Hawking it up in chitwan

HAWKING IT UP IN CHITWAN ‘My name’s Jethro, as in Tull, and I’m a chronic alcoholic.’

The other fourteen volunteers splurted in chuckles or simpering acknowledgement of what must surely be a joke. ‘I’m from England, but I’ve been teaching in Japan this past year. I hope to learn some new methods of teaching, then finish my university course and start up my own language school. I love teaching young kids when their minds are still a clean slate.’

A teasing shocker by nature, Jethro proved to be a chronic smoker by choice and a drunk by mischance.

That evening, following the banquet dinner replete with a performance of traditional Nepalese stick dancing - Denis tried not to dwell on the tele image from fifty years previously of a cherubic Benny Hill spoof on Morris Dancing – several volunteers made their way up to the roof garden terrace atop the Volunteers Guest House. The sparkling vista of the darkened city with pinprick incandescence was more memorable than the drab, gritty, in-your-face and up-your-nostrils daytime view, but Denis’ eyes were smarting nonetheless.

In an attitude of quiet reverence, Dashiel, the American beanpole, was setting up his tripod and ultra-sophisticated digital camera in several trial-and-error vantage spots behind the parapets to shoot the shadowy murk of Mt Ganesh and the dull glow emanating from the gilded stupa, Swayambhunath, swelling like a bruised bump on the city skyline.

Retiring early to his third-storey single room to recharge his tablet and laptop, Denis was startled by the shrieking party atmosphere still raging, the manic laughter intermingled with the lonesome howling of wild dogs that roamed on the derelict scrub behind the Guest House. Lying in bed after his cold shower, he wondered how many of the recruits would be fit enough on the morrow to face the challenge of an early start and long day’s sedentary travel.

Following an early breakfast of omelette, toast and small pot of coffee, nine bubbly volunteers with luggage assembled in the laneway that wound down through rubbish and overgrown weeds to the main road, eager to get started.

The half-dozen volunteers remaining based in Kathmandu were doing the rounds of hugging and exchanging phone numbers.

‘We’re still waiting for Jethro,’ said a frowning Ranesh, the normally hospitable co-ordinator, through pinched lips, checking his watch. ‘These long-distance buses to Pokhara and Chitwan can take longer than their allotted time of six and eight hours.’

As if suddenly emerging in the grey light of dawn, a shadowy profile of Jethro abutted from the corner of the side wall of the Guest House.

‘Jethro, you look like shit!’ cried Magsie shamelessly, one of the two volunteer nurses from New Zealand bound for Chitwan. Deb kept a discreet silence.

Denis too was appalled at the Englishman’s raw-red eyes, a haggard, unshaven appearance and miserable despair locking down a deadpan facial expression, and hoped to god he wouldn’t be sharing a room with such a haunted visage.

‘Yeah, I feel like it,’ Jethro mumbled in a thick, nasal voice, banging his head against the wall two metres back from the non-smoking area, snatching a drag on his cigarette.

‘Okay, let’s go!’ snapped Ranesh, casting a covert glance at the latecomer.

‘Follow the path to the main road and turn left. You’ll see the two buses parked there.

Denis set a cracking pace trundling along with his wheels-down suitcase to seize an inside window seat so that he could put some distance between himself and Jethro languishing behind. Also, he was determined to take some rarefied photos of the long winding stretch through the mountains.

When Setiawati, the diminutive Indonesian lass now resident in Brisbane, climbed on board, she leaned across to Denis. ‘Magsie says: “Watch out for Jethro. He’s had a dreadful night. She suspects he’s suicidally depressed.”’

Screwing up his eyes, Denis slumped back in his seat, as if knocked cold.

Heaven help me, just what I need!

When he opened them, he found himself looking up into a whiskery face and purplish bags beneath bloodshot eyes. ‘Excuse me, are you saving this seat for anyone?’ the dull voice croaked.

‘No, no,’ replied Denis, trying to keep exasperation from the timbre of his own voice. ‘Please,’ he gestured, before fishing for his tablet in the overhead locker. So relieved was he to crawl out of Kathmandu, with its chaotic traffic and suicidal dashes over pedestrian crossings, petrol fumes that stung your eyes and blocked your nose, the rubbish strewn and dangling wires, street sharps and kerb-crawling taxi drivers touting for business. You took your life in your own hands if you walked along a street with no pavements, as drivers and riders shot into every available skerrick of space to gain advantage of roads with no markings for lanes. He imagined a sweaty, febrile Harrison Ford bursting from a dingy alley of crumbling buildings in bad odour and dire straits.

‘Jethro from Worthing,’ said his neighbour. ‘From the Old Dart. You’re Australian, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m English, but an Australian resident.’

‘I thought you had a plummy accent, cobber.’ With just a faint smile.

‘I used to teach EFL in Brighton. And attended Lancing College as a kid years ago.’

‘Huh, that’s all changed. Lancing’s become the drug capital of the south coast.

You wouldn’t recognise it now.’

He might have been depressed, this Jethro bod, but he could certainly talk the hind legs off a donkey. It wasn’t long before it dawned on Denis that he’d never be able to take shots of the thickly wooded, steep-sided escarpments because he’d found himself unwittingly placed in a demanding duty of care.

‘You had a big night last night?’ Denis asked in all innocence, though annoyed the diabolical racket had kept him awake for so long.

‘Christ, you can say that again!’ A pause as long as Jethro’s yawn that enabled Denis to open his tablet and set up for a long-distance shot of a farmer across the valley pacing over his terraced steppes cultivated in the side of the mountain. From its crest, a fall of water nearby had carved out its own niche into a fast-flowing river with sand banks. But Denis dithered over the perfect shot.

So a muffled Jethro: ‘I fucked up real bad. Don’t know why I did it. At two o’clock in the morning, for Christ sake. Never have I felt so heartsick.’

As warned by Setiawati, Denis had already accepted that Jethro desperately needed to talk with somebody - or at somebody, as it turned out - so remained silent, waiting tactfully but itching to bury his thoughts in the landscape fleeting by outside. But one had to give this stranger some credit: he seemed disarmingly candid about his mood swings; unashamedly so.

‘I thought I could trust someone . . . the most precious person in my life . . . I told her the truth, but she’s twisted it round . . . I was speaking about thoughts that suddenly come into your mind . . . it doesn’t mean you’re encouraging such thoughts or going to act on them. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

A crease across his forehead knitted up Denis’ eyebrows. What the hell’s he prattling on about? Will he never shut up? Thought he was supposed to be tuckered!

‘Hanako is confusing intrusive thoughts and ideas. I can’t control my own thoughts. Thoughts spring into your mind unbidden. Ideas I can control. I enjoy discussing ideas, but Hana took me literally. Claims she wants to help me, but I suspect she’ll stay in touch till she thinks I’ve recovered, then she’ll cut me free. Holy crap, that prospect will toss me over the edge! Hana’s one half of who I am!

‘You see, Hana wants to know if I’ve ever acted on this one particular thing, which I should never have confided. So . . . should I lie? Which isn’t me. Or do I tell the truth, which will very likely end the relationship? If that happens, I’ll put a bullet through my brain. I couldn’t live without my better half. Well,

I’ve learned my lesson. Last night I belched it all up. But I’m never going to cough up details to anyone else. I’ve tried it once with the one person I trusted and it blew up in my face.’

Denis was wriggling on his seat, that was evidently hardening, itching with a sense of entrapment and irritation, desperate now to shut up this stranger.

‘Listen, Jethro. Tomorrow morning you and Setiawati will be stepping into a classroom. You may need to have all your wits about you. None of us knows what we’ll have to get our heads around quick smart when assailed by thirty or fifty excitable youngsters. Try to wrestle your mind away from this lady and concentrate on facing a brand new situation with no chance to prepare. She’ll get in touch when she’s ready.’

When next Denis distracted himself from the mountains, from the window view, he observed that the solipsist was asleep, his mouth slightly open, revealing a large set of white molars, more serene than seared.

After eight hours of painfully slow, traffic-jammed driving skirting close to parapets or soft edges warning of steep drops and recent landslides along twisting road, the bus from Kathmandu finally wound down onto the plain approaching the city of Chitwan and eventually pulled up in the car park of a large supermarket in the main thoroughfare.

The five volunteers remained stuck fast in their seats, physically tired, sore, apprehensive. Until a short but well-built man bobbed confidently aboard, observed a tall Caucasian stretching his cramped legs in the aisle. ‘Denis?’

‘Yes,’ replied the senior volunteer with zest, as if surprised or relieved.

‘My name is Shardul. Where’s Setiawati? Oh and the others, I see.’ Noting all the white faces. ‘I will take you five volunteers to your home-stays. First you can do shopping here in the supermarket.’

‘Where’s the nearest ATM?’ asked Magsie.

‘Inside the entrance to this supermarket. Remember, you must bring toilet rolls, bottles of water, anything you want. You can’t get these things in our village. Now I can’t park here, but I’ll come back in half an hour, so make sure you’re all here.’

‘Should we take our cases?’ asked Deb, the quieter of the two Kiwi girls, who would later advise Denis on his varicose veins and fungal feet.

‘No, don’t worry about them. I can take them with me.’

Jethro was generous to a fault, buying up a large, beribboned box of chocolates for the family, in spite of the brief from Volunteers HQ not to be extravagant because creating high expectations from host families raised the bar for successive volunteers. A simple hand towel featuring a cuddly koala

from home or coffee mug from Piccadilly or wherever would suffice for a farewell gift.

On the third evening, Jethro announced to Mama, ‘Can I cook dinner for your family, Mummy?’

Perplexed, Mama, the busiest, loudest and most vocal head of household operations Denis had ever witnessed, stuttered awkwardly.

‘Ke? Kina? She scurried off in search of her son as if wounded. ‘Shardul?’

‘Is there a problem?’ said Shardul, a very muscular but shortish man with chubby chops, often rippling about the yard in a towel round his waist and quietly spoken, an unusual trait in Chitwan, but a regular unabashed hawker of phlegm into the communal sink outside the toilet door in the central yard. The family’s plush living quarters were the other side of a narrow stone passage that led to the kitchen and modest dining room for volunteers.

‘Great Expectorations!’ thought Denis to himself, whenever he heard Shardul’s ugly full-throttle heaving-up or later, even staff members gobbing openly into the ink-ingrained sink in the school’s staff room. No one batted an eyelid. Mark it down to cultural differences! And, to be fair, the thick, white dust blown up from the surface of the laneways.

‘I’d like to cook for your family,’ beamed Jethro, having caught up on his sleep. ‘I don’t see why you should always have to cook for us.’

‘No, no, that’s our job. We have our routine, you know,’ said the head of the family, with quiet restraint but obvious alarm at a stranger’s lack of tact.

Denis, though, was squirming. At the briefing in Kathmandu, the volunteers had been informed that the highest caste would never allow anyone of a lower caste to cook or them. This is not to imply that a citizen from dear old Worthing, Sussex by-the-sea was not worthy of serving up a healthy vegetarian meal, but could he be trusted to follow the correct procedure for touching the food by hand? And this, an old established Gurkha family, who relocated from the mountains after 1947 at the invitation of the Government, which felled vast acres of jungle forest to make available land for the building of homes for new settlers. Many Gurkhas had stayed in paramilitary service, namely as soldiers, policemen or customs & excise personnel. But many had turned farmers and quickly adjusted to the agrarian way of life.

‘And can I ask you to not smoke?’ said Shardul bluntly. ‘Not on my land.

This is family home, so we don’t like the smell of smoke to enter. Then there’s a baby coming soon.’

‘Oh, no worries,’ breezed Jethro. ‘Not a problem.’ But apparently oblivious of how much a problem that might be for his host.

On their first Monday of school, Denis was given a lift on the pillion of Shardul’s motor bike. Without a helmet, he was less nervous about his initiation into the secondary school than losing his grip on his host’s waist and toppling off on the bumpy ride as Shardul swayed around the ruts and jutting rocks, even smooth white boulders, to find the safest course to the school gates.

‘Excuse me, where’s the staffroom?’ Denis asked a couple of likely teachers seated on an iron bench, chatting away while casting a glance at students in uniform milling about and slowly joining ten lines of home groups extending back down the sparsely grassed playing field. Pegged down were two cows chewing the cud.

‘Fourth floor,’ replied the quizzical younger man, pointing at the tall building straight ahead with four flights of concrete steps leading upwards through the central block.

Nor did any member of staff react when Denis gingerly walked into the staff room and sought to deposit his bag on an empty space. ‘Namaskar!’ he declared politely and bowed his head. ‘Good morning, everyone! Do any of you teach English?’

Suddenly, a mighty clanging sound was banging him about the ears, reverberating, blocking his eardrums. Later, he was to realise that a silent dwarf of a man signified the changeover of each lesson with one mighty stroke of a stick on a large, impressive metallic gong suspended just outside the staffroom door.

‘Bring your bag over here!’ called a man thumbing through a text book, with black horn rims and thinning black hair on his crown. Indicating the adjacent chair, ‘My name is Hari. I’m teaching English grammar now, Year 12.’ This slim fifty-something years old man appeared to take charge of the newcomer but garbled his speech through buckled front teeth.

O Lord! If I can’t understand him, how can his students? ‘Right, I’ll come along then.’ Trying to strike the right note.

‘No, I don’t want you to come.’

Which affronted Denis, the brusqueness of it. Wasn’t one of his intended roles to act as adviser to the English staff? It was the first of several occasions when the experienced pedagogue considered the attitude of saving face that some proud but touchy Nepalese exhibit when striving to think English.

At the end of the day, though, Hari treated him to a samosa and too sweet but delicious black tea in the shed that served as staff canteen with small kitchen extension and invited him to hop on the back of his motor bike to take further refreshment in his own home.

‘Don’t I need a helmet?’ asked Denis, anxiously surveying the uneven terrain and the number of small boulders perilously placed.

‘No, only driver. First, I settle the tab,’ he said, searching for his wallet.

Denis clung on tight, embarrassed to find himself sliding down the pillion into Hari’s black leathered back. ‘Sorry, it’s the bumps!’ yelled Denis into his ear.

‘Move back!’ barked Hari, fussed by the restless twitching behind and the cannoning of his own helmet against the peak of Denis’ cap.

The humble two-storey house, shaded by the overhang of tall trees with leafy boughs, possessed cosy enclaves on all four sides that invited outdoor living.

In a small shed open at the side, a pregnant cow that in the short term could not give milk. Several trees around the house did yield comestibles: one bore a pyramidal hive of bees clumped high up in its fork; also delightful, a mango tree, a banana tree with a small green cluster of fruit, a blackberry tree socalled but a spreading evergreen with reddish berries, an avocado tree with small fruits, a lemon tree and an orange tree. Beyond the ring of trees that kept the house cool, Hari owned an extensive rice paddy, which had just been harvested in one day by a specialist with a scythe. Its crop would supply his family for several months as well as make a small profit in the market place.

As they sat there in the shade drinking some home-made fruit juice, Denis sensed how laid-back Hari was in his peaceful retreat, listening to the scrabbling egg-laying hens and keeping a watchful eye on the sleek, grey hunting cat that he kept outdoors to prevent messes within.

‘Do you still have your own teeth?’ asked Hari, in envious mood.

‘Of course,’ replied Denis, taken by surprise, with a tinge of resentment and an exaggerated smile.

On the second afternoon, unsure about his homeward direction at one of those serpentine bends along the dusty road, Denis found a midget of a boy with straight black hair and dusky features snatching at his left hand and clinging on tight with tiny fingers, a littlun unknown, whose slightly older sister didn’t notice anything unnatural. At first flattered, then antsy about appearances, he managed to unclench the stray hand when a van or scooter joggled by in a plume of dust. But the wheedling child sprang back to seize it again.

Alarmed, Denis’ brain recalled that sickening sight at a café in Thamel, the tourist heart of Kathmandu, where a beady-eyed scruff in grubby overcoat, balding but with stray wisps of greasy, grey hair draggled over his collar, was lurking against the corner of side wall behind him, waiting, watching but wary, taking in Anita and himself with a fixed stare towards the tables at the front of the café, where a solitary man thirty years younger was sitting street-side in smart casuals and looking relaxed with ogling eyes and an amused expression.

At first Denis thought the older man was a vagabond straight out of the Dickensian underworld, a shifty pickpocket sneaking up to snatch their wallet or bag. ‘Keep an eye on that grub behind me,’ he murmured. ‘He looks sus.’

‘Doesn’t he just. He gives me the creeps,’ whispered Anita, casting her gaze downward. ‘He’s still staring at us. Obviously waiting for something. Don’t look now, but he’s moving this way.’

Denis didn’t need to look. His nostrils had already picked up the rank, stale smell passing by.

Four young schoolboys, perhaps six or seven, in smart school uniform, dark blue jacket, white-collar shirt, gambolled out of the interior shadows of the café and sat at the other end of the table occupied by the ogling man with fixed smile. The lads bundled themselves down, two each side of the table, carefree, preoccupied with their own larking about.

The younger man, the cornerstone, more relaxed, a regular patron more like, made no secret of looking the boys over, genuinely amused by their innocent antics, as if checking them out, occasionally nodding at the scruff opposite.

‘They’re not interested in us,’ murmured Denis. ‘I’m afraid they might be doing a spot of grooming.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Anita with a shudder. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Though there’s a beautiful display of fabrics six doors further on, silks and stuff.’

‘These two blokes haven’t actually done anything, but when you remember the trafficking of Nepalese children increased after the 2015 earthquake . . .’

‘And all those poor orphans,’ interposed Anita. ‘Apparently, some were forced into sex slavery in India.’

It was only the fifth morning of school when Denis suddenly felt what he always feared in Asia, the sudden arousal of discomfort in the belly. The revolting image of the two staff toilets aggravated the discomfort, the anxiety.

As well very dim light, there was little room inside the cubicles to shuffle round the brown sludge on the floor. He figured he should stand feet apart on the porcelain sides of the primitive dark hole in between, but there was no chain to flush water down. There was a large container of very discoloured water, though, heavy and awkward to lift, but he managed to pour a modest amount down the hole. It was only later that he realized he should have washed his hands in it. The stench was so sickening that in his fumbling desperation to escape, he banged his head on the concrete section above the wooden door because there was no light switch. That smell hung in the warm air outside and wafted past the Headmaster’s open door and as far as the staffroom. In the far corner of that nerve centre, hanging up on a rusty hook above the sink, was the remains of a ragged and grubby hand towel.

But what if he was going to vomit or in need of emptying his bowels? No, there was nothing for it but bolt for it as quickly as possible back to the homestay, then sneak back before period 2. In this, he succeeded, though it was a close-run thing to make the home-stay in time. Walking up the concrete steps to the staff-room on his return, he bumped into Hari.

‘Where have you come from?’

‘I had to rush back to the home-stay. Stomach upset. I felt I was going to be sick and needed the toilet.’

‘But there’s a toilet next to the headmaster’s office.’

‘Yes, I know, Hari, but it’s not hygienic.’

Hari was speechless, most likely embarrassed, possibly ashamed. The scungy apology for a hand towel would remain a fixture hung on a nail in the staff room for the entire duration of Denis’ four-week stay.

Here in his new country retreat, about an hour’s drive from the city of Chitwan, Denis sensed the best time was early morning when the blindingly bright white orb of the early-morning sun scintillated the blue mist and the dark brown sheaves of hay and the first fresh green spikes of rice slowly emerging. Fascinating patterns in the damp, deep brown soil and subtle shades of autumnal colour unknown to him. In these first few days he took to getting up early while it was still dark inside and Jethro was sleeping in his earphones, and before the harrumphing of motor bikes; then going for a stroll about the nearest lanes, very careful to note the directions he might need to retrace his steps. Upon his return to Shardul’s property, he would place a chair out front facing the T-junction and attempt to compose similar images of the pastoral way of life in these small villages backed by extensive acres of arable land. grizzled old man in green shorts sits on the lip of the trough beneath the hand-held pump, coughs and shivers lathering thin grey hair and hairless armpits with icy water rubbing bony rib-cage hard with a selvedge of cotton stuff his own sullied water recycled from the stone trough Far distant, the faint grey silhouette of The Terai’s upland hills that promise the earth, the granary of Nepal; nearby, a lone woman, chequered in sari with blue sash about her waist, bringing down the sickle with sharp, even strokes to sever a stave in two; the steady stream of early-morning school-bound cyclists zig-zagging between ruts and rocks; the chugging of tractors bumping over small, smoothly worn white boulders awkward to walk on; the scratching of a curious red-combed rooster bobbing its neck, then leaping with a flurry onto the rump of a squawking hen; the beeping of swarming motorbikes and scooters spraying up that fine white dust that invades your nose as they bobble close by ambling figures; a dozing dog deadbeat to the world roadside; two

goats tethered but tangled nibbling at a cluster of low-lying leaves; the trumpeting blast of the yellow school bus hailing students.

Then mid-morning, across the wide-open flat fields lay an enduring numinous calm. with dried-out hay heaped on a tarpaulin four mute men each clasping a corner sway in slow even rhythm together wafting the chaff away In the evenings after dinner, invariably Tarkari, a dish of curry, rice and samey vegetables, hot red or green chilli if you wished, Denis and his room-mate lay on their beds in the dark.

‘I’m not going to last long here,’ moaned Jethro. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to do after six o’clock. The pub, so-called, you couldn’t swing a cat in.

Hardly room for four people to play cards. Worse still, there’s no lighting in our apartment in the evening.’

‘Yeah, I hate wasting time,’ sighed Denis, hands behind head, lying on top of his puffy blue sleeping bag. ‘How are we supposed to prepare lessons?’

‘I only have two ambitions in life: to own my own school and to live in Japan.

But I’m conflicted between finishing this four-week volunteer programme, then completing my degree soon as. I should be able to knock over four essays in a fortnight.’

‘That sounds positive, Jethro,’ Denis quickly added, but doubted its application.

‘It’s Business Studies, which I can do off the top of my head, but it’s shit boring.’

‘Oh.’ ‘But it’s a means to an end. I can teach in Japan again only if I have a degree.

At least in the Rising Sun I was able to teach in my own way and got high, really high, on doing something useful, meaningful.’ He added wryly, ‘I didn’t need so much weed.’

Suddenly, everything switched dark. The lamp above the toilet door outside no longer threw out light over the central courtyard but cast a pale smidgin through the thin curtains in the resident rooms. ‘No electricity!’ shouted Mama, bursting into the yard. ‘Sorry! So sorry! It come back soon!’

‘There was this four year old boy.’ Jethro was speaking slowly in a strangely subdued and meditative voice. ‘I’ll always remember him. His eyes, a sort of hyacinth blue, would light up whenever I entered the classroom, always eager to please, jumped to the task, proudly showed me his work. Always giving me

a glowing smile, lifting my mood, my energy levels. It was brilliant. I’ve never experienced anything like it in the classroom. So . . . so transcendental.’

‘Seems a pity you left.’

‘The principal pissed me off. He placed a kid in a higher grade because his wealthy parents insisted their precious son deserved something better. Upshot was, the kid was miserable as. Just couldn’t understand the basics. Nor could that jerk of a principal. He got real snarky with me.’ dogs lie stoned where tigers once prowled amid a roar of weaving, growling motor bikes some scabbed with ears torn, manged or matted many roam homeless, howling morn through night November, the busiest season for farmers, as the temperature can suddenly fall from 30 degrees to chilly, misty mornings for two or three months. But that Sunday dawning the sun was blinding white, the first school day of the week in Nepal. Mist lingered over the bushy stacks of dark brown hay and sodden rice paddies. Dot figures of young girls bend over at the waist to gather clumps of hay in armfuls to load up the carts; nowadays it is not uncommon to see hired shiny red machines shooting shaggy arcs of hay from chutes to erect stacks of higgledy contours.

Briskly walking along with a stack of newly threshed hay hiding his head and shoulders with a matting down his back: a birdman anonymous. Four large dogs in a row lying dead asleep on the furrowed earth in spite of the cranky grumble of tooting tractors.

Hardly a village. Rather, variously shaped houses scattered along narrow, dusty, rock-bobbled lanes over a vast area of low-lying fields. Somewhat belatedly, Denis discovered an example of folk art on the back wall of his own home-stay, simplistically designed but vibrantly coloured. On the edge of the right side an elephant; inboard, a rhinoceros featured in a swamp painted brown surrounded by fields or jungle in the dark, dusty green of eucalyptus; a track over a wooden bridge spanning the sky blue river leading up to a familiar house - of course, it was the front wall of his home-stay with sky-blue window-frames and curtained windows in the posh family rooms as well as the forecourt of compacted chocolate brown earth. Running along the top, not so vivid but in black and white, simple, broken lines to convey the outline of the Himalayas, as viewed from this spot. her goats munching green stuff on the bank a willowy waif, up to bare knees, her net she trawls back for silvery sprats, bends deep to inspect the catch: clumps of filthy weed drip litter and plastic trash The bustle of country life begins before first light, before the first home fires are lit - a few chopped sticks of wood slanted crosswise and a scrap of paper in

a clay pot. A frying pan with handles on two sides quickly heats the dal bath, vegetable oil, then thin slices of cabbage or small cubes of pumpkin. The vegetable seller ringing his bicycle bell on the corner of the T-junction to display from cane baskets either side of his bike: cauliflower, ginger, yellow marrow, pink tomatoes, green capsicums, green peppers, weighing his commodities on scales balanced awkwardly at an angle on the saddle of his bike. on her black mess of hair a faceless crone in shawl bears a tarpaulin bunched and by string bundled the longest, lumpiest headgear, least fashionable yet propped by walking stick, she sails upright still A bullock dray of milk churns ambles past, with a switch of thin sticks applied by the driver to the rump of the weaker of two labouring, slavering beasts.

Every early morning the women sweep the outside area of the house, compacted but very uneven and pockmarked earth the colour of milk chocolate. An old gaffer, hawking up phlegm with dust, squats very low on his haunches overseeing the chickens, scurrying chicks that slow to a stutter the yellow School Bus, and passers-by: women bearing pots and bundles atop their scarfed heads, kiddies three or six gleefully yelling ‘Hi! in their best American accents to the new white-faced novelties and pleading for selfies; a lorry rumbling along with a dozen farm workers standing penned in the back. schoolgirls smart in pale blue blouses, navy trousers, black tights, cycling demurely between ruts and boulders a friend swaying side-saddle on the rear mudguard or two littlies behind and one clinging to handlebars ‘You know what?’ Jethro was saying, ‘If I had my way, I’d regularly take a ball into the classroom.’ Denis raised an eyebrow. ‘You know, those balls with suction caps, so that the kids could throw them at the correct answer on the board so they stick. Worked a treat in Japan.’

‘Does the correct answer stick in their memory?’

‘My theory is that it would make more impact. Youngsters need a distraction.

If it doesn’t, you throw the ball at them.’ He flashed those big front teeth.

‘Even better: you know those toy guns? I was thinking of buying up enough for the whole class so they could all take a pop shot at the answer simultaneously.’

‘Don’t get too carried away, Jethro. Just waving guns around would create sheer bedlam, not to mention the probability of some kid being struck in the eye and you struck off the staff list.’

His face fell into a wistful gaze. With a hapless shrug: ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’

spreading a watery mix of rich brown cow dung a young house-proud woman kneeling down with open palm evenly smoothing across the floor warding away evil spirits and carping neighbour After two days of lessons at junior levels in his striking beacon of a yellowpainted, double-storied school ten minutes walk north of the home-stay, Jethro was immediately disillusioned; over-run by animated spirits who didn’t understand English. ‘The education system here is fucked up. In rural Nepal the focus in English lessons seems to be reading and comprehension. The kids are just copying out of the textbook. Everyone is chattering away, not listening. For my style of teaching to work, classroom discipline is essential.

Of course, it’s important for kids to have fun, but I need to be heard to give direction and lay down expectations.’

Denis had also experienced a frustrating day. Introduced to the staff by the English co-ordinator as a seventy-four year old with a wealth of experience, he groaned within as if Exhibit A in a court room or a misguided professor coming out of retirement; or whenever he walked into a classroom on a wave of deafening cheers, greeted like a rock star, ageless and jowly as a Rolling Stone. Inevitably, the host teacher would ask him to introduce himself (for as long as possible) and answer a few questions that would ideally consume the rest of the forty-five minutes.

‘Do you like football?’

‘How many children you have?’

‘Do you like Nepal?’

‘Cristiano Ronaldo, you like?’

‘Do you like our school?’

But after ten minutes the novelty was worn ragged.

‘Do you have any more questions?’

‘Are you married?’

Denis was inclined to agree with Jethro that here in the countryside the emphasis was on learning new vocabulary and copying out chunks of text.

There was no sign of personal or imaginative writing, or speaking whole sentences in English to one another. Nor any sign of homework being dished out or of teachers taking any correction home.

Pronunciation of English proved a major problem for the teachers of English.

For her year 8 class, Palisha was reading a passage on Albert Einstein, in which she clearly said four times ‘burn’ instead of ‘born’ and another on The

Cow, where she pronounced ‘shed’ as ‘sed’, the ‘h’ apparently silent in Nepali.

In addition, the level of the language seemed well beyond the capability of thirteen year olds: a mouthful like the multi-syllabic ‘deteriorating’ proved a hurdle too high for the class to repeat in unison, while abstract concepts like ‘scientific matter’ eluded definition. In addition, when the brightest or keenest of these young students were called upon to read, they stood up confidently and raced through the passage in a breathless monotone, skating over full stops and flat-lining question marks, thereby mangling much of the meaning and tone.

When Palisha, one of the two female members of staff out of thirty, who wore a red jacket and baggy red trousers beneath her turquoise sari, approached him for the second time with a smile that gave way to a nervous but appealing flutter of eyelashes, stated in a flat monotone, ‘I request you teach my class,’ it sounded like a command. Where was the modulation, the tone of politeness?

Of course,’ he replied. ‘What would you like me to teach?’

‘Anything you like. You are experienced teacher, Denis sir.’

Well, yes, but I do like time to prepare. And I disapprove of this ‘Teach Anything’ approach when I don’t know the syllabus, the students’ names, their level of ability, what you’ve been teaching them recently, what they need to know… two idle fishers casting a line across a shoal from the bridge into the deeps back of Shardul’s bumper crop of mustard, a brilliant yellow show ‘In my life I have two major relationships,’ Jethro was champing at the bit that first Friday afternoon. ‘There’s Jocasta, who’s bags of fun, always taking the piss out of me. We hook up for casual sex. Jo’s autistic.’ He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. ‘You know, sometimes I wonder if I have mild autism myself.’ Jethro’s open-mouthed gaze hung in the silence for a moment. ‘Ah well, it is as it is. Then there’s Hanako, whom I met when she was on vacation in Japan. We had a whirlwind affair, but she’s an American citizen now. Lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her husband found out about us and turned snarky. Threatens to divorce her and keep hold of the child. Cites me as the guilty party and a very bad influence, but Hana doesn’t love him. So she’s gone back to the US to sort out custody.’

The evening light was perceptibly darker after the usual dinner of dal bhat (predominantly rice and lentils or occasionally chickpeas), perhaps small wedges of potato, red or green chilli peppers. It had become the custom for Jethro to don earphones and lie on his bed beneath the bell tent of mosquito net.

‘There’s just nothing to do here in this god-forsaken place!’ Jethro wailed.

‘How can you put up with it?’

‘To be candid, I feel more alone when surrounded by volunteers working their smart phones than when I’m adrift in a mood of reverie.’ There, it was out!

That quietened Jethro for several seconds. ‘I confess I’m the opposite. I come from a family of six brothers and one sister, so I’m used to company of different personalities and ages. A sense of alienation gives me panic attacks.’

More relaxed, Denis merely smiled, staring up at the fan whirring round beneath the ceiling, fascinated by the patience of three green-skinned geckos, squat but all of five inches in length, like brooches of emerald caught by a shaft of light from the courtyard in frozen posture, waiting to make a quick dart for a fly or moth or busy ant. ‘I really enjoy wandering the laneways and byways, taking a few photos of the surrounding fields. It makes me think of what it must have been like before the Industrial Revolution in Europe, with men and women bending their backs in the fields, living close to their animals.’

‘Sentimental twaddle, Denis! Think Tess of the d’Urbervilles hoeing turnips in a muddy field at five o’clock on a frosty winter’s morning, not that dreamer Rousseau drifting in his row-boat while staring up at the stars on a lazy summer evening. And I wouldn’t waste time taking photos of desolate shitholes. You sound as if this is some sort of Arcadia.’

‘No, no, there’s an aesthetic appeal, autumnal colours and patterns. All those cut-back stems and occasional green shoots anticipating next season’s harvest already. I’m fascinated by the rhythm of the seasons here and the local people’s acceptance of this slower way of life.’ Not quite wilting.

‘It’s slow alright. Nothing happens. Do the locals really accept this slow way of life? Look, I’ll be frank. I just have to ask Shardul if I can leave Chitwan.

It’s difficult to broach the matter now, as he’s got too much on his plate, what with his wife being seriously sick and the baby due any moment, but I can’t stand that madhouse of a school any longer. Besides, I’m starving without some bread or chicken breast - there’s not even a pizza palace, for god sake! because my stomach can’t cope with all this spicy food and I can’t function without some decent grog.’

Denis was lining up a shot, fussily as usual, of the remote Himalayas, a mere smudge on the southern horizon when he was hoping for a gleaming rift of ultra-white snow that would have a foreshortening effect. A racket of blaring, discordant music was heading his way, the same short, repetitive cycle of ugly noise that represented the Maoist party appealing to the workers, its flags of red sickle and hammer on white background flapping up the radio mast.

There came a sudden burst of coughing behind him. ‘Hi, there, we meet again!’ It was a watery-eyed Jethro in an aura of smoke, puffing on a cigarette nonetheless, recently arrived back from an excursion to Chitwan city.

‘How was your trip?’

‘Oh, so bloody good to get away from Dullsville. We climbed up this 3,000 stepway to the most prominent temple in Chitwan. If I’d been by myself I would’ve spent no more than ten minutes gawking at the pagodas, then choofed off to grab a beer, but Magsie insisted on hanging around for half an hour, staring into the middle distance. Likewise Deb and Setiawati. Another dud experience! Then we trailed around looking for gauzes, bandages and hospital stuff, then the girls wanted to try on the silk scarves.

‘Have you noticed that Commie van never broadcasts any speeches, but only dishes up raving pop music as loud as possible? Even at seven o’clock in the morning! Don’t they have any policies?’

‘How did you sleep last night, Jethro? ’ ‘Christ, I look like shit and my back teeth are aching like hell. All that nicotine eating into the gums. Must remember to quit smoking,’ he beamed.

‘So, in answer to your question, I didn’t. I’ve heard from Cambridge at last, though, but it solved nothing. Hana’s emailed, not texted as we usually do, so the signs are ominous. I fucked-up big-time when I refused to give her any details about my intrusive thoughts, so she fears the worst. I thought I could trust her, but she seems to believe that I consciously choose to have such thoughts when the truth is they simply invade my brain-box willy-nilly. She’s not really said anything about our relationship. Just polite comments about my teaching. Non-committal stuff. I have only two real friends. She’s one of them, the most vital, half of my life, my identity. If I’ve lost Hanuko, I’m a raving nutter, incomplete, a piece of shit.’

Denis had found himself besieged at the same crossroads as before. Several times, in fact, and was beginning to sound tetchy. How come Jethro was continually repeating the same narrative, as if for the first time? Why was he so impatient, so obsessive? ‘I don’t think you should expect her to declare her feelings about your relationship when you’ve obviously disturbed her. She’s giving you breathing space. Why should she commit herself? I don’t know the lady, but she may not fully realise for several days yet how she feels about your revelation. She’s still keeping in touch, remember.’

‘I must know. I can’t abide all this not-knowing.’

‘I understand your anguish, but didn’t you say she urged you before to go and see a psychiatrist ?’

‘Yes, spot on. She wants me to see a therapist or psychiatrist. She’s right on the knocker there. I admit I’ve done some terrible things in my twenty-four years. Things which I shouldn’t be telling anyone, which I’m very ashamed of. I don’t respect myself. But who can escape whipping? Not even a millennial. But as for seeing a psychiatrist . . . well, that throws up another curve ball?’

‘Oh, what’s that?’

Hunched over, hands in his jacket, Jethro was biting his lip, brooding, stubbing his toe mechanically on a smooth, white boulder on the side of the lane.

His voice dropped. ‘Look, I really do have to see a psychiatrist as soon as I return to Worthing, no joking. But I suspect Hana is saying that only so she’ll be free to cut me loose once I’ve complied.’

‘Any which way, she’s still trying to protect you.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

The staff room was deserted for the canteen. Save for a maths teacher, Yardav, a dapper man in his thirties with short black hair and the uniform pin-striped blue and white shirt and grey and white-striped trousers financed by the government. ‘Come, sit here,’ he gestured and nodded. He asked the usual questions, ‘How long you stay here in Chitwan?’ etc. Then: ‘Are you married?’

‘Not now,’ said Denis, trying to repress the irrits. ‘But I have been,’ he added to reassure.

‘Why not you marry again?’ Yadav looked perplexed, extended a crooked arm over his desk, as if there was so much choice out there.

‘As a senior English teacher, I was working most evenings, marking books, preparing lessons . . .’

‘But now you retired. You should get married.’

Denis scoffed with a sharp laugh. ‘I’m seventy-four.’ As if that were answer enough. ‘Besides, I am capable of doing my own cooking, my own housework.’ He made to wipe his brow in mock relief.

‘That does not matter. In Nepal men and women stick fast like glue. Divorce rate very low. How is it in Australia?’

‘Mm, probably much higher.’

‘I’m serious. You should get married.’

That evening Denis googled Divorce rates in Nepal and learned they are rising quickly, particularly among the younger generation.

Even at home, the soon-to-be grandmother, Mama, with black plaited hair streaked with grey, is up and about at the crack of dawn, before the crowing of

the cockerel sometimes, sweeping away at the dust with one of her half-dozen switches of home-made canes, pumping up the water, heating the dal in a pan over the fire of sticks placed in a clay pot, chopping up vegie scraps for the chickens, shooing the goats with a raised cane, calling in that loud, raucous voice across to neighbours, that voice of bustling determination to maintain the daily ritual of running her son’s house; that deep-throated laugh which crackles when she notices Denis slicing up those red-hot chillies where other westerners turn up their nose. in thongs, no helmets, no work & safety, no worries climbing iron cubes, three bronzed bare-chested brickies hulling the inside walls of mounting chimneys Denis was woken by a motor-bike coughing and spluttering into the yard. It could only be Shardul returning from the hospital in Chitwan city. He was parking his heavy bike under shelter.

‘Setiawati! Denis!’ came the urgent cry from Shardul, removing his helmet.

‘Is Jethro with either of you?’

‘No,’ replied Setiawati, as she opened her door. ‘He left school at lunch-time.

Said he was sick.’

‘He wasn’t here for dinner either,’ added Denis, walking out onto his balcony.

‘The other night I came home from the hospital on my bike at 1.30 in the morning,’ murmured Shardul in his very even intonation, walking towards their adjacent verandahs. ‘Jethro was outside, sitting on the front wall, smoking a cigarette and listening to music on his headphones. I’m worried about him. He’s got a problem in his heart.’

‘Don’t worry about him, Shardul,’ said Setiawati. ‘He will catch a taxi.’

‘But I do worry about him. We are all family here. I responsible if anythings happen to him. Why does he not tell me he going to city late? It’s not safe at night wandering round the city.’

‘He does have a very good sense of direction,’ said Denis.

‘But no buses come this way. And he doesn’t know safe taxi drivers.’

Shardul’s voice was becoming more heated. ‘Taxi drivers, you know, can take the long way round, which is very expensive, leave you in middle of nowhere, rob your passport.’

The two volunteers looked at each other with growing anxiety.

‘I’ll phone Jethro and ask him to identify where he is. Then I’ll phone a reliable driver I know.’

When a vehicle one hour later pulled up out the front of Shardul’s place, the three of them stopped talking, held their breath and looked at one another with concern. Then Jethro bounded out from the shadows into the central yard in a long, loping but unnatural stride, a twisted smirk on the shadows of his face, leaving Shardul in his wake.

My god, he looks strangely goofy, thought Denis. What’s he on now?

‘You alright, Jethro?’ Setiawati, most concerned, tentatively asked.

‘I’m brilliant, Sati Wati Sunshine!’ But these last words gushed out slurred. A woozy whiff could be detected in the apartment.

He was at it again, Jethro, giving tongue, cigarette in hand unlit but waving it around in sweeping gestures. ‘What would you do if someone you loved wouldn’t give you a straight answer, yes or no? Is our relationship still on?’

‘Give her time, Jethro. Don’t rush her.’

‘But she’s had seven days already. How much time does she need?’

‘But didn’t you say you had to see a psychiatrist as soon as you got back to Worthing?’

‘Yes, I really have to. I’m not good at processing my emotions. I’m very rational. But there is something I have to be very wary of.’ He paused, took a deep breath then gave a long, weary, drawn-out sigh. ‘Problem is . . . a psychiatrist isn’t obliged to keep a patient’s confidentiality . . . if he suspects that patient can cause harm.’

Oh, give me a break! But Denis was still mulling over Jethro’s claim that supposedly rational people couldn’t understand their own emotional state.

Up with a spring in his step that second Saturday morning, a more ebullient Jethro. ‘Jeez, I can’t wait to hop on that bus to Pokhara. It should have some decent pubs for a tourist city. I’ve learnt how to pack efficiently. Just tightly roll clothes, don’t fold them. There, see?’ he said, holding up a sausageshaped shirt. ‘It’s brilliant. I’ll be packed in five minutes.’ And he was, way before the Magic Bus had shuddered to a standstill in the forecourt.

Strange thing was, although Denis was about to release a sigh of relief, yearning for peace and quiet, he was rendered almost speechless by a lump in his throat when Jethro embraced him.

‘Thanks for being a good sounding board, Old Sobersides,’ Jethro said, ever generous, patting Denis’ back as if he were offering consolation, then knocking his fist to against Denis’ fist, as if they were baseball buddies.

Almost gargling, Denis got out, ‘I do hope everything works out well for you, Jeth.’

The latter shrugged. ‘It is as it is.’

With Jethro’s departure and the return to the family home of his wife, still sick and needing the physical support of her husband to make her slow, painful way across the yard to the toilet or shower, Shardul was able to spend more time at home and was in better spirits with his companionable duties.

And Mama loved rocking the new-born ‘babu’ on her lap, practically a surrogate mother. After pinching her grandson’s nose into acceptable shape, Mama exposed his puckered pale face to the early-morning rays of sunshine for a first dose of vitamin D ahead of his initial bathing, down at her bared knees below her hoisted skirts with gurgling chuckles of her own.

‘You can come closer,’ said Shardul. ‘But if you want to see baby’s face, you must give some money.’

At first bewildered by that statement, Denis sniggered.

‘No, I’m serious. This is tradition in Nepal. You put it in his hand.’

Setiawati was already rummaging in her bag for a 500-rupee note. ‘I’m so lucky to be part of this ceremony. Especially as I leave tomorrow morning for Pokhara.’

‘I want you stay with us,’ pleaded Mama, pulling a long face, almost grieving.

Hardly able to refuse, Denis slowly reached for his wallet. Since the curve of babu’s hand was flexed open, he was advised to tuck the 500-rupee note gently into the cuff of the infant’s swaddling sleeve.

‘You must be a very happy father,’ said Setiawati.

‘Now yes, I love my baby. I always wish for a son, not daughter, so our home stays in our own family. I was very worried, that I will have daughter but I was lucky. I had a son. At first I didn’t love him. If I choose my wife die in Caesarian section or my son die, I choose my son die. My wife not die. She still very weak, but she not die. Now I love him. I love him very much. I see him becoming human now every day slowly.’

Denis was frustrated that the teachers of English didn’t seek his advice or teaching skills. Why were all the teachers wary of him, whereas the pupils overwhelmed him with greetings, questions, even a fat, juicy cucumber in the shape of a sweet potato following pronunciation practice of this word the day before: cu cum ber. Regrettably, he dared not eat it: two pairs of kiddies’

unwashed hands had presented it and there was a large brown scar that looked rotten. Even three or four year olds called out ‘Hi!’ and threatened hi-fives with a swinging fist. What on earth was he doing here?

Instead, Palisha and Bhairab would huddle conspiratorially over an English grammar book to decide what was wrong with Nobody but I . . . or Everyone of us were . . . or An amount of students without seeking his expertise.

Bhairab, in particular, studiously ignored Denis, but when his own students agitated for the white man wearing the American baseball cap to come to class, he reluctantly complied, asking Denis for details of what exactly he was going to say about the poem. ‘You must speak slowly,’ he said solemnly.

‘How will you explain the theme? Please write it on the board. How will you explain what is ‘daffodil?’ ‘You must explain them what is Wordsworth’s feelings about daffodils.’

‘Just relax,’ said Hari, when none of the five 12 Eng Lit class failed to materialise for the second day in a row. ‘They just want to sit in the sun.’

‘But what about their exams?’ queried Denis, who had enjoyed leading the discussion on The Great Gatsby.

‘They four months away. Plenty of time. Relax. No students. So we can’t teach. Let’s take chairs out on the balcony and sit in nice sunshine.’

Even the portly headmaster, Kamal, dilating those grey, staring, round eyes, who took Denis by the hand and held it for ten minutes, as they sauntered toward the shed of a canteen said, ‘My friend, relax. You seventy-four, no? I have seen you rush like a rhino. You have too much stress.’

Mr Headmaster had a point. When two naughty 8th form boys were brought into the staff room, Denis was keen to observe how this head honcho would treat the culprits. He recognised one of them as an attention-seeker and nonstop chatterbox of the first order, with an insolent grin and woolly mop of hair, unlike the straight black convention, always hogging the limelight.

Kamal never took his piercing eyes from the prime offender that Denis had himself stumbled across as cheekily rude and witnessed being struck by another master and thrown out of class, but as soon as he tried to restore order, this nuisance bounded back in with a huge grin, only to flee from the flailing hand, disappear, then immediately rebound back, daring the teacher to strike at him again, raising gales of laughter from the floor. Trying to remain calm, Denis found this was an embarrassing scene, awkwardly standing there in front of the class waiting for silence to introduce himself. The frantic clown of a teacher could not restore order, while the revolving door situation echoed a silent Charlie Chaplin routine.

So now Denis was intrigued by how the Head would react. Ushered to the staffroom, the two culprits were instructed to stand facing each other, take the other’s hands, then bend their knees quick-time right down to the floor in

sync. While the feckless teacher counted, the Head remained fixedly staring at the main offender from three feet away.

‘This is old yoga practice,’ whispered Palisha.

With the sudden turning of the seasons, the mist thickened and hung close in the air so that the sun found it impenetrable till mid-morning. The processional army of ants no longer marched round outside walls of the homestay block through the cracked window frame down the inside wall and into Denis’ suitcase, then burrowed into the security pouch for a sweet snack of protein nut bar brought from Australia in case of emergency.

Drops of dew ran down the sloping metal rooves of the two small blocks of volunteer rooms – not a spit of rain for two months.

Straightening out Jethro’s covers – Mama declined to disturb their privacy till both volunteers had departed for good – Denis uncovered beneath the rich-red sheepskin blanket the bodies of half a dozen bed bugs and stains of dried blood on the pillow.

Towards the end of week four Denis was surprised to receive an email from Jethro: Hi, fellow ambivert! Pokhara’s a joke! The so-called tourist area comprises only one street!! Dash, my drinking mate, the American photo fanatic, shares the same digs. Caught up with Setiawati before she heads off for the three-day trek to Annapurna Base Camp. She’s jittery about doing it on her lonesome. See yer sometime, maybe. J. P.S. Bit more relaxed about the Hana scenario, but the stars are not yet in alignment. It is as it is.

With the noonday sun still in its zenith, those final days were in danger of leaving Denis running on empty. A late announcement of the death of one of its board members had caused the school to abandon classes for the following day, then on his last Friday it was obvious that very few students had turned up, only juniors: there was a political rally and strike held by the Communists through the centre of Chitwan city prior to the forthcoming general election.

So the school was closed for two more days.

Returning to his home-stay on one of these blank mornings, Denis was shocked by the noisy excitement of a large group of strangers, presumably family. Neither Shardul nor Mama had reminded him of the baby’s naming day. Feeling like a gate-crasher, he took his tablet and bottled water from his carry-all and started out on a long walk in a fresh direction, the jagged, faint blue silhouette of the Himalayas running parallel on his right flank.

Agonising over which angle at a lonely crossroad to photograph an oldestablished banana tree with elephant ears for leaves, he was distracted by the horn of a 4-wheel drive. Which he ignored, partly because his reserves of

energy were running low in the gathering heat, partly because he sensed an inner boredom.

‘Hey, Denis!’ When the shiny black bruiser of a vehicle stopped, a smiling, moustachioed man stepped out. ‘Denis, remember me? Sahil.’

There was something vaguely familiar about this genial man in the loud, shortsleeved, calypso-styled shirt, about forty-five years of age, with a hearty manner and ready smile. ‘I’m on your school board.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognise you.’ The late-morning sun had blurred his vision; also, his seventy-four year old memory had gone walkabout.

‘That’s okay. What are you doing out this way?’

‘Not much, to be honest. Taking a few last photos. There’s a family day at Shardul’s place and I didn’t want to intrude.’

‘Look, I’m the co-ordinator of the Democrats in this region. Shardul’s opposite number. I’m going to Chitwan’s Community Park to meet up with my party members, have a coffee. You’re welcome to join me.’

It was a bumpy ride on the narrow lane, even for a four-wheel drive with all the gear shifts. But the jovial Sahil, both confident and apologetic about his English conversation, lifted his spirits, especially during the stroll through the woodland that was formerly dense jungle to the look-out way above the valley through which the river Rapti flowed.

‘Now if you look down there, through the trees, those wide sandbanks, you can see half-a-dozen crocodiles sun-bathing. And over there,’ he pointed, ‘on the far bank, do you see those three black animals running along? They’re wild pigs.’

‘They’re ginormous!’ Yes, trotting along.’

At the water’s edge, they came across some deep, almost oblong holes in the mud. ‘They footprints of a rhino. They cross the river in summer to feed on leaves. Like you, they vegetarian.. And look here! See this skin of a snake stretched out on a thorn bush?’

‘Must have been a big snake!’ said Denis, bending slightly, holding out his arms to span the slightly undulating length. ‘The skin is some three metres long.’

‘That’s a cobra. But we better go on to the look-out, in case there are some tigers hiding in the bushes, maybe.’

Just then the two wanderers started at a rustling sound behind a clump of bushes lining the side of the narrow track. Then Sahil laughed as a large bird

flapped its wings and took off with a mewling screech, climbing. ‘It’s only a peacock.’

‘Are there really tigers on this side of the river?’

‘Of course! They can leave the national park and swim over here. Every so often you hear that a big cat has taken a village man. The local council are building more defence works around the villages near here.’

Suddenly, ‘There’s a rhino, look!’ Sahil’s right hand was pointing along the line of Denis’ nose to a spot in the forest on the far bank. ‘Can you see?’

Almost pleading in desperation or excitement.

Denis teetered on the edge of ‘Oh, yes’, but could not manage the lie. ‘I think so,’ he murmured unconvincingly. But there was an arching shadow on the beach that might have signified an opening of the track the rhino was slowly plodding along through the forest.

Sahiil grabbed him by the shoulders and pointed vigorously with outstretched hand over the teacher’s shoulder.

‘I’ll take a shot anyhow,’ Denis said in hope, tracking his tablet towards the distant bushy green cluster of upper boughs that created a thick canopy of cover.

Click went the shutter.

‘Did you get him?’ asked Sahil eagerly. ‘What a magnificent beast!’

‘I hope so.’

Suddenly, Sahil yelled out some command across the river, then repeated the urgent message. ‘Two police,’ he said, turning back toward Denis. I told them about the rhino’s position.’ The policemen stepped up the pace, one along the sand, the second over the scrub.

Denis spied the two stick figures clad in dark uniforms striding towards the likely opening to the rhino’s trail, the arch of shadow hinting at a tunnel of over-arching, densely packed trees. ‘Why are they carrying rifles towards the rhino?’

‘To make sure there aren’t poachers hunting in that area. If they see any, the police will shoot on sight.’

It was only when Sahil led Denis back towards the safety of more widely dispersed bushes and trees that they found an outcrop from which to look back over the river.

‘Oh great!’ exclaimed Denis. ‘I can spot the rhino’s rump at last . . . I think.

There’s a greyish half-moon in among those trees. Now his head is turning sideways to reach a higher branch . . . O, yes, I’ll shoot him now!’

‘Good one. Now let’s go and visit a working elephant.’

Last morning, the colder temperature and mist encouraged the locals to burn their rubbish on the side of the road or in a ditch on the muddy edge of some water-logged paddy, the smoke fusing with the mist in anticipation of winter, casting a mantle of stillness over Shardul’s property. Ashes scattered over blackened patches on scrubby verges dotted the lanes.

At lunch-time Hari escorted Denis to the canteen, where most of the staff were gathered, he assumed, for his farewell but virtually ignored him by speaking in Nepali about subjects unknown to him when he was expecting at any moment to make a speech in his native tongue. He felt decidedly uncomfortable when anyone gazed at him, occasionally smiling, wondering if he was the subject of conversation.

The inevitable happened during the last two periods of the afternoon. Mr Headmaster spoke far too generously of his commitment and considerable assistance to the English teachers, before draping a white silk scarf around his shoulders. Next, the staff were asked to walk out to the playing field, where a procession of year 8 and 9 students issuing from classrooms presented him with two more scarves, red and green. Every student handed him a handful of thin twigs with palmy green leaves that he gathered and bunched up in his arms with some clumsiness.

‘This old Nepalese custom,’ explained Hari to the overwhelmed retiree.

Walking slowly back to the home-stay followed by twenty-odd students straggling behind and picking up stray branches that had slipped from his grasp and adjusting the three silk scarves that acted as a kind of blessing, red, white and green, around his shoulders, he fancied himself for a brief moment as another Pied Piper of Hamelin, but in reality he knew himself as something of a charlatan. He’d obviously been under-used in the classroom by the school. Upon later reflection, though, he realised that he had enjoyed the experience best when students would freely, warmly approach him out in the yard and start with eagerness and good humour to practise their English conversation and get to know this mysterious white-faced elder.

In that grey light the unruly heaps, stacks and scattered straws of hay throughout the village took on a warm golden resonance.

Michael Small November 5, 2017-January 29, 2018