Skip the grimy airport arrival and what looks like blood splattered, water damaged walls and Nepalgunj welcomes you with a flurry of colours and a sensory overload. It is a town on the southwestern border of Nepal and India, in the Terai region, where traditional means of transportation are favoured over motorbikes and SUV's. Buses are garishly coloured horse drawn carriages meant to carry five people at the most but carrying 20 at the least. The streets are crowded and full of recycled life. People buzzing around carrying out their daily activities, rickshaw taxis making business from women running errands, children skipping school, not a single tourist in sight. There is constant movement, and abundance of colour and dust and so many details you don't know where to look. I hide gratefully in the cool confinement of the company car, peering out from the tinted windows.
Sometimes I get a glimpse of the appeal of colonial India. An architectural wonder emerges from the throng of horse carriages, saris and cows wandering the streets in oriented confusion. A flurry of questions ensue "What is that? Is that Nepali or Indian architecture? Is it very common? I've never seen it before. Tell me everything you possibly can about the history and function of this beautiful building". Such exclamations of wonder and awe fall on blissfully smiling yet uncomprehending ears. Madan the mahout smiles in the rear view mirror but remains silent. We're nearly in India now, standing at the border looking out into a mirror expanse of horse drawn carriages, saris and cows.
The hour long diversion to the India border, much appreciated as it is, sets us back by an hour. Surkhet is now a four hour drive away and something which feels like a hangover but could not possibly be a hangover begins to take its toll. The shanty towns we pass along the way are dusty ghost towns, wavering in the heat, the thrill and splendor of Nepalgunj quickly fading into a stupor of heat and nausea. Four hours later exhausted from doing nothing but sit in a car, a passive audience for road repairmen laying down tarmac for a winding but comparatively excellent road, we arrive in Surkhet.
Sometimes I get a glimpse of the appeal of colonial India. An architectural wonder emerges from the throng of horse carriages, saris and cows wandering the streets in oriented confusion. A flurry of questions ensue "What is that? Is that Nepali or Indian architecture? Is it very common? I've never seen it before. Tell me everything you possibly can about the history and function of this beautiful building". Such exclamations of wonder and awe fall on blissfully smiling yet uncomprehending ears. Madan the mahout smiles in the rear view mirror but remains silent. We're nearly in India now, standing at the border looking out into a mirror expanse of horse drawn carriages, saris and cows.
The hour long diversion to the India border, much appreciated as it is, sets us back by an hour. Surkhet is now a four hour drive away and something which feels like a hangover but could not possibly be a hangover begins to take its toll. The shanty towns we pass along the way are dusty ghost towns, wavering in the heat, the thrill and splendor of Nepalgunj quickly fading into a stupor of heat and nausea. Four hours later exhausted from doing nothing but sit in a car, a passive audience for road repairmen laying down tarmac for a winding but comparatively excellent road, we arrive in Surkhet.
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