DON’T be surprised what you see on Kathmandu’s chaotically busy streets. Eight riders, including two Buddhist monks, on a motorbike; 23 passengers inside and one on top of a 10-person people carrier; and a traffic cop hurling tomatoes at a fruit and veg saleswoman.

Every hour is rush hour in Kathmandu, but 5pm tops the lot. Amid hundreds of horns blaring like a fanfare from Hell, police were trying to move several people who sell their produce from flat carts. In their view they were blocking an exit to the main road.

Perhaps they were, but no traffic was moving anyway. One woman made it clear she couldn’t move more quickly than the chap in front. This didn’t satisfy the arm of the law who picked up several tomatoes from a neighbouring stall – its owner chose not to protest – and hurled them at the woman less than a dozen feet away. When she failed to move he re-armed and repeated his redskin attack.

I grinned. How he distinguished my facial expression from others in a land where smiles seem to be compulsory, I can’t say, but he was not amused. It seemed politic to move on. His accuracy was improving with every salad salvo.

THE 11 youngsters whom I’m helping to produce their own small newspaper at Samata School felt Monday morning was an ideal time for us to temporarily quit the bamboo building and take me to a beautiful Hindu temple. I deserved a rest, they felt, which was a way of saying they fancied a morning out.

Children are no different in Kathmandu to any in Kidlington when it comes to bunking off for an hour or two.

True enough I had been working all weekend on issue number two, using a notebook computer that after a few hours left me cross-eyed and limp fingered. To do this I had abandoned a trip to see Mount Everest at closer quarters.

No harm done – presumably it will still be there next time.

Perched on a ridge overlooking a river, the ornate temple was a wonderful spot from which to view the Kathmandu Valley. By the time we came down we were ready for a cool drink.

One of our girls, Srijana, lived nearby and while we hit the water bottles, she invited me to meet her parents. They run a handwoven carpet factory employing about a dozen.

The designs and workmanship were exquisite and it came as no surprise to learn the carpets were usually for export, mainly to Germany. But it was a shock to learn the working hours involved – 4am to 8pm six days a week.

They deserve every euro they can get.