I spent one night in Kathmandu following my eventful return from Lahan, and tracked down the outstanding Turkish restaurant, Merhaba, at which I had eaten on my first night in Nepal. I didn’t sleep well that night - despite having bought a little hanging-mobile of fat felt sheep - and woke up far too early for my 7am bus. I was bound for Bandipur, an interesting village in the hills off the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway, but first I had to take a long, asthmatic bus to Dumre. The drive out of Kathmandu was slow and dusty; the ancient curtains in the 'tourist bus’ wheezing yellow clouds each time the loose windows rattled.
The road to Dumre was tedious. When we arrived at my stop - everyone else stayed on-board for Pokhara - the bus barely halted as I leaped out with my bags, before it skidded away, and then at my elbow there was a small, urgent man. ‘Bandipur, Bandipur?’ he asked me quickly. I nodded. ‘Come’ he said, as he beckoned me towards a little local bus. Climbing aboard, I congratulated myself on my good timing - we were obviously just about to depart. I found an empty seat and a corner for my rucksack.
Thirty minutes later there was no sign of a driver. I was hot and hungry. Sweating, I got out of the bus, leaving my backpack, after having made friends with the only other foreigners - a Dutch couple - so they could tell the driver, should he appear, to wait for me. There was a small restaurant nearby, at which I bought some spicy chicken momos. When I returned with the dumplings held neatly in a biodegradable bowl made from leaves, the driver was ready, and we set off.
Bandipur is a perfectly preserved heritage village of elegant wooden 18th Century traditional Newari houses perched atop a ridge in these high hills which divide the terai and the long Himalayan range. The bus, therefore, climbed steeply, turning on itself around the hairpin bends. Soon we ground to a halt. There appeared to be a problem.
The road was entirely blocked by rubble. A yellow digger was perched atop the debris, tearing down the bank on the up-side with its claw, and emptying its load either onto the road or dumping it over the hillside edge, bruising the vegetation below. We all watched the proceeding for a while, the locals calling out suggestions from time to time. Soon a policeman on a little scooter came carefully over the roadworks, and had a word with the driver, who then reversed our vehicle precariously round the cliff edge and into a lay-by.
Everyone piled out, we foreigners with our backpacks, and the local women with shopping bags full of ungainly cucumbers and some knobbly green things which might have been snozzcumbers. The driver told us to wait. 'How long?' someone asked him. 'Three hours’, he said cheerfully. I studied the map. Bandipur was not far - 4km - but the hill was steep and the sun was hot. I wondered if I could leave my backpack in the bus, walk up, and collect it at the top when the road was opened. But soon there was a better plan: someone would send a bus down to just above the roadworks, and we would walk up to it. We all picked our way carefully over the rubble, past the digger, and started trekking.
In this heat it was quite a lot harder than I had expected. I started worrying about the actual trek I had planned in the Annapurna Conservation Area later in the week. The villagers, mostly elderly men and women, all marched sprightly past me and the Dutch couple, with their heavy burdens of rolls of chicken wire and the ‘cumbers (snozz and regular), which seemed to have been breeding. I matched my pace with that of a tiny elderly woman, and we started chatting in our different tongues, understanding each other perfectly.
‘It's very hot’, I said in English, fanning my face.
‘It’s very hot’, she agreed in Nepali, squinting up at the midday sun.
‘How far is it?’ I asked, waving up the road.
‘Just up there’, she replied, pointing at the turn ahead.
We walked together to the bend in the road. The Dutch couple had stopped so that one of them could change her shoes. They had already completed their Annapurna circuit trek and she had chosen a pair of ballet pumps this morning; it was the first time she had been able to wear pretty shoes all month, she mourned, as they stopped to unpack her socks and hiking boots for this unexpected turn of events. Now they were behind us, the villagers ahead, and it was just me and the old woman.
The caravan of locals had turned off the road onto a small pathway that led up the bank and into the forest. The main road ahead turned a corner, and I realised that the Dutch backpackers wouldn’t understand that we had turned off the road.
‘I’d better wait here for them’, I said to the old woman in English, pointing down the road.
‘You should wait here for your friends’, she told me in Nepali, gesturing back the way we had come. 'Then follow us up there’. She pointed up at the steep forested way.
The Nederlanders weren’t far behind. Soon we were all sweating and gasping our way through the dry forest up a steep natural staircase. It was tough work with our bags. I could hear more diggers on the road below, and surmised that there must have been three points of roadworks. At each point where it might have been possible for us to misconstrue the way, the woman waited for us, bright like a beacon in her red sari, before she vanished up the trail once more.
After half an hour the trail levelled. We had reached the top of the ridge. There under a shady tree the villagers sat, chatting and laughing. Among them was my woman, and two very small children who had somehow beaten us to the top. There waited our next bus, a strong smell of bovids, and - surreally - the Government Goat Research Station. What an odd day, I thought.
The new bus brought us safely up to the village. It hadn’t been far in distance but it would have been too much to walk the whole way in this heat, I realised. My legs were shaking. I was sweating, dehydrated, and desperate for a shower. I resolved histrionically not to leave the village until the road had been fixed. But when I saw pretty little Bandipur with its old wooden houses and streets paved with silver slate, I realised it had all been worth it.
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
The road to Dumre was tedious. When we arrived at my stop - everyone else stayed on-board for Pokhara - the bus barely halted as I leaped out with my bags, before it skidded away, and then at my elbow there was a small, urgent man. ‘Bandipur, Bandipur?’ he asked me quickly. I nodded. ‘Come’ he said, as he beckoned me towards a little local bus. Climbing aboard, I congratulated myself on my good timing - we were obviously just about to depart. I found an empty seat and a corner for my rucksack.
Thirty minutes later there was no sign of a driver. I was hot and hungry. Sweating, I got out of the bus, leaving my backpack, after having made friends with the only other foreigners - a Dutch couple - so they could tell the driver, should he appear, to wait for me. There was a small restaurant nearby, at which I bought some spicy chicken momos. When I returned with the dumplings held neatly in a biodegradable bowl made from leaves, the driver was ready, and we set off.
Bandipur is a perfectly preserved heritage village of elegant wooden 18th Century traditional Newari houses perched atop a ridge in these high hills which divide the terai and the long Himalayan range. The bus, therefore, climbed steeply, turning on itself around the hairpin bends. Soon we ground to a halt. There appeared to be a problem.
 |
| The road to Bandipur |
Everyone piled out, we foreigners with our backpacks, and the local women with shopping bags full of ungainly cucumbers and some knobbly green things which might have been snozzcumbers. The driver told us to wait. 'How long?' someone asked him. 'Three hours’, he said cheerfully. I studied the map. Bandipur was not far - 4km - but the hill was steep and the sun was hot. I wondered if I could leave my backpack in the bus, walk up, and collect it at the top when the road was opened. But soon there was a better plan: someone would send a bus down to just above the roadworks, and we would walk up to it. We all picked our way carefully over the rubble, past the digger, and started trekking.
 |
| Snozzcumbers |
‘It's very hot’, I said in English, fanning my face.
‘It’s very hot’, she agreed in Nepali, squinting up at the midday sun.
‘How far is it?’ I asked, waving up the road.
‘Just up there’, she replied, pointing at the turn ahead.
We walked together to the bend in the road. The Dutch couple had stopped so that one of them could change her shoes. They had already completed their Annapurna circuit trek and she had chosen a pair of ballet pumps this morning; it was the first time she had been able to wear pretty shoes all month, she mourned, as they stopped to unpack her socks and hiking boots for this unexpected turn of events. Now they were behind us, the villagers ahead, and it was just me and the old woman.
The caravan of locals had turned off the road onto a small pathway that led up the bank and into the forest. The main road ahead turned a corner, and I realised that the Dutch backpackers wouldn’t understand that we had turned off the road.
‘I’d better wait here for them’, I said to the old woman in English, pointing down the road.
‘You should wait here for your friends’, she told me in Nepali, gesturing back the way we had come. 'Then follow us up there’. She pointed up at the steep forested way.
 |
| The old woman turns off the road, and I wait for the Dutch couple |
After half an hour the trail levelled. We had reached the top of the ridge. There under a shady tree the villagers sat, chatting and laughing. Among them was my woman, and two very small children who had somehow beaten us to the top. There waited our next bus, a strong smell of bovids, and - surreally - the Government Goat Research Station. What an odd day, I thought.
 |
| A strong smell of bovids |
 |
| A traditional Newari house |
 |
| A peaceful garden retreat |
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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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