Lost in Time
A Visit to a Remote Himalayan Village
PHOTOGRAPHS AND TEXT BY JOHN HAMES
The setting sun warms our faces as we walk from the gravel-covered airstrip, where chickens forage for food, into the small town of Jumla. No roads link this Himalayan valley in the northwest of Nepal to the rest of the country. In fact, there are no vehicles in Jumla District. The only access to the area before the airstrip was built was by foot or the occasional horse.
On this October day in 1992, twin-engine planes bring in supplies and people from Kathmandu and Nepalganj. The planes provide the local market with a trickle of goods. Few foreigners come to this part of Nepal; Kathmandu, the capital, and Mount Everest are to the southeast. Those who do make it here are mostly trekkers on their way to the beautiful Rara Lake National Park.
We are seven Americans, a team of volunteers brought together by Earthwatch, a Massachusetts-based organization that sponsors environmental research all over the world. We are here to help with a project led by Dor Bahadur Bista, former professor of anthropology at Trinity College, in Hartford, and at Tribhuvan University, in Kathmandu. With degrees from the University of Wisconsin and London University, Bista is Nepal’s foremost anthropologist (his recent book, Fatalism and Development, has upset many in this Hindu monarchy for its condemnation of the caste system). He has come to this isolated valley to begin a project that, he says at age 65, may occupy the rest of his life.
Stretching northeast from Jumla, the Chauda-Bisa valley contains 22 villages, where time seems to have slowed to a crawl. Dor Bista plans to assess these poor agrarian villages in order to help the people: to introduce them to the ideas and practices that will improve their lives but that will not destroy their fragile culture. In technical terms, this is called sustainable development.
The scientist’s motivation is partly personal. His ancestors came from this part of Nepal, which they left for the promise of Kathmandu; he wants to help his ‘unlucky’ countrymen who were left behind.
Dor Bista is an easygoing man, whose hair is as white as the snow-capped peaks that symbolize his country. Over hot Nepalese tea in the former Buddhist temple that is now the Himalayan Trekking Hotel, he explains the objective of our team’s visit.
As the first "seven pairs of eyes and ears,” we Earthwatch volunteers are to help, through interviews and observations, gather data for Bista’s needs assessment. Later he may require more specialized help, but for now he wants a general picture of what kind of development is called for, and what is feasible - as well as the environmental and cultural impact of any development program.
Dor Bista explains that the life of this valley is delicately poised. Any change, no matter how apparently beneficial, could throw these people’s world out of balance. If health standards, for example, are improved, life expectancy will rise, infant mortality will decrease, and the population will grow - thereby putting stress on all the already limited resources. It is a daunting challenge to bring ‘development’ to such a place, requiring myriad considerations every step of the way.
The questions we are to ask the villagers are listed on 14 pages, covering economic conditions, agricultural practices and production, cottage industries, land use, household information, use of government agencies, and non farming employment (for those lucky enough to hold jobs in this subsistence farming community). We will also ask about health, sanitation, education, and environmental matters.
To prepare for this project, Dor Bista has spent more than five months in one of the poorest of the valley villages, Tirkhu, which is where we will be working. Upon his arrival there, Bista aroused some skepticism: Why would a prominent Nepali from Kathmandu want to do anything for us?
“There are many foreigners,” he tells us, “such as Peace Corps volunteers, who come back and stay for life in a village; there are some Japanese who are totally dedicated to doing this. But not a single Nepali. The Nepalese are busy trying to scale up, going further away from their own people. So my approach is totally different and unique, and very difficult for them to understand”.
But Bista does have the support of some fellow prominent Nepalese, as well as Earthwatch and the National Geographic Society, and he has already established the Karnali Institute for Rural Development and Nature Conservation in the Chauda-Bisa Valley. This is a center for research and training, and it also serves to symbolize empowerment of the people of this valley. (Karnali is the name of the zone of this part of Nepal.) It is hoped that experience gained here may be applied throughout the country.
In Jumla, we are at an altitude of 7,900 feet, and our hike the next day to the Karnali Institute takes us five hours into the Chauda-Bisa valley on a gentle ascent of 990 feet. The valley is reminiscent of Idaho or Montana, with the river roaring below the trail as we walk through evergreen forests and hardwood stands, and past cultivated fields. Fields of millet and maize and rice paddies predominate on the valley floor, with terraces and trees rising abruptly on either side.
We pass several small settlements and a few villages of flat-roofed houses. As we walk along the trail we attract stares from the many workers about, herding livestock and hauling their harvest. We were told that there are horses in the valley, and we pass a few government workers riding into Jumla, but we see no evidence that horses are used for hauling. Indeed, the trail is rather rocky and narrow in places, and wide loads would have difficulty getting by. As in the rest of Nepal, almost everything is conveyed in baskets or bags that are strapped on the heads of porters, who travel either barefoot or in green canvas “sneakers.”
We see evidence of timber cutting and burnt stumps, and what appears to be a makeshift lumber mill. It is simply two posts and a cross brace, where timber can be laid to be cut.
As the valley broadens a soft rain begins to fall, and where the trail descends to river level we round a bend to see tier upon tier of terraced fields. High above the terraces is a hulking three-story building, bearing no resemblance to the flat-roofed houses of the villages. This is the Karnali institute, our home for the next two weeks.
After the first of what will be many satisfying meals, we retire, exhausted from trekking at this altitude. We stretch out between rain-catching buckets to warm up in our down sleeping bags and read or write by candlelight. Then we drift off to the sound of Himalayan rain - soon joined by the familiar barking of dogs at night.
The next day breaks fiery red as I roll over in my bag, waiting for the sun to deliver some warmth. Downstairs, breakfast is almost ready. Across the river, smoke from the morning fires rises over the villages before the first breeze carries it away. We eat quickly, eager for the day’s events: our first excursion into Tirkhu, the village of 600 where we will be conducting our research.
Climbing the trail to the village, we are met by a group of boys, who high-tail it back up to announce our arrival. When we arrive we are showered with garlands of marigolds, which are draped around our necks, pink cosmos pressed into our palms, and barley sprouts tucked behind our ears.
Two drummers beat a steady welcome as we are led to our first official duty: inaugurating Tirkhu’s new water supply. It consists of a small PVC pipe that taps into a spring on the mountainside. It is an honor to be invited to pull a wooden peg out of the end of the pipe - spraying water all over ourselves in the process. Then we are taken to the houses of the leading villagers.
Just as we Americans have never been treated to such a welcome, I’m sure most of the villagers have never had such an assemblage of foreigners in their midst. We are surrounded by beautiful dark eyes and smiles. Yet, even without asking a single question, we can understand Dor Bista’s concerns about the welfare of these people.
With free time the next day (our interpreters have not yet arrived), I hike into the hills above the Karnali Institute. It is a clear autumn day, and a solo walk through fields and forest is exhilarating.
Entering the pine woods that surround the cultivated hillsides, I notice many stumps three to six inches in diameter. A close inspection reveals that the trees were not cut but hacked, with dull axes. This calls to mind something Dor Bista told us: “The rate of cutting down trees is absolutely appalling. They still have plenty of forests, so they don’t realize they are depleting them. They can’t visualize in five or ten years how they will be affected, or that in their grandsons’ time there may be no forests.”
All about me I can see evidence of the waste. Bringing cattle onto the higher slopes, where the animals eat not only the greens but also the tender young saplings, prevents the rejuvenation of the forest. On cold nights the herders build shelters for themselves and their livestock, as protection against the leopards that stalk these hills. They cut small trees for the posts and rafters, and for the roofs they use pine bark, which is flexible and durable; the bark is stripped from larger trees, which then die. Even the dead trees are wasted: they would make fine timber, but the villagers’ tools are too dull to cut down these hardened trees; instead, the people fell living trees.
As if on cue, I become aware of a thumping among the pines. Following a trail around the side of the mountain, I come upon two women hacking at a fallen tree; two girls squat nearby, with baskets to hold the chipped wood, which will serve as fuel. I learn that these people are from Dillichaur, a village about a 30-minute walk from the Karnali institute. The women are making slow progress, but eventually the two baskets are filled, and then strapped to the heads of the girls, who set off barefoot.
Trees are the valley people’s only source of fuel, which is used mainly for cooking. “The climate is good, with enough moisture for vigorous growth,” Dor Bista has said. “Perfect for this high altitude forest. If the villagers would only change their habits, they would not even need to plant. Their needs for firewood are not that great.”
In Tirkhu, as in all the villages of the Chauda-Bisa, the firewood is burned indoors, where the only ventilation is through the door and windows; almost none of the 69 houses have chimneys. Not only are blackened interiors and sooty clothing the result; pink eyes, runny noses, and respiratory illness are the status quo.
The local agricultural bank in Dillichaur has, at Bista’s urging, started a program to provide funds to build chimney stoves in Tirkhu, but only two per year are being installed. Without much more funding, it will be decades before the program has any impact on the 22 villages of the valley.
Sanitation is another problem. Fewer than a third of the houses in Tirkhu have latrines; human and animal waste lies all over the village. And water is still another problem. The villagers do not even boil the water they cook with; if they did, it would put a strain on their fuel supply. The new, spring-fed water system is only slightly better than the old system: the stream that runs through the village. And even with the new system, we see people using the stream to wash utensils, clothes, and hair, and for cooking.
An assessment of the entire range of sanitation and health problems, as well as the establishments of a proper medical post, is a priority for the village. One such post was created in Dillichaur, but it was underused: lacking education, the villagers wanted treatment without understanding how the problems had developed, or how to prevent their recurrence; the post soon ran out of its limited supply of medicines, and the villagers then stopped going to it.
An interesting medical case is the family in the house designated number 37. The 32-year-old mother has had 12 babies; the first 11 died in infancy. The 12th, a five-month old, had acute diarrhea, with a high fever.
The father is a health post supervisor who owns quite a bit of land, and 3 buffalo, 7 cows, 17 goats, and 18 sheep. He is literate (very few adults are), and because of a steady income and a small surplus of food production, he is considered prosperous. But he refused to take the baby to the hospital in Jumla (half a day’s walk), opting to give the dehydrated infant a solution of glucose and untreated water.
The mother was distraught, but the reasons for the father’s decisions were simple, if not proper. It was the harvest, and to take time out from this work could jeopardize his whole extended family (numbering 11). Perhaps the fact that his second wife had a healthy five-month-old contributed to his decision. And the high rate of infant mortality perhaps accounted for the father’s fatalistic attitude. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “the child will get better”.
Indeed, by the following week the child’s health had improved. But to us Americans, such an illustration of the Darwinian theory of survival was a cold lesson.
One sunny afternoon we follow some villagers into the fields. It is the maize harvest. The people pick the ears and throw them into baskets that hang from their heads; then they dump their gatherings in a clearing in the field, where they husk the ears and packed them tightly in the baskets.
The women are doing most of this, while the men gather the squash and leafy vegetables planted among the maize stalks. The women kneel in front of their packed baskets and slip the straps over their heads; with a little help they stand up straight and start on the path back to their houses. Once home, they climb notched wooden logs up to the flat roofs, where they dump their loads in wooden cribs, safe from roaming livestock.
One of the Dor Bista’s plans is to encourage more cultivation of vegetables and fruit for consumption, as well as for sale. Malnutrition is an obvious problem in the village, where many vitamins and protein are lacking in their diet. Meat is a rare luxury; and though the villagers have goats and cows, the milk is not fully utilized.
We visit the secondary school, where I spend some time in the seventh-grade class. Today there are only four students, a girl and three boys. Here, as elsewhere in Nepal, I am amazed at what good manners the children have.
In this classroom, there are a blackboard and high and low benches, serving as desks, but the floor is dirt and there is no heat or electricity. The south-facing floor - all the village buildings face the sun - is the one source of light.
Tirkhu’s primary school does not even have its own building. Newly established by Dor Bista, the “school in the temple under the tree on the hill above the village” has on a given day - depending on the children’s duties at home - as many as 20 pupils, aged 4 to 10. They are taught reading and writing and cultural subjects, including singing and dancing. With paper and pencil beyond the school’s means, the children write with small sticks in a thin layer of sand on large boards; to erase their work, they smooth the sand.
After two weeks, it is time for our team to leave Tirkhu. Some of us promise to return; we all confess concern about the seeds of change that our visit has sown. As Americans of European ancestry, we know the effect our culture has had throughout the world: we have an acute awareness of “paradise lost” and a guilty conscience to go with it.
Yet as Pico Iyer wrote in Video Night in Kathmandu, “Often, the denizens of the place we call paradise long for nothing so much as news of that ‘real paradise’ across the seas......and often what we call corruption, they might be inclined to call progress or profit. As tourists, we have reason to hope that the quaint anachronism we have discovered will always remain 'unspoiled.' It is perilous, however, to assume that its inhabitants will long for the same. If money does not buy happiness, neither does poverty."
I think back to endless nighttime skies, falling stars, and the occasional fires on far mountainsides. I will have trouble with electric lights dotting the valley, and the sound of generators breaking the silence. Perhaps we all tend to appreciate those things lacking in our own life.
And I think of the two men I met one day hauling lumber down the mountainside, great beams balanced on their shoulders. They at first posed for the camera as many Nepalese do, erect and straight-faced. I took several pictures and paused, allowing them to resume their work. They started off, but, seeing that I was still photographing, they stopped, dropped their loads, and proceeded to stand on their heads.
It was a transcendent moment - a manifestation of complete trust and the willingness to please. To me it sums up the villagers’ acceptance of what the compassionate Dor Bista is trying to accomplish. Amid all the things that may change in Tirkhu and the Chauda-Bisa valley, I hope that this will not: the sparkles in the people’s eyes and the sweetness in their smiles.
John Hames
1994
