There were perhaps two hundred people present at the reception.  The majority were Thulahnese but there were a couple of dozen Indians and Pakistanis and a smattering of Chinese, Malays, other Oriental people whose nationalities I wasn't so sure of and some Japanese.  A lot of Westerners seemed to have crawled out of the woodwork, too; I hadn't known there were so many in Thulahn, let alone Thuhn.

I was introduced to the Indian High Commissioner, the Pakistani and Chinese ambassadors, and various consuls, honorary and otherwise, including Josh Levitsen, who looked awkward in a three-piece suit that had probably last been fashionable about the time of his senior prom.  Perhaps to take his mind off this he was already quite drunk when we shook hands.

The Prince guided me round his ministers, advisers and family members.  This last category included his rather subdued brother and sister-in-law whose son was the heir to the throne if Suvinder didn't have any children and who was at a Business-run school in Switzerland.  I also met representatives of the other noble families, of which there were about a dozen all told, a swathe of subtly varied saffron-clad lamas, a couple of Hindu priests clad in borderline-garish, and I was introduced to the remainder of the Thulahnese Civil Service that I hadn't met in either the Twin Otter four years earlier or the Foreign Ministry the day before.

I made a point of bowing and smiling a lot.  A gift I've always been very grateful for is never forgetting a name, so I was able to greet people like Senior Immigration Officer Shlahm Thivelu, Home Secretary Hokla Niniphe and Prime Minister Jungeatai Rhumde without having to be prompted.  They all seemed pleased.  I spotted a female face I knew I'd seen before but couldn't place until I realised it was one of the old Queen's ladies-in-waiting.

The remaining foreigners included a clutch of VSO Brits and Peace Corps Americans — all appropriately young, enthusiastic, naive and full of energy — a few teachers, mostly English and French, a couple of Ozzie doctors and one Indian surgeon, some Canadian rough-diamond-type engineers and contractors engaged on relatively small-scale infrastructure work, a handful of sweaty mixed-European businessmen hoping to land contracts with the various Thulahnese ministries, and a physically attractive but corrosively smug Milanese geology professor with his own little entourage of students, all female.

Only when you started to look, only once you'd had your fill of gazing at the dazzling white peaks above and refocused your sight to what was really around you did you see the variety of forms displayed.

'They are very bad workers.'

'Are they?'

'Impossible.  Quite useless.  They cannot keep time.  I think sometimes they cannot tell time.' The speaker was a tall, bulky Austrian businessman with a tight grip on his cocktail glass.

'Oh dear,' I said.

'Yes.  We have a factory — just a very small concern you understand, something quite tiny, really — in Sangamanu making eyeglasses and ethnic jewellery.  We received funding from the World Bank and various NGOs and the project was seen as a way of providing much-needed employment.  It could be acceptably profitable, but the employees are quite hopeless.  They forget to turn up, many days.  They wander off before the clocking-off time comes.  They seem unable to understand that they must be there five or six days out of seven; they go ploughing fields or gathering wood.  It is quite unacceptable, but what is one to do?  This factory means nothing to my company.  I say nothing, of course it means something, but really it is so small in scale that it means next to nothing.  But, you see, in Sangamanu it is the biggest employer.  These people should be grateful that it is there and do their best to make it a success, as we have done, but they do nothing.  They are just pathetic.  They are a very childish sort of people, I think.  They are immature, yes, like children are.'

'Really,' I said, shaking my head and looking as though I found this fascinating.  I created an excuse to get away from the guy shortly afterwards, leaving him agreeing sternly with a German surveyor that, yes, the people here were just impossible.  I went in search of anybody not conforming to their own national or cultural stereotypes.

I spotted Srikkuhm Pih, the militia commander, standing stiffly in his rather grand ceremonial uniform, which looked as if it might have been fashionable in the British Army about a hundred years earlier.

'Mr Pih,' I said, bowing.

'Ah, Miss Telman.' Srikkuhm Pih was old, slightly stooped, shorter than me and had the greyest hair of any Thulahnese I'd seen so far.

'I very much like your outfit.  You look terribly grand.  That sword's quite wonderful.'

Mr Pih responded very well to flattery.  Apparently as well as being commander of the militia he was Minister of War , Secretary of Defence and Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces.  After he'd shown me the dazzlingly bright and beautifully inscribed sword — a present to one of his predecessors from an Indian maharaja at the turn of the century — we were soon talking about the ticklish nature of his job and the generally unwarlike nature of the average Thulahnese male.

'We very bad soldiers,' he said, with a happy shrug.

'Well, if you don't need to fight…'

'Very bad soldiers.  Monks best.'

'Monks?'

He nodded. 'Monks have competition.  Of this.' He mimed drawing a bow.

'Archery competitions?' I asked.

'That right.  Four time year.  Each…'

'Season?'

'That right.  Four time year they competition, all sampal, all monk-house against all other.  Arch.  But always get drunk first.'

'They get drunk first?'

'Drink khotse.' This was the local brew, a fermented milk beer that I'd tried exactly once when I'd come to Thulahn the first time.  I think it's safe to say that even its greatest fan would agree it was an acquired taste. 'Get drunk,' Srikkuhm Pih continued, 'then they fire arrow.  Some very good.  Hit middle of the target, bang spot on.  But.  Start good, then drunk, end not good.  Laugh too much.  Fall over.' He shook his head. 'Sorry state of affairs.'

'You can't use the monks as soldiers, then?'

He mugged horror and dread. 'Rinpoche, Tsunke, head lama, chief priest man, they not let me.  None of would.  They are most…' He blew out his cheeks and shook his head.

'Didn't you have sort of samurai or something?  I thought I read about a warrior caste.  What were they called?  The Treih?'

'They no good either.  Worst.  All gone soft.  Very soft peoples now.  Too much of living in houses, they say.  Just not officer material, don't you know.' He shook his head again and regarded his empty glass. 'Sorry state of affairs.'

'What about the rest of the people?  Where do you get your soldiers?'

'Not got soldiers,' he said, shrugging. 'Got none.  Not a bean.'

'None at all?'

'We have militia; I am commander.  Men have guns in house, we have more gun to give, here in palace, also in Government House in each towns.  But not barracks, not standing army, not professionals or territorials.'  He tapped his chest.  'This only army uniform in country.'

'Wow.'

He gestured to where Suvinder was talking to a couple of his ministers.  The Prince waved.  I waved back.  'I ask Prince for money for uniform for men,' the militia commander went on, 'but he say, "No, I am afraid not yet, Srikkuhm old fellow, must wait.  Maybe next year." Well, I am very patient.  Guns more important than uniforms.  Not wrong there.'

'But if, say, the Chinese invaded, how many men could you put up?  What would be the maximum?'

'Government military secret,' he said, slowly shaking his head.  'Very top secret.' He looked thoughtful.  'About twenty-three thousand.'