February 2012

"There they are! There they all are! Come and look! Quick! There’s the big mound of Annapurna South, then the knob-like Hiunchuli. That’s Machapuchre, the fishtail mountain in the middle. Mardi Peak is the little tent–like one in front of Fishtail . . . and see way to the right, that’s Lamjung Himal!”

After two days, the haze and clouds of Pokhara (Nepal) had cleared and I had dragged Jeph and our four kids up on the roof of our hotel early in the morning. I could suddenly and happily, happily see these mountains I know so well.

Our family trip back to Nepal to where I had lived, aged eight to 11 years, has been a "plan" for at least a decade. This year though, the option to go there for Christmas with my Mum made it take shape and here we are.

Driving up to Lamachaur, the village where we lived as children, I could barely recognise it. The road came through from a different direction and buildings cover most of the land that was previously fields and sleeping buffaloes. I recognised the village centre by the two old banyan trees side by side rather than any buildings or other landmarks. The simple stone village house with a stone slate roof where we lived in is now a mirror–glass–covered and three storied building. The rattly cobbled stone path I walked to school is now a sealed road with motorbikes and buses zooming up and down (though admittedly only a single lane wide). The single corner shop where we’d buy chillie sweets now has been joined by about 20 shops selling one–day chicks, momos, chowmein, chai, hairclips, milk, yoghurt, rice, sugar and brass pots. Is this really the Lamachaur which was frozen in my memories as the simple village it was 30 years ago?

I have had several conversations with local men in their 40s coming to say "hi" and remembering how we would build dams together on the little stream. A shop owner smiled shyly and reminded me that he had learned to ride a bike using my bicycle before I crashed it careering down the Batlichaur hill. But many of our village friends have left here now. They’re in Kathmandu or have moved to another village.

For the first two days I felt quite put-out at all the changes and "development". But in the lack of recognition of places and people I have found great connection/sense of place and even solace in the unchanging horizons and shapes of the rivers, the mountains and hills.

The first evening we arrived, we went running with our four children to see the cliffs of the Seti Khola (the White river). She was running as fast and cold as ever. The walk on Christmas Eve to a favourite old picnic spot — the Khali Khola (the Black river) showed the little gorge where we’d find deeper pools to jump in, was still deep and shaded. The river still ran clear and dappled as I remembered. The new suspension bridge crossing it hasn’t managed to smudge the shape and coolness of that river.

Boxing Day we went up-valley to another Wood family favourite walking spot — the forest around the Bhoti Khola. Again, the deep scars of that river and her ravines are as dark and strong as ever. The water still glittered with little fish and frogs. Ammaji starts some "boat races" down the river with sticks and my eyes dance with joy to see my children playing the same boat races I enjoyed here decades earlier.

Still hovering above are unchanging shapes of mountains and hills. They're imprinted on my soul so I can draw the outlines from memory. I can find their form and silhouettes in any corner of my heart. Their permanence feels deeply reassuring in the flux and shifting happening around human beings and our habitations in this place. 

I think of the Maori mihimihi where we can identify who we are and where we come from. I struggle to define my moana and my waka, and even my iwi — they are many. But these awa and these maunga are deep places of connection for me and I am deeply glad to share them with my life’s love, Jeph, and our four children.