The previous week was
equal parts miserable and boring. As I was planning on traveling to Kathmandu
at the end of the week for a weeklong Peace Corps training and to celebrate a
friend’s birthday, however, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. It
would just be further away than I anticipated.
My bad luck began
Monday morning with my plan to go into the bazaar. I intended to set out early,
but my host family persuaded me to wait for the bus. After breakfast, I walked
out to the bus stop and the bus soon arrived—right on time but filled beyond
capacity. Not a huge deal, I thought, other vehicles would come. But as time
went on, I watched as packed vehicle after packed vehicle passed by, while the mass
of people waiting for transportation grew and grew. After an hour, I gave in
and decided to bike. The humid heat of midday had set in—not the best weather
to ride in—but it was imperative I get to the bazaar to submit a draft of a grant application.
The ride was
strenuous, but I made it in about an hour. I completed my urgent business and
even got some shopping in. As I prepared to leave, however, storm clouds were gathering.
I would have to race them home.
I lost the race. At
first the rain fell lightly, almost apologetically, on my helmet. Before long,
however, it picked up. The rain wouldn’t have been problematic, if not for the
stream I knew I would have to ford to get home. After a big rain a few days
previous, a jeep had capsized while attempting to cross that stream. That
morning the water had reached my knees, and I didn’t want to take any chances.
I feared the rain would soon make the stream impassable, leaving me stranded on
the wrong side.
I decided I would
attempt to bike while holding my umbrella, with one hand on the handlebars. But
it turns out, despite all my cycling progress in the past six months, I had not
graduated to one-handed riding on rural Nepali roads. I should also mention
that my bike brakes hadn’t been working very well, and the slickness of the
road was rendering them even less effective.
As I rolled down a
mild hill, a school bus passed me. After gaining some distance, it pulled to a
stop front of a house. I considered the gap between the left side of the bus
and the roadside, deeming it passable for me. But I forgot to consider that in
Nepal, the driver sits on the right, meaning that the door is on the left. I
reached said door just as a young girl descended the steps and alighted on the
ground. I slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve off the road, but too late.
I rammed into her side and was flung to the ground (none of my stories seems
complete without a fall). My umbrella as crushed against the side of the bus,
tearing a series of holes in the fabric. I got up, embarrassingly asked if she
was ok, and continued on my way.
Now the rain was
falling heavily, but I was just a few minutes from the stream. Once again
(because I’m obstinate) I hoisted the umbrella in one hand and the handlebars
in the other and promptly fell while going through a puddle. A very muddy me
resolved to walk the last few minutes to the stream, which was halfway up to my
thigh by the time I crossed. Once safely on the other side, I found a tree,
parked my bike (ok, I threw it on the ground in frustration), and clutched my
backpack under my umbrella, waiting for a break in the storm.
But the rain was
relentless, and soon it began to get dark. I (because I’m really obstinate)
decided to resume the umbrella-bike balancing act. After another fifteen minutes
(and no more falls!), the rain ceased. I folded up the umbrella and, instead of
putting it in my backpacks’ side pocket, stupidly hung it from the handlebars
to dry. I almost went over my handlebars when the thing got stuck in my spokes,
but it just broke. Lucky, right? The rest of the journey went by fine, but I
arrived home muddy and cold.
Wednesday morning
was only partly cloudy, so I seized the opportunity to do some much-needed
laundry in preparation for my trip to Kathmandu. Unfortunately, it began
raining in the late afternoon, forcing me to move my clothes indoors.
On Thursday, I was
scheduled to build a cookstove. After my morning meal, the rain seemed to be
letting up, so I mounted my bike and set out for a nearby village. Five minutes
from home, the sky opened up. To compound my misery, my bike’s chain kept
falling off, as did the several iron rods for the stove that I’d fastened to
the back of the bike. Halfway there, I declared the day lost, called to cancel,
and headed home. I was soaked through when I arrived, stripping off my clothes
and collapsing on the bed in defeat.
The rain continued
throughout the day, fluctuating maddeningly between torrential downpour and
light sprinkling. Would my clothes dry? Would the road be passable the next
day? Only time would tell. Before I went to bed, I prayed for the rain to stop.
I awoke early
Friday morning to the faint roar of rushing water. Rising to the window and
peering through the day’s dim first light, I could make out the stream down the
hill from my house. The water was moving rapidly, the highest I had ever seen
it—a bad sign. And it was still raining. Hoping for the best, I packed my bags
(with some of the clothes still damp), stuck a nail in my broken umbrella to
hold it open, and informed my host family I would give it a shot.
Considering the
inclement weather and early hour, the road was bustling with villagers walking
to and from the stream. There were rumors that several homes had been flooded
the previous night, and some said a few houses along the riverbank had even
been washed away. Each person I passed wanted to know where I was headed with
such a large bag. Upon hearing I hoped to get to get to Kathmandu, they all
said, “The stream is too big! You can’t go anywhere!” Nevertheless, I wanted to see for myself.
I arrived at the
entrance of my village, the right side of which had been completely flooded.
People were trying to save what they could, lugging jute sacks and soggy
cardboard boxes filled with their possessions to neighbors’ homes across the
street. The street was so flooded with water that it was difficult to tell where the road ended and the river began.
I continued toward the bridge that spans the river. When I reached it, my jaw dropped—it appeared that half of it had been swept away. Later, I would learn that the stream (now a turbulent brown river) had swelled so much that it had carved a new path through the road on our side of the bridge. There would be no leaving today.
I continued toward the bridge that spans the river. When I reached it, my jaw dropped—it appeared that half of it had been swept away. Later, I would learn that the stream (now a turbulent brown river) had swelled so much that it had carved a new path through the road on our side of the bridge. There would be no leaving today.
I walked down to
the stream with some friends to survey the damage. Several rice paddies had
been destroyed by flooding (even rice can only tolerate so much water). We
spotted a drowned water buffalo lying on its side among the shallows, and heard
tell of two human bodies that had washed up farther downstream.
A drowned water buffalo the washed up near my house.
Reports continued
to come in all day of people who had drowned, houses that had been swept away,
possessions that had been destroyed by water. The roads leading out of my
district were closed. At one point, a helicopter flew overhead, with a small
band of children chasing after in its trail. Peace Corps instructed us to
remain at our posts until the water subsided enough for travel.
I have to stop
writing now because the sun just came out, and I’ve never been so happy to see
it.
Friday night it only drizzled for a few hours, meaning it might be possible to cross the river. Cautiously
but desperately hopeful, I set out at 7AM on Sunday. In the road, I met my counterpart
Neb, who offered to walk with me to the river and help me cross. The water had
receded considerably since the previous day and already people were fighting
the current to get across. In front of us, two young men helped an older woman
get across.
Prior to the storm, this rock wall had been preventing the river from spreading to the road. It was swept aside and now lies perpendicular to where it should be.
The view from the middle of the river
Further along the road, I met up with another volunteer. Eventually, we
reached a second river, which was more a series of rivulets than a single
stream. Although the strap on my flip-flops broke in the course of crossing, we
made it safely to the far shore.
At 10AM, after
three hours of walking, we finally arrived in the bazaar. From then on, the journey
went smoothly and we made it to Kathmandu the following day.
Now, a few days
removed from the flooding, I realize how selfish it was for me to be more upset
by my travel delay than by the damage in my community. At times, I feel like I
have become more egocentric and entitled more since entering the Peace Corps,
rather than less so.
All in all, the
heavy rains wrought havoc on roads, fields, and homes throughout much of Nepal.
A village just downhill from one volunteer’s home was completely swept away.
Another had to cross more than a dozen landslides, over the course of six
hours, to reach his bazaar. A third volunteer, while on a bus, spotted another
bus that had gone off the cliff just twenty minutes ahead of him. Shortly
after, a landslide occurred just a few hundred yards behind his bus, completely
blocking off the road.
Read more
about the flooding in Nepal:
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