a pinch of red tika powder applied softly to our brows . Below our elbows , kids eager to meet the strange newcomers tugged at our jackets and grabbed our hands , anything to steal a moment of undivided attention .
What followed could have been torn from the pages of a travel novel . Sat in plastic chairs we watched various groups of dancers twirl and jump , their colorful costumes adding technicolor contrast to an otherwise drab rural scene . Periodically a cadre of giggling girls brought us cups of black tea , offered with bashful smiles . The people of Nepal are the most genuine and kind of any I have met in my travels . To be among them is to feel equally honored and familial .
As the sun started to slump , the drums rolled with fevered thunder . From behind a wall two dozen men emerged , their heads bowed and their feet stamping a fierce rhythm .
In one hand each man held a round battle shield , some I would later learn were 300 years old and made of rhino skin . In the other hand they wielded a curved sword . I knew of these men but never thought I would get to see them .
The ancestors of Chettri warriors , the Bhuwa Naach trace their dances to the early 18th century when Nepal was ruled by dozens of small mountain kingdoms . They were the keepers of peace and used dance to maintain their marshal order and practice the movements used in combat . Their performances were demonstrations of readiness , should there be a need to raise a blade .
With the impromptu festival still in full swing , the eldest of the Bhuwa Naach took up a chair next to me . He mentioned his excitement to see us , and that we were not the first westerners to visit Khaina , a fact that somewhat surprised me . As a kid his father told him a Swiss traveller who once visited the valley . He was the last outsider to do so . That was more than half a centu-ry earlier . I marvelled that such untouched hamlets still exist . With the drums momentarily qui-eted he put his hand on my arm and as if struck by a brilliant idea asked , “ Do you want to buy wild honey ?”
The next morning I sat on a hill with a cup of tea to observe the idyllic and pastoral scenes I have come to love . I watched as a dozen farmers bent low in their fields harvesting potatoes and clus-ters of millet . Buffalo munched on patches of grass as kids swam in a nearby creek , their parents likely thrilled to have them clean . From a stone house , tendrils of woodsmoke drifted through a window , the smell of fresh flatbread carried on the air . Lost in tranquility , the distinctive thump of a Royal Enfield engine roared to life reminding me this was not my village . It was time to go .
TRAVERSE 129