Chuman Gharti Magar cannot remember the number of times he has been stung by bees. But he clearly remembers what his friends and family had said when he spent Rs4,000 on two frame hives from a furniture shop. Back then there were no buses to his village in Musikot, so he carried the two boxes on his back and walked all the way home. His fellow villagers were clearly curious, having never seen frame hives.&nbsp; “When they found out it was a modern hive, people called me crazy for spending money for bees that naturally live in logs,” remembers Magar. “But we have to move with the times otherwise we will be left behind.” Sixteen years down the line, the same people commend him for the respect and money he has earned. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/weaving-the-fabric-of-a-new-life">Weaving the fabric of a new life</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_250426f884c15d8e2efa2bce5867dc1d9e89d0d5cc0adfeeca72bee127ff5136.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2023091905094_250426f884c15d8e2efa2bce5867dc1d9e89d0d5cc0adfeeca72bee127ff5136" data-rendition-name="original" width="1640" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> <figcaption>All photos: GOPEN RAI</figcaption> </figure>  Magar is now the proprietor of Malrani Mauripalan Kendra, where he keeps 150 hives of local Asian honeybees (Apis cerana) which produce 5-10 quintal of honey every season. He sells each kg of honey for Rs1,500 but says the price fluctuates. “I haven’t been able to fulfill the market demand. As honey is considered to have health benefits, the demand is quite high,” he says. Most of his clients are locals in Gulmi but his honey has made its way to Kathmandu, Pokhara, Butwal and even abroad. Much of his business is through word of mouth, and customers usually call him with orders.&nbsp; He also instructs other interested beekeepers, most of whom come to him for practical training. He also sells bees and beehives. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/multimedia/staying-home-to-create-jobs">Staying home to create jobs</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_4c33b505ccce8034ab634fd124f62c4b2fd2e081fe034b02ddfc896d91c0c5a9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="2023091905094_4c33b505ccce8034ab634fd124f62c4b2fd2e081fe034b02ddfc896d91c0c5a9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1497" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  “Most of the beekeepers here sell bees and not honey, maybe because they don’t know how. But my priority is honey,” says Magar. “Just like we keep buffaloes for milk, the bees are for honey.” Magar had passed his SLC and had tried his hand at farming for four years. But the weather and soil conditions in the mountains were not suitable. “In the plains, if you farm for a month, you get to eat for eight. Here, if you farm for eight months maybe you get to eat for one,” says Magar. Magar grew up with a mostly absent father who was a lahure. He knew that he wanted to be with his children while also providing a better life for them. So he gave up the idea of becoming a soldier like his father and neighbours and explored opportunities closer to home.&nbsp; Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/milking-every-opportunity">Milking every opportunity</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_76460693a287bebac3e2c0a8999a3e0a6267e6f057af1f274e574c219ff39326.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2023091905094_76460693a287bebac3e2c0a8999a3e0a6267e6f057af1f274e574c219ff39326" data-rendition-name="original" width="1630" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  He first started with log hives but did not know how to handle bees, nor did he know what infrastructure was needed and where to get them.&nbsp; “I learned it all by playing with the bees,” he says. “Bees are technical creatures, they have their own system and habits. Once you figure that out, it is perhaps one of the easiest jobs to do.” Initially, it was even difficult for him to source frame hives. The local furniture shops did not make them and ferrying them from Butwal was too expensive.&nbsp; After three years of struggling to understand the bees, he not only understood the rules of the hives but also found someone who could make hives as per requirements. Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/money-grows-on-trees-here/" target="_blank">Money grows on trees here</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_0bac4a0b044912d58d2fe4b457ef4c43b8f760b508e33ca5fa1adb6ec2f908cf.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="2023091905094_0bac4a0b044912d58d2fe4b457ef4c43b8f760b508e33ca5fa1adb6ec2f908cf" data-rendition-name="original" width="1507" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  Beekeeping is both “art and science”, he says, and once mastered can yield benefits without much investment. “One of the more important things to learn is hive management because if one is not careful during the seasons when bees procreate, there may be nothing left of the old hive,” says Magar.&nbsp; Another thing to consider, he says, is making sure there is sufficient pollen for the bees to forage. To ensure that all his bees have an ample amount of pollen, he takes a decentralised approach. Magar does not keep all his hives in one place, spreading them in the neighbourhood. Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/pigs-fly-and-fish-climb-trees">Pigs fly and fish climb trees</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_baafd322cf49e702495b11c6e8ba2616b768611b9adcf99c17efb6b6002da681.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="2023091905094_baafd322cf49e702495b11c6e8ba2616b768611b9adcf99c17efb6b6002da681" data-rendition-name="original" width="1455" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  Professional beekeeping is an undertapped business idea, says Magar: “If every village had 50-100 hives, we could probably export honey,” he adds. One of the major challenges for beekeeping is weather extremes due to climate change. Last year, when it rained for seven days straight, half of Magar’s hive was wiped out.&nbsp; “There is either too much rain or not enough, which has affected the productivity of the bees,” he says. “The weather patterns these days are unpredictable, which makes it difficult.” Magar, however, is happy to be where he is today and credits it all to the bees: “If it wasn’t for the bees, I would probably be working under the hot Gulf sun.” &nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/life-in-a-pickle/">Life in a pickle</a>, Sahina Shrestha <h2>Busy bee</h2> Why a declining bee population should concern us  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_3d26239faee533da09e6d9fef4241f6959347ebd7ca5cd0a3c65cdbd75d74e14.jpg" data-media-id="editor_11" data-image-id="2023091905094_3d26239faee533da09e6d9fef4241f6959347ebd7ca5cd0a3c65cdbd75d74e14" data-rendition-name="original" width="1564" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  When we talk about bees, most of us in Nepal immediately think of honey. Indeed, it is an example of a thriving eco-business with some 16,500 beekeepers across the country producing over 4,000 tonnes of honey every year. The rest of the demand is met by imported produce, mostly from India. While domesticated honeybees are important pollinators, much more important for the ecosystem are the 20,000 or more species of wild bees. Wild bees mostly gather pollen from native plants to feed their young in hives, while domesticated honeybees tend to pollinate crops, flowers and invasive species. Together with other insects, the more important wild bees are in decline worldwide.&nbsp; Nepal’s hallucinogenic ‘mad honey’ is popular because of a series of documentaries made about their collection. An ancient but risky honey hunting culture has Nepal's indigenous people venture up cliffs on flimsy rope ladders twice a year in autumn and spring to extract the Himalayan giant honeybee (Apis laboriosa) honeycomb, a 3cm bee species that forages at up to 4,100m. Of the five honeybee species found in Nepal Apis laboriosa, Apis cerana, Apis dorsata, and Apis florea are indigenous to the Himalaya. Meanwhile, Apis mellifera is a European bee species introduced in Nepal for commercial purposes in 1990. Only Apis cerana and Apis mellifera are used for commercial honey production. Read also: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/bee-population-in-decline,3613">What's the buzz</a>, Sonia Awale  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023091905094_6745452799ee2e99b04d465433007bfe62bb1bb9da2fc8e274ff0386acf705fe.jpg" data-media-id="editor_13" data-image-id="2023091905094_6745452799ee2e99b04d465433007bfe62bb1bb9da2fc8e274ff0386acf705fe" data-rendition-name="original" width="1523" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Beekeeping Musikot NT"> </figure>  These bees graze on a variety of flowering plants determining their flavour including herbal rudilo, Indian butter tree, mustard, buckwheat, litchi and fixed flower honey among others. But more importantly, bees are responsible for one of every three bites of food we take. Bee pollination can increase food productivity by up to 30%, but wild bees and honeybees are disappearing all over the world due to the use of pesticides, spread of parasites by humans, as well as new diseases. Urbanisation and unplanned infrastructure have reduced grazing areas and caused farmers to switch to monoculture, leading to decreasing abundance and diversity of flowers. This has also affected bee populations. The climate crisis, with cloudbursts and unprecedented wildfires, are destroying habitats and beekeepers report a sharp decline in honey collection in Nepal.&nbsp; A beehive in itself has a well-organised and complex social life. There are worker bees that find pollen, drones whose main job is to mate with the queen, and the queen bee who lays up to 1,500 eggs a day and controls the worker bees. &nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/to-bee-or-not-to-bee">To bee or not to bee</a>, Nabin Baral

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Honey = Money

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232d69c7e80680e0c48b4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Himalayan giant honey bee hives are tucked under an overhang in the Ngadi River gorge in central Nepal. Honey hunters dangle on flimsy rope ladders to prise the honeycombs into buckets which are then lowered to the base of the cliff. The smoke is meant to confuse the bees. All photos: NABIN BARAL/THE THIRD POLE</figcaption></figure>This article was originally published on <a href="https://www.thethirdpole.net/en/culture/nepal-honey-hunters-cling-to-traditions-as-bee-numbers-fall/">The Third Pole</a> under the Creative Commons BY NC ND licence.Ganga Bahadur Gurung is chanting prayers to the Water God, Earth God, Fire God, Wind God and Snake God for their blessings with the day’s risky honey hunt.Members of his group are about to climb down the 50m Kamcho cliff on a swaying handmade rope ladder to prise honeycombs, as the world’s largest bees swarm all around.“Wild honey bees make hives only on safe cliffs where the gods reside,” explains Gurung, as he waves incense sticks at the sky. The Himalayan giant honeybee (Apis laboriosa) can be up to 3cm long, build large hives on south-facing cliffs, and forage up to 4,100m in upland meadows.Harvesting wild honey is an ancient tradition among Nepal’s Indigenous people who venture up twice a year in autumn and spring. The activity is deeply woven into their cultures.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232d99c7e80680e0c48b5jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Gurung is the leader of the 15-strong honey hunting group from Naiche, a village in Gandaki Province on the lap of Mt Himalchuli and near canyons created by the Ngadi River.Ganga comes to the end of his puja, and the 48-year-old begs the bees for forgiveness for destroying their nests, and asks the gods to keep his companions safe.With this, Ganga Gurung accompanies Bicche Man Gurung and Prabin Gurung, clambering down the Kamcho cliff to reach the nests, while the team below lights a smoky fire to drive the bees away.Despite Gurung’s prayers, the hunt is unsuccessful. Most of the honeycombs lowered down in the bucket are dry. In the past villagers here used to harvest up to 15 litres of honey from big hives on this cliff. Today, there is just a trickle.This is the third time in the past 10 years that the group has had such a poor collection. At the end of the hunt, Gurung thanks the bees and blesses the colony so that they may flourish and spread to create 100 new colonies by next year.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/chepang-and-their-chiuri/">Chepang and their Chiuri,</a> Bhadra Sharma<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232dd9c7e80680e0c48b6jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Gurung says: “Nature is our god, we have to respect and harvest carefully as our ancestors did so that the bees can keep producing honey for centuries more.”Ratna Thapa, a senior bee scientist at Tribhuvan University in Kathmandu, estimates that there is <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/325491378_Beekeeping_and_Honey_Hunting_in_Nepal_Current_Status_and_Future_Perspectives">a 70% decline</a> in the Himalayan cliff honey bee population every year.Surendra Raj Joshi, a livelihoods specialist at the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD) has a similar finding. He says, “The data from Kaski and Lamjung districts suggest that there is a decrease both in the number of colonies per cliff and the total number of cliffs nested by bees.”Thapa and Joshi attribute this <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/bee-population-in-decline,3613">rapid decline</a> to a range of factors: pesticide use, loss of habitat and food sources for bees, infrastructure development, and attacks by pests and predators.Another important driver <a href="https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-981-10-8222-1_5">they identify</a> is destructive and unsustainable honey hunting practices driven by international demand for its psychotropic properties.Twenty years ago, the honey harvested by the villagers of Naiche sold for around Rs500 per litre. Today, it can fetch up to Rs2,500, but the <a href="https://bestmadhoney.com/buy-mad-honey-nepal/">price is much higher</a> in Kathmandu and higher still in the international market.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232e19c7e80680e0c48b7jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Gurung says: “Two decades ago, the wax used to be more valuable than honey, so we used to harvest it after the bees had left the hive.”At that time, the wax was used for candles and the honey was turned into local alcohol or was mixed with tobacco, and there was little demand for the actual honey itself.Here in Lamjung, indigenous methods of wild honey collection were sustainable and were a part of the native culture. But with commercialisation, over-extraction is leading to a decline in bees and hives. Nevertheless, Arjun Gurung is chair of Marsyangdi Rural Municipality where Naiche is located, and refutes claims that wild bees are in decline: “We practice honey hunting in the traditional way, we do not want to disturb the local culture and practices. We have not seen a decline in cliff honeycombs.”ICIMOD’s Surendra Raj Joshi recommends a range of measures to make wild honey collection more sustainable: harvesting only a portion of the comb, raising awareness of the importance of forests and nesting sites, giving honey hunters ownership and management responsibilities of cliffs to incentivise their protection, and generating eco-tourism income from  bee-watching.Read also: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/bee-population-in-decline,3613">What's the buzz</a>, Sonia Awale<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232e59c7e80680e0c48b8jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232e99c7e80680e0c48b9jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232ed9c7e80680e0c48bajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Dam the BeesOver-harvesting is not the only threat to the Himalayan giant honeybee. Across the Nepal Himalaya, the use of dynamite to build highways and dams are disturbing the fragile mountain ecosystem.There are five hydropower projects in operation or under construction along the Nyadi and its tributaries. Most cliff hives are located near rivers since the bees need water and minerals, but the dams have disturbed these water sources.One of the main wild honeycomb sites near Naiche village is on a cliff face downstream of the 30MW Nyadi Khola hydropower project, work on which <a href="https://www.bpc.com.np/projects/nyadi">started</a> in 2017.Wild honey harvester Ganga Gurung recalls that there used to be 22 nests on cliffs near the project site. Fewer than half remain. After the project is completed, water from the river will be diverted through a tunnel to generate electricity.“When the river has no more water, wild bees find the location unsuitable for making hives,” says Gurung.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232f19c7e80680e0c48bbjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Mad honeySanjay Kafle is chief executive and founder of Best Mad Honey, a Nepali company that exports 4 tonnes of cliff honey a year to countries around the world, and business is growing.The rise in demand is driven by enthusiasm for its psychotropic effects. Known as 'mad honey', in small amounts it can cause lightheadedness and euphoria, and hallucination in larger doses.It is believed to have medicinal properties, such as reducing cholesterol and helping against arthritis, but it can also be highly toxic, as an increasing number of people in Kathmandu are being hospitalised after taking it — especially in combination with alcohol.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/life-in-a-pickle/">Life in a pickle</a>, Sahina Shrestha<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232f59c7e80680e0c48bcjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“People have realised the medicinal value of this honey, and scientists may have proven it, that is why the price of wild honey has gone up,” explains Ganga Gurung, a harvester in Lamjung.A 250 gram bottle of Himalayan cliff bee ‘mad honey’ sells for up to $135 on Amazon.But bee expert Ratna Thapa says there is no scientific evidence to prove that wild honey has medicinal value. He warns, “Instead, what I can say is that it has a chemical called grayanotoxin that affects our nervous system.”Grayanotoxin is found in the nectar of the rhododendron flower, of which Himalayan giant honeybees are major pollinators. Wild honey bees forage on flowers up to 4,100m altitude where there are no other bees, and many Himalayan flowering plants depend on them for pollination.“The value of the honey collected from these bees is nothing in comparison to the ecosystem services that they provide to us in high-altitude biodiversity conservation,” says Thapa. “If Himalayan cliff honey bees go, all species of the rhododendron will likely follow.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131120/637232f89c7e80680e0c48bdjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Chasing honey huntersThe death-defying exploits of Nepal’s cliff honey collectors was first made internationally famous by Éric Valli’s 1988 book and video, Honey Hunters of Nepal, in which the French photographer and documentary film-maker depicted the villages in Lamjung.In recent years, there have been many more international film-makers venturing to other parts of Nepal including Dolakha and Sankhuwasabha to hunt for honey hunters as the practice dwindles.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/getting-high-on-high-mountain-tea/">Getting high on High Mountain Tea</a>, Sonia Awale

To bee or not to bee

International Mountain Day on 11 December should inspire celebration, not cynicism. It follows &nbsp;a small but rare diplomatic win: the agreement at COP30 in Belém to hold a dedicated global dialogue on mountains in 2026, and to include mountain-specific indicators in the new climate adaptation framework.&nbsp;
A welcome shift, certainly. But the old narrative lingers — mountains are fragile, disaster-prone, eternally vulnerable. But the uncomfortable truth is that safe and environment-friendly development in the mountains is simply too expensive than anyone wants to admit.
To build a kilometre of two-lane highway in the Tarai costs Rs200 million. That same kilometre on a Himalayan slope with retaining walls, drainage, bioengineering, and landslide protection costs more than Rs1 billion. Add tunnels, viaducts or highways designed for minimum 80km/h speeds and that figure can easily triple.
This pattern repeats across all sectors. A 50MW run-of-river hydropower plant that costs $80 million in low-ling valleys costs four times more in the mountains. The headrace tunnels have to be longer, desanding basins must trap the silt, the access roads cost more than the entire project. And there is no way to prevent the scheme from being washed away by a glacial collapse flood.
Nepal's annual road budget is only Rs150 billion. It is scattered thinly across 753 municipalities, most of them perched on steep, unstable slopes. When resources are inadequate and political cycles are short, the incentives for corruption are predictable &nbsp;— shaving a mountain flank at 70 degrees instead of 45, taking a shortcut on drainage canals, skimping on asphalt thickness, or skipping the Gabion.
In high Nepal, the bulldozer is the engineer. We hang on the prayer that the monsoon will be merciful. July arrives, and reality returns. Mountains fall on roads, flash floods wash away swathes of expensive highways.
The entrance to the Siddhababa Tunnel in Palpa collapses yet again. The Nagdhunga Tunnel faces another landslide delay. The Melamchi headworks go under — again. Each failure costs more to repair than proper engineering would have cost when that infrastructure was built.
We are not just paying once. We the taxpayers are signing up for a subscription to disaster. The real fragility of Nepal’s mountains is of governance, not geology.
This is what the international climate conversation habitually misses. Mountain communities are repeatedly told to ‘respect nature’ and avoid linear infrastructure, often by the same countries proudly announcing new expressways and airports in their own countries.
Mountain people are not anti-development. They want what everyone else wants: electricity that does not flicker, roads that survive the monsoon, schools their children can reach in winter. What they lack is not aspiration, it is the budget required to build things safely that is not stolen by politicians and their crony contractors.
If the world truly wants to protect the Himalaya, Andes or Alps, and the billions who rely on them for water, the answer is not more romantic slogans about fragility of the mountains. It is concessional, patient financing that narrows the gap between cheap and dangerous versus expensive and resilient. And it is transparent government that spends that money wisely.
This means money for tunnels instead of unstable surface cuts. Money for bioengineered slopes instead of naked bulldozer scars. Money for hydropower built for 1-in-100-year floods, not 1-in-25-year budgets.&nbsp;
This is not charity. Mountain infrastructure safeguards global water, carbon, energy and biodiversity systems. It is a global public good, and should be financed as such.&nbsp;
In Syangja, small investments under the Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practices have restored nine community ponds, protected recharge zones and increased dry-season spring flow by about a third. All of this for less than the cost of repairing a single kilometre of poorly built hillside road after the next landslide.
Our experience from the Subnational Governance Programme (SNGP) in some districts of mountains and plains show that when municipalities receive practical guidance backed by scientific research, they can scale these solutions with modest, targeted budgets. Local governments are not the problem — they are the missing link. &nbsp;
The tragedy is not technical incapacity; it is chronic under-financing of the most cost-intensive terrain on earth. Lets stop romanticising mountain poverty on 11 December, International Mountain Day. Let us retire the language of fragility that excuses inaction.
Mountains are not pleading for sympathy. They are demanding fairness: that the true cost of safe development in the world’s steepest geographies be acknowledged and shared. Until that bill is paid, the monsoon will continue to do the accounting, one landslide, one road, one abandoned promise at a time.
Ngamindra Dahal is a water and climate adaptation practitioner based at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu.

The Himalaya is not fragile

This is the 76th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

Singha Bahadur Lama worked for six years in Malaysia, but back home in Nepal he is now earning more than he ever did overseas. Here in his village 60km east of Kathmandu, Lama now harvests Buddhachitta seeds from sacred trees that grow in the mountains, and turns them into prayer bead necklaces revered in Tibetan Buddhism. The Buddhachitta tree (Ziziphus budhensis) is indigenous to Nepal and grows in the mountains of Kavre district, and demand boomed after the Dalai Lama proclaimed that the seeds found in Nepal were the best. People from Kavre had gone to Bodh Gaya 12 years ago and presented the Dalai Lama with Buddhachitta prayer beads. Not long after, while speaking in Taiwan the Dalai Lama told followers that the seeds from Nepal had special powers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8" data-rendition-name="original" width="737" height="536" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama shows a visiting journalist different types of Buddhachitta seeds. Single-faced beads are the rarest and most valuable, as are the smallest 8mm beads. A prayer necklace made of 108 beads would easily cost Rs1.5 million (over $10,630). “We cannot say if our trees will give smaller beads or even how many faces or clear eyes, it’s all natural,” says Lama, who now works as a consultant, advising people all over Nepal about planting the tree, and has since spread it across the country. Four years ago, a Chinese middleman made 7mm plastic cups to cover the seeds, hoping the trees would produce smaller pods. It did not work, and the trees died. Such is the demand for high-quality Buddhachitta beads that a group of 20 men employed by a Chinese dealer cut down a tree along the Rosi River last year. The harvest from that tree had made $212,600 the year before. With that kind of price, the trees are in danger of being chopped down. &nbsp; Lama himself used to make Rs10 million ($70,880) from the seeds of each tree. With this money, he built new houses and sent his daughter to Japan, all with Buddhachitta income. But the market for the seeds is volatile.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama invested Rs10 million when prices were high ten years ago, but he lost most of that when the prices collapsed for bigger seeds.&nbsp; He adds: “That year the demand was only for small seeds, and it has only been three years since the prices have risen again for seeds that make no sound when you shake them.”&nbsp; HISTORY Legend has it that Guru Rinpoche left seeds of Buddhachitta while meditating in the Temal region of Kavre district in the 8th century as a blessing. He is known in the Himalaya as the ‘Second Buddha’ whose birth was foretold by the Buddha himself, and spread Buddhism in Tibet. Now, almost every household from the Tamang community here has on average 50 trees. The tree thrives on gravel and sandy soil, needs to be protected from excess water, and can grow up to 10 meters high. It starts bearing fruit annually from its third year and one tree lives for 90 years. The fruits are handpicked every June and July, and then have to be processed by boiling the seeds to remove their hard outer skin. The seeds are then dried in the sun for a few days.&nbsp; “Our families have been growing Buddhachitta for generations, but it started becoming hugely profitable only about 12 years ago, it has become a cash crop and has even replaced staples like maize,” says Dev Lama, 55.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Dev Lama</figcaption> </figure>  What helps is that Buddhachitta is not a high-maintenance crop, it just needs some weeding, watering, and protection from hailstorms and pesticides. Once it matures, it does not need much care, and farmers intercrop it with other grain.&nbsp; “You don’t have to work on it every year like maize, which needs to be planted year after year,” explains Shova Shrestha, 33. “We also continue to grow other vegetables and spices, all of which help to preserve soil nutrients.” Generally, farmers do not sell directly to Chinese traders but deal with local middlemen who take a cut before they take it to the Chinese traders who lodge in Kathmandu during the harvest season. But the bulk of the profit is made by Chinese wholesalers across the border. &nbsp; And now with the proliferation of the plant, and with nearly every family growing several trees, farmers sometimes struggle to find buyers and are often severely short-changed, as was the case with Maiya Tamang’s family.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Maiya Tamang</figcaption> </figure>  “I wasn’t home that day two years ago, but my sons later told me that my husband sold an entire tree for just Rs1,500,” recalls Tamang, 60. “We asked him why he sold it for a price that wouldn’t even buy a sack of rice, and he just shrugged.” Tamang did make a profit two years ago, but last year’s crop was destroyed by a hailstorm. Despite this, the bead business has augmented the income of a family dependent on subsistence agriculture. &nbsp; A neighbour, Sonam Tamang, had a few Buddhachitta trees in his backyard and has bought saplings from a nursery to expand. Saplings cost Rs500, but it is double that for plants that give high value seeds. Says Sonam Tamang: “The middlemen sometimes cheat us by offering much less than the seeds are worth, and they don’t allow us to speak directly with the Chinese buyers. But even if we did, there would be a language barrier.” Meanwhile, Singha Bahadur Lama who started out as a Buddhachitta farmer now owns a nursery and is a dealer in saplings himself. Some Nepalis have tried to sell directly in China, but face added costs of travel and hotel while there. &nbsp; With contributions from Qian Sun, Global Voices.

Sacred seed feeds boom

Dimar Chaudhary was born and raised in Old Padampur, the village inside what is now Chitwan National Park before it was dsignated a protected area. His Tharu community, as well as other indigenous groups, traditionally relied on Chitwan’s jungles and rivers for generations. Chaudhary himself had grown up collecting medicinal plants and wild vegetables, gathering wood, and grazing cattle in the forest. Chitwan, along with much of Nepal’s Tarai, was plagued by malaria until a US-supported DDT spraying campaign to wipe out the disease in the district in the 1950s. This opened the valley up to trans-migration of farmers from the hills. Before that, Chitwan was inhabited entirely by indigenous people: 90% of the district’s population was Tharu, and the rest were Bote, Mushar, Darai and Majhi communities. In 1973 Chitwan National Park became Nepal's first protected area and in 1996, the Nepal government introduced the Buffer Zone Management Rule under the National Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act to manage forests surrounding protected areas, and ensure local participation in parks management. Old Padampur was subsequently relocated outside the park. Ntional parks formed buffer zone user committees (BZUCs) to manage and oversee community forests. Hundreds of thousands of local people were directly involved in managing buffer zone community forests across the country. Over three decades, these forests have not only made conservation collaborative, but also helped to mitigate wildlife-related crimes and human wildlife conflict. In 2014, 2015 and 2016, Nepal achieved zero poaching for its three flagship species: rhinos, tigers and elephants. But while these user communities have made wildlife conservation participatory, the process hasn’t been inclusive of Nepal’s indigenous and underserved communities. In 2022, WWF supported Community Conservation Nepal to collect data on natural resources used by Tharu indigenous people before the establishment of Chitwan National Park. The project also looked into the inclusion of indigenous, women, Dalit and disabled communities in the Baghauda, Paachpandav, Meghauli, Mrigakunja, and Amaltari Buffer Zone User Committees (BZUC) as well as the Someshwor, Gardi Chure, Radha Krishna, and Baghmara Buffer Zone Community Forests (BZCF).  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977" data-rendition-name="original" width="1342" height="941" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC map"></figure>  BARRIERS TO INCLUSION The survey found that women are underrepresented in all the BZUCs despite women user groups being larger. Nepal’s Buffer Zone laws dictate that each BZUC has 13 members. Each BZUC is made up of nine units, and as many representatives are elected from those units. The elected members have the authority to choose the remaining four members. This meant that indigenous peoples, marginalised groups, and women have a far lower chance of being elected. Indeed, out of the total members, Paachpandav and Mrigakunja BCUZs had four women, Meghauli had three women, and Baghauda had only one woman, whereas Amaltari user committee had no woman member. In contrast, the BZCF are relatively more inclusive of women, with two out of four surveyed BZCF comprising half women members. Additionally, some grassroots user committees are made up entirely of women. Most women members of the user committees are not appointed through elections, but chosen by elected male members, and are not given positions of leadership. “Women have been the ones protecting the forests ever since the concept of forest conservation initially emerged,” one female participant told us during a focus group discussion. People would get angry when the women stopped them from cutting down trees and grass, and grazing cattle in the jungles, she recalled, adding, “We were dedicated to the user committees. However, we are no longer involved in the committees, nor are we invited to meetings.” When asked about the absence of women in the user committees, one BZUC chairperson responded, “There are only men here because they won the election. Women are unwilling to run for the election. How will they fit into the committee if no woman has ever run for election?” However, not only are women deprived of the chance to contest elections, the chances of them winning polls are also very low because a majority of the positions in the committee will already have been allocated by political parties to their male cadres. Women from marginalised communities face further hurdles.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43" data-rendition-name="original" width="959" height="508" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC "></figure>  “No male member from the Musahar community has been elected in the user community, if they had, they could have suggested that women from our community be included in the committee as well,” said a female participant from the Musahar community. While the native Musahar and Bote people lack representation in the BZUC, indigenous people did make up the majority of the members in the committees, while Dalit members were included in some collectives. However, only one committee is led by an indigenous person. The others are chaired by upper-caste hill migrants. In addition, no committee had any representative with disabilities. One of the key reasons for the under-representation of marginalised communities in Nepal’s BZUC is its non-inclusive policy. When Nepal’s Constitution was promulgated in 2015, residents living in proximity to protected areas across Nepal had hoped that policies relating to buffer zones and their governance would be reformed to reflect Nepal’s new socio-political reality. But this has not been the case. However, this has not discouraged indigenous Nepalis, who have continued to demand buffer zone policy reforms that ensure the inclusion of women, indigenous and marginalised communities. In addition to policy revision, it is necessary to reform the buffer zone election so that it is more participatory for underserved communities. Reforms should also regulate the number of members in a user group. Similarly, the budget allocated for buffer zones must be used on activities that benefit conservation instead of local infrastructure development. Women, people with disabilities, indigenous and marginalised communities should be the primary beneficiaries of budget dispensation. Crop damage compensation, which currently is Rs10,000, can be increased by five times to Rs50,000. Policy revisions should ultimately guarantee the rights of indigenous communities like the Sonaha, Bote and Musahar to practice their culture and traditional livelihoods and receive a formal education. Buffer Zone User Committees must apply indigenous conservation practices for park management. Birendra Mahato is an elected member of the Ratnanagar Municipality Ward 6 and Founder Chair of the Tharu Culture Museum Research Centre in Sauraha.

bees

Honey = Money

To bee or not to bee

The Himalaya is not fragile

My father’s son

Sacred seed feeds boom

Parks by the people and for the people