The Winding Mountain Roads

By Liu Dihong
In early December 2025, I was invited to attend an international children’s literature conference held in Rolpa, Nepal. It was the second such event hosted by the country, following the successful first international children’s literature conference in Kathmandu in 2024, and marked the first time Nepal had staged an international children’s literature conference outside its capital city.
The organizer, the Nepal Children’s Literature Association, had begun preparations long in advance, but their plans were disrupted by the sudden “Gen Z Movement.” For a time, it remained uncertain whether the conference would proceed as scheduled. Soon after the movement subsided, an interim government took office, and political stability was temporarily restored in Nepal. This put the organizers at ease, and they resolved to hold the conference as planned.
Even so, the conference was still affected by the unrest. Only two international delegates attended. I represented Asia outside the host nation, while a lady from Slovenia represented Europe. Learning that I was not only the sole representative from China but also the only Asian delegate outside Nepal, I felt both honored and deeply responsible, as if the Himalayas weighed upon my shoulders.
I arrived in Kathmandu a day early, planning to take a chartered bus arranged by the organizer to Rolpa at six o’clock the next afternoon. The bus was parked on the outskirts, and unfamiliar with the exact boarding spot, I was greeted at my hotel by two Nepali writers sent specially by the organizer. It was our first meeting, yet the moment I uttered “Rolpa,” they smiled and invited me into a taxi. Without prior arrangement, “Rolpa” became our secret code.
The taxi soon left the city center and pulled up beside a bus on the outskirts. I knew that was the one I would take.
Night had fully fallen. Dust swirled along the road, which was unpaved and covered with a thick layer of earth. My suitcase rolled in the dust and turned into a mud-covered mess, barely recognizable even to me.
One by one, participants from all directions boarded the bus in the darkness. We looked like a group of pilgrims.
I had expected the journey from Kathmandu to Rolpa to take about ten hours, but to my great surprise, the trip lasted a full twenty-four hours. There were several simple rest stops along the way for meals, and road construction in some sections further delayed our arrival. There were no public restrooms by the roadside; men stepped toward the front of the bus and women toward the rear for convenience, respecting each other’s privacy. The bus had only seats, no sleeping berths. When sleepy, I could only doze off in my seat. To be honest, it was the longest bus ride of my life. My body ached in every way, yet I forced myself to endure. I told myself: when traveling alone, I must hold on and try not to trouble the organizer. An elderly fellow traveler, though jolted by the long journey, remained energetic and untired. I admired him sincerely, a testament to his devotion to literature.
The bus traveled steadily through the folds of the Himalayas, climbing one mountain after another, rounding one slope after another. The winding mountain roads, twisting and turning, stretched endlessly into the heart of the mountains through mist and dust…
A question crossed my mind: why hold such a conference in such a remote place? Ananta Wagle, a renowned Nepali children’s writer, gave me the answer. First, Bijayraj Acharya, the newly elected president of the Nepal Children’s Literature Association, was committed to bringing the annual December children’s literature conference to regions outside the capital to reach wider audiences. Second, literary organizations in Rolpa had shown sincere enthusiasm for hosting the event.
Rolpa is a mountain district in midwestern Nepal, with Liwang as its county seat, surrounded by mountains. Liwang has a population of only about 5,000. I did not see a single car there; transportation was extremely inconvenient. Few young and middle-aged locals were in sight—most, I was told, worked in the Middle East, earning hard currency to support their families. Yet Liwang boasted several schools with many primary and secondary students, revealing a young local population.
Our arrival broke the quiet of the small town. I saw elderly people and women busy weaving flower garlands at every household, preparing for the next day’s events. That evening, a group of middle school students rushed excitedly into my hotel, calling my name. Unexpectedly, I had become a “celebrity” in Liwang. They must have seen my name on the delegate list. To them, China was both mysterious and distant. Their young hearts must have been filled with great curiosity and longing for this faraway land.
The next day, a grand parade was held before the opening ceremony, with all local students taking part. The procession stretched several kilometers, drawing nearly the entire town. People beat drums, sang, and danced joyfully. As the parade passed, flower petals rained down from upper floors—likely every flower picked from the hillsides. This was no ordinary conference; it was a festival for all. An artist from Mumbai, India, commented that it felt “very Pakistani.” I had never been to Pakistan and was a little confused. To me, it felt distinctly “very Nepali.”
The two-day conference was rich with activities: book launches, panel discussions, exhibitions, paper presentations, readings, artistic performances, and award ceremonies. Despite modest material circumstances, the local passion for literature ran high. Heavy mountains could not clip the wings of their imagination.
Unassuming as Rolpa may seem, it occupies a pivotal place in modern Nepali history. During Nepal’s civil war, it was compared to Yan’an in China, serving as the revolutionary base of the Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist). Adopting the strategies of “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun” and “encircling the cities from the countryside,” the party launched the people’s war, firing the first shot in Rolpa. Armed with simple weapons, they waged guerrilla warfare against the royal army in valleys and jungles, eventually seizing most of the country and advancing to the capital… I suddenly understood: the revolutionary path of this land, like the winding mountain roads beneath my feet, was rugged, long, and muddy, yet it snaked forward steadily toward light.
As I write this essay, Nepal’s general election has concluded. The Gen Z Party won a majority in the House of Representatives, and 35-year-old singer Balendra Shah was elected prime minister by a landslide. A new chapter has begun in Nepal’s history. Yet Nepal’s road to change, development, and progress, like these endless winding mountain roads, is bound to be rough, tortuous, and arduous. As an ancient Chinese saying goes: “The path is blocked and long, but the journey will reach its end; press forward without cease, and the future holds promise.”There are no straight, smooth roads in this world. Only those who brave mud and persist in climbing along the winding mountain paths can hope to cross the ranges and reach the glorious summit.