Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
The next morning dawned clear and cool, the mountains sharp against a pale sky. Jack stood at the roadside with his daypack slung over one shoulder, waiting as the others gradually gathered. Raj Bhatta had organized the week’s first field visit—an introduction to the watershed areas they’d be supporting, the community officials they’d be relying on, and the challenges that didn’t fit neatly into any training manual.
Tom arrived first, waving with exaggerated energy for someone who claimed not to be a morning person. Eric and Natalie Chen followed soon after, appearing as they always did—organized, composed, quietly efficient. They wore matching sun hats today, looking like a coordinated expedition team.
Raj arrived last, phone already in hand, scanning messages with the faint frown of a man who carried the weight of too many moving parts.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “We’ll start with Kalapani ward today. Small farming community, some soil erosion issues, some debris from last year’s heavy rains. They have been expecting us.”
Expecting them—but not necessarily eager, Jack reminded himself.
A hired jeep rattled up the street, its engine coughing as it slowed beside them. The five climbed in, Tom claiming the seat beside the driver and immediately attempting a cheerful conversation in broken Nepali. The driver responded with polite nods and the occasional amused glance.
The road out of central Pokhara wound gradually upward. Houses gave way to terraced fields, the morning light catching on dew-covered millet and newly sprouting vegetables. Jack watched through the open window, inhaling the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. It was beautiful, undeniably—but beauty didn’t stop landslides or coax people into welcoming outsiders.
Raj pointed out landmarks as they drove. “This ridge collapsed last monsoon,” he said, indicating a long, exposed smear of brown soil across a hillside. “Several families displaced. We are helping with replanting, drainage channels, but it is slow work.”
Eric took notes diligently. Natalie filmed a short video clip for their later report, narrating in a soft voice: “This is the western slope above Kalapani. High erosion risk...”
Jack absorbed it all, trying to imagine how he could contribute—how someone with no engineering background and shaky Nepali could help prevent another collapse. The truth unsettled him: he wasn’t sure yet. But that, he supposed, was part of the work.
After an hour, the jeep reached a small clearing where a cluster of local leaders waited. Simple wooden buildings flanked the path. A few goats grazed nearby, bells clinking faintly.
Raj stepped out first. The volunteers followed.
The introductions began—formal handshakes, polite bows, the exchange of names Jack tried hard to remember. The ward chairperson, a sturdy middle-aged man named Harish Gurung, gestured for them to sit beneath the shade of a tin-roofed shelter.
“We appreciate your visit,” Harish said. His voice was steady, diplomatic. “The rains have been difficult these past two years. We hope your team can advise on better protection.”
“We will do what we can,” Raj replied. “But cooperation is important. Understanding each other’s needs.”
Harish nodded slowly, a man who agreed in principle but was reserving judgment in practice.
After tea—always tea—the group walked with Harish and a few field officers along a narrow footpath that climbed toward the damaged ridge. Jack kept pace beside Tom, the two occasionally exchanging glances as their boots slipped on loose stones.
The scar on the hillside was worse up close. A section of land had torn away entirely, leaving roots exposed like broken ribs. A small stream trickled through the debris, carving a shallow channel.
“We planted new saplings here,” one of the officers explained. “But animals get in. Fencing is expensive.”
Eric crouched to examine the soil. Natalie sketched a quick diagram. Raj asked questions about rainfall patterns, water flow, community labor availability.
Jack listened—absorbing, trying to picture not just the problem but the process behind addressing it. The physical work wasn’t the hard part; winning trust was. Convincing a community that change was worth the effort—that was something else entirely.
Tom lowered his voice as they walked. “Not so bad for day one, right?”
Jack exhaled. “Depends how you define ‘not so bad.’”
Tom grinned. “You didn’t fall down the hill. That’s my metric.”
Jack almost smiled. Almost.
They spent the rest of the morning visiting terrace edges where soil had begun to crumble, a cluster of homes built too close to a drainage path, and a footbridge badly damaged by last season’s floodwater. Everywhere they went, villagers observed from doorways, curious but silent. Some nodded politely; others simply watched.
By early afternoon, the jeep was winding its way back down the mountain roads. Raj reviewed a short list of follow-up tasks, assigning responsibilities. Eric and Natalie accepted their portions with practiced professionalism. Tom offered to organize a community workshop—”Nothing fancy, just introductions, listening to concerns, maybe sharing snacks.” Raj approved.
Then he looked to Jack.
“For you,” Raj said, “I want you to focus on the terraced farms near the stream. Talk with families, see what they know, what they want. Build rapport first. Advice comes later.”
Jack nodded, though a small knot formed in his stomach. Talking with families meant more Nepali. More chances to misunderstand or be misunderstood.
Raj seemed to sense his hesitation. “Slowly-slowly,” he said. “People here are kind. They will understand your effort.”
Jack hoped he was right.
They rode the remaining distance in a thoughtful quiet, the hum of the engine blending with the afternoon heat.
Today had shown Jack something important: he wasn’t just learning about the work—he was learning how to enter a community without pressing too hard, too fast. That balance was its own skill.
And he wasn’t sure he had it yet.
By the time the jeep rattled back into Pokhara, the afternoon had mellowed into a gentle gold. Jack felt sun-tired, dust-covered, and deeply aware that he had a long road ahead before he understood even a fraction of the environmental terrain they were expected to help with.
He said goodbye to Tom and the Chens at the roadside, then walked the familiar stretch back toward the Subedi house. Sarita was sweeping the courtyard when he arrived, and she smiled in that restrained but genuine way she always did.
“You went far today,” she said, brushing dust from her hands.
“Very far,” Jack replied. “And very uphill.”
Sarita laughed softly and gestured toward the house. “Tea is ready.”
Jack dropped his pack in his room, splashed water on his face, and returned for a small cup of tea with the family. Suman and Nisha peppered him with questions about goats, landslides, and whether the mountains were bigger up close. Jack tried to answer in simple phrases, piecing together Nepali and English as needed.
After tea, he settled at the small desk in his room with his notebook, laptop, and a half-formed sense of responsibility pressing at the back of his mind. He needed ideas—examples from other regions, reference materials, case studies. He opened his laptop, intending to read over the environmental assessment forms Raj had sent earlier. The reports were dense, technical, and seemed to assume institutional knowledge he did not possess. He skimmed a few paragraphs and exhaled sharply through his nose. Steep learning curve didn’t begin to cover it.
He needed context. Visuals. Something that made sense.
So, he began searching—first for recent environmental surveys in the region, then for local reporting, then for anything that explained land-use patterns. Somewhere in that spiral of links, he clicked on a thumbnail without thinking.
A woman appeared on the screen.
She stood in front of a terraced hillside, wind tugging at her loose braid, speaking in Nepali but with clear subtitles. Her voice was smooth, confident, warm without being overly performative.
He recognized her. Sort of.
“Wait...” Jack leaned a little closer.
It was the woman from one of the training materials he’d been given weeks before—short clips meant to provide cultural context. And yet ... she also looked like the woman he’d glimpsed near the blue door. But no, not exactly. The lighting was different. The video was definitely older. Maybe he was mixing things up. He’d only seen that neighbor for a handful of seconds.
The creator’s name appeared in white script at the bottom:
ANJANA THAPA
He said it aloud.
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