The Sichuan Broadcasts

How does one make contact with the most elusive organization in a country torn apart by civil war, you might wonder? Easiest thing in the world. Just ask around.

  On the morning of my third day in Kathmandu, I got down to serious business. I started to stroll leisurely down the avenues of the city. I stopped by the first news stand I came by, a row of dailies clipped to a string and a bunch of weeklies neatly arrayed on the sidewalk. In Nepal, it is acceptable to pick up a newspaper and read some of it without buying it. So there are always some people standing by reading. I joined the gathering and started to scrutinize the indecipherable titles with a great show of sturdy concentration. Nothing happened. I left, and ten minutes further or so, stopped by the next stand. At the third or fourth attempt, what I was waiting for happened. A young guy came up to me and opened the conversation. When you're a lone westerner in a poor country, there are always young guys who come up talk to you. Usually they're touts who try to talk you into visiting a shop, a travel agency or whatever. Very often though, they're students who know some English and are genuinely curious about what's going on in other parts. " Hello! - Hello! How do you do? - I am fine, thank you. What nationality? - I am from France. What about you? - Oh, I am from here, from Nepal. Can you read Nepali? - No, I can't. - But you look newspapers very much, I believe you can read. - No, I was just wondering how come there are so many different newspapers? - Oh, because in Nepal many many political parties. Every party have different ideas about everything. Every party make newspaper. - Really. Interesting. Is there a maoist newspaper? - No, no, no. Forbidden. But this one, a little bit maoist. Sometimes say critical about maoists, sometimes say good things. Sometimes allowed, sometimes forbidden. - OK, I'll have this one then." I stooped and swiftly picked up the weekly that had been pointed out, gave the few rupees I was asked for without discussion, and left on the sidewalk a rather startled young man.
  Back in my hotel room, I started to examine what looked like the masthead. Even the phone numbers were unintelligible:  they were given in the ancient Sanskrit numerals still commonly used in Nepal. My Nepali phrase book opened at the "How to count" chapter in front of me, I decoded. At last! I had somebody's phone number in Khatmandu.