<figure><img width="1024" height="768" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d00f79c7e80680e0a3605jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Mujahideen guides took us to the northernmost part of the Panjshir Valley. All photos: LISA CHOEGYAL</figcaption></figure>Kids playing on rusted tanks abandoned by the retreating Russians, war debris comfortably incorporated into stone walls to contain sheep and goats, and flickering green flags of the martyrs’ graves, too many graves, under a cloudless sky.These are the enduring images of the Panjshir Valley, wild flowers, willows and orchards lining the clear streams beneath the grand arc of barren hillsides, rocks and caves used to hide the resistance fighters loyal to Ahmad Shah Massoud, the legendary ‘Lion of Panjshir’.Nestled deep within the Hindu Kush, Massoud’s faithful foot soldiers, the fierce unforgiving geography and its defendable narrow entrance enabled the Panjshir Valley to hold out against waves of invasions — the Soviet Union in the 1980s and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepal-and-the-talibans-second-coming/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the Taliban</a> in the 1990s.  <img width="980" height="968" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d00f99c7e80680e0a3606jpeg.jpg" alt="">In 2001, just two days before the 9/11 terrorist attack in New York, the revered commander of the former Northern Alliance, lover of poetry and mujahideen leader was targeted by al Qaeda and the Taliban, assassinated by a bomb detonated by two Arabs posing as journalists in one of his Panjshir forts. This week, it will be 20 years since his assassination and the 9/11 attacks that brought American retaliation on al Qaeda bases in Afghanistan. <figure><img width="1200" height="1600" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d00fc9c7e80680e0a3607jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>‘More than five years after his assassination Massoud remains a national hero to many Afghans,’ <a href="http://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,1555018,00.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,1555018,00.html&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1630819742846000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFkxM3nfPq5FiSkPCxlayXccFIi-Q">Time</a> magazine wrote in 2006. 'Passengers at Kabul airport are greeted by a mural of him standing several stories high. Massoud’s place in history is assured by the fact that he was arguably the most brilliant practitioner of guerrilla warfare in the late 20th century.’ High praise in a country where rebel insurgency has been honed into an art form over the turbulent centuries.These Panjshir fields and villages are currently holding out against the Taliban’s otherwise successful swoop throughout <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/afghanistan-abandoned/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Afghanistan</a>, the last stand for freedom in a nation gripped with uncertainty and fear, tribal recriminations and revenge that have festered over the past twenty years. This time the young Ahmad Massoud has stepped into his famous father’s shoes to lead the resistance from their Panjshir stronghold.Panjshir Valley lies in the northeast of Afghanistan, and in October 2005 we travelled through it to the furthest northern border in search of trekking and tourism ideas that would benefit local homeowners, guides, horsemen and crafts people. My hopeful notes show that our suggestions included Afghan village guesthouses, the Mir Samir trek ‘a short walk in the Hindu Kush’, a five-day hike ‘in the footsteps of Massoud’ circuit, visitor information, and a saddlebag and blanket weaving enterprise.One of the issues to overcome in rural <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/afghans-in-nepal-await-resettlement/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Afghanistan</a> was to persuade our hosts that they must charge money for tourist services. So powerful are the traditions of hospitality (‘guest is god’), sharing what little they have, that taking payment for what we consider normal tourism services such as meals, accommodation and guiding was an alien concept which they struggled to accept. <figure><img width="1024" height="768" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d00ff9c7e80680e0a3608jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“Your visit here was at a time when there was hope and great expectations for the country,” remembers Ali Azimi, our Asian Development Bank client and an Afghan American with deep-rooted insider networks within the community. In Kabul he always seemed to know when and where there would be trouble, much better informed than the United Nations security system who was nominally responsible for us. He insisted on accompanying me to Panjshir to help “find ways to put money in pockets of village folks through tourism initiatives”. <figure><img width="768" height="1024" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d01029c7e80680e0a3609jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>As we drove out of town in a large white vehicle bristling with antenna and aerials, we failed to feel an earthquake which shook the city. Leaving behind the acrid fragrance of war, Ali Azimi morphed from his usual persona of a neatly-bearded grey-suited ADB executive into the country’s ubiquitous flowing robes of anonymity.  I tried, no doubt less successfully, to blend in with scarves and shalwar kameez. It was <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/ramadan-in-exile/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Ramadan</a>, the time of fasting, but as travellers the rules did not strictly apply. ‘Mobile sex’ was the SUV’s call sign, but Ali was happy to lose contact once the signal weakened in the countryside, preferring to rely on local knowledge of his Panjshir guides, hand-picked former mujahedin of course, who joined us soon after entering the valley.These fighters were hard-core, the trauma of years of mountain combat etched into their weathered faces and wild eyes. They prayed at every shrine, honoured every grave, showed us their hideouts, revealed their hunting trails, took us into their homes, unrolled their carpets, shared their food, played with their children, and talked with urgent low voices on flat mud roofs under the stars in Dari which I could not understand.  It all made sense when Ali explained that our two mujahideen friends were Massoud’s personal bodyguards, his most trusted elite, still haunted by the guilt of the day they waited outside their commander’s room having admitted the ‘journalists’ with a deadly device concealed in the television camera. <figure><img width="1600" height="1200" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d01069c7e80680e0a360ajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Part of the TRC Tourism team of Kiwi and Nepali consultants, we worked in Afghanistan for ADB and the Aga Khan Development Network on three missions in 2005, 2006 and 2008 that included Kabul, Bamyan, Band-i-Amir lakes, Wakhan Corridor and the Panjshir Valley. Ali wrote recently: ‘You will be pleased to know your recommended ecotourism policy is being practiced in Band-i-Amir.’ Most of all we remember the harsh beauty of the landscape, the unexpected warmth of its people caught in an eternal loop of historical conflict, and hearing the chilling tales of horror under Taliban rule.Twice we arranged for groups of Afghan officials and tour operators to visit Nepal’s ecotourism models in 2009 and 2011, including the governor of Bamyan, Hariba Sarabi, a remarkable Hazara woman who was part of the Doha peace talks.  <figure><img width="640" height="480" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d01099c7e80680e0a360bjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="2048" height="1536" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d010b9c7e80680e0a360cjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Nepal trips to study sustainable tourism were led by my New Zealand-funded Bamyan ecotourism project colleague, Amir Foladi. The work included a visitor centre dedicated to the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/piecing-together-afghanistans-bamyan-buddhas/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">remains of the Buddhas of Bamyan</a>, carefully collected by UNESCO. Foladi showed me tragic metal pieces from the explosives that destroyed these 6th century monumental statues in 2001, still embedded amidst the mud and plaster fragments which are all that is left - except the massive blank empty niches. <figure><img width="640" height="480" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141144/636d010f9c7e80680e0a360djpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Throughout the catastrophic drama of last week’s departure following the Taliban takeover, it is impossible not to mourn for an Afghanistan that might have been. The progress over the last two decades, however imperfect, is dissipated. Particularly <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/i-may-not-be-alive-by-the-time-i-am-evacuated/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the fate of women</a> is desperately unclear.One ray of light amidst the grief and despair of the withdrawal is that my friend Foladi and his ecotourism teammates have arrived in Auckland, six Afghan families evacuated to safety through the chaos of Kabul airport by the New Zealand Defence Force just 24 hours before the fatal bomb. They are the lucky ones, so many left behind to face a frighteningly unreliable future.

Lisa Choegyal

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A short walk up the Panjshir

<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111120/636cd0fe9c7e80680e08f889jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="768" height="480"/>It was my Dr Zhivago fantasy period, and I had this wild idea that it would be compelling to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/so-far-so-good/wintering-in-mongolia/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">travel solitary by surface</a> all the way from Japan home to Britain – in winter.‘How I envy you that railway journey,’ wrote <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/a-postcard-from-jan-morris-1926-2020/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Jan Morris</a>, who fully appreciated the ‘special grace’ of travelling alone. Several days were spent transiting by train the massive expanse of the Soviet Union, and an uncertain seasonal ferry across the Sea of Japan to the east Siberian port of Nakhodka.We disembarked at Omsk, or was it Tomsk, and the teeth-aching cold was such that breath crystalised and tongues froze if anyone was unwise enough to open their mouth. The grey platforms, steaming wheels and stolid Soviet silhouettes were discouraging, and I quickly climbed back into the carriage.I remembered that time on the Orient Express when helplessly I watched the train with all my worldly belongings aboard chug out of the station – the stuff of nightmares – only to miraculously reappear after a few panicked devastating minutes. Character building stuff.I had no such alarms on <a href="https://www.trans-siberian-travel.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the Trans-Siberian</a>, just surviving the bitter sub-zero temperatures every time I ill-advisedly alighted at a halt, and navigating the food where an expansive menu always seemed to have everything ‘off’ and only thick soup ‘on’. This became routine in the prescribed Intourist world of Soviet tourism, and was rather alarming at first. I adapted fast.Frozen rivers became smooth wayfares for the winter trucks, and across a pristine snowfield from the relative comfort of my second class sleeper I witnessed a pack of wolves fleeing at the sound of our monstrous approach. The rich biodiversity of Lake Baikal was a disappointing expanse of frozen ice, fringed in skeletons of willow trees under a threatening sky. ‘The earth … spell-bound in a death-like winter trance,’ in the lone walker words of Kenneth Grahame.<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2016/nov/12/trans-siberian-railway-russia-100-centenary" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The train</a> windows were permanently edged with ice and outside the monochromatic views were truly bleak, but inside the atmosphere was cosy and encompassing. Large Russian ladies carried covered baskets of black bread and strong sausage with which I was plied.Without any common language it did not take long to realise that these robust figures were worried about my slender frame – at nearly six feet tall and nicknamed 'hatini' back at <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/back-to-Chitwan,1075" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Tiger Tops in Nepal</a>, I was unfamiliar with feeling dainty and delicate, never before nor since.It was the winter of 1974 and I was returning from Nepal — the long way round. Following a solitary trek to Jomsom and an interlude in Kathmandu as <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/the-hippie-era-in-kathmandu,837" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">an unsuccessful hippie</a>, I had been working in Chitwan for a few marvellous months until the monsoon floods drove us out of the national park.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111120/636cd1009c7e80680e08f88ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1443" height="910"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>A series of adventures had landed me in Tokyo, including a spell selling diamonds with a couple of canny cockneys in Malaysia and Singapore, hanging out with bankers in Hong Kong, and devouring the sophisticated design and elegant intricacy of Japan’s ancient cities.But my mind was occupied with schemes as to how to wangle my way back to Nepal and the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Conservation-and-tourism-Chitwan-National-Park,2957" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">conservation tourism</a> work that had captivated me. It would take me less than a year. Looking back, we can see our lives hang by a thread on seemingly random decisions and the vagaries of fate that could not have been predicted.That 1974 me, dreaming of the Himalaya in another railway carriage heading home from Moscow and Leningrad through Poland to another ferry across the choppy English Channel, would have been astonished at what lay ahead.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111120/636cd1039c7e80680e08f88bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2853" height="4032"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Fast forward to a couple of years ago, and the long afternoon shadows of the Indian Embassy Residence reached us across the gently sloping and perfectly mowed lawn — white stucco columns, spreading balconies and blatant colonial blustering of the two story house first constructed for the British and handed over shortly after Independence.I felt the distant presence of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=3246#.X_FprdgzaUk" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Brian Hodgson</a>, the first British resident to inhabit the bequeathed badlands of distant Lazimpat, depicted in this garden supposedly with his Moslem consort. The contemporary drawing has a picturesque primitive charm, that seemed strangely distant from the gathering of literary luminaries.The scent of roses mingled with that of my be-saried neighbours as we settled into the lushly padded chairs to enjoy a discourse on a small stage in front of the begonias. The subject was a book on mid-twentieth century life in the Kumaon hills by an esteemed Indian author swathed in cashmere and silk.‘I can’t cope with this nostalgia nonsense.’ The Indian ambassador’s face beneath his perfect turban was crumpled with nuance. ‘We have to move forward from the Raj, away from those battalions of white men, into the current reality. Romanticising the hill station life into a forgotten yesterday does none of us any favours.’ He fixes me with a steely glare. ‘Nor all that Raj rubbish about polo in the jungle.’ My <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-genesis-of-elephant-polo-in-chitwan/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">most recent column in Nepali Times</a>.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111120/636cd1079c7e80680e08f88cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="796" height="478"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>I have no trouble agreeing. Wrestling with nostalgia has been my fortnightly task in this space for the last three years. I prefer to think of my articles as recalling living history, as background context to today’s evolving environmental issues and tourism landscape.Without even a nod to nostalgia, there are many hardnosed lessons to be learned from the impressive track record in tourism and conservation of which Nepal should be proud.After 100 articles and three years, Lisa Choegyal is closing her So Far So Good fortnightly column. All her past pieces are available in the www.nepalitimes.com archives.

The vagaries of fate

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2099c7e80680e083e84jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="900"/><figcaption>Writer, reporter, historian, traveller, and trans pioneer, Jan Morris died on 20 Nov 2020.</figcaption></figure>The last surviving foreign member of the first victorious Everest expedition died at the ripe age of 94 just prior to midday on 20 November 2020 at her home in North Wales.Jan Morris was unrecognisable from the heavily bearded, Oxford educated, ex-army journalist who strode across Advanced Base Camp for a congratulatory handshake in a typically British fashion with the triumphant Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay Sherpa. Now, only <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-last-of-the-first/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-last-of-the-first/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371855000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0ZjG0jFRKS-K47F5yeXUEC">Kancha Sherpa</a> from Namche is still with us from the historic 1953 British team.With an exclusive commission from The Times of London, James Morris was embedded as a member of the John Hunt-led expedition, but never ventured far up the mountain on his arduous assignment.‘I was no climber, was not particularly interested in mountaineering. I was there merely as a reporter.’ Terrified that someone might leak the glorious news of the first ascent, his Base Camp message was concealed in a pre-arranged code carried by Sherpa runners then telegraphed from the British Embassy in Kathmandu: ‘Snow conditions bad stop advanced base abandoned yesterday stop awaiting improvement.’Back in The Times’ newsroom, they knew what he meant and the glad tidings ricocheted around the globe on the auspicious morning of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. The world's highest mountain had been conquered, Sir Ed was knighted and Tenzing Norgay put Nepal firmly on the map. For the first time the Sherpa name resonated worldwide, just as the hidden kingdom of Nepal was unlocking its secrets and beginning to allow foreign visitors.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be20c9c7e80680e083e85jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1594" height="854"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>At the time of his Sagarmatha scoop, James Morris was already happily married to Elizabeth Tuckniss, daughter of a tea planter who both confirmed mutual love at first sight. Their 70-year love story would produce five children, including their son the poet musician Twm Morys, and the partnership survived the death of an infant and James’ transition into a woman.Elizabeth said: ‘I never stopped loving James or Jan. It did not make any difference to me. We still had our family. We just carried on.’ Forced to divorce, they remained together in a ‘civil union’.Author of over fifty books including British histories, an empire trilogy, travelogues and personal reminiscences, the irrepressible and articulate Jan Morris transitioned from James during the unsympathetic 1970s.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be20f9c7e80680e083e86jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="438" height="570"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>An ostensibly highly successful man’s man, he had in fact felt all his conscious life that at heart he was female. Her ground-breaking memoir Conundrum, written 46 years ago about risky and experimental surgery, is an elegant classic of the gender genre and still in print, a slender volume that poetically and comprehensively addresses today’s transsexuality debate.Reflecting on her transition, Jan said: ‘I would never use the word change, as in “sex change” for what happened to me. I did not change sex, I really absorbed one into the other. I’m a bit of each now. I freely admit it.’I was delighted to be introduced by London publishing connections to this highly accomplished, cerebral and exciting writer during our 1973 research on Marco Polo -- I had wangled my way as the only female member of a <a href="http://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/so-far-so-good/marco-polo-the-film-that-was-never-made/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/so-far-so-good/marco-polo-the-film-that-was-never-made/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371855000&amp;usg=AOvVaw31CG7tk4VmTthyAGf8uV1N">British film team driving overland from Venice to Central Asia</a>.A daring reporter and tireless traveller who had crossed deserts and scaled mountains, her gender transition the previous year was not our focus. We consulted Jan Morris about our route and particularly the intricate details of ancient Venice, one of her most popular books and home to Marco Polo, the peripatetic 13th century trader whose travels about journeys to China had first revealed the orient to avid European readers. I remember Jan as strong, straightforward, enthusiastic and helpful, lots of hair and heavy jewellery.Baring her soul, Conundrum was published the following year in 1974. In response to my no doubt naïve gushing fan letter about the book’s profound effect, admiration of her bravery and reminder of our Marco Polo meeting, Jan’s hand-written postcard to me arrived dated 30 October 1974 from their home in Bath.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2119c7e80680e083e87jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1996" height="1302"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Recently I retrieved her card during a Covid clear out, a precious reminder of a long-gone encounter, although the casual multiplicity of our respective travels struck me as completely extraordinary in these static times. Despite the sentiments in her card, Jan and I did not meet up on her return from ‘S Africa and Australia in the New Year’. I had already returned to Nepal, and stayed.The next and last time that I would meet Jan Morris was at <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/funeral-of-Sir-Edmund-Hillary,1100" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/funeral-of-Sir-Edmund-Hillary,1100&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw17BOc90QU0k2a1V9c_Xw3Y">Sir Edmund Hillary’s funeral</a> in 2008. In the well-kept hallowed grounds of Auckland’s Government House, the great and the good of New Zealand and world mountaineering were gathered to mourn the national hero’s passing.Under the spreading trees of the gently sloping garden, the sun shone weakly on the Governor General’s reception that followed a rare state funeral in the cathedral, led by <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/edmund-hillary-funeral,1127" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/edmund-hillary-funeral,1127&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw1cRWCU9029-2B2EPtHnCpV">Prime Minister Helen Clark</a>. Jan attended as a government guest along with the bare handful of surviving 1953 members.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2149c7e80680e083e88jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1660" height="1114"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>I was there with <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/elizabeth-hawley-1923-2018/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/elizabeth-hawley-1923-2018/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw1QR7Xpp0vNKIx7DD5gjroj">Elizabeth Hawley</a> and the five officiating Sherpa leaders, although by the time we arrived from the crematorium the shadows were lengthening and the crowd was thinning. The day before we had been sitting with the family around Lady June’s Remuera kitchen table when Jan arrived down the carpeted staircase directly from her London flight, a booming presence bearing flowers, slightly awkward and wonderfully untidy with wild white hair and another chunky necklace.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQGZ_4fXoFc&amp;fbclid=IwAR0rRARNossXocDp4FzGh13ir7Ox14oAlRwUSznAUsCn0sm6rgH9dPh8RuMJan Morris, legendary travel writer, met in conversation with Recce editor Don George on May 8, 2013, at the New York Times Center in Manhattan. A prolific and eclectic writer, in her 2018 ‘thought diary’ In My Mind’s Eye, Jan explained that her daily exercise was a thousand steps a day down the narrow green Welsh lanes lined with stone walls with distant views of the sea. ‘The thousand paces is my self-imposed basic discipline, rain, shine or earthquake,’ she wrote. As I trudged in dutiful circles during the worst of the lockdown, I remembered her regimen.Jan Morris has reached the end of her ‘tangled life’ and set off on her greatest journey. But even in death she plans never to be separated from Elizabeth, the love of her life. When buried together on a small island on the River Dwyfor, their headstone will read: 'Here are two friends, at the end of one life.'

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A postcard from Jan Morris 1926-2020

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181116/636be09c9c7e80680e083e01jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1508" height="1126"/><figcaption>A rare Blue Moon rising over Kathmandu on 31 October. There will not be another one till 2039. Photo: Kunda Dixit</figcaption></figure>The lichened terrace wall chaffs the back of my legs and jasmine scent floods the night air as I wait for the blue moon to rise. The gradated rosy glow of sunset has etched the forest trees a black silhouette against the sky fading along the Kathmandu Valley rim. A chorus of crickets shrills in the bushes, and my bare feet can just detect the lost glow of afternoon sun in the terracotta tiles.Blocked by the bulk of Shivapuri looming behind the house, the dappled golden orb was slow to reveal herself above the horizon, sailing stately into the navy night sky. The rare spectacle of a spooky full moon on Halloween 31 October visible all around the globe has not occurred since 1944, 76 years ago deep in the last dark days of World War II. The next one will not be until 2039. I shivered, even though it was not a cold evening.It’s complicated, but a so-called blue moon is when a year has 13 full moons instead of the usual 12, the name given to the third full moon in a season that has four moons (normally a quarter year has three full moons). However more recent usage refers to when two full moons fall within the same month, as happened the other night very exceptionally on Halloween.But one thing is sure - the moon never looks blue and the event is not particularly unusual. A normal lunar cycle is 29.53 days, so two full moons are squeezed into one month about every two or three years, or seven times in 19 years to be exact. Although the origin of the name is hazy, I like the fanciful speculation that the term is derived from archaic English belewe or belaewe meaning ‘to betray’ because the extra moon "betrays the usual perception of one full moon per month."<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181116/636be0a09c7e80680e083e02jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1424" height="1058"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>So why ‘once in a blue moon’ to denote something that almost never happens, extremely seldom, absurd or an indefinitely long time? Under extraordinary and rare atmospheric conditions the moon has been known to appear blue, and indeed sunsets turn green and the sky red, due to dust and smoke particles caused by prolonged droughts and the volcanic explosions of Krakatoa, Mount St Helen, and Pinatubo.In the West we have become dislocated from the celestial cycles, preferring our high days and holiday dates fixed and predictable on the annual calendar. Moons get a bad rap, unreliably made of green cheese and linked with lunacy, and blue moon crooners allude to sadness and loneliness in their songs. Easter is one of the few annual moveable feasts in the liturgical year, preceded by Lent and Holy Week and finishing with Pentacost, fifty days later. This week we mark Poppy or Remembrance Day in memory of all those lost in conflict, fixed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the moment that the Armistice was signed in 1918.On the other hand, people of the Himalaya are totally at ease with the mystery of lunar calendars which determine all religious festivals, life celebrations and even government rule in Nepal, as well as tsechus in Bhutan, purnima Hindu rituals and Buddhist traditions. Comfortable with uncertainty, astrologers presided over everything from royal decision making to sacred ceremonies, to ordinary existence, rites of passage, and practical concerns such as auspicious dates for travelling, initiating projects and even finding missing property.Soon after arriving in Nepal, some cash went missing from a bedroom in the Sanepa guest house where I was staying. To resolve the acrimony and accusations, the whole household repaired to a low dark room deep in the Kathmandu bazar, traipsing up a narrow staircase with bowed heads to settle around a lady psychic seated against the wall. A blue shawl shrouded her head and a shy little boy leaned against her knee. Swaying forward she muttered incantations, then consulted the boy’s palm that had been carefully smeared with a shiny black paste. We waited in awed expectation. Sure enough, the revelation on that tiny hand was able to describe a clear vision of someone entering the room, opening the trunk and taking the money. The thief was identified, and we all returned home satisfied and relieved.Cosmology governs the sequence of spectacular festivals that mark the Valley’s seasons and 12-year cycles, integral to normal existence for local inhabitants and core tourism attractions for visitors. I used to bike and hike through the dirt lanes and paddy fields to distant villages and far-flung temples, sampling the celebrations, witnessing the pujas, and processing with the pilgrims. I mixed with the colour-drenched crowds who concentrated in the Durbar Squares for vibrant festivals observed unchanged over centuries.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181116/636be0a39c7e80680e083e03jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1600" height="1200"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181116/636be0a69c7e80680e083e04jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1600" height="1160"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181116/636be0a99c7e80680e083e05jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1602" height="1142"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>One Indra Jatra I found myself in the royal rana magnificence of the great room of Kathmandu’s Hanuman Dhoka Durbar, overlooking the square thronged with worshippers and pyramids of people packed onto the temple steps. As privileged guests we mingled with ministers, generals and diplomats in that imposing space beneath the sculpted columns, glittering glass chandeliers and grand vaulted windows. From our vantage on the stucco balcony, we could look directly into the intimacy of the Kumari’s chariot and feel the fervour of the masked dancers.For me it was a once in a blue moon memory, especially precious as that wing of the palace was later destroyed in the 2015 earthquake.

Once in a Halloween Blue Moon in Kathmandu

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181112/636be0419c7e80680e083de4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="916" height="1377"/><figcaption>Photo: BIKRAM RAI</figcaption></figure>Lisa Choegyal’s column ‘<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-elephant-dilemma/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Elephant Dilemma</a>’, 4 October 2020 elicited many comments from readers, some of which are excerpted here:<ul><li>As a group of animal welfare organisations we have to disagree with Lisa Choegyal’s stand on elephant safaris.</li></ul>Just because elephants are part of Nepal’s heritage does not mean traditions should not change. Many outdated practices have been abandoned, including widow sacrifice and child labour, because they were against the ethics of the time. In any case, even if elephant tourism stopped today, elephants would remain an integral part of Nepal’s heritage.Just because elephants in Nepal are not used in ‘alien’ environments such as beaches and temples, does not mean that Chitwan’s tourist safaris are ‘natural’. Most elephants live in ‘unnatural’ shelters, usually a simple structure of zinc sheet with 4 poles. They are tied 24/7 unless taken for a ride. With a lack of fresh greens, their diet is ‘unnatural’. Even the carrying of four tourists and a mahout is ‘unnatural’:  even though elephants look invincible, science says that their skeleton is not designed to carry great weight on top of their spines.Just because of a concern for loss of tourism, elephant riding and bathing does not need to be continued. The quick growth of non-contact tourism projects across the world shows there is great potential. Nepal introduced many humane alternatives for safaris (by canoe, car or on foot) and a pioneer company has already unchained its elephants. There is a growing market for a more ethical kind of tourism that involves elephants, be it in sanctuaries, elephant walking or viewing, kuchi and paper making, etc.We feel there is enough evidence to show that elephant safaris generally are a cruel business. We have shown that over 80% of elephants live under ‘unsuitable conditions’. This is in line with World Animal Protection’s more recent findings that claim that more than three-quarter of captive elephants are kept in ‘severely-cruel conditions’.Other groups have used video evidence to show present training techniques certainly do not ‘mostly employ kindness and positive reinforcement’. Instead sharp objects, fire, fireworks and noise continue to be used to break in young elephants. Even the presumption that Nepal’s safari elephants are no longer taken from the wild cannot be confirmed. The origins of elephants brought in from India are largely unknown as there is no proper documentation and no government control.Ms Choegyal argues that people like us ‘are shamelessly manipulating this emotion to convince the world that it is cruel to keep elephants in captivity’. This kind of languages creates an unnecessary and unbeneficial divide. We certainly do not try to manipulate anyone. We use evidence to show the realities of elephant tourism and to propose change.We also introduce feasible alternatives and are ready to support such initiatives. At present we need all parties to save Nepal’s precious wildlife and the country’s tourism industry. The sooner we join hands, the better.Animal NepalAnimal Rights ClubAssociation Moey - Helping Captive ElephantsElephant Aid InternationalHelp Animals IndiaNepal Elephant Walk Sanctuary People's Alliance for Nature NepalStand Up 4 Elephants  <ul><li>Domesticated elephants play a major role in providing employment and economic opportunities to the local people through tourism, and in also provide invaluable help to conservationists in researching and protecting Nepal’s wild places.</li></ul>Hemanta Mishra<ul><li>Cruelty to animals is a worldwide phenomenon. Dogs caged in China and Vietnam meat markets. Whale massacres in Japan. The Gadimai sacrifices in Nepal. There are so many other forms of abuse of animals that need to be stopped more urgently. I agree with Lisa Choegyal that elephant safaris in Nepal are much more benign, and many livelihoods depend on it.</li></ul>Erin Petersen<ul><li>Having seen the way elephants are taught ‘obedience’ and ‘tamed’ in Sri Lanka and Thailand, it is unconscionable that human beings in countries that practice the Buddhist ethos of compassion should be treating sentient beings in this way. In fact, elephants in the wild have a sophisticated family structure, respond to stress just like human beings when chained and confined. Elephants belong in the wild, and ‘elephant safaris’ should take on a new meaning, venturing into the jungle to observe them in their natural habitat.</li></ul>Nandita Ghosh<ul><li>Those critical of captive elephants in Chitwan’s tourism industry should not keep dogs as pets. There should only be wild dogs, and they should be allowed to roam freely in the wilderness.</li></ul>K B Limbu<ul><li>I find it astonishing that so-called elephant activists do not seem to consider the fact that their blanket call for a ban on all captive elephants would leave thousands of them with no way to be supported, nowhere to live (since there is not enough wild land to release them to), and thousands of associated families with no work. Their plight would be worse.</li> 	<li>It would be a great differentiating point for Nepal to have every elephant facility audited to a recognised set of international standards. It would be the only country to do this.</li> 	<li>I'm all for a spirited debate on captive, domesticated elephant tours that meet the highest animal welfare standards, benefit communities, contribute to the stewardship of protected areas and create high-quality nature-based visitor experiences.</li> 	<li>Without delving too deep into the nuances of the issues associated with owning elephants … the most important aspect is how you look after captive elephants and not really what you do with them. With that in mind I feel husbandry standards across the board can be improved in Nepal. Having an independent body to advise and monitor owners is a very good idea.</li> 	<li>At the moment it does look like a losing battle to keep elephants working, at least in India. If there is a ban on elephant safaris, it will mean more neglect of the captive animals.</li> 	<li>Dr Ingrid Suter makes a compelling case for captive elephant conservation and tourism. Particularly interesting is her belief in a grassroots, bottoms up consultation which I think is an excellent approach for Nepal.</li> 	<li>It is time for Nepal to end all forms of cruelty to animals, including cruel mass sacrifices, poisoning street dogs, and mistreatment of elephants in the name of tourism. If nothing else, it is bad karma.</li> 	<li>I agree, the welfare of captive elephants used for tourism is a concern in many countries and probably the certification model could address the critical welfare issue in Nepal.</li> 	<li>Nepal has always been unique in the use of domestic elephants for shoots in the old days and safari in more contemporary times. The good thing is Nepal has never used domestic elephants for work such as logging, etc.</li></ul>(Names supplied)

Speaking for elephants

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5509c7e80680e07bbf7jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="782" height="914"/><figcaption>Fr Marshall D Moran (1906-1992) in Nepal with his ham radio and 9N1MM call sign.</figcaption></figure>We stood uneasily on the grass beneath the spreading fig tree. Father Moran was trying to create a sense of religious formality, our excited guests were in danger of being rowdy, and I was missing the church font usually associated with christenings from my Protestant upbringing. But this was our tiny patch of Bansbari garden in 1987, and we had to make do.I was carrying the precious bundle wrapped in his best, though not the trailing lace and embroidery of more traditional baptism ceremonies. The appointed god parents could not be with us so Alma, the dignified wife of Dudley Spain had offered to be surrogate godmother, and Lewis Macfarlane the American deputy was our stand-in godfather. The proceedings got underway with a blessing and some prayers as the audience settled in the spring sunshine, birdsong drifting through the lychee trees and insects busy in the flowerbeds.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5529c7e80680e07bbf8jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="890"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5569c7e80680e07bbf9jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="890"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Alma tried to wrestle Sangjay out of my arms, an undignified tussle ensued until I was reminded in an urgent hiss that church etiquette dictates that the godmother, not the mother, holds the child during the service. Father Moran carried on valiantly as I yielded my little treasure. Sangjay gazed typically phlegmatic throughout, the assembled friends politely pretending not to notice.My mother professed to be shocked that our babies, Sangjay then his little brother Rinchen a couple of years later, had been baptized “by a Catholic priest, darling!”, though I don’t think she really minded. She approved that both sons had also been blessed and named by the Tibetan family Rinpoche in Swayambhunath, careful to protect our katas, offerings and babies from the monkeys, and covering all spiritual options. And like me, she greatly admired the gentle legacy of the Jesuits in Nepal, holding special respect for their leader, Father Moran.The Society of Jesus fathers were an integral part of early expatriate life in Kathmandu, bringing gravitas to Christian community landmarks such as baptisms, confirmations, marriages and burials, as well as being great fun at the after-party. Many of them were American and most took Nepali nationality, instilling their special brand of universal spirituality and essence of educational excellence without ever forcing their faith. Father Moran set the tone with his ham radio call sign, 9N1MM Mickey Mouse.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5599c7e80680e07bbfajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1128" height="736"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>No foreign funeral was complete without the reassuring presence of a presiding Jesuit, and Boris’s was no exception. At the age of 80 Boris died in 1985, inconveniently during Dasain so Jim Edwards and I had to mobilise a team of Buddhist Mountain Travel Sherpas to dig his grave in the British Cemetery - Hindus could not be tainted during the festival.Arriving in India with only refugee papers, Boris had managed British citizenship with the help of his friend Lady Diana Duff-Cooper. He often visited the British Cemetery on daily walks from the Royal Hotel, and always intended to be buried there beside his mother and mother-in-law. He liked to say that he knew the name on every tombstone, making the acquaintance of his future neighbours. Buried on a bright afternoon 22 October 1985, the funeral service was dramatic with Russian wailing, sobbing and embracing the coffin, despite the best efforts of Father Eugene Watrin and Father Tom Downing who conducted the service.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb55b9c7e80680e07bbfbjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="416"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Jesuits’ commitment to their calling was manifest in their scholarly study, academic research and social work, resulting in books, centres and clinics where they were most needed. Their gowned silhouettes were a familiar sight around town, pursuing their devout vocations with practical ministrations. Father Moran is remembered riding his motorbike to Godavari, white robes billowing, and in his wake alarmed buffalos and excited dogs careering down the unmade road in a cloud of dust.For Nepalis, the brothers’ profound influence on education impacted on generations of privileged pupils lucky enough to attend St Xavier’s and St Mary’s in Godavari and Jawalakhel - Nepal’s first internationally accredited schools opened in 1951 and 1955 respectively. At the initiative of the newly instated King Tribhuvan, the Jesuits literally brought modern thinking to Nepal, founding the first permanent Christian mission sanctioned in Kathmandu for nearly 200 years. This remarkable achievement was mainly due to the sheer force of personality and charisma of Father Marshall Moran.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb55e9c7e80680e07bbfcjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="536" height="557"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5609c7e80680e07bbfdjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="538" height="557"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The first European ever encountered by the Valley’s Newa inhabitants was a Portuguese Jesuit, Father John Cabral, on his way from Shigatse (Xigazê) in Tibet to Bengal in early 1628. These intrepid Westerners were Jesuit monks despatched from Rome to their Catholic mission in Tibet. They must have been a strange sight, austere travellers clothed in long capes and plain, black, ankle-length soutanes gathered at the waist with a rope.The Jesuits’ legation in Lhasa was never robust and in 1702 Pope Clement XI reassigned the mission-field of Tibet to the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin - a branch of Roman Catholic Franciscans. The Capuchins would have been instantly recognisable with their dark-brown robes, pointed hoods drawn over their heads, and untrimmed bushy black beards.The Malla kings allowed Capuchin friars from Lhasa to live in the Valley’s city states for over half a century, until they were politely sent packing by Prithivi Narayan Shah is 1769. With their centre in Bhaktapur, Raja Ranajit Malla wrote in Newari to the Pope saying that they were free to evangelise but, concerning his own conversion, he would “not be able to do it now”. The site of the Lalitpur Capuchin house and small cemetery, said to lie north of Patan, is forgotten and lost. Other than the occasional visit by a wandering Capuchin, there would be no Christian clergy living in Nepal until the restoration of the monarchy when Father Moran established the current Jesuit mission.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5629c7e80680e07bbfejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="480" height="630">Born in Chicago in 1906, Marshall D. Moran joined the Society of Jesus in 1924. With five other Jesuits sailed as a novice from New York to Bombay in 1929, then by train to their destination, the Patna Mission in Bihar. In India he studied and taught in Shembaganur, Bettiah, Kurseong and Ranchi, set up schools and hospitals, and worked in Patna University which had links with Tri Chandra College in Kathmandu - a connection that would change his life.Father Bill Robins tells the story: “The Patna University sent an invigilator each year to supervise the Tri Chandra college exams. Professors hated to go. Marshall volunteered to fill in, and so in October 1949 travelled to the border and on to Amlekhganj in Nepal. A bus got him to Bhimphedi and from there he walked to Kathmandu. During the month in Nepal, Marsh was able to build relationships with those in power, while offering to help Nepal through school education. He returned to Patna, hoping that he would be invited back.”On the feast of All Saints a year later, Marshall Moran received the keenly awaited summons from the new education minister, Nrip Jang Rana. Returning to Kathmandu in early 1951, Father Moran accepted the offer of Godavari Darbar, the Prime Minister’s summer residence, as the school site, he recruited students and prepared the buildings. St. Xavier’s in Godavari began classes on 1 July 1951, and land was purchased in Jawalakhel in 1954. Thanks to a plentiful supply of American missionaries and visa restrictions within India, a succession of Jesuit teachers were available to run the schools.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5639c7e80680e07bbffjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="516"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>There were a couple of non-negotiable conditions attached to the invitation as prescribed by King Tribhuvan, and to which Father Moran concurred. The Jesuits’ work was confined only to the Kathmandu Valley, and they were not permitted to proselytise. Within those limitations, which to this day the brotherhood are proud to have honoured to the letter, the Society of Jesus fathers have made their indelible mark on the history of Nepal.

Father Moran and Nepal's Jesuits

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915110/636bb34f9c7e80680e07bb33jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1508" height="1076"/><figcaption>Boris Lissanevitch and Inger at Kathmandu airport in 1955 when the first tour groups started arriving in Nepal.</figcaption></figure>Not since the early 1950s have we had zero tourists arrive in Kathmandu Valley.The combination of hostile geography and cautious politics had effectively conspired to keep foreigners out of the kingdom of Nepal, sealed for centuries. When <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/erika-and-king-tribhuvan/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/erika-and-king-tribhuvan/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236748000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHQFdH_e6LubJypBFTxWDrJu4C-lQ">King Tribhuvan</a> wrested power back from the reclusive Rana rulers in 1951, only an estimated total of 300 foreign officials, diplomats and royal guests had ever penetrated the malarial swamps of the Tarai or the snow-bound Himalayan barrier of the northern passes.The xenophobia of previous regimes considered it prudent to keep the doors closed to Westerners, especially with the changing fortunes of Tibet and China to the north, and a marauding East India Company followed by a power-hungry British Empire lurking along the southern boundary, which extended nearly twice the length of Nepal today.All trade routes into the Valley were well patrolled, and the British incumbents at their Lainchaur Residency (now the Indian Ambassador’s home) were tolerated to varying degrees, but remained under escort even around the Valley and seldom permitted beyond its rim except to their ridgetop cottage at Koulia, then Kakani.<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10754#.X1QpHS0w0Wo" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D10754%23.X1QpHS0w0Wo&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGso8FpUWgrP03HHkL5QMIf7nzj3Q">Boris Lissanevitch</a> changed all that when he opened Kathmandu’s first hotel and brought the first tourist group to Nepal in 1955. Having visited on a 10-day holiday in 1951 at the invitation of newly instated King Tribhuvan, Boris moved to Kathmandu with <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Obituary/Inger-Lissanevitch,886" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Obituary/Inger-Lissanevitch,886&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHOih_vfDV6zlCnFWEFlF5yTFGhgw">Inger,</a> two small boys, Mischa and Alexander (their third son Nicholas was born later in Nepal), and a mother-in-law with a penchant for collecting stray animals and antiques.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3539c7e80680e07bb34jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="399"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>‘After a few hours I fell madly in love with this country’ Boris declared in a contemporary interview. ‘This is where we wanted to live.’ Inger, his beautiful Danish Scottish wife, 23 years junior, agreed. They never left.An ebullient White Russian ballet dancer and big-game hunter born in Odessa of Ukraine, Boris was a larger than life character, born into a wealthy military Tsarist family amidst the hardships of the 1905 Russian revolution. A cadet heading for a career in the Tsar’s navy, instead Boris had to flee to France, escaping Bolshevik persecution.Boris’ exotic career included performing with Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes in Paris and dancing with Massine throughout Europe, South America and Asia. In 1936, finding himself stranded in India, he started the exclusive 300 Club in Calcutta, the first establishment to accept Indian members and to remain open 24 hours a day. Patronised by India’s princely elite, leading businessmen, world war pilots, diplomats and itinerant adventurers, Boris had the opportunity to meet and charm royalty and influential politicians from the region, especially Nepal.In addition to King Tribhuvan, his close friends and frequent guests during his ten years at the 300 Club included the Maharaja of Cooch Behar and exiled Nepali Rana militants, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/inside-story-of-nepals-rana-dynasty/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/inside-story-of-nepals-rana-dynasty/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFtOmOcnPI0RF2-UVycxv1Q-Yz4Lw">Mahavir and Subarna Shamsher</a>. Supposedly B P Koirala, Nepal’s democracy activist, and King Tribhuvan held secret negotiations in the men’s room. Not all the abundant stories about Boris’ exploits are true, but they are usually dramatic and always amusing – he was a collector of people and tall tales.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3569c7e80680e07bb35jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="500" height="465"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3589c7e80680e07bb36jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="361"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Boris set up a spirit distillery in Kathmandu, and with Prince Basundhara converted Bahadur Bhawan in Kantipath (now the Election Commission offices) into the Royal Hotel with 40 restored rooms. In its 1960s heyday, the Royal was considered amongst the most interesting hotels in the world, and its charismatic proprietor was a major attraction. The hotel’s Yak &amp; Yeti Bar was the heart of Kathmandu’s foreign community with Boris presiding, ever popular with a stream of mountaineers, envoys, explorers, spies, missionaries, aid workers, tiger hunters, yeti enthusiasts - and tourists.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb35b9c7e80680e07bb37jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="976"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>As <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19173" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D19173&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNElTlkNs5GH0EG2RpJCct1bR0ERtQ">Toni Hagen</a> remembered, the Royal Hotel was ‘an irresistible gathering point’, eating, drinking and storytelling would go on late into the night, until ‘Boris began to sing Russian folk songs in his deep voice or even perform Russian dances’.  Featuring his flamboyant brand of personal charisma, warm hospitality and fine Russian recipes, Boris was the first to bring ‘ordinary’ tourists to Nepal and is thus credited with being the ‘father of Nepal tourism’.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb35e9c7e80680e07bb38jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="772" height="1198"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3609c7e80680e07bb39jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="772" height="1198"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Guests unable to pay the Royal room rate, pitched tents in the hotel’s spacious grounds, avoiding the bizarre vegetables that Boris introduced – he was the first to cultivate mushrooms, strawberries, artichokes, carrots and beetroots – and a roaming menagerie of stray animals. Lhasa Apso dogs, flying squirrels, leopard cats, and a mare that would come ‘clattering down the veranda to be fed lumps of sugar’, occasionally wandering into guest bedrooms leaving unwelcome offerings. A red panda named Pandaji, a gift from Ed Hillary, was said to be the most photographed animal in Nepal.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3639c7e80680e07bb3ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="416"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3659c7e80680e07bb3bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="373"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>In 1964 screen idol Jean Paul Belmondo, with a crew led by director Philippe de Broca stayed at the Royal for a few weeks to make Nepal’s first feature film, a boisterous comedy released as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogHg6UTl2pU" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3DogHg6UTl2pU&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNE9qXIky7aCU5Fs0S8QUKPQZ0aPzA">Up to His Ears</a>. Boris played a small part. In a scene Belmondo asks: ‘How come you speak such good French?’ and he replies: ‘Because I am Russian!’ After filming in Kathmandu and Pokhara, the crew went to Hong Kong where Belmondo met Ursula Andress, leaving his wife in a much-publicised love affair.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogHg6UTl2pU&amp;feature=emb_logoBoris’ special entertainment skills were required by his royal connections to cater extravagant parties and banquets, not least Mahendra’s coronation ceremony in 1956 and the hunting camp for Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh’s state visit in 1961. Boris himself was fictionalised by the novelist <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19768" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D19768&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEU3DAX5Jmm9QJseAcnkRUHyh7JXQ">Han Suyin in The Mountain is Young (1958</a>), and his eventful life is described in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tiger-Breakfast-Story-Boris-Kathmandu/dp/B0007DYWXQ" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.amazon.com/Tiger-Breakfast-Story-Boris-Kathmandu/dp/B0007DYWXQ&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFdV652wX5cZw0Ep_GMKgUHXYVLtQ">Tiger for Breakfast (1966) by Michel Peissel. </a>With Boris’ word-of-mouth and media networks paving the way, tourism flourished during the 1960s. Nepali entrepreneurs and royal family members were quick to grasp its potential, opening new hotels of their own. The hordes of hippies, mountaineers and world travellers began to arrive, but preferred to hang out in Basantapur. In 1969 the Royal Hotel was forced to close.By the time I came to Nepal in 1974, myths about the famous Royal’s chaotic hospitality were lost in the building’s abandoned arches, its dusty corridors echoing with the footsteps of former guests – Hollywood stars Vivien Leigh and Ingrid Bergman, Baron Thyssen from Switzerland, Jean Paul Guerlain seeking ingredients for his perfumes, and Queen Sophia of Spain on her honeymoon.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb3679c7e80680e07bb3cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="945"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb36a9c7e80680e07bb3djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="350" height="336"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>My boss <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=15828#.X1QrTC0w0Wo" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D15828%23.X1QrTC0w0Wo&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFYAa3SrosbOCt-tzhahsQv5RyeoA">Jim Edwards</a> greatly admired Boris and helped him through many lean times as he struggled with a series of restaurants in Kathmandu, always strong on entertaining but light on commercial acumen. As I sat behind my blue painted desk in the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/back-to-Chitwan,1075" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/back-to-Chitwan,1075&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGGGuZfftokdwTRGHtMBHYnpw4T9w">Tiger Tops</a> office, Boris would shuffle past in a gaudy short-sleeved shirt with a cheery wave, on his way to beg another loan from the soft-hearted Jim.‘He was a terrible businessman, he didn’t think about money at all,’ bemoaned Inger. Boris himself said: ‘I always spent just about a little bit more than I made’. Disasters over the years included trout, pig and vegetable farming, peach wine, and the failed mahua flower liquor business, which landed him in prison for a couple of months for non-payment of royalties.Restaurants came and went, located in Dilli Bazar, Darbar Marg and his Yak &amp; Yeti Restaurant in Lal Durbar which had opened in 1970 (now the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/a-new-chimney/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/a-new-chimney/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNF7FvH0Nw4GKuw2_-zUoyX7d8pFFg">Chimney Restaurant</a> in the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/business/hotel-yak-yeti-celebrates-41st-year/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/business/hotel-yak-yeti-celebrates-41st-year/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1599440236749000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGwNJcmlNnTxmeLoKYiDQwyl9EINA">Yak &amp; Yeti Hotel</a>). I was first taken there for my birthday in 1974, and my future husband Tenzin and I had our first date, crammed on the narrow window seats around the circular brass fireplace. I was mesmerised by the sophisticated choice of flavoured vodkas - lemon, pepper, and something green and not very nice, dill perhaps. The elaborate 1970s menu featured not only Russian favourites such as borscht and stroganoff, but snipe pate, guinea fowl marechale, smoked becki fish and quail’s eggs provided by Jimmy Roberts.And who were Nepal’s first tourists? In 1955 Boris persuaded the reluctant King Mahendra, newly succeeded to the throne on the death of his father Tribhuvan, to invite the first tour group arranged with Thomas Cook &amp; Sons in Calcutta. Consisting of ‘mostly old ladies from a cruise ship’, the narrative goes that the King was so impressed by their genuine enthusiasm for his country, delighted by Kathmandu culture and hoovering up handicrafts in the Royal Hotel shop, that he was convinced by Boris to embrace tourism for his emerging nation, ordering officials to arrange two-week tourist visas.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915114/636bb36b9c7e80680e07bb3ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="413"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Since that day when Boris achieved this historic reversal and Nepal began to tentatively welcome visitors, tourism has become an essential core industry with consistent growth, climbing from none in 1951, to 6,000 arrivals in 1962 and 1.2 million last year – until coronavirus hit.

Nepal’s tourism now has to re-start from zero

<figure><img width="2895" height="4032" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf179c7e80680e078031jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Yeti painted by Phurba Chitten Sherpa from Namche</figcaption></figure>Great grey clouds steal the light and weigh down the sky -- no chance of glimpsing any passing comet or rising moon. Relentless rain fills the days, quieting the birds and hammering the plastic sheets that cover the roof’s leaking tiles. Rising to a deafening roar then quieting to a fine drizzle, only seldom are we rewarded with a sun-dappled dawn or a spectacular many-hued sunset. The inundated earth is heavy and sodden, the grass drowned, and flowers dashed. The floods and landslides of Nepal’s annual monsoon seem very real.Inside the house, my entire early Nepal life is spread across the dining table. Heaps of faded photos, tattered letters, newspaper cuttings, slides and memories, untidily sorted into bygone years with the elusive hope of getting them selected, discarded and stuck into the big blue scrap book. It is a slow and distracting process, perfect for long pandemic evenings.  <figure><img width="4032" height="3024" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf1b9c7e80680e078032jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>During the early days of Tiger Mountain, with summer rains swelling rivers, closing roads and precluding tourism, normally I would be travelling to promote Nepal’s heritage, jungle and trekking attractions. Our source markets were mainly US and Europe in the 1980s, and with industry colleagues I would do sales tours and attend travel shows, encourage media visits and fashion shoots – anything to draw attention to Nepal’s incomparable culture, nature and mountains. Between promotion trips, the fading photos testify that you might find me salmon fishing in Iceland with Jim Edwards, leading trips to China for Lindblad Travel, on a wildlife cruise to Alaska or scouting adventure trips in Eastern Siberia. With a marketing budget of close to zero -- Jim was always a little vague about money – none of this travelling would have been possible without the sofas of random friends, and the free standby tickets on Pan American Airlines that we represented in Nepal.  <figure><img width="640" height="477" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf1f9c7e80680e078033jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The joys of flying standby are overstated. Only if there was an empty seat could I board the flight, usually at the very last minute, a nail-biting stressful experience lingering nervously around check-in that I never got used to. Jim counselled to dress smartly as that improved the chances of getting upgraded – in those un-woke days Pan Am served caviar in first class but did not permit blue jeans. I regularly got stranded along their air-routes in Delhi, Frankfurt, London, New York, San Francisco, and once even ended up in Guatemala as the direct flights were full. Even checking the loads and in supplication to the power of the ground staff, never could one be sure to travel. <img width="640" height="480" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf239c7e80680e078034jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="640" height="480" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf269c7e80680e078035jpeg.jpg" alt="">Sherpa painting fragments with yetisOther than hippies, I was most often asked about the Yeti, especially in North America where our Abominable Snowman was sympathetically equated to Bigfoot and Sasquatch. Yetis featured in movies, expeditions, books and articles dedicated to investigating the existence of these mythical creatures, upright monsters of Himalayan folklore with distinctive fearsome and hairy characteristics, dreaded by the Sherpas and other mountain peoples as well as throughout Tibet. Royal Nepal Airlines Corporation boasted Yeti service, with a startling statue bearing an inflight tray marking the RNAC headquarters at the bottom of New Road.  <figure><img width="640" height="419" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf2b9c7e80680e078036jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Many early Himalayan mountaineers have claimed sightings since climbing explorers Eric Shipton and Michael Ward first found a Yeti footprint in 1951 on the Menlung Glacier west of Mount Everest. Reports include hunched dark shapes disappearing over a ridgeline, huge baffling tracks crossing remote alpine snowfields, looming shadows appearing in blizzards, and even yaks with their heads “screwed off” by the beast. Such was its intrigue that <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/highs-and-lows-of-sir-ed/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/highs-and-lows-of-sir-ed/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHQMHJJTJQQxkuxjqdQdjMmgqqN9g">Sir Edmund Hillary and Griffith Pugh</a> mounted a winter expedition in 1960 to 1961 to Rolwaling and Khumbu in search of the Yeti, a Sherpa word meaning ‘wild man’, with the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/the-lyrical-life-of-Desmond-Doig,1052" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/the-lyrical-life-of-Desmond-Doig,1052&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFPwpcY1R6qNuQRaFv6-3sC_GNgQA">writer and painter Desmond Doig</a> as the ‘official reporter’. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/hillary-centenary/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/hillary-centenary/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEUI19AbPLutN1mHIEisFPcegG9IA">Hillary</a> wrote: ‘Our Yeti search gave us many exciting moments as we tracked down the threads that seemed so often to be leading to an astounding answer, but never did. At the end of it all, we reached a definite conclusion that the Yeti was a myth.’ With Sherpa headman Konchok Chombi and Khumjung monastery’s conical-shaped Yeti scalp, they toured the world to tell the story and make scientific tests. Desmond recorded their lack of findings in his book, High in the Thin Cold Air. <figure><img width="640" height="468" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf2f9c7e80680e078037jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="4032" height="2662" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141144/636baf319c7e80680e078038jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Amongst the dusty negatives on my table are contact sheets of photographs I took of Desmond Doig at Bodnath in 1980 being interviewed for an ITV film about the Yeti presented by Arthur C Clark. Our hunt “was a great gaudy mess. Any self-respecting Yeti would have kept way away from us … with our 600 porters, 200 Sherpas and about 40 of us.” Desmond loved any fanciful unsolved mystery, so preferred to keep his options open. https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=1205&amp;v=_taZyFI0iwY&amp;feature=emb_logoTaunting anthropologists and researchers, the elusive Yeti continues to confound science. Yeti-obsessed ecologist Daniel C Taylor, author of Yeti: The Ecology of a Mystery, found a trail of footprints during a 1983 search of the Barun, but eventually concluded that it is more likely to be a bear. <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=9267#.Xx-Y9C0w0Wo" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D9267%23.Xx-Y9C0w0Wo&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEdqtFRkR76aTSGyxIzfdI1KtbheQ">Yetis</a> still court controversy as we saw recently with the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/love-it-or-hate-it-its-abominable/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/love-it-or-hate-it-its-abominable/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEXgX0hiOBXKSJTWjpizCK2v9fIUg">aborted Visit Nepal Year 2020</a> painted sculptures that divided national opinion.The closest I came to any Yeti was when American scientists, Jeff McNeely and E W Cronin stored a silver tin trunk of 1972 specimens from the Upper Barun Khola in the cupboard under the stairs in the Sanepa house. I vividly recall Jeff showing me the white plaster casts of alleged Yeti footprints, which have since gone missing. The precious trunk was confiscated by customs at Kathmandu airport when British zoologist Andrew Laurie tried to ship it out for Jeff in late 1975. Andrew remembers: “A tranquilizing gun had inadvertently been packed in the bottom of the case, and I was nearly arrested for illegal possession of firearms.” The plaster footprints were siezed by customs officials as “national treasures” and never seen again. A recent attempt to trace the lost tin trunk in the government go-downs was unsuccessful. As I return to my painstaking picture sorting, I reflect that after the onslaught of so many monsoon rains, there is unlikely to be anything left of the crumbling Yeti relics.Watch clip of Arthur C. Clarke's Mysterious World episode on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_taZyFI0iwY" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3D_taZyFI0iwY&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596002156182000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGN5cFHUcjHX_BSUb9AfTEG-Lesmg">Apemen</a>.

Sorting through history for the Yeti

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221129121152/6385f2b79c7e80680e0cc95bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="960"/><figcaption>Bill Gavin in New Zealand last year, telling a good story of the “old days” from his eventful life. Photo: MICHAEL CLARK</figcaption></figure>“Oh dear, look what happened to my pants!” We pulled onto the beach and Bill clambered out of the big rubber raft having just emerged from one of the more impressive rapids on Nepal’s Trisuli River. The chilly curtain of cold water and adrenaline rush of surviving Upset without an upset had us all whooping with excitement. Bill’s stylish beige linen trousers had shrunk with the dousing and were clinging to his legs like an unseemly pair of tights.Bill Gavin was with us on one of the early three-day river runs, to be followed by a few days wildlife watching at Tiger Tops Chitwan. It was 1982 and the road from Mugling to Bharatpur was nearing completion. Villagers along the banks still found our overnight camps a curiosity, and no belching truck fumes polluted the evening beers around a driftwood blaze or disturbed the silent nights under a canopy of stars.The wild and wonderfully wicked Bill Gavin was a legend brimming with passion, vigour and colour who had exploded into my life as a friend of my louche and much-loved Uncle Terry. Together they haunted the glamorous Grand Prix circuit of the swinging 1960s. Bill writing about motor racing (he was European editor of Car &amp; Driver magazine and biographer of world champion Jim Clark) and Terry managing a Formula I driver who was killed in a crash, as happened all too often in those unsafety-conscious days.When I hooked up with them in London, Terry was in the music business (signing Dire Straits was his claim to fame) and Bill was big into movies after a spell managing pop groups. The third of this unlikely trio of best mates was Stanley Myers, composer of the haunting Deer Hunter theme.The story goes that Bill talked his way into movie production starting as the GTO boss’ chauffeur and ending up as the boss, but stories like that abound about Bill Gavin. He toured with chart-toppers The Sweet, New Seekers and Springfield Revival, and did gigs with Gary Glitter. He was almost recruited by the CIA, narrated the 1966 film Grand Prix, managed a Ferrari team, released the first Antipodean movie Picnic at Hanging Rock in UK, took Apocalypse Now to Australia, and helped finance New Zealand’s What Became of the Broken Hearted? and Whale Rider, that marvellous Maori classic.At the time we were camping riverside on the Trisuli in his terminally shrunken pants, Bill was riding high as the hard-driving distribution and sales wizard on the board of Goldcrest Films, on his way back to London from the Killing Fields’ shoot in Thailand. Goldcrest’s other best pictures included Chariots of Fire, Local Hero and Gandhi, and Bill had his own UK company, Gavin Films.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221129121152/6385f2ba9c7e80680e0cc95cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="523" height="823"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Bill loved to shock and push the envelope, long before the #metoo generation. He ricocheted between marriages and girlfriends, had three wonderful children, Tom, Panda and the eldest who was saddled with the name Gavin. Yes, Gavin Gavin, whose gorgeous mother Sarah Jane was Bill’s first wife and a Mary Quant model. At their parties you might meet Graham Hill and other racing drivers, Victor Hugo’s granddaughter, Polish film directors with unpronounceable names, or Barry Humphries aka Dame Edna slumped in their sitting room telling cannibal air-crash jokes: “We’re on the last leg of the flight.”At one of these eclectic gatherings, I had a Scottish neighbour in tow: “See you later, I’ll look after myself,” he called cheerfully as I disappeared into the smoky crowd. Finding himself next to a skinny, bespectacled chap on the sofa, attempts at polite conversation were not going well. “I’m a guitarist,” was all he could extract. “What sort of guitar - rock or pop or jazz - or classical guitar, like John Williams?” Andrew was struggling. “I am John Williams,” came the laconic reply.Bill was famous for behaving badly and being in love with him was a recipe for disaster. He had a mercurial temper and a reputation for bullying employees. I once saw him explode into unjustifiable road rage as he deftly wove his flash car through the London traffic -- speed was a religion. And our brief walk-out in the early 1980s ended dramatically and finally when he ran off with my brother’s girlfriend, on the Concorde to New York no less, thus delivering a memorable family double whammy. We consoled ourselves that they thoroughly deserved each other, and it didn’t last long.Bill’s plunge from these dizzying heights of fame and fashion followed a few too many divorces and the vagaries of the British film business. His expensive mews house in Notting Hill, silver Porsche, trendy Italian restaurants, and champagne Pimms parties under the yellow laburnum all evaporated in the 1990s when he beat a hasty retreat to his native New Zealand.Adapting with aplomb to life in a downtown Auckland high-rise council flat, Bill painted it rich dark colours, and filled it with books, pictures and an oversize leather casting couch shipped across the world from his West End office. At economical shepherd’s pie dinner parties renowned for bevies of loyal media and driving friends, over a glass or three of wine Bill would regale us with tales of the “old days”, his braying laugh filling the room. Despite his straitened circumstances he contrived to drive a smart Mercedes donated by a kind admirer who shared his petrol-head passion.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221129121152/6385f2bc9c7e80680e0cc95djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="664" height="524"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>In a rare moment of quiet reflection, Bill confided that his ideal retirement was a cottage in the Bay of Islands, in New Zealand’s far north. It was the first time I had heard of the place, but it never happened. Aged 83, Bill Gavin died last month at home in Auckland, rescued by friends and family from grim isolation in a locked-down Covid-19 hospital, he peacefully departed a life packed with motors, music and movies.Some young devotees recently videoed Bill for a school project, deftly capturing his enthusiastic essence, even at the end: “Looking back on all my careers, motor racing was certainly the most exciting … I was attracted by the intellectual intensity of the sport … I knew everybody ...”In our last call arranged by Bill’s kind niece his laboured breathing penetrated the long-distance WhatsApp line, but he squeezed her hand and I could feel his smile as I told him that, despite everything, I still loved him and always would. Bill had that sort of effect on people.

The wild and wonderful Bill Gavin, 1936-2020

Under a gunmetal grey sky, the four of us stood for the Last Post on an expansive empty lawn as the crows wheeled overhead. The Nepal Army general and British Gurkha colonel saluted smartly in their uniforms, whilst the Ambassador and I bowed our heads. The red poppies in all our lapels symbolised remembrance and acknowledgment of the ultimate sacrifice by all men and women in the armed forces during times of conflict.It must have been the strangest Anzac Day commemoration ever. The grass, still soggy from yesterday’s rain, was dotted with crimson rose petals fallen from the luscious red wreathes. In turn we had laid them between the two flags, on the anniversary of the First World War Gallipoli landing by the ANZACs (Australia and New Zealand Army Corps), in remembrance of the dreadful battlefield losses that ensued on both sides and from so many nations. After the one minute silence in the deserted garden, the Reveille was trumpeted on an embassy iPhone.Since services began on 25 April 1916, this year 2020 was the first Anzac Day ever that Australians and New Zealanders were not able to gather nationwide to mark the anniversary, due to the social isolation battle against COVID-19. Instead, digitally shared messages urged individual calls to action -- messages of solidarity displayed in home windows, the laying of virtual poppies at the online cenotaph, and alone standing at dawn in driveways, gates and front doors to mark the moment #standatdawn.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109121120/636b8d909c7e80680e06b355jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2699" height="2265"/><figcaption>Australian Ambassador Peter Budd, Lt-Gen Sarad Kumar Giri, Chief of General Staff, Nepal Army, Col Richard Goodman MBE, Commander, British Gurkhas Nepal and Lisa Choegyal Honorary Consul of New Zealand at the Anzac Day service on 25 April 2020 during the lockdown in Kathmandu. Photo: JAMES HAZELL</figcaption></figure>Every year the Australian Embassy hosts our Anzac Day service in Kathmandu, echoing solemn sunrise ceremonies all over Australia and New Zealand, with many young people as well as old brought together to mark this most important joint national occasion. Normally the garden is thronged with several hundred Australians, New Zealanders, Nepalis and the international community, enlivened by Nepali and Gurkha buglers and bagpipers, and followed by a slap-up Aussie breakfast that is part of the attraction.Last year as well as long term residents and tourists, several mountaineers joined us including Guy Cotter, Robert Mads Anderson and a couple of Sir Edmund Hillary’s grandchildren -- Russell Brice was absent, recovering from his fall from a rooftop restaurant. This year there are no expeditions and the mountains are closed to trekkers. Ambassador Pete and Emma boiled the kettle for coffee and offered us homemade Anzac biscuits in their empty house.I’m not sure when the Australian-hosted Anzac Day tradition began in Nepal, but is must have been around 1990 when the embassy moved to its current compound in Bansbari. Elizabeth Hawley regularly attended as New Zealand Honorary Consul before me. With no compunction she admitted to having delivered the exact same Anzac address every year, claiming no one ever noticed.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109121120/636b8d949c7e80680e06b356jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="3000" height="1500">Although diplomatic relations between Nepal and Australia have existed since 1960, it was ambassador Diane Johnstone, affectionately known as ‘Call-me-Di’, who set up in Kathmandu from a cosy rented house in Thapathali in 1986 with a guitar-playing husband. The succession of early incumbents in the representational role were marked by life-changing events during their tenure – separation, divorce, engagement and marriage – including one emotional liaison with a Bollywood superstar that ended in tears. Over the decades, the mission has achieved many milestones in humanitarian and development aid, technical assistance and trade support.The popularity of Australian wine in Kathmandu dates back to one inspired ambassador who offered to import cases for his diplomatic friends -- and before the days of wine being available in the open market, he had many friends. Eventually both governments noticed when the embassy wine order exceeded that of much larger missions in London and Paris, dryly pointing out that every official Australian in Nepal must have been consuming about three dozen bottles a day. Aussie producers had the last laugh however, with their brands still established today as Nepal’s wine of choice amongst the chatterati.We wanted to do something special to commemorate the 100-year anniversary of Gallipoli on 25 April 2015. Thousands were gathering in Turkey, including the Prince of Wales and a ministerial delegation from Nepal. The UK had observed the outbreak of World War I with a dramatic moat-ful of 888,246 ceramic poppies around the Tower of London, representing all British and Commonwealth fatalities.Hoping to achieve a similarly grand gesture, the Gurkha commander conspired with us to ship 120,000 poppies from the British Legion in London, the idea being to carpet the grounds of the Australian ambassador’s home with a sea of scarlet. Each paper poppy raises at least a pound each but, thanks to British Gurkha generosity and skilled negotiations, boxes of poppies were delivered to the Australians with the Kiwi consulate paying only a nominal amount. At the last minute, however, the ambassador’s wife vetoed the idea on the grounds that it would be hard to tidy up afterwards and make a mess of her garden.The surfeit of poppies, plenty for future events, was soon erased from minds on that unforgettable 25 April five years ago. I had just returned home to Budanilkantha, kicked off my shoes and settled on the terrace with my laptop and the dogs when at 11:56 am the earthquake struck. Terracotta tiles rained off the roof, my car careened violently beneath the magnolia tree, and in the distance far below a pall of dust rose eerily above the assaulted city.No doubt, we all remember exactly where we were and how we felt at that fateful moment on Anzac Day 2015, when our lives were rocked forever.

The strangest Anzac Day ever

One smoggy winter morning in February 2019, Ekta regretted coming to her sculpture class. It was the first day of her period, and the 19-year-old wished she was home, curled up in bed with a hot water bag to soothe her cramps.
Her class was at Kalapremi Ceramic Studio, a dark room on the ground floor of a house in Maharajganj, and Ekta’s teacher was the artist Gopal Das Shrestha ‘Kalapremi’, a noted sculptor.
Two other students were already there, using all their muscle strength to knead the sculpting clay. Ekta, now 24, recalls how Kalapremi asked her if she was feeling all right. She avoided him, as she did not want everyone to know she was menstruating.
Kalapremi repeatedly asked Ekta what was wrong. She finally muttered that she was having her period, after which he grabbed her hand and led her to a partitioned corner of the studio and sat her on a chair. Before she could stop him, he slid his hand under her dress, and started massaging her abdomen.
“I was horrified,” Ekta recalls. “I told him to stop, but he didn’t listen, asking me not to be shy, saying he knew how to relieve my pain. He stopped only after I protested furiously.”&nbsp;
The art tutor then said, “You’re like my daughter. I’m doing it out of love to make you feel better, but you’re so stubborn.”&nbsp;
“Instead of saying sorry he acted like I was the one having crazy thoughts,” remembers Ekta, adding that from April 2016 to August 2020 beginning the time she was 16, the artist sexually abused and harassed her on several occasions. &nbsp;
Now, Ekta and the artist’s other former students are finally sharing their experiences and some are pressing legal charges against him, hoping that others do not have to endure what they did.&nbsp;
Award-winning artist and teacher Gopal Das Shrestha ‘Kalapremi’ (the name means ‘Art Lover’) is known for his ceramic art, sculpture, and contemporary pottery. He was <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/the-house-of-kalapremi">profiled in Nepali Times after a collaborative exhibition</a>, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ at the Siddhartha Art Gallery three years ago.&nbsp;
His pieces, titled Gaalis, featured sculpted female figures with the heads of dogs, sheep, and donkeys (pictured) to depict derogatory terms for women. Some critics said the collection was a satire on feminists.
Kalapremi started his artistic and teaching career in 1983 and over the years taught at Bhanubhakta School, Kathmandu University School of Arts, Lalitkala Campus and at his private Kalapremi Ceramic Studio. He has also lectured at Jeonju University in South Korea and recently at Tabor Academy in the United States.
Seven of Kalapremi’s former students were interviewed for this story. Five female students said he touched them inappropriately in his studio or at Kathmandu University. Two male students said they witnessed him abuse and harass the women. In all cases, the students struggled to recognise the abuse when it occurred, and the lack of reporting systems left them to cope on their own for years.&nbsp;
Earlier this year, students shared a social media post hinting at Kalapremi’s history of abusive behaviour following which more students of the artist reached out sharing similar experiences. Some students spoke of abuse that happened as long as 20 years ago.
Kalapremi, 60, has denied the allegations. He told Nepali Times: “Some years ago, there was a movement encouraging people to hug and kiss. I used to do it purely out of friendship and love. But after seeing posts on social media last year calling out my behaviour, I realised my actions may have hurt some people. I understand now that I should have been more mindful.”
He added: “I am also an auxiliary health worker, so I know the exact points to massage to relieve menstrual pain. It’s not just menstruation, I take anyone who is ill to the hospital.”
Sexual abuse is much more rampant than reported given how difficult it is to prove it in court. The law defines sexual abuse as occuring when someone touches another’s private parts, coerces them into touching theirs, uses vulgar language, shows degrading images, or behaves indecently towards them without consent.&nbsp;
Ekta and her fellow students are consulting lawyer Suneeta Regmi Pokhrel, who says they know that even if the court decides in their favour, it is difficult to survive after speaking up, and influential men defend themselves saying they are being framed.&nbsp;
“They are in a lot of pain and weep when recalling how he abused them,” Regmi Pokhrel told us. “They are angry and have filed a case against him, but they are also terrified. They know he is a powerful man and they have seen how our society treats women who speak up against abusers. Unless people speak up, perpetrators will be emboldened.”
Art and academia in Nepal simply reflect the power imbalances in society where people with intersecting identities experience worse forms of abuse. Theatre actors Raj Kumar Pudasaini, Rajan Khatiwada, and Sunil Pokhrel were called out during the #MeToo movement in the Nepali theatre scene in 2019. Even after the allegations Pokhrel went on to receive national awards, while others continued to work without repercussions.
“If you speak up against abusers, you gradually get sidelined from projects,” explained a theatre artist who wished anonymity fearing professional setbacks. “The theatre scene in Nepal is quite small, you just have to make peace with the perpetrators and work with them if you want to sustain yourself.”&nbsp;
In academia there is a history of faculty members sexually harassing students and getting away with it. After Tribhuvan University (TU) lecturer Krishna Bhattachan was accused of harassing women students, the university said it would follow Nepal’s sexual harassment law and set up a reporting mechanism. But nothing happened to the professor, who had already retired. Instead, he counter-accused the students of 'attacking the indigenous people’s movement with baseless allegations' as <a href="https://kathmandupost.com/letters/2019/01/29/bhattachan-responds">he told the Kathmandu Post in 2019</a>. He continues to be featured as a prominent speaker including at TU.
Other faculty members previously accused of sexual harassment include Jagadish Murti Koirala from TU, Bishnu Prasad Acharya from Ratna Rajya Campus, and Bodha Raj Tripathee from Lalitpur Madhyamik Vidhyalaya. A woman staff member from TU also filed a sexual abuse complaint against Dambar Chemjong from TU.
Prominent figures like <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-nims-purja">mountaineer Nims Purja</a> have been <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/31/sports/mountaineering-sexual-harassment-abuse-nims-purja.html">accused of sexual assault</a>, and cricketer Sandeep Lamichhane, actor <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/celebrity-rape-case-spotlights-nepal-laws">Paul Shah</a>, and former speaker of Parliament <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/mahara-arrested">Krishna Bahadur Mahara</a> have been accused of rape, but society-at-large has let off the alleged perpetrators amdist a larger debate about justice for survivors and punishment of perpetrators.&nbsp;
‘Gaushala-26’ is the court name given to the 18-year-old who accused Sandeep Lamichhane, former captain of Nepal’s national cricket team and skipper of Biratnagar Kings in the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/here-comes-the-nepal-premier-league">ongoing Nepal Premier League</a>, of rape. She left the country citing society questioning her character affecting her mental health while Lamichhane got an outpouring of support. In May, the Patan High Court overturned a prior verdict that found Lamichhane guilty of rape and had sentenced him to eight years in prison. During the 23-month legal battle to pursue justice, Gaushala-26 faced threats of gang rape and acid attacks.&nbsp;
Exhausted by the struggle, Gaushala-26 sought to “move to a new world” where she could live free without hiding her identity.
Actress Samragyee Rajya Laxmi Shah in an Instagram video now deleted detailed the harassment she faced from a filmmaker during a movie shoot. She did not name any name but veteran actor Bhuwan KC filed a defamation case against Rana, but the court ruled that the charge lacked sufficient evidence.&nbsp;
Former Kathmandu mayor <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/theytoo">Keshav Sthapit also mocked the #MeToo movement</a>, calling accusations against him by journalists Rashmila Prajapati and Ujjwala Maharjan “a rape of men’s rights”.
Serial Abuse
Back at the Kalapremi Ceramics studio, another former student, 24-year-old Rajiv, says he felt the need to speak out after seeing his female classmates being abused.&nbsp;
“He frequently kissed them on their cheeks,” he told Nepali Times. “Whenever they walked into the studio he flailed his arms like a child asking for a hug. They awkwardly hugged him from the side, but he pulled them closer, held their chin, and kissed their cheeks.”&nbsp;
Rajiv says he also saw Kalapremi pull the women’s bra straps, touch their breasts, and slap their buttocks. The young students would freeze, not knowing how to react, and if they protested, he would say it was “normal in art”. Rajiv, 19 at the time like his classmates, remembers thinking perhaps the well-respected artist was right after all.
Another student, Luna, who took lessons at Kalapremi’s studio from 2020 to 2022 did try to confront the tutor after he made an obscene proposal to her. She recalls: “One day when the other students had left the studio and it was just the two of us, he told me that God had given him special artistic talent and he could transfer those powers to me. But to do that both of us will have to be naked, inside a dark room, and have sex.”
Luna, who was 18 then, was livid and told him she did not want any of his powers, but she says he laughed at her as if he was joking. She did not tell her family about the incident because she thought no one would believe her.&nbsp;
“They were all in awe of this famous artist and felt I should be grateful that to be learning sculpting from him,” she says. “I was scared to be alone with him in case he talked about sex again. My coping mechanism was to be rude so he wouldn’t try to come close to me.”
Seeing how some classmates were standing up to Kalapremi, Ekta too tried to push back against his advances, but she said he found ways to coerce her. Since Ekta, Rajiv, and Luna could not afford Kalapremi’s Rs30,000 monthly fee for lessons, he had offered them all a stipend to assist him in the studio.
“He had spondylosis and took me to his therapy sessions to learn massage techniques, then he often made me and other students massage him,” says Ekta. Whenever she refused, he would feign pain to make her feel sorry for him. “He would insist that I put my hands under his shirt so that I could massage him better,” she adds.
The art tutor often tried to “seduce sympathy” from Ekta by sharing how he had never been loved as a child and was “sexually frustrated” as an adult.&nbsp;
“At 7PM, he would pour himself Signature whiskey and immediately go off again about how he was sex-starved. I didn’t know how to respond. It took me time to realise alcohol was just an excuse to talk about sex,” Ekta says.
If convicted, Kalapremi could face financial penalty and/or a prison sentence of up to three years according to Section 224 of National Penal (Code) Act 2017.&nbsp;
Data suggests that victims of child sexual abuse on average take nearly 24 years to tell someone about their trauma, and some may never disclose it at all.&nbsp;
“In our culture, children are rarely taught about boundaries. They often react, show anger when adults pinch their cheeks. But adults insist they did it out of love, and force the children to accept it,” says Sita Lama, a psychotherapist at Manka Kura. “And even when someone touches them inappropriately they struggle to identify and verbalise it.”
When perpetrators claim to be “acting out of love”, Lama says survivors are likely to perceive it as something safe, rather than recognising it as abuse.&nbsp;
“It may take years for them to realise they were abused,” she explains. "And even when they become aware, the power imbalance with the abuser and the associated shame often prevents survivors from speaking up."
Other former students from the School of Art at Kathmandu University have also come forward years later, saying Kalapremi sexually abused them. As young adults, they felt his behaviour was off but were uncertain if it was inappropriate, illegal, or they did not know how to respond. After having understood that it was indeed abuse, they say they are speaking out now to protect others.&nbsp;
Amina Singh, a visiting faculty member at Kathmandu University, says there is no clause against sexual abuse in contracts of teachers, and there is no formal grievance handling mechanism for the students.&nbsp;
“So the only way students can to deal with sexual abuse is approach someone they trust,” she says.
Eight other former art students of Lalit Kala Campus and Srijana College of Fine Arts of Tribhuvan University and other private art studios in Kathmandu say they were also sexually abused by their art teachers. Three faculty members interviewed from these institutions said they saw the abuse, but felt it was futile to report it given how powerful the teachers were.
In the absence of a formal system, some longtime women artists warned each other about “problematic” artists. They shared &nbsp;a “heads-up” to be more cautious when collaborating with them, and avoided responding to their calls and texts after work hours.
To ensure art institutions are safe for all, galleries, museums, artist studios, and smaller art spaces need to develop policies on sexual harassment. This would include a code of conduct or studio policies that hold the leadership accountable and outline the principles of professional ethics.&nbsp;
Students and employees should inquire about accountability mechanisms for raising concerns, both formally and informally, advocates say.
Three years after Ekta left the ceramics studio, she learnt that Kalapremi had harassed many other women. Still trying to get a footing in the art industry, she attended a workshop in Kathmandu where women artists discussed ways to stay safe in the art sector.&nbsp;
Since it was a close-knit group Ekta opened up about how she felt violated and realised she was not alone, he had been abusing underprivileged students for years, and this was common knowledge among artists in Nepal.
Ekta says that even after she quit, Kalapremi continued sending her text messages like ‘I am thinking of you’, ‘Why have you stopped speaking with me’, or ‘I am waiting for your call’.&nbsp;
But what really forced her to act was when Ekta found out that he was sending similar texts to her younger sister.&nbsp;
“I’ve had enough,” she told us. “He abused me all these years but I won’t let him abuse my sister.” &nbsp;
Ekta, Rajiv and Luna are not the real names of the students.&nbsp;

‘Art Lover’ accused of sexual abuse

It was 8:15 in the evening of 25 March 1968 when everyone in the village of Batulechaur near Pokhara heard a deafening sound like thunder as a bright flashing object hurtled down to land in a field.&nbsp; That field belonged to Kul Timilsina, and the next morning he retrieved a sheet of metal about 2m by 1m and carried it home with the help of a few others, thinking it would be useful for his buffalo shed.&nbsp; Before he died at age 83 three years ago, Timilsina had told photo archivist Sunil Ulak that the black metal sheet was not rectangular and had rounded corners. There are a few witnesses still alive who have a clear recollection of the object that fell from the sky that night.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024120707128_75cc85aac56b9cc4a77366471f058d7b3eb6868776811b0923845c2d0a61f014.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2024120707128_75cc85aac56b9cc4a77366471f058d7b3eb6868776811b0923845c2d0a61f014" data-rendition-name="original" width="1170" height="601" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>The field in Batulechaur belonging to Kul Timilsina where fragments of a flying object fell from the sky in 1968.</figcaption> </figure>  One of them is Timilsina’s wife Gyanu, who was 22 at the time. She had been at home, and remembers hearing the big bang and the sky becoming very bright. “We saw the thing in the field in the morning,” she told us. “It looked like a lid, a covering of some sort. The way it was stuck in the ground, it must have fallen from the sky. We thought we could use it to dry clothes on, and took it home.”&nbsp; Another witness is Kul Narayan Paudel. “I was only eight then. We ran to the field to see what had fallen. It was a four-sided metal sheet. The elders took it away, and I don't know what happened to it.” &nbsp; Ram Bahadur Baniya, a teacher at the local school, says he had heard the sheet had been brought to the school, and later handed over to the Zonal Commissioner at the time, Nanda Prasad Malla. “But that is all hearsay,” he says.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024120707128_0bf207a12063fb8155b3c8d9a00a94887b126380c9e0627527c84cf5e1101f54.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2024120707128_0bf207a12063fb8155b3c8d9a00a94887b126380c9e0627527c84cf5e1101f54" data-rendition-name="original" width="1170" height="610" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>Gyanu Timilsina, wife of Kul Timilsina.</figcaption> </figure>  There are two versions of what happened to Kul Timilsina’s metal sheet. One is that an American Peace Corp Volunteer teaching at the nearby Bindyabasini School took it, and another is that it was handed over to the government. Recently declassified Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and US State Department documents from the time say that the US Embassy in Kathmandu tracked down the object two years later and had it shipped back to the US. A telegram from the Department of State and Department of Defense tagged as ‘MOON DUST / Space Fragments’ dated 1 March 1972 stated: ‘1. Restored space fragment will be on board Embassy support flight 115 arriving Kathmandu on or about March 10. Fragment is packed in shipping crate (cargo no. 72-33365) marked in care of DAO.&nbsp; 2. State and Defense representatives examined fragments prior to shipment finding restoration acceptable.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071212_929d903ee06d41baa4f6040e981cd7c7d7bd75cc9c37c9b617d307fc8538d2df.png" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20241207071212_929d903ee06d41baa4f6040e981cd7c7d7bd75cc9c37c9b617d307fc8538d2df" data-rendition-name="original" width="856" height="568" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>Declassified CIA documents about the investigation into the object sighted in Pokhara. </figcaption> </figure>  The documents show that the US government, military and intelligence agencies investigated this incident thoroughly when it occurred, and have continued to revisit it ever since, as recently as five years ago. What is even more intriguing is that the object that fell in Pokhara was not the only unidentified space object that fell to earth that year. There were similar sightings of objects falling from the sky in Ladakh, Sikkim and Bhutan between 19 February and 25 March 1968.&nbsp; These mysteries were the subject of a CIA investigation in 1968 titled ‘<a href="https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP81R00560R000100070007-8.pdf">Sighting of Unidentified Flying Objects in Ladakh, Nepal, Sikkim and Bhutan</a>’, and the report is part of the recent online declassification of 800,000 top-secret documents from the period.&nbsp; &nbsp;Although unidentified flying objects (UFOs) have a connotation now of being alien craft, it could be pieces of satellite, missile, rocket or even aircraft. The CIA report documents six sightings in 1968 and quotes local sources as describing all of them having similar characteristics: bright blue or red streaks in the sky accompanied by loud sounds like lightning and thunder and objects falling to the ground. Aside from the metallic object that was found in Batlechaur, there were other items also found nearby in Tallakot, Tureypasal, Armalakot and Maidan. Whatever the object was, it seems to have disintegrated even before it hit the ground.&nbsp; The CIA report records the first sighting on 19 February 1968 in various parts of Sikkim and Olangchung Gola and Ghunsa in eastern Nepal. The light was said to be ‘long and thin’ and giving out ‘green and red light’. &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071212_c3c825027d966a2aedc846970390eebe063957503c7eacc8e01e0517843f9bbb.png" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20241207071212_c3c825027d966a2aedc846970390eebe063957503c7eacc8e01e0517843f9bbb" data-rendition-name="original" width="892" height="596" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara "> </figure>  Two days later on 21 February, a soundless blue object was seen traveling fast across the sky above Thimphu in Bhutan. Then on 4 March there were multiple daytime sightings or white streaks in the sky at Chang La Pass, Fukche and Koyul in Ladakh. There were more sightings in Ladakh on the very day fragments fell near Pokhara on 25 March 1968.&nbsp; After the sightings in Pokhara, rumours started flying in Kathmandu that these were aliens trying to land on Earth, it could be Russian or Chinese spy planes or satellites, and some even say it as a sign from heaven that the end of the world was near. This was at the height of the Cold War. The Russians and Americans were testing their thermonuclear devices as well as intercontinental ballistic missile delivery systems. The Washington-Beijing rapprochement had not yet happened, and China was making quick progress testing atomic bombs. Within two years after its first atomic test, in 1966 China exploded its first hydrogen bomb at the Lop Nur site in Xinjiang, 3,000km to the north from Nepal. After neary six decades, what is still intriguing is that all the sightings within a few months of each other in 1968 were along the Himalayan arc bordering Tibet: from Bhutan, Sikkim Nepal, to Ladakh. The US military intelligence seems to have concluded that this was not a coincidence and there were frequent research trips to the site in Pokhara by American officials in the months after the incident. With the help of the Royal Nepal Army, the region north of Pokhara was thoroughly searched.&nbsp; A confidential memo dated 25 June 1968 by Jerry C Trippy to a ‘Mr Farley’ mentions that the US Air Force’s Foreign Technology Division had decided that the debris could be important because it may be related to a Chinese missile test or a Soviet ‘Vehicle Venik’ rocket.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071216_feb5425692dc36b20187de4e4fcc2ce9fd12b6d9e1b8724398e50bcdbf9032fe.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20241207071216_feb5425692dc36b20187de4e4fcc2ce9fd12b6d9e1b8724398e50bcdbf9032fe" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> </figure>  On 28 August 1968 the US Embassy in Kathmandu sent a letter to Washington DC saying that the object could be of Soviet origin, possibly from when the rocket carrying the ‘Kosmos 208’ satellite re-entered the atmosphere. But why were the fragments falling to earth several weeks apart, and in the same region? No one knows where the metal sheet that Kul Timilsina recovered is now. It was definitely packed in a crate and taken to the US, and although it is rumoured that it was returned that is not very likely. Archivist Sunil Ulak heard from the Timilsina family that CIA officials had returned to the site five years ago. &nbsp; Interest in UFOs peaked in the US in the 1950s, with the Cold War space race and tests of atomic weapons and delivery rockets. CIA and scientists were being sent to investigate sightings, both publicly and privately. Could the Pokhara fragments as well as the sightings in Ladakh and Bhutan actually be alien craft falling to earth? The renewal in interest in space travel in large part due to Elon Musk’s SpaceX, UFOs and sightings are again subjects of public interest.&nbsp; Even 57 years later, even if there was definitive proof about whether the Batlechaur fragment was from a Chinese missile or a soviet rocket, it has not been made public in documents declassified so far. We may never know.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071216_b6938795f40731e7657fd6dcbb3cf460a326186a15eb11d4f832f602201ff598.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20241207071216_b6938795f40731e7657fd6dcbb3cf460a326186a15eb11d4f832f602201ff598" data-rendition-name="original" width="642" height="320" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> </figure>  Sunil Ulak speculates if the debris actually came from an American aircraft, perhaps on an intel mission upon China. “Which could explain why they were so thorough in collecting the fragments in Pokhara,” he says. But that still does not explain the multiple sightings weeks apart in 1968.&nbsp; Indeed, US military aircraft were at that time flying frequent night-time missions from air force bases in India to supply weapons to Khampa guerrilla camps in Nepal located north of Pokhara in Mustang. It could very well be that the Chinese shot down one such aircraft. The other sightings could have been contrails of US spy planes, or Chinese anti-aircraft missiles.&nbsp; There were quite a few developments regarding UFOs in 2024. In a US congressional hearing in July, former intelligence officer David Grusch claimed that the government had long been involved in a program to investigate and retrieve non-human craft crashes, and then try to reverse engineer them. However Grusch did not show any evidence.&nbsp; The UAP Disclosure Act of 2024 was signed into law by Joe Biden in December 2023. It plans to oversee the public disclosure of UFO information. However, there is a clause in it that prevents disclosure if it would cause threats to military defense, intelligence operations or foreign relations.&nbsp; It is unlikely that the declassified documents about sightings in the Himalayan will cause any real surprise about definite evidence of alien life even if it was found. It seems humanity will continue, at least for now, to wonder about curious lights in the sky and whether there is anybody out there.&nbsp;

UFO over Pokhara

When Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) president Rabi Lamichhane was arrested in October on charges of defrauding depositors of cooperatives, the party’s vice president Swarnim Wagle gifted him Fareed Zakaria’s book, Age of Revolutions.
Since then, Lamichhane has been shunted around from Kathmandu to Pokhara to Chitwan and back to Pokhara to attend police investigations and court proceedings. He was being flown to Birganj via Kathmandu on Buddha Air on Monday. There is another pending case in Janakpur.
Human rights groups and civil society have criticised the government for hounding Lamichhane with inhumane treatment that borders on physical torture. The two parties in the coalition, Nepali Congress (NC) and the UML, see Lamichhane’s RSP as a potentially formidable challenge to their power.
Even if the fraud charges against Lamichhane are true, the Nepali public is increasingly looking at the government’s actions through the police and courts as political vendetta.
Despite all the travelling, sometimes by plane and often by road at night, Lamichhane appears to be in high spirits, waving to supporters who often gather if they know he is going to be driven around. A social media video shows him giving high fives to fellow passengers on a recent flight to Pokhara.&nbsp;
In the past weeks, streets in Pokhara have erupted with parallel protests by Lamichhane’s supporters as well as depositors of cooperatives who lost their savings to the scam.&nbsp;
Although family visits are allowed, prison officials in Pokhara told Nepali Times that not many people visit Lamichhane these days. He added, “When he does get visitors, he asks them to bring him books.”
Lamichhane is currently Nepal’s most high-profile public figure in custody, and highlights the stark difference between how influential prisoners are treated compared to ordinary inmates.
There are six prison cells at Kaski District Police Office’s two-story detention centre, three on each floor. And while authorities pack prisoners into already overcrowded cells, Lamichhane has an entire room on the second floor to himself.&nbsp;
He has also been allowed to call his family every few days. Other prisoners are not permitted phone calls except for emergencies.
Meanwhile, Lamichhane’s former business partner Chhabilal Joshi, an ex-Deputy Inspector General of Police with whom he established his Gorkha Media Network, is in custody under the same charges in the prison cell next to him.
Lamichhane is accused of siphoning off depositors' money to the tv network in which he was part-owner and anchor. &nbsp;
Both Lamichhane and Joshi are able to buy food from the police canteen instead of being served the regular meal like other prisoners. Joshi has also given his statement to authorities in Rupandehi and Kathmandu for his alleged role in the scam. Lamichhane is yet to be presented in Kathmandu for questioning.
While he was in custody at the Kathmandu District Police Complex, Joshi expressed his desire to sleep in a police officer’s office, reportedly assuring authorities that he would not run away and he was entitled to certain facilities as a former officer of the law.
“He seemed to be under the impression that he is still a police officer,” says a source at the Kathmandu District Police. “We made it clear to him that as someone accused of a crime, he was not entitled to special treatment.”
Former ministers Balkrishna Khand and Top Bahadur Rayamajhi, and ex-home secretary Tek Narayan Pandey, who were arrested in connection with the fake refugee scam last year, were similarly housed in the offices of law enforcement officials instead of prison cells. Khand has since been released after six months in jail.
While there is no legal provision to keep high-ranking officials in separate detention centres when they are arrested, authorities granting them special facilities is not uncommon. Law enforcement officials say VIP detainees expect preferential treatment while in police custody.
Among those is former Kosi Province minister Lila Ballav Adhikari, who was arrested from Biratnagar on 10 November over his alleged involvement in human trafficking and brought to Kathmandu. Adhikari had flown to Japan without government approval with three individuals on 29 October to attend a cultural conference, but had been sent back to Nepal from Narita.&nbsp;
His three companions were arrested at Kathmandu airport upon their arrival, but Adhikari was able to exit unscathed from the VIP lounge. Adhikari had resigned as the Kosi Province Minister for Internal Affairs and Law when it became public that his companions had been taken into custody, and was himself arrested shortly after. He has since been cleared by the courts.
Throughout his detention, Adhikari was kept separately from other inmates. Senior Superintendent of Police (SSP) Basant Rajouri, head of the Bhadrakali complex, says that while there is no separate detention area for VIPs, some detainees are kept separately depending on the nature of their crime.
However, sources say that arrangements were made for retired judges and others to visit Adhikari frequently worked at the office of a Deputy Superintendent of Police (DSP) during his time in custody.&nbsp;
“He used to constantly pester the authorities to let him sit outside in the sun, and to be able to use the police officer’s shower area,” added an officer.
Adhikari was released on 25 November after the government prosecutor’s office decided not to charge him in a move that was seen to expose the government’s double standards.
Over at Kathmandu’s Dilli Bazar Prison, former Kist Bank CEO Kamal Gyawali emerges from his prison cell into the courtyard of the prison’s ‘Ka (क)’ block every morning with a thick book in his hands, ready to give his daily sermon.
With his long beard, Gyawali, who is serving a prison sentence for banking fraud, looks the part of a religious guru as he implores his rapt listeners to “walk the right path, abandon bad thoughts and turn to scripture and spirituality”.&nbsp;
Afterward, the attendees gather to discuss politics and current affairs. Inmates at his daily sermons at the prison include other high-profile detainees, including former MP Ichchha Raj Tamang, who is in jail for money laundering and cooperatives fraud, former joint secretary Chudamani Sharma, who was convicted of corruption, as well as NC leader Chandra Bahadur Lama and Krishna Bahadur Upreti of the UML both of whom are on trial for embezzling billions of rupees.
Victims of the cooperatives scam that former lawmaker Tamang was involved in have made trips to the prison and requested visits, but he has refused to meet with any of them.
“Tamang often complains that the state has prevented him from returning the money to the victims by locking him up,” says a police officer at the Dili Bazar jail.
“All you hear every day from the VIP prisoners is that they have been framed,” adds the officer. “No one admits that they were involved in misdeeds.”
But while most high-profile prisoners complain about prison conditions, one exception is former provincial lawmaker Deepak Manange, who is serving a sentence at Dilli Bazar Jail for attempted murder.
“He is the happiest prisoner here,” says a warden. “Unlike the others, he doesn’t claim to have been framed, in fact he doesn’t seem to care that he is in prison.”
Manange is detained in the ‘Kha (ख)’ block of the prison complex, which he renovated at his own expense. The block previously housed female prisoners, but Manange used his influence to transfer them elsewhere. He faces no shortage of visitors, who range from political leaders to people from the underworld.
Along with Manange, other well-known prisoners in this block include Nepal Telecom Managing Director Sunil Poudel, and former executive director of the Surakshan Printing Centre Bikal Poudel, who are serving time for corruption.
Former prisoners at Dilli Bazar prison include ex-ministers Khum Bahadur Khadka and Shyam Sundar Gupta, NC leader Ganesh Lama, Maoist MP Balkrishna Dhungel, Nagarik Unmukti Party leader Resham Chaudhary, as well as former IGs Ramesh Chand Thakuri, Om Bikram Rana, and Hem Bahadur Gurung.
Section 54 of Nepal’s Prison Act assigns each prison’s internal administration the
responsibility of governing its prisoners, which means the more favourable the jail management is, the more comfortable it is for prisoners.
Dilli Bazar prison has been the prison of choice for many high-ranking prisoners, especially those convicted of white collar crimes, due to its more accommodating administrators. The prison, which has the capacity to house 700 inmates, is also less crowded than other jails.
Anuj Bhattarai, spokesperson of the Department of Prison Management, says that there is no legal classification in Nepal for felons to be assigned prisons based on the nature of their crimes.
“That Dilli Bazar Jail has a higher number of prisoners convicted of crimes like corruption is most likely a coincidence,” says Bhattarai. “There is no provision for influential people to be able to choose where they will be incarcerated.”&nbsp;
Translated by Shristi Karki from the Nepali original published in himalkhabar.com

What Nepal’s VIP prisoners do in jail

If you were raised in Nepal, you must have picked up its unique set of vocabulary: आन्दोलन, चक्का जाम, बन्द, राँके जुलुस, आफ्नो मान्छे, हाम्रो दल, कर्फु and many more words connoting political protest.
We became familiar with the acrid smell of burning tyres, and eyes smarting from tear gas. And yet, everyone speaks of another revolution in the making. Not by desire, but by suffocation.
We heard speeches about नयाँ नेपाल, but the New Nepal never arrived. The governance system changed, but it did not reflect on people’s lives — except for those close to centres of power. The state is still unreachable and is not bothered about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/matter-of-life-and-debt">victims of loan sharks</a>, cooperative scams and other injustices.
Politicians continue to speak in sound bites, but fail to deliver. They have mastered the game of pointing fingers towards an external enemy and convincing people that they are never at fault. The political narrative is so disconnected from the actual analysis of the problem that suffocation doesn’t go away after every revolution.
No genuine effort has been made to deliver at all, which is why there is a palpable sense of disillusionment in the air forcing us to seek another revolution, even if Nepal may not be able to afford it.
How has the current system successfully held power, even if the public is deeply frustrated? How is it that for three decades we continue to be led by the same faces, who have time and again, proved to us that they may be great politicians but not national leaders?
<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/improving-internet-governance-in-nepal">My experience at the epicentre of politics</a> has led me to identify three cultures that have enabled political parties to keep a tight hold on power: acceptance, silence and dependency.
We accept things the way they are. We use fatalistic phrases like “नेपालमा यस्तै हो” or “नेपालको कानुन दैब जानुन”. While this resilience enables us to rise back up from devastating calamities, it is also a reason for our compliance with the status quo.
Despite so many ‘revolutions’ that have led to significant reforms, these phrases keep getting reinforced, to the point that the upcoming generations have made it their lingo.&nbsp;
This acceptance is not a symbol of law-abiding citizens, but citizens living in fear of those in power, unable to ask the whys and why-nots.
Innovation suffocates in this culture of acceptance of the status quo. This is manifested in remarks like “but we don’t have any laws for this,” or “we don’t have the capacity to implement this”. An innovator or entrepreneur therefore has to spend that energy to become a political lobbyist, often educating and convincing the bureaucracy.&nbsp;
Remember when locally assembled <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/designed-and-made-in-nepal">Yatri motorbikes</a>, despite having willing customers, had to suffer to secure license numbers because of a lack of regulations? Instead of creating new laws, the government kept chanting the “We will promote Nepal-made goods” mantra, leaving entrepreneurs in a labyrinth of bureaucracy. The weight of acceptance of the law lies heavily on innovators. Fatalism is a tactic used by those in power to generate mass fear in society.
When we accept, we become silent. This is a pervasive phenomenon. We are trained to keep quiet, lest we ruffle feathers, burn bridges, or not get the help we need in future. We know, yet we don’t speak.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/bureaucratic-hurdles-in-researching-nepals-bureaucracy">Bureaucratic hurdles in researching Nepal's bureaucracy</a>, Daniel W Edwards
Here is one example: the 2021 census shows that the number of baby boys born for every 100 baby girls is 112. This is a clear indication of female foeticide because of boy preference in society.
Despite such horrifying realities, there is finger-pointing within the government between the Ministry of Health and Population with the Ministry of Home Affairs. At the citizen level, we know those who are involved in killing girls. Yet, we don’t speak up. The Nepal Medical Council reports state that despite this gender imbalance at birth, there is no indication of any action.
But why would anyone speak against one's own fraternity, no matter how vile the act is?
When we accept and keep quiet, we become dependent on those who yield power. From getting our government procedure completed on time to getting transfers, to accessing any of our legally protected rights as well, we are forced to depend on our networks of चिनेको मान्छे people we know by blood, village, relations, political affiliation.
The culture of dependency has been the established way in Nepal. If you drive a two-wheeler or four-wheeler, and you get into a small accident, you will be asked to sort it yourself, dialing up the most powerful person you know. It becomes a competition of who knows who.
Recently I was told that there were calls from the Ministry of Health and Population and another from the Prime Minister's Office for just one medical position in a private hospital. Each was pushing its own candidate. Guess which candidate got the position.&nbsp;
The dependency of people is not on the laws or the state, it is with people in power, a reliance on the network of somebody who knows somebody, including those not officially in power.
These cultures are deeply ingrained in our heads, and in society. Collectively they form a vicious circle that helps those in power to retain power. This is not the society we want to live in.
Then, what do we do as a collective to break away from this? How do we break away from the cultures of acceptance and silence that have created this dependency? What can we do to ensure that our children do not have to learn the jargon of आन्दोलन before they learn about the state?
These are the cultures political parties need to shed rather than use them to perpetuate their power. This is what <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/an-alternative-to-alternative-politics-in-nepal">alternative politics</a> needs to be about.
Sumana Shrestha is a member of Parliament’s Education, Health and Information Technology parliamentary committee and represents the Rastriya Swatantara Party.

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