Saturday, October 16
We take a jeep down from the heights of Bandipur to Pounde, where t
he highway curves left, bringing carloads of Western tourists to the popular trekking destinations of Manaslu, Manang, and the Annapurnas. We get off in Pounde and turn right, carrying our backpacks over a footbridge into the Lamjung District, which is surrounded by rivers and mountains and has no direct road access.
On the other side of the Marsyangdi River, we find one of the buses that run between the river and the lower villages of Lamjung. Previously this dirt road was plied by jeeps whose dissembled parts were carried over the foot bridge before being reassembled on the other side. As we pay the fare, Mitch and I wonder just how the buses got over the river. We hand our packs up to the driver to be lashed onto the roof, and find a couple of empty seats in the last row, with me next to the rearmost left window. The bus fills up with women and children returning to their home villages for Desain; the relative absence of men is explained by the fact that many are working abroad in Malaysia, the Gulf States, Korea, and other countries where there is a demand.for low-cost Nepali laborers.
Darkness falls just as we make the steep descent from the ridge trail into Namarkhu. The village drapes itself over a 300 ft decline on the hillside, and we carefully pick our way to the house of Tuli-ama (great mother) (grandma = ba-jyai; Gurung bu-jyu), the matriarch who has put up Mitch and his accomp
aniers for the last couple visits. Nepalese of different generations address each other using kinship terms, not first names, even if they are unrelated. Her grandson Bijan, a 17-year-old baccaleaurate student (in Nepal’s 10+2 system), is visiting the home village together with his mother (bhau-jyu, or elder brother’s wife) for Desain. Bijan is supposed to be our translator, but it quickly becomes clear that his English as well as his knowledge base fall far short of the task.. Tuli-ama and daughter-in-law cook the dal baht over the firepit recessed into the floor of the main room of the house. As we men eat first, sitting on straw mats on the floor, Mitch re-acquaints himself with some of the neighbors and catches up with the family. Tuli-ama’s absent son is working in Korea, and has moved up from toiling in an auto factory to working as a Korean-Nepali translator. After he and the daughter-in-law both got into Korea through a broker to work as illegal aliens, Tuli-ama moved to Kathmandu to take care of Bijan, but she never liked the city. So after Sunita was caught and deported back to Nepal, Tuli-ama came back to Namarkhu to live.
After the men are done eating, Tuli-ama and Sunita take their dinner. Nepalis eat with their right (bare) hands, but I notice both of the women pick up food with their left hand. I doubt this is an inherited trait (especially since they’re genetically unrelated), so I ask (through Mitch) why this is so. It turns out that these Gurung women serve food with the right hand, as they sit tending the pots and fire, and shouldn’t contaminate the serving hand, thus leaving the left hand to feed themselves. Over time this becomes such an ingrained habit that they use their left hands even when eating alone.
Mitch and I are exhausted and we are shown into the other room, which has two b
eds. Mitch points out a bright green katydid on the door jamb, and I note a 3-inch spider crawling along the wall. Ugh. The bathroom opens conveniently off the bedroom, and has the village’s only porcelain toilet (albeit the pit type set into the floor). Tuli-ama takes away the bedding for her family of three to sleep by the fire in the main room, and Mitch and I spread out our sleeping pads and bags for the night.
We take a jeep down from the heights of Bandipur to Pounde, where t
he highway curves left, bringing carloads of Western tourists to the popular trekking destinations of Manaslu, Manang, and the Annapurnas. We get off in Pounde and turn right, carrying our backpacks over a footbridge into the Lamjung District, which is surrounded by rivers and mountains and has no direct road access.On the other side of the Marsyangdi River, we find one of the buses that run between the river and the lower villages of Lamjung. Previously this dirt road was plied by jeeps whose dissembled parts were carried over the foot bridge before being reassembled on the other side. As we pay the fare, Mitch and I wonder just how the buses got over the river. We hand our packs up to the driver to be lashed onto the roof, and find a couple of empty seats in the last row, with me next to the rearmost left window. The bus fills up with women and children returning to their home villages for Desain; the relative absence of men is explained by the fact that many are working abroad in Malaysia, the Gulf States, Korea, and other countries where there is a demand.for low-cost Nepali laborers.
We’re sitting next to a pretty young girl named Milla Gurung. Switching to English, we learn that she’s 12 years old and that she’s traveling with her mother, two younger sisters, and her baby brother back to her father’s home village. Her father himself is a Gurkha soldier stationed with the Indian Army and cannot travel; to be a Gurkha soldier, particularly in the British Army, is highly prestigious for Gurung men, as the pay and pension offer great social and economic advancement. I tell Milla that my youngest son Damian is the same age as she, and show her the pictures that I’ve brought of Damian and my family (actually, just our Christmas cards from the last couple years). All the kids crowd around the back of the bus to look at the Liu-Noyce family pictures, which are then passed around the bus to curious looks at the cards and me. Milla’s toddler brother Asish climbs into her lap, and we offer him cookies that he grasps with delight, even though he has already eaten a package of cookies that his mother gave him. Clearly Asish, the first boy born after three girls, is the spoiled favorite, and we dub him Cookie Monster.
Milla has a sharp mind and her English is quite good. Her favorite subject is science and she’s currently studying biology. I inform Mitch that multi-country surveys by the OECD have found an inverse relationship between the stage of economic development and student’s declaration of science as a favorite subject and preferred career. That is, something like 75% of schoolkids in poor countries like Nepal and Zambia prefer science and want to be engineers, doctors, and the like, compared to only 25-30% in Western Europe and the U.S.. Kids like Milla somehow fail to appreciate how personal injury lawyers, real estate developers, hedge fund managers, and pop singers can help build up a country.
The bus interior is decorated with figures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and the ensuing ride over the deeply rutted muddy dirt road rivals anything on offer at Disneyland. We’ve gone no more than 50 yards when the bus lurches dangerously towards the downhill side. Passengers get off to allow the driver to gun the bus through the first several mudpools. After settling back in, I speculate as to whether the window opening is large enough for me to fall through. I don’t think so, but the next time the bus lurches to the left, my shoulder drops into the opening. I decide to close the plastic window, comforting myself with the thought that should I fall through, the cuts and blood loss should be much less severe than if the window were made of glass. The passengers at the very front, seated next to the driver, have no such material considerations: there is no front windshield, affording them a better-than-crystal clear view of the obstacles immediately ahead.
A Disneyland ride, Lamjung version
The bus sways and staggers its way for another hour before grinding to an unexpected stop at Pyarjung, two stops before the dirt road ends at Gaunda, which is where Mitch has arranged for some guy from Namarkhu to meet us and carry our packs for the remaining 3 hour trek to the site village. Everyone gets off and disperses, but Mitch and I are stuck since we have no desire to carry all our gear up to Gaunda, which sits several hundred feet above us at the top of the ridge. Mitch wanders about the village searching for able bodies – in Nepali villages, the most effective approach is to mill about, hands in pockets, make pleasant conversation, and only after some time casually inquire, almost as an afterthought, about such crass things as hiring a porter. Finally, Mitch returns with two boys whom we had previously seen loitering about and who have now agreed to carry our two backbacks and a duffle bag for the extortionary rate of 200 rupees. The boys, who look about 12 years old, each put on a backpack and lug the duffle bag awkwardly between themselves as we all ascend the steep and narrow rocky trail. At the first turn, they spy a friend of theirs sitting to the side and ask Mitch, why not hire this third boy to carry the duffle bag? Mitch refuses, telling the boys that if they want to hand the duffle ov
er to their friend then they will have to pay him out of their own proceeds. The two boys look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and decide not to outsource the job. Mitch tells me that he’s already paying them triple-overtime and the locals will get mad at him if he, the rich foreigner, upsets the prevailing economic order.
We make it up to Gaunda, stopping at a teashop as the two boys make away with their spot wages. We make pleasant conversation with local men, whose prime occupation during Desain is apparently (according to their own admission) to get drunk on rakshi and play cards. We see a young man that we recognize from the bus struggle up with a enormous trunk, still bearing KTM arrival baggage tags, who is clearly visiting home from a job overseas. Milla
and her family make it up to the street as well. I tell Milla’s younger sister Bina that I have a daughter whose nickname is also Bina. I open my last package of cookies and extend the package to offer a cookie to Asish. Instead, Cookie Monster takes the whole package out out my hand, to general laughter.
It eventually transpires that no one has arrived from Namarkhu to help us get there, and that even with Mitch’s unthreatening approach, no men from Gounda are interested in carrying our bags to Namarkhu. By now it’s 2:30pm and we’re starting to worry whether we can get to Namarkhu before dark. Finally, a porter walks into town from uphill - but he’s not here for us, he’s been hired by the other guy with the big trunk; who’s going home to a village just past Namarkhu. I suggest to Mitch that we offer to pay the porter twice what he’s getting, but unfortunately the porter can’t get out of his contract to become a free agent. Then the trunk owner himself says that HE would be willing to carry our backpacks, for the right price, but Mitch plays cagey. Then trunk owner disappears for 10 minutes and returns with two boys, aged about 14, who agree to lug our backpacks for a stiff price. The boys, one of whom is sporting an incongruous leather cowboy hat, pick up the packs and we’re off. The boys are from a neighboring Tamang village, and though they’ve already dropped out of school they can speak 3 languages (Tamang, Gurung, Nepali). We continue to ascend for a couple h
ours to the hamlet of Gyurnay, situated at the crest of several intersecting trails. The trail through Gyurnay is flanked by a Gurung flagpole bearing a string of Tibetan prayer flags, and another pole bearing the hammer-and-sickle flag of the Communist Party Nepal. We stop for tea as clouds part to reveal peaks of the Annapurna range to the west.
Milla has a sharp mind and her English is quite good. Her favorite subject is science and she’s currently studying biology. I inform Mitch that multi-country surveys by the OECD have found an inverse relationship between the stage of economic development and student’s declaration of science as a favorite subject and preferred career. That is, something like 75% of schoolkids in poor countries like Nepal and Zambia prefer science and want to be engineers, doctors, and the like, compared to only 25-30% in Western Europe and the U.S.. Kids like Milla somehow fail to appreciate how personal injury lawyers, real estate developers, hedge fund managers, and pop singers can help build up a country.
The bus interior is decorated with figures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and the ensuing ride over the deeply rutted muddy dirt road rivals anything on offer at Disneyland. We’ve gone no more than 50 yards when the bus lurches dangerously towards the downhill side. Passengers get off to allow the driver to gun the bus through the first several mudpools. After settling back in, I speculate as to whether the window opening is large enough for me to fall through. I don’t think so, but the next time the bus lurches to the left, my shoulder drops into the opening. I decide to close the plastic window, comforting myself with the thought that should I fall through, the cuts and blood loss should be much less severe than if the window were made of glass. The passengers at the very front, seated next to the driver, have no such material considerations: there is no front windshield, affording them a better-than-crystal clear view of the obstacles immediately ahead.
A Disneyland ride, Lamjung version
The bus sways and staggers its way for another hour before grinding to an unexpected stop at Pyarjung, two stops before the dirt road ends at Gaunda, which is where Mitch has arranged for some guy from Namarkhu to meet us and carry our packs for the remaining 3 hour trek to the site village. Everyone gets off and disperses, but Mitch and I are stuck since we have no desire to carry all our gear up to Gaunda, which sits several hundred feet above us at the top of the ridge. Mitch wanders about the village searching for able bodies – in Nepali villages, the most effective approach is to mill about, hands in pockets, make pleasant conversation, and only after some time casually inquire, almost as an afterthought, about such crass things as hiring a porter. Finally, Mitch returns with two boys whom we had previously seen loitering about and who have now agreed to carry our two backbacks and a duffle bag for the extortionary rate of 200 rupees. The boys, who look about 12 years old, each put on a backpack and lug the duffle bag awkwardly between themselves as we all ascend the steep and narrow rocky trail. At the first turn, they spy a friend of theirs sitting to the side and ask Mitch, why not hire this third boy to carry the duffle bag? Mitch refuses, telling the boys that if they want to hand the duffle ov
er to their friend then they will have to pay him out of their own proceeds. The two boys look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and decide not to outsource the job. Mitch tells me that he’s already paying them triple-overtime and the locals will get mad at him if he, the rich foreigner, upsets the prevailing economic order.We make it up to Gaunda, stopping at a teashop as the two boys make away with their spot wages. We make pleasant conversation with local men, whose prime occupation during Desain is apparently (according to their own admission) to get drunk on rakshi and play cards. We see a young man that we recognize from the bus struggle up with a enormous trunk, still bearing KTM arrival baggage tags, who is clearly visiting home from a job overseas. Milla
and her family make it up to the street as well. I tell Milla’s younger sister Bina that I have a daughter whose nickname is also Bina. I open my last package of cookies and extend the package to offer a cookie to Asish. Instead, Cookie Monster takes the whole package out out my hand, to general laughter.It eventually transpires that no one has arrived from Namarkhu to help us get there, and that even with Mitch’s unthreatening approach, no men from Gounda are interested in carrying our bags to Namarkhu. By now it’s 2:30pm and we’re starting to worry whether we can get to Namarkhu before dark. Finally, a porter walks into town from uphill - but he’s not here for us, he’s been hired by the other guy with the big trunk; who’s going home to a village just past Namarkhu. I suggest to Mitch that we offer to pay the porter twice what he’s getting, but unfortunately the porter can’t get out of his contract to become a free agent. Then the trunk owner himself says that HE would be willing to carry our backpacks, for the right price, but Mitch plays cagey. Then trunk owner disappears for 10 minutes and returns with two boys, aged about 14, who agree to lug our backpacks for a stiff price. The boys, one of whom is sporting an incongruous leather cowboy hat, pick up the packs and we’re off. The boys are from a neighboring Tamang village, and though they’ve already dropped out of school they can speak 3 languages (Tamang, Gurung, Nepali). We continue to ascend for a couple h
ours to the hamlet of Gyurnay, situated at the crest of several intersecting trails. The trail through Gyurnay is flanked by a Gurung flagpole bearing a string of Tibetan prayer flags, and another pole bearing the hammer-and-sickle flag of the Communist Party Nepal. We stop for tea as clouds part to reveal peaks of the Annapurna range to the west. Darkness falls just as we make the steep descent from the ridge trail into Namarkhu. The village drapes itself over a 300 ft decline on the hillside, and we carefully pick our way to the house of Tuli-ama (great mother) (grandma = ba-jyai; Gurung bu-jyu), the matriarch who has put up Mitch and his accomp
aniers for the last couple visits. Nepalese of different generations address each other using kinship terms, not first names, even if they are unrelated. Her grandson Bijan, a 17-year-old baccaleaurate student (in Nepal’s 10+2 system), is visiting the home village together with his mother (bhau-jyu, or elder brother’s wife) for Desain. Bijan is supposed to be our translator, but it quickly becomes clear that his English as well as his knowledge base fall far short of the task.. Tuli-ama and daughter-in-law cook the dal baht over the firepit recessed into the floor of the main room of the house. As we men eat first, sitting on straw mats on the floor, Mitch re-acquaints himself with some of the neighbors and catches up with the family. Tuli-ama’s absent son is working in Korea, and has moved up from toiling in an auto factory to working as a Korean-Nepali translator. After he and the daughter-in-law both got into Korea through a broker to work as illegal aliens, Tuli-ama moved to Kathmandu to take care of Bijan, but she never liked the city. So after Sunita was caught and deported back to Nepal, Tuli-ama came back to Namarkhu to live.After the men are done eating, Tuli-ama and Sunita take their dinner. Nepalis eat with their right (bare) hands, but I notice both of the women pick up food with their left hand. I doubt this is an inherited trait (especially since they’re genetically unrelated), so I ask (through Mitch) why this is so. It turns out that these Gurung women serve food with the right hand, as they sit tending the pots and fire, and shouldn’t contaminate the serving hand, thus leaving the left hand to feed themselves. Over time this becomes such an ingrained habit that they use their left hands even when eating alone.
Mitch and I are exhausted and we are shown into the other room, which has two b
eds. Mitch points out a bright green katydid on the door jamb, and I note a 3-inch spider crawling along the wall. Ugh. The bathroom opens conveniently off the bedroom, and has the village’s only porcelain toilet (albeit the pit type set into the floor). Tuli-ama takes away the bedding for her family of three to sleep by the fire in the main room, and Mitch and I spread out our sleeping pads and bags for the night. 
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