I left Kathmandu early on August 30, travelling to Pokhara along the Prithvi Highway. It was the fifth day since floodwaters had surged from Tibet through the Bhotekoshi-Trishuli river system, and only the second day since the highway had reopened.

The fear left by the disaster was palpable among the passengers. Almost every conversation on the bus was about the floods and the devastation they had caused.

As we travelled through Thankot, Nagdhunga and Naubise towards Galchhi in Dhading, the Trishuli River came into view. Passengers leaned towards the windows, taking photographs and videos on their mobile phones. Some stood in the aisle for a better look.

When I booked my ticket, I had deliberately chosen a seat on the river side of the bus. I wanted to see the damage for myself.

We passed Galchhi, Baireni, Adamghat, Ghatbesi, Gajuri, Galaudi and Phurke Khola before reaching Malekhu, where the driver stopped. I had been photographing and filming from the bus throughout the journey.

At Malekhu, a long queue of buses, lorries, cars and jeeps stretched along the highway. The cause was a section of road that had collapsed at Krishnabhir.

What would happen next? That was the question on everyone's mind.

Some passengers believed the road would soon reopen, even if only one lane could be used. Others thought the bus might take them as far as Krishnabhir, where they could transfer to another vehicle and walk across the damaged section. Some suggested a detour through Benighat to Gorkha, then Abu Khaireni and on to Pokhara.

Others were less willing to take the risk.

“Who would take such a risk? We should just go home,” one passenger said. Why try to force a way through when the Trishuli could not be challenged?

There were almost as many plans as there were passengers.

The queue of vehicles continued to grow. Passengers got out and dispersed among hotels, tea shops, fruit stalls and grocery stores. I walked around and spoke to local residents.

Nobody knew when the road would reopen. The fact that the Trishuli had apparently not reached the Malekhu market offered some reassurance. But the central question remained: what now? How would we get to our destinations?

After about an hour, the conductor began calling passengers back. People climbed aboard. Passengers from two other buses joined us, although many remained behind in Malekhu. Motorcycles and scooters continued to edge along the road.

Five to seven minutes later, our bus and the two others stopped at a restaurant beside the Trishuli.

Long-distance buses in Nepal routinely stop at designated hotels, restaurants and tea shops for meals and refreshments. The practice amounts to an informal arrangement between bus operators and roadside businesses.

The conductor told us: “Have some food. The road is closed. We cannot go any further.”

Everyone got off.

I walked towards the restaurant and looked around. Floodwater from the Trishuli had poured into its open-air dining area, leaving mud across the floor.

A notice had been placed on the steps to stop customers entering: “Road closed. Entry prohibited.”

Just metres beyond it, the Trishuli was still rushing along the riverbank.

The conductor said the highway was closed. The restaurant's outdoor dining area was closed too. Both had been shut by the same river.

A landslide at Krishnabhir had brought traffic to a standstill since early morning. At least there was no immediate shortage of food: the restaurant had other dining rooms.

I looked around briefly before walking to another nearby establishment. It had been badly damaged by the flood and was completely shut. Reopening it would require considerable work.

I eventually went to a small hotel farther uphill, where I ate lunch. Afterwards, I returned to inspect the damage and spoke to hotel and restaurant workers.

They told me that the river had risen again that morning, five days after the flood.

What would happen next? They had no answer either.

The Muglin-Kathmandu section of the Prithvi Highway is regarded as the lifeline of Nepal's capital. Its closure has consequences far beyond the road itself. They were visible in the queues of vehicles and in the hotels, restaurants, snack shops, businesses and homes lining the highway.

Lok Bahadur Shrestha, from Bungkot in Gorkha, was sitting beside me on the bus. He eventually left with three relatives. Their plan was to cross the Trishuli at Benighat by tempo and continue home.

About an hour later, our bus began its return to Kathmandu.

As we boarded another bus, one passenger remarked: “We paid 1,200 rupees for a bus ticket to come here, and now we're paying 300 rupees for food before going back.”

As the bus headed towards Kathmandu, the same passenger called a travel agency and asked it to book him a flight. Moments later, he called back and told them to put the booking on hold.

The talk on the bus turned to another possible route to Pokhara — via Hetauda, Narayangadh and Muglin.

Three buses travelled together towards Kathmandu. Then, a little farther along, one suffered a punctured tyre. The other two stopped.

While the tyre was being repaired, another plan emerged.

The conductor announced: “We are going to Pokhara via Hetauda and Narayangadh. Anyone who wants to go that way will have to pay an additional 1,200 rupees.”

Those who did not want to take the detour were refunded half their fare and transferred to another bus.

Once again, I chose a window seat on the Trishuli side.

During the journey on August 30, travelling back and forth by bus and walking at points along the Galchhi-Malekhu section of the Prithvi Highway in Dhading, I had a brief but sobering view of the damage left by the river.

The destruction between Galchhi and Malekhu was unmistakable.

Houses, riverside shops, fruit stalls, tea shops, hotels, petrol stations and other businesses had been inundated. Concrete bridges and suspension bridges spanning the Trishuli had been swept away.

In some places, residents were clearing mud and sludge from their properties. Elsewhere, people were carrying belongings to safer ground. Relief was being distributed at several locations.

People had also gathered at various points simply to watch the swollen river. Some businesses were open; others were operating intermittently.

Residents told me that the floods, which began on August 26, had left them deeply anxious. Even on the buses, passengers discussed where they would run if another flood struck without warning.

The same erosion caused by the Trishuli had undermined the road at Krishnabhir, forcing the highway to collapse and bringing our journey to a halt.

As far as I know, Krishnabhir has been a recurring trouble spot for more than two decades. This time, however, the damage has brought the highway to a complete standstill.

The Trishuli eroded the ground beneath the road, causing it to give way and severing a vital transport link.

Nobody yet knows exactly how the highway will be restored. The government has advised travellers to use alternative routes.

This is the Bhotekoshi-Trishuli flood that has caused the greatest loss of life and property seen in Nepal.

By the evening of August 31, the sixth day since the flooding began, 939 people had died, according to government figures. Another 3,925 Nepalis and foreign nationals remained missing, while 279 people had been injured. A total of 11,373 people had been rescued.

The full scale of the loss of life and destruction remains difficult to assess.

Note: All the photographs were taken along the Galchhi-Malekhu section of the Prithvi Highway in Dhading, through which the Trishuli River flows.

Dinesh Regmi is a Kathmandu-based freelance journalist.