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Outside Magazine September 2001

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Mountain Kingdom (cont.)

By first light there is not a single person left on the field. I wander over the barren saddle of the mountains, wondering if the 10,000 chanting peasants were a dream, but the proof is on the ground, the dust still imprinted with the shapes of their missing bodies.

The guerrillas' philosophy too is ghostly. So far we've had a propaganda massage without getting to ask any questions ourselves. Finally, at 10 a.m., with cold clouds blowing in, I am summoned to the schoolhouse, where the entire gang is assembled for a press conference. Gore-Tex, Strong Man, some Maoist schoolteachers, and several vice-flunkies are lined up on benches.

I sit on my bench, scuff my feet in the dirt, and finally ask the question I should have asked the crowd yesterday: How many people must die? The guerrillas like to cite the Shining Path as their fellow travelers in the Maoist cause. I point out that 30,000 people have died in Peru, without a Red victory. If that many people die in Nepal, will the revolution still be justified?

Yes, they all nod immediately. The true face of the revolution at last. "To protect a whole thing," a schoolteacher says, "a part can be damaged. It is the rule of nature."

Comrade Strong Man elaborates: "A big part of the people here believe it is not necessary to solve Nepal's problems with violence." He brushes aside this natural reluctance. "We clear their mind of this idea," he says. "The people's war is necessary."

They dismiss offers of peace talks from the government, tricks designed to fool the people, weaken the country, and deliver it to the control of India. Ominously, Gore-Tex vows a "protracted war in rural areas," and "armedÉurban rebellion," the first hint of a guerrilla war in Kathmandu.

They descend quickly into jargon. They are for dialectical materialism and against reactionary power. Chairman Mao's Cultural Revolution, in which mobs beat "class enemies" through the streets, was good, and will be imitated as soon as they come to power. Colonialism, feudalism, imperialism, capitalism, and revisionism are all bad. Peasants are good and politicians are bad. On this animal farm, four legs are good and two legs are bad.

Their policy about foreign tourists is clear: The more, the better.

"Not any foreign person is to be disturbed," Gore-Tex announces, as Strong Man nods. They actually invite trekkers to visit their areas—with permission—because they believe Westerners will be seduced by Maoism and spread the revolution to Europe and America. It's a Red Tourism offensive. "We will inspire them to flourish the same movement in their country!" Strong Man boasts.

Strong Man presents me with several pages ripped from his notebook. This document begins with an error-riddled manifesto—"the C.P.N. (Moist) is guided the ideology of Marxism-Leninnism-Maosim against the reactionary power of Nepal which is preserved by Indian expansionis and world imperialist"—and continues with an executive summary of the press conference, which bears no relation to any of the questions I asked.

Q. How do you face Royal Army.
A. We will face it with the power of the people.
Q. How do you forward the production.
A. We forward it with the help of people.
Q. How do you bring about indigenous society.
A. We bring it according to Lenin's ideology.
Q. How do you forward Negotiation with the government.
A. We are fighting total war.

As we talk, an early tendril of the monsoon season blows in, a thick, blasting rain of tropical density and high-altitude chill. We exchange endless good-byes in the dripping hut, while guards are found to escort us out of the base area.

During the wait, Strong Man teaches me the secret Red Army handshake (fore-fingers, pinkies, and thumbs meet in a tri-angle; then rotate on the thumbs into a soul shake). A dozen guerrillas crowd around to give me the shake. Overwhelmed by emotion, I hand out the remaining light sticks.

In a sopping-wet ceremony, Gore-Tex drops more flowers around our necks and rubs more tikka on our foreheads. He gives all of us, including the Nepali journalists, sealed airmail envelopes. I naively assume that these contain a letter, or a certificate, or some propaganda, and stuff mine into my pocket, ready to get moving. As I walk out the door, I notice that the Chairman's Gore-Tex coat has soaked through completely. It's as fake as he is.

The descent is a hallucination. We set off into howling rain, speed-hiking hour after hour in a downpour. We're still wearing our lunch clothes from a week before; our raingear consists of garbage bags. We trudge through mud, ford streams, and cross cliffs on slate paths two feet wide. At times the guerrilla walking point disappears into fog and mist. Landscapes open abruptly, and worlds disappear between glances. There are few people on the trails. A herder driving goats and cows stands still and looks askance; in one barefoot hamlet, we draw the entire population in a shy, silent crowd. A patrol of Red Army soldiers hustles past, without even a lal salaam. Bells tinkle in the distance, and strange howls float down from the slopes. One long day, and we are out of topmost Maoist country. Climbing now with night coming on, we hit the road and hitch a ride into Libang.

At some point in here I drag the crumbling, soggy envelope from my pants pocket, slide a finger down the seal, and discover that it contains money. Not a letter, not a certificate, not a propaganda flyer, but a bribe. About $5 worth of rupees. Now I'm as dirty as everyone else in Nepal.

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