Empty, the planes and airports on our way to Kathmandu, Nepal were without people in a capacity that I have never witnessed. Those daring to travel are doing it in style with full rows to themselves, extra hand sanitizer and masks over face. I met with Joey in Detroit and took off for South Korea. Having seen their bit of The Virus, Seoul’s airport was another level of clean. More employees polishing nooks and crannies of the pearly white airport than travelers waiting for flights. Joey and I decided we were in no safer place on the planet than this foreign space where robots informed pedestrians of the best ways to sanitize and combat sickness in a variety of languages.
Once in Nepal we quickly discovered that our flight was the the last allowing foreign travelers a hassle free visa into the country. Two of our friends that we were to meet in Nepal were stuck in separate foreign hubs and denied access. Their pursuit lasted close to a week before returning home to the states. Without much direction and a guide so to speak, it was clear and evident that God had us here for a purpose and we must take our time and listen. Joey and I met up with Samuel at a hostel down the street from our own. Samuel is a strong firefighter chap from Arkansas with arms like Donkey Kong. We sat over a cup up of Himalayan coffee and delighted in his story. Samuel had decided on a whim to go to Nepal. Initially feeling encouraged to give financially to this endeavor, a friend of his wife told him she had the finances for him to go. Two weeks later, Samuel was flying across the world.
A dirt alley road with holes so large they could fit a ninja turtle led us to our hostel a short distance from Samuels. Our host family was a beautiful fit. Paul is from Bangladesh and his wife Susanna is from Nepal. They spoke great English and started running their own hostel (29 eleven) less than a year ago. Their one year old son, Obed, was calm and happy, looking at us westerners as if he didn’t know whether to giggle or run in terror. Each morning we took our time and intimately talked with Paul over a wonderful homemade breakfast and artful shot of espresso. We learned from Paul, and Paul learned from us. We encouraged each other in faith and bridged cultural differences and ideas in an interesting and curious fashion.
Our first day in Nepal we met with Peter Golay. Peter is a bright smiling 26 year old Neplai guy with a short scraggly beard. Peter has made many sacrifices to help his family raise orphans in Kathmandu. Peters passion along with his family is to raise their children in a way where they have education, dreams, freedom and the truth of the gospel. Joey, Samuel and I sat with Peter in a Cafe and embraced the extremely laid back culture. We got to know each other and connected around the coffee table hearing about Peters job as a translator and his daily commute to the orphanage.
Eventually we snagged a taxi to Peters house. The traffic in Kathmandu can only poorly be described. It’s something that is much better witnessed. It’s as if you are an ant joining a new ant hill for the first time. Everyone works together to get you where you need to go while also advocating for yourself to force your way through. Plumes of exhaust is everywhere and one must wear a face mask to avoid inhuman consumption that may cause you to grow an extra toe.
We were welcomed into The Golays home with enthusiasm and gentleness. Hosting guests has been perfected in this culture and comes naturally to Nepalis. Peters mom, Depa, is a small ball of laughs with a bright shy smile, standing just below Joey, when Joey is on his knees. Depa wears large glasses and has a way about connecting. You could tell everyone in the house just wants to be near her. Peters older brother Prashant is studying to be an architect, he is skinny and athletic, with a groomed goatee and vibe that said cool. One year Peters senior, the two brothers grew up very close and used to be in a rock band together. Their younger brother Praswal is eighteen. Praswal is quiet yet outgoing and confident. It was fun to witness the ways that he is being shaped and crafted in love by his family. Renu and Sahara, two girls in their twenties were over as well. These two girls are like daughters and sisters to the Golay’s and are a huge asset to working at the orphanage. We spent our entire day in the Golay’s home eating local nepali food, drinking milky local tea and worshiping together crammed into the boys disheveled room. We laughed and jammed on the guitar, beat on drums and sang loudly with a beautiful concoction of southern twang with Indian style notes. This moment with the family, singing, praying and speaking encouragement to each other was worth the eight flights to Nepal and back.
Next day we met with Bill. Samuel set up a meeting with this fiery and wise South African man. Bill was initially drawn to Nepal over fifteen years previous to see the worlds largest mountain. He then spent time telling us how God called him to come back to Nepal in a more permanent fashion to help support the people there. Bill has been building aquaponic farms in the Kathmandu Valley for over fifteen years. The three of us sat mouths open leaning forward intently with note pads in hand, not wanting to miss a word that this man said. He has bridged the gap. Bill explained to us a lot of significant information in regards to encouraging and helping locals in an intimate and effective manner. This provides potential for lasting change, rather than providing money and labor without follow through and responsibility.
Joey and I spent an afternoon going to visit a local preacher named Bikosh. We knew nothing about this visit other than Bikosh was a Nepali Christian that worked for Agape Asia. To save Rupees we took the local microbus to his home in Chapagone. The microbus is very similar to what they call a “Chicken Bus” in Central America. The bus does not move until enough people are crammed to the point where you physically can’t fit another human. Joey, measuring in at 6’7” acted as a wooden bench for local commuters. 20 Rupees per person (less than twenty cents) bounced us across the dirt roads and steep hills of the city to Bikosh’s brick home, standing among evidence of earthquake destruction in every direction.
We were welcomed like kings by Bikosh’s wife Jasmita. Jasmita, a tiny Indian woman with a shy face and intent eyes, put a traditional yellow shaw around our necks and motioned for us to sit down on the recliners in their small bedroom. We sat closely and talked in simple broken English together with their one year old son, Bejoy, sleeping in the crib next to us. They both come from Hindu homes and face many challenges as Jesus followers in this setting. As is common, Jasmita and Bikosh live in the same home as Bikosh’s large family. We talked about these challenges, asked questions and encouraged each other. They took us to the roof top of their home to see the dominant Himalayas above the smog of the city, behind their drying laundry. The family served us hearty Himalayan food with tea and Mountain Dew. We prayed with them, met more of their family and eventually put our hands together and bowed, “Namaste” as we left their home. The bus ride back was not as smooth. A traffic jam brewed by a skinny point in the road where only one car at a time could fit and a small drop off on both sides had left cars in both directions bumper to bumper for as long as we could see. Motorcycles found solutions in the gaps like talented determined running backs. We paid our twenty rupees and laced up our shoes for our long walk back.
Joey and I decided to walk across Kathmandu to the Boudhha District the next day. Kathmandu is not what most people think of when thinking of Nepal. The city is in a large valley with foothills of the Himalayas surrounding it. You are lucky to be able to see the Himalayas due to the daily smog of the city. Joey and I were deep down, embedded in this smoggy valley. We walked to Dubar Square, a touristy area known for its temples and historical higher-achy significance. We admired them, distracted by the chaos of the square, motorcycles, bikes and shops surrounding this area with eight different pathways to choose from to enter the touristy district of Tamel. Tamel is known for buying cheap knock off gear, especially outdoors gear like The North Face and Osprey. We were asked a million times if we were going trekking, and if we had the gear we needed. We talked and prayed with a guy deep back in a t-shirt shop and were quickly eager to crack this maze and find freedom. After a full day of walking and talking, getting happily lost and redirecting, we eventually saw a very large temple, Boudhanath Stupa.
Very quickly after we arrived, we were approached by beggars asking us to buy rice. Despite the extreme poverty, begging was something we had rarely seen so far. Joey bought a lady a large bag of rice after some conversation. We were convinced she would sell the bag back to another store for money but decided to get it for her. She asked us to come over to her place and she would make us a meal. We agreed under the terms that others would be present. After some carful conversation and clarity we were welcomed into Vemla’s home. We watched and talked as her sister made bread and talked to her children and family as they came in and out of this extremely simplistic room. They had a large bed in one room the other room consisted of some cooking equipment, a blanket, which we sat on, and a small Hindu Shrine in the corner. They came from India and were open about their lives as beggars. They shared with us their system and way of life. We talked to Vemla’s niece, a darker skinned, slim thirteen year old girl with a traditional Hindu nose ring like her mother and aunt, named Aaryta. She has dreams of going to school someday and becoming a pilot. We broke bread with this Hindu family in their home, and prayed with them.
After leaving Vemla’s we happened to eat at this hostel called Ropka. Joey and I knew nothing about it. It was up a windy walkway and past a Buddhist square from our hostel. We met a hippy looking Israeli guy with a small Afro named Tal. Despite his conversation with two German girls (Franka and Paulina) Tal sat at our table and talked with us about Ropka. The hostel is also a local children’s home and supports around 60 kids from the streets. We talked with Tal about our experience with Aaryta and the possibility of finding supports for her to go to school locally through Ropka. Joey and I talked and processed through this as we walked around Boudhanath Stupa, the Buddhist Temple half a football field long looking like a toasted marshmallow with four golden faces and a party hat on top.
With support from friends and family we were encouraged to leave early. All three of us were able to find flights through Istanbul, Turkey back to the states. In the process of scrambling at airline offices with what seemed to be every other white person in the city, we became a bit disheveled. In a stuffed microbus on our way back to the hostel Joey realized he left his bag in the Turkish Airlines office. We quickly gave the driver his rupees and jumped out of the van in thick traffic. As we were on the shoulder of the road to start going the opposite direction I felt for my wallet and felt the devastating emptiness of my pocket. I yelled at the little white bus already driving away and pointed at my seat. A hand hit the window from a distance letting me know it was in fact in the bus. Samual and I sprinted after the bus through the busy sidewalk. A local saint grabbed my little green wallet containing my I.D., Rupees, emergency cash and a Starbucks gift card and launched it out the window into the street in our direction. It landed in the road with the zipper open. I looked inside and nothing was missing, the three of us stood there and laughed loudly in relief and excitement. We caught a taxi with a stylish chewawa bobble head
on the front dash back to the travel agency where Joeys green bag was patiently waiting.
Our last day was a beautiful day spent at the orphanage (Glory House Children’s Home). With our hats backwards and masks over our faces, we set toward the hills on the back of motorcycles, making the trip much faster than a taxi. The kids were waiting at the gate together beaming from ear to ear. They put their hands together and bowed “Namaste” in an awesome gesture. Before long we were all over the small yard playing ping pong on an outdoor wooden table, hacky sack in the garden amongst their six dogs and learning songs. We played really hard. Eventually we crammed in the girls room and ate Nepali noddles that made our noses and eyes water from spices while sipping on local Chia (tea). The boys and girls sang Nepali songs and showed us dances with pride and excitement. We played games in the room and taught each other songs until our eyes were nearly shut. We prayed together and eventually had to say goodbye. We took a taxi and looked out the window at the night of Kathmandu in a zoned out zombie-like way. “What a journey,” I thought, as is the case with many trips like this, nothing seems to go as planned. Yet, the way it has unfolded could not have been planned better.
