BEIRUT, Lebanon – Can’t stop thinking about what one of my former security advisors from Iraq said to me in a cafe here in Beirut just two days ago. “It’s quiet now Cal — but this is Beirut … at any moment, within 24 hours, the city and country could be thrust into complete chaos.”

Government loyalists add tires to a burning barricade outside Beirut.

Today, chaos is what happened.

The Hezbollah leader, Hassan Nasrallah, gave a speech in the afternoon, reacting to what the government had said about Hezbollah’s telecommunication network (a private network used by Hezbollah for communication.) It was exactly as expected — a fiery speech in which he said the government’s actions were tantamount to a declaration of war against his group.

After the speech we headed out into the streets to tape a brief “piece to camera,” while it was still light outside. Within minutes, deafening gunfire broke out all around us. A group of Lebanese Army soldiers starting yelling at us to come towards them and take cover behind a large building. The rounds were snapping close to us as we ran behind the building.

Cameraman Christian Streib, who has lived in Beirut for a decade, snapped into action — immediately filming. We tried to do a “piece to camera” but with all the gunfire, I could hardly hear my own voice. I found myself screaming at times, and gave up pretty quickly.

The firefight was raging when Christian spotted gunmen on a nearby rooftop. He remarked that he got it on film — something I still cannot believe. I kept telling him he was making me nervous as he filmed about, but the truth is he’s a seasoned as they get, and it was the simple gunfire, now coupled with large explosions from rocket-propelled grenades that was really making me nervous.

For the Lebanese Army, gunmen on rooftops is a nightmare. Snipers are tantamount to death in gun battles, and it almost assured that no-one was going to brave this street.

After a short while we made the decision to make a dash to our car, and try to get back to the bureau. With no medical gear or security and the city getting dark, we had to go. We ran to our car … all the while rounds snapped close. In the car I could hear our Senior International Correspondent Brent Sadler, who is the most knowledgeable person on Lebanon, remark that he had not heard RPG fire in Beirut in years. Not a good sign, I said to Christian.

As we drove around the city to avoid the neighborhoods where the fighting was continuing we passed a restaurant which was full with people. Less than a kilometer away from a raging gun battle, people were eating dinner — as we drove by in our flak jackets!

Such is Beirut – a place where it’s quiet … until it’s not.

Watch my report from Beirut

TOKYO, Japan — The scene is reminiscent of a public memorial to fallen star or royal family member, stolen before the public could let go: Mourners lining up to sign the condolence book (10,000 names signed so far) and dozens of flowers and stuffed animals surrounding the pictures of their beloved, lost one. A woman, arriving at the elaborate shrine, breaks down into giant sobs, collapsing into the arms of her husband.

Thousands have flocked to the elaborate shrine.

This has been the continuous sight outside the panda exhibit at Ueno Zoo in Tokyo, Japan, after its 22-year-old panda, Ling Ling, died. The only giant panda that belonged to Japan, the zoo suddenly finds itself without a panda for the first time since 1972. And it’s why China’s President Hu Jintao’s announcement that his country would be gifting Japan two pandas is such a powerful gesture to this panda-obsessed nation.

To people outside Japan, the gift may simply seem like a slick political move. Send over a couple of fuzzy bears and presto, a nice picture for the evening news. But Japanese people prize anything that’s kawaii, which means cute, in Japanese. Stroll through Tokyo and you’ll see uber-cute cartoons on every corner, every advertisement, and on the clothes and key chains of most residents. Heck, even the police department has a fuzzy bear as its mascot, printed on the signs of all of its police stations. This nation takes cuteness seriously.

The panda, and the elderly Ling Ling in particular, epitomize kawaii. Throw in the fact that pandas are endangered and that’s enough to whip some Japanese people into a frenzy. Japanese government officials, noting the giant outpouring of grief over Ling Ling’s death, even publicly suggested a panda gift from China might ease their broken hearts.

It wouldn’t be the first time pandas have strengthened political ties between Japan and China. In 1992, Ling Ling arrived in Japan in exchange for a Japan-born panda to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the normalization of bilateral ties with China. But in the decades following the panda exchange, ties became strained and at the turn of the century, icy, over past war crimes and allegations that each was trying to re-write its history books. These nations have dueled over Tibet, food safety issues, gas exploration in the East China Sea. Japan, once the superpower of the East, greeted mainland Chinese tourists with a sense of haughty disdain.

But times have changed the world’s economic and political landscape. With Japan’s Prime Minister Fukuda and China’s President Hu, that once icy past is thawing to a new spring, say foreign ministry officials from both countries. The leaders inked a deal promising to work together and forge a healthier future for both countries.

And what more powerful way to cement this new phase of their friendship than with a pair of fuzzy, endangered, kawaii pandas. Just in the nick of time to heal a nation’s broken heart.

Watch video of mourners at the zoo

MOUNT EVEREST PRESS CENTER, Tibet Autonomous Region, China — After an eventful week, with all that travel at high altitude and hectic but futile efforts to find out what is happening on Everest, I finally felt tired.

Between cans of Red Bull and cups of instant coffee, I did a few live shots for CNN International on Friday morning and in the afternoon I agreed to visit a 1,300-year-old Rongbu De Hermitage Monastery during a three-hour organized tour by the officials from Beijing Olympic Committee.

The monastery is built on a small flat area in a slope about a hundred feet above the bottom of the valley.

It took me 15 minutes to hike up that little hill with my camera.  I was exhausted and regretted going. Once on the top though, the exhaustion melted away.

There was an immense sense of spirituality at this place and I was almost afraid to take pictures. I sat on a sun-heated stone listening to the sound of prayer flags madly flickering in the wind and finally gathered the courage and energy to film.

The weekend was miserable. When I stumbled out of our hut on Saturday morning I discovered to my horror and disbelief that fresh snow was falling.  The magnificent view of Everest disappeared behind a frightening wall of dark gray clouds. I didn’t want to imagine what it was like on the mountain.

I was busy with live shots and with trying to keep myself warm, which isn’t easy here since there is no heating around. I just put on as many clothes as I could and kept drinking hot water.

My problems were nothing compared to two other journalists from our group. A cameraman got a serious and extremely painful tooth infection and after an agonizing night (”It’s been years since I cried”) was put on painkillers and strong antibiotics. 

My room-mate was struggling with high blood pressure and low blood oxygen levels causing debilitating fatigue.

The cameraman since recovered, but our German colleague was evacuated back to Beijing. The rest of the group was holding on, struggling with ever-present cold and increasingly with boredom. There is not much to do — apart from waiting for the weather to improve.

On Saturday evening, Everest cleared for a few minutes. The giant has changed dramatically since we last saw him 24 hours ago.  Even in the orange light of setting sun one could see the fresh snow cover blanketing almost the entire mountain.

However beautiful, it creates serious problems for the climbers. Walking and climbing in deep, fresh snow is exhausting at high altitude.  Even more serious, fresh snow causes dangerous avalanches. Records show that Himalayan avalanches killed hundreds in a century of climbing here.

There is even more snow on the ground on Sunday morning. 

Expedition spokesman Zhang Zhijian shyly admitted during the regular morning press conference that the climbing on the mountain had stalled due to bad weather. He had no information about the weather forecast for future days. 

Although it became sunny in the afternoon, Everest remained hidden behind clouds and in the evening, the snowfall returned back to the valley and began covering the Media Center again. The temperature was dropping not only outside. Long faces of the trip organizers and of some of the journalists during Sunday dinner spoke volumes about the weather concerns.

One person who remained optimistic was a Chinese experienced climber and an official adviser to the expedition, Liu Jia. “I would not even consider it a storm,” he told me that day in a filmed interview. “I do not think it will affect the climbing activity too much and for too long.” he added. 

After filming we chatted a little bit longer when he said: “According to my experience, if there is a lot of snow, there will be a big break after and it can create good opportunity to climb to the top.”

The next day we woke up to a gorgeous, bright sunny morning. 

LONDON, England – “Five minutes,” says a clipboard-carrying assistant, sticking a head around the door, before adding tellingly: “A showbiz five minutes.”

The McCanns have launched a 48-hour media blitz in a fresh bid for information about their missing daughter.

Waiting to interview the McCanns these days is to bear witness to a well-drilled media circus: a luxury suite in a London hotel; trays of croissants, pastries and jugs of coffee; a revolving cast of journalists asking variations of the same questions.

“The doctors will see you now,” the same assistant quips as three more reporters shuffle through. It is a setting and a schedule tailored to the whims of film stars or musicians, in town to promote a summer blockbuster or a brand new album.

Of course Kate and Gerry McCann - both medical doctors — have nothing to sell. They are here to raise awareness about the ongoing campaign to find their missing daughter, Madeleine, who vanished without trace from a Portuguese beach resort during a family holiday a year ago this Saturday.

The McCanns have been criticized in some quarters for using the media to raise awareness about Madeleine’s disappearance, notably since they were named by Portuguese police as formal suspects, or “arguidos” in the case.

That criticism has clearly hurt. They are defensive about their use of the media, arguing that for 99 percent of the time they try to lead a normal family life, focusing their energies on their young twins, Madeleine’s younger brother and sister.

This 48-hour blitz has been carefully planned, they say, to capitalize on the inevitable coverage that the anniversary of Madeleine’s disappearance would have generated. Kate admits that her daughter has become iconic of the plight of missing children over the past 12 months.

Twelve months since they first stepped in front of the full glare of the world’s media, the McCanns appear relaxed and comfortable in front of a camera. Articulate and composed, the couple naturally pick up each other’s sentences and thoughts. They have sacrificed “normal life” in the belief that their daughter is still out there, waiting to be found.

“This is not about Kate and Gerry McCann,” Kate says. “This is about Madeleine.”

If the emotions of the case are still raw, it is hard to tell. 

Watch Emily Chang’s interview with the McCanns here

MOUNT EVEREST PRESS CENTER, Tibet Autonomous Region, China — I am sure I remember correctly that during the initial meeting regarding this trip somebody mentioned showers and hot water. Or I saw it somewhere written in the paperwork we got. But then, maybe my memory is going. There are no showers and only little hot water.We wash ourselves in small plastic washbasins with water from thermoses. It reminds of the times when I was with the U.S. Marines in Kandahar, Afghanistan, in January 2002. Only then it was worse; no washbasins and no thermoses, only freezing bottled water.

Perhaps I should come back here one day.

Another journalist here got a case of high altitude sickness and had to spend big portion of Thursday in an oxygen chamber. The rest of us are holding on. Although long working hours, compounded by the difficulties of working in high altitudes and restless freezing nights are starting to show. With thick layers of sun cream on our faces, the Media Camp looks to be filled with walking zombies. We are checked every day by a Chinese doctor provided by the organizers of the trip. My blood oxygen levels are steadily above 80 percent which is considered excellent. (The levels of the journalist who ended up in the oxygen chamber were 55 percent.)

After morning live shots I joined the rest of the journalists for a regular 11 a.m. press briefing. I did not expect much since we have not learned anything useful yet at these meetings. But I was mistaken. The organizers introduced three climbers who had climbed Everest before. They talked to us about the climb itself and about the current conditions on the mountain.

One of them was Chinese climber Sun Bin. Not only did he successfully climb Everest last year, he was also one of the climbers who tested the special Olympic Torch for this year. Now he is a team leader of Mt. Qomolangma torch relay. After days of excuses from the officials, Bin was a breath of fresh air. He is mild mannered and modest, but charismatic. He answered our questions with patience openly and honestly. How little does it take to make us happy?

Bin informed us that the torch is still in an advanced base camp 6,400 meters above sea level. The climbers are waiting for better weather. When I pointed out of the window at the spotless azure sky and sun-bathed Everest, he said that the climbers needed a window of at least four days to get safely up and down. “We don’t have that guarantee at the moment,” he added. Sure enough, around 2 p.m., the mountain disappeared in dark clouds. Even the temperature in the Media Center dropped drastically. Everest was battered by a snowstorm.

Resourceful Bin said that the torch expedition leaders had not yet decided who would carry the torch to the summit. “They have a pool of some 30 very strong climbers who can do it. There are several Tibetan women among them,” he explained. When I asked him if there is a big competition among the climbers to get the spot he answered: “Not really. They all realize the importance of the task and they know that they can only achieve it as a team. They are supporting each other.”

When asked about difficulties of the ascent, he admitted that it is hard, very hard, no matter how good and advanced equipment you have. And it is dangerous. “I saw seven dead bodies on my way up. You do not think about it. They are objects just like stones. You do not have the energy to think about it. You have enough problems of your own,” Bin remembers.

Then he showed us on a big screen some 200 pictures of his successful ascent. Exciting, beautiful pictures.

They reminded me why I started climbing 30 years ago and continued through injuries or encounters with avalanches. The presentation also started an itch. Perhaps I should come back here one day, but not as a journalist.

Watch my latest report in video

MOUNT EVEREST PRESS CENTER, Tibet Autonomous Region, China — Perhaps the most difficult thing here at the Media Center at Mount Everest base camp is to climb out of a warm sleeping bag into the freezing air every morning. What helps me is a thought of a cup of instant coffee, which I prepare from hot water provided to us in a Thermos.  After filming a sunrise, and breakfast, I continue filming our life in a camp. The idea is to produce some sort of video chronicle of the whole trip. Most of the journalists are busy with their work but a few managed to go for an arranged supervised visit to a monastery, the highest in the world. We are not allowed to go alone.

At 11 a.m. there is a regular press briefing. Trying to get any meaningful information is like pulling teeth. Despite heavy questioning from the Western media, once again, there is no word about the whereabouts of the torch. Security measures are one thing but a complete information blackout is quite another.

It is not a Chinese military exercise; it is an event the world deserves to know about. While I understand and appreciate the concern of Chinese authorities after the torch fiascos in London, Paris and San Francisco, I think that keeping the torch climb secret is counterproductive.

I talked to quite a few people around the globe during the past few months about the issue of the torch coming up Qomolangma. And many of them, even those who do not agree with Chinese policies in Tibet, thought that the torch reaching the top of the world is a cool idea. The world is interested, the world is watching, and concealing the information just does not look good.

Wednesday 2 p.m.

The moment we are all waiting for. The organized trip to the base camp. We are packed aboard two buses and start climbing some 50 vertical meters on a 5-kilometer road to the camp. First we pass a security check manned by Chinese police armed with AK 47-type weapons. It’s hard to miss the hundreds of tents and trucks belonging to the Chinese border military as we approach the base camp.

Finally we arrive at the wide open space which climbers unflatteringly refer to as a “gravel pit.” Usually it is dotted with hundreds of colorful tents from climbing and trekking expeditions around the world.

This time there are dozens of green tents of the torch expedition, neatly organized into a small city, and, yes, more military tents. But most of the camp area is empty.

We are greeted by Zhijian Zhang of the Chinese Mountaineering Association who lectures us on Everest’s history, adding that the Olympics and climbing strengthen friendship between nations. When I ask him why no other expeditions on the mountain have been allowed he smiles: “With regards to the fragile environment and because of the limited space capacity in the base camp, we were forced to close Qomolangma to other expeditions. We had no choice.”

Then we finally hear word of the torch’s whereabouts. The chief of the base camp weather center tells us that the torch is at the advanced base camp at 6,400 meters (20,997 feet), awaiting better weather before being taken higher. We were in shock and awe. After days of blackout we are finally getting proper information. I immediately call CNN in Hong Kong: “We found the torch!”

After that things get better and better. Next we are taken to a tent of the Chinese Space and Industry Agency which helped to develop the torch and is responsible for its maintenance. There are several torches being taken up the mountain as back-up and we are allowed to touch one. It took two years to engineer a torch with a special solid fuel which enables the flame to burn at high altitude with little oxygen.

The Olympic flame will be carried in a couple of lanterns similar to those in which the flame is transported on the planes. When the climbers reach the summit the torch will be lit. The fuel lasts for 7-10 minutes and, weather permitting, the organizers hope that several will be lit and carried in the summit in a symbolic relay.

If the team reaches the summit at dawn — as it often is the case on Everest — the pictures should be dramatic and spectacular.

The temporary studios of China Central Television are the next stop on our base camp tour. The studios in cupola-style tents can also be used by foreign journalists for a hefty satellite fee of $2,000 per 10 minutes.

But because of some logistical glitch it is almost impossible for us to reach the studios when we need to because we do not have the right permits to travel between the media center and the base camp. Nobody is happy: some of us cannot do our work properly and CCTV is losing a lot of money due to lost bookings.

So, a good day. For the first time in six days we have something to report. We have concrete information and good pictures. Everybody is up late filing stories. The camp doctor is worried: “You were working very hard all afternoon at high altitude. You should rest now.” There is no time. Plus I feel great.

I am finally finished at three in the morning. Although exhausted I cannot sleep. The strong freezing wind is hauling outside and the temperature in the hut is way below zero Celsius. I am used to sleeping bags but for some reason tonight I feel claustrophobic and short of breath. Only when I pull my arms out of the bag I feel better. But then I am freezing within moments. I prefer cold to the feeling of not being able to breath.

Somehow I fall asleep. The mobile phone alarm wakes me up three hours later. I hope the water in the Thermos is still hot.

AMSTETTEN, Austria — “We want to show the world that not all Amstetteners are bad people,” Christian Dunkl says as he lights a candle in the pouring rain. About 200 people came to a candlelight vigil in the evening to show solidarity with the victims of what Austrians officials say is one of the worst crimes in their country’s history.

Amstetten, a small town in Western Austria remains in shock after police discovered a local man, 73-year old Josef Fritzl was holding his own daughter as a sex slave in a dungeon underneath his house for 24 years. Elizabeth is now 42 years old and she claims her father raped and beat her on many occasions during her ordeal. Fathering seven children with her, one of which died shortly after birth and whose body Fritzl has admitted he burned in a furnace in the house.Gertrude Baumgarten can’t conceal her outrage. “I only have a small pension,” she tells me as we are sitting in her kitchen, “but I would spend my money to see him hang on a rope.” Gertrude worked in the same company as Fritzl in Amstetten, but she says she almost never talked to him and never wanted to be in his presence. “He had such an arrogant posture,” she says, “I just never wanted to be close to him.”

But Gertrude was close to Fritzl’s wife Rosemarie, who authorities say, never knew her husband was hiding their daughter in the cellar and sexually abusing her. “Rosemarie was always a sweet person,” she says, “she did not know what was going on, she said her daughter had run away from home.”

Fritzl took three of the six surviving children away from their mother, his daughter, and told his wife, Elizabeth, the alleged runaway had left them at the doorstep because she could not take care of them. Gertrude Baumgarten recalls the first time Rosemarie told her about finding a child. “She said Elizabeth had probably had the baby with a cult member and couldn’t take care of if, and then she said: “What can we do, we have to take care of the child.”

Verena Huber, a 14-year-old high school student, went to school with one of the children raised by Josef and Rosemarie Fritzl. Verena says 12-year-old Alexander seemed to have no clue about what was going on. “He always told us his mother was dead,” she says, but describes Alexander as a happy and “normal” child.

Most people in Amstetten say that although Josef Fritzl was reclusive, there was never a reason to believe something was amiss. Karl Dallinger is in the Amstetten fire brigade. He says two of the children, Monika and Alexander, participated in the brigade’s “youth days,” where young people learn the basics of fighting fires and First-aid. “They were both always willing to learn,” he says now, adding, “they were good kids, they seemed to be happy kids.” And he adds their grandmother often came to fire brigade events with her grandchildren even helping to cook spaghetti there.

By almost all accounts, the Fritzl family was a normal part of the Amstetten community. That, it seems, is what most shocks people in this western Austrian town.

LONDON, England – For our profile story on a 176-pound British “size 16″ teenager slated to compete in the Miss England pageant, we needed to see how a real-life beauty pageant works… so we checked out the Miss Bath competition at the Bath Race Course and Conference center in Bath, south-west England.

Samantha Del Greco, Miss Bath '07 and judge (center), award the tiara to 2008 winner Katya Floyd-Sanchez.

Putting aside the irony that segments of the Miss Bath beauty pageant were held between horse races, my cameraman and I entered a world where perhaps, only the bravest of girls should dare compete.

The climate of nervousness is not necessarily induced by their fellow competitors — we witnessed no ganging up on contestants, as in the movie “Carrie”, or catfights backstage. The harshest judges weren’t the judges. The only thing to fear was the audience itself.

I loved the idea that there was a diversity of contestants on stage: different heights, hair colors (not all of them natural), ethnicities, body shapes and degrees to what they dared-to-bare. But what was disconcerting were some of the petty comments about the ladies we heard from those who came to watch the competition unfold.

It takes a lot of chutzpah for these teens and twentysomethings to get up in front of a crowd, strutting in heels, evening gowns, sports/swimwear and bizarre outfits for the “Eco-Fashion Round” — clothes inspired by the contestants’ concern for the environment (plastic garbage bag dress, anyone?).

So it is not cool to overhear some of the spectators — who needed to hit the Stairmaster themselves — whisper the word ‘heifer’ as the heavier contestants worked the pageant catwalk.

Not classy.

Then again, perhaps one contestant should have expected to be mocked when the pageant host asked her: “If you could be a Disney character, what would you be? And why?”

The contestant answered — and remember, this is a beauty pageant: “Miss Piggy. Because she is an international superstar and a household name.”

That contestant didn’t win.

Watch my video report

BAGHDAD, Iraq — I knew something was strange as soon as I woke up. An eerie yellow haze at the window instead of the morning sun. I climbed up to the roof and looked out over Baghdad toward the blue Bunyah mosque. It had disappeared behind a thick curtain of microscopic dust.

Dust clouds the air over Baghdad.

I had never experienced a sandstorm. I instinctively tried to stop breathing until I could get indoors.

We were about to leave to shoot a report on an Iraqi paralympic competition. “They can’t go ahead with it!” I thought.

When we called, however, they said it was still on. So we piled into our car and set off for the running track.

On a good day, the streets of Baghdad are dusty, blanketed with dirt, crumbling concrete and assorted trash. This dust , swirling in the high winds, is lighter but more penetrating. It fills your lungs insidiously.

But, as we drove through Baghdad, I saw, at the most, two or three people with masks. Most were walking purposefully through the haze.

As we passed the Green Zone, where the United States Embassy and Iraqi government offices are located, I saw a man in running shorts and t-shirt jogging on the street.

At the running track the athletes were arriving, some missing legs, or arms. Many are victims of the war. In the distance, a loud explosion roared. The athletes and their friends muttered but quickly returned to more important things. Bombs, sandstorms - it’s a nuisance but nothing that will stop them from competing.

Paralympic athletes train on, despite the dust.

But the storm, the worst in years, did shut down Baghdad Airport. The helicopters that roar every few minutes through the skies of the capital were grounded.

Back in our bureau everything - computers, cameras, monitors, desks, pens, coffee cups, my eyeglasses -was covered within minutes with a fine yellow talcum. There was no getting away from it.

In 2003, just after the start of the invasion of Iraq , a giant sandstorm blanketed southern Iraq. Some Iraqis began calling it “Allah’s Shroud,” God’s protection from the “invaders.”

To me, it’s just as exotic. A sandstorm in Baghdad. Like Ali Baba’s 40 Thieves, I said the magic words “open sesame!” and waited for the skies to clear.

KATHMANDU, Nepal — There is a strange contradiction in Himalayan politics. In the tiny country of Bhutan the king, Jigme Khesar Wangchuk, has recently enforced democracy on subjects who’d really prefer to keep things as they are, thank you very much. They are blessed with a benign monarch, who is adored and worshipped by his subjects.

But the Oxford-educated, 27-year old King clearly realizes that absolute rule by a monarchy is fine when the ruler is a jolly nice fellow, but it has all the ingredients for a total disaster, should one of his descendants decide to abuse their power. He’s recently organized elections, where you guessed it — the monarchists won a thumping majority.

Bhutan is about as remote and isolated as you can get. Television was only allowed here in 1999 and much of the country is still without electricity, roads or the internet. But it’s the only country I can think of where democracy is being imposed on the people, largely against their will.

Contrast that then with neighboring Nepal, where King Gyanendra is about to lose his job. Here the election counting is still going on, amid growing allegations of fraud in some remote areas. So far the Maoists, until recently a guerrilla army that had been fighting a decade long insurgency, are in the lead.

They are still classified as a terrorist organization by the United States, but it looks like they will become a major player in the new assembly that’s been elected to draw up a new constitution. And the first thing that assembly will do is to declare that Nepal is to become a republic, meaning King Gyanendra will presumably be packing his bags soon.

King Gyanendra was suddenly thrust onto the throne after a terrible massacre when almost all of his other relatives were shot by the Crown Prince, who went berserk with a gun before killing himself in 2001. King Gyanendra was therefore the target of much unfair suspicion that he had somehow orchestrated the massacre to get his hands on the crown.

It sounds like a Shakespearean plot — but then much of political life here has a slightly surreal air. Gyanendra further compounded that initial suspicion by declaring martial law in 2005, claiming the government wasn’t doing its job in thwarting the Maoist insurgency. It was only when hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets in violent protests two years ago that he backed down and the Maoists started capitalizing on his mistake.

I was in Nepal in April 2006, dodging the flying bricks and remember the palpable feeling of anarchy in the thin mountain air. Now things seem more stable, and in some sense there is inevitability to events. It’s almost certain this king will be peacefully voted out of a job. The entire edifice of the Peacock throne will be dismantled and Gyanendra will be free to concentrate on his private business interests.

So what to do? Well, perhaps the Royalists among you are crying: “How about letting the King of Bhutan skip over the border and see if he can make a better fist of it than Gyanendra? Swap the Raven Crown for the Peacock throne?”

That’s sort of what happened in England during the 17th-century Glorious Revolution: a group of aristocrats got rid of the Catholic James II. They were infuriated by his autocracy and staged a coup, bringing in his protestant son-in-law, William of Orange from Holland, to become king instead.

But that kind of throne swap would never work between Nepal and Bhutan. There’s been years of acrimony between the two countries over the status of 100,000 refugees stuck in camps in Nepal, who arrived from Bhutan. The Bhutanese won’t allow them to return, saying they’ve forfeited their right to citizenship. The idea of King Jigme Khesar Wangchuk coming over to replace Gyanendra is a non-runner.

It seems nothing will preserve monarchy in Nepal: 240 years of history will end in a few weeks, leaving Bhutan as the only absolute monarchy in Asia.. for now.

The 19th-century political writer Walter Bagehot once said of monarchy: “We must not let daylight in upon the magic.” But daylight is streaming into the Himalayan palaces: the Maoists have pulled back the curtain in Nepal, but in Bhutan it’s the King himself who’s decided to break the spell.