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Rayale Bihabar is a small village development committee located southeast of Kathmandu in the Kavrepalanchok district of Nepal, with a population measuring 4200. As one of my first destinations in Nepal, I was nervous, excited and unsure of what to expect. I had spent the last two hours of the bus ride worrying over whether the townspeople would be welcoming, and just as importantly, how I was going to communicate with them. However, as soon as stepped off the bus, these concerns were pushed to the back of my mind. Before I could even take in the view and the mountain scenery, I was immediately greeted by smiles, and marigold garlands placed delicately around my neck. ‘Namaste’, they said. ‘Welcome to our village.’ After settling into my homestay, which was located on the outskirts of town near a small privately owned trout farm, I decided to spend some time wandering around exploring the village. I made my way into the heart of town, where the local primary school, café, and shop resided, separated by a small creek. As I stopped here to rest, I brought my attention to the clanging sounds of metal nearby. On the other side of the creek sat a woman, in a saree of scarlet, gold and deep violets. She looked up at me and as our eyes met, she paused her task of scrubbing pots and pans to nod at me. I smiled and nodded back. The following day as I walked once again to the centre of town, I noticed her again, in the exact same spot. She stood in the shallow riverbed; meticulously scrubbing several sheets which she then folded into a tub resting beside her feet. ‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I asked her, as I approached. She stared at me, cocked her head, and narrowed her eyebrows, confused. ‘Can I take a photo’ I repeated. I pointed at my camera and she smiled. -- As our trekking guide herds us off the bus onto the Pothana hiking trail, the first thing I notice is the crispness of the fresh mountain air. It is so different to that of Kathmandu, which is both dusty and suffocating, coating everything – roads, trees, people. I breathe it in deeply, its coolness filling my lungs as I lift my gaze upwards, taking in the panorama of forested highlands surrounding us. Instantly, my eye is drawn to a figure in pink, watching my arrival from a ledge above. Separated by several metres of rocky cliff and tangled briar, I raise my arm above me – a gesture of greeting. She raises her arm up in response, bridging the distance between us. -- At nine years old, Yunika is a bundle of youthful energy – full of laughs, smiles and mischievous spirit. She giggles as I am introduced to her, and swiftly ducks behind her father as I approach her to shake her hand. I am staying with her father, Sejun, and his family for several days during my visit of Rayale Bihabar. On the first night of my stay, Sejun decides to give me an impromptu language lesson. He teaches me the words for various animals in Nepali – leopards, bears, dogs, before moving onto phrases such as ‘good morning’, ‘thank you’ and ‘delicious’. I am the process of learning the latter, which in Nepali is Mitho-ca, when Yunika runs into the room. She eavesdrops on our conversation, laughs and then runs back out. I do not see her again until the next morning. “Mitho-ca,” I say to Yunika over breakfast, as her father brings me a serving of sel roti – a traditional donut shaped fried sweetbread. She giggles at me (and at my butchered pronunciation) , and just like last night, she quickly runs out of the room. This time however, she returns, clutching a large piece of sel in both hands. She sits beside me and then looks up at me and smiles, licking her lips in the process. ‘Mitho-ca’ she yells enthusiastically as she takes a big bite. I laugh at her and take a bite of my own. ‘Mitho-ca’ I repeat.