Jiri is a special place, at least it used to be. Before paved highways and air travel made Everest more accessible from Kathmandu, Jiri was considered the gateway to the world’s highest peak. All the early Everest expeditions, including the 1953 John Hunt-led climb that placed Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary on the summit, began their trek from Jiri. 

In the 1930s, Swiss development agencies and missionaries saw Jiri’s fertile valleys and alpine climate as remarkably similar to their homeland. They invested heavily in the area, introducing modern farming techniques, building schools, hospitals, and even Nepal’s first cheese factory. For years, Jiri became known as “Little Switzerland,” a model town shaped by Swiss influence and development efforts.

But Jiri’s glory days are long behind it, and today, few travelers put it on their list of destinations in Nepal. People don’t know what they’re missing. Neither did we, until we decided to take the Hyundai Creta EV there on an impromptu road trip.

This wasn’t meant to be a range test, nor an epic drive that would inspire some higher purpose. As far as we knew, Jiri was a sleepy little town past its prime. But as we would learn, this quiet village and the people we met there turned out to be the heart of one of the most memorable journeys we’ve ever made.

Our last road trip to Dhorpatan had taught us a hard lesson. We had planned every detail, every stop, every contingency. Yet, despite all that preparation, we ended up stranded in remote pastures with charging issues that stopped us in our tracks. (You can watch our YouTube video to see how that unfolded.) So, this time, we decided to do the exact opposite.

The plan was to have no plan. A fool proof way to make sure we weren’t tied down by schedules or checklists. This would either capture the spirit of free will on four wheels or collapse into total chaos; no two ways about it.

One small caveat: Hyundai insisted we take their Re-lax van with us, a vehicle-to-vehicle charger that could provide a quick boost if needed. It had an 11kWh charger onboard, but we were determined not to use it. Free will or crumbling failure, those were the only acceptable outcomes.

Fortunately, Jiri lay less than 200 kilometers away so range would most likely not be an isse. To avoid the road construction at Banepa, we took the backroads through Nagarkot, heading towards Zero Kilo.

As André 3000 once said: “You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can’t predict the weather.” And sure enough, when you’re traveling in peak monsoon, you’re bound to hit rain. And boy, did it pour.

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The quiet backroads of Nagarkot transformed into gushing streams. Landslide debris scarred the hillsides, half-eaten roads made us second-guess every turn, and flash floods threatened to turn us back. Call it stubbornness or stupidity, but we pushed on. Our red Creta EV surfed through the flooded roads, maneuvering past rogue driftwood and tiptoeing across crevices hidden under rushing waters.

Against all odds, determination prevailed. More importantly, so did the Creta EV. There are so many Chinese EVs that may far outshine the Indian counterparts with their fancy features and their bag of bells and whistles, but you cannot refute the reliance and dependability that monikers like the Creta have established in the Nepalese automotive fraternity.

We crawled past Zero Kilo, shaken but triumphant, and finally unclenched our jaws (and other parts) over a quick plate of daalbhat. The rain refused to let up, so we pressed on.

A thick fog soon swallowed the road ahead, but strangely enough, it brought a kind of peace. Forced to slow down, each bend in the road became deliberate, meaningful, almost meditative.

By the time we reached Kharidhunga, drizzle still hung in the air. You won’t find Kharidhunga trending on TikTok, but it’s the kind of place that makes you stop and take it in. The terraced fields, the misty ridgelines, the heavy monsoon skies all come together like a painting.

This place also holds Nepal’s largest magnesite reserves, though the mines have been silent since the late ’90s. Conveyor belts and cable lines now hang like relics of an industry that might have been.

From there, we drove on toward Jiri. Darkness was falling fast, and visibility plummeted. When we called ahead, the hotel staff advised us not to risk it and instead spend the night in Charikot. Another win for our “no-plan plan.”

We checked into the Downtown Hotel, where the staff treated us like family. A playful Labrador named Joy kept us company, though he was a little too enthusiastic about chewing our socks. Still, after a day of battling rain and roads, we slept like babies.

The next morning brought a transformation. The skies had cleared, the hills were lush and rinsed clean, and the road from Charikot to Jiri was a dream. Smooth tarmac twisted along ridgelines and valleys, each curve better than the last. No playlist, no podcast, just the drive itself.

By midday, we rolled into Jiri. The air was crisp, the sky crystal clear, the views spectacular. Somewhere along the way, we heard about Jiri’s old airport. What we found was no longer a runway but a meadow reclaimed by nature. Naturally, we couldn’t resist driving the Creta EV across it. How often do you get to cruise on a forgotten airstrip turned grassland?

The feeling was surreal. Soft grass rustled under the tires, the car gliding quietly across what was once a gateway to the skies. With nothing but open space around us and the mountains standing guard in the distance, it felt like we had stumbled onto our own private playground.

That evening, we checked into Hotel Gyabila, run by one of the kindest hosts we’ve met: Mr. Keshar Jirel. A retired government worker who had traveled across Europe, he’d returned home to build a hotel with his family.

Over tongba, roasted potatoes, and local snacks, he shared stories of Jiri’s past: the days when kings visited, when cheese factories thrived, when he proudly served as a government official. His warmth and honesty were unforgettable.

In that mellow, satisfied state, we wandered through Jiri. Small shops, painted signs, a stupa tucked between houses; the town revealed its quiet charm in understated ways. The people greeted us with genuine warmth, the kind you can’t fake.

Jiri didn’t shout for attention. It didn’t demand to be a destination. It simply was. And in its quiet confidence, it won us over completely.We hadn’t come looking for magic. We didn’t even have a plan. But Jiri gave us everything we didn’t know we needed.

This was Jiri. And absolutely worth it.