I stayed in Bandipur for two nights. After my journey from Kathmandu involving an unexpected hike uphill under the midday sun, I was not in a rush to be anywhere else. Also, I realised, this was only the first day of my holiday, even though I had been in Nepal for eleven days.
On one of the two streets, the Bazar, elegantly paved with silver slate, I found a small hotel with a tiny bedroom just large enough for a hard single bed and a table; heavy wooden shutters cooling the room. My life pleasantly simplified, I took a cold bucket-shower outside on the rooftop overlooking the green hills, before assembling my dirty clothes and going in search of a laundrette. I quickly learned, however, that there was no such place. I asked several different women whether they knew where I could have my clothes washed; they all told me there was no laundry service in Bandipur but I was welcome to take my clothes down to the lavoir and wash them myself. Good for them; I thought admiringly, but I didn’t much fancy doing it either. Later I took them to a place in Pokhara and tipped generously to atone for all my stinking socks.
I lazed about in the afternoon sunshine with a salted lassi, reading and writing, and watching the villagers potter about. Women tended to their empty shops and sat peaceably at their vintage Singer sewing machines. Bandipur seemed a very pleasant place to live: the women don’t do other people’s laundry, the yellow dogs doze in the shade and wake up to sing at each other, the children come home from school at 4pm and cause a joyful ruckus in the sleepy streets, and the older generation go from house to house paying social visits, or simply call to each other across the street when they have something to discuss.
I was not keen to hike down the hill again past the roadworks upon my departure, so I asked some locals when the road would be fixed, and what had happened. One told me that the road was being redirected further into the hillside; another said they thought that there had been a landslide. I inadvertently passed this rumour on to several different people before concluding from their surprised reactions that it wasn’t actually true. I was told that the road was only closed in the afternoon; if I left after breakfast it should be fine. "What time is breakfast?" I asked. “Six seven eight nine ten”, came the answer. It wasn’t clear if this meant one extended, lavish salmagundi, or breakfasts ordered first to fifth, à la Merry and Pippin. Either way, it only improved my already positive impression of Bandipur.
An enthusiastic travel agent asked me what activities I had planned for my stay in Bandipur. He was shocked when I told him I planned to remain in the village and relax. “You should visit Ramkot!” he said excitedly. “It’s a little village two and half hours’ walk away down the hill - it’s very pretty with old houses, just like Bandipur!" he said. “But I’ve only just arrived, and there are pretty houses right here,” I pointed out. “Well, you must at least visit the Siddha cave - it’s the largest in Nepal!” he insisted. He seemed determined that I should leave the vicinity as quickly as possible; an unusual tactic for a local travel company. I didn’t want to go anywhere in this heat except to the nearest bar, and the Siddha cave simply couldn’t have been as outstanding as the ones I had seen in Vietnam; among the largest in the world. He looked disappointed as I left.
Early the next morning while it was still cool, I went to visit the silkworms at a farm in the hills below the village, only to find they had just finished a life cycle and had been sent away to Kathmandu to be boiled alive in their silken cocoons. I sat under a large fig tree amongst the mulberry bushes - the leaves are the silkworms’ only food - and listened as a young woman explained about the farm. The life cycle takes forty-five days from egg to butterfly, she explained. Over thirty days the pupae spin their white cocoon of silk thread, dreaming their way to a new butterfly life. Instead, the cocoon is boiled, killing the unfortunate pupa inside - if it were allowed to emerge into a butterfly the cocoon would be ruined as it broke open, and the silk thread useless for our sartorial vanity. Each cocoon contains around one kilometre of the very finest filament, and around two thousand cocoons are needed for one large silk scarf. For thousands of years, this expensive commodity of violent origins was transported westwards from Asia by traders along the Silk Road to Constantinople and Venice.
The road down to Dumre was open the following morning after breakfast. I squeezed into the local bus with the school children, and after another tedious, dusty bus journey along the main road from Dumre I arrived in Pokhara, the starting point of my trek within the Annapurna circuit. Soon I would see the great Himalayas.
The dusty dogs of Kathmandu - on my arrival into Nepal
The endless quest for a birthday beverage - I try to order a drink in Lahan, with mixed success
The tiger who took a taxi - on my first day in Kathmandu
Political unrest and an exciting trip to the airport - my journey to a regional airport amidst civil unrest
The road to Bandipur - is not as straightforward as it seems
Boiled alive in Bandipur - I visit a silkworm farm and discover the violent origins of the Silk Road
My elephant friends - I meet some unpleasant humans and some very important elephants
On one of the two streets, the Bazar, elegantly paved with silver slate, I found a small hotel with a tiny bedroom just large enough for a hard single bed and a table; heavy wooden shutters cooling the room. My life pleasantly simplified, I took a cold bucket-shower outside on the rooftop overlooking the green hills, before assembling my dirty clothes and going in search of a laundrette. I quickly learned, however, that there was no such place. I asked several different women whether they knew where I could have my clothes washed; they all told me there was no laundry service in Bandipur but I was welcome to take my clothes down to the lavoir and wash them myself. Good for them; I thought admiringly, but I didn’t much fancy doing it either. Later I took them to a place in Pokhara and tipped generously to atone for all my stinking socks.
I lazed about in the afternoon sunshine with a salted lassi, reading and writing, and watching the villagers potter about. Women tended to their empty shops and sat peaceably at their vintage Singer sewing machines. Bandipur seemed a very pleasant place to live: the women don’t do other people’s laundry, the yellow dogs doze in the shade and wake up to sing at each other, the children come home from school at 4pm and cause a joyful ruckus in the sleepy streets, and the older generation go from house to house paying social visits, or simply call to each other across the street when they have something to discuss.
I was not keen to hike down the hill again past the roadworks upon my departure, so I asked some locals when the road would be fixed, and what had happened. One told me that the road was being redirected further into the hillside; another said they thought that there had been a landslide. I inadvertently passed this rumour on to several different people before concluding from their surprised reactions that it wasn’t actually true. I was told that the road was only closed in the afternoon; if I left after breakfast it should be fine. "What time is breakfast?" I asked. “Six seven eight nine ten”, came the answer. It wasn’t clear if this meant one extended, lavish salmagundi, or breakfasts ordered first to fifth, à la Merry and Pippin. Either way, it only improved my already positive impression of Bandipur.
An enthusiastic travel agent asked me what activities I had planned for my stay in Bandipur. He was shocked when I told him I planned to remain in the village and relax. “You should visit Ramkot!” he said excitedly. “It’s a little village two and half hours’ walk away down the hill - it’s very pretty with old houses, just like Bandipur!" he said. “But I’ve only just arrived, and there are pretty houses right here,” I pointed out. “Well, you must at least visit the Siddha cave - it’s the largest in Nepal!” he insisted. He seemed determined that I should leave the vicinity as quickly as possible; an unusual tactic for a local travel company. I didn’t want to go anywhere in this heat except to the nearest bar, and the Siddha cave simply couldn’t have been as outstanding as the ones I had seen in Vietnam; among the largest in the world. He looked disappointed as I left.
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| A silkworm cocoon from which silk is made. When I shook it I could hear the live pupa rattling inside. |
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| Silk threads, in varying thicknesses of filament |
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| The life cycle of the silkworm |
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More on Nepal:The dusty dogs of Kathmandu - on my arrival into Nepal
The endless quest for a birthday beverage - I try to order a drink in Lahan, with mixed success
The tiger who took a taxi - on my first day in Kathmandu
Political unrest and an exciting trip to the airport - my journey to a regional airport amidst civil unrest
The road to Bandipur - is not as straightforward as it seems
Boiled alive in Bandipur - I visit a silkworm farm and discover the violent origins of the Silk Road
My elephant friends - I meet some unpleasant humans and some very important elephants
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