Chapter
1: The Beginning
A dim, predawn
glow slanting through a nearby window barely illumined my straw-mat covered mud
floor and meager furnishings. I carefully tied down the last flap of my
backpack and took a deep breath. The
crisp, cold mountain air energized me as I stood up finally ready for the
long, northward trek to the village of Tatopani. Quickly closing the window’s heavy
wooden shutters, I grabbed my walking stick, hefted my backpack in front of me
and headed for the doorway of my second floor lodging. There, putting my backpack
and walking stick next to the doorframe, I pushed the thick door outward. Its lintel was so low that I had to turn
around, stoop over and back out, stepping high over the six-inch doorsill onto
the narrow stone ledge a foot below the threshold.
Briefly, I paused and looked
around my living quarters to verify that everything was secure before closing
the door. I noted that the shutters of the
two five-foot high windows of the front room were secure and, although a privacy
curtain above the chest-high dividing wall blocked my view of the sleeping area,
the darkness beyond assured me that I had closed that window too. Seeing the familiar coating of red-clay-and-dung
on all the room’s lumpy surfaces was also reassuring. Each wall had a unique character, reflecting
the sizes and shapes of all the underlying fieldstones used to make them. Overhead and underfoot, yellow-brown Bamboo
slats peeked through the same coating as the walls. My many straw mats hid most
of the flaws in the undulating floor and kept the dust down.
Standing on the narrow,
unprotected landing just outside the door, I grabbed my walking stick from
inside and propped it against the outside wall. Then I retrieved my backpack
and slung it over my shoulders, shrugging and jostling it into place. The ledge was very narrow making it difficult
for me to push the door closed and secured it using a strong hasp and large
padlock. Once satisfied with the feel of
the pack, I grabbed my walking stick and carefully descended the worn stone
stairs to the dirt walkway below.
Turning northward at the bottom
of the steps, I walked along the front of the abandoned “Medicine Man’s Store”
under my home. Attached to it was the small hostelry for housing the few
students who could not commute to school each day. In the misty distance, just over a dozen miles
away, loomed the majestic peak of Dhawalagiri, the seventh highest mountain in
the world. To my right, eastward, was
the dark abyss of
Kali Gandaki Gorge, the deepest gorge in the world. Across its rugged chasm, looming over the
opposite hills, were the twin “fishtail” peaks of Machapuchare – sacred to the
god Shiva. The day felt surreal. A pink,
morning light draped the white, snow covered peaks of Nepal’s mountains and a
thick fog shrouded their bases in mystery. I realized that it was going to be a wonderful
day for my trek to spend Christmas Eve with Keith and Ann, Christian missionaries
from England serving as “British Nurses” dispersing medical help and illegally witnessing
for Christ.
There were only four rooms
available in the dormitory, each only about ten by eight in size, and every
Thursday the last room became a Post Office distributing mail, packages and
news. Just beyond that, at the far end
of the dirt path just before it entered the parade grounds of the school, was
the new teashop. Because I had financed
the little shop by providing a few hundred rupees, I was, technically, a silent
partner. I did not intend to recover my
investment, but for some reason, the owner took good care of me. Arriving at
the teashop, I shrugged off my backpack and ducked through the low entrance. It was a bamboo and thatched structure with a
floor of packed dirt covered with straw mats.
The stove, made of the ubiquitous clay-dung mixture, was a simple fire
chamber with two holes on top. One hole
was for the teapot, the other was for keeping the buffalo milk warm. Smoke seeped out from under the pots, swirled
up their sides to flow out of a window above.
I put down my pack, propped my walking stick against the wall, and eased
down to sit cross-legged near the cooking area.
The proprietor knew what I wanted, and soon I was sipping a steamy, hot tea
from a thick plastic drinking glass. Staring out the doorway at the grandeur of the
Himalayan Mountains, I reflected on how I became a Peace Corps Volunteer in
Nepal.
My thoughts drifted back to June 1970. I had just graduated from Alderson Broaddus
College in West Virginia and the world was both exciting and frightening. The
space program was the pride of our nation.
Almost a year earlier, along with a small group of friends, I had
watched Neil Armstrong become the first man on the lunar surface. I had watched his fuzzy image step off the
foot of the lander and heard him say, “One small step for man, one giant leap
for mankind.” Almost daily, President Nixon’s political rhetoric promised us a
bright and prosperous future of peace, wealth and national unity. Yet, every night the dormitory’s
black-and-white TV showed the darker side of humanity. There was bloodshed in Vietnam and clips of
racial violence in major American cities.
We watched police forcefully dealing with rioters and protesters at
anti-war rallies. There were rampant injustices everywhere. The aftermath of
the Kent State shootings was still fueling the anti-establishment feelings that
festered at the heart of our nation. Unfortunately,
the “counter-cultural revolution” of the “free-love movement” was greatly
contributing to the political polarization of our country making peace either
at home or abroad seem very distant.
Two years earlier, while working in Washington
DC for the United States Coast Guard Oceanographic Unit, I witnessed the
violent aftermath of Martin Luther King’s assassination in Tennessee. Sitting on the windowsill of my third floor
apartment, I watched a large section of our capital burn to the ground. Below me, mobs roamed the streets smashing
windows, looting stores and mindlessly vandalizing everything around them. Machinegun emplacements surrounded the base
of the Washington Monument and armored vehicles patrolling the streets. Soldiers staffed checkpoints at key intersections
and enforced a citywide, early-evening
curfew. All night, the radio blared news
of race across the country along with the most recent updates from Vietnam.
Adding to the dilemma of my
future and putting an end to any dreams of starting a career, was the Military
Draft. The previous December, the United
States initiated a new way of operating military conscription: The “Lottery”. I was lucky. My birth date was one of the
first picked during the drawings. Months
before my graduation, my “Local Draft Board” ordered me to report for a
pre-induction physical in Clarksburg, West Virginia. It was an all-day experience of humiliation and
dehumanization including written tests in dimly lit rooms and dozens of poorly
explained forms to sign. After providing
a urine sample, I joined the other naked men for our physical
examinations. It started with uniformed
soldiers marching us into a very cold room and arranged us into two rows. Then, in an assembly line process, they
examined our genitals and told us to bend over for a flashlight-wielding doctor
to scrutinize us from behind. After
getting dressed, we endured another timed, written exam and encouraged to sign
up for life insurance. The experience was a disturbing taste of a military life
that could strip a man of his humanity.
After the pre-induction physical, and not wanting to be what was
euphemistically called “cannon fodder”, I talked with recruiters from various
military branches and contacted a man I had worked with in the Coast Guard
seeking possible alternatives. No one
offered me anything more appealing than what I believed I was already facing. I
grimly realized that I had very few choices and little control over my
life. The military draft had destroyed all
my hopes.
I had returned to Decatur, Georgia
after graduation and stayed with my parents until my future was resolved. After many weeks of desperate prayers,
sleepless nights and anxious days of searching, I discovered the Peace Corps
and sent for the information and application packet. Unfortunately, it would not replace my
mandatory military service it would only postpone my induction by two years. Very quickly, my idealism convinced me that I
would be doing something good for others before facing the necessities of war
and becoming “cannon fodder”. There were
only two possible options: I either became part of the military immediately or
delay it until after the Peace Corps. I convinced myself that I should do some
good for others before participating in what I saw as a bloody waste of life. –
I was neither courageous nor adventurous when I decided to join the Peace
Corps.
With the Application Packet were
booklets narrating the corps’ history and descriptions of various ways volunteers
had served. Also, included along with
everything else were simplified maps showing the countries where I could
volunteer to serve. I pictured myself on
tropical islands or wandering the streets of exotic capitals like Buenos
Aeries. The possibilities were exciting! I eventually selected the Micronesia Islands
as my first choice and South America as my second. I was soon dreaming of tropical breezes,
sandy beach and surf fishing alongside natives.
The next day I mailed to the Peace Corps my completed application and
questionnaire about my interests and preferences for serving.
While waiting for notification of
where and when I would begin my training, I petitioned to have my military
induction postponed and immersed myself in studying the Micronesia Islands. I avidly consumed all the information I could
find about the Islands’ history, geography, culture and customs. While my parents and I visited some of their
friends, they prepared authentic Micronesia foods for me to sample and shared
dozens of stories of their visit there.
My father, in a surprising
gesture of support, offered to buy a decent camera for me to take on my
adventure, and after weeks of research – wanting to be frugal – I ordered my
first single lens reflex camera: A Praktica 35mm SLR with both a normal and
telephoto lens. The anticipation of service,
intense research and the unexpected gift of a camera helped relieve my anxiety
as the days of waiting dragged into weeks.
A month after sending in my application, my mother heard that the FBI
was interviewing anyone and everyone whom I had ever known back in Willow
Grove, where I grew up.
Finally, the long expected
notification from the Peace Corps arrived near the end of October. I was to teach somewhere in the kingdom of
Nepal. My training would begin in
November at a place called Cactus Corners in California. There, I would have classes in “Teaching
Methods” and learn the Language, customs, social structure, culture and
religious beliefs of Nepal.
The country of Nepal? I was
surprised and baffled. Nepal was neither
of my requested choices of service. I
had never heard of Nepal – except as a geographical location. Dropping the letter of acceptance and rushing
to my parent’s atlas, I found that Nepal was a small country tucked into the
middle of the Himalayan mountain range.
It was north of India, bordering what was once Tibet. Except for seeing the strange names on a
globe or mentioned in a book or in a movie, that area of the earth was a
complete mystery to me. What little I knew of their belief systems was
frighteningly foreign to my Christian foundation! My only source of information about their
culture, customs and lands was from old movies about India, the British Empire,
Sherpas, unjust caste systems and mountain climbing.
My mother bubbled with excitement
when I told her where I was assigned, and her enthusiasm eased the dark dread I
felt. Nepal was geographically close to the
area in China where my grandparents had served as missionaries from Toronto
Canada, and my mother’s birthplace. She
shared with me what she knew about Nepal and proudly told all her friends about
my upcoming service. Although my father
seemed aloof, he made sure I had what I needed before I left.
November came and I was on a
brand new 747 jumbo jet flying from Atlanta to California. During a brief
layover at the Los Angeles Airport, my twin brother Walt, my sister Bea and her
husband Richard met me for a brief reunion.
At the time, my brother was a medical student at North Western
University and was temporarily working in that area. My sister and her husband
lived in Mount Baldy, a few hours away by car, and had driven to the airport to
see me. Although it was a brief
encounter, it revitalized me and gave the added strength I would soon need.
I was tired, apprehensive and feeling very
vulnerable when we landed at an airport near Davis California. Two men met me at the airport gate and
identified themselves as Peace Corps Instructors from Nepal. There were others, new volunteers, with them and
after introducing ourselves to each other, we all went to get our luggage. After crowding into an ancient car, our
instructors drove us to a place called “Cactus Corners” where we would be
trained. During our ride to camp, we learned
that there were more than thirty-six men and women in our group; and that the
instructors preferred we use the term “trainers” rather than “instructors” and
the proper term to call people and things from Nepal was “Nepali”. The trainers excitedly told us we would spend
the next six weeks learning the Nepali language and the history, culture,
social structure and customs of Nepal along with lessons about their religious
beliefs. Since many of the volunteers
were not teachers, there would be classes on teaching methods.
Cactus Corners was a barren little
place outside Davis, California. It was a small, treeless compound of barren,
stark brown buildings sitting on cement pads surrounded by mud. It had the appearance of an abandoned migrant
worker’s settlement. The cluster of structures formed a small community that
was networked together with cement sidewalks connecting key structures. We would eat our meals, sample Nepali foods
and learn the proper way to eat with our fingers in the windowless cafeteria near
the camps entrance. The spotless metal chairs
and wooden tables inside comfortable and welcoming, especially when it was
raining. Occasionally, we met there
informally to talk, complain and play games like Hangman. Behind the cafeteria were segregated, unheated
bunkhouses separated by the bathroom facilities: one for the men and one for
the women. Beyond the living area were
two buildings used for classes. At the
far end of the compound was a large recreation hall where we played Ping-Pong,
watched indoctrination movies and participated in cultural programs. To one side of the compound’s entrance was a
mobile home used for administration offices, a conference room and a small
reference library.
Nestled between the men’s and
women’s living quarters was a well-kept animal pen holding a small goat. Her
udder was always bulging with milk. When I first saw her, she tilted her head
to one side and stared at me with remarkably huge eyes. The square pupils amazed me. She was destined to become an important part
of our experience.
I was assigned to a bunkhouse that
was barely big enough for six trainees. The Peace Corps provided each of us
with minimal comforts of a small bedside stand and thin, lumpy mattresses
sagging over rusting springs and towels.
For some reason, they also gave us a generous supply of blankets, threadbare
white towels and heavily bleached linens. We draped many of the extra blankets
over the bare windows to block out the sun’s glare and provide some privacy. The extra sheets were improvised as room dividers
between the beds. Our first night there, a skinny black-and-white cat adopted
us and helped to make the living situation comfortable. The camaraderie of over three-dozen
volunteers, the friendliness of the staff and everyone’s willingness to help in
a difficult situation created an atmosphere of strong fellowship. Even so, our harsh immersion into Nepali life
was challenging. By the end of the
Cactus Corner’s part of our training, a number of volunteers had already gone
home. Either the immersive learning was too difficult or they had not made
satisfactory progress. My own doubts and
fears plagued me, and I often wondered if I had made the right choice. I was determined to make the most of my
opportunity.
We were a varied group. During the first day, I met a variety of
fellow volunteers including a man who had to bet on everything – including a
Ping-Pong game. There were athletic men
and women as well as those who were not.
While some of us were painfully shy, others who seemed confident, self-assured
and outgoing. I discovered many kindred
spirits who were recent college graduates with many varied degrees. Although we were all different, we were all idealists
hoping to make a positive change in the world. The synergism of everyone’s
eagerness to help in our difficult situation created an atmosphere of support
and trust.
Our days there soon
became routine. After an early breakfast,
we separated into assigned groups and joined our Nepali trainers for hours of
language lessons. Gradually, I learned
to speak Nepali and understand the basics of its phonetic written language,
which uses over forty key symbols and additional characters for the many diphthongs.
Additional, modifying marks of swirls, curlicues and lines that indicated long
or short vowel sounds and other features often mystified and confused me. Baffling me further was that different words
and word endings depended on the gender, relative social positions and castes
of those speaking or listening. We were
to greet and speak to our superiors with different vocabularies and word forms
than to our peers or those beneath our station.
The Nepali language had more tenses and forms of words than in English,
including separate tenses for the-day-after-tomorrow. Not only was it a difficult language to
learn, the need to achieve the required minimal progress kept me feeling
overwhelmed. In high school, I had twice
failed Spanish and believed that learning another language was impossible for
me. Slowly, I learned.
Our afternoons were flexible. Except for an occasional class about teaching
methods or some other topic of concern added after lunch, we had time to study,
nap, socialize, or play games. We would
often ask a staff member to drive us into the town of Davis for medical
appointments, inoculations or to shop. In
bike-racks around the compound were many old, single-speed bikes freely
available to us during our free time.
Weather permitting, we could grab a bike and, in less than thirty
minutes, pedal into Davis on our own to shop, explore or just get away from the
camp for a while. After dinner, we had special sessions in the recreation hall,
which was the only time everyone met together.
That is when we learned about Nepali history, religion, politics and
culture through movies, social events, and informal discussions. With so much of our time structured, treasured
study times were hard to find.
It rained almost every
afternoon keeping the air cool and comfortable and treating us to a majestic
rainbow that formed behind the compound.
Sometimes, a double rainbow would form and display of nature’s beauty
amazed us all. After the downpours, large
puddles of water collected on everything outside transforming the playing field
in front of the cafeteria into a viscous, semi-fluid mud hole. Seeing that huge
field of mud, our trainers told us that the gooey expanse was perfect for
playing a vicious Nepali game called “Kuvity-Kuvity.” They assured us that it
was a popular game played throughout their country. One day, after an unusually
heavy rain, they strung a rope at chest level across the sloppy field and told
us that everyone would participate. They
then randomly divided into two teams facing each other across the rope. One trainer dragged a water hose out to the
field to keep the field liquid and make things more interesting.
Each
team took turns, and a turn started when a courageous volunteer on the
offensive team ducked under the rope to the other side and, after tagging or
touching someone on the defensive team, return to their own side. Ducking under the rope and return to their
own team’s side had to be done with one breath of air. The tagged player of the other team had to
leave the field of play. To show that
the attacking player did not take a breath of air, they had to chant
“Kuvity-Kuvity” the entire time they were in enemy territory. Stopping the
chant for any reason eliminated them from the game and anyone they may have
tagged remained. When being attacked,
the defenders would back away from the intruder, drawing them deep into their own
territory. After the tag, the defending
team could do anything they wanted to keep the attacker from returning, or take
a breath. Sometimes, the attacker would
realize they could tag a defender and try to retreat. A retreating attacker could be delayed, take
a breath and be out of the game. Once an
attacker was back to his own side of the rope, or out of the game, the other
team became the attackers. This
back-and-forth action continued until everyone on one team was gone and the
other team was declared winners. “Kuvity-Kuvity”
has the potential of becoming a very violent game.
The trainers encouraged everyone
to play, but we could still stay on the sidelines if we wanted. Although I was hesitant at first to play, I
decided to participate and ignore my sense of foreboding. Besides, the trainers made it a mandatory
activity. Using the excuse that he
“needed to keep the field wet and slippery”, a trainer continuously sprayed
water from the sidelines somehow hitting the players as often as the ground. After a few rounds of play, tagging a number
of the opponents and safely retreating, I began to feel over confident. It was my turn again. Gulping a lung full of air and feeling
exhilarated from past success, I ducked under the rope and raced after my
chosen target chanting “Kuvity-Kuvity.” Quickly, I tagging my targeted opponent
deep in their territory and began my retreat.
I dodged one defender after another while slipping, sliding and falling across
the gooey toward my own side. Almost out
of breath and within feet of safety, the entire other team fell on top of me. They struck with such force that it knocked
what little air I had in me out. A
sudden flash of pain enveloped my chest.
One of my ribs was cracked. The “accident”
stopped the game.
The trainers bundled me into a
car and rushed me to the hospital.
There, the ER staff eventually took X-rays and, after waiting in pain
for what seemed an eternity, a doctor told me what I already suspected: I had a
broken rib. Wrapping my right arm
tightly against my side, he admonished me to keep it immobile and avoid doing
anything that made it hurt. He also gave
me a bottle of pills to take at my discretion for pain. The pills and a night’s sleep took the edge off
my agony and I returned to my classes the next day. A week later, the pain had eased enough for
me to go without pills or bandages. Our Nepali
trainers told us that “Kuvity-Kuvity” was a very popular, but I never saw
anyone in Nepal play it.
Even though our afternoons were to
study and practice our lessons, the staff scheduled most of our medical appointments
and enrichment activities for that time.
Conversely, the weekends were always free and the trainers were willing
to take us on outings. One weekend, Raji, one of our Nepali Trainers, had an appointment
in San Francisco and invited a few of us to join him. We could be tourists for a day. He and another trainer cramming as many of us
as possible into one car and drove us to San Francisco where we parked in an underground
lot. The two trainers encouraged us to stay
together or explore the town with at least one friend before they disappeared
on their own business. We would
rendezvous at the car later.
It was my first visit to San
Francisco and I was determined to see and do as much as possible. My fellow trainees and I discussed our
choices and decided to venture out into the city in pairs. My partner was JS, a volunteer from the
Midwest and one of my bunkhouse companions.
JS and I began our adventure with a cable car trip to the bay area. There, we went on a ferryboat ride, toured a nearby
wax museum and ate fresh seafood from outdoor vendors along the docks. I had my new camera with me and practiced
using it, snapping pictures of the Cable Cars, JS, sea gulls, Alcatraz Island
and unique architectural structures that caught my eye. While we wandered about, JS and I shared
stories about our families, why we had volunteered for the Peace Corps and our
expectations of training and our futures in Nepal. I discovered in him a kindred spirit with
whom I shared the uncertainty of my future, disillusionments in my ideals and a
great fear of failure. Strangely, JS’s
frustration with our training revitalized my enthusiasm for the Peace Corps and
boosted my confidence. We returned to
the underground parking area in better spirits and close friends.
The following weekend we returned
to San Francisco and watched the movie “Catch 22.” It is the fictional story of Captain
Yossarian, a B-25 bombardier stationed on the Mediterranean island of Pianosa
during World War II. He desperately
wanted to escape the insanity around him and eventually tries to paddle to Sweden
in a rubber raft. In the movie, Doc
Daneeka expressed the dilemma of “Catch 22” to him: “an airman ‘would be crazy
to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he'd have to fly
them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't, he was
sane and had to." The insanity of
the movie rekindled all my fears and doubts about joining the Peace Corps. By the end of the movie, I was feeling more
depressed than ever. The trip back to
Cactus Corners was uncomfortably warm and strangely silent with everyone
feeling depressed and tired. On the way,
my vision started to bother me and a familiar numbness crept into my right
arm. By the time we got back to camp,
the full-blown pain of a moderate migraine had set in. I barely made it to the dormitory, crawled
into bed and suffered all night. The
next day, I discovered that our feline comforter had disappeared. My spirits spiraled even lower. All day I felt discouraged, weak, alone and
without hope.
Near the end of December, we watched
an eight-hour movie about the tragic life and death of a little Hindu girl in northern
India. It was such a long movie that it was shown over two consecutive nights
in the recreation hall. An old 16-millimeter
school projector sat on the end of the Ping-Pong table and as we gathered, one of
our trainers laboriously threaded the first reel onto the projector. Two other trainers urged us to get
comfortable on the floor or metal chairs facing a small, portable screen
against the wall. After a brief
explanation, someone turned off the lights and the projector’s clacking whir
began. Flickering black-and-white images
dimly lit the entire room and within a few minutes, the slowly warming air became
stagnant, the cold metal chairs uncomfortable and our ability to pay attention
to the movie’s tedium waned. The poorly
produced and badly dubbed drama of pain, poverty, and death was excruciating to
follow, and the steady drone of the projector combined with stale air and a dimly
lit room had us all nodding in a stupor. I longed for some kind of intermission
and craved fresh air and something to eat or drink. After suffering for hours, I lost track of the
complex and confusing relationships within the girl’s family. I simply endured the horror and hoped for an
end. Sometime after midnight, when we
had finally finished and survived the first half of the movie, we retired to
our bunkhouses in silence.
During our afternoon free time
the next day, a small group of us asked a trainer to drive us to a local
grocery. Our mission: to procure
provisions to make the second half of the nightmarish movie bearable. Because the camp diet was woefully lacking in
fresh fruits and vegetables, we decided that, with the usual chips and drinks,
we would bring back some fresh produce. At
the store, we paired off and went on separate quests. I was with Lisa, a volunteer from California
with an infectious enthusiasm, and our mission was produce. It was another first: I was from the East
Coast where Kiwi, mangos and star fruit were unavailable. Again, I was in unfamiliar territory and unfamiliar
with most of the brands throughout the store.
While Lisa and I explored the bounties of fresh harvest, the other volunteers
disappeared down the many aisles that offered packaged snacks. I chose what was familiar to me like apples
and grapes, and Lisa selected a number of odd-shaped, motley-red fruits called
pomegranates. She gently laughed when I
confessed how unacquainted I was with the strange, lumpy fruits and assured me
that they were sweet and delicious. On
the ride back to camp, I promised to sample her treasured fruit if she would show
me how to eat it.
That night, while enduring the second
half of the grueling film, Lisa taught me how to enjoy the fabled
pomegranate. I learned how to pluck the
juice-covered seeds from their nesting places and suck the sweet nectar from
around them. The fruits, salty snacks
and soft drinks made that long night almost bearable. Near the end of the movie, I had an epiphany:
the story was really about that family’s value system, and the tragic ending
haunted me for years. After waiting outside
in a monsoon for her brother to come home, the thirteen-year-old protagonist
became terribly ill. Greatly suffering, she slowly died from a horrible
disease. For me, the movie was an
excessively long, depressing and heart-wrenching story. It did nothing to encourage me to go to such
a sad and deadly place. Because of that experience,
I promised myself that I would avoid movies that ended with the main characters
dying. I only want to see “happy
endings.”
The following day,
we experienced total immersion into the Nepali culture. The “All Nepali Day” started very early with
a “Dal Bhat” breakfast of sticky rice and a gruel made from dried split peas. It was served on plastic plates without the
luxury of utensils. We ate by scooping
up mouthfuls of food with the fingertips of our right hand – the left hand is
“unclean” – and pushing it into our mouths, being sure not to touch our lips
with our fingers. It is a messy way to
eat, but it is how eating is done by the rural people of Nepal. After breakfast, as part of our immersion, we
dressed as Nepali people, spoke only the Nepali language and drank the
ubiquitous hot, sweetened tea with creamer. When we greeted fellow volunteers with
“Namaste” and staff with “Namashkar,” we bowed at the waist and put our hands
together in front of us as if we were in prayer. Unfortunately, I had a Doctor’s appointment
later that afternoon and missed a special meal of lentil Dal served on a mound
of sticky rice. Along with the “Dal
Bhat,” the staff served a stew made with a mystery meat called “Kasi”. Lisa told me that it was a surprisingly spicy
dish. The next day I realized that the
goat was missing.
The
training at Cactus Corners ended a few days before Christmas and each of us
underwent an individual, final language evaluation. Based on the results, I would either go home and
become “canon fodder” or continue my training in Kathmandu, Nepal. I knew my
language skills were lacking, I only had a limited understanding Hinduism and
very unsure of the Nepali culture. I knew that, during the evaluation, I could
only speak Nepali and would be asked questions about Nepal, its culture and
both Hinduism and Buddhism. Before my late afternoon interview, I stressed over
every little detail and coped with nerve-racking anxiety an overwhelming sense
of doom. I numbly walked around and practiced
speaking Nepali over-and-over. When my
time finally came, I reported to the house-trailer at the entrance to the
compound. Inside, the secretary motioned
me to the small, middle room where Raji and another trainer waited. An empty, frighteningly stark chair sat
facing the trainers seated threateningly behind a bare white table. We spoke Nepali the entire time, and when my
ordeal was over, Raji told me I had achieved an FSI (Foreign Service Institute)
level 1 for my language skills. I would
continue my training in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. My relief was profound.
Twenty-four
of the over thirty-six volunteers who started would continue the training in the
country of Nepal. We only had a few days to be with our families before flying
out of the Los Angeles airport the day after Christmas and I looked forward to spending that
brief holiday with my sister at her small house on the slopes of Mount Baldy. Bea and my brother Walt picked me up at the
airport and drove me up to Bea’s mountain home.
Knowing that I would soon leave, my parents had already flown in from
Atlanta Georgia.
It was a glaringly bright and
snowy day, and the air at Mount Baldy was bitter cold. In contrast to the outside, Bea’s living room
had dark wood paneling and her dim lighting made her home feel wonderfully warm
and cozy. A small, freshly cut Christmas
tree, festively adorned with glistening ornaments and brightly colored lights,
stood in one corner. Underneath it,
carefully arranged to look unorganized, lay heaps of dazzlingly wrapped gifts
in an assortment of sizes and shapes waiting for Christmas morning. The smell
of roasting turkey and rich pumpkin pies combined with the aroma of a hardwood
fire crackling in an old pot-bellied stove.
The wonderful mixture of fragrances from the tree, glorious feast and
welcoming fire filled the air with comfort and the memories of all our past
family holidays. Outside, a thick blanket of glistening, freshly fallen snow
added a perfect seasonal touch.to the loving atmosphere. Joyful
family chatter filled my heart with lasting memories as I settled into a
comfortable, soft chair. That night,
Walt and I slept in the living room, cocooned in fresh smelling comforters and
gently lulled asleep by the sounds of winter.
Later, both my siblings told me I snored all night.
On
Christmas morning, after a wonderful breakfast of my father’s scrambled eggs,
we dressed and gathered around the shimmering Christmas tree. We sat and listened as my father read
passages from the Bible recounting the birth of Christ – It was a family
tradition. After revisiting the
Christmas Story, we cheerily exchanged presents, taking turns as a “Santa’s
Helper” to distribute each round of gifts. My most important and cherished gift
that morning was from my brother Walt: a beautiful silver ring with an
exciting, jagged, lightning bolt pattern that flashed in the light and seemed
to race across my finger. The moment I opened its velvet-lined box, I cherished
it as a symbol of our close brotherhood.
I envisioned that, no matter what distances or obstacles separated us,
my ring would always remind me of our life-long bonds of family, friendship,
love and of being twins. I know we both imagined my proudly wearing
that ring on my adventures exploring the mysteries of Nepal. It was the first ring I ever owned and,
although it was a little loose, I insisted on wearing it immediately.
We had a wonderful, leisurely,
late afternoon Christmas dinner of turkey with all the extra trimmings that
included mashed potatoes, succotash, cranberries and pumpkin pie with homemade
whipped cream. After washing the dishes,
Walt, Bea and I bundled up against the biting cold outside and ventured up the
mountainside. We trekked through the deep
snow along a wood shrouded path into a small valley called Ice House Canyon to
visit Bea’s close friends Karen and Leif. After the long, cold and tiring walk,
we finally trudged up to a welcoming and secluded wooden cabin tucked deep
inside a sheltering grove of giant trees.
Bea’s friends quickly invited us inside, urging us to warm ourselves by the
glowing fires inside their ancient, wood-burning, cook stove. The black, cast
iron bulk radiated soothing heat and the sweet smell of the wood mingled with
that of Karen’s pies baking within. My
enthusiasm warmed up as the chill from outside left me. Rubbing my hands together, I suddenly realized
that my new ring was no longer on my finger.
It had slipped off! It must have
happened on the long walk along that snowy trail. In a panic, I told the others
what happened and left the warm comfort of that little cabin home to retrace my
steps. Frantically, I searched for my
lost treasure in the snow and spent the rest of the afternoon hunting
back-and-forth along that snowy trail. I returned to my sister’s house in the
evening twilight, sad and discouraged. My precious ring was gone. That holiday
at Mount Baldy was the last Christmas we would be together as the family of my
youth. The next day, I left for
Kathmandu.
New customers entering the
teashop abruptly brought my thoughts back from that Christmas a year ago. Putting my empty glass on the ground next to
me, I struggled to my feet. After bidding the new customers “Namaste”, I bid
the shopkeeper goodbye, grabbing my backpack and walking stick, and ducked
through the doorway. Outside, I slung
the pack over my shoulders, shrugging it into place, and headed north. It was still early, but I had a long walk
ahead of me.
