June
10 2006
Updated July 2006
Lahchok,
Nepal: A Trek in the Himalayas
Part
3
AFried
Dough and Cucumbers
The
entrance to Hyangja town is few kilometers up the
road, passing by pointing children asking for candy,
ubiquitous marijuana plants and smiling, exotic Nepali
housewives. There is an intersection that connects
a smaller road leading into the mountains with the
main road. At the junction there are taxis', buses
and assorted fruit sellers. As you enter the inner
road you are confronted with a festive village scene:
Bright Sanskrit signs with pictures of pretty Nepali
girls hawking cigarettes, whitening creams and Kodak
film. You need to walk through the village to get
to the mountain trail at which point the road evolves
from an asphalt top gravel to a dirt path. Along the
left side of the road, are a series of tea houses
that also serve fried breads. It was breakfast fare
Nepali style. The tea shops were ramshackle affairs
of stone walls, dirt floors and tin roofs; hastily
constructed tables and chairs. In one shop, the tea
house’s matron was a pretty Nepali girl. An
elderly couple sat there eating.
Although
deep fried white bread dough and milky sweet tea do
not normally agree with me, I sat down opposite the
old couple in the only space that was available. There
was a pretty Nepali girl who was the cook and the
server; she approached me cautiously to take my order.
I spoke pigeon Nepali to her, "Chai and fried
bread." She was giggly and asked "How many
bread" I said only one and complimented her on
her English. The fried dough was gooey and dripped
oil and was shaped like a big "O". It was
tasty in an artery-clogging sort of way and this effect
was complemented by the sweet milky tea, which reminded
me of children's cough syrup. I took a few bites and
few sips and began chatting up the Nepali girl, "You
speak English very well." “No, just little
bit”, she responded. I wondered how many times
this conversation occurred throughout Asia on a daily
basis. The old lady of the couple at my table became
excited and turned around revealing a gold nubbed
smile. "English Naynu Naynu”, she said
and shook her head violently as the young girl giggled.
I parroted the old woman and repeated, like an idiot,
"Naynu Naynu". They laughed again and also
repeated, "Naynu Naynu" and I repeated,
for some unfathomable reason, "Naynu Naynu",
to enthusiastic nods of approval. This seemed like
a good time to exit, on a positive beat, and I paid
for the oil-saturated bread and the high octane tea
and set out again on the trail.
The
trail headed uphill in an increasingly pastoral scene.
My heart rate was increasing with the incline and
I was hoping I could exude some of the oil donut poison
from my pores. At the edge of the town several people
were gathering around a fruit and vegetable stand.
One by one the customers were walking back to town
munching on a giant slice of some green vegetable.
I thought it was maybe a papaya or melon of some sort,
but one of the munchers walked past me and mumbled
through a fiber filled mouth. "The cucumber is
very delicious today." It was an absurd statement
in another context, like a dream fragment with Freudian
undertones. My curiosity was peaked and I thought
that a fresh cucumber might get the pasty feeling
from the fried dough out of my mouth so I walked up
the vendor.
He
had several large cucumbers, the largest cucumbers
I had ever seen; each was about a foot and half long.
The vendor would slice them in quarters, and then
you sprinkle it with chili and salt. I have never
experienced cucumber eaten this way. It was tasty
and refreshing and was a good start to the trek proper
because after the fruit vendor there were no more
stores, just trails through the wilderness.
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