I really wasn’t feeling too special when I crawled out of bed at the hideous hour of 5.15am. I threw some clothes on and then took an unhappy leave of a sleepy and cosy looking Annie. It had been a brief but wonderful weekend and I had much to look forward to on my return to Asia in 8 days time. Her flight to Bangkok was early in the afternoon and I knew she’d be long gone by the time I got back to the hotel.
Uttam was waiting for me at the gates of the school and proceeded to inform me how lucky I was to be in the newspaper once again. My fuddled mind was more than a little bemused until I realised that Uttam, ever the PR king, had cunningly managed to get me involved in the actual opening day at Bhaktapur. I wasn’t displeased at the thought of witnessing such an auspicious occasion but I knew that any hopes of a quick there-and-back inspection had gone out of the window…and probably with it, the carefully laid plans I’d made for the day. He gave me a whirlwind, terrifying ride through the back streets and over the fields to Bhaktapur. Once there, I was a little bemused by the need for such an early departure. I ended up eating a non-descript breakfast at an establishment with dubious looking hygiene standards and then spent over two hours waiting for the action to commence, with ever dwindling hopes of making it back to town in time to learn how to cook dal bhat from Ram’s wife, Sarita.
I spent the first hour, curled up on a bench in one of the newly-finished classrooms, trying to catch up on some sleep. Then the guest of honour arrived - the King’s swami (holy man) and a paragon of educational endeavour, who had learnt to read and write at the age of 28, before going on to earn a doctorate. The only problem with the arrival of this extremely important man was the utter absence of Uttam and the busload of pupils from the school, who were due to greet the new members of their ‘family’ in a special welcoming ceremony.
While I sat, uncomfortably, next to the swami in awkward silence (he’s extremely deaf and has similar English skills to my Nepali), the playground area began to fill up with excited children and expectant parents. The clock ticked on and there was still no sign of Uttam or the kids and soon it looked like things might turn sour. However, in the nick of time, a bus pulled up and the bright rainbow colours of Samata School (and Michael) came streaming off to take their places inside the gate. Our swami (somewhat disgruntled by this point) assumed the position with a large bowl of tikka and began to bless the new pupils as they entered the school grounds to be greeted by a counterpart from the other school. After he’d blessed a reasonable number, he took his leave and roared off back to Kathmandu in a clapped out, Peugeot ‘limousine’. Uttam took ever the blessing responsibilities and the playground was soon full of neat legions of young childred, eager to get into the classroom and start their first day of school.
I was aware that time was starting to get away from me and started rounding up people to say goodbye to so that I’d be ready to jump on Uttam’s bike, the minute he was free. Firstly, I took my leave of Michael. He’d been a welcome addition to our little crew and I knew my kids would thrive in his capable hands until he too would hand over the reins to someone else. I’d enjoyed his company and we’d become good friends so I knew we’d be seeking each other out in London (or Harrogate) when we both returned home after our trips.
Several of the girls I’d promised photos to, were among the prefects there to look after these new kids and I was able to give them their pics with quickly scrawled notes on the back. More than anything, I wanted these girls to believe in themselves and stick with their education, no matter what external pressures they experienced. I was sad to be leaving them but, at the same time, looking forward to coming back and finding them all developing into the leaders I knew they were all capable of becoming. There was a tear in my eye and a catch in my throat as I wished them all goodbye and I dearly wished that the social mores of their society had allowed me to give them all the big hug they deserved.
After this melancholy parting, I was in a hurry to leave and hide my emotions and I finally managed to prise Uttam away for another hair-raising ride back to town. Once there, I made a quick tour of the classrooms and said one final goodbye to the rest of the children, feeling awkward to be interrupting their lessons but glad at the universally affectionate response I received.
Uttam drove me up to Ram and Sarita’s and joined Ram and I for a quick cup of tea by means of a proper farewell. This truly remarkable man had made a huge impression on my life and I knew I’d be returning one day soon to try and help him achieve his incredible dream.
A little later than planned, after Uttam had gone to fly back to Bhaktapur, Sarita set about showing me how to make the remarkably simple, yet delicious and healthy dal bhat. I paid close attention and scribbled detailed notes in my book so that I’d be able to replicate her fantastic cooking back home in England. We sat down to a tasty lunch and discussed the highs and (minimal) lows of my 3½ months in Nepal. Ram had always provided me with excellent support during my stay as well as immeasurable amounts of valuable advice. I knew he would be travelling to England not long after my short visit home and I was disappointed that I would be unable to avail him of my hospitality in repayment for all his kind help and Sarita’s delicious fare. We parted with promises to stay in touch and, as I walked up the road to catch a taxi to Thamel, I felt another part of my life in Nepal begin to painfully fade into realm of the past.
Back at the hotel, I had a frantic 45 minutes to try and pack my overflowing bags. This achieved, I ran round to Lotus to pick up my paintings and a large parcel containing the frames for my paintings. Santosh arrived in the nick of time, just as I was leaving, and we said goodbye and promised to keep in touch. If the paintings I’d bought could find a market in the UK, there was every chance that I’d be able to return to Nepal quite regularly over the coming years, using the paintings to fund the necessary flights. This really appealed to me as a means of keeping in touch with the school until I was able to return in a more useful capacity…and it would be nice to do some business with Santosh as well as maintaining our friendship. With tourist numbers in Nepal at an all-time low, I knew it could make a real difference to his success, if I was able to make some regular purchases. We enjoyed a hurried cup of tea (one last blast of Nepali hospitality) and then I was scampering back to the hotel, weighed down by my recent acquisitions.
Here I found my car waiting outside and Mahendra and Suriya waiting inside. They both had presents for me (a beautiful bronze Buddha mask from Mahendra and a very nice, hand-made Tibetan paper journal from Suriya) and I was a little overwhelmed as they also presented me with khata (silk scarves, given as a sign of respect or great friendship), which they placed around my neck. I realised that I’d been lucky to meet some of the best people during my stay in Kathmandu. People who I would always consider to be friends and of whom I would hold some fond and remarkable memories. I promised to keep in touch and, if the opportunity arose, to send any business their ways. As I climbed into the car for the airport, I realised that my great journey in Nepal and come to a close. I’d learnt a lot about myself, made some truly outstanding friends and seen a great deal of this magical country and her beautiful people. Of course, there were many places I hadn’t seen – not least the Royal Chitwan National Park, the western reaches of the lowland Terai (including Lumbini, the birthplace of Gautama Buddha) and the many rivers and mountains that so dominate the fascinating topography of this country of extremes. However, I knew that I’d be returning and have ample time to explore these other delights and, in the meantime, I was sad to be leaving behind the people who, in such a short time, had come to mean so much to me.
I arrived at the airport to discover that my flight was delayed due to the atrocious weather, which seemed to have blown in out of nowhere. I had 6 hours leeway in Mumbai to make my flight to London so I wasn’t unduly worried and settled down to work on the laptop, under the assumption that I’d be able to connect to the internet in Mumbai and send some mail and update my site. The plane eventually left two hours late and, as the city quickly disappeared under a thick blanket of cloud, I realised I was leaving Kathmandu in exactly the same conditions with which it had greeted me on my arrival.
Mumbai was, for me, just an airport – and not a particularly comfortable or useful one either. There was no internet access, a total lack of communication regarding my connecting flight (caused by the fact that the flight had only been running for a week and the staff in my arrival terminal (1) were still totally unaware of its operation from terminal 2), and a private lounge that I paid to enter, only to discover that alcoholic drinks were not free. In the end, with excellent assistance from the ground staff of British Midlands International, I was loaded onto a spangly new plane that was virtually empty and afforded me an opportunity to stretch out and get some sleep after watching a couple of films. The cabin crew were also excellent and very helpful and I couldn’t have asked for a better flight home.
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