A cloudy, chilly morning in February. A group of children runs to a school bus parked at the side of the sandy road. Clouds of dust stirred by small feet stain maroon uniforms. The air is full of screams, shouting and laughter.

A few minutes later the bus disappears carrying away the commotion created by enthusiastic students. Streets of Nepalese Nayapul, however, are not getting any quieter.

Local shops start their usual business day. The buildings, even though gnawed by time, look unfinished. Rusty scaffoldings lean against non-plated walls. Open terraces of the second floors scare with the void, unfurnished spaces. Ground floors – these are finished. Spacious, open halls, with repainted walls, slightly stained with the dust of the road running through the town centre. Inside – dining tables, carpentry workshops, shelves cracking under the weight of rice sacks and other goods.

Women sweep thresholds with straw brooms. In the folds of their thick, woollen skirts lurk barefooted sprats. Nearby, on a makeshift stove placed at the side of the road, a diner owner fries samosas – tapered buns filled with meat, vegetables and spices. One of them, fragrant with herbs and still steaming, she hands over to a few-year-old boy. The little fellow, dressed in a coarse jacket, eagerly takes the treat. The fact that from the waist down he is completely naked does not seem to bother him the slightest.

Shopkeepers, dressed in worn-out windbreakers and thick tracksuit trousers, set up their stock. In front of one of the stalls, stands a herd of mules carrying saddlebags.

“Sacks of flour, rice, potatoes and vegetables, soaps and wool yarn. Anything else?”, asks the shop owner.

“No, no. That’s all”, replies a swarthy, slender man, straining the harness of an impatient animal.

“Are you coming back today, or tomorrow?”

“Today, if the weather lasts. It’s a short route – to Banthanti only. The Green Hill View Lodge has a new batch of tourists. They need the goods to be delivered before dinner.”

“Safe travels then!” shouts the shopkeeper, shooing away a stubborn mule from the shop doors.

 
Behind Nayapul, starts a popular trekking route to Ghorepani village. Over 3000 meters high Poon Hill mountain is its highlight and ultimate tourist destination.

The beginning is easy. Wide, rocky paths wind through the woods and between the fields. They cut through the mountain streams and gently climb the hills surrounded by rice terraces. On a gravel road, a herd of brown, long-eared mules, sways the saddlebags in a steady trot. Suddenly, a piercing whistle of the herdsman causes them to slow down. In front, two tourists, their guide and porter squeeze as deep as possible into the grassy bay on the road side. Politely, they give way to the caravan. Travellers return to the path, once whistled commands start to fade. Road traffic culture in the Annapurna mountains.

It is warm. The sun rays noticeably raise the temperature. A fast-moving march warms up further. With every step, the terrain changes more and more. Rocky hills replace vast, flat fields. The broad track turns into a narrow path in the form of uneven, rocky stairs, climbing up steeper and steeper. At their summit, buildings of the mountain village Tikhedhunga, shimmer in blue and white. The view straight from a fairy tale.

Half-brick, half-metal cabins are attached tightly to the protruding rock shelves. They seem to hold onto the stone only by the strength of their cement will. Nearly every one of them is either a diner or a guest house. Those equipped with the luxuries of hot showers announce it with the huge hand-painted signboards.

 
The herdsman stops his animals at a square of one of the dinners. It invites with breezy half-open halls, and mouth-watering scents coming from the kitchen. Before he enjoys the break, however, herder loosens mules’ harnesses and from underneath the nearby table pulls out metal bowls. He fills them with corn grains and gives to the visibly excited animals.
Finally, the herder sits at a small table covered with a flowery oilcloth. Glancing through the window overlooking a deep green chasm, he shouts towards the kitchen:

“Dal bhat and tea!”

“Dal bhat power – 24 hour!” shouts back the amused waiter, placing a huge plate with the dish in front of his guest.

Dal is a thick lentil soup seasoned with cumin and turmeric, boiled with onions, garlic, tomatoes and herbs. Bhat – steamed rice. It comes with roti – unleavened bread, and a bit of vegetable stew. For the dessert – strong, hot and a very sweet tea. One serving of the dish is enough to keep one going for a good few hours.

“Heading to Ghorepani?”, asks the waiter.

“No, only to Banthanti”, replies herder rolling a cigarette from thin tissues and aromatic tobacco.

“Oh, that woman is going to Banthanti as well. She delivered woollen shawls and now heads back”, the waiter gestures towards a stone shelf right next to the wall of the diner.

At the edge of the rock, sits a woman wrapped in a purple woollen plaid. An empty wicker basket lies next to her. Upon hearing the conversation, she lifts it up and throws over her back. The woman places a rope entwining the container on her forehead, softening the cord roughness with a small piece of cloth.

“To the Green Hill View with delivery?”, she asks the herder.

“Yeah, yeah.” – confirms he, finishing his cigarette.

“Me too, so let me join. I have a laundry order to pick up there.”

 
The slightly enlarged caravan moves on. The higher, the colder. Clouds begin to descend from the mountains, covering everything with wet droplets of the cold fog. Traffic on the track increases. Everyone wants to get to their homes before the weather breaks down irretrievably. The destination – another “hanging” village Banthanti – is already near. Just a few more minutes and you can see small buildings of the Green Hill View Lodge.

The large terrace divides the guesthouse from the tiny kitchen building, where the preparation for an evening meal is on. Wooden shelves, burners and a large clay fire plain surround joined tables. Over these, the cook and helpers prepare supper. The space of the room is small, and the fire from the hearth warms the place. Still, the chill outside is so severe that the kitchen crew cower under jackets and hoods. The cook warms up the company further with imperious commands. Like a skilled dancer, she swirls in a narrow space between worktops and fireplaces, shelves and stoves. Here, she prepares rice, there – potatoes in curry sauce, there again – in a huge tin pot she sets water for the tea. Noticing the herder, the cook runs to meet him.

“Namaste! You’re already here. Good! I promised some young tourist momo for dinner, but don’t have veggies anymore!”. There is a trace of relief ringing in her good-natured laughter. Thanks to the caravan “some young tourist” will enjoy the fluffy dumplings with vegetable stuffing and spicy chilli sauce.

 
In the meantime, all the lodge guests already gathered in the common room. All of them tightly surround the room’s central piece – a small coal stove – the only source of heat. Hung on the walls, lodge certificates and diplomas in the tourist industry are almost invisible through the curtain of trekking trousers and jumpers lined under the ceiling. On the floor, around the stove dries an impressive collection of trekking shoes and woollen socks. On the tables – dinner, Everest beer – in the hands. In the TV, Bollywood hit ‘Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham’ gives the situation an unreal feeling.

The lounge is full of buzz about the tour and plans for the further trip. There are tips, warnings, jokes and laughter. An atmosphere of home created by complete strangers in a distant country – so exceptional and unique to mountain shelters. The next day, early in the morning, after an icy shower and a frigidly cold night, everyone will be on their way again. They will arrive in Ghorepani and enjoy breath-taking views of the snow-capped peaks of the Annapurna Himalayan mountain range. The next day they will start before dawn. In the darkness, they will walk to the 3210-meter high Poon Hill where they are going to see the sunrise over the Himalayas. Maybe the weather will be favourable to them. Perhaps a clear, blue sky will allow seeing the sunlit Himalayan peaks. Maybe it is going to be the opposite – drizzling rain and dense fog will cover a divine view with the aura veil. What will happen for sure is – each of them will leave part of themselves at the Nepalese trekking trail. In every place they passed through, in every person they met. They will lose their hearts for the Nepalese mountains.