THE final week at Samata School in Nepal has been more a matter of speeding up than slowing down.

First, the distribution of 403 pencils, plus erasers, rulers and sharpeners given by friends back home, to the delighted infants.

They each accepted the gift with the customary formal grace, followed by a neck-breaking hug from the girls and hand-crashing high-fives from the boys.

Since then I have watched them proudly display their simple gift, the pencils never leaving their tiny hands – not even to go to the loo!

It also saw the third edition of Samata News, written by a dozen, 13-15 year old boys and girls who had shown an interest in newspapers and journalism. This was not a question of putting together a few stories, nor an escape from curriculum drudgery; they wanted to learn.

One 13-year-old girl, Chudumani, wrote an emotional piece about a sister she never knew: I showed this to a number of people who read it with tears in their eyes.

Another girl, Lasang, wrote on the thorny issue of female empowerment, while a third, Nima, highlighted the need to protect Nepal’s heritage.

Providing the balance was the diminutive Razz, with an amusing account of his love for a tall, beautiful women whom he met only in his night-time dream. Sadly she turned him down!

These are youngsters determined not to join the legion of unemployed, created and deprived of hope by a clue-less government, too heavy with cash-filled back pockets.

They already see the need for a honest press. Not bad for an age group dismissed by many in the western world as just a load of kids.

My friend and tour company helper, the beautiful Binita, has arranged for the team to visit the country’s leading newspaper as a reward for their efforts (time, distance and expense precluded a trip to the Oxford Mail).

I daren’t say a word until just before the start-out, otherwise I’d be scraping them off the bamboo roof.

  • Today I will be handing over 19 bags of marbles to young orphans, a present from three of my grandsons, Louis, George and Baby Arthur.

Louis, nine, and George, seven, had asked me why a single marble held pride of place in a display cabinet.

It was, I said, a gift from a child called Sunita who had insisted on giving me her only toy when I was last in Nepal.

They listened quietly (for them), went away, raided their money boxes and bought 250 marbles, 50 small cloth bags and put ten marbles in each bag with a small message from the three.

I’m rather proud of my lads’ kind thought. Please forgive this grandfatherly boast.