A grandiose welcome at a Nepali village

We left Kathmandu early in the morning, uncomfortably squeezed in a couple of 4x4s, our luggage on our lap hindering the views of the countryside. We were heading to Makadum, a cluster of villages on the Nepali hills, where we would be hosted for a few days at the premises of a private elementary school. Despite the several public schools, education remains a challenge in Nepal, especially in rural areas, where private initiatives try to offer additional options, introducing western curriculums and exposure to different cultures. Our short stay and the subsequent interactions were meant to serve as a learning experience and an inspiration for the young pupils. In the end, though, I think we, the visitors, got the better end of the deal.

Perched on the mountains (which the locals call “hills” to set them apart from the Himalayas), the nine villages that comprise Makadum are around 100 km away from the capital. It should have been an easy, 3-hour drive. Instead, we were up for an adventure.

Typical landscape in rural Nepal, with agricultural terraces and thatch-roofed houses.

A traditional house in Makadum.

During the first couple of hours we drove on the highway impeded by long lines of buses and trucks, before taking a turn on a steep dirt road, where one of our vehicles got hopelessly stuck, for, like so many other things in the country, our cars were 4×4 only in appearance. As the available technology proved to be inadequate, the men of the group stood up to the challenge. There was pushing and pulling, huffing and puffing, countless negotiations, suggestions, and recountings of similar prior experiences until we finally got the car going again, and continued with our trip.

On the way to Sitka (photo from inside the car). Buses with groups of people on the roof are typical in Nepal. Sometimes, there are even goats and chicken there! (Photo credits: Sue Tatrallyay)

Our route was soon intersected by a river, at the benches of which we bid our cars goodbye, leaving our bags to be transferred by a small boat. We, on the other hand, continued on foot, using a typical Nepali swing bridge to traverse to the other side, arriving at Sitka Bazaar. The name may be misleading to foreigners, suggesting the presence of a central and prominent town, but all we found was a tiny village with a couple of dirt roads shared by people, goats, and chicken alike.

The swing bridge. Sitka at the background.

Our two cars from the bridge, as our bags are transferred to the small boat.

The central road of Sitka Bazaar.

Already dusted and tired (the Nepali highways are neither easygoing nor relaxing), we thought that we were near our destination – but, alas, no! We still had a 2-hour ride ahead of us, this time on an open truck with poor suspensions, sharing the limited space with bags of potatoes and rice, goats, old women comfortably sitting on top of the piles, and several other villagers.

A truck identical to the one we used (photo credits: Sue Tatrallyay).

The ride was bumpy, to say the least. At its end, we were exhausted, our faces covered in dust that, mixed with our sweat, turned to paste, while our hearts pounded loudly from the adrenaline rush, for the truck kept balancing at the edge of the precipice, on a road that was more suitable for hikers rather than cars. We later learnt that this track was quite new; had we arrived a couple of years earlier, we would have to hike the distance (a 4 to 6-hour hike) – so, all things considering, our experience was rather relaxed and luxurious.

The road from inside the truck (photo credits: Sue Tatrallyay).

We got off a kilometre away from our destination. The truck continued with our luggage, but we were invited to walk the last part of the road. A group of local musicians with pipes and percussions welcomed us, making sure everyone in the proximity would hear of our arrival. Escorted in such a pompous way, a bit self-conscious of our cultural contrast and the overwhelming attention to our humble presence, we finally reached the school, the entrance of which was decorated with a sizeable “Welcome” banner. Garlands of rhododendron flowers swiftly found their way around our necks, and a priest placed a sacred tikka on our foreheads, its generously-applied red paint merging with the already present dust, creating a crust that would be difficult to remove in the days to come.

The musicians. Welcoming committee upon our arrival at Makadum.

Entrance to the school with the welcome banner. The man in the middle (with the hat) is the priest, waiting to bestow a tikka on our foreheads, while the woman next to him hands the rhododendron flower garlands.

The kids were dressed in their school uniforms, combed and clean, formally lined up to honour our arrival. Given our surreal transportation experience and the surrounding landscape – pastoral and peaceful dotted only by a few scattered cottages of a somewhat primitive architecture – we were impressed by the ambience of the school and the detectable professionalism in the overall arrangements. It was evident that the whole village – teachers, managers, parents, and children – were making a considerable effort towards the improvement of their future, so much so that we, with our sophisticated background and privileges, felt humbled and inspired. A few tears blurred our vision, and a newfound sense of gratitude dawned in our hearts, as we sat at the VIP table, munching on salt-less popcorn swallowed down with plenty of tea whose particularly spicy taste we would soon grow to enjoy.

The pupils, properly dressed and lined up to welcome us, their hands put together in a Namaste gesture.

The teachers, parents, and villagers, all present for the occasion, continued to stand up, hovering over our heads with curiosity and well-meant attentive care, as we, the honoured guests, remained sitting in our chairs. The musicians stayed outside the main gate, because the owner of the school was in mourning (his father had died a few months ago), and, based on the local customs, music was not to be allowed in his home for one full year. The borders of the gate offered a compromise, so that we would not be deprived of the experience, while he would still abide – to an extent – to the practices of his religion. This is how revered our visit was considered to be.

The musicians sitting outside the gate of the school.

Our “VIP” table, with popcorn and spicy tea. We are surrounded by teachers and parents, while a glimpse of Makadum can be seen at the background. Note the garlands and, especially, the size of the tikkas!

The night fell, the air became crisp, and the stars twinkled over our heads, as we moved our bags into our rooms and prepared for our first dinner at Makadum. We already knew in our hearts that the importance of our presence had been overrated, for, in this modest and remote setting, we were the novice ones, preparing for a life-changing session on respect, commitment, humility, and appreciation.

Makadum with agricultural terraces.

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou (unless otherwise stated).

If you find encouragement, comfort, and beauty in my writing or you learn through my adventures something new about our world, I invite you to support my labour of love by becoming a sustaining patron through a recurring monthly donation that can be as low as 1 USD per month up to the cost of a light lunch. Please visit my Patreon page for more details. If you are already supporting my work, thank you from the bottom of my heart!