The American Club

I am enjoying one of the pleasanter afternoons of my life. 


I am inside the confines of the elite American Club of Kathmandu. No cameras allowed. 


By US standards, the facilities aren't overly impressive, but in this underdeveloped city it feels like an oasis of sophistication. And for a girl like me with a bit of a romantic side, the rustic luxury is just right. I feel like I've stepped into an old Ingrid Bergman movie. Casablanca? 


And they have wireless. Joy!


Leah and I are camped out in an idyllic cafe, laptops, books and journals commandeering a table for four. The chairs are real rattan. The walls are hand molded brick, impressed with age and charming ornateness. The window walls open to tennis courts and swimming pool and sub-tropic gardens. Fans whir overhead.


This is not Kathmandu. This is Kathmandu for the movies, and is available for a monthly membership that neither Leah nor I deem priority. But oh my, it's heavenly to hang here and write, read, and strategize. 


We arrived this morning on invitation from the American Embassy to join a September eleventh commemorative ceremony. The event itself was a simple half hour nicety, but afforded us with the experience of such novelties as gentlemen in suits and ties, speeches in English, and (sigh) a color guard of US Marines. 


I was awed as ever as I gazed at Old Glory, hand over my heart, and heard the beloved anthem soar through the tent. 


And then the insects attacked. First the gentleman in front of us was bombarded my an evil, weevil-like creature, sending him into a dance and Leah and and me into a battle with the giggles. Next another winged monstrosity decided he liked Leah. More dancing.


Okay, so maybe this is Kathmandu.


I was in Kathmandu, surrounded by bugs and saffron robed monks, and the flag meant just that much more.




L.

Nepali Birthday Party

Maya lives on the outskirts of the city, far from Leah's familiar streets. We take a wrong "choke" (intersection) and get into a pickle trying to turn around, but look at the view we would have missed if we had stayed on track!

We drive as far as we can and then climb out for a short hike in to Maya's house. But the path is a mini river, so we get creative. Through a neighbor's porch and garden, only to get stuck at their locked back gate. We smile sweetly and "Namaste" to a young girl, as if it's perfectly normal for her to run into a couple of white "bideshis" in her own back yard. She smiles back and trots after the key. I snap photos while we wait.

Rice is a beautiful crop. I didn't know that. Did you?

The river runs beside the path here, which we find extremely convenient!

Hard to believe we were battling our way through the streets of Kathmandu less than an hour ago.

We need to keep moving, but I keep stopping for just one more shot. Poor Maya.

This little building houses a Bible club for kids, Leah tells me. "Jaymase!" She calls to the lady who hosts the club. Jaymase, Leah explains, is a greeting used only by Christians in Nepal, and is loosely interpreted: "Joy in Jesus." To use jaymase is to confess belief in Christ. A beautiful young woman in a red and gold Kurta has been following us on the trail for some time, eyes downcast. She lights up when she overhears the brief exchange. "Jaymase!" She greets Leah. 

Maya's house at last! Just ahead on the right.

A beaming birthday girl / cook / hostess greets us with the selfless concern that in the time we lost taking the wrong turn, we may have gotten hungry.

Everyone is thrilled to see Leah.  

The children greet us with giggles and hugs and a few proudly pronounced English words.

Deepak. A boy who loves and serves God, even at great personal sacrifice. He owns a special piece of Leah's heart.

The mosquito coil burns all evening, filling the room with a rustic incense.  

Maya's famous momos (steamed, stuffed dumplings), achaar, an extremely spicy, but delightful sauce, vegetables steamed to perfection, and an extra special treat concocted especially for Leah and me: chicken drumsticks, barbecued American style. Maya amazes me!

Lovely.

The ideal Nepali matriarch. From her perch on the bed, she gives out hugs and quiet orders with equal freedom.

Leah and I are served a feast while everyone else waits for cake. Leah is experienced. She finishes her first plate and accepts another and another, all while chatting merrily in Nepali and interpreting for me. It's a good thing I'm not required to talk. I'm busy enough making this delicious, but overabundant food disappear!

When our dinners are complete, Maya brings out Leah's "alchi" cake. Alchi means lazy, and is Maya's teasing description of the store-bought mix Leah used to bake it.

"You're one year old, Maya!" Leah jokes in Nepali. We all laugh together and then sing "Happy Birthday" in two languages, at the top of our lungs.

Everyone gets to join the celebration at cake time.

"Ama"(mother) leans in and tweaks Leah's nose. "You're so cute!" Leah laughs. Ama reminds Leah that she is missing her teeth.

A lot of happy people live in this room!

Pepsi and Mountain Dew for everyone!

The kids admire my locket.

They carefully repeat the names. "Lee, Will, Reagan, Marc . . ." They give up when I say "Baby Olivia."

 

"Are they your children?" "No, they are my sisters' children." Leah explains in Nepali and then informs me it would be perfectly appropriate for me to claim my niece and nephews as my own, and would not imply I'm actually their mother. I like it.

We sit and exchange stories late into the evening. Most of the tales recount the hilarious experiences of working in the homes of the more fortunate.

Maya is chief story-teller. It takes her twice as long as it should, because every account has to be retold to me in English. But no one seems to mind. 

As the evening winds down, Maya's new husband Birbahadur arrives home. He is courteous and genteel and makes an effort to welcome us with English phrases and western etiquette.

"May I take your picture?" Maya seems both proud and shy. And very happy.

The older children walk us back to the car with a flashlight. Deepak wants to tell me something and asks Leah to help him. He reaches up and puts his arm around me as he speaks. Leah interprets: "He says he will pray for you." Leah doesn't have to tell me he really will.

L.

"They Don't Know About Heaven!"

It was the answer to my own leading question, but the words still shocked me. "They don't know about heaven!" The little Laotian girl in my Sunday School class back home was talking about people she loved and her voice was intense with urgency. I looked into her eyes and was forced to ask myself the questions that have only burned themselves deeper into my soul since arriving in Boudha a few days ago:

"What would it be like to live without knowing about heaven?" 

And, "If you didn't know about heaven, 

what would it be like to die?"

L.