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strangers that each had its own balcony , with flyscreens secured it allowed a welcoming cool breeze to slip over the sleeping occupants . Overnight rains provided enough moisture for the early morning sun to create an ethereal mist that rose from the nearby valleys . The clouded glimpse of nearby temples heightened the feeling of being amongst a special landscape .
Rising and falling , the road snaked its way around the mountains , lush forests gave way to rice paddies , and fields of maize . Sugar cane was plentiful , as were the bovine species , cows and oxen wandering the streets and roadways , not a care in the world as they searched for a meal , even amongst piles of rubbish . Fortunately , these were becoming fewer , it seemed the people of the mountains had found a solution to the problem presented by the adoption of the Western throw away society . The stench of smouldering plastic scythed across the hills ; the putrid smell of rotting rubbish replaced by another . My heart lifted slightly at the sight of children picking up plastic waste , although the realisation why didn ’ t allow the optimism to remain for long .
A large military base loomed as we neared Dharchula , a town constructed on the banks of the Sarda river and is joined to Nepal by a single suspension bridge only open to local foot traffic . Mohati is the Nepali equivalent , yet feels hugely different , more colourful , more ramshackle , and more compacted . This would be the last official crossing we would see for quite some time .
Dharchula presented an opportunity to refresh and restock . Haircuts and shaves , meals other than curry , a sneaky beer , and chats with the people . It was a town clearly benefitting from the presence of the Indian army yet had a feel that perhaps trouble could fester from
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