It takes a full day and some night until the bus journey ends. From there it is a day hiking upwards until we reach the usual Nepali path: up and down, up and down. Hurting from the hills on the second day I am cheerfully informed that ‘this is why you Belayatis could never defeat Nepal’. Old men and children half my size speedily tip toe past me with minimal effort and immense loads. Motions requiring unusual or extra effort beyond a stride, including stopping, soon seem impossible.
My friends veer off the path this way down and that way up: once for a ‘good waterfall’, a second time to follow a rumour of oranges. A rumour! I am amazed at their appetite for unnecessary leg work. I enjoy their fruits half an hour later, grown and given, it turns out, by a distant Aunt residing somewhere below. Where below? Puckered lips show the way, an improvement I think on index finger pointing habits.
It seemed like the whole of the city was emptying out at the bus park. At my request and in need of a pathway distraction we discuss the friends we had seen there and who looked fatter or thinner, who had proposed to who, what was his IELTS score and who was that old school mate who was on leave from the Indian army? The heady, warm atmosphere of the bus crowd reminded me of Christmas eve back home. Or else class on the last day of school before summer, a mass secure in the future anticipation of stretched out days of fun. There are several different bus-path combinations to the village and we will meet some of those friends again.
We slowly walk around the side of hills, along ridges and cross two rivers. There are less people now and more odd noises from insects I have never seen before. Hills which other nations would fence off and name on a map exist anonymously here, as only one of many mildly annoying obstructions to be passed. We reach the peak of one and can see the plains. Someone makes a comment and I’m reminded of how angry I felt when a foreigner pitied me for working in the Tarai. But also of a Madhesi working in Europe who said he travelled by bus to his shop, even though it took much longer, just so that he could be reminded of the beauty of his plains through the flat Dutch countryside.
We get a signal on our phones and instantly spray out festive text messages, knowing full well that nearly ten days of being in the land of no tower are ahead. I have brought books, big ones, to fill that social space (and because everyone else talks of vacation reading too) but my legs now regret it. Why did I overpack as usual? The books will remain predictably unread bar one, all useless and discarded in the village reverie of chat, card games, drink and over eating. We cross a river in a boat and sleep nearby, hearing the oddly reassuring roar throughout the night.
Our route in, on the following afternoon, becomes a procession of giddy school-age children, prodding the white guy with tired legs. The village is near now, people shout in recognition from their houses. We are bringing messages from Kathmandu, our three selves and new clothes. I am grateful that the daura-suruwal shop in Ason had not, as we heard, run out due to the Gorkhaland agitation. Uncle will get that. Aunty will get clothes which I was not trusted to select. We gladly stop for six or seven teas and I hear, yet again, one of my favourite stories: a villager borrowed and set up a TV and VCD player from district headquarters and got everyone, including older respectable types, to come and watch TV for the first time. By mistake the VCD was a blue movie and many of the villagers ran away screaming, some shouting ‘you have brought shame on our women’. We finally reach home, greet Uncle and Aunty on a sugar high, and rest for the good times ahead.
Back in the UK I exit from an unfamiliar station in the east. The underground system stretches out across London in an uneven and disjointed fashion and this is one branch that I don’t know well. I’m bringing photos and messages from the village. They point and coo at young ones and those who are now taller or married. This is what I think of when people talk about ‘the global village’. As expected they are desperate for news, any news, and quiz me for more than I can possibly remember. Dasain was great I say and everyone is fine. Yes, your father is well but he told me to tell you that he misses all of you. And yes, Bhim is trying for Australia. Yes, there will soon be a road built nearby and things will be easier then. Yes, I am a little fatter than before.
1 comments:
Love this post, Jems!
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