29 June 2008 Beshisahar - Bahundanda
I was woken shortly before dawn by the reving of the bus engine. the driver had parked it on the waste ground in front of the guesthouse late last night. I wasn’t sure it was a good move then, as the land was beginning to flood. This morning it looked like a padi field ready for planting. A group of men, would be passengers I suppose, were rocking the bus from side to side and shouting encouragement or abuse at the driver. Whichever, his approach to the problem was unchanging - just more reves. Eventually, and only when the hotel was fully awake, the bus tore itself free and headed back into town, leaving clumps of mud in the road dissolving in the steadily falling rain.
I ordered breakfast, muesli with curd and toast. “6 or 7 o’clock” the waiter said, not making clear whether this was a question or a prediction. I hedged, said now and hoped for the best. A few minutes later the waiter reappeared from behind the hotel on a motorbike and set off down the road to find my breakfast. I was to learn on this trip that if you must travel in the off season, you should ask what is available rather than risk choosing something from the menu.
We saw our first leach within ten minutes of leaving town. A local dog, a handsome black mongrel with a grey muzzle and shiny coat, decided to join us on the trek. He snuffled happily among the bushes alongside the trail and came out with a leach stuck to his nose. About an inch long and looking like a small black slug, it caused him no concern. After that, I eyed the bushes with suspicion.
A couple of weeks before the trip Dambar asked me if I would bring him some fabric waterproofing spray, something that I would have thought you could buy easily in Kathmandu, but apparently not. Of course, there is even less demand for it in Saudi Arabia. I’d carefully waterproofed my bots using Nikwax before I came out, but that was not use to Dambar. We were discussing this as we rounded a corner just before a village on the banks of a small river. The village bridge had been washed out, probably sometime last year. Instead of rebuilding it the villagers had constructed a ford at the widest point. The guys took off their boots and socks, but remembering many uncertain crossings in Ladakh, I kept mine on. Better wet boots than a slip in a river in spate. I don’t like river crossings. As I wade across I am always worrying about my camera. If I didn’t have that with me I would be worrying about losing my life. We crossed carefully, holding on to each other for support, laughing nervously as the water reached our thighs. Our canine companion was desperate to follow us too, but backed off nervously. Dambar tried to help him, but after ten minutes of trying to summon up his courage he whined, turned round and went back down the track. The dog that is.
There is a good view of Manaslu, the world’s eighth highest mountain, or at least there would be if the clouds would lift from the verdant hills above us. It is a time of change in the villages. Ripened corn is being harvested before it rots in the monsoon rains and where the fields have been cleared men are ploughing them with teams of buffalo. Scattered about the hillsides are small padi fields of an intense, bright green where the rice seedlings are ready for transplanting into the mud of the prepared fields.
We passed along line of women, colourfully dressed in imported Indonesian sarongs, deftly planting seedlings. I removed my camera from the drybag to take a photograph as Dambar held an umbrella over me. The women didn’t notice at first, but my motor drive isn’t quiet. By the third frame on young woman was posing for me. For a moment I thought she was going to start singing like a character from a Hindi movie. Feeling slightly embarrassed, we moved off along the trail.
A land crab sprinted across the path between us, like a Bangladeshi on a Saudi highway, seemingly oblivious to the dancers she faced. How, you might ask, do you sex a crab? I have no idea, but Dambar picked her up so that I could photograph her blue underbelly. Tiny crabs ran out from between her legs, scurrying for safety. “Oh, sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this.” Dambar said, hastily returning the crab to the ground. “Om mani padme hom, om mani padme hom ... oh, I think one dropped off.
The lodge at Bahundanda is at the top of a strange col in the river valley caused by a hard outcrop of rock that the river, unable to cut its way through, has bypassed. High above the river there is a small village looking out over endless rice terraces and up to the green mountains that tower above. My guesthouse was on the highest part of the col and enjoyed tremendous 270 degree views, as its signboard claimed. With its lawn and carefully tended garden, it reminded me of the colonial homes of the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia. Had the furniture being designed with comfort in mind, I could have easily spent weeks there.
I was woken shortly before dawn by the reving of the bus engine. the driver had parked it on the waste ground in front of the guesthouse late last night. I wasn’t sure it was a good move then, as the land was beginning to flood. This morning it looked like a padi field ready for planting. A group of men, would be passengers I suppose, were rocking the bus from side to side and shouting encouragement or abuse at the driver. Whichever, his approach to the problem was unchanging - just more reves. Eventually, and only when the hotel was fully awake, the bus tore itself free and headed back into town, leaving clumps of mud in the road dissolving in the steadily falling rain.
I ordered breakfast, muesli with curd and toast. “6 or 7 o’clock” the waiter said, not making clear whether this was a question or a prediction. I hedged, said now and hoped for the best. A few minutes later the waiter reappeared from behind the hotel on a motorbike and set off down the road to find my breakfast. I was to learn on this trip that if you must travel in the off season, you should ask what is available rather than risk choosing something from the menu.
We saw our first leach within ten minutes of leaving town. A local dog, a handsome black mongrel with a grey muzzle and shiny coat, decided to join us on the trek. He snuffled happily among the bushes alongside the trail and came out with a leach stuck to his nose. About an inch long and looking like a small black slug, it caused him no concern. After that, I eyed the bushes with suspicion.
A couple of weeks before the trip Dambar asked me if I would bring him some fabric waterproofing spray, something that I would have thought you could buy easily in Kathmandu, but apparently not. Of course, there is even less demand for it in Saudi Arabia. I’d carefully waterproofed my bots using Nikwax before I came out, but that was not use to Dambar. We were discussing this as we rounded a corner just before a village on the banks of a small river. The village bridge had been washed out, probably sometime last year. Instead of rebuilding it the villagers had constructed a ford at the widest point. The guys took off their boots and socks, but remembering many uncertain crossings in Ladakh, I kept mine on. Better wet boots than a slip in a river in spate. I don’t like river crossings. As I wade across I am always worrying about my camera. If I didn’t have that with me I would be worrying about losing my life. We crossed carefully, holding on to each other for support, laughing nervously as the water reached our thighs. Our canine companion was desperate to follow us too, but backed off nervously. Dambar tried to help him, but after ten minutes of trying to summon up his courage he whined, turned round and went back down the track. The dog that is.
There is a good view of Manaslu, the world’s eighth highest mountain, or at least there would be if the clouds would lift from the verdant hills above us. It is a time of change in the villages. Ripened corn is being harvested before it rots in the monsoon rains and where the fields have been cleared men are ploughing them with teams of buffalo. Scattered about the hillsides are small padi fields of an intense, bright green where the rice seedlings are ready for transplanting into the mud of the prepared fields.
We passed along line of women, colourfully dressed in imported Indonesian sarongs, deftly planting seedlings. I removed my camera from the drybag to take a photograph as Dambar held an umbrella over me. The women didn’t notice at first, but my motor drive isn’t quiet. By the third frame on young woman was posing for me. For a moment I thought she was going to start singing like a character from a Hindi movie. Feeling slightly embarrassed, we moved off along the trail.
A land crab sprinted across the path between us, like a Bangladeshi on a Saudi highway, seemingly oblivious to the dancers she faced. How, you might ask, do you sex a crab? I have no idea, but Dambar picked her up so that I could photograph her blue underbelly. Tiny crabs ran out from between her legs, scurrying for safety. “Oh, sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this.” Dambar said, hastily returning the crab to the ground. “Om mani padme hom, om mani padme hom ... oh, I think one dropped off.
The lodge at Bahundanda is at the top of a strange col in the river valley caused by a hard outcrop of rock that the river, unable to cut its way through, has bypassed. High above the river there is a small village looking out over endless rice terraces and up to the green mountains that tower above. My guesthouse was on the highest part of the col and enjoyed tremendous 270 degree views, as its signboard claimed. With its lawn and carefully tended garden, it reminded me of the colonial homes of the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia. Had the furniture being designed with comfort in mind, I could have easily spent weeks there.
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