Monsoon rains ...

Nepal has a typical two-season year, the dry season from October to May, and the wet season from June to September. The daytime temperature here can reach over 30 degrees Celsius, and the weather is somewhat mixed, be it long spells of scorching sunshine, blanket cloud cover, or vertical downpour. As in the UK, the weather is often a talking point at this time of year, and when the monsoon rains come, they often leave in their wake a trail of destruction and tales to be told!

“Panni, panni, panni!” The shriek from the neighbouring house beckoned me from sleep to full, panic-stricken consciousness, and I reached into the darkened gloom, scrabbling for my head torch, and the watch which would reveal the ungodly hour at which I had been awakened.
Although my time in Nepal had been short, I understood the significance of the words which were being shouted with rigour, and at full volume, at 2 O’Clock in the morning, the easy translation being “Water, water, water!”

As I heaved myself from slumber to peer through the curtains, there was nothing to suggest that this night was different to any other night in Kathmandu. Outside, the night sky was inky-black, dogs were howling, and various insects were chirping away, as usual. However, now and again, strange shadows danced on the walls of the room, and the early morning silence was pierced with loud screams and the sloshing sound of water. As I cast my mind back through the events of the previous evening, things almost began to make sense. It was Saturday night. There is nothing significant about Saturday nights in Kathmandu, but I knew from the day before that this was a day in which a power-cut was not expected.

Due to the number of people living in Nepal’s capital city, there is a need on particular days to limit the supply of electricity. This results in a system whereby different districts of Kathmandu city are left without power for a number of hours each day. Today however was not Wednesday or Friday, when it was expected the power supply would be cut off. It was Saturday. The monsoon downpour however had interfered with the power supply in the city, leaving us without power from around 7pm. Now and again, the lights would flicker, but an evening of light entertainment it was not to be. At this point in time it was logical to go to bed, as only sleep prevails after darkness (And it would seem the darkness was going to be around for some time, given that our rechargeable lights were discharging at a considerable rate!)

A few hours later, a familiar sound filled the air again. “Panni, panni, panni!” The voice repeated itself, but this time there was a distinct difference. Not only could I hear the voices of the family in the next house, I could also hear the familiar voices of my hosts in Patan. As my body approached consciousness I sensed the tension in the air. I roused myself from slumber and descended the two flights of grey, marble stairs to the ground floor below. As I stepped into the courtyard, the sun had already pierced the grey, early morning sky.

As I peered through the gate, I was immediately aware that something just wasn’t right. The dirt track which led from the house to the main road could not be seen, and the area of long grass between the houses was completely submerged in around 2 feet of water. The rest of the morning was spent bailing out the water around the ground-floor of the house, which was scarily near the height of the front door step!

Just over a week later, I found myself again in the aftermath of the monsoon rains. This time however, on the road, returning from a three-day trip to Jiri in Everest region. From the beginning, the whole trip had been a rather wet affair, the horizontal rain adding much to the whole Himalayan experience! The of course there was the power-cut the evening before which was caused by a landslide further up the valley.

As our microbus snaked up the mountain roads, I cracked an inner-smile, knowing that it would be only nine hours until a hot shower. I was also looking forward to being dry. Over the previous days our small group had been absolutely drenched by the prevalent rain. You would think that the warm climate would enable one to dry out after a downpour, but the humidity is such that you only really go from a state of being soaked to be being warm and damp. Then, when the temperature in the evening drops, being warm and damp becomes cold and damp. Neither state is particularly comfortable.

It would seem however that our return journey to Kathmandu would be longer than I anticipated. The previous week, a huge landslide had blocked the single-track road to Jiri, and it had been closed for a number of days whilst people worked to repair it. When we had passed the site earlier in the week, the slope above the road looked particularly unstable, and it would appear that through the night there had been another slide. As we approached the rather dubious looking area, the back wheels of our vehicle began to slip and slide in the gluteonous slop, which was the road.

Above us to the right, where previously trees and vegetation thrived, there was nothing but a huge earthy, red scar in the hillside. Boulders the size of small cars had slid across the road, dropping into the ravine below us, and smaller (but only slightly smaller) boulders teetered on the slope above us. We appeared to be the first vehicle to either leave or enter Jiri that day, and our driver seemed to be unsure as to whether we would be able to pass.

In an attempt to get the vehicle moving again, our driver shifted the gears into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. As the wheels spun, red earth sprayed from under the vehicle, and it made a movement side-ways towards the sheer drop on our left. At this point I felt my throat dry out and my stomach tighten. I looked at the rest of our small group, and we all seemed to be wearing the same expression. It was time to get off the bus. As we did, the rest of the passengers (even the Nepalese) followed. As we looked on, stranded by the roadside, our driver tried once again to get the vehicle moving. There was no way that it was going to move forward, as the liquid road now submerged most of the wheeled area of the bus, but at least if it could move backwards, once the road had been built up with loose rocks and stones, we would be able to get some momentum.

The smell of burning rubber filled the air as the tyres spun helplessly in their muddy moulds. Then, unbelievably something gripped and the vehicle jolted backwards, the rear wheel narrowly escaping an adventure down the previously mentioned ravine. At this point in time, I was particularly glad that I was a by-stander!

The next hour or so was then spent rebuilding the road with rubble from the landslide. We finally were able to pass through due to the expert skills of our driver, though it had been a very close call!