Nagarkot

The sun was setting over the Himalayan range across the valley. From this distance the snowcapped mountains appeared peaceful, but the reality up there would be different, I mentioned to my friends Roland and Madeleine sitting next to me enjoying their drinks and some succulent momos on the terrace. These were the highest mountains in the world, with several peaks reaching up to more than 7,000 meters above sea level. Many climbers had perished in the violent blizzards, sudden storms and avalanches during their attempts to the summit. Mount Everest (8,848 m) shone bright between peaks that appeared much larger than this highest of them all in the distance. Here in Nagarkot, away from the noise and pollution of Kathmandu valley, there was true peacefulness. It was wonderful to sit down and relax with good old friends who recently relocated to Kathmandu from Cairo.

 

I had spent the week in Kathmandu attending the Evaluation Conclave organized by the South Asian Community of Evaluators, a gathering of more than 300 evaluation professionals. When the Conclave ended at lunchtime (with no white smoke), I checked out of my hotel and hooked up with my friends to drive out of town. We drove through the chaotic city traffic across the ring road, past Bhaktapur where finally urban sprawl gave way to open fields. It was very dusty, although it had rained just a week before. In the beginning of March, there were no crops in the fields. Here people would grow rice in the summer on their terraced fields. In the winter, another crop of wheat, rapeseed, millet would be harvested.

Soon the road started climbing up the hillside. The traffic was not heavy on the winding road but there was a constant flow of vehicles: cars, small SUVs and trucks, buses, minivans carrying tourists and, most of all, motorbikes. We all shared the road with pedestrians, dogs, goats, the occasional cow. Traffic is hazardous on Nepal’s mountain roads, but here we were progressing safely in the VW Tiguan steered by Roland.

As we reached higher ground, we saw many small bars and restaurants perched perilously above steep slopes with gorgeous views giving out to the valley. Resisting the temptation, we pushed onwards. There were also several military camps along the road. Nepal is still emerging from a prolonged Maoist insurgency and lawlessness that rendered much of the countryside uninhabitable, contributing to the uncontrolled growth of the capital city region.

Nagarkot, just 40 km outside of the city, has developed into a major tourist destination thanks to its proximity to the capital and natural beauty. The town of Nagarkot is not much more than a messy conglomeration of houses in a crossing where two roads diverge, but it is bustling with activity. On all sides, there are smaller and larger establishments under the general rubric of ’resort,’ with names like Paradise Inn, Café du Mont, and The Hotel at the End of the Universe. We continued past the town and the sprawl of resorts ended. We drove until we came to another fork in the road where a soldier advised us to take the path to the left. The road became increasingly rough with potholes on the unpaved surface. At the end of the road we reached Bhangeri Durbar Resort. A reservation had been made by Amogh, a friend of my New York –based Nepali friend Anish. Bhangeri Durbar turned out to be a lovely choice. A new hotel, opened only at the end of 2011, it was made with good taste and occupied a pristine location with a view to the Himalayan mountain range. The altimeter in Roland’s wristwatch clocked over 1,800 meters above sea level.

Although we were the first to arrive in late afternoon, we would not be the only guests. Two other groups arrived after us. The first consisted of a class of MBA students from Kathmandu who were at a retreat. The students—boys and girls in almost equal numbers—looked terribly young as they frolicked in the garden. The second group consisted of ten Chinese tourists who would stay for one night, admire the Himalayan sunset, eat a specially prepared Chinese meal, and depart for their next destination early in the morning. Chinese tourists are an increasing presence in Nepal (as well as elsewhere in Asia). The assistant manager of Bhangeri Durbar told us that 70-80% of their guests are from China. The Chinese tour modality is like that of the first mass tourists in the West in the 1960s. They travel by bus and cover the entire country in one week zooming from one location to the next.

By the time we arrived for dinner after a rest, both of our fellow traveler groups had already finished eating, so we had the restaurant—and the assistant manager’s attention—all to ourselves. The meal was delicious consisting of chicken curry and fish curry (made from frozen fish, as Nepal is far from sources of fresh fish), spinach and other vegetables and, of course, rice and daal. The vegetables were grown in the hotel’s own fields just below. We asked for raksi, the local alcohol distilled from rice or millet, which the staff went to procure from a nearby farmhouse. He soon returned with a plastic water bottle filled with slightly cloudy liquid, which we sampled for the benefit of our digestion.

Gurung, the assistant manager, was running the restaurant in a highly professional manner, spoke excellent English and was generally very sophisticated. Our discussion revealed that he was originally from this area—Gurung, his name, also implies an ethnic group, as is the case with many Nepali names—but had left for boarding school in Kathmandu in his early teens. He had completed hotel and restaurant school in 2009 and had only recently returned to his home area for the first time in many years.

Darkness fell rapidly and the moon that rose over the mountains was two-thirds full, bright orange and huge. It’s so much closer here, observed Madeleine.

Sleep came easy in the fresh air and absolute silence despite the moonlight. Wake-up was before 6 am when it was still coal dark. This was to get ready to observe the sunrise over the mountains half an hour later. The sky was slowly getting lighter and colored in pink and turquoise hues. Soon the sun appeared behind the range as a small red fire ball. What followed, however, was disappointing. The mountains and the valley were covered in a thick cloud and it would be hours before the snowy peaks appeared behind the haze. We had no choice but to lodge a complaint with Gurung about this over breakfast.

For me this was just a mini-holiday, as I’d have to leave this afternoon for India. However, we still had time for some sightseeing and decided to head up to the highest point in the area, the Nagarkot Tower. I had expected to see hikers there, but was surprised at the scene. Just below the peak, there was a fair field with a large grouping of shops selling snacks and souvenirs. The largest share of merchandise, however, clearly was alcohol of different varieties: there were large bottles of beer, rows of Khukri rum, piles of Ruslan vodka and Himalayan whisky. This was clearly a popular party place.

We climbed up the steps leading to the top (now over 2,000 meters high, according to Roland’s watch) – and found the party! Although it was still early—well before noon—a large crowd had already gathered at the top and more were coming. A makeshift sound system with two large speakers was blasting music, Gangnam Style, and a group of young girls were dancing in a circle. A couple of kids were playing badminton next to them. Families had settled down for a picnic, no doubt consuming some of the beverages from downhill. Young couples were photographing each other with the now visible snow peaks as a backdrop. The day was gorgeous, the sun warming up the cold mountain air. Almost all of the people on the mountain were Nepali. What a great way to spend a Saturday, I thought.

With some time still on our hands, we decided to explore the area a bit more. Nagarkot was clearly booming and new resorts were coming up in every scenic spot. The valleys below were covered with agricultural terraces. Large hawks soared high above them. I couldn’t but help to reflect on the transformation of the landscape caused by this rapid development. Although this cannot be classified as mass tourism, the individual hotels, resorts and restaurants add up to large-scale development, with the inflow of thousands of people every weekend. Then again, tourism is bound to bring in lots of money to the area and generate significant amounts of income for the local people who then do not need to add to the fray in Kathmandu. This development had allowed our friend Gurung to return to his home area. Perhaps, development is inevitable so close to the teeming capital city. So far the style of development has been as benign as could be expected.

As we headed down towards the city, most of the traffic was to the opposite direction. I would not have minded turning around and joining the revelers for another evening of merry-making.

Sharing Apples and Wives on the Top of the World

It was hard to imagine how people would eke out a living in these surroundings. The hillsides were steep and covered with rubble and boulders. The high mountaintops shone unbearably bright with pristine white snow against the cloudless blue sky. There was barely anything organic in sight. Even the houses perched on the slopes were made of stone. We were only six kilometers from the border of Tibet.

My travel companion Ratna was chatting up a group of women we had encountered upon arrival in the village of Dubling in the Indian Himalayas. We had driven in a four-wheel-drive up the gravel road on the path that wound up the hillside. Only a kilometer and a half from the Titang power station by the riverside in the valley, the trip had taken us more than half an hour to navigate. At times it had been demanding to hang onto the handles as the vehicle ambled slowly at improbable angles.

Entering the village, we saw perhaps ten to fifteen houses located on rather a steep slope. They were the same color as the rocks on the hills they were made of. Below, there were a few stony fields that were still the same monotone grey after the long winter. Wheat and beans would be amongst the few crops to grow at this altitude. A few cows and donkeys were foraging in the orchard munching on whatever little there was to eat.

The women, all dressed in traditional patterned robes and wearing colorful pillboxes on their heads, snickered as we entered the village. Their round sun-darkened faces displayed distinctly Tibetan features beneath the sweet smiles. The women were sitting on the flat roof of one of the houses attending to their chores, mostly sowing cloths, and chatting leisurely. One of them was nursing a tiny baby in her lap. The mother looked to be in her teens with a pretty, innocent face. There were several goats basking in the sun, their white pelts reflecting the rays unmitigated by the thin mountain atmosphere. This was early-March and the harsh winter was just behind. Therefore, the women had time on their hands before they would need to start to tend to their fields. It was obvious that, against all the odds produced by the harsh environment and the isolated location, the people in Dubling were not destitute. Everyone appeared cheerful and well fed. To our astonishment, there were several large parabolic antennas standing on the roofs. One of our new acquaintances actually did her knitting while sitting on the concave edge of one. Electricity thus clearly was available in the village.

My friend who has an easy way with people was joking with the ladies in a language unknown to me. Ratna Reddy was an economics professor from Hyderabad in the south of India, far from where we were, but he had conducted a lot of field research in various remote communities in the country and had knowledge of an array of languages in this vast and varied country. The purpose of our visit to this – and many other villages in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh – was to assess whether an internationally-funded project intended to promote small hydroelectricity by installing tiny environmentally sound power stations in the numerous streams that flowed down from the Himalayas was reaching its objectives and benefiting the local people. The village of Dubling was one of the intended beneficiaries of the Titang scheme run by a local not-for-profit outfit, Sai Engineering Foundation. It was the remotest scheme in the entire project.

Ratna was explaining the purpose of our trip and the project, and inquiring whether it was benefiting the village. They had electricity alright and used it mostly for lighting and watching the television. Unfortunately, they could only see one government-sponsored channel. The tall mountains made reception weak and Dubling out of reach of private broadcasters. Ratna got us invited to one of the houses – free, although the proprietess first asked playfully how much we would pay in entrance fee. Inside was small, walls and floor the dull grey of baked earth. A vertical tree trunk connected to a horizontal beam holding the habitation safe in case of an earthquake, which are quite common in the hills. The centerpiece of the room was a wood burning chula with a pipe leading to a rooftop chimney. There was a single bare light bulb providing light. No windows, presumably to keep out the extremely cold winter winds. In the corner, sat a small black and white TV set.

We asked the lady why she was still cooking with firewood when the Titang station just down the hill produced ample and clean electricity. She explained patiently that cooking with wood was the tradition and the hearth also kept the room warm in the winter. Most importantly, however, the electricity tariff was still too high and fuel wood was free for all to collect. But collecting it must be quite a hike in this barren environment, I thought. In the summertime, they’d use liquid petroleum gas for cooking, as there was no need for heating and the mountain winds had eased enough not to blow out the flame. This was a story we would hear over and over again in all the villages we’d visit. It would take time and an economic restructuring to make electricity affordable to the people.

Bidding farewell to the ladies who promptly got back to their chores, we wandered up the steep and narrow path made muddy by the melting snow to the next level of houses. We were followed by a small group of children wearing wool caps and sweaters. We encountered a group of men sitting on another rooftop chiseling wooden utensils with their tools. The scene was very leisurely in the bright noon sunshine. Some boys were hovering around, learning the craft by watching their elders. The most senior of the men sat cross-legged at the center of the small group wearing a black knitted vest over his green jacket. His mustachioed face was tan under the round cap. The hills behind him appeared totally barren. Only a few trees close to the village stood grey still without leaves in the early spring.

Arriving at the main square of the village we found the Buddhist temple. Perched on the steep hillside, somewhat larger houses surrounded the square that had the appearance of being the main place of the village. Tanned faces with squint lines observed us from doorways. The peaks behind were still white with snow. A youngish man, perhaps in his 30s, smiled confidently and emerged as a natural counterpart for us to approach. Sitting on a stone bench by the temple, he finally explained to us what constituted the economic backbone of Dubling: Kinnaur apples. Beautiful, large, juicy, dark red apples. Kinnaur apples are famous all around India and fetch a premium price on markets in Delhi and other big cities. The short but extremely sunny summer, fresh clean mountain water, and the rocky soils are ideal for apple production. The young and clearly wealthy man said that he could produce 250-300 cases of apples annually from his orchard.

But how on earth could they get the apples to the market? The solution was very cooperative and beneficial to all of the people in village. The families would get together and rent a truck in which the men would drive the apples to Delhi or to Chandighar. It wasn’t, after all, that far. You’d need a long day to drive to the Himachal capital of Shimla. Then another down the foothills and into the plains north of the national capital. In a couple of days nothing bad would happen to the fresh produce from the Himalayas. The men would receive an ample compensation for their effort selling the produce in Delhi to eager mouths waiting for the arguably best apple in the world.

The man told us that he belonged to a common family typical up here. They were several brothers sharing the same wife. This practice has a long history in Himachal. The ancient legend tells about five brothers with a blind mother. The men used to go hunting in the mountains and every time they’d return from the hunt their mother would tell them to share the catch. One day, one of the brothers had come across a beautiful young woman in the forest and carried her home. Enthusiastically, he exclaimed to his mother that today he had an extraordinary catch. The mother who could not see ordered him to share it with his brothers like everything else. This practice thus still lingered on in the mountain communities with limited land and other natural resources to share.

Life up in the hills was harsh, but not bad to those who had grown up there. Nobody starved and the houses stayed warm during the long winter. In fact, the government had made offers to relocate the people from these remote villages closer to services, but they had flatly refused. After all, this was home.

As for electricity, it was definitely welcome to the villagers who saw many benefits from it. However, there was a lot to do to make expansion of electric power affordable to people. Sai Engineering Foundation – set up under the name of the controversial frizzy haired guru Sai Baba – had originally wanted to demonstrate that it was economically feasible to use small hydropower to generate electricity to remote communities in the mountains. Even they had had to give up the idea and accept that power station operation had to be subsidized from their other operations. Yet, the people in Dubling and other villages benefited even from limited power. They had more reliable current for the TV that brought them news and educational programs, the light hanging in the ceiling allowed them to work and socialize in the dark evenings, and there were now outside lights lighting up public areas to make them safer. Life could be worse.

© Juha I. Uitto, 2004