THE small tea house in Surket was full of back packers. Some were heading for adventure. I, among others, was exhausted; and exhilarated after a 14 day trek to the Himalayas, to the 6,000 metre Annapurna Base Camp.
The woman beside me smiled and invited me to "our compound". She was Tibetan. We walked the mile to Taschi Polkiel compound where 2,000 refugees worked and lived.
Amorige spoke perfect English. Delighted with a curious listener, and eager to talk about Tibet, she started: "In 1950 China invaded my country, monks were tortured, women raped and children were taken from their homes for reeducation in China. During the following nine years, thousands of Tibetans were executed and imprisoned. Over 100,000 fled to India and Nepal.
"The Dalai Lama, Tibet's spiritual and political leader, went into exile in Dharmsala in India, where the Tibetan government in exile in based. Thousands came to Nepal.
"My father and mother fled with my brother and me. He was 10 years old and I was eight. It took seven weeks to cross the Himalayas. People gave us food and shelter. Sometimes we walked for days without anything to eat. Our hands and toes were frostbitten." She showed me her right hand. Two fingers were missing.
She went on: "My father's foot was so painful, a man cut it off with a saw. My father lost so much blood, he almost died.
Compound Life
"The man and his wife gave us food and drink. We slept with the buffaloes. They kept us warm. When my father's leg got better, the man cut out the shape of his foot on a piece of wood, and tied it with rags to his leg. But it pained him so much sometimes, he had to crawl on his hands and knees: across the treacherous mountains."
We arrived at the compound. Amorige raised her arms in an embracing manner and continued: "There are 2,000 Tibetans living in Taschi Poikiel compound, an enclosed area of about 30 acres. The immigrants set up businesses in carpet weaving, knitting sweaters, and handcrafts."
She pointed to the school. "There are 80 children in that school. The old folks' home nearby, where inmates are lovingly cared for, is visited every day by the compound women."
In the centre of the compound, a Buddhist monastery held pride of place. A monk in saffron robes handed me a cushion and invited me to pray with him.
"Kneel down, keep your back straight. Be in the moment. Yesterday has gone, tomorrow has not come yet. Live only in the present, listen to the sounds around you."
He spoke softly. An overwhelming peace descended on me.
He asked me about my beliefs. When I said Christian, Roman Catholic, he raised his voice. "Oh, the Pope. You have a Trinity too, like Hinduism. All religions will come together one day."
He added: "I will go back to Tibet one day too."
At the door of the monastery he pointed. "Look. The Kaliganda River. The ashes of dead Tibetans lie at the bottom of that river. One day we will take the seashes home.
He had never heard of Ireland, but he said it must be a very developed country. Taking the hint, I returned to the monastery and placed some rupees at the foot of Buddha.
Returning For Wool
Amorige appeared again. She invited me to meet the other women of the compound. We sat on the dry soil, sipping sweet milky tea. Like Amorige, they had come across the Himalayas in the 1950s. They fashioned rings and bracelets and sold them to tourists. They wanted two things to educate their children and to return to Tibet.
When I asked where were the men, they all answered in unison. "Gone to Tibet for wool." It was amazing to hear the men had trekked across the mountains to bring back wool from Tibetan sheep.
"What's the difference?" I inquired.
"Tibetan sheep's wool is softer," they chorused.
Amorige beckoned me to a huge barn. There cement troughs lined with copper were full to the brim with dyes of varying colours. "Tonight, we will soak the wool and dry it on the roofs of our houses tomorrow," she told me. And pointing to another barn - "Over there we make carpets and sweaters."
A girl in her early 20s ran towards me. "Look," she pointed to the Claddagh ring on her finger. "Last year, I met a boy from Ireland. He gave me this."
"Does he write to you?" I asked.
"At first he did but then he stopped." She looked sad.
The sun was going down. I had to get to Pokhara, where friends waited, before dark. The women walked with me to the bus stop.
Amorige hugged me. "Will you come to Tibet when it is free? I will welcome you." She held my hands. We exchanged addresses.
"Don't forget," she shouted after me.
In the bus, I waved until we rounded the corner. I will visit Tibet.