Fear has an address

A fine June morning dawns. The scent of fresh summer blossoms wafts through the Kathmandu air, foretelling a beautiful day.

However, in Nepal, after two major earthquakes in as many months, beautiful mornings are overshadowed by anxieties. The possibility of ‘a bigger one’ is ever looming. With more than 250 aftershocks recorded after the April 25 and May 12 temblors, which reportedly shifted Kathmandu by about three metres, the fear is justified.

Even as life goes on, you can spot the shadow of fear — on the faces, in conversations, and in the markets, where tents, torches and portable gas cylinders are still the most wanted merchandise. Feeding the fear is the sight of fallen houses in parts of Kathmandu and nearby Bhaktapur and Patan — the half-broken heritage buildings balanced precariously, while silently warning onlookers not to come too close, and the dozens of tents still crowding open spaces in the Kathmandu valley. Television cameras have transmitted the fear to various parts of the world, drying up the flow of tourists to Nepal, at least for now.

It is natural then for friends and family to raise an eyebrow at my travel plans to Nepal, to embark on a trek in the Kathmandu valley. My route: Dhulikhel to Nagarkot, a popular hiking trail in good times.

I am warned. “Be careful, there has been extensive damage in the Kavre valley,” says a Nepal-based reporter who has a finger on the pulse of the place. Two aftershocks the previous day certainly fuel the paranoia.

But the fresh morning air spurs me on. I reach the mouth of Dhulikhel, 32km from the city and the starting point of my trek. My guide for the day is the amiable Nima, a Sherpa from Nepal’s Lobuche region.

After a hearty breakfast at a highway restaurant, we begin our climb with my camera, hiking stick, chocolate bars and a water bottle in tow. The sun rises very early in Nepal. So 7am is already a couple of hours past early morning here. In Baskari, the first village from Dhulikhel, I see smoke snaking out of kitchens, women washing clothes and utensils, the men away in the corn fields, and children getting ready for school. The goats and pigs have been let out on the grass. A calm, self-absorbed village scene.

Dhulikhel to Nagarkot is uphill. It should take us about six hours, says Nima. He lists six villages, none with motorable roads, that we will pass through before hitting the highway that connects Nagarkot.

The Kavre valley is scenic, until reality hits. The sheer devastation left behind by the earthquakes unfolds in front of our eyes. In Baskari, a Newari village, many mud and stone dwellings have been flattened. “No human death was reported in our village, but many of us lost our domestic animals, some on April 25, some on May 12,” says Ram Srestha, a village elder. His house is gone. He is living next to the ruins, in a haphazardly done tin shed that villagers helped him erect. “Some of the tin sheets have been given to us by a German NGO and the rest we retrieved from the broken house,” he says. No government aid has come his way yet.

Village after village, the sights remain unchanged, the stories similar. From Baskari, we walk through Karki Gaon, Oopi Gaon, the Buddhist villages of Kashi Bhanjyang, Nala and Bhanjyang. In Karki Gaon, some villagers received tarpaulin sheets from the government on April 24. “We have not seen them again since,” says Raju, a resident.

Oopi onwards, no NGO or government agencies seem to have reached out to help. In Oopi, a villager comes forward on seeing me clicking photos of debris, which once was his house. He asks if I am from the government or any NGO. His sister-in-law died in that house; his brother, as well as his wife and two daughters were trapped and badly injured. Two of his animals perished.

“Since my wife and daughters can’t walk much, I have to go down to the well a kilometre away to fetch water every day and cook for the family. My corn crops are standing on the field, it is difficult to manage all the work myself. Also, I am getting a little worried that no one has come yet to give us any compensation for the house we lost and for the treatment of the injured. It’s been more than a month already,” he says. On learning that the government is giving 14,000 Nepali rupees to each of the injured, he is keen to know where he can claim it. His only mode of transport is to hitch a ride on a local youth’s motorbike.

Similar is the story with Pema in Kashi Bhanjyang. Her house is gone. Her sister-in-law dead. Son Yonten, a waiter at a restaurant in Boudha in Kathmandu, arrived a month ago to help her build a shed after retrieving tins, doors and windows from the broken house. He knows about the compensation his injured mother can claim and plans to visit the village head soon for help.

Like Pema’s son, many youth from these villages have small jobs in Kathmandu but they have returned home to be with their families in this time of distress, to rebuild the houses after waiting in vain for help for nearly two months. In Oopi, I see a double-room concrete house being built with an iron mesh reinforcing the walls. “People have realised that the walls will hold on better this way,” says Nima.

At Kashi Bhanjyang, beside Pema’s razed house, we rest awhile before negotiating the tough ascent. It offers a breathtaking view of the Himalayas. Munching on a chocolate bar, I notice rows of tin roofs shining in the bright sunshine on the mountainside, signalling the loss of home and hearth for so many in the Kavre valley. Also, the fact that those in Kathmandu are privileged to get facilities like foreign-made tents and medical help.

Perhaps aid will never reach these areas. But what is impressive is the resilience of these villagers, their attempt to pick up whatever is left of their lives and carry on. In Karki, I come across groups of children walking to school, 2km away from the village. Almost everyone has lost their dwelling, and some have managed to retrieve their school bags and uniforms from under the debris. It has been just 10 days since the school reopened. For a change, smiles, and not fear, are reflected on their faces.

Signalling me to resume walking, Nima says that one more mountain ridge has to be climbed before we touch Nagarkot. The steep Kashi Bhanjyang hill is the final frontier between Nagarkot and Dhulikhel. The mountain ridge has stone steps, which call for slow, calculated climbing. He points to a patch of jungle saying, “We will walk through that forest now.” He calculates that we should be in Nagarkot for a 1pm lunch.

But we miss the cut that leads to Nagarkot and end up on another mountain ridge. Nima finally finds the right trail. By then we not only miss the lunch hour but also run out of drinking water. The strong sun begins to dry my throat. Nima suggests that I could search for wild berries to wet the throat.

We do so. He helps me identify the edible berries and I have several helpings of juicy kimbus (mulberry) and a variety of aiselus (raspberries) every now and then.

At half past three — two-and-a-half hours behind schedule — we enter Nagarkot market. We have a meal of rice accompanied by a range of curries and greens. A typical Nepali daal-bhaat fare. But after trudging 12.7 km along the valley rim, it seems like the best meal I have ever had.

Sangeeta Barooah Pisharotyis a Delhi-based freelance writer