Nepal 4 – Village Life

On completing the Tamang Heritage trek we join the more popular Langtang trek as the valley creeps up the mountains and we get quite a shock as we are now suddenly without any warning on a mainstream trek, following large groups of tourists. The high-tech Japanese in droves, with multi cameras hanging round their necks, the French outnumber everyone else. Large bottoms in shorts, nose to bottom, huge groups, eyes to the ground, in concentration, accompanied by ill-equipped porters, who are carrying volumes of stuff, rucksacks (in the plural) et al, which look inhumanly possible to carry. They are clad only in flimsy plastic flip flops, bearing large baskets of coca cola and pasta, beers and bags of rice, gas bottles, even a stack of chairs. It’s big business here trekking.

The  Langtang trek is a higher level, higher altitude and a more physically demanding walk, but a lot more commercial too. Annapurna Trekkers, put off by the tragedy the week before, have come to these mountains instead, so it’s abnormally busy. The tranquility and our peace is gone, pizzas and pasta are back on the menus and it doesn’t feel right. We long to be back on our peaceful Dal Baht side of the mountain.

We opt to stay a few days in Karma’s village, Shyfru before heading back down to the valleys and that “other” civilisation again. His family have a homestay, so an authentic experience sitting in the kitchen with his  mum and dad as they sit and cook over a wood fire, cross-legged on the floor, serving up genuine mountain food. As the village Lama , Karma clearly has a most respected role here, as the villagers, on discovering that he is back in town,  troop in one by one, with offerings of yak meat, (or yukky yak as Millie calls it, due to its pungent cooking smells) yoghurt and eggs are endowed to the family in exchange for a few words of advice here and there from Karma, who appears to be The Wise One. If only I could understand these fireside conversations and tales of woe.

The village is perched high on a ridge with stunning snow cap views on all sides. It’s a 3-hr walk to the nearest town down a very steep path. This means that everything we see, eat, and drink has to be carried up and down. The mind boggles – “so how did they build that house?” I ask Karma, looking at a surprisingly large 3-tiered sugary pink house. “We hire porters to carry all the materials up the mountain.” Was his reply.

Now more than ever it feels so crucial, that nothing is left on any of our plates at mealtimes, because someone, somewhere has walked theses ingredients up a mountain for us.  Karma, says that there are many regions of Nepal where it still takes 3 weeks walk to get to the nearest road, and that his grandfather had to walk 15 days to get to Kathmandu for bigger supplies. This region has now luckily had a decentish road invested in these mountains, as there is tin mine 60 Kms up the road.

We catch up on washing, old fashioned style, bowl, bar of soap and brush.and scrub. I de-nit the kids hair (again), do the rounds of warm bucket baths – this is only the second time we’ve washed in 2 weeks (pongeeeyyy), but only because the kids are too wimpish to do the cold water. I cut Gabriel’s hair and just generally watch the pace of life unfold in the fields below Karma’s parents’ house.

In the space of 4 days we watch the preparations for winter unfolding, The rice is being harvested, threshed and stacked neatly in hay stacks. The ubiquitous fields of greens, which we have been eating twice a day, in our noodle soup and vegetable curries, are being pounded in a large wooden pestle and mortars by the children, and stashed in large vats for winter pickles, (it’s disgusting…or more politely put, an acquired taste). The corn is being dried, the beans are drying on the roofs and being shelled, wood is being collected from the forests in large bundles. Yak meat is drying on the embers of the roof which is then shredded by sharp machetes, And meanwhile women everywhere are weaving and spinning as they walk and talk. It’s a hive of industry. Everyone but everyone here has a mobile phone, tucked into their folds somewhere. They may not be wearing shoes, but at least they can communicate, to vast improvements in their lives. Their lives are fascinating and appealing and all very neatly carried out. I imagine myself living here in that romantic Robinsoe Crusoe way and wonder how long I would survive.

The citizens of Kathmandu wear masks over their noses, as their own attempt to combat the hideous pollution, though it seems a little unnecessary here in this pure mountain air. I can only think that it has now become a bit of a fashion accessory. Needless to say it looks a little amusing, to see them being worn right up here, so close to the skies.

The children are imitating what they see and set up their games outside in the sun. One minute they are pounding rocks and making a thick grey sludgy paste, the next they are serving up bowls of noodles, all pretend of course (though the utensils and metal bowls and ladles are borrowed from the kitchen) and potions are being created, carrying baskets on their backs, as they’ve seen the locals do, and the locals look on bemused, no doubt they are thinking what strange children In the West.

And then it’s time to leave Shyfru and we are adorned (again) with white silk scarves, we are getting quite a collection of them, and we say our goodbyes. The three hour walk back to Shyfru Bensi and the jeep ride, down that hazardous mountain road, going the opposite direction (it’s still just as bad) all looking very familiar now and then back to the smog of Kathmandu, all like a cine film being rewound. Hmmm, I am missing the mountains already.