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where would they get the fuel from in a place like this? And who would pay for such a high cost item here in one of the poorest countries in the world?
    Another little mystery to add to the list.
    Twenty minutes later I hauled myself round a final switch-back and arrived at a wall which marked the boundary of the compound.
    I followed the wall around and reached a rough tin door. Then – with a warning call of ‘Hello!’ – I pushed it open and entered, hoping there would be no guard dog to welcome me.
    The compound was neat and tidy, the bungalow showing signs of a recent paint job. The windows facing me were partly open, their dark green shutters swung wide to profit from the late afternoon sun.
    I repeated my call, adding ‘anybody around?’
    Still no reply.
    Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement to the side of the bungalow, fifty metres away at the foot of the cliff.
    It seemed that someone was there, deep in the forest canopy, but that they had ducked out of sight upon seeing me. I stared long into the dark shadows but nothing further moved.
    Maybe I had been mistaken.
    I was about to walk right up to the front door when I heard noise coming from the far end of the building.
    I walked around and found an old man working in the garden. He was a fit-looking character with a full head of silver hair, a neatly trimmed silver beard and a stained pair of gardening dungarees.
    â€˜Hi! Erm, Namaste.’
    My greeting caught the man by surprise. He stopped his weeding, jerked his head up and stared at me with his mouth open.
    â€˜Oh!’ He looked me up and down with astonishment.
    â€˜I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I told him, feeling guilty to have given him such a shock.
    He continued to stand there, clutching the hoe, frozen to the spot, struck dumb by this unexpected arrival.
    â€˜I’m looking for someone called Kami,’ I said.
    â€˜Are you a journalist?’ he asked me suspiciously. ‘I have been warned that journalists may one day come.’
    â€˜Actually I’m working with a charity,’ I told him. ‘I’ve been helping out at the clinic at Tanche village.’
    At the mention of the village name his eyes narrowed a bit. I decided I had to establish some basics.
    â€˜He was a climbing Sherpa,’ I explained. ‘Have I come to the right place?’
    The man didn’t try to answer this and his stern gaze was starting to get to me. Old doubts about the nature of this mad trip flooded back and I felt foolish and a bit lost.
    Then he smiled. It was as if he had, in that moment, decided that I was OK.
    â€˜Would you like some tea?’ He asked.
    Breakthrough.
    I nodded and thanked him.
    â€˜This way.’
    The old man led me towards a bamboo hut which had been built as a lean-to at the back of the building. A little fire was smouldering in the middle of the dirt floor and he snapped some twigs to feed it.
    I introduced myself.
    â€˜Dawa,’ he told me by return.
    He stoked up some coals and prepared the tea with calm movements, selecting the tea leaves and sugar from ancient tins which had long ago lost their labels.
    â€˜Is that a generator I can hear?’ I asked him. Dawa nodded. ‘How do you keep it going?’
    â€˜There are porters,’ the old man said. ‘They come at the beginning of each month, bringing food and fuel for myself, for Kami and for the … carer … ’
    â€˜Carer?’ I asked him. Dawa did not reply to that question. Instead, after a long pause he fired back with: ‘Who told you about this place?’
    â€˜A climbing Sherpa called Nima. He was once on an expedition with Kami.’
    Dawa poured the amber-coloured liquid from on high. It splashed into the tiny glasses and the pleasing smell of the tea filled the little hut.
    â€˜What did they tell you about him?’
    â€˜Not much. But there seems to be this legend that he is neither dead nor