On a black motorcycle, the Indian model Bajaj “Pulsar,” on the Baglung Rajmarg road north of Pokhara, trying to concentrate on riding on the left side of the road, & avoiding the chaotic traffic & threading bicycles & dusty fruitcarts & cows & goats & water buffaloes. Everything stops for a Maoist demonstration. Baking under the sun, families with umbrellas, mostly cheerful, some zealous kids waving red flags, cars with megaphones. The gung ho Maoists seized power & became the ruling party in democratic Nepal in 2008. A few skinny soldiers, overheated in dirty blue-camo gear & bullet-proof shields, escort alongside. I smoke one clove cigarette. Above the Seti River, in the garbage-strewn grass, I urinate. The river is grey, silty. Boys are fishing. One is waving up to us, yelling “Hello! Hello!” Wait, he’s not waving, he’s giving us the finger, & making an X with his arms. What does the X mean? At the Pema Ts’al Sakya Tibetan monastery, near the awesome foggy Annapurna Himalayas, the monk Ngawang sits under a tree in simple red & yellow robes reading a Nepali newspaper. He takes us on a tour of the classrooms. The monastery is new, constructed in 2005. Their temple is still under construction. Ngawang’s lama yells down to us in a cowboy hat from the temple roof, saying that we should stay in their guest house. Small bald children run back & forth on the tiles, over the Endless Knot design. Exams are just over. On one of the chalkboards, a single word remains: “LUCK.” Just after dusk, at the Phewa Lake at Pokhara, the last boats are floating back. We are smoking. The darkness is filled with creepers & a stuttering generator. Fireflies drift past at eye level, small silent souls. On the morning bus back to Katmandu, dehydrated & headachy from dust & heat & carbon monoxide, we stop for lunch at the Blue Heaven Restaurant. Buffet-eaters feast on Dal Bhat for 250 rupees. We munch on sour cream & onion chips & a coke, at a seat above a river. On the sandy shoal below, a dark naked woman struggles slowly to pull on her pants. Two boys point down at her, roll their eyes & walk off. She pours sand over her black hair. As our bus pulls away, she arrives at the restaurant, breasts flapping loosely in her unbuttoned shirt. Tourists with Gilligan hats & cameras & orange drinks back away from her, as if from a grim apparition. She is about eighteen. The diesel bus labours uphill. I fall asleep, panting.

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