Owen Baertlein is a photographer, Aurora artist, and University of Maine student. As he travels the world, his journey with photojournalism nets him some truly phenomenal stories. We are excited to share some of these stories with you.
Owen Baertlein
Four days after I land in Kathmandu, I am aboard my fifth flight in the last two weeks. This one takes me away from the overpopulated metropolis of Nepal’s capital city and into the tropical river flats of the Jhapa District. The plane is a smallish, two-engine turboprop aircraft, obviously reliable given it is still in use to ferry passengers across the region. However, even given the comfortable seats, friendly stewardesses, and reassuring elevator music playing over the PA, my nerves shudder when the entire aircraft creaks and settles as the rotors begin to turn.
Damak, Nepal by Owen Baertlein
Within half an hour, we are back down on the tarmac in Biratnagar, Nepal’s second most densely populated city. After picking up my single piece of luggage other than my camera bag, I wander out into an oppressive, humid heat to make an ally in the mob of taxi drivers assaulting the debarking passengers. I finally find one man, small, strong, quiet and angry, who agrees to take me to Damak, an hour and a half away, for 2,800 rupees. My 10-minute drive from the Kathmandu airport to my first hotel cost me 1,000. I toss both bags into the back of an old, overused crimson minivan, with doors that can only be opened from the outside. As I slam the door closed after me, the window falls down.
With a horrendous grinding of gears, the van lurches forward, the driver’s hand nudging my knee aside every time he shifts gears. Just like most other Westerners, I am far too large for a majority of Nepal. I’ve worn an almost new Levi’s denim jacket for the flight, using the inside pockets to furtively stash away my wallet, passport, extra cash, and phone. Now, in the heavy tropical heat of Biratnagar, I unbutton the cuffs and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I hang one arm out the window, tapping my hand against the thin sheet metal exterior of the van in rhythm with the Nepali music playing gently over the car stereo. As we bump over the countless potholes on a highway not maintained since Nepal gained independence, I lean my head against the door, watching the dusty urban areas give way to lush green rice fields and water buffalo grazing in front yards.
About a quarter of the way into my 60-kilometer adventure, the driver pulls off into a tiny one-pump gas station. As he argues with the only worker around, a very small girl with an even smaller goat wanders up to the side of my van, holding up the kid in a very obvious offer: her goat for my rupees. I pull my wallet out, half-hide it behind the door of the vehicle, and prepare to give this girl 100 rupees (a little less than $1) for her goat. I figure I can keep it around and give it to the next house we drive by, which will probably see it came from one of their neighbors and return it, while she still gets her money. However, the driver storms over and hustles the girl off, supposedly so I can save my cash for him. We hit the road again, driving over innumerable dry river beds, through countless small agricultural towns, made up only of thatched-roof huts and corrugated steel shacks, and into the true rainforest of southeastern Nepal.
Once we are about 30 kilometers from Damak, the wide open rice fields of undeveloped farmland gives way to towering, serpentining trees of the jungle. The entire landscape seems to be composed in a strictly vertical manner: tree trunks go up, vines hang down. The undergrowth is limited to knee-height greenery, and one can look through the trees and see for what seems like miles. Occasionally, this verdure abruptly breaks, revealing another expansive dusty riverbed with a small thread of water flowing through it. These old rivers have long been dried up, even though it is so close to the end of the recent monsoon season. Tire marks scar the yellowish sand and gravel, revealing that it has been more than a while since these waters last flowed high. Soon, we leave this city of trees behind and enter Damak proper.