Rural Nepal, to me, represents all that is impressive in a culture deeply connected to its land. Upon meeting the Nepali, my respect for them grew beyond limits. Their heartiness and toughness resonated with my New England roots. They live in tune with the seasons, clearing stones into stacked walls, tending to millet on the terraced fields, enduring the monsoons of summer and the cold of winter. Never is there a lack of tasks to be done in their stone homes, but with smiling warmth and a love of company, these mountain Nepali always make time for a cup of tea.
The road ends at Jiri and to the east only trails connect the villages for a hundred miles or more to the Tibet and Sikkim borders. All essential supplies come on the backs of yacks or in woven baskets hung from the heads of porters. Many men, boys, and a few women carry loads to earn money and connect their villages.  |
| Porter carrying doko |
Their loads hang from their heads, with rice sack and rope across the forehead – the naamlo. This rope slings a girthy basket – the doko - that rests upon the porters back. Most loads tower over their heads, weighing one hundred pounds or more. Lumber, crates of food, even pieces of furniture get fastened to the baskets. As they stand, the strain shows in every sinewy muscle of these small-framed workers.
The porters rise at sunbreak to begin their trek and continue well into the evening. Their pace is slow from the titanic loads, yet they travel as much ground each day as Davis and me. Their ease and kinship emerge once dokos are set down, and the porters talk at the freshwater springs trickling in each town. They balance their dokos on the stone walls of the village and drink deeply. I wish to know their language well, to understand more than a few stray words.
Davis and I discuss this in Shivalaya. We carry our own loads in backpacks. But meeting these porters on the trail and assisting with the first aid training in Kathmandu urges me to learn more. I yearn to feel connected again to my own homeland, as they seem to be. I think of Trail Crew in the White Mountains, and the tools that we carry. Labor in the mountains purifies; I understand that now. The thing is the porters understand that too. That’s what draws me towards them.
At night, in Shivalaya, Davis and I discuss this. I tell him I want to continue our trek carrying dokos.
“Are you serious?” he asks.
“Yeah, I want to understand Nepal. That seems like a good way to do it.”
The next morning, I walk the short, dirt thoroughfare of Shivalaya and find the only apparent basketmaker. I peer inside his basket shop. Iron pots hang from pegs, reflecting daylight into the dark hovel. I see lengths of cloth, folded and stacked. Lumber leans against a wall, and large sacs of grain sit next to his reeds. These reeds are woven into dokos.
The basket maker emerges. Golden brown skin stretches tightly across his old bones. A trim beard matches the grey hair combed beneath his traditional cap. I notice his eyes are dark and steady as stone. He clasps his hands and I see they are strong with fingers long. These hands knew work.
My doko costs one hundred rupees, or about a buck fifty. After speaking Nepali words I had rehearsed the night before, the man soon understands my request, though doubts I am serious. A few onlookers join us as we walk outside to try a few sizes of basket. Young children stare and giggle. With adjustments to the naamlo - the forehead strap, I feel pleased with the doko’s fit. I give the man the crumpled bills and put my belongings in the basket. Davis lifts another doko and finds his hundred rupees.
Nepali porters carry a T-shaped wooden staff when they travel. These staffs reach the height of their buttocks and allow porters to sit, and rest. On the Trail Crew, when carrying massive loads, we would often look for boulders, about butt-height, and rest our packboards upon them. ‘Crumps’ we called these brief rests. And a good crump-rock would steady and take the weight of our load while we crumped upon the rock for a rest. To my amazement and great joy, the porters carry crump-sticks.
The basketmaker hustles back into his shop to show me a crump-stick. With the weight of my doko on my head, I take the T and squat down. Lower, and lower – the average Nepali is barely five feet tall. The crump-stick is too short. I collapse and my doko spills its contents to the ground. A few strangers are watching, mostly children, and laughter erupts but quickly is muffled. I stand up, smiling, and give the man back his crump-stick. They were not meant for my height. Davis, standing well over six feet tall, chuckles and tells the man he doen't need to try the stick. We thank him for the dokos and continue our trek.
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| Davis and Doug |
