Through mud and fear: The human stories behind Nepal's devastating floods

Kathmandu, Nuwakot and Dhunge

It was in August last year that flash floods struck Dharali in Uttarakhand. Before the memories of walking 40 kilometres through treacherous mountain paths to reach the devastated village could fade, instructions came from the office: leave for Kathmandu.

It was the second day of the flood disaster in Nepal. With my reporter colleague Joe Jacob, I left Delhi for Kathmandu, just one and a half hours away by flight. As soon as we landed, Joe bought a local SIM card. My number was already on international roaming.

The currency exchangers at the airport would not accept Indian rupees. Though Indian currency is accepted in many parts of Nepal, and India’s online payment systems work in several places, you need Nepali rupees in remote villages.

Our local contact Sharmila arranged a vehicle for us. When I asked the driver’s name, he said, “Rajan.” He then boasted, “Isn’t there a big don named Rajan in your Mumbai? It’s the same name!”

But this Rajan was no don. Barely 30 kilometres into the journey to the disaster zone, he was gripped by fear. Pointing ahead, he warned that the flood could come again and wash us all away. We should immediately return to Kathmandu, he said. The vehicle owner was calling him and demanding that he come back, he added.

Both Joe and I grew anxious. We called Sharmila and complained. Since it was not her own vehicle, there was little she could do. But she managed to speak to the owner, calm the driver, and get us moving again. By the time we reached Nuwakot, around 60km from Kathmandu, helicopters carrying rescued flood victims were landing at the local army camp. Outside the camp were hundreds of people, anxiously clinging to the barbed-wire fence around the place, hoping to see their missing relatives among those being brought in.

As we prepared to leave, heavy rains began and mobile network coverage disappeared. Rajan panicked again. He refused to go another metre. “The flood will come again now,” he said. “We must return to Kathmandu now!”

We told him firmly: “We are journalists who have come to cover the disaster, not tourists out on a joyride.”

But he would not budge. Finally, we told him to drop us at a nearby hotel. He agreed.

But finding a safe hotel room in the evening, in the middle of a disaster, was difficult. I also had to photograph the swollen Trishuli River and send the visuals immediately.

As we walked towards the riverbank, the rain turned so heavy that we had to find shelter under the eaves of a shop. We could barely move as we waited. Correspondents from the ABC channel soon came running into the same shop, their camera equipment completely drenched.

That was when I saw a signboard saying “Hotel Sunshine”. It was standing tall among the surrounding buildings. Through my camera’s zoom lens, I could make out the hotel’s phone number, blurred by the rain. The hotel was just 200 metres from the river. Having regularly covered landslides, mudslides and cloudbursts in the mountains, I felt its location and structure were safe.

When I called the number, the hotel staff member simply said, “You come here and see for yourself.”

On the way, we spotted a small tea shop. We stepped in, charged our phones and drank hot tea. When I went to pay, the shopkeeper said the bill was 100 Nepali rupees. He would not accept Indian rupees, and he had no online payment facility. Joe had only 80 Nepali rupees in cash.

We handed over the 80 rupees and said we would pay the remaining 20 the next day—or give him Indian currency. The shopkeeper smiled warmly. “This is more than enough, sir!” he said, thanking us heartily.

THE NEXT MORNING, we woke to the sound of helicopters. Returning to the river, we found three excavators clearing the road. In some places, people were being transferred from one excavator to another to reach safety, while others searched mud-filled homes for belongings. Whenever an operator was called, he would swing the excavator arm back, pick people up and set them down safely.

I noticed a smart, cautious dog searching for its master. Worried that it might sink into the thick mud, the dog carefully pressed each paw on to the ground before taking the next step.

Journalists from China, Japan, Germany and Australia soon began arriving. Some foreign reporters stepped forward and sank straight into the mud, forcing their colleagues to pull them out. Moving even 100 metres was impossible. The police stopped anyone who tried to press forward.

We asked local people how we could cross to the other side of the river. They said the only option was to return to Kathmandu and take another route on a motorbike. One local resident told us that Nuwakot and Devghat were the only places currently accessible by vehicle.

We spotted a passenger vehicle normally used for 10-person trips to Kathmandu. We assured the driver that we would pay the full fare for all 10 seats if he took us to Devghat. He cancelled his trip and agreed.

Houses, shops and markets in Devghat were buried under mud. Some residents had returned to salvage household items; others were searching for missing bodies. Bloated animal carcasses floated in stagnant water, filling the air with a terrible stench.

A woman was washing a school bag she had pulled from her mud-filled multi-storey house. She told us that when floodwaters came rushing down from the mountains, emergency alerts were issued, allowing many families to escape to higher ground. Her house was destroyed, but she was deeply relieved that her family was alive.

I returned to the hotel room after filing the visuals. A little later, to my surprise, I heard Malayalam conversation outside.

I looked out. I had earlier helped two journalists from Kerala get a room right next to ours.

AT 4:30 IN THE MORNING, I woke to the sound of loud and insistent whistles outside. People were shouting in Nepali, “Get up and run... run!” alongside English cries of “Run... run!”

The emergency alarm left no time to think. I immediately grabbed my camera bag, which I had kept packed and ready in case we had to flee, and rushed out of the room.

By the time I reached downstairs, Japanese and Hong Kong photographers were already outside. They had got out first because they were staying on the ground floor. We rushed together towards the higher ground we had identified earlier.

Local residents were standing outside their houses in fear. From the hill, we could hear the deafening roar of the river, much louder and terrifying than over the previous two days.

I asked Joe: “Shall we walk down to the riverbank and take a look?” He agreed.

A few locals were standing well away from the bank. Though it was only 4:45am, there was enough light to see the alarming rise in the water level. The river was flowing right over a giant rock we had seen the previous day. There was no reason to go any closer.

Milk supplies had stopped two days earlier, so only black tea was available. There was no menu either. The hotel owner told us what food was available, and that was what we ate. After breakfast, while Joe prepared his reports, I set off on foot to the other side of the hill before our planned afternoon departure for Kathmandu. My only guide was an offline Google map on my phone.

But as soon as I entered the forest, the map went haywire. It kept spinning in circles without showing any way forward. I closed it and began marking trees along the way so I could find my way back. Eventually, I reached the top of a massive cliff.

From there, I could see numerous homes, shops and buildings that had been washed away or buried under mud. After taking pictures, I began the climb back. I was sweating profusely. With every step, I realised that if I slipped and fell in that wilderness, no one would ever know.

When I finally reached the main road, I let out a deep sigh of relief. I checked my phone and found a WhatsApp voice message from a colleague: it was checkout time and they were waiting with my packed bags.

There had been no mobile internet inside the forest; the message had arrived only after I reached the road.

We immediately left for Kathmandu. With no major obstacles on the road, we reached the city by evening and checked into a hotel that online reviews said was good.

THE NEXT MORNING, we set out for Tribhuvan University Teaching Hospital in Kathmandu. Large numbers of photographs of the dead and missing had been put up there. Near the main entrance, most of the photographs were of missing people. But the display near the mortuary was horrifying: photos of severed hands, legs, fingers and headless torsos had been posted so relatives could examine them and identify their loved ones.

After quickly documenting these painful visuals, I went to meet Dr Unni Krishnan, a native of Kanhangad in Kerala and global humanitarian director of the NGO Plan International. His team had arrived to provide care and support for children affected by the floods.

While I was there, I received a call saying a vehicle was ready for our journey to Dhunge, a village more than 100 kilometres away. We had asked the vehicle agency not to send Rajan again, but to give us a local driver who could handle extreme conditions. That was how we got Om Bahadur Tamang, who hailed from the disaster-hit region.

Om Bahadur was anxious about our late start. The drive to Dhunge could be unpredictably long, and he hoped to reach by 10pm if there were no major landslides.

Near Dhunge, the Trishuli gathers strength from mountain streams and turns into a raging flood. Since the regular roads to the place had been destroyed, we had to travel along rough, winding mountain tracks. We left Kathmandu at 1pm and reached Nuwakot by 4pm. From there, the route went over the steep Lachyang mountain range.

That night, we stayed in a small tin-roofed shed.

I woke from sleep with a fright to the loud sound of stones crashing on to the roof. Thinking it was a landslide, I rushed outside—only to find a hen perched on the roof.

Relieved, I went back to sleep.

At 4:30am, the roosters began crowing. By 5:30, every rooster in the village seemed to be crowing in unison. I got up and prepared to leave. Our hosts served us strong black coffee in large mugs. When I asked the driver to find out how much we owed, they asked for just 1,000 Nepali rupees. We paid them, thanked them and continued towards Dhunge.

The nighttime traffic jam had cleared, but several roadblocks remained. After negotiating all of them, we reached Betrawati by noon. There, Om Bahadur bought a large quantity of fresh vegetables and loaded them into our vehicle. When I asked why, he explained that the hotel owner in Dhunge had asked him to bring vegetables.

By 12:30pm, we finally reached Dhunge and had lunch.

Right after lunch, we set off for Syabrubesi village. A few days earlier, the Nepal army had released a video showing workers trapped inside a hydroelectric-project tunnel being rescued through thick mud. When we reached the site near the village, rocks and mud had collapsed from the opposite riverbank. Army personnel were resting at the tunnel entrance while rescue operations continued inside.

Between them and where I stood, the muddy Trishuli rushed past with tremendous force. As I photographed the scene from across the river, an army helicopter landed nearby, dropped off officials and took injured people away.

We headed to Dhunge Hospital, where the injured were being treated. Private and army helicopters continued to bring in rescued victims from isolated locations.

There was a compound wall near the spot where helicopters were landing. I climbed on to it to take more pictures—of both devastation and hope.