Whistling for the wind: 3 days in the Kathmandu Valley.

"If we whistle, the breeze will come..." chirps our Sherpa, Rudra. We are a day into our three-day walk in the Khatmandu Valley where the trail is arid, the climate, summer: a mixture of balmy sub-tropical and alpine. The scent of pine smoke never escapes us though dissipates as our elevation increases. We can't see them for the dust which envelopes the low-country in April, but the Himalayas, custodians of the horizon on a clear day, are studying us: three minuscule pilgrims on a beaten path to Dhulikhel and Nagarkot.

Rudra has been my guide not only through this slow, winding foothill hike but a guide to how these humble people survive – he hasn’t complained once on this whole trip; his shy yet positive eyes set within a weathered golden face rarely meet yours in conversation.

Golden eagles soar above in healthy numbers above the sandy path, a plethora of different butterflies adorn the Rhododendron bushes which spring up amongst the trees, framing the sweeping tapestry of tiered crops in the fertile valley below. Literally every inch that can be used is trenched in precision to grow something: rice, potatoes or the staple dhal, as farmers – most of whom, women - toil in the despotic heat, bereft of machinery or modern tools. Many of these scenes will not have changed for centuries. And will not change anytime soon.

We trudge for hours, sometimes not a word is offered or needed, we find a solitary goat grazing on the yellow grass near our path or a lonesome cannabis plant sprung from a seed scattered from a farm or village nearby. Each smallholding or family dwelling we pass is raised from the mountains around them: we pass a family building a barn from the rust coloured soil and rock collected nearby, the matriarch of the family marshalling proceedings. Sinewy Nepalese men, sit on the porch outside their makeshift huts, smoking lung-shredding cigarettes and staring into the green of the valley. The women control these hills, their eyes betraying the hardship and struggle in this environment, their saris impeccable, brightly-coloured and somehow crease-free throughout their chores. They don't have the luxury to stop and look up as our 'namastes' get lost on the warm breeze.

The first day we ascended from Panauti fifteen hundred metres up to NamoBuddha and drank lemon tea in front of the ancient temple, the prayer flags lazy in the afternoon heat, the sawdust smouldering on its perch adjacent to the framed photos of the village's departed which decorate the wall, their souls no doubt sailing in the same sky as the flags.

As we made this first ascent up to this Buddhist pit-stop, Rudra didn't need to tell me to slow down, I learnt this by pushing myself too fast up the first incline and crashed at the top. He reached me minutes later without having broken sweat, paused with a humble grin and continued on his way, marvelling at his surroundings.

Whistling for the wind.