Ching and the Magar ladies: it jogged my memory to one of the best treks David and I had. It was connected with our work with Products of Nepal: we were to visit some of the far flung sites where some potential Performance Contractors could possibly join in a program to groom their local products for export. We set out by taking the project wagon toward Gorkha and Manakamna, together with two chaps from the project: Roshan and Riddhiman. We left the vehicle with our driver Bishnu right up to the end of the navigable road. Then we started our trek on foot after lunch at the bus depot.
It was a clear day where the blue sky was so sparkling blue, like seeing through Windex-treated glass. The scenery that was unfolding before our eyes is really so wonderous, as any trekker will tell you. Alive, clear (no pollution), sharp colors: even some of the hills in the horizon were outlined in a lovely bluish tone. The rice planted at the terraces were a brillant green. By mid-afternoon, some fluffs of clouds started to pass by and by and a few droplets of rain started to fall upon us. We were now on an uphill climb, where stairs were carved from the hillside and propped with rocks and pebbles. Just right behind us was an eighty-year old woman, who had evenly-spaced , slow steps to go up. She soon began to overtake us: Roshan asked where she was headed to, and she said she was on her weekly visit to her ninety-year old sister who lives just beyond two hills away, a total of half a day's walk. She had a basket balanced on her head, loaded with potatoes and cauliflowers as presents. And much to our shame she did carry on and overtook us, whose legs started to feel like lead.
The droplets turned into a torrent and were forced to seek shelter at the nearest habitation: it happened to be a hut a few meters away from the trail. No one was at the home without locks: local hospitality rules state that any stranger can start a fire, rest, take tea at anytime. So we did just that and the rain abated on our second round of most-welcome tea in small clay cups (which you can just smash on the ground: no washing and goes back directly to the earth), surrounded by a young baaaa-ing kid and clucking chickens for entertainment. We left a little cash by the tea jar and a packet of Indian biscuits and placed high in theblackened-by-smoke rafters so the kid could not reach it. And carried on.
We were told that there was a brook close by and where a fellow was making
thekis, a wooden canister with a lid, used to store milk, yoghurt, grains and other foodstuff. (
The hardwood used is called "dar" which I do remember since we used to slip down to the Daughters of the American Revolution auditorium in DC to attend the National Geographic lecture series on Thursday evenings.) Sure enough, we found our fellow: a wheel was being fed with water trickling downstream, and a metal rod was attached to the wheel which could gouge out wood from a cross section of a log, and shaped into a container through pressure from the chap's hands. He was making large ones this time, to be purchased by his neighbor as wedding gifts for a friend. He also made a demo theki, a smaller version of what he was doing. And after laboriously putting in the details and a lid, he offered it to us: this was without any thought of compensation but as a gesture of hospitality for not-so-frequent guests in his, literally, neck of the woods. David took photographs, and perhaps one day we would make the trek again and offer the good fellow some photograph copies.
The afternoon light was slowly fading: we headed toward the top of the next hill, where the school was situated. It was still under construction, but the townspeople said it was okay for us to spend the night right below the rafters. The ladder going up was high and steep: but it was the last climb before spreading out our sleeping bags among the construction debris, and having a good rest, after a satisfying meal of dhal and rice, and sips of rakshi (local brew) for the boys, courtesy of one of the households. This is another hospitality offering: many schools in the remote areas, especially where no guesthouses are available, make their building available for visitors staying overnight .
The early morning light got us out of our cocoons: tea, chapattis and hard boiled eggs were offered by the schoolmaster, a most welcome treat. These remote areas have a strong hospitality ethic: who knows when they would find themselves in a village and wanting rest and food. The village we were searching for, was known for its weaving: this was one of the objectives of the trek. It seemed that no one really knew exactly how long it would take us to get there: we had counted on noontime as our ETA. However, each time directions were asked, the distance became longer and longer. We had to traverse a dry river bed: that was really hard on the knees. Then another hour from there, and a "few minutes" more, according to the village people. We did not stop for any rest since we were told the destination was so close by.
And so after a couple of hard trek hours later, in the noontime heat, we came upon a suspension bridge made of stout grass rope and planks of rough wood. My red Sony baseball cap flew away in midstream: the gorge was a bit on the deep side. Retrieval was waay out of the question. Thankfully there was habitation soon after the bridge: there was even a semblance of a tea shop, where we asked what were the day's offeriings: only lassi and tea were available. Lassi won out: David had about six servings in stainless steel cups, since he felt highly dehydrated. Aaaahhh, lassi never tasted so good, ever.
There were two ladies at their weaving looms: their products are mostly for local consumption, and they weave in the spare time and none at all during the planting and harvesting season. We sought out a shop which bought some of the woven goods on consignment, and were told that the supply is erratic: sometimes one weaver will do only two blankets a year, and more if the household needs cash for a celebration. (each blanket has three panels, the width of each panel being the width of the portable backstrap loom). And, moreover, the supply of cotton thread was irregular, being bought from Kathmandu shops. They also had some work-in-progress: pressed wool to make into small rugs (radhi paki), usually in black, white, tans: depending on the sheeps' coats. But the finishing would only done after the next shearing.
We now use the small theki at our table, which contains our daily doses of vitamins and medication. You are invited to view our 47 thekis which are displayed prominently along the walls of our lounge at our Seattle home. Some of them still smell of rancid butter, bits of yoghurt, mustard oil or whatever they were used to contain. But this is bested by Thangka James' collection of 400 thekis! (More on James later).
