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‘No seats’, said the conductor. Since we could obviously see dozens of people standing in the crowded bus aisle, his declaration was a bit redundant.

It took me quite a while to get here. Years, actually. This is how it happened.

Gilmour’s guitar caresses the night. The news tell me that the roads in Langtang valley are being reopened – life goes on, in spite of everything. On a Facebook video I can watch the locals rebuilding the roads, piling up the rocks. The road resembles the roads in Kangjim, but I know it can be anywhere.

400 meters, 300 meters, 200 meters – the road signs make sure I’m well prepared for the oncoming easy-to-miss turn, and suddenly the clear sign appears – Yearot Menashe Festival

You can stretch a direct line of recovery, confusion and PTSD from Sunday till Sunday. Look at me, I know what day it is. The driving directions are opposite, I can drink tap water, and the electrical switches that seem turned off are actually turned on, and vice versa.

2015 is not 2013. Some of the shops are closed, the restaurant menus have been stripped down of their usual variety. It surely doesn’t feel like a holiday, and no one even thinks about marching down the streets.

The sounds of the falling rocks merged with the sounds of the earth moving, and in a short while the air was filled with dust and it wasn’t possible to see the mountain on the other side anymore.