Monday June 7, 2010
Yesterday was a day for traveling. We began by finding a small van to take us from Kathmandu to a small town in the dhading district. The van was much thinner than an normal US van but probably of about the same length, yet somehow we ended up with 25 people packed in.
Arriving at the village we sat and ate at a small restaurant that reminded me of nothing so much as one of the wooden shack bars in an old western, with the buzzing flies, the barely clean tables and the harassed looking waitress, who would apparently just as soon prefer there weren’t any patrons. While we ate pastor attempted to find us a way up the mountain to his village. This it seems is quite difficult because the way is rough and rocky and normal cars and busses won’t go up there. Finally he finds us a truck hauling sand and tin roofing up the mountain so we climb in the back with some 20 other people and hold on to whatever we can grab while we are tossed and jostle for the next two hours. Although it may not sound like the ideal way to travel, it is much preferable to the earlier cramped van. The sky is just cloudy enough to keep the sun from scorching without making the day dreary, and because we arestanding in the back of a truck without roof or walls there is nothing to block our view as we slowly climbed the “hills” and look out over the green valleys. Occasionally we encounter a particularly difficult or muddy part of the road and all have to pile out of the back till the truck makes it through.
Near the top of the hill we finally disembark for good and begin a hike down the other side to the pastors village. The hill side is dotted with charming cottages some stone, some wood, some mud. The main paths are often fenced in with short stone walls. Every so often we see a “watering hole”. Here a short plastic tube protrudes from a stone wall or hillside about three feet above the ground. The ditch into which the water spills is often sided with stones and in some cases the sorounding area is covered with flowering bushes and trees, giving the whole thing the appearance of an English garden. In fact flowers and trees and bushes surround the paths and villages as well.
Finally arriving at the pastors village we are sweaty and dirty and tired from the day’s journey. There is of course no running water inside the homes, much less private shower rooms. So my choices are simple; bath in the open “watering holes” or go to bed dirty and sweaty. I and the assistant pastor head out to the closest fount of water, where I strip down to my boxers and learn to bath like a true Nepali in crisp cool mountain spring water.
In the evening besides the normal rice and dahl we are served corn on the cob, but roasted over a fire and without salt or butter. It’s good. Raju is afraid that I won’t like. He also doesn’t believe me that corn came from America.
Finally we take to bed, wooden beds covered with mosquito nets in a small mud hut.
I awake in the morning and go looking on my own for a way back to last night’s water hole. Since it was dark when we made the trip I am not positive of the correct route. But I find what I think is the right path and follow it till it suddenly diverges in a corn field. Reasoning, correctly it turns out, that the path more traveled by is most likely the way to water I take it. Once back to the water I wash my face and shave without the benefit of a mirror. I have never attempted this before and I assume ( incorrectly it turns out ) that I did a pretty good job.
After this I head out on my own to find a spot away from the village. I want to go over the lesson for the day and do a little bible study, but I know this will be impossible if the pastor knows where I am as he will be a very courteous host constantly offering me tea and then breakfast, and interrupting me for other reasons. It is however rather difficult for a white man to go anywhere in these hills without the locals taking note. Apparently some of the kids followed and reported my whereabouts to the pastor who know stands on the hill opposite where I am sitting beckoning for me to return to the village.