"You're too young!" snarled the tall Australian with the one-word name: Hunter. Her bright blonde hair blazed in the sunlight streaming into her suite at the Kathmandu Hilton. Months in the jungle had left her with a strip of jute across her chest and a pair of filthy shorts tied onto her hips with bungee cords. Only her combat boots were intact. "You can't know the historical significance of this moment!"
"I — I…" stammered Meena, taken off-stride.
Two porters lay snoring on the champagne pink carpet. Cartons, crates and gunny-sacks were strewn about the room along with rolls of toilet paper, plastic bottles of spring water and tiny, silk-wrapped sachets of Tibetan medicine. A third porter was sprawled across the white brocade cover of the enormous double bed. The room smelt of ripe durian and blue cheese.
Meena twitched off her heavy backpack and cameras before adjusting the bright orange press badge on her chest. "I'm not young," she said. "Just short."