Rajbansi: a protected realm
In the Terai region, we also cross many muddy rivers on our way back to India.
We head for a region of Nepal of which little is known: Terai, at the foot of the mountains near the southeastern border of the country. The road leading to Gauriganj ends suddenly, in front of an uncrossable old wooden bridge, which collapsed four years ago during the monsoon season. There is no road on the other bank, just a dirt track. A few bicycles are trying to force their way through the deep troughs left by the heavy rains. Rather than turn back, we steer our 4x4 through fordable stretches, past tottering bridges and riverbeds that have been transformed into sand deserts.
In the middle of nowhere, the rains come-drenching, powerful torrents of water from the heavens. Overnight, the rivers rise 20 inches, reaching the bottom of our windows at water crossings. The rickety wooden bridges are now unsafe to cross, and the raging river below can easily carry a car in its currents. The mud is pure clay on our wheels. Thinking playfully that we can rinse them in the inevitable river we must cross, we pick up speed and plow through ... almost. Completely stuck between the two banks, we feel the current starting to push the car sideways. Water is slowly starting to leak inside. Looking around, Philippe spots some Nepalese men working on a nearby bridge, immediately jumps out the window (the doors are unable to be opened) and immediately loses his glasses and his wallet as he falls into the water. Soaking wet, he runs over to the 15 bemused men, begging for help to push the car out. As he returns with an army of helpers, the situation is becoming grimmer. Finally, with the help of the men-and some newly placed stones in the water to help the tires grip-we make it out. The monsoon season is nothing to play with unless you are prepared to wait it out.
After hours of toil, the Rajbansi kingdom can at last reveal its secrets. Charala is a small hut village on the banks of the Bala river. The straw roofs of the village remind one of Tahiti. There is no electricity, running water, or cars. The women all wear a piece of cloth bound about their breasts, a heavy silver necklace, and an astonishing amount of jewelry. This stylishness is surprising, considering they spend most of their time working in the fields. Their femininity is in harmony with the wild beauty of their kingdom. A piece of Polynesia, right here in Nepal. With heavy hearts, we leave this paradise of fragile virginity. The lack of navigable roads will not protect their culture much longer from the external world.
The Nepalese New Year
The Bisket Jatra festival welcomes the New Year 2058 in the Kathmandu Valley. It starts with the Colour Festival, at which everyone throws colored powders on each other.
"Hasthe, Haisha!" cry Naresh and his 150 companions who, like him, are energetically pulling on the immense rope attached to the Bhailakha-a huge wooden wagon laden with a pagoda temple. The unshod feet of the people who are pulling slide on the time-polished cobblestones of this narrow Bhaktapur street.
Bhaktapur is a splendid medieval town and was the capital of Nepal until Kathmandu asserted its domination. Eighteen-year-old Naresh, whose hands are riddled with blisters, is still smiling despite his exertions. Because today, April 14 by the Gregorian calendar, we celebrate Bisket Jatra-the Nepalese New Year's Day. The third eye of Shiva, which is painted on each of the wagon's four enormous wooden wheels, pivots slowly and jerks in as the men pull. The whole mobile temple, which looks more like a Buddhist pagoda than a Hindu temple, owing to its multi-leveled roof, creaks each time it moves. The procession reaches Tamahodi Tol Square as night is falling. The team pulling the wagon finally reaches the dark silhouette of the Nyatapola temple-the largest in the country. It is 100 feet high and has a roof made up of five levels. The Nepalese Year 2058 can now begin.