A waiter asks if he can borrow Poole’s guitar. “‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,’” he says. “Guns N’ Roses.” Before I can say the name Dylan, he’s singing the song, and I’m joining in, as do all the guests and hotel staffers in the lobby. “Musicians love to meet other musicians,” Linhardt says. Jadhari laughs and nods.
The itinerary isn’t all jams. Linhardt arranges visits to Bungamati, a village renowned for its wood-carvers and where she lived while studying; pottery stalls; and a thangka-painting school. It’s the music that draws me most, though. One morning we stop by the Music Museum of Nepal, which curator and owner Ram Prasad Kadel established in 1995 to preserve music customs. Among the collection of nearly 1,200 instruments is an array of sarangis and tungnas, and a 10-foot-long laawaa horn. “Most of the old people are dying, and all the skill and talent in their minds is not written down,” says Kadel.
Toward the end of the trip, we go to Project Sarangi, another organization that aims to preserve and promote Nepali folk music. It’s run by Kiran Nepali, the virtuoso sarangi player for Kutumba, a revolutionary Nepali band that has toured all over the world. Our group sits in a circle in the project’s classroom, and Nepali shows off his favored instrument and tells us about his path to becoming a musician.
“I’m a Gandarbha,” he tells us. “Generations of my forefathers have been playing, but I didn’t start early, because my father said we should study.” He began Project Sarangi to try to destigmatize Gandarbhas and encourage young people to pick up the instrument. Nepali built a factory to standardize manufacturing and opened this teaching space to give lessons. He also employed effect pedals to go with other rock-and-roll elements in Kutumba’s shows. “You have to make it cool,” he says.
Ironically, digging into his own people’s music has helped Nepali play a variety of folk styles around the world. He recalls visiting Scotland, where a local musician began playing a tune on bagpipes. “We were like, ‘That’s very familiar.’ Same thing happened to me with bluegrass. Same thing happened to me with Irish music. All this folk music, somehow it’s connected.” Linhardt and Nepali then lead us in a jam. I do my best to keep up as they exchange the rapid-fire notes of the bluegrass standard “Squirrel Hunters.” She’s on mandolin, he’s on sarangi, but somehow they’re speaking the same language, a worldly tongue I’ve gotten a little closer to picking up myself.
This article appeared in the April 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
