locks and frown at the split ends
that haven’t seen a pair of scissors
in over a year.
“Would you cut mine,” I say.
“Of course,” she replies,
whipping a silky black coverall
off a peg and laying it across my
shoulders. “I’ll give you a modern
Nepali style.” Her sister-in-law,
Ambika, and 15-year-old daughter,
Amy, look on, amused, as she
shears off a clump of hair. In 15
minutes I’m lighter and redesigned
— a bargain at around £1.50.
“What’s for tea tonight, Mum?”
I tease. “We’re having a momo
party,” she says — dumplings. We
gather round the kitchen table in
the basement. Amy rolls out small
circles of the flour-and-water
dough, while Shila and I massage
grated water buffalo meat, onion,
garlic, coriander, ginger and
masala spices together. I watch as
she spoons a little into the centre
of the floury circle and nips the
edges together into a neat little
bundle. I try to copy but fail.
“Pinch and release, pinch
and release,” she says. “What
time does the electricity cut out
tonight,” Shila asks her daughter.
Amy shrugs and, comically,
we’re plunged into darkness five
minutes later. We continue rolling
by torchlight. Once steamed, we
dip the parcels into homemade
tomato pickle and take sneaky sips
of the alcoholic home-brew raksi.
Like the tectonic plates beneath
it, Nepali culture is a meeting
of Indian, Nepali and Tibetan
influences, so for my second
homestay we drive to the Tibetan
settlement of Jampaling on the
outskirts of Pokhara — Nepal’s
second-largest city. We overtake
pimped-up trucks with hand-
painted bumper stickers asking
drivers behind them to ‘Care-Full
Drive’ or ‘Bolw Horn’, and pass
leafless silkwood trees whose
bright-red blossoms burst from
the tips of branches like fireworks,
until the snow-covered triangle of
Machapuchare (Fishtail Mountain)
juts above the horizon. My Tibetan
guide Thupten Gyatso, is waiting
by the roadside. We shake hands
through the window, then he
jumps astride his moped and
motions for us to follow him along
a deeply rutted dirt track that
weaves down to the Seti River.
When we stop, the wood
smoke wrinkles my nostrils and
roundabout coloured prayer
flags flutter from every beam and
rooftop. Home to around 600
people, Jampaling was established
in 1975 to house refugees fleeing
the Chinese invasion of Tibet in- It is one of 12 such places in
Nepal. “I was a year old when we
arrived,” says Thupten.
“My father had been ‘rich’ with
10,000 sheep and 1,000 yaks, but
we had to exchange jewellery for
food. Many died on the journey. He
remembers vultures circling in the
sky.” Thupten has led us into the
compound of his sister’s house,
where his father — now in his late
80s — sits on the floor weaving
wool on an ancient spinner. “He
desperately dreams of going back
to die in the land he was born in.”
Further trials
We meander through the village,
visiting the school and snacking
on strips of dried water-buffalo
skin from the community shop.
Displaced Tibetans have been in
exile for more than 50 years. The
earthquake is just another setback
for them. “Tibetans arriving
after 1989 were denied Nepali
passports,” says Thupten. “Even if
you study to become a doctor, you
can’t get a job because you need
citizenship to work.”
It’s getting dark and time for
Thupten to drive back to town.
His sister, Nangsa, and I wave
him goodbye from the gate and
wander inside to finish preparing
dinner. Her ebony hair trails to her
waist and I watch her, standing in
her slippers behind the gas-ring
cooker, as she carves off a chunk
of drying chakampo (water buffalo
meat) and dices it into a blackened
skillet with some onions. Her
father sits in the corner fingering
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which cost £45-£445 per
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welcomenepal.commoving silently. She hands me an ‘I
Love Tibet’ mug brimming with po
cha (salty butter tea), and we dip
kabse — a rock-hard traditional
Tibetan snack made from fried
flour — into the hot liquid,
listening to the rain battering
the corrugated tin roof.
On her phone, she shows me
photos of her three children. “I
only see them for two months a
year, the rest of the time they are
at school in India,” she says. After
eating, we pass the time painting
my nails with glitter-laced polish
and, in broken English, she teaches
me how to play the card game
‘marriage’. Warsang, the family’s
white Japanese Spitz lapdog
— small as a wind-up toy — has
a barking fit every time I slip out
of the gate to go to the toilet.
When it’s late, Nangsa shows me
to a bed set up in their altar room.
A buttermilk candle, the sole light
source, shows up posters of Lhasa
and the Dalai Lama.
Drizzle marks the next morning.
Even Warsang is quiet and happy
to huddle inside his hutch, as
I wander outside to the water
pump to brush my teeth. Sitaram,
my driver arrives and signals it’s
time to go. Nangsa runs to her
ageing chest of drawers and fishes
out a white scarf and places it
tenderly around my neck. “For a
safe journey and prosperous life,”
she whispers, pressing her hands
together in prayer and bowing her
head. I break tradition and give her
a huge hug.
Two days after I leave, Prince
Harry flies in for a royal visit. As
part of his five-day tour he spends
the night in Leorani village at the
home of 86-year-old Mrs Mangali
Gurung, the widow of a World War
II Gurkha soldier, whose house was
destroyed by the quake.
Back home at my desk, I recall
words Thupten said to me: “For
us, death is more important than
birth. Not that we wish to die
sooner, but rather we look forward
to our rebirth.” It’s an apt motto
for Nepal, which from the rubble
deserves a new beginning.HE DESPERATELY DREAMS OF GOING BACK
TO DIE IN THE LAND HE WAS BORN IN
PREVIOUS PAGES: Earthquake rubble
in the UNESCO-listed Durbar Square
in KathmanduCLOCKWISE: Overlooking the farming
fields surrounding Panauti; Ambika, sari
seamstress, Panauti village; buying Pani
Puri with Amy (Shila’s daughter), Panauti;
Buddhist prayer flags fluttering above
the Tibetan settlement of JampalingNovember 2016 173NEPAL