To Gatlang, a Tamang village

Wanting to meet people other than the Newar, I took a local bus to Gatlang—a Tamang village located about 130 km north of Kathmandu, near the Chinese border. Situated at an altitude of 2,500 meters, the village was cradled by mountains, watched over by the towering Langtang peak (7,234 meters). The journey there was truly terrifying. The road was unpaved, and on one side lay a steep slope dropping all the way to the valley floor; there were no trees to break the fall. The road was barely wider than the bus itself and tilted precariously toward the precipice. I felt that a single slight mistake could send us tumbling down the mountainside for what seemed like an hour.
I managed to arrive at the village after dark. I stayed at a guesthouse where the walls were so thin I could hear the breathing of the person next door. Stepping outside at dawn, I could make out the silhouette of Langtang against the dim light. As the sun rose, its rays struck the mountain, constantly shifting its appearance. Mornings in the village began late; people only started moving once it was bright. It seemed their lives were governed by the sun rather than the clock. There was a sacred site high up the slope, and the path led upward toward it. Even though I hadn’t walked very far, I quickly found myself out of breath and dizzy—likely due to the high altitude. Along the way, I passed several elderly women carrying bundles of grass and brushwood that seemed many times larger than their own bodies. Perhaps they were gathering fodder for livestock or firewood. Although I wanted to take a photograph, I couldn’t bring myself to snap a single picture; I was struck by the thought that they carried these heavy loads up and down the slopes every day just to survive. While I struggled simply to walk, they moved briskly across the treacherous, uneven terrain. I realized that a fall resulting in a blow to the head could be fatal here; there were, of course, no ambulances or hospitals to turn to. I felt a deep appreciation for the conveniences of Japan, alongside a profound respect for the resilience of the villagers as they lived their daily lives in harmony with nature. I followed a young man I’d met on the bus to the village; he led me into a house with an air of letting me in on a secret. Inside, I found a single billiard table and a group of young men smoking—likely the only place for local youth to hang out and have fun. There was a school in the village, too, where girls played volleyball on the grounds from around 5:30 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening; for them, it seemed to be the primary form of recreation.
The village appeared to be a stopover point for trekkers, but few tourists seemed to visit with the village itself as their destination; simply walking through the streets, I felt like an outsider. I would have liked to bridge the gap with the locals—to interact and take photos—but that is difficult to achieve in just a single night.
Even so, there were people who treated me with friendliness, and I was happy to share a few moments with them and the children. It made me wonder: why do the faces of the people living here look so full of energy and gentle, even though their lives must be incredibly hard?
They rise with the sun, work, and spend time with their families. What does it mean to truly live?
The answer surely varies by country and individual, but seeing them live in harmony with nature, I felt there was a natural ease to their existence—and their expressions were truly wonderful.