Many years ago, aged 19, I travelled alone out of Kathmandu where I had been living as a bum for some months, my destination being the ancient temple complex of Bhaktapur. On the way, my tuk-tuk driver stopped at a small settlement to buy some bottled water. As I refreshed myself with a cold drink, I looked around at the little village beyond the staring faces of gathering residents. I decided that Bhaktapur could wait a day; I wanted to stay the night there in that village. With the locals, I communicated with big smiles, positive sounding noises, and the universal sign for ‘good’: giving a thumbs-up. Soon, my tuk-tuk driver was heading back to the capital without me, and I had found somewhere to sleep. Some villagers led me up a hill at whose foot their primitive buildings were strewn. A little way up, I was brought to a small hut wherein the elders sat.
