Tales of Nepalgunj Pt. 2

Chomping on green mangoes, visa issues sorted out, this is as good a time as any to continue the tales of Nepalgunj...

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The caravan from Surkhet departed early in the morning. A brief meeting at the district office of the fellow travelers to collect the means of transportation and its handler and we move off. 

It is my personal opinion that all journeys to the field should be conducted via elephant according to colonialist traditions. It is not more uncomfortable than traveling by car (especially with the conditions of the road), more environmentally friendly and infinitely more exciting. Both means of transportation need special handlers especially trained in the field of working in adverse conditions, both consume fuel of some sort (bet you it'd be cheaper to feed an elephant that to fill up a tank of petrol) and both attract as much attention. We didn't travel by elephant but I'm going to pretend like we did since the rocking movement of the car climbing over boulders, ditches and streams perfectly immitated the movements of a walking elephant. Placing a company logo on the elephant wouldn't be much of a problem either, and if Ncell can advertise phone rates using Kathmandu's local elephant why can't GIZ use elephants to transport its staff to the field? I'm sure there would be enough space and willingness to include a paragraph or two on animal rights next to our conflict sensitive and human rights policies. Probably shouldn't talk about this stuff on here.

Madan the mahout was an excellent handler. He coaxed the grey pachiderm over hills and protected him from the rocks of nasty children. After a long days's drive, the means of transportation was always wiped down and put to rest in a safe location away from curious hands and feet. Occasionally local children were allowed to play with Nissan and climb all over his grey back. 

Tales from Nepalgunj - Pt. 1

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.