"In a minute you will begin to be seeing my village." Santa's obvious delight at introducing us to his home was palpable. We'd escaped the lichen-covered path through the Quinine plantation onto what Santa assured us unconvincingly would one day be a metalled road connecting Baranumbra to the next village. To Sarah and my minds that time could wait until we'd managed to return with two wheeled full suspension and pedals.
Ahead of us, evening sun was starting to weave its magic: orange hues replacing the fierce glare, and silhouetting the foothills East of the Himalayan giants. Lazy haze hung in the valleys, tinting the scene blue, and giving stark contrast to the jagged, unforgiving peaks beyond.
Winding down the track, we are overtaken by a wizened Nepali, running in sandals well overdue a trip to the skip, carrying a precarious hod. Santa's face broke into a wide smile, and with a barked salutation to the carrier, he proudly points out his land - a steep small holding, containing, he enthuses: ginger, chilli, spinach, squashes, a brood of clucking hens and their tiny chicks, vibrant well tended flowers and patient spiders. All the garden furniture for his tiny bit of the world which clearly gives him so much satisfaction.
At the front door, Cobita, Santa's wife greeted us with a smile which effused welcome, and unconditional sharing of her home. Only once before had we met her, but acceptance was effortless, and we were ushered gently into a kitchen rich in the aroma of chai and fresh vegetables. There's something very reassuring, definite, about being encouraged to leave your shoes outside the door of someone else's house; something which says "stay awhile, relax, enjoy our hospitality".
Santa, the ever energetic dedicated planner and organiser is fiercely proud of his home: a shrine to the Nepali concept of 'simple living and high thinking'. There's a lovely feeling respecting the ancestry of the family home. At home he's the doting father, modern husband and consummate host. We soon find ourselves sitting on a damp clay floor in his self-built traditional kitchen. It's definitely the man's kitchen: a roughly and yet robustly constructed wooden hut complete with clay oven, tools and ironically a basket of newly hatched chicks using the heat of the oven to stay warm. Above the flames, the crackling and hiss of dinner betrayed the ensuing West Bengali rural fayre.
A cry from the shared family bedroom, and Santa rushed to attend. Returning a minute later, he has in his arms the light of his life: two-and-a-half year old Spere (meaning 'pure'), his beautiful daughter and his favourite distraction.
The beer slammed onto the kitchen table is called 'HIT' (capital letters essential). One wonders whether back home the connotation might not be as acceptable... A glass or two down and over a healthy stir fry of chicken (Santa assures us it's not one of his) and fresh organic garden veg, we're fortunate to find ourselves in truly excellent company. Santa is rapidly becoming a close friend, and in time no doubt his wife will be too. Great food and intelligent progressive conversation, all in a relaxed environment which extends from the kitchen itself all the way to the edge of the village and beyond. We felt very at home.
Pictures:
Santa in his traditional Nepali kitchen. He spent 7 years teaching in a school in remote Nepal where this would have been considered luxury.
The doting father.
The walk to Santa's grotto. Sunset over the Himalayas: you can't quite see Everest but it is there, behind the haze in the far distance.
Pre walking food - Jalebis. Tasty and unsurprisingly bad for you.
Santa and Cobita at the family home.
The patient spider.
Santa's garden. Mums, eat your heart out!
Lovely evocative writing Giles. I quite envy your adventure, this experience will be with you forever. One way or another XX
ReplyDeleteReally lovely photos too. My next trip is definitely a big trip to this area. Keep posting please XX
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