A Kalashnikov rifle weighs approximately 4.8 kilograms loaded. The young boy who held it was not more than 12 years old. He held it at waist height with the sights set on me. His body was small and weak and I could tell his muscles were straining under the weight of the rifle. We were well into the first hour of our captivity and the boy was getting bored and tired. Though he was a recruited Maoist rebel fighting a people’s war of liberation against the Government of Nepal and its king, he was also a child.
In the distance a soccer game started and an errant kick sent the ball bouncing toward my captor and I. The ball settled next to the kayak I was using as a backrest. The boy looked at the ball. Then he looked at me. Once again his gaze shifted to the ball. The muzzle of the rifle lowered a little as he bit his lower lip and contemplated the situation. About 30 seconds passed. He then leaned the AK-47 assault rifle against the plastic of my kayak, picked up the ball, and ran off to the join the soccer match. He was still more a boy than a soldier.
In my naïve search for adventure and work I landed in Nepal during the civil war. It was September 2005 and the war was in its ninth year. More than 10 000 people had already been killed and some 100 000 had been internally displaced. A third of these casualties occurred the previous year, 2004. I was 23 years old and had less than a year of experience working in the adventure travel industry. I knew nothing of the war before I arrived in the Himalayas.
* * *
The armed struggle began with simultaneous attacks on remote police stations and district headquarters. The initial response by the government was to mobilize the Nepal Police Force to contain the insurgency. The Royal Nepal Army was not involved in direct fighting. Controversy grew through the years as casualties rose and the conflict persisted. Pressure increased from the international community, especially the United States, India, and the European Union, under the aegis of containing the threat of global terrorism, to put an end to the conflict. After the 2001 royal family massacre, the newly crowned king, Gyanendra, entered peace talks with the Maoists. The talks failed and a national state of emergency was declared. The Royal Nepal Army moved into the front lines, newly equipped with American and Belgian rifles and Indian materiel. The king maintained the façade of a constitutional monarchy in order to placate his newly acquired allies. During this time of foreign support for the Royal Nepal Army, more than a third of the casualties of the decade-long civil war occurred. Foreign military aid finally seized when King Gyanendra dissolved parliament in February 2005 and assumed absolute power in the country. Intense fighting and civil unrest continued well into 2005. In August, both sides agreed on a three-month ceasefire in lieu of the upcoming tourist season.
By the time I arrived in September 2005 that tourism balloon held very little air. According to iExplore, an international adventure travel company, before the war started Nepal was the 10th most popular adventure destination in the world. That ranking had dropped to 27th because of the conflict. Trekkers and rafters were heeding the advice of agencies like the US State Department who red flagged Nepal and considered it among the same ranks as Libya, Syria, and Iran. I never looked into the dangers of traveling in Nepal. I knew there was a conflict that arose many years back and that it had settled down as of recently. My desire to go to Nepal overwhelmed and blinded my judgment. Luckily there was a ceasefire called for the same period of time I’d be staying in the country.
* * *
Mahindra was a farmer in Western Nepal. He was a short man with a weathered face and thick, strong hands. Years of hard work had made him look about 10 years older than he actually was. I met Mahindra while working on a rafting trip on the Karnali River. The Karnali River had not been run commercially for several years because western Nepal was a hotspot of civil war conflict. The ceasefire allowed for us to enter that zone and explore one of the greatest river runs in Asia. On day 4 of the 10-day float we stopped on a beach for lunch. The beach happened to be on Mahindra’s property and he was there working his land.
Like all Nepalese, Mahindra was friendly, welcoming, and smiling. He joined us for lunch and through Raju and Bishnu, two local raft guides on the trip who translated for the international clients and I, we learned about Mahindra and how he was affected by the conflict.
“They came one day three years ago,” Mahindra started to say as the smile left his face. “Many men came with guns. They said they were Maoists and that they were fighting for the People’s Republic of Nepal. They were hungry so I gave them food. They said they were tired so I let them rest in my home. Then they asked me if I was going to fight with them. I said no because I had to stay and farm the land and look after my family. Instead of me they took my son. I could not fight all of them. I have not seen him since that day.”
Mahindra’s story silenced the crowd. His boy was only 16 years old. Mahindra had two other children that helped him with the crops and the animals. One was a boy of 12 and the other a girl of 8. He prayed that the Maoists “would leave them out of the conflict.”
According to Mahindra, to achieve their goals of removing the king and establishing a secular communist republic, the Maoists resorted to underage recruitment, particularly of young students, usually between 12 and 16 years old. Human Rights Watch confirmed this assumption in their report about the use of child soldiers during the civil war. Mahindra’s experience was typical to that of many families. In areas firmly under Maoist control, especially in the west and far west of the country, they employed a “one family, one child” program whereby each family had to provide a recruit or face severe punishment. Once they were recruited, children were kept in the ranks through fear and punishment. Any child who considered escape also had to consider the consequences not just for them but reprisals for their family.
Children assumed an important role in the Maoist strategy. Most children served in local militias, but others held positions in the Maoists’ core military wing, the People’s Liberation Army. Children were used as soldiers, messengers, cooks, porters, and suppliers. Regardless of their role, all children underwent military training regarding explosives, combat, firearms, and military tactics. The Maoists tried to make up their shortcomings in numbers through the recruitment and use of child soldiers.
Our meeting with Mahindra was not our first encounter with the direct impacts of the civil war. The 18-hour drive from Kathmandu to Western Nepal shed light on which territory belongs to which side. The Kathmandu Valley was controlled by the government, the police, and the Royal Nepal Army. Checkpoints, police barricades, army patrols, curfews, barbed wire, censored media, and lots of armed personnel lent credit to the government’s superior position. The west is much different. There were fewer police patrols and army fortifications. There were many signs posted in support of the Maoists. In one town I even saw a red flag stamped with the old Soviet hammer and sickle. Though you could not see the Maoists you assumed they were there. Close to the main roads and small towns they did not wear uniforms, but they were there.
Driving to the put-in point of the Karnali River we had our first direct encounter with the insurgents. On a narrow mountain road two men with rifles stepped in front of our bus and forced it to stop. Both wore army fatigues that were mixed and matched from various uniforms. One was middle aged and obviously the superior. The other was a teenager and the understudy. The latter carried the smaller of the two rifles. They approached the bus in a casual manner, climbed the steps into the passenger area and politely introduced themselves to the driver and the Nepali guides sitting up front. A casual conversation ensued and we told them where we were going and what we were doing.
“It has been a long time since a rafting trip has come to this part of the country,” the older of the soldiers remarked. He looked at the clients in the back and smiled. His smile was of a double nature. It looked as though he was genuinely happy to see us, on the one hand, but at the same time it contained a hint of greed, like he knew he was about to have himself a payday.
The older one did all the talking. The younger one stood at attention and listened. The conversation was between the older Maoist and the Nepali trip leader, Raju. It lasted for about 5 minutes. Afterwards Raju pulled me aside and explained the situation. He then asked me to tell the clients what was going on because he did not feel confident speaking about things of this nature in English.
“It appears we are trespassing on Maoist territory,” I began to explain to the group of 12 rafters. “These two men are Maoists and they are demanding that we pay a tribute to their cause in order to be able to proceed to the put-in.”
Maoists never targeted tourists directly during the civil war. They did ask that tourists passing through Maoist-held territory contribute financially to the communist cause. The cost of the tax would depend on your nationality and the area through which you were (tress) passing. Americans and Belgians would be asked to contribute the most because those were the two countries that supplied rifles to the Royal Nepal Army. Less visited areas would have a higher tax than an area like Annapurna, the most popular of all the trekking routes in Nepal. In exchange for a contribution to the People’s War one was given an official tax receipt by the United Revolutionary People’s Council of Nepal. These donations were usually given while a gun was very nearby.
The traveler was in a catch-22 situation. On the one hand, in order to pass to your desired destination you needed to pay a tax that was extorted by the show of force. On the other hand, if you did not pay that tax you were forced to retreat to where you came from thereby forfeiting your travel plans. Another predicament the traveler was forced into by the tax resulted from the receipt. On the one hand it would be the most unique souvenir you would take away from Nepal, while on the other hand, if you were caught by the police or the army with it, you could be arrested for supporting the enemy. And if you simply discarded the receipt you could be stopped at a later date by further Maoists and asked for proof of your contribution. Without the receipt one would have to pay the tax again.
Our group totaled 18 with the guides included. The Maoists proposed a deal: US$25 per client and the guides proceeded for free. We collected the money and were issued a receipt for the passage of 18 people into the Karnali District of Western Nepal.
“One more thing,” said the older of the two rebels after a brief consultation with the younger. “You will need an armed escort to the next village.”
Our Tata bus continued its way up the hill with our two new guests seated in the front seat behind the driver. In about 10 km we arrived at the next village and the two Maoists exited the bus and bid us an excellent journey. There was nothing on the road from the checkpoint to the village. I think it was just a means to get a free ride home.
* * *
One of the challenging aspects of running Himalayan rivers is that they are changing on a yearly basis with the passing of each monsoon season. Warm, moist air flows north from the Indian Ocean until it hits the Himalayas. The air is then forced up, cooled, and falls as either rain or snow on the mountains. This processes continues on an annual cycle starting in May and ending at the beginning of September. By the end of the monsoons, the Himalayan rivers are swollen to flood stages, each flowing chocolaty-brown instead of their usual bluish-green hue. Some rivers will expand in volume by over 100 times their natural flows. As the floodwaters push their way down the rivers they reshape the riverbed, erode the banks, and shift boulders. These forces sometimes wash away old rapids, form new rapids, or make existing rapids easier or more difficult to run.
Hakapur Rapid on the Sun Kosi River is an illustration of the powerful effects of change by the monsoon waters. Hakapur is located 65 kilometers from the put-in at Dolalghat. It is the hardest rapid on the river. It was formed man years ago by a rock fall on river right and a massive mudslide on river left. Boulders washed into the middle of this rapid from the nearby Likhu and Majhigua Kholas formed large ledges with serious holes. Hakapur has been changing ever since it was formed with the annual flood. Some years it is tamer than most and easily run. Other years it is more challenging and even unrunnable.
Hakapur is situated beside a village that lends its name to the rapid. Hakapur village is an important stopover on the longer trek into the Everest region and a popular resupply point for the Solu Khumbu region. That it is an important transport and supply hub made it a strategic location for the government to secure and the Maoists to fight for during the civil war.
After much deliberation and a long scout of the rapid we decided to portage. We had nothing to prove and the best sections of the river were still downstream of us. When we turned back towards the boats we noticed a large crowd had formed near the river left bank. It appeared as though the entire village had come out to watch the first rafting trip of the season. The crowd was a mix of men, women, and children.
I had mixed thoughts about the portage. Just because the rafts were not going to run the rapid did not mean that I could not kayak the rapid. The buzz of the crowd gave me a little extra confidence. I had seen the kayaking line through the rapid. I knew I could nail it. And when some clients unpacked their cameras and were looking at me knowing full well what was going through my mind a little extra Kodak courage pushed me over the edge of making my decision in favour of running the rapid.
“I’ll meet you at the bottom and come back to help with the boats,” I exclaimed at Raju, the trip leader for this Sun Kosi Expedition. I then ran off to get into my kayak before anyone could talk me out of doing it. Running a big rapid like Hakapur is just like having sex. Most of the fun is in the anticipation, and its over before you know it. I ran the rapid successfully.
When I reached the shore I was greeted by many villagers who were all smiles and cheers. One old man came up to me and insisted on shaking my hand. In broken English he said that he was very happy to see me go down the rapid. He continued to say that I was the first kayaker they saw since the accident last year.
“What accident?” I asked as I was getting out of my boat, dripping wet.
“Other man no come back,” replied the old man. My heart went up into my throat and my stomach screwed up into many knots. “Yes,” he continued, “that man dead.”
My attention was quickly brought to the abundance of children in the crowd. As I started to make my way back to the top of the rapid to help with portaging the boats and gear most of the youngsters followed. Most were asking for the usual “rupee, pen, sweet.” I asked if anyone spoke English and one little boy was brave enough to raise his hand.
“I speak English,” he said, as we continued along the rocks upstream.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“My name is Ram.”
“And why aren’t you and the other kids in school today, Ram?” It was mid morning on a Wednesday.
“School was canceled.”
“Why?”
“Our teacher is gone. He was taken away by the police this morning during the math lesson.”
“Really? What did he do?”
“They said that he was a rebel. That he was a Maoist. One of the dangerous ones that wants to take over the country.”
“And they just took him?”
“Yes. This is the second teacher we have lost this month. The Maoists took the first teacher three weeks ago. They said he was speaking bad things about them. We have not seen him since. I do not think we will see this teacher again either.”
Ram and I continued upstream until me met up with the rest of the rafting group. By this time Raju had hired some of the villagers to help carry the loaded rafts around the rapid. All the children insisted on helping as well. I met up with Raju and asked him if he had heard what had happened. He said he had and that it would be best that we move out of here quickly. We were not in any danger at the moment but this was a politically unstable and very sensitive area, and we still had more than 200 kilometers of river to run in the coming week.
The Hakapur experience combined with my encounters with Mahindra and the Karnali-Maoist duo verified for me, that despite there being a ceasefire in Nepal, the war was still extant. I was in a war zone. I still had not witnessed armed combat. I hoped that I would not have to. It was at this point that I started to fear a little more for my safety in this country while exploring its amazing rivers. My original naivety had worn off and the reality of the war had sunk in.
* * *
Basantapur is a hilltop village with a thriving bazaar that specializes in a variety of goods from yak-milk cheese to the millet used for a fermented drink called tumbba. It also acts as the main staging village for treks into eastern Nepal. The most famous of these treks is the route to Kanchenjunga’s base camp. After walking for four days along this route you reach the village of Dobhan and the starting point for the 6-day Tamur River expedition. The walk is one of the most scenic in Nepal. Trekkers walk along a 3000-meter high ridge with terrific views of Kanchenjunga to the east and Makalu and Everest to the west.
The trail along the ridge winds it way uphill from Basantapur to the village of Chauki where we camped the first night. The next day we walked up and down through forests of ancient moss-covered trees and sunlit meadows as far as Goufa Pokhari at the top of the ridge. Goufa Pokhari sits at 2980 meters. The small village is just north of a holy lake that sits precariously on the crest of the ridge. Our group arrived in the late afternoon and walked around the lake and through town then back towards the lake until we found our camp for the night.
The sight of a rafting expedition walking into town is not inconspicuous. Our team included 14 clients, 7 guides, and 53 Nepali porters who carried our rafting, kayaking, and camping gear for the 10-day expedition. The moving circus slowly arrived into camp and soon enough the local kids followed asking for the usual “rupee, pen, sweet.” Shortly after the kids came along the Maoists showed up. First there were one or two young soldiers who acted as scouts. They watched our actions, counted the numbers, and observed the general nature of the situation. Throughout their observations they rotated positions and personnel on a regular basis until the last of the porters arrived near to when the sun was starting to head for the western horizon and the Everest Massif.
We were not scared at first. There were only half a dozen sentries who watched us. Although they were armed, they kept their distance and let us continue with setting up camp. They did not pose a direct threat. As the sun started to make its way further into the western sky a commotion arose on the other side of the holy lake, where there seemed to be some sort of barracks structure.
The column of soldiers marched towards our camp in an arrogant yet sloppy manner. There were about 12 soldiers descending on our camp with firearms. Among the troops were several children and teenagers. At the same time the half dozen sentries squeezed their positions closer to our camp. Soon we were surrounded by a platoon of Maoist rebels. They took strategic positions so that no one was left uncovered. The clients, who were busy setting up tents and changing clothes, froze in their tracks. Some of the guides were setting up a camp kitchen. I was sitting near the camp kitchen fixing my Thermarest sleeping pad, which had received a puncture the night before.
There were no friendly greetings or smiles like in the encounter with the Karnali Maoists in the west. These eastern Maoists were stern, aggressive, unfriendly, and angry. Instead of the offer of handshakes and hellos, we were greeted with Kalashnikovs and grenades. We were told that we were trespassing, that we did not have permission to be in this part of the country, and that we must turn back immediately and return to Basantapur.
Looking down the barrel of an AK-47 rifle is a haunting experience, especially when your captor is no older than a teenager. You wonder, as you look deep down the 16-inch barrel of the gun, if this kid has been so indoctrinated that he’ll kill for his cause. Does he even know what the cause is? Does he know whom he is fighting for? Why isn’t he at home or in school? Who is forcing him to carry a gun everyday? Will he ever be a kid again? I sat, hostage of a pre-teen, for nearly an hour contemplating the situation. I could not hear what was being said between the leader of the Maoists and our trip leader, Raju. Even if I could I would not have understood the Nepali that was being spoken, or was it one of the 27 different languages and dialects that are found in this district.
Our clients, out of sheer boredom, had started kicking around a volleyball that we carry on our trips. At first it started as a few of them dribbling and kicking the ball in a circle. Then more joined into the pack and soon there was a game of 7 on 7 with 2 dry bags set on either side of the camp to act as goalposts.
The temptation was irresistible. You could see it in the eyes and fidgets of the younger soldiers. Sure they were disciplined and trained, but they were still kids. I wondered when was the last time they were allowed to play a simple game of soccer. Did they even have a soccer ball up here at 3000 meters?
The first to abandon his post was one of the original sentries. He had been there since we first arrived. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and joined into the game. Seeing that it was now 8 versus 7, one of the clients, Debra, an ophthalmologist from New York City, motioned for another of the sentries to join in. It did not take asking a second time to convince this one to join. He laid his rifle next to a tent and joined on to the team that was a man short. Afterwards two more joined. And after that two more. The field was getting crowded. The scene was unforgettable: an impromptu soccer match on a narrow field on a 3000-metre ridge with Everest and Makalu serving as the backdrop at sunset; a mix of armed and unarmed Maoist child-soldiers playing soccer alongside several western tourists.
My captor resisted the urge to drop his weapon and join the game longer than I expected. I think the Maoist in charge and his younger lieutenant were this young soldiers father and older brother. He did not want to disappoint. The urge to be a kid more than a solider overtook him when the errant kick landed the ball beside the two of us. He grabbed the ball and I was left leaning against my kayak with an AK-47 in reach.
I rose to my feet, ignored the weapon on the ground beside me, and wandered over to where the “grownups” were conversing. The original hostilities seemed to disappear as the game grew larger. The Maoist commander made the realization that his soldiers had abandoned their posts and their situation seemed to be compromised. Yet he still had his older men, with their guns drawn, to fall back on. He was not going to surrender this opportunity to make money.
I listened to the negotiations. I heard terms like, “$100 each person,” “turn around and go back,” “no rafting without paying,” “not supposed to be here,” “other donations do not count,” “different district, different payment.”
The head Maoist, a man in his early forties with short and stocky features, was determined to get money from us. “There is no way we are going rafting without paying the tax,” Raju told me, desperate for a little advice. The money being asked for was well beyond any amount we would carry for “additional expenses” on a rafting trip.
“Let’s ask the clients what they think,” I suggested. Raju explained to the headman that we needed some time to discuss the situation with the entire group. He agreed, and because it was already dark, said that he would return in the morning to collect the money. He called out to his platoon and they filed out, even the boys who were still playing soccer left, albeit, a tad reluctantly.
The proverbial conch was blown to call a meeting of the masses. The Tamur River Expedition team of 2005 gathered round the small kitchen fire. Not too far in the distance the Maoists kept watch.
“We have a situation,” I began to say, “and we need to come up with a solution together.” I explained the situation in full and included the cost of $100 per person to continue.
“But what if we don’t have $100,” asked Becky from New Zealand. “I mean, I left all my valuables, including cash, back in Kathmandu.”
“Yeah, even if we wanted to pay that sum to these terrorists most of us can’t produce the cash,” added Dave from Australia.
Raju leaned towards me and whispered in my ear. “Apparently the Maoists have a numbered bank account in Kathmandu where they accept their donations,” I said, explaining what Raju whispered in my ear. “They said we could wire the money to them after we finish the trip and get back to Kathmandu.” Everyone was as shocked as I was at the apparent sophistication of these backward-looking mountain rebels.
“That solves it then,” said Brain, the loud American who nobody seemed to like. “What we need to do is say that we’ll pay the money when we get back to the city and just not wire the money. What are these guys going to do, follow us back to the States, or Canada, or Australia?”
“You can’t do that!” It was Raju speaking. His voice was louder than normal and vey firm. Usually Raju would tell me first anything that needed to be shared with the group, like plans and logistics, because he was very shy speaking to groups, especially in English.
“You can’t do that,” he repeated, “because they already know who we are. You see, these men have already collected our ID cards. All the Nepali guides on the trip. They know who we are and where we live. We are the insurance policy. If you don’t pay, then they will come and kill us.”
Everyone was silent. Even with the guns, the grenades, the show of force, and the aggression, none of us felt that our lives were in direct danger. Even us who had guns pointed at us. Deep down we knew that these people would not risk the consequences of the international incident that would ensue if a tourist were killed. But a Nepali, that was a different story. Ten thousand had already been killed. That was a scary precedent.
We discussed the situation for about an hour before we ate dinner. Different ideas were proffered. Some people mentioned they didn’t want to contribute to a terrorist organization. Others said that they wanted to turn back. Still another lot mentioned how this was their trip of a lifetime and nothing was going to stand in their way. Despite the conflicting views it was eventually realized that everyone wanted to continue to the Tamur River and not walk back to Basantapur. We broke the huddle for 10 minutes to give people time to collect whatever cash they had brought with them. Combined with the trip reserves we were able to come up with a sum that reflected a contribution of $80 per client and one of $100 on behalf of the company. This would have to suffice. We had no more money available.
At first light Raju and I went out and met with the Maoist leader near the holy lake. As the sun was coming up over Kanchenjunga its rays hit the Everest Massif and bounced back to reflect the snowy ridges of the world’s highest peak onto the holy lake. The sky was full of pink and purple hues. There couldn’t have been a better setting to negotiate the passage of a rafting trip with a veteran warlord.
“Namaste,” Raju and I said in unison to greet the Maoist leader. He replied with the same greeting but brought his hands together and bowed his head slightly: a sign of respect. I felt embarrassed that we did not do the same.
Raju explained the financial situation with the group. He mentioned that we could pay the full amount with the wire transfer or we could pay $80 per client plus $100 for the company in cash right now. It did not take long for the Maoist to make his decision. If we contributed electronically to the People’s Council the Maoists of Goufa Pokhari would not see a single rupee. On the other hand, if he accepted the cash he could keep as much as he wanted and not even report the contribution to his superiors. It was settled. We handed over the money and shook hands. He bid us farewell and good luck on the river. Before we headed back to break camp our rebel wrote a receipt for the contribution. In the end, he was an honest Maoist.
* * *
The civil war ended in February of 2006, about two months after I left Nepal. The country is now struggling to build a democracy and repair the wounds suffered during 10 years of violence. The Maoists now hold the majority of seats in the Nepali parliament. One of the country’s main goals is to live in peace so that a major source of income, that of tourism, can return to the levels they experienced before the war. It will not be long before the Nepal Himalayas are full of intrepid travelers once again.
