The View from London

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It's been just over two weeks since I took a plane from Mumbai to London. I was expecting a bit of culture shock as well as the decompression from rich and varied months away but actually the weirdest adjustment was how late it stays light in London midsummer. The long summer nights when everyone in England is milking the warmth and light that has been eagerly awaited all winter. Whilst I had just left India with the Monsoon at my tail. By contrast, their long-awaited relief from the heat and assurance that their crops will get the liquid nurturing they require for the cycle to continue.




A fortnight later, I am now decompressing from a week in Somerset at the 40th anniversary of Glastonbury Festival. Another different world, albeit a temporary one. I remember thinking in Varanasi how it felt like a constant festival. So much celebration, so much music and ritual. The sounds of life coming from all directions, making you feel alive. Quite a different thing, but I experience the same sense of freedom and possibilities that inspire and excite. The trick is holding on to that inspiration when you get caught back up in 'normal' life.

So now what? I kept thinking I should at least write some kind of closing post to come to a conclusion, finish the story or at least let people know that they don't need to keep checking the blog to see where I am now... But I feel like the story has only just begun. Or maybe just the first chapter is done. Either way you look at it, I plan to return to Asia as soon as I can, which hopefully means some time in the Autumn.

(Of course this is all contingent on me magically gathering together some funds over the next few months. That said, if anyone has any work, any ideas or any money they want to point in my direction, feel free to get in touch!)

There is still so much I want to do and see. (I know there always will be as there is such a big world to explore, but one thing at a time). I definitely want to do more work with EWN and hope to do more mobile trainings in the other parts of the Karnali Zone, which would probably be next Spring. Ideally, the Winter months should find me exploring the South which was too hot to consider this trip round. And then there is the continuation of my original journey which took a few detours along the way and I daresay will take a few more when I finally pick it up again in Nepalganj and head to Manali. But that can wait til Summer.

And of course I have to go back and see all the friends I made along the way... as well as return to Darjeeling so I can finally see the views of Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, which is supposedly in plain view - at least that is what was on the postcards. From these benches, behind the mist, there is a stunning mountain range, or so they say.

Notes on Darjeeling

Sitting in Zoë's kitchen in North London, I can at least have a cup of tea from Darjeeling and recall that misty, almost magical place of Indian holidays.

Darjeeling feels like Nepal, except for the architectural remnants of the colonial era - the people there are predominantly Nepali, speak Nepali and consider themselves as such over being Indian even if they were born there.

There are plenty of Indian tourists escaping the heat of the plains in the cool mist of the hills; struggling with broken English to communicate with locals who speak Nepali. They aren't put off by the lack of views due to the fog and they breathe a breath of fresh cold air as a respite to the searing heat that is enveloping the rest of the country. Tea shops, cheap eateries and stalls selling cheap clothes and Tibetan jewellery line the Mall leading up to Chowrasta, a big triangular 'square' at the top of the hill. Families stroll around in that aimless manner of holidays; children and the occasional embarrassed adult, ride the ponies that loll about and people generally just sit around watching the world go by munching on cobs of corn charred on coals. The two main tourist attractions are the toy train and the tea plantations both of which I managed not to get around to in the five days that I was there. At least I will still have sights to see when I finally lay eyes on Kanchenjunga.

I did make it to a lovely temple that is both Buddhist and Hindu situated at the top of the hill from Chowrasta. The whole site is shrouded in prayer flags strung between the trees and the morning mist is illuminated by shards of sunlight. Quite magical except for the row of women begging with their children who line the path on the way. I guess their prayers are yet to be answered. Maybe by the time people are heading back down and have given a few rupees here and there to the many different people manning the various dieties and areas of prayer, the hope would be that another rupee or two would pass through hands easily. I certainly noticed in my time that locals although often disregarding beggars will also be very nonchalant about parting with small change whereas most travellers rail against the idea in principle following the advice from guide books.

Another place I visited was the Peace Pagoda. I had been particularly keen to see this as there is one in Pokhara overlooking the lake that I spent a lovely day visiting. We rowed across the lake and hiked up to the crest of the hill where you get 360 degree views. That day was overcast and the brilliant white of the pagoda illuminated by the bright blanket of cloud was blinding. It was almost like being in heaven. The stupas, as they are also called, are part of a set of pagodas around the world built by a Japanese Buddhist organisation, Nipponzan-Myōhōji. The founder Nichidatsu Fujii, inspired by Gandhi's message of peace started building these pagodas as shrines to world peace in 1947 and now there are over 80 around the globe. Many of them are in Asia so imagine my excitement when I found out there is one in Milton Keynes! I didn't think it possible that I would actually find a reason to ever go there but the universe works in mysterious ways. I have a vague notion of trying to visit all of them through my lifetime... you know, just as I'm passing...

It's about the journey

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The end is nigh. My flight back to London from Mumbai is less than a week away. I returned to India on a long bus ride from Pokhara to Kakarbhitta which is the far Eastern border of Nepal leading to the West Bengal Hills, Darjeeling and Sikkim further north. I thought I was leaving Nepal but it seems this part of India is Nepal in disguise. Everyone speaks Nepali, everyone is Nepali (except all the Indian tourists) and the only thing missing is the Dal Bhat.

I arrived in Kakarbhitta close to 6pm. It had been a long day as my alarm had rung at 3am and I was on the bus at 4. I had a front row seat which in theory would be the most comfortable in terms of leg room and the bouncing of the bus, and there was a very kindly old man sitting next to me who took it upon himself to interfere with everyone on board, telling them where to sit and goodness knows what else as I couldn't understand what he was saying. And he just kept talking and talking - shouting in fact, to make himself heard over the roar of the engine, whilst most of the passengers tried to rest a little as it was still before dawn. I braced myself for a long day as I thought he was going all the way to Kakarbhitta but he alighted after a few hours somewhere near Mugling much to my relief.

The journey passed without incident, which is what you want on a Nepali bus. I enjoyed watching the changing landscape as we left the hills and entered the flat plains of the Eastern Terai, which I had not seen before. Much more lush and green than the West and although hot, not searing like Nepalganj. The journey would have been even more pleasant if my mood had recovered from the early awakening and there was slightly more flesh on my bottom, but as it was, the time passed easily enough (good thing I am a master at staring into space for hours on end).

I was concerned about actually getting across the border into India as there is this ridiculous issue with the tourist visa and reentering the country within two months of leaving. It has caused problems galore for many a tourist this year (it only came into effect this January) with people getting stranded in Kathmandu. But as it turned out, the friendly border official examined my letter from FRRO (Foreign Regional Registration Office) and my onward travel documents and stamped me in. No problem.

I was dismayed to find I could not get a share jeep (the most common mode of transport in the West Bengal Hills) directly to Mirik as it was too late, so I reluctantly boarded a minibus bound for Siliguri which is the uninspiring town that all transport in the area seems to go through. I had fantasies of getting off and using my persuasive powers to hitch a ride to Mirik, (it was only an hour away due North but now I was going 45 minutes further East and would have to then take a jeep the next day to Mirik which was another hour and a half back) but I couldn't quite muster the energy to jump up and gather my bags, stepping out into the unknown of the small border town, Panitanki. So I let the bus take me to Siliguri and spent an unremarkable night in a mediocre hotel, ordering a beer and chow mein and watching a predictable rom-com on the telly. Sometimes, in moments like that, I stop and look around and wonder what I am doing in this funny hotel, with these strange noises from the street outside, dogs barking, horns beeping.

The next morning I was sipping a chai at the jeep stand waiting for my 8.30 jeep to Mirik. The journey is an hour and a half. Or at least it can be. The shared jeeps are the norm as once you hit the hills the roads are winding and steep, so there aren't too many buses. We were loaded up, four in the front, four in the second row (me in the middle), another four in the row behind and then four more in the back sitting sideways. This is in addition to the 'conductor', usually a young-ish boy, who comes along, loading and unloading the goods on the roof and generally helping the driver - instructing him to start and stop with bangs to the side of the vehicle (two for go and one for stop) as people get in and out. Often, if the jeep is full, this boy will just hang off the back with additional passengers sitting on top with the luggage and in our case, the enormous basket of live chickens, all looking a little shell-shocked, necks straining through the wicker.

The usual random stops, loading more goods and people into and onto the straining vehicle. We were off, out of Siliguri and going through a pleasant conservation forest/army base area when we got a flat tire. Everyone piled out of the vehicle bar the guy on top with the chickens. I couldn't figure out where the crowd of onlookers had appeared from until I realised that we had all been squeezed into the jeep - about 18 people!
Things seemed to be coming along as they were taking the spare out until I noticed that they didn't have a jack. After a few unsuccessful attempts at getting the passengers to hold up the side of the vehicle, they managed to get some passing jeep to give them a jack. One of the things I love about the sense of community here is people's willingness to stop and help others as a matter of course. This was illustrated again not long after when the spare tire blew out a few kilometres up the road. This time there was no spare. A couple of the passengers got their money back and wandered up the hill. By now we had started ascending the hills and there was a discernible change in temperature as we wound our way through hillsides carpeted with tea gardens. The mist started rolling in around us providing relief from the heat of the plains. I had no real agenda and the day was still relatively young so I wasn't too fazed by the fact that we were stuck until they could get someone to bring a replacement tire. But other people had places to go.

A woman with her young son and mother was also travelling to Mirik for a family funeral. I had struck up passing conversation with them throughout our extended journey. When they flagged down a passing truck and all started piling in, I ran over to join them, picking up my bags from the dormant jeep. They had squeezed the family and another woman into the cabin of the truck and the boys who were with the truck and a male passenger from the jeep had climbed up on top of the pile of rice sacks at back. I tried to join them but the driver and the guy from the jeep were both initially adamant that I get inside, so I did. The cabin was pretty full with three other women, a small boy and the driver and I found that I could only sit with my legs on either side of the gear stick, which proved rather compromising when we went into 2nd gear. After a few awkward, albeit funny moments with me trying to put both legs on one side or changing gears myself, the driver relented to my assurances I actually wanted to go up on the back and promises that I would hold on, and up I climbed, much to the amusement of all.

This was great; comfortably reclining on a bag of rice, with views of the plains below, weaving slowly through the semi-tropical, lush surrounds. And back en route to Mirik which was still an hour away. Or so I thought.

We pulled over for a minute while the driver put some water in the engine. And off again, but not for long. Soon there was thick black smoke billowing up from below the cabin as the engine overheated from the strain. The boys were sent off to collect more water and eventually we set off again Our original jeep whizzed past us up the hill as we crawled, just before we broke down for the third time. The women in the cab hailed down yet another truck and I grudgingly climbed down from my perch with my stuff and jumped onto a bed of gravel in the flatbed of the truck, waving goodbye to our unfortunate rice truck crew. The remaining time was thankfully uneventful and suddenly I was in Mirik, admittedly a few hours later then expected, but having enjoyed the journey.

First day of school

We arrived on Saturday and the training started on the Sunday. Not being a Christian country, Sunday is not a holiday in Nepal. Our team consisted of Archana, who is the project coordinator for EWN and the other volunteer, Francesca, an environmental engineer who has been living in Switzerland the past few years but is actually half Italian and half German. Like myself, she had quit her job and packed her life away and didn't know what her next move would be next but is travelling for a few months now and in fact, heading for Tibet any day now. In addition, we were working alongside Soroj and Raj who had met us at the airport and Dhan Badur who is the charming chairman of RCDS and lecturer at the local technical college an hour up the valley.

After breakfast, we headed to the offices of RCDS where EWN also has their field office and where the training would be held. I really had no idea what to expect of anything; the place, the day, the women and, of course, teaching. The programme was Women's Initiation in Eco-Tourism Training and the subjects ranged from environmental issues like waste management to hospitality and entrepreneurial skills to hygiene, health and first aid. Every day in the afternoon was the English class. Most of the anticipated attendees were women who run small guest houses with their family. Most had husbands and children whospeak English to the few tourists that come through that region (it is still very undeveloped in terms of tourism) but most of them had little or no English at all. Some hadn't even had any education and were unable to read or write in Nepali, let alone read English letters. So the content we would be teaching was going to be very basic. I had chosen to take the beginners class and Francesca took the people who could speak a little English already.

Archana had no idea how many women were going to actually show up but we were expecting about 30.This was first time she had come as the project coordinator (she had done many trainings before, but not running the whole programme) so she was busy making sure we were ready and everything was in order for our first day. Trainees were coming from villages throughout the whole district and many of them had walked for six or eight hours to get there so were to stay in town for the six days. There was a budget of Rs 300 a day for the participants who did not live in town to cover costs of accommodation, which ended up being somewhat of an incentive for people to come along regardless of how interested they were in the actual course. The training was in the rooftop room of the RCDS building. The RCDS office and the room that EWN rent from them are on the middle floor and another organisation rents space below. The training room was a big L-shaped room with a slanted corrugated iron roof. Throughout the week, the sound of thwang could be heard periodically as another person banged their head from standing up too close to the edge of the room.

By ten o'clock, the official start time, we had only one woman with her 18 month old daughter, but within the next half hour, the women trickled in and suddenly there was a room full of women, chatting amongst themselves as they sat cross-legged across the floor. After the time consuming process of getting all the attendees registered and introductions by a local teacher (apparently the first man in the district to have a masters in English), who is an enthusiastic supporter of EWN's programmes, having had both of his daughters do training with them in the past, the sessions began. On the first day, Francesca and I sat in on all the sessions, partly to get a feel for the programme and also to familiarise ourselves with the women. It would have been great to understand the content, particularly the lively input from the trainees when they were debating various issues, but as everything was not only in Nepali, but in a local dialect that even Archana didn't understand half the time, we could only watch the dynamics and body language - which was interesting enough. All went well and although most of the women were painfully shy when it came to getting up and speaking in front of the group, you could see the majority were incredibly engaged and clearly keen to learn. There were many group activities where they were given big sheets of paper and asked to make lists of things, for example, what they thought were negative and positive impacts of tourism. Then each group had to present their lists to the class. Before long it was lunchtime, although lunch was nowhere to be seen. The morning session was allowed to run over and then there was a period of milling around until the food finally arrived, much to Archana's relief. Potato curry and chapati served up on flimsy, but effective paper plates that were lined with some kind of foil on one side to stop them going soggy. It was actually very tasty and I would have happily had seconds but with over 38 women present along with the team, Archana, Francesca, Soroj, Raj and myself, there was only just enough to go around. Lunch was followed by sweet, milky instant coffee in even flimsier plastic cups. Pretty crap as coffee goes, but when it is the only thing on offer, a cup of hot sweet liquid goes down nicely.

I was starting to get nervous, as my 2 o'clock teaching slot was fast approaching. I had been given the 'course content' and been translating various phrases to use with the group. Soroj was going to translate and assist me (thank god!). I had talked to a few people beforehand and had been told not to expect to go too far, and that it was all about repetition. I stood in front of my class of over 20 women, looking up at me expectantly and took a deep breath. "Namaste! Mero nam Miranda ho - My name is Miranda", to which they all chimed Namaste back, and for a moment I suddenly went blank and thought, I can't do this, what was I thinking? (much like one point on the hike up to Panchassee), but a moment later, I regained my composure (I don't think anyone noticed my panic) and dived back in. By the end of the class, I had a big smile on my face, having had all of them attempt to tell me their names in English. What really made it for me was the smiles of gratitude and hands clasped in farewell as they said goodbye. I was their teacher!

A town called Jumla

Chandranath is officially the name for the district headquarters of Jumla, but I didn't hear it mentioned once in my week there. It is just referred to as Jumla.

Jumla is one of the five districts in the Karnali Zone, which is in the remote Northwest. It is not really feasible to get there over land so we had to travel by bus to Nepalganj (12 hours) to catch a flight the next morning. The flight from Nepalganj takes you over the dusty plains of the Terai giving way to the Mahabarat Hills and finally the mountains. The journey on a twenty-something seater is only 45 minutes, but it feels like you have gone back in time when you step out on to the tarmac of the runway. As we walked toward the chain link gate, heavily adorned with barbed and razor wire, we were greeted by an official holding a big book in which we had to write our passport and visa numbers although he didn't actually check them. Then through the gate into the street to wait for our bags with the assembled crowd, who were there either to greet the arriving passengers, or send off the departing as the plane had already re-boarded with outbound passengers by the time I turned around. A few minutes later and the plane turned around and was off up over the hills back to Nepalganj.

We were met by Soroj, who is the EWN field officer in Jumla and Raj Bhadur, who works for RCDS (Rural Community Development Service) partners with EWN on the mobile training as well as other projects. The bags arrived on a large cart wheeled out into the awaiting crowd and people just grab what is theirs. Simple.

From the airport it was a 10-15 minute walk to Jumla Bazaar. The first thing I noticed as we made our way down the hill was the lack of vehicles. By the time we had reached the guest house, I think I had seen only two motorbikes bouncing along the uneven mud and pebble roads. I had declined the offer of a porter, so was glad when we reached the Amar Sandesh Guest House and was able to unload myself. Since the Mugu training and therefore the trek had been cancelled, I decided to take all my stuff with me in case I chose not to return to Pokhara afterwards.

That afternoon, after settling in, I went for a wander to get the feel for the town I would call home for the next week. Archana and Francesca had been out for a walk earlier, but I had been overcome with drowsiness (from the altitude was my joking reasoning) and had napped for a bit - maybe it was all the excitement. At any rate, I set off alone to get the lay of the land. The town is built at the intersection of two valleys on a series of hills. The streets are mud and stone and the houses are surprisingly solid looking stone brick and wood buildings. It was not long before I was befriended by an old man who insisted that I accompany him to his home for tea. It is rare that I turn down the offer of a cuppa, so I accepted and followed him up the hill to his home. The family were set about to make tea and I was ushered into the living area. I think that the old man, one L.B. Malla, had an ulterior motive as it transpired that his second son was not yet married and I guess in the market for a wife. The old man kept reminding me that his son was unmarried as though I would suddenly propose! The tea was followed up a charred fried egg which was presented to me unrequested. I tried to make excuses that I had to go to dinner shortly, but eventually compromised and shared it with the old man while his sons, wife and a couple of random passing neighbours who had appeared, watched us eat. After a few more minutes exchanging pleasantries with his two sons, who spoke better English, I gave thanks and excused myself. L.B. Malla said he would come and see me the next day as it turned out he is related to the owners of my guest house. I should have known, and in fact, he did show up the day before we left, which was very sweet. My first taste of Jumla was a taste of things to come - open, curious and friendly people and hospitality. I thought to myself, as I headed back to the guest house for dinner of Dal Bhat, I'm going to like it here.

Excursion to Panchasse

I had my visa extension, rented a sleeping bag and was planning two day excursion to Panchasse to warm up in preparation for the trek between Jumla and Mugu. A few days before we were due to leave, Archana informed me that there had been another change of plan and the Mugu training had been postponed because of concerns of political instability. The Mugu training schedule straddled the deadline date for the new constitution and the political parties were showing no signs of resolution. As it is, they are still battling it out now. They didn't want to risk us getting stranded in Mugu or Nepalganj if a strike were to be called again. No Mugu training also meant no trekking from Jumla to Mugu, which was a disappointment, but I reminded myself, I was still going to Jumla and still had the chance to work on this really special project, so I should be thankful for that.

And after my two day hike up to Panchassee, relief was added to my disappointment, as I struggled so much, taking seven hours to do what I am told is a four hour hike, I couldn't imagine how I would have managed a four day trek carrying all my stuff. All steep uphill, mind you, on uneven paved stones... I could make the excuses that I hadn't slept well, eaten properly or drunk enough water, but either way, I was embarrassingly pathetic and my friend, Hakim who had accompanied me, ended up going up ahead and waiting at various stages as my pace was too painfully slow for him.

Coming down the next day, I left Hakim on the gorgeous ridge we had ascended to at last light the previous night. He had time, and the speed to make it to the next peak before returning back down, but I wanted to get back in the afternoon as I had to be ready to leave at 4am that night/next morning for the 5am bus for Nepalganj. Concerned that I might take ages, get lost or have some delay on getting back to Pokhara on the bus, and with various last minute errands to run (canceling the sleeping bag etc), I had opted to set off early to give myself extra time. So I bade farewell to my companion and made my way down the steep hill at a very comfortable and leisurely pace. The "three hour" walk down took me four hours, but I enjoyed the pace without feeling guilty at being so slow and was able to take in the views and soak up the rural surroundings. Men sowing their fields with wooden ploughs attached to buffalos, women harvesting barley, clothes washed in streams and the slower pace of country life.

Gatichine is the village or clump of buildings at the bottom of the hill which is where the road (and bus), starts back to Pokhara. There are a couple of restaurants and I sat in the shade with a much appreciated cold drink to wait for the next bus. It is about 45 minutes back to town and I spent the whole journey with cutest baby on my lap after the mother had thrust it into my arms and rushed off the bus to collect her other child. When she returned, seeing he was happily plotted and I was happy to have him, she just left him there. By the end of the journey, her older boy was asleep on some other passenger's lap too as the bus had filled up and the child had somehow ended up there. Only in this part of the world would a man just have some random boy go to sleep on his lap on a bus.

I took the bus past Lakeside North (where I live) into town so I could run my errands, then I headed back to shower and pack. I had barely been back for a minute when Hakim showed up having returned half an hour earlier. It had taken him less than two hours to get down the hill! I was glad I had come on my own as I wouldn't have enjoyed the journey as much or seen the views as I would have had to watch my feet the whole time.

I would love to go back to Panchassee some time as I didn't get to spend much time there. I only went to the village, Panchassee Bhanyang which hosts the three guest house options up there. The actual temple and pilgrimage site is another hour or so up the next ridge and there is a lake also. It is very beautiful and somewhere I could easily spend a few days – to recover from the ascent among other things! Next time.

Return to Pokhara

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Where to begin?

The place, the project, the people... my week in Jumla was a wonderful and inspiring experience.

I am writing from Pokhara. We returned last night after a long drive from Nepalganj. The eleven hour journey in a private car was absolute luxury compared to the bus we were supposed to get. We had gotten up at 4am to make it to the bus stand at 5. Bags on the roof and seats at the front, we were settled in for the long haul. As is the norm, the bus dillied and dallied, going round the block picking up passengers, the conductor leaning out of the doorway chiming to people on the corner "Pokhara, Pokhara, Pokhara". We went to the main chowk, and then doubled back to the bus stand. And then again, back and forth, the driver and conductor, jumping out at various stages, changing roles and animatedly chatting to people milling in the street, until we eventually came to rest where we started and the engine shut down. This wasn't looking good.

There had been a strike the previous day, but we had been told it was only one day. I guess there were still negotiations going on, and although the conductor assured us that the bus would go at some point, there was no guarantee when that might be. This time, however, it was not a Maoist strike, but the transport union and only affecting that region. So we were stuck, in the dusty bustle of Nepalganj as the oppressive heat of the day began to take its hold - and it was only 6am. We weighed up the options, whilst having chia (tea) and omlettes from a charming stall adjacent to where our bus was parked; a place I had fatefully commented on that morning before we boarded the bus, that it seemed like the sort of place you could sit for hours and watch the world go by. I must watch what I say, I thought, as we sat there wondering what we were going to do. We finally decided to get a private car. Although incredibly expensive in Nepali terms (Rs 12,000 - about £120), it was cheaper than flying to Kathmandu ($92 each) and getting a micro (minivan) to Pokhara. My travelling companions were Archana, the project coordinator for the training and Hasodevi, a nine year old girl who we were bringing back to Pokhara to the children's home that EWN (Empowering Women of Nepal) run. She will live in the home and go to a local school for the next ten years. After seeing her settle in and meet her new family of excited little girls, I set off down the road back to Bishnu Lodge and my little Pokhara family.

More on Hasodevi at some point soon.

Today, I went for my swim in the lake and it was as though I hadn't been away. But I had. Jumla is another world, a taste of Nepal from the past (except for the mobile phones) and an experience that I will never forget.

Which is lucky as I have run out of time now.
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