Nepal on the Edge: Bandipur and a Post-Earthquake Nation

The road to Bandipur, they said, would be newly paved. Smooth. Hopeful, even. A glimmer of progress slicing through the Himalayan foothills like a promise. They didn’t say that progress in Nepal is more of a conceptual aspiration than a practical reality. Still, with our usual optimism — and the intestinal fortitude that only a 6:30 a.m. breakfast can grant — we boarded the bus, bodies in motion, bladders already strategising.

Somewhere along the way, the road had a midlife crisis. Asphalt gave way to rubble, rubble to crater, crater to existential doubt. We stopped for coffee and the kind of bathroom break that makes you reassess your entire hydration strategy. But when we finally emerged on the plateau of Bandipur, with its hazy light and awkward resort perched like a misplaced postcard, we were ready to believe again. Or at least pretend hard.

Our lodging was called Mountain Resort, which is like calling a goat a unicorn and daring you to argue. The place was charming, yes, in a dislocated way — a ten-minute walk from town, luggage delivered via rickety cart. A monk could’ve made it faster by levitating. But we settled in, our comrade with the self-diagnosed broken foot hobbling along stoically, refusing medical attention with the quiet pride of a man raised on Italian football injuries and espresso.

We descended into town on foot, a leisurely 15-minute stroll through mossy stones, prayer flags, and faint cow smells. Bandipur’s main pedestrian street is a thing of aesthetic wonder: colonial facades meet Newari brickwork, children sell candy from trays, and every corner smells like roasted peanuts and stove smoke. It’s like the set of a Wes Anderson film, but poorer, damper, and more real.

Lunch at Pratiksha Milk Centre — yes, that’s its real name — offered the culinary twist I now live for: banana and peanut butter momo. Ridiculous? Absolutely. Delicious? Even more so. Our wait was long, but who’s watching the clock in a town that seems to exist outside of time?

Post-prandial stupor was followed by urban trekking, our group shuffling like a band of enlightened zombies through alleys and temples. And then the steps. So many steps. Up we climbed toward the Thani Mai Temple, lungs heaving, calves screaming, our friend with the foot-from-hell still limping along, possibly part-cyborg. The view from the top was meant to offer snowy Himalayan peaks. Instead, clouds. Distant rumblings of rain. And a wind that felt like a grandmother’s whisper, reminding you to bring a scarf next time.

We returned to the village for drinks, laughter, and bar games that turned suspiciously philosophical after two rounds of local beer. Then came dinner at the Old House, a cosy refuge of warm lighting and better-than-average noodles. Our last climb — the final fifteen-minute march back to the Mountain Resort — was quiet, not from exhaustion, but from a strange sort of contentment.

Nepal, Between Stillness and Shaking Ground

Bandipur is beautiful, yes. But scratch its picturesque surface and you find a country still trembling. The 2015 earthquake didn’t just crack walls and temples — it fractured faith in progress. Roads remain wounded. Infrastructure unfinished. Entire stretches of mountain highway appear abandoned by time or bureaucracy (or both).

Compared to its neighbours, Nepal is a paradox. China builds megacities in the time it takes Kathmandu to fill a pothole. India sends rockets to the moon while villages in the Terai wait for basic healthcare. Nepal, caught between these two roaring giants, remains quiet. Culturally rich, spiritually resonant, politically… inert. Democracy here is more cyclical than linear, a carousel of leaders, none of whom seem equipped with a roadmap out of stagnation.

And yet, something is arresting about a place that resists speed. That asks you to walk uphill, no less, toward meaning. Bandipur, in all its faded glory and slow-motion charm, is a pause button in a world obsessed with fast-forward. And on this ninth day, I’m starting to understand why that might be the whole point of travel.

Post-Earthquake Nepal: The Road as Metaphor

The roads in Nepal aren’t just roads — they’re metaphors. Metaphors for a nation that hasn’t figured out how to pave its future. While India roars ahead with highways, trains, and tech hubs, and China bulldozes its way into the 21st century with megacities and AI labs, Nepal still struggles to pour a stretch of asphalt that lasts through a monsoon season.

The potholes are political. Each landslide tells a story of neglected infrastructure, diverted development funds, and a bureaucracy so dense that it might qualify as a UNESCO heritage site. The country has had 27 governments in 30 years. The monarchy fell, democracy wobbled in, and a carousel of coalitions, collapses, and constitutional crises followed. The much-touted 2015 Constitution brought more confusion than clarity. Federalism arrived, but like a misdelivered package, no one knows who’s in charge of what.

Corruption is endemic, youth unemployment is rampant, and many of Nepal’s best and brightest are now driving taxis in Dubai or working in factories in South Korea. Remittances account for nearly 25% of Nepal’s GDP—a staggering figure that says everything about the country’s stalled domestic economy and its people’s resilience.

Despite being nestled between the world’s fastest-growing economies, Nepal hasn’t caught the economic updraft. It’s like standing between two freight trains and never catching a ride. China builds roads and hydropower plants — often with strings attached. India funds hospitals and schools — but always with a political undertow. Meanwhile, Nepali politics remains in a theatre of petty rivalries and nationalist grandstanding.