Nagarkot and Holi Festival
March 2, 2007
March 2nd – 4th, 2007
To reach Nagarkot from Kathmandu I took a bus to Baktaphur and another from there along steeply ascending roads that led up to the sleepy village. On arrival it was quiet, but I was taken aback by the large number of guesthouses. It made sense however, as within only three hours of easy travel from the capital I had reached a position just outside the Kathmandu valley of over two thousand metres in altitude which was reputed to offer stunning views of the Eastern Himalayas. I checked into Hotel Snowman, which had a large terrace facing the mountainous region. Walking out onto it I was disappointed to see that even by late morning an icy fog had set in and viewing the majestic peaks was impossible. The staff, who outnumbered guests, were quick to tell me I shouldn’t worry. Proposing that for a small sum of money, they would take me by motorcycle up to the viewing point for sunrise the following morning. It sounded good to me and I spent the rest of the day reading in the restaurant and watching Nepali news on television. The workers explained that there was talk of bandh (the word for strike action) across the Terai. That night I slept poorly, huddled in thick blankets as my room was rather exposed on the edge of the valley and I was perhaps not acclimatised to the thinner oxygen levels. I had had only two or three hours of sleep when my alarm sounded at five thirty.
We jumped on the bike and the driver made his way along the ridge and up to the highest point on our side of the valley. There, still under the night sky I climbed the forty or so steps up to the viewing levee. It was freezing and I felt groggy from lack of sleep and the early start. On arrival at the top there was little visibility, but as the dawn drew nearer, the dark walls of the night slowly retreated. There emerging in front of me was a one hundred and eighty degree span of the greatest mountain range on earth. In the early morning grey the power and vastness of the serrated Himalayan kingdom was menacing.
The sky got brighter and over to the east the mountains began to lose their hostility. A shard of sunlight shot between the icy peaks and the range took on a soft pink and dreamy glow. At that point my motorcycle driver came up the steps; “there’s Everest, there!” he said immediately. I followed the line of his finger and between two closer peaks saw a tiny extremely sharp point. Within a minute the sun had further emerged and Everest or Sagarmatha as it is known to Nepalis had gone. I saw it for about sixty seconds, and as a tiny spec on the horizon but even to be that close felt incredible.
My mood seemed to change with the landscape, as the sun rose higher the sky became a brilliant blue, and the peaks in turn responded with the purest of whites. My muzzy head relinquished and I sat on a cold rock and felt the crisp air fill my lungs. I spent a couple of hours amongst the prayer flags identifying some of the peaks. Ganesh Himal, Langtangs and Gaurishanker all over seven thousand metres, and the giant Manaslu at eight thousand four hundred metres plus.
Returning to the guesthouse in the early part of the morning I had breakfast on the terrace and decided that instead of taking the same route back to Kathmandu, I would walk down to Sankhu and just take a single bus from there. It was the day of Holi and at risk of getting covered with the red paint it is synonymous with, I wanted to see if I could spot any of the festivities.
Fagu Purnima (Holi Festival)
I set off at about eleven o’clock with my large backpack. The going was tough and as I worked my down the bright sun intensified. The series of large cascades I walked down were a vivid green and starkly different to the English countryside with large step-like wedges cut into the entire landscape on which paddy fields had been planted. I made my way through a little village and several children came running up threatening but not actually throwing bags of watery red paint. At the end of the village I stopped at a small shop at the side of the path to replenish my water supply, and a slightly rotund man wearing a checked shirt greeted me with the familiar “namaste!” His name was Bikash and he lived up in the hills above with his family. He talked about Holi and asked if I would like to join him for the rest of the day. I didn’t have any unchangeable plans so we picked our way back up into the hills and arrived at his home. Two mud huts lay next to each other with a wide veranda running the length of each. The roofing was made of a thatch of dried leaves. I spent the early afternoon on the veranda with the whole family, which included Bikash’s mother and father who lived next door, his wife and two children, a brother, two sisters, and an assortment of uncles and aunts and their children.
On my arrival I had been given a large bowl of chyang, a white home brew made from wheat. I would guess at it being five percent alcohol and it was a cool, refreshing and very drinkable. Each time I finished I was poured another and Bikash encouraged me to keep up with him, which I almost achieved. There were various snacks handed out included roasted soy nuts with chilli, and boiled eggs. I thought I should continue on my way in order to catch the bus, but Bikash insisted that if I went I would miss the music later that night. After another bowl of chyang I was easily persuaded to stay.
We had a large dinner of dahl bhat, more eggs and vegetables. I was aware that the chyang, eggs, extra vegetables and soy nuts were to some extent party fare and I tried to refuse a couple of times for fear of taking someone else’s share but Bikash and his parents wouldn’t hear of it. His mother particularly kept a constant eye to make sure I always had some kind of snack by my side. While I was pleased there was to be music, I should confess that on a number of instances I had thought Nepali music a bit repetitive in comparison to that found in more “developed” countries, but when Bikash and his father emerged with antiquated looking trumpets I realised this wasn’t going to be just any performance.
The drums sounded, the women and children sang, and Bikash and his father, stood on the ledge at the end of the veranda sending rich blazing notes echoing around the valley. I sat amongst the spectators absorbing the spectacular event. The chyang was really starting to take effect and as it darkened and a fire was lit I felt quite at home there. I wondered about possessions and western ideals. It seemed that these people had all that they needed; a home, a family and the most extraordinary surroundings. The swarming of children and adults alike when I produced my camera earlier indicated that they didn’t necessarily have all the wanted but it made me think about where the line is drawn between having everything one could possibly want and forgetting what it is needed for in the first place.
That night I slept in the bed with Bikash and his wife slept on the floor with the children. I happily would have slept on the floor but once again it was out of the question. The bed consisted of a large board with a sheet over it and one remaining pillow. Bikash was more intoxicated than I and he slept sprawled out and even nestled up against me to some extent. It took a bit of getting used to but with a full stomach and thoroughly relaxed by the Nepali drink I was soon asleep. I awoke the following morning to discover Bikash’s elder son had also clambered in during the night and lay fast asleep across both of our legs.
After saying goodbyes, Bikash and I made our way down to Sankhu. I bought him a tea and some filter cigarettes for him and his father. I also gave him a couple of hundred Rupees for board and lodgings. I’d built up a real fondness for Nepali people during my time there. Bikash took the money bashfully and reiterated that if I was ever passing by again, I shouldn’t hesitate to come up to the house to say hello. Although it didn’t seem likely, I reflected on the blur that was the previous twenty four hours and I couldn’t help feel that one day I might.
