I finally pulled myself away from the relaxing shores of Lake Phewa, leaving on Sunday for Bandipur, a small village in the hills 7km. Above the Pokhara - Kathmandu road. When the bus stopped on the main road in Dumre, I squeezed myself into a jeep already crammed to bursting with people, sacks of grain and goats, for the journey up the twisting road into the hills. On the edge of the village I was asked to get out and called over to a group of men clustered around a wee table, where I was asked for a donation.
"For what?" I asked.
"For our village, to help the people," replied a friendly looking elder.
Having been asked for donations for school funds in other villages, I assumed this was similar and handed over a 100 rupee note.
"Not enough!" scowled a cross old man, shaking his head and waving his receipt book at me, pointing to generous 500 rupee donations.
"But if it's a donation, it's however much I choose to give," I stated.
"No, you must give more!" came his retort.
I protested, starting to lecture him on the definitions of 'donation', 'extortion' and 'intimidation'...and then I noticed the heading at the top of his receipt book: 'United Revolutionary People's Council'. Oh God, it was the Maoists I was getting lippy with! Yes, those Maoists, the ones responsible for various terrorist atrocities across Nepal in the last few years. I smiled sweetly and handed over a 500 rupee note!
A bad start, but things improved rapidly. What a village! It's like a living museum. All the buildings are original Newari architecture, traditional sloping slate or thatched roofs, supported by external carved wooden beams. Cobs of corn are stacked to dry in the sun while corn kernels and mushrooms lie drying on woven mats. The whole heart of the village is pedestrianised and I've spent a few hours sitting outside the wee café, watching life happen around me. Children run around playing marbles, rolling hoops in competition with each other, or accosting the few foreigners with their sole English phrase: "What is your name?". I raise giggles by turning the tables on them and asking them the same question in Nepali, practicing the few words I've mastered. Men stroll down the street steering herds of goat through the hyperactive stray chickens and women walk past returning from the forest weighed down with huge bundles of wood or greenery on their backs.
The people rank as probably the friendliest I've met anywhere on my travels. Tourists are few, which must be a contributory factor, but there is a constant trickle of them, all the same. Yet the locals are endlessly polite and smiley to us and exceptionally patient and helpful with my feeble attempts at the language.
I met a young teacher from England, Sofia, and we spent a couple of days hiking around the hillsides, through tiny villages (with even more super-friendly residents) and to a local cave. We got lost plenty of times but accidental detours are a welcome extension to a hike when the scenery is this good.
It's a wonderfully relaxed, mellow place and I could easily spend a few more days here. But I have a little business to attend to (I'll send an email to you all about that) so I'm heading back to Kathmandu now. It appeared such a charming city on arrival, a month ago, but I think it could be a shock to the system now, after weeks of village life!
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