mercy and rooftop vomit

We awoke this last Friday to a standard breakfast of tea, heavily seasoned chickpeas, toast, and honey, and I thought I had a decent idea of what the day may hold. We looked forward to an opportunity to make the hike down to town to spend some time on the small internet cafe, as well as find some groceries so Pam could use her God-given culinary skills and fix us up a meal for the evening. We departed our bamboo huts at roughly 9:15, and walked into the cafe around 10:30 after the exhausting trek down the mountainside, and all its (approximately) 3742 steps. Afterwards we found a little guest house to grab some decent chow mein, a nice departure from our staple meal of rice since we arrived in the village, and then set out to find some fixings for burgers. Due to the Hindu presence here cow was hard to come by, so we picked up some pounds of ground buffalo and other supplies, and barely made it to the bus heading back up the mountain every afternoon at 3pm sharp.

Upon approaching the bus it is apparent, at least by our American standards, that this vehicle is already at capacity. Let’s just say, definitions like that change a bit around the world. With that understanding, Bonnie, Jasmin and I climb up on the roof of the bus, along with our young translator Ajay. They all find a spot perched looking over the side, and I get up just fast enough to grab some tiny seat-space facing out the back. The initial excitement of riding on top of a Nepali bus up a mountain quickly fades and the uncomfortable reality of it all sets in, as I am essentially sat upon and the first cloud of dust is kicked up from under the bus. Cramped and coughing, we set off towards the mountain.

Sitting beside me for the ride is a young girl, perhaps 15 or so, of whom I take little note at the beginning. As the bus begins moving, I start to notice she is visibly uncomfortable, though I don’t consider that to be much of an exception taking into account the luxury that we are all enjoying. Perhaps 20 minutes of stop and go movement, just as we are about to cross through the shallow point of the river, my young co-passenger’s problems come to the surface. She proceeds to vomit into the space before her, roughly attempting to keep it contained to the floor between her feet. Fireworks of panic are going on in my head as I look frantically around at the surrounding passengers, who all seem utterly unphased, to my further bewilderment. And then…we continue moving, everyone going on as though nothing happened, as though there isn’t vomit next to my feet.

We begin our ascent up the mountain, a climb which would disturb even the soundest of stomachs, let along my companions heavily weakened constitution. Throughout the ride I managed to lose her exact count, but I believe she clocked in with at least 5 by the time I got off the bus. Now, this would be a ridiculous story if that’s all it was, but apparently God wants to teach me something with everything…even a vomiting young girl on the top of a bus who, believe it our not, might actually be my neighbor.

There was a young man hanging on to the back of the bus, perhaps late 20s or so. Up to this point on the ride, there was no indication at all that he had any connection with the girl beside me. Nothing external made me take note of him at all, but on this ride he managed to completely rock my perception of mercy. Upon the young girl’s second accident or so, this man steps in (or as much as you can step on top of a moving bus). Initially, he carefully removes the girl’s scarf, already splattered, and proceeds to wipe her face and the pieces from her pant legs, offering small words of apparent comfort. The girl seems shell-shocked by shame, but receives his actions with quiet appreciation. As her condition seems to worsen, the man’s mercy increases all the more. Seemingly unsatisfied by the scarf, this man then removes his buttoned overshirt, proceeding the lay it upon her lap. My mind is reeling is disbelief, knowing the pending fate of this man’s shirt. Before long, the girl pukes into the shirt before her, notably in increasing pain, and the man just as quickly steps in again. Before she can wear the shame for any amount of time, he uses the shirt sleeve to wipe off her face, and then holds it up to blow her nose, as a father to a young child.

Perhaps more than this self-sacrificing demonstration of mercy, I am struggle by the utter natural way by which it was delivered. This man was laughing and talking with the other men on the roof, and took note of a need before him, he took note of a suffering young girl that he could comfort. He addressed the need, provided the comfort, and then returned to his conversing. He was not smothering her with unnecessary effort, but gave her only the amount of attention she so desperately needed, but not any more to increase her shame.

I got off that bus without a drop of vomit on me, and with the shirt still on my back, yet perhaps more humbled by mercy that I have been in a long time.

“the King will say…
I was sick and you looked after me…