This is the same Gorkha that is affiliated with the Gurkha's, and that which is alluded to in the people of the West Bengal hills pushing for their own province, Gorkhaland. It is also, more or less, a stronghold of the Maoists.
So it all begins with a red salute.
The new part of the hamlet was a few steep streets of shops, where my lack of Nepali seemed to accentuate the relative cold-shoulder I was receiving from the people, which is very possibly a language issue that I, myself, manifested.
But as an old seat of one of Nepal's kings, it's also a historical city, and thus has another fantastic Durbar.
And an array of those charming old city squares with cobblestone alleys.
The street ascension into the surrounding village hills led to staggering views and a rather fantastic temple (no photo), where I waited for over an hour for a chicken sacrifice that never happened. Instead, the chicken shit in its cage which resembled a thatched canoe hand-bag baring holes too big to carry lipstick.
But some good shots of community life and family relations, including an undocumented child play scene where one kid (farmer) swatted another kid (cow) with a stick, as he waddled around, crying, on all fours:
It seems mock Singapore Airlines uniforms are a hot commodity here.
Gorkha's jems tired quickly, though my ubiquitous morning apathy in conjunction with my perpetual indecision left me in Gorkha for two nights - and I was really fucking ready to leave after the second one. One of those places where you seem to stare at your non-rotating fan for long extents of the frequent power outages.
To the people, a last memo: don't forget to vote.
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