The drama team of the BBC World Service Trust in Nepal is currently preparing a second series of the highly successful radio drama Sweet Tales of the Sarangi, which deals with transitional social and ethnic issues following over a decade of conflict. Here, Fiona Ledger reports on a recent location trip to eastern Nepal in which the team visited partner radio stations, auditioned actors, and encountered political protests. Read parts one and two here and here.

Thursday

Leaving Panchthar for Ilam; a fine day with less mist than usual. About 30km into our journey, we came across a Limbu road block marked by thin red tape. As international press we have no difficulty in being waved through. Behind us they attempt to stop a motor bike but it accelerates away stopping further down the road to talk to us – the female passengers explains at length why they certainly had no intention of paying.

We decide to go back and talk to the Limbu. There are 6 of them – all wearing Rambo type bandanas, and carrying kukuris (Nepalese national knives), even the 12 year old. One has an earring and a stick for banging the ground like a policeman. Another has a receipt book. We point out that there was an agreement with local government not to collect tax. They say they are not asking for tax but only for voluntary support. Deputy editor Kedar Sharma remarks it doesn’t look very voluntary when everyone is carrying kukuris .

A Limbu volunteer at the roadblock

A mini van approaches the roadblock and the volunteers do a lot of posturing and scowling. The driver stops and pays 20 nrp (about 15p). He asks for a receipt. The volunteers now say they only give receipts for 50 nrp or over. The driver gets upset and starts to shout. We watch, taking photos, and quietly senior producer Deepak Rauniyar gets the Marantz out to record.

This slightly puts the volunteers on the spot and they grumpily hand over a receipt. A bus slips past as they hand over the receipt to the mini van driver.

Deepak points out discreetly that there is no carbon paper in the receipt book. A small detail, but it means they can go home at the end of the day and claim ‘Oh we had a bad day – only 300 nrp.’

We visit Ilam FM, a BBC partner station. It’s housed in a neat and colourfully painted house, decked out with pot plants and perched on the hill overlooking the town and the tea gardens. Prakash Gandharba, the main actor and character in our drama, is interviewed about his life in a weekly profile programme.

The drama team conducts auditions with the staff. It’s going to be key to any storylines set in the east that we are very careful with our casting; we’ve followed a policy of ‘no impersonations’ when it comes to ethnicity – so we take an ethnic count of would-be actors: three Rai (of northeastern Nepal), one Newar (of the Kathmandu valley) and a Brahmin man. They all prove to be good actors – one particularly self assured in her improvisation. We’ll need to find more Limbu actors, but for now we record our auditions with who’s immediately available.

Auditions in Ilam

We leave the hills for the Tarai stopping off at the unremarkable but busy town of Charaali in Jhapa district to meet a woman who produces and presents three radio programmes for kanchanjunjga fm. She even edits them at home; all the while running the house and bringing up a family. Two of them are for children, the other is aimed at married women. Alcohol and infidelity are major preoccupations.

Friday

It’s back to Dharan for more auditions. Two young women in particular stand out with a strong improvised performance, based on the idea that one of the girls (both Rai) is in love with a Limbu. It turns out that in real life one of the girls is in love with a member of her own clan which is forbidden. The quiet pain that underpins her performance is very real.

Auditioning for the drama, eastern Nepal

Saturday

Now we’re on the home leg. We’re told we can cross the Koshi river towards the south but the sand banks built over large pipes are crumbling and lorries are grounded tipsily in the sand. This is it I think – we’re finally going to come unstuck. But now our excellent driver, Jeevan, paces out the spur of sand on foot and reckons with an empty jeep he can get across. And he does.

We follow on foot, then spend the next 90 miles or so dealing with the final challenge of the journey: the Tharu bandh (a kind of transport strike and protest).We are held up repeatedly by road blocks, each are marked by piles of stones and felled trees and attended by bunched crowds of people ready to argue.

Again our strategy is verbal negotiation; Kedar and Deepak talk to the big men behind the protest and listen to their grievances. They are pacified by the fact that the BBC is interested. Once we’re nodded through, Prakash leaps out and moves boulders. Sushama and I wave sweetly as we can at desperate faces.

Finally we leave the highway and make our stop over in Hetauda – at the magnificently shabby Orchid Resort, the plushest hotel to date – at least it has hot water and nice big clean towels. It’s only been a week on the east-side, but it feels like a year.

In the second part of her report from a location trip in eastern Nepal, senior producer Fiona Ledger and the team visit a blind school whose students are dedicated followers of the BBC World Service Trust drama Sweet Tales of the Sarangi, encounter transport strikes and local ethnic leaders, and interview journalists about rising tensions in the region. Read part one here.

By Fiona Ledger

Monday

We leave Itahari, despite the bandh (a type of transport strike and protest), and head for Birtamod in the far east where we interview a Limbu leader. He wants the east to be declared an independent state, Limbuwhan, with devolved powers and is angry with the government for reneging on a promise to set up a commission dedicated to Limbu autonomy.

We ask him about the stories we’ve heard of Limbu taxation (enforced through roadblocks). He says it’s voluntary – but we’ve heard it’s extracted with menace. He stoutly denies this. What is he doing with the money? He shrugs, ‘putting it aside’ he says.

What are his plans? To form a parallel government if the Limbu demand for a semi-autonomous status isn’t granted. But surely these are issues for the Constituent Assembly to deal with over the next year? ‘The government broke it’s promise,’ he replies grimly.

We move on to Dharan in the foothills of the Himalayas, to visit a blind school where the drama has a dedicated following amongst the pupils. We set ourselves up under the shade of a large tree and Prakash Gandharba – the main actor and narrator of our drama, – gets out his Sarangi ( a four stringed instrument played with a horsehair bow).

A teacher brings a group of boys over aged around 12-16. As they draw near they recognise the tune Prakash is playing and realise who he is “Dilu bhai, dilu bhai” (Dilu brother) they call out, addressing Prakash by the name of his character. They gently feel his face, his Sarangi and his hands. One of the boys starts to imitate the other characters in the drama: gruff old Baje, the nagging father Ramcharan, and the put-upon son Sukindar. He asks Prakash to act out a scene; Prakash obliges and the boys are delighted.

Prakash plays them a tune he has composed with deputy editor Kedar Sharma in the jeep on the way to the school. It’s about being blind and seeing the world through your hands; by verse two they’ve picked up the chorus and are singing along. It’s a moving moment.

Tuesday

We have wound our way up into the hills and reach the central square of the town of Ilam. It’s sunny but hazy – typical for the region. The houses are like Swiss chalets, with wooden fretwork and balconies running their length. There’s a commercial buzz but we are surrounded by tea gardens.

In the evening we meet a group of journalists to talk about politics and the constitution which is slowly being prepared: a mixture of Rai, Limbu and Brahmin.

Despite growing tensions between Rai and Limbu, the group is relaxed in each others company. They all believe the eastern region is special and could benefit from the devolution of power which would come with a federal system. The president of the Ilam branch of the Federation of Nepali Journalists is among them – a thoughtful Limbu who withdrew from politics because he found it divisive. He has a theory about the growing tension: it’s not about deprivation – so often tinder for political discontent – it’s actually more about a new and growing affluence. This has increased people’s aspirations and expectations, in turn stoking up their frustrations. “Even we journalists cannot predict what will happen,” adds a freelance Brahmin journalist.

Wednesday

Another hazy day in a small town just outside Ilam, and we are sitting in the beautiful wooden house of a charismatic and powerful woman advocate, Tika Poudel Bhardwaj. Before she can talk to us she graciously goes off to make traditional tea. Her husband is a reader in geography at the local university. His brother was kidnapped by Limbu activists while manning a polling booth last April. It took five days to find out who took him. Thankfully he was released ten days later, unharmed.

Tika returns, carefully assigning us our tea, and settles down to tell us about her work. Her husband looks on affectionately, admiringly. Women are powerful here she says, especially in trade and commerce. She is a community leader, and constantly busy in court; domestic violence and trafficking of women are high on the agenda. Divorces are not uncommon; there a number of cases where husbands want to cut ties with no alimony, citing the woman’s infidelity. DNA tests on children are often requested.

We turn to the subject of politics and freedom of speech. Recently a woman journalist was threatened with abduction for speaking out against Limbu taxation. A visiting women’s human rights group from Kathmandu felt so disturbed by this that they didn’t feel safe on their own and asked to say with Tika.

In the evening we meet another group of journalists in the town of Panchthar, again a mixture of Rai and Limbu. It’s bigger than our previous meeting and the mood is less relaxed. One journalist – a Limbu – solemnly says Rai and Limbu can never be real friends; superficially, yes, but not in their hearts. It’s more of a warning than a statement of fact. Nobody else in the groups backs him up, but neither do they confront him directly. It takes two young women – one Rai and one Limbu – to indirectly disprove his pronouncement. They say they are the best friends. They’ve even invented a joint name for themselves. But as the discussion unfolds about the political ambitions of the Limbu, and the pressure on journalists not to report instances of bullying and extortion, the young women silently start to weep.

A recent location trip for Nepali radio drama Katha Mitho Sarangiko (Sweet Tales of the Sarangi) reveals the complex ethnic and social makeup of the country, the ingenuity of the production staff and the kindness of its people. Senior producer Fiona Ledger reports on a week in the life of this popular drama.

Part One – Crossing the Koshi

With the launch of a new series of our drama Katha Mitho Sarangiko (Sweet Tales of the Sarangi) just seven weeks away, our thoughts are turning to new locations as well as new storylines. We decide to go east of the Koshi river, to what was once known as the kingdom of Kirat. Our mission is to feel our way round the political and cultural landscape and search out new dramatic talent. In the past we’ve recorded on location in Janakpur – flat, dusty and hot; in Pokhara – alpine fresh, but thick with trekkers; now the highs and lows of the east await.

Commercial prosperity fed in part by the tea gardens of Ilam and the milk production of the surrounding area means the region exports more than it imports. It has a sense of political entitlement, and a sense of separateness from the rest of the country that goes back to the 18th century. But there’s also a growing tension between the leadership of two native ethnic groups: the Rai and the Limbu.

Saturday

Armed with a punishing itinerary of stopovers and meetings, we make good time along the east-west highway, but not good enough. It is after all, only a one-lane road with occasional potholes and colonies of traffic-hardened monkeys. By nightfall we are still in the flatlands of the Tarai (in southern Nepal).

Our first night is in Rajbiraj – once a royal stop-over but these days a dusty and shabby full stop. A boy has been killed by a tractor that day and local people are angry the CDO (Chief District Officer) tells my colleagues, Kedar Sharma and Deepak Rauniyar.

A UN Human Rights worker also staying in the hotel warns us the nearby ferry crossing over the Koshi river could be a problem – the queue is long and it could take 3 hours to get on. It’s one of only two ways to cross the river at this point, following the floods of August 2008.

Sunday

The queue for the ferry stretched half a kilometre

The queue for the ferry stretches half a kilometre. We head to the front to find out what’s going on, safe in the knowledge that nothing is moving in the opposite direction. Drivers say they have been waiting ten days. Bus passengers are selling their mobile phones in desperation. Tempers are rising.

There are two ferries, but one has been sunk by a bus, which remains obstinately straddling the ferry and the water. The other is under house arrest by the ferry authorities, fearful that a heavy load will bring it down too. It floats proud, but useless, mocking the lorries that snake up into the hills on either side of the river.

But my team are first class problem solvers. It’s like we have been presented with some highly evolved team building exercise; “how would you get this car across this river, given that…” Deputy editor Kedar Sharma and senior producer Deepak Rauniyar set to work, talking to an army of drivers and conferring with the police.

People gather around the stricken ferry

An hour later the second ferry is liberated for our benefit. We cautiously drive onto the metal hulk, and the ferry operator turns the wheel which connects to the overhead cable. We cross the fast flowing river, to the growing surprise of lorries on the other side of the river and the quiet bitterness of people we leave behind.

I know some countries where the ferry would have been subjected to a last minute surge, where people would have rewarded our lucky break with anger and violence. We are lucky. We’re in a country where the international press are hugely respected.

We spend the night in Itahari, a busy commercial town on the far side of the river. The next morning a bandh (a sort of transport strike) is starting up, organised by the Tharu Kalyankari Subha, a movement protesting against the way the Tharu people are being categorised as Madhesi (another much larger ethnic group, found mainly in the flat plains).