Some people travel for pleasure, others for a look at the world. Because I travel for the challenges that are part of any journey I wound up in Katmandu, capital of Nepal.

Before the return flight back to Katmandu my traveling companion, Margaret, and I had spent twenty-one hours on an overnight Express train from Udaipur to New Delhi. The only available culinary delights for us were our bananas, tea biscuits and a tiny cup of chai, a delightfully spicy, milk-laced tea purchased for us by the Gorka soldier who shared our compartment.

Austerity and hard seats didn't stop once we got off the train. After a ten-hour wait at the Delhi Airport, my stomach revolted. Repeatedly I gave two rupees to the washroom attendant, in a grayed sari, so I could dash inside and throw-up. Later, the one hour flight to Katmandu seemed like a dream except we kept being startled by a drunk Nepalese man in front of us making suggestive remarks to the flight attendant.

It was with a dazed delight that we faced the Napalese Immigration Officers after midnight, rain splattering on the roof above us. After fumbling through the paperwork and money changing that allowed entry into Nepal, we paid a taxicab to take us to our hotel in the Lazimpath area of Katmandu.

The battered and bruised taxi certainly had seen better times. Its one windshield-wiper flopped spasmodically back and forth on the cracked windshield as we tried to leave the Airport. After the driver ran up the curb of the parking lot, I felt that the intense shutter meant the taxi might dissolve into pieces. However, the cab drove on and soon we were going down old cobbled streets, past dark buildings with their shutters closed up. Not even the embers of the streetside cooking fires were glowing. Finally we reached the business area where we could drive on pavement.

How different the empty streets were from the day we left Katmandu. On that afternoon busses, trucks, cars, taxis, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, bicycles, and pedestrians tumbled forward, many of them coughing black smoke. It immediately came clear that when you entered a street in Katmandu, there was one rule: the biggest vehicle had the right of way.

But now our tattered taxi was a lonely specter on the streets with no other vehicle to challenge. I thought the empty world must be due to the lateness of the hour. After we drove up to the hotel, the taxi driver banged for a few minutes on the large black metal gate. The rosy brick hotel with its bagaicha, or garden courtyard, was enclosed by ten foot high brick walls. The only entrances for vehicles and people were the two six foot high black iron gates. Eventually, the night watchman scurried out. I wondered why there was such a need of security - of preventing the outside world from breaking in.

We tumbled out of the taxi and went inside. I looked forward to returning to this friendly, family hotel that was away from the touristy Thamel area. I stood, with Margaret behind me, at the Front Desk in the large lobby now lit with one dim light. My assignment in our travels was to look after hotel reservations and taxis. I had reserved a room over two weeks ago when we had left Nepal for India. After our last two days of intensive traveling I wanted to quickly register and arrange an early morning taxi. The Front Desk Clerk, dressed in slacks, white shirt and blue tie, was alert, attentive and smiling even though it was 2:00 in the morning.

I said wearily, "I need to order a taxi. We must be back to the International Airport before 7:00."

"That's impossible, madam," the young man responded. "Katmandu is shut down for two days with the Maoist demonstrations. Over the fuel price increase, you know."

He whipped out an official piece of paper in front of us. We read that the Maoist insurgents had stepped up their conflict with the elected Government over increased fuel prices. During the two days there were to be citywide demonstrations and a strike of all motor vehicles, both business and personal. According to the date on the letter, it had started at midnight--just two hours ago.

Wandering through my fatigued brain was a simple thought. "If there was a strike of all vehicles, how had a cab brought us at 1:30 from the Airport?" A germ on an idea began to percolate. I slowly read the official memo that said the Government did not want tourists' travel plans to be interfered with. All tourists needing to get to the Airport for an outbound flight were to catch a rickshaw down to New Road to a airline building. Rickshaws, being person-powered, were exempt from the strike. On New Road, a bus, protected by soldiers, would be available to take tourists to the Airport, starting at 6:30 a.m., and continuing to the last departure flight.

The Clerk stated kindly but empathetically, "See! You can get a rickshaw in the morning and go to New Road. All you need to do is just go out to the corner and hail one."

"A rickshaw! My friend needs three rickshaws just for herself and her luggage! She has been shopping for two whole months. There are not enough rickshaws for tourists in Katmandu on any normal day. You know as well as I do that it's so busy now that there isn't a hotel room left vacant in the city."

When no motor vehicles can move, traveling from point A to B can be challenging so there had to be other alternatives thrown in. My idea blossomed into words. "We will leave for the Airport before sunrise. We will leave at 5:00. Can the hotel's Courtesy Van be hired to take us?" I asked.

"Oh no, ma'am. We could not do that. Vehicles are not allowed on the roads. We cannot drive you. You need to get a rickshaw," the Clerk said in his perfect English but as if speaking to a child.

I persisted because we did not have a confirmed flight at 9:00 out of Katmandu to Hong Kong. I realized that we had to be first at the counter to get on that flight. I was also aware that, in many countries that I had traveled through, any rule could be broken in certain situations. Assistance from a local person made bending of a rule easier. So I tried another tack.

I queried politely, "Can you try to get a taxi for us that will drive us to the Airport at 5:00?"

"All right, I'll try," the Night Clerk murmured, as if afraid someone else would hear. "But, you know, taxis are not supposed to be on the roads even now."

I knew that there were a few taxis on the road because we had just taken one from the Airport. Past experience made me confident that one might be willing to cart my friend, her three large bags, my bags and me back to the airport for a price before the sun rose over the Himalayas. Darkness would provide a veil of safety. I knew that the demonstrations didn't usually start before dawn but I was not sure whether there might be police or Maoist insurgents roaming now in Katmandu.

Immediately, the young Clerk called inside the Night Watchman, who was wearing a heavy coat against the cold night, and spoke to him softly in Nepalese. The Watchman quickly went out into the blackness of the night. I heard the outside gate opening and closing. I was determined to wait in the dusky lobby until he returned.

In an exhausted voice, Margaret whispered to me, "Are you sure you are not over-reacting? The Airport doesn't open until 7:00 and we will get there before 6:00. I don't want to stand and wait in the cold for over an hour. Maybe we should make a later time for our pick-up."

"But Margaret," I said, " our only hope is to get there before light - before the sun is up. Otherwise the streets will be blocked by demonstrators. I remember the four or five times that I have been in Katmandu when the city's traffic has been snarled to a standstill by demonstrations. Also, we don't know what the demonstrators might do to us. Getting there is the only way that we have to make this flight home. I don't know about you but, after two months of traveling, I just want to get home."

My friend sat down on the bench by the courtyard window to wait. I went over to sit beside her. Tension loosened my tongue and I chattered aimlessly with Margaret. Then my eye caught a Katmandu Post newspaper on the table and I picked it up to read. Soon I had information to share.

"Margaret, do you know what? Listen, I've read that since 1996 Maoist and Communist insurgents have been fighting the Government's Police and Army. There have been during the last two years daily attacks on police stations in eastern Nepal, and shooting of individuals, such as a principal of a private school.

This paper says that 1500 people have been killed and millions of rupees worth of property have been destroyed in the last two years. Remember four weeks ago the Government significantly raised the price of fuel and immediately the Maoists organized large demonstrations against the fuel increases. Traffic in Katmandu was snarled to a standstill over a number of days. Also the paper reports a car bombing and shooting of a man this past week right in Katmandu. I am worried that things have heated up far too quickly for our own safely."

My agitation over our situation rose further and I went across the dim lobby. The minutes clicked by. I stood silently by the Registration counter while the Clerk re-arranged paper behind the Registration desk. Finally the Night Watchmen came in and spoke to the Clerk. I was taut and alert. Past experience had taught me the importance of bargaining. I would lose either "face", or bargaining power, if I gave in too quickly to the price demanded.

"He's found someone who is willing to take you. At 5:00 o'clock," the Clerk stated.

"How much?" I asked.

"700 rupees."

"700 rupees! That's more than double what I paid for the night taxi just over an hour ago. Three hundred rupees," I countered.

The Night Clerk slowly shook his head and said, "He won't do it for under 700 rupees. He is not supposed to be on the road. You know that."

I looked over to Margaret sitting quietly by the window. My gut churned, wanting desperately to escape this crises. I really didn't have any option but to pay the 700 rupees. Whatever loss of face. As I re-gathered my sanity, I converted the rupees to my own currency, where 700 rupees was about $14.00 Canadian. It then became clear that a heavy bargaining session was not wise.

"OK, I'll pay."

"I need the money now.

"What? For what reason?"

"To give to the taxi driver. So that he will take you."

"What guarantee do I have that he will be here at 5:00? If you give him the money now he could just disappear with it."

Straightening his back, the Clerk said, "Oh, he will be here!"

I was ready to explode from fatigue and tension. I said firmly, "I want you to keep the money, not give it to him. And I want a receipt that I have paid you 700 rupees for the taxi fare."

The Clerk wrote a note of receipt on a tissue-thin hotel statement sheet. I gave him the rupees. But I wasn't finished yet. I stated, "We reserved this room but we will only use it for two hours before leaving. What is the best price that you can give us?" I was thinking that there still had to be some way to save face. After some negotiations, the price was reduced a small amount - enough to placate me.

Finally, with the details looked after, we carried our bags up three flights of stairs in the light of a single 10-watt bare bulb and down along the hall. Nothing could be seen. I fumbled with the old key in the door and then we dragged our luggage into the room for hopefully two hours of sleep.

However, sleep eluded me. My head roared with possibilities. Would the taxi driver arrive? Would the demonstrators be on the streets before sunrise? Would the Police stop vehicles? What would the driver do if stopped by the Maoists or the Police? Would we be thrown out of the cab into the streets if we were stopped? And what would the Maoists do to two middle-aged North American women travelers?

As my brain churned and my stomach clenched, I listened forlornly to the sounds of the night. An occasional vehicle passed by. In tune with my fears, the minutes crawled by. At 4:15 I heard a large group of people tramp by. Ten minutes later, another group marched by talking excitedly. My body grew tense. Realizing that sleep was impossible, I rose and bobbed around in a cold shower. Unfortunately hot water, heated by the hotel's solar panels, was only available after four in the afternoon and lasted until the tank was used. I dressed by the pale bathroom light. I awoke Margaret and, at 4:45, we, accompanied by our luggage, were waiting in the lobby. Once I saw a light in the kitchen I ordered coffee. As we drank that hot brew, I asked if others had left earlier.

The Clerk replied, "One man was picked up by a taxi at 4:20." "This man here," he gestured, " is waiting to pick up a pilot who stayed with us." The minutes ticked by as we waited for the taxi. Finally at 5:01 a.m. there was pounding on the outside gate. The Clerk went out. He came in and said quietly to me, "I just gave him the money."

I said my thanks. Margaret whispered to me, "Words do make an impact."

Walking outside I saw a squat, green frog-like auto with four wheels. This taxi was a shade better than the night cab. The Tibetan driver wore a black toque pulled around his face, a brown heavy jacket and jeans. His breath puffed white trails in the cold predawn air as we loaded. Every inch of space was filled with luggage - the trunk, the front passenger seat, the space between our seats and our laps.

After thanking the two men again, we took off in the darkness. Only one other taxicab was on the road but groups of people were walking. We turned off the main road into the warren of fifteenth century, narrow, cobbled streets. In the foggy morning dusk, people huddled around smoking fires to warm themselves and women made breakfast tea. Groups of men clustered on corners. I knew women did not travel in the dark hours. My stomach twitched. We came to a hill and what we saw convinced us that we had done the right thing.

A long row of rickshaws was slowly moving one behind another up the side of the rutted hilly road. Each rickshaw either had one or two tourists in the seat or the tourists were pushing the back of the rickshaw while their piles of luggage rode in the passenger seat. The law was that bicycle rickshaws were not allowed to go to the Airport but, for the right price, it seemed that, in this part of the world, any rule could be broken.

I whispered to Margaret, "I knew that if I had this idea of an early escape to the Airport, then at least a thousand others would have it too. I wouldn't be surprised if they opened the Airport early because employees likely would come to work before the light of dawn. A job that pays well is very important to anyone and, in Nepal, well paid jobs are treasured."

When we arrived at Tribhuvan International Airport, hundreds of people were already waiting quietly in lines surrounded by Nepalese soldiers. Fighting the touts, the baggage carriers, who wanted to grab our bags, we loaded our luggage onto carts and joined one of the long lines of silent tourists and Napalese businessmen in the dark stillness that swirled with fog. Soldiers poked their guns at individuals for no apparent reasons.

At 6:00 the doors were unlocked and small groups of people were admitted. Within thirty minutes we were third place in a chaotic line at the airlines counter for the flight to Hong Kong. It took another thirty minutes of argument to get our seats. A two-hour wait in the terminal was followed by a thorough luggage and discomforting body search by a women guard who also confiscated my knapsack's metal-webbed protective bag.

Another hour's delay on the tarmac for the swirling fog to dissipate ensued before we began to move. As we flew by the majestic Mount Everest we lifted our cups in celebration of a leave-taking that turned into a surprise, a mind-threatening challenge, apprehension and, finally, a belated escape.

Note: Upon reaching home in Canada, I read a travel advisory in the newspaper that Canadian visitors and residents in Nepal should avoid demonstrations, rallies, and road travel, and maintain a high level of personal security awareness. With this official notice, the reality of our situation was confirmed.

About the Photos:
Top: One of the ways to get out of the city.
Middle: Thamel on a non-strike day.
Bottom: Our air view of Mt. Everest.