"I think I'm going to Kat...man...du. / That's really, really where I'm going to. / If I ever get out of here"

(Click on photos to enlarge)

We met Stephen at the airport. Our flights arrived within minutes of each other. The three of us, the driver and an unbelievable amount of luggage crammed into a tiny, barely-holding-it-together taxi. The Mahankal Road was not passable so the driver took a tiny, dim road with many twists and narrow turns. He had to pull in the side mirrors to get around them. He stopped in the dark in front of a wide staircase. 

It was familiar in a vague way but it wasn’t until we climbed the stairs that I knew where we were. That sense of being only vaguely familiar would repeat a few times in Nepal. 

I led the way past the monastery and the row of white stupas to the guesthouse garden. I was worried about what Stephen would think of the very hard bed and the Spartan bathroom – but I lost no sleep over it. In the morning, cappuccino and WIFI made everything okay. 

The guesthouse was full of the usual – meditators, ngo’ers, writers and students. Everybody was on screen time. Ian commented on how ‘travelers’ have changed with the arrival of IT. Nobody talks to anyone else, trading travelling tips and making friends. We travel with our friends at our fingertips and don’t make room for new ones.

Child Haven

The three of us plus Bahadur walked to Child Haven. It was a festival day so many of the didis were off duty. Sangita and Phoolmaya were there and they directed us over to Green Tara School where the children were celebrating Children’s Day.

I saw many children who I’d met in 2006 and 2008. Kalpana and Kausila – two troubled young girls then and now in +2 (senior high school), doing well and looking lovely. I thought of the way their lives might have gone and I felt 100% sure about supporting CH. Let me light my lamp …

The courtyard was filled with the younger children sitting on the ground, more or less in rows, listening to the big boys serenading them. It was an amateur rock concert with cheering and some breakout dancing on the edges.

Kanya invited us back to the home to have tea. She and Bahadur talked a lot – Bahadur’s lips never moving!

Teej Festival

Women’s Day we were told. We went into Kathmandu and this time my vague familiarity led us on an unnecessary walk in the crowded downtown. We got to Durbar Square and were overcome with the sight of thousands of women in red saris, jewelry and as much make up as they could get onto their faces. They formed long, long lines, holding offerings of flowers and fruit in their upturned palms, waiting to go into one shrine or another. Away from the line-up we saw clusters of women dancing in the centre of circles formed by more women.

An interpretation we got from thirteen year old Kabita, Krishna’s sister, was that it is a festival to pray for one’s husband, or, in her case, to pray for a good husband. It includes a twenty-four hour fast, which in Kabita’s case, I thought might be fatal. She’s as thin as a reed.

A quick look at Wiki revealed that it is celebrated in Hindu communities throughout South Asia, commemorating the union of Parvati and Shiva. Marital happiness, well-being of spouse and children and purification of body and soul are the goals of the festival.

Oh, and it occurs sometime near the end of the monsoon. Marsang says it is celebrated at the end of the harvest. More is revealed in some of the folksongs – after working hard to get the harvest in, a woman’s parents-in-law will allow her to go to visit her own parents.

Dinner at Bahadur’s

Bahadur offered to come to get us. “It’s okay. I know the way.” I followed my nose and my vague memories down to Naya Basti (New Place). I felt certain we were in the right place but uncertain about the details. We stood there, three big white folk, looking right and left. My eyes turned to a cluster of men hanging out.

“Are you looking for Bahadur?” He walked toward me. “Do you remember me?”

“Bim Uncle! Yes, yes, it’s so good to see you.” Strange I called him Uncle. Should have said “Bai” (younger brother) but Marsang calls him Uncle so it just slipped out.

We were standing right in front of his building where Bahadur rents two rooms.

We had dhal baat, vegetables and two kinds of chicken with Bahadur, Phursang and Sophya. Actually, we ate and they watched. Phursang was wearing some pearl earrings I brought for them – costume jewelry. They were striking on her. The girls were very giggly and playful with one another in a way that belied their ages, 24 and 17.

Bahadur walked us out to get a taxi and at the last minute we changed our minds and decided to walk. It was a very long walk because Bahadur had headed east to get a taxi. I was beat by the time we got to Shechen.

The Women’s Foundation

Bahadur and I walked down so I could buy a few scarves. Things have changed – better office space – but the spinning and weaving is still going. We didn’t stay long.

On the way back through Naya Basti I saw a cotton kurta in a shop. It was a typical small, family shop, about eight feet square. Husband and wife were sprawled on the cushions and could barely rouse themselves to show me what they had. Once they realized I was a bona fide customer they pulled out lots of things. I went behind the partition and, standing amid their dirty lunch dishes, tried on a white embroidered kurta and hot pink salwar. Bahadur said I was a Nepali didi. I felt much cooler, paid and wore them out of the shop. 

Yak and Yeti

We moved to the Y&Y for two nights. I remember very little about it except the fawning staff, no WIFI and no cappuccino (I’m sure it was there somewhere). We found a restaurant around the corner to meet our caffeine and WIFI needs. Thamel was almost deserted. The few merchants we spoke to said the earthquake was having a very bad effect on tourism.

We decided to go to Kapan to visit the monastery. I had fond memories of walking there through forest and fields with some children. The taxi went through endless suburbs and villages – not a tree in sight – and pulled up at the entrance to the monastery.


We walked around the grounds. Most of the buildings were intact but we saw one that crumbled off the edge with the quake. We had lunch in the ‘tuck shop’ where a handful of monks were hanging out. It looked like a low level Legion Hall except that no one had a cold beer in front of him.  

                                         Kathmandu valley stretched out below looking much better from a distance. The best part of the monastery was that the ATM had money in it unlike the six we’d tried in the city.

As we departed and headed down a green path I told Ian “This will be the nice walk I told you about.” Within minutes we were back on a rough road through shabby villages. A bus came along and we hopped on, not knowing where it was going. It didn’t go far but at least it got us up a steep slope. The road opened up a bit and there were green paddies around us. There on our left was the forest I’d walked in with the children and where Ian shot video of the kids running out from behind the trees several years ago.

We visited Krishna and his family. Although the outside of their apartment building looks okay, the walls of their three small rooms are severely damaged. A large central crack in the common wall between two rooms radiates to the upper and lower corners. The wall is no longer attached to the corner uprights – it is self-standing and could easily collapse. The two external walls are in the same state, the walls against which their beds are located.

The “relief” that the government is offering is not forthcoming. “We would have to be in a tent on the river’s edge to get anything.” Accommodation is in short supply and what there is, is over-priced. Same with building materials and workers. Stephen and we gave them some money to relocate.

On the road down to Boudha we ran into Sabina. True confession – I was hoping not to see her. Her earnestness and frank adoration of Ian and me are uncomfortable. She reassured us at length with the help of another Child Haven graduate, Dawa, who happened to be on the road too, that Sajan is doing okay. 

I was wearing a red plastic bead necklace that she gave me years before. I showed it to her, I guess, to convince her that I haven’t forgotten her. Her face shone.

                                                          Strange Taxi Ride

We got a taxi in Tin Chuli to go back to the Y&Y. We should have realized the driver had no more idea about the Y&Y than about Burnaby when he had a five- minute discussion with three other drivers before he said okay. Night fell like a guillotine and we drove around in circles. Noisy, bustling, colourful Kathmandu took on a sinister feel – dark streets, shops closed, few people. I think the driver was as nervous as we were.

He pulled over to the curb on what seemed like the darkest street. He turned off the engine, got out and left us there. Minutes passed. He came back with a man who got in with him and we took off again. Kidnapping? Extortion? No, he was just telling the driver where to go. I saw the cinema and the palace and breathed a sigh of relief.

We hoped the driver found his way back to Tin Chuli.

Kathmandu, Post Trek

Razzu had warned us about the fuel shortages. That was September 29. I’m writing this on November 2 and the situation is getting worse. Marsang’s sisters are running out of propane and if things don’t improve they will be eating beaten rice and uncooked noodles. The situation is better in their village because they have bio-gas and wood to burn. 

We went back to Shechen Guesthouse for two more nights. Definitely no fawning, lots of good coffee and WIFI.  We had time on our hands. Our visits with Krishna and then Sabina had sucked the energy from us, to say nothing of the noise, traffic, pollution, poverty and politics. We thought a short visit to Patan would be pleasant.

We went to Patan in yet another rattle-trap car with a driver with Formula one aspirations. No amount of firm instruction or downright pleading slowed him down. With one hand stuck on the horn he jerked us around busy Kathmandu streets, across the river and dropped us at the Patan Durbar Square (a plaza opposite a royal palace of the Newari kingdom, seventeenth century). 

Ian went to the museum and I sat in the museum café. No electricity ergo no cappuccino. But I had my book.

The one thing that did slow down our driver was the fuel shortage. When we crossed the river we got stuck in a mega traffic jam. Hundreds of taxi drivers were lined up on the streets in four directions to get gas/petrol. Once we got passed it Mr. Androtti gunned it.

The drive back was lovely. The car felt like a Rolls Royce, the driver, like a chauffeur from Downton Abbey and the scenery bucolic (careful route planning). We asked the driver about the fuel shortage. He told us he waited in line for 2 days to get ten litres of fuel. No wonder he drove slowly.

The Women’s Foundation, again

Ian thought the Foundation might be able to use some new images. Anupama told us to come at one o’clock. Again, I thought I knew where I was going. When will I learn? I remembered that the workshop is near a school with a big crucifix sign. The Lord’s Academy – who could forget? I asked a young schoolgirl and she led us to an intersection of dirt roads. Nothing looked familiar but I felt my internal compass needle pointing me east. And there it was. (The Foundation workshop trains and hires women escaping from domestic violence so it doesn’t go in for signage).

It was the best afternoon of the whole trip.  A very special part was meeting Suman. He was one of the first Child Haven boys I met in 2006. I remember him saying then “My name is easy to remember. It’s like Simon but with a U.”  Suman is a young man now with a degree in computer science and acceptance at a Scandinavian university to do a Master degree. The same sad story of the best talent leaving Nepal for a future – but he has the chance of a happy future thanks to Child Haven.

Renu Sharma and Kamala Upreti showed us around as in the past. Renu is very much in love with her cat and her Bo-shin. It took a minute to realize she was saying bon chien (good dog), probably thanks to a Quebecoise volunteer who comes to the WF frequently.

I showed Renu a picture of Ian's father, Doug doing his weaving. She was very impressed that he is 93 and has learned to weave. She took the phone from me and showed his picture to the weavers and spinners. She asked Ian to send her the photo. She wants to frame it and put it up in the workshop to inspire the workers!

We went to her house behind the workshop for tea. There were lots of people coming and going, very at home. At one point two new people came into the sitting room from the kitchen – a young girl with Down syndrome and a young emaciated boy whose neck was so weak his head hung down. 

Renu played with the girl, swinging her around and tickling her until she begged for more! The boy was silent. At one point I was sitting beside him and asked him if he liked the biscuit. I assumed he was mentally disabled and wasn’t expecting a response.  He looked me and said in a sweet, clear, solemn voice, “Yes, I like them very much. Thank you.” Assumptions!

  

The story of the girl with Down syndrome and the emaciated boy is that they had recently been rescued from somewhere where they were, at best neglected, at worst, abused and starved. Renu recounted this in a calm, neutral voice. How many such stories does she hold.