He looks at me for a reaction.

‘Very noble.’

‘The folks back home seem to view it as very insane.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Good question,’ he says with a faint laugh. ‘California originally. Now I think it’s probably here.’

‘You don’t sound very Californian.’

‘Everyone says I have a weird accent.’ He laughs again and I don’t correct him. He does have a weird accent—slightly mangled American. ‘I speak mainly Nepali these days. Most of my English conversation is with British and Aussie tourists in the trekking season.’

I think the cold cola on my throat is loosening my tongue and making me talkative. ‘Do you ever miss America?’

Dean shakes his head. ‘The thought of going back to the cut and thrust of “civilization” scares me to death. We have no stress here—other than the stress of keeping fed and warm. The simplicity of life is very seductive.’ We watch the sun sinking behind the peak of Machhapuchhre, casting a golden glow over the wispy clouds flirting with the mountain. ‘I get up with the sun, work in the fields, help prepare the evening meal, meet with the village elders, sing some traditional songs, dance a little, drink a bit more and go to bed with the sun.’ He shrugs, slightly embarrassed, as if there’s no more to add. I can quite safely say that I’ve never seen anyone with such relaxed shoulders. Or such broad ones, come to think of it. ‘A nine-to-five number at Citibank holds little appeal now.’

Dusk is gathering over our campsite. The children stop their game of football played with a tightly wound ball of long grass—no skateboards here, no snazzy aluminium micro-scooters, no Beyblades, no PlayStations, just a grass football. As the light fades, they collect their washing-up bowl and wave us a cheery goodbye as they head off into the gloom with not even a torch to light their way. And it strikes me that it may be a hard life, but at least they have the freedom to roam about unaccompanied when everyone at home is terrified of letting their kids out of their sight these days. Strangers round here are seen as a welcome novelty by the children rather than a threat.

The Sherpas are moving round the tents, singing songs. Dean smiles at me. He points his empty Coke bottle at what appears to be my tent. ‘Your en suite bathroom has arrived,’ he says. Sanjeev Sherpa places a metal pan of steaming hot water on the ground outside and beckons me. My bag is waiting too. ‘You’d better go before it gets cold.’