmoved, though something was up in that eerie little room. But I was unconvinced, even after the reading. What truly confounded me was not what he could see into me, but what he did with bird chicks. Since the first mention, Badri told me excitedly that this man had the power to kill. And apparently kill he would, to impress the crowd and to invoke some deep spiritual power to aid his healing. It could be a buffalo, a goat or a chicken, but since animals are valuable things in the countryside, most people would bring wild bird chicks to the Baba, over which to exercise his grisly powers. 'Nonsense!', I thought. But the time had come, to sacrifice an animal, as he prepared to heal a woman. Sacrifice has always been a part of the Brahmin way of life, but normally would take the form of a ritual slaughter. How could a man kill a bird without touching it? You surely wouldn't believe it possible? Would you?

The chick was brought, a sort of starling-sized bird that would mature into a beautiful bird with deep, azure plumage, given the chance. The Baba chanted and held it gently in his hand, placing it near the womans head, to the side and on top and to the other side. Then he placed the bird on the ground and it continued to chirp and stumble around, as it was fresh from the nest. This chick appeared to be completely healthy, sitting on the ground while the Baba prepared himself. He began to chant but after a few seconds of chanting the bird started to choke, blood issuing from its beak, the disturbing sound of it's violent death bringing everyone in the room to absolute silence. I was stunned. Could the rice it pecked at be poisoned? Surely not, as I had eaten a couple of grains absent-mindedly myself, and besides, the family brought it directly from their stores. How? It just wasn't possible. But that bird died in front of me and according to the will of the man, the Chicken Guru.

The next day we set off for the Ganesh Himal, at the same time that campaigning ahead of the national elections by mobile youth groups got underway in earnest. Badri didn't want to be associated with them, since he once fought with the Maoists, so we left at six in the morning. His message on the way was to be a non-political one, a social and environmental one, but he was bound to get back to his village the day before the actual voting commenced, to be ready for anything. Nobody knew what was going to happen, with an embattled king in hiding in his palace, fuel strikes and electricity cuts punctuating normal life, together with the occasional demonstration. The Maoists had asserted their superiority in the coming election with strong rhetoric, indeed threatening at times. They vowed to continue fighting if not given the lions share of the vote and nobody seemed too keen on anything that might even slightly resemble the brutal civil war of the '90s.

It was hot and getting hotter as we climbed up the flank of a big hill, out of the wide river bed that runs past the village and branches off at various points into more wide valleys. Before we left the river, I could see a funeral pyre by the banks. It was truly a mesmerising sight. I had seen a couple of cremations at Pashupatinath, but always hurried on, not wanting to disturb the mourners. Here, it really came home to me that in the distance the ceremony was the end of a life. Would the consciousness move into another sentient being, I wondered? We walked on, silenced, the wind carrying our thoughts before us. Soon we came across a group of Maoists, who though a little excited, were very good-natured. The leader recognised Badri, despite his beard (since a man is usually clean-shaven in Nepal), ridiculous hat and quarter-length trousers, and genial conversation ensued. Then reaching the top of the ridge, we rested and Badri produced a page from a childs school copybook. It was, he said, a mantra that the Chicken Guru had given him. A closely guarded magic prayer, as it were, that would impart supernatural ability to the owner. It was a whole page long and as I sat, wet and weary but in higher spirits, I turned it over to see the page of writing on the reverse. Instantly, I recognised my name! It was, in fact, a passage about the battle of Marathon and the army of King Darius of Persia. Just a coincidence? It didn't feel like it, but we went on after I photographed both sides of the mantra paper. I am not allowed to show the mantra to anyone, but the childs history lesson made me smile, and wonder if it hadn't come together like that for a reason.

That night we stayed at the house of a young Brahmin man and his family. By coincidence it was the son of a friend of Badri, but since everyone seemed to be his friend or know of him, it wasn't so surprising. As I might have described already, Badris family is very well known, his ancestors having arrived from Rajasthan to stake their claim to a whole malaria-infested valley. We ate well at their home, relaxing with beautiful views over a couple of valleys, realising soon that the sons wife, all of 19 years old, was in labour. Gopal analysed the stars and planets, sat with her, and informed the family that she would give birth that morning, early. He said the birth would be at around 3 in the morning. After much talking and a little raksi, we retired to sleep above the buffalo stall. Then in the morning, as Gopal had predicted, a baby boy had come into the world. Everyone was relieved, but the girl exhausted. She was tired, but I couldn't help feeling that she seemed fairly miserable. It is the lot of young women in Nepal to be child-bearing machines, through arranged marriage. I felt almost uneasy, having witnessed death and birth in rural Nepal within 24 hours of each other and wondered if the two could somehow be connected. Who knows.

By the evening of the next day we had reached true Tamang lands, the people who were originally posted as border guards to defend Tibet. They stayed, and Buddhism flourished in the highlands. Today they are mostly converted to Christianity by French missionaries, who brought a lot of money as incentive to build churches. The people are serious Christians, though, and alcoholism has largely been stamped out. People are sober for the most part, drink having been a bad problem for a long time among the rural poor in Nepal. Many young people have Christian names, and it is quite strange to talk about Christianity and Buddhism, to people descended from those who brought Buddhism from Tibet, being a confirmed member of the Church of England with Mala beads on my wrist from Tibet! We ended up at a village called Ree that night, mighty Ganesh rearing up in the distance, tantalisingly close, as Badris plan was now to head back at speed to make the elections in time. On arriving I started to play to the crowd of children. I just felt a good energy among all the people, so welcoming and friendly and terribly surprised to see the three of us, such apparently ill-matched individuals. I played Murzunga and got the kids laughing riotously by chasing them around. It is a strange feeling to command so much attention, though you get used to it after months in far away lands, but you start to use it to get the message across; the personal message, or philosophical message, human message, whatever. In that moment I wanted to show those kids that they could be proud of their way of life, regardless of the coming of missionaries, weirdos or trekkers, some of whom might start in the future to arrive. So I started to reconstruct a wall out of the ruins in the main area of the village. The people loved it, and the kids got down to helping. I tried my best, though I am but a fledgling wall-builder and the next day a chap started to help me and show me how it should be done. By the time we left the wall was done and we prepared to leave, amid all the good-natured friendliness of the whole village, perched on the steep sides of that incredible valley. I looked around and thought about another day running after Badri and made a decision.

I wanted to go it alone onto the Ganesh Himal. For Badri it was no problem, as I was simply not fast enough, with my ankle injury, and need to eat at every turn of the path. He had people to see in a few villages. Gopal though, wanted to come with me, so off we went, the two of us. In silence, since we knew not one anothers language, but it was a relief. No more talking, no more discussions, no more plans. We had to take care of food and sleep, and that was it. First, the three of us spent a last night together, and the next day Badri left. Gopal and I were tired, so we lay in bed on the mud floored upper level of a Tamang house and food stop, frequented by travellers and traders. At noon we moved and walked well into the night, through the most spectacular scenery; endless terraces plunging down below us, treacherous, winding stone stair paths all against the backdrop of the starlit Ganesh Himal. It gave me a new-found energy and I could move faster, though that had a lot to do with the brave Gopal shouldering my burden. I would insist on travelling with some 5 kilos of camera gear, to make black and white portraits, but seeing my condition and, more importantly, given his enthusiasm for a quick passage to the sacred mountains, he insisted on carrying my bag. Night fell and the torches came out. We walked with various other travellers, including a young man with a rifle and finally found rest in a remote Tamang village, ate and collapsed.

Though Siertung was quite the most beautiful village I had seen, I knew there was something very wrong with me. It was my stomach again, the bane of my life in Lhasa and the cause of our week long delay before leaving by bike for Kathmandu. We had made a friend on the way, a young lad travelling home from Kathmandu and it was at his house that we stayed. A black hammer and sickle fluttered in its bed of crimson out back, by the wheat field and we were generously received as guests in the mans simple home. I asked him if he was the boys brother, to his amusement, as he was actually his father. These lovely people hosted us for two days before Gopal and I began the journey up into the Rhododendron forests to find some sort of promised beauty in the Ganesh Himal. His enthusiasm for the ascent carried me along and we trudged up through many terraces, greeting the warm people who were tilling the ground and planting maize, until we crossed a spectacular ridge, above, primordial forest and on the opposite side, the mountain range itself. Life seemed to me so very hard, as we walked with a group of children, out to chop wood. You start work young and continue until physically able, pretty much until the very end of your life, living on a rather poor diet of Millet, Rice, Potatoes and Dal. Meat of course is eaten, but even so, it was becoming apparent after a week of Tamang food, that my constitution just wasn't up to it. I was exhausted and starving, suffering from diarrhoea.

That night we reached a clearing, populated by a couple of stone shacks with plastic roofs. Animal stalls were part of the dwellings and after chatting with a Gurung lady, pitched the tent and marvelled at the great wall of mountains before us. We had reached the Himal, Gopal was happy, and he saw out the evening playing his flute to the huge spaces around us. We ate millet with the Gurung woman and her husband, both in their 70s, it seemed, perhaps even older. We were ravenous, but the white, glutinous sauce made from some sort of wild potato, was so foully insipid, that I couldn't get it down, on top of whatever was going wrong inside me. Some fermented, or to be more accurate, rotten, milk, completed the meal, for which I was actually very grateful, as it is kindness like that that can prevent you from starving, but I felt very sad and ashamed not to be able to stomach it.

My liberal attitude seemed very out of place in this rough life, especially so when I tried to admonish a young boy for bullying their Tibetan Mastiff, chained up as a guard dog. To him it was normal to hit and kick it in mock Kung Fu fashion, the strong dog squeeling in terror, obviously conditioned to be exactly that way; cowering to the owner, but viciously aggressive to a stranger. Growling at me was no less than a sure statement of intent to kill, but in a second he reverted to total submission, as the boy rained blows upon him. All the dogs were clearly treated with absolutely no affection, so fearful they were of us and their owners.

So it was, lying in the tent, that my thoughts turned again to home, to the sea. My body and mind in turmoil. Ten months I had calmed my mind and desire to be at home, sit on my board and relax with my family. All the simple things that I love wedged themselves into the doubts in my mind, month by month finding space in which to lodge, and at about three in the morning, as I rushed desperately outside in the cold to vomit, I felt pretty beaten. For an hour in the cold, though, I remained very calm, knowing that I had been through worse. It was rough, but not that rough, and certainly there would be worse to overcome on the way back to England by bike.

In the morning, though, I decided simply to go home for a couple of months, to recover and prepare for the big part of the journey. Up there in the Ganesh Himal, I realised that I had to get out of Nepal as soon as I could, for my sanity, and in order to leave a month of visa time for my return, to prepare to ride to India while knowing that my bike would be safe with friends. In five minutes, I was relieved, after months questioning the concept of returning, albeit as an interlude to the trip. I had to get back, to eat salad, feta cheese and drink a pint of bitter. To see my family and friends, whom I missed so much. And to return again to the sea, to wash away all that has happened to me in ten months. All the sadness and hopelessness of the Tibetans, the painful struggling of the Chinese labourers, the resigned frustration of the Kathmanduites, and most of all, the deep despondent agony of those children, orphaned and living on the streets in the Nepali capital together with that of the kids from the home in Lhasa. I will go back refreshed to see the Nepalis, above all, those poor helpless kids. What can anyone do for them? Well, there are people working really hard, for example in the Association for the Protection of Children, or APC. It is a French-run organisation that rents a town house near the Durbar Square in Kathmandu, to house them and provide some activities, and a semblance of normal life for a child. The impression these children had on me in the final five days, before I flew back to the UK, was profound. I shall link the APC site to mine, so anyone may see what it is about and donate. These are intelligent, wise little children, with a lot of hope, but blighted by glue abuse and a simple lack of human love. Something some of us take totally for granted, or have done when we were ourselves young. I certainly did, and what an amazing experience it has been to return, to see my family and to find out that I truly love my country in a way I never knew before. The humour and the caring attitude beneath our famously English exterior has warmed my heart.

It is a remarkable life, I thought to myself, as I floated bobbing up and down above the well-groomed waves, the other day. The sun was on its way to the horizon, lighting up the clouds with a platinum glow, somehow grail-like. Back in December I felt that my goal was home, as I struggled through Tibet with Gaetan by bike. But here, home at last, though I will return at the end of summer to Nepal, I realise the grail is the world itself, our quest is to understand this world. The greatest struggle is that which is within us. I smiled as I flew along the glassy wall of the last wave that evening. Rising and dropping, my arms outstretched, I knew I would be ready to go on.

"Hey Darius, are you coming?'. It was Santos and the pick-up truck would leave soon for Pokhara. I was reluctant, as one is at 4.30am, to break my restful state and exchange it, and the beautiful farm by the river at Damauli with it's bamboo and Orange groves and herb gardens, with the humming tourist paradise by Phewa lake at Pokhara, but I felt I had to move.

After a tea, we headed off in the dark over the bumpy dirt road, through the early morning mist, our driver-the charismatic K.B.Gurung-dodging speeding trucks in the weak dawn glow, and arrived in Pokhara to the stunning sight of the Annapurna massif in absolutely clear weather, daubed with all the honeysuckle hues of pink and orange on it's gigantic summits.

K.B Gurung built his farm around sustainable agriculture and he wants to open a bamboo factory to give 100000 people jobs in a country riven by poverty and political chaos. The farming practices he advocates, like share cropping- which prevents leeching of the soil by repeated fertilizer use- would benefit thousands in Nepal. I hope I will go back soon to investigate a little more, but for the time being I am in Pokhara and absolutely dismayed to hear of the violence in Tibet. But I am hardly surprised after what I saw and heard during my time there.

Let there be a just solution is what I say, each and every one of us is responsible and connected to our fellow human beings, so we ought to do something.

It all seemed like a dream, as I closed my eyes, yet everything was the same when I opened them. Terraces of green wheat, luminous in the hazy mid-morning sunlight, and mottled with patches of mustard, that stretched down to the river, a wide expanse of rounded stones caressed by the tumbling waters, and very faint strains of a wandering flute, played on the far bank.

In a few months the waters would swell, fed by the monsoon rains, and bring firewood, taking in exchange a little more of the soft riverbank, stones and sand, and the nests of birds that lived in their burrows. But now all was so peaceful. Schoolchildren by the spring, looking shyly in my direction, goats and their kids that galloped about crazily under the large tree, and all the while, the song of strange birds, the groaning of buffalo, the dripping of spring water into a green bucket behind me, and the voices of men and women in the small village, pots tapping and brooms sweeping.

Now all the children had gone to school, and I opened my mind, forgetting my self, to the sound and being of everything around my form, in this sort of Spring in Nepal in February where life is so simple and there is no time, only the rising and setting suns. I wondered; how could people live, packed into those big, filthy cities, full of poverty and hopelessness and frantic desperation, when out here and everywhere there was so much space and calm and simple plenty for people, animals and nature alike? I could rest here and contemplate the being of everything for ever, but I knew that I would be, in the morning, on the lurching, dust-choked bus back to Kathmandu.

It seems plainly obvious to me at last, that all things are subject to constant change. That seems quite obvious until one actually looks at the way one sees things. So I have seen, as we all do sooner or later, that there is nothing worth holding on to in ones mind apart from mindfullness of the true nature of our consciousness. It is a good thing to know, but hard to truly realise.

So I went walking around the Annapurna and came back to Kathmandu, but to a different Kathmandu. Kathmandu is a living, breathing thing and the difference was so subtle I think I cannot yet explain it. I had missed the crush of people and devotion, the chain reaction in this nucleus of Nepal. The Annapurna was a beautiful place to walk, to feel ones legs and breath, but something was very strange there. It was the people, changed by two decades at least of trekkers coming and going and the commercial aspect of it all. It must have been a quiet, wild place before and still is in part, being a man or mule only thoroughfare, but that is all about to change in a big way.

I didn't know much about where I was going as I sat on the bus watching the distant Himal bobbing up and down to the lilting rhythm of the music and the bus, adorned like a christmas tree with colourful paintings, shiny stuff, buddhist symbols of conches and wheels and signs saying "Horn Plaese!", or "Speed Control!". My first sight of the mountains, approaching from lush rainforest valleys, fed by the waters of these massive gods of nature was deeply moving. In the lessening midday haze the gigantic peaks, shrouded in cloud to one windswept side, seemed to be flying, the colour of the lower elevations so similar to that of the sky. I could hardly believe my eyes and reflected on the gentleness of the people belonging to that land. A land and its people are inseperable though divisible, here in Nepal strongly so, but this fact in Tibet, given the sinification, settlement and brutal control that is taking place there, right now, makes for a tragic feeling as a gift for he who visits. and sees what is happening.

But I basked in that blissful feeling, indeed it may have been as much a product of my last six months experience in Tibet as the beautiful moments as I drew closer to the Annapurna massif, wondering what was ahead. Would I find peace as Gaetan had suggested I might? Would I be able to walk over the Thorung Pass, at 5416 the highest pass in the world? I was alone and aware of the dangers of complacency in the face of the might of nature, having passed a couple of notable tests of my mortality in the great oceans while surfing. But the music was enough to calm my mind and we drew closer and closer, climbing. Then at around 3 in the afternoon, a traffic jam. That jam lasted for 6 hours, after 4 of which I decided to get a room and take it easy until the next day, for there was a dispute over compensation for a fatal road accident. A little discussion with various people led me to the truth, though somewhat approximat. A lorry driver had hit a pair of motorcyclists and the owner of the lorry, rather than the driver, was unable to pay the amount that the families were demanding. So they effected a total shutdown of the road to Dumre, where I was to catch a lift to Besi Sahar and then start walking into the unknown. The police looked on impassively and it seemed to be a pretty usual occurence. Back home in London or in Zurich, such a thing would be unthinkable. Even a little snow in Zurich one winter that forced people to walk around and talk to each other in the drab typical winter backdrop, was complained about vociferously. But it was enjoyable for many, to be closer to their nature and out of the cars and trams. Here in the village of Abu Khaireni people hung around patiently for a settlement to be reached and eventually it came, at 9pm but I was already chilling with a Dhal Bhat, talking to the locals; Thakali people, the first of the many groups of ethnic minorities here. The owner coughed up and the buses, trucks and cars moved off in a throttlingly vile exhaust cloud. After 15 minutes, they were still going, since the tailback after 6 hours was huge. Everyone going on from Mugling towards Pokhara had been in the same boat and to see the collective outpouring of hydrocarbons burnt by this disgruntled caterpillar of assorted vehicles was grim in the extreme. You could not really breath. For me, that face of Kathmandu, of Nepal and the hardest for me to swallow in this divine country, I had not yet left behind. I would have to wait until the next day to arrive in what I hoped would be a sort of paradise away from that hell I had spent two weeks in after our arrival from Tibet, a different sort of hell altogether. I was to see that heaven and hell all too often share one bed.

And it was in a couple of days that I would come face to face with the less idyllic present situation around the circuit. I had walked up the picturesque, forested valley until the village of Jagat, where I had a mock stick-fight with a small boy, much to the amusement of the assembled villagers. The boy won and I, an intruder from a faraway land of grey cold, was sent on my way, further up the slowly constricting valley to the next perilous test, the gang working on the new road, to be built to connect Manang at 3540m to the artery that grinds and lurches all the way to Kathmandu. It might not sound so incredible, but once you see the dusty brown snake making it's way slowly but steadily by means of hard manual labour and dynamiting, through one of the most stunning landscapes on earth, carved by men for 130 Nepali Rupees or about a British Pound a day, it does seem very unfortunate indeed. Much work is done by hand and that means inserting a road into near vertical rock cliff-faces. During the conflist with the Maoists, the roadbuilders could not bring dynamite into the area, for fear it would fall into the 'wrong' hands. The rocks and dirt are thrown unceremoniously down into the blue river, litres of oil are dropped by a JCB, to soak into the disturbed earth while it spews black exhaust into the rainforest above. The guys were great fun and I hung about making a bit of video and talking, but what economic conditions drive them to work for so little, to bring this road to the people up in the barren and cold higher areas? I walked the whole circuit and this road was the overwhelming topic of discussion everywhere. Of the 20 or so people I asked, only a couple were happy about the new road and they, residents of Manang ,quite understandably, would like to get to the capital in one day and not four. But the rest, small lodge owners and those reliant on the money that trekking brings to this most famous himalayan trek, were seriously pissed off. Nobody in the government listened to them when they suggested developing Hydro-electric power in the area and making a cable car route down the valley. So the trek around Annapurna is surely going to change beyond recognition at the very least, if not die altogether. This government is an enigma, but it seems evident that it can behave arbitrarily and most often for reasons of self-interest, corruption in the corridors of power being well lamented. In ten to fifteen years the road will run to Manang, bringing the usual cacophonous assault of large, dirty and delapidated trucks and buses that are responsible for considerable air pollution in and around the capital. Rubbish will clog up the riverbanks and it is only for an environmental expert to say just how great the impact wil be on the whole area.

As I said, change is the only unchanging thing, a certainty, but this road is going to change the thousand years old way of life for so many and leave no way back. The mule trains have been the only way to transport goods up and down and have been doing so for countless centuries along the ancient trade route between Tibet and Nepal. It seems that something great is underneath the new road and some further inquiry on my part, while sitting in a hot spring on the other side of the mountain valley and near the closing stages of the circuit, yielded interesting information about China's role in the route. This road could be extended over the Himalaya to China and provide a much needed second route for goods vehicles to pass between the two countries. There is only one way at present, that way we came and it makes a lot of sense to build a second, given the snowfall and landslides that can shut the Zhangmu/Khasa border route. There are probably a lot more reasons, those made rich by trekking pushing for the road with their relative new-found wealth. Wealth, for some, gained by smuggling over the border for decades. But none of it is my fight, though the nature I walk through seemed to cower at the coming of the big change. It reminded me of the animated film 'Watership Down', the prophetic visions of Fiver the rabbit and his companions' flight to safety in the wake of mans' destruction of nature. We just can't stop ourselves and are desperately short-sighted. It's not just one road, but it's happening everywhere, as it is here in the city, in the uncontrolled growth of motor transport, without so much as a single traffic light.

I walked until the pass, alone. It took a few days and the landscape changed dramatically, turning to pine forest while all the time climbing. Then the flat valley of Pisang and Humde, where I slept, feeling the cold I was so familiar with from the cycle trip in Tibet. Everything looked Tibetan from here on. The windswept, dry valleys and huge snowy peaks, prayer walls and Chortens. Exhiliarating and lonely, but so beautiful. I walked through a pine forest, the wind my only companion, whispering with a million pine trees. And after Manang, cold and forbidding, I made it to Thorung Phedi, the point from which one begins to ascend to the pass, Thorung La. In the morning at 6.30 I set off with another Englishman, Marc, who works offshore on drilling rigs for 6 months of the year with 6 months to spend travelling with the money. He was a proper walker and I had a tough time keeping up on the way down, a long, long descent of 1600m. My legs were wrecked, but as we parted ways I sat to bask in the sun and ponder on just what it all meant.

We had hiked over the pass with a group of charming Australians, from an organisation called 'Ozquest', who carry out overseas expeditions and community work in various countries and I carried on walking with them for the rest of the trek. It was beautiful really, to talk and hang out in the evening with people, but I was always wondering what it meant to share, what we gain form sharing and what we learn from solitude. All in all though, a great time. What the future holds for the Annapurna Circuit, only time can tell.

And the Kathmandu to which I returned, ever-changing, yielded up to me some precious things. It is through this flow in life that we meet people through small chances. And so, through a friend from the trek I met in the street back in Kathmandu by chance, I came to know Kiran and Badri, two intriguing fellows, dedicated to bettering the lives of rural people and tourists alike in Nepal. It is with them that I travelled over the last two days, to see the site where they intend to hold a year-long festival of music and yoga and meditation and art, all on the top of an incredible hill with a view of the Himalaya, unbroken from Annapurna in the West, Manaslu in the middle and Ganesh Himal in the East. They are working to bring plantations of bamboo and various ecologically sound technological solutions that will help people who grow crops and develop green tourism for different villages allowing people to stay in nature and see it being fostered and nurtures, not destroyed. In 2010 this festival will happen and they hope to bring a million people over the course of the year. I certainly hope I'll make it. More on that later!

Still it has been a wonderful week in kathmandu, playing music together Nepalis and then driving outside to the craft fair and festival at Dhadungbesi, then seeing some of the most stunning landscapes up in the sunny hills. That view of the Himalaya will never leave me, nor will the sweet family who have adopted me as a son and brother. And how did that happen? Well, Kiran took us up to his friends lodge, a nature camp complete with tent accomodation. It involved a nervy drive up some bad dirt road, washed out by small streams in the car of one of Kirans' friends, Ganesh, a jovial Rai, one of the mongoloid peoples in Nepal and the owner of a 1984 Toyota Corona. He was dubious about taking the car up the dirt road, but we agreed to try and eventually made it, after some struggle in the dark once we realised that the car had a fuel leak. The ruts in the road together with rocks here and there, were striking the cars underside and Ganesh was getting more and more stressed. The fuel line was broken in two places and after some desperate work, had detached itself from the carburettor entirely. The situation seemed hopeless, but thankfully I found some tape and fixed the leak before getting the line hooked up in the engine bay. We were off again! Only Kiran and Badri knew where we were headed, but eventually we arrived at the lodge and ate by candlelight. It was with relief that we all went to sleep that night and no idea what awaited in the morning to be seen from our windows at dawn. And in the morning I peered out sleepily to see the stunning panorama of mountains in the distance.

We walked up to the top to see the view and came down, to see the women distilling Raksi for a coming festival. Raksi is a sometimes strong, but often reasonably mild spirit, made from fermented Millet. Before the golden steps of terraces that tumble down the hillside, we sat drinking with the women. Then someone realised that I resembled a young man from the village nearby. This triggered a fascinating chain of events culminating with a ceremony to join me to this family. It wasn't a joke and our driver, Ganesh, impressed on me the importance of returning and staying with them one day and to keep in touch. So the young man, Nir Bahadur and I were joined by the head three times by the old uncle and had Tikka put on our foreheads, after which we exchanged gifts and danced for a while to the singing and drumming of the young women. Quite stunning it was, really, this old tradition that brings villages together and ensures, I suppose that genes mix in this world of small settlements and big families. I went over with Nir Bahadur to his house the next day to hang out with the whole family for a while. It seems that for some token rent, I could even have one of the small stone houses to stay in for a time. How wonderful that would be! So once I have completed a load of business here in Kathmandu, I shall head out there by bike. Stay tuned! Namaste!

Happy New Year indeed!

For me it was a couple of friends, Swedish and Israeli, a guitar and some good music. Today I'm fixing the last little things before I go walking in the Annapurna region. I don't have any expectations, pretty much as usual when I'm on the way, but I do have a feeling that something will be a shock in these weeks. It is a big mountain, the likes of which have humbled me before and I am under no illusion that it will be easy, but I don't really know. But I am really glad to be getting out of Kathmandu after 10 or so days, my nose running from the pollution already.

One drives West into the hills to Besisahar, from there either hiking or taking a local bus on a dirt road. Then the circuit begins. It comprises two valleys and a high pass, the Thorung La, at around 5400M. Needless to say I am taking some excessively warm clothes, but it's no expedition either, with teahouses and lodges all the way and a rich tapestry of different ethnic peoples from down in the 500m valley right up to the top.

Naturally, I will tell you how it went in a couple of weeks and show you some views of the 8000m high massif. Until then, Namaste and loving greetings. Especially to you, a person who loves so much to get up early, walk in the forest in the winter, or when the weather is moody and after, drink strong black tea with milk. If you are reading, you surely know who you are.

So this year is drawing to a close. It's my Mums birthday, so Happy Birthday Mum! I like these dates, in a way, since they serve well as markers back to the previous year to help one see what's changed and how much time one has wasted or profited from. What were you up to a year ago? Me, I was up a hill, in the rain with my Mum, Dad and brother and a load of villagers, drinking wine from the bottle. Dad, who is a Type 2 diabetic, fought to mount the hill, as it were, to celebrate the coming year in style, after a few too many in the Bull and Butcher. He slipped in some mud and landed on his arse, got up and perservered with valiance. Draining the dregs from the bottle, I mean. A good New Year. I had flown back home from Switzerland, which was cold. Especially so, it was, on Christmas night after midnight mass, where I played with a small orchestra for the congregation, missed the last bus and shuffled home in the freezing cold to an empty fridge. It was a difficult time in many ways. But here are my very best wishes for this one to you all, especially my family, who I miss.

But why do we live in the past? We are all trying to unravel that one, I am sure.

It is 11.20 and I've already been blessed with a whole day. At least it feel so. The morning is definately Kathmandus good mood, the evening some kind of schizophrenic tantrum. The streets are clear, as they may have been all day 40 years ago. Most shops are still shut and these days in this time, it is cold, though I try to remind myself of the Deathgorge in Tibet, as I amble peacefully down Freak Street to get a plate of Puri and a few glasses of Chiya. I am already feeling the heat radiating within when I recall that vile day of unadulterated pain and hardship (though I admit, I tend to overdo it a bit), spent cycling through a freezing shaded gorge on the way to Shigatse. After breakfast I sat next to a small fire fed with cardboard and tended by a fairly bilious old woman, who sells biscuits and cigarettes from a tiny shack on a corner, derelict buildings around and men killing time, waiting for work to do, probably portering around heavy loads by means of a strap over the head. The woman was mean, snapping at me in Nepali (though I don't catch a lot) that it was evil to photograph in the morning. I hung out with a load of bemused and curious workers for an hour or so, avoided getting hit by pigeon shit and realised how rich I look to the everyday Nepali. They are respectful, as I have already said, but I still felt a bit uncomfortable, simply because my clothes are clean and I have Leica over my shoulder. Still, there were a lot of laughs and even the dogs came to accept me a little.

Before breakfast I stumbled upon a beautiful, old temple in an enclosed square, quite unimaginably calm and removed from the flow of the street and then at 8am! A woman was performing her daily rites, offering rice and dye and other unidentifyable stuff to various small deities in their whitewashed cubicles. I realised how ingrained religion is here, before talking a little to a girl living in one of the ancient, weathered wooden houses that form a ring of protection around the temple. There is so much here, in every nook and cranny, of ancient and sometimes forgotten times, even the herringbone bricks on the ground, which I noticed had been so worn by centuries of devotion, that they no longer resembled a floor, but rather a jagged but rounded landscape of silent billions of footsteps.

I mean to finish recounting our cycle trip from Lhasa to Kathmandu and will surely do so in due course. We were at Shigatse and I will update this entry later, so please do come back! For now, the sun is up and life is changing into 2nd gear outside in Basantipur Square, the curio sellers will have surely set up, crowds of people will be sitting drinking tea and eating flatbreads under the tree and around the shrine outside my hotel, the kids should be up and running, hands outstretched to the tourists sauntering from sight to sight and perhaps there will be a friend or two to bump into, so I'd better be off!

Nepal is stunning. If you ever get the chance, it is surely one of the earthly paradises. One of many, I am sure. And I am also quite sure that it is this impressive for anyone, even when you fly in. But for my friend Gaetan and I, arriving by loaded bicycle, it was positively hallucinogenic, not that i would know in practical terms, of course.

But all in all, after 5 months in Tibet, in Lhasa, accustomed to Chinese and Tibetan ways after that far away initial shock to the system after leaving Europe, speeding down the lush, balmy valley through moist, warm villages with colourful linen everywhere, spices prepared by the road and children playing naked in the water streaming out of the forested flanks of those gigantic mountains that divide this world from that, we felt like a pair of aliens from another world, euphoric and massively relieved. This was the most lavish, welcome reward after struggling and fighting through what came to be known, somewhat tongue-in-cheek between the two of us, as 'hell on earth' and 'the kryptonic wastes'. For men on heavy bikes, unprepared at the outset, though not children but yet neither warriors, we were put through some pretty grim times that tested our nerves and friendship, but certainly strengthened them through the hardship.

The day we entered the subcontinent, for the first time was magical, from the rushing rivers and banana trees to the aggressive monkey by the side of the road, hissing and growling, poised to charge. Not to mention the people, many quite poor, but nurtured by the warm climes and full of smiles and greetings as we sped down the road pumping up the gentle hills with new-found energy in the oxygen-rich air and flying, absolutely screaming down the drops, racing buses loaded with cheering Nepali men on the roof and dodging chickens and goats one-handedly, as we ripped off down jackets and thermals to reveal the long forgotten base layers of our clothing and pale skin to the strong tasting subtropical sun.

We started from high at Nyalam in the morning still in Tibet and China after a reflective stroll in the direction from whence we came the night before by pickup, over the HImalaya. We saw the huge,snowy peaks by moonlight, but it had not been enough for me. That day, the day after we had slogged for 7 hours to get over the 1200m in 15Km climb, Gyatso-La, my knee said 'No.' It was finished, as far as we could see, to cycle each day with the strong afternoon wind and constant pressure. I was a little sad, but it was the way it was and so I pushed my bike mostly, riding from time to time and hitting the pain once again, each time. Demoralising, really, but not so bad really. That days cycling ended after 20Km in the middle of a desolate road, after the only major Chinese checkpoint of the route, for us. We sat, silently and reflected on our situation. We were somewhere between Shegar and the Everest Base Camp turn off and Tingri, the beginning of some seriously chewed up dirt road over the mountains. We decided that if not cycling, we should at least get to Kathmandu for a day and two nights to see each other off on our respective paths properly. Gaetan at the end of his journey to France for Christmas after roaming freely around Australasia and South East Asia, China and Russia and Mongolia and who knows where for a year, I at the beginning of mine, resolved to cycle from Lhasa to London, no strict schedule and only a couple of musts to acheive. Of his family only his sister knew of his impending return, he even, of all conceivable and awful filial cruelties, telling his parents that he would cycle back through Afghanistan and Iraq back to France and miss Christmas, so very important to his entire family, and the only time in the year spent together. They didn't seem too worried, he said but I thought him cruel in the extreme. That's coming from someone whose mother would have a fit at the mention of 'Kurdistan' or 'Baghdad'.

I wouldn't be honest were I to deny that the time-limit binding us to Gaetans family Christmas celebration was a source of some friction between us. I had a hard time trading the freedom and clearly necessary flexibility of schedule that cycling across the plateau demands, with the pleasure of sharing it with a good friend. We had no choice and had to make it by whatever means, but we had hurdle after hurdle to deal with to escape from the holy city. After the farewell party and a last night at the Chinese nightclub, we fell horribly ill, I for a whole week. My bike frame turned out to be as well-suited to cycle touring as a plate of steamed dumplings and the post did all sorts of unfair things to hold us up, parts and clothing for the daunting journey taking weeks to arrive.

At last we left, complete with escort party, which was really touching. Oat and Frederick rode with us for some 25 Km to see us off and then we were on our own. The first day. At around sundown two flat tires struck Gaetans bike and he cursed Chinese manufacturing visciously. We were in a field, just able to fix a flat, but not two, with three holes per tube, caused by Tibetan thorns. Then the Pump snapped, with our tempers and we had no choice. Camp or flag down a tractor. The latter option brought us to a welcome rest in a couples house and we ate and drank before sleeping well. But the next day Gaetan was ill and immobilised, all seemingly against us at each turn, we accepted the delay and I rode back to Lhasa. In retrospect that days ride probably brought on my bad knees, but how was I to know?

Aftre the lie-up, we pressed on with urgency to Chushul and on after a hot-pot to a strange village. A little time saw the occupants of one house warm to us, the old lady and the deaf weaver becoming very friendly after a time after firstly refusing us refuge. It was Gaetans 29th birthday, but there were no phonecalls to congratulate his efforts, no wine or presents, just the promise of renewed discomfort and wind in the morning.

Day four saw us cycle with some proficiency a good 25 Km before lunch at the entrance of a stunning gorge. We had separated, first me riding off at pace and stopping to break with nuts and fruit seeing Gaetan roll on past up a hill. It was cold when you stopped and I learnt then how to manage ones temperature according to activity level. I was seeing now just how taxing on the body it was. I was exhausted, 10 hours sleep seemingly impotent to recharge the batteries. And my knee already hurt. We worked steadily through the gorge, through which ran the Brahmaputra river, until after a series of gentle but quite hard hills, we hit the limit and stopped to ask for a bed. It was sundown and cold, but the woman in charge of the compound offered us only a vile booze storehouse without windows. We declined and rode on, very tired indeed. That night saw us in the butchers house with the tiny puppy that slept with me as Gaetan trembled with fear in his sleeping bag. It was enough to make him phone our boss and get a discussion in Tibetan about a fee for the night, also to show we weren't going to be easy victims if it came to the sausage grinder after all. But the butcher was very strange, standing and watching, head tilted all the time to the left and examining us with his beady, crazed eyes. I was wondering too, but after all he was sweet, like all of the Tibetans in that region. They are clearly from other parts of the countryside, the hills, the valleys, but have been settled in new quadrangular villages, built to ease the transition of the population from nomadic to settled and controllable ways of life. The state is working on changing the demographics of the TAR and it is clear everywhere, if you look.

The fifth day. The gorge of death. It was freezing and in the shade, though the sun was well up, around -4. Toes and fingers suffered, but we pushed on to the end, some 20 Km ride. Of course the views were great, but I wasn't gazing at the views, only the next bend in the road where there might be sun to warm my suffering body. These were few and far between and by the time I caught up with Gaetan at the next town, I was beaten. I sat in the road and swore to stop. And just ride really slowly, resting if need be. I couldn't go on, hurrying to Kathmandu for a reason not my own, but we laughed a bit and strapped my knee up, getting moving after an extortionate Chinese meal. It didn't last long and after 10 Km we stopped and made our first concerted effort to get a lift. After an hour or two it came and took us all the way to Shigatse, a good 100Km down the valley.

I can't really say a lot about Shigatse, apart from for us it was cold and miserable and we couldn't find much good food. Gaetan and I agreed that the people seemed just somehow very sad and hopeless. But we met a few cycle tourers which was interesting for us novice fools. The next day was spent resting and watching with some dismay, the really miserable atmosphere of this city. We left on day 7 gladly, riding to the West with renewed optimism.