It
is late afternoon on a crisp Spring Nepalese day and I am high in the Himalaya mountains.
I am with my brother and our Nepalese friends. We are in a village called
Katunge.
Say
it Kar Toon Jay.
It
is heaven on a stick.
As I
tap away at my keypad the sun is setting behind the monolith Ganesh Himalay. It
is more than eight thousand meters tall and it is the second highest mountain
in the world. I have had to pause my writing to take in the spectacle. It is glorious.
OK it
has taken away what little breath I had remaining.
I am
sitting in a battered and sagging wicker armchair on the veranda of the Future
Village Visitors centre. I am obviously gasping. When we arrived about fourty
very excited mountain children were there to greet us. We laughed and played
until teacher chased the last of the children away an hour or so ago.
If
you have been here before you can imagine exactly where I am.
It
is divine.
We
thumped and bumped and shook our way up and down many mountains today - from
dawn until dusk. The ‘we’ being my brother, our old friends Bhim and Dambar, and
another old friend and our driver Babu.
Say
it ‘Baaaar boooo”
Katunge
is a difficult destination. The journey is long and bone shaking and is on
perilous tracks with precipitous drops. It is at times a little terrifying. The
battering is always worth the while though.
Always.
The
people and the children of the Himalaya are as spectacular as the scenery in
which they live and being here is a very special time. Dare I say it is spiritual?
I
dare not.
I
have no such strength of conviction and I have little faith in my fellow man –
let alone belief in an unseen force.
I
have no time for despots or deities.
The
world is mostly a fucked up place but this however is a special spot – with
special people. For me it is precious time and a big moment being here.
It
really is.
Big
moments fly past us infrequently and we all of us need them.
We
must snatch them when we can.
It
was an exciting day yesterday in Kathmandu. It was a day of meetings over
breakfast and afternoon teas. We had breakfast with a Holy Man and then tea
this afternoon with a Hillary – the grand-daughter of Sir Edmond.
Then
we visited a school we are friends of and where we support a ‘Going Home”
program for children who come from the faraway and very high Himalayan region
of Dolpa. They are the children of Tibetan Buddhist refugees who fled the
country when the Chinese occupied it.
These
children are the brightest of the bright and they were selected by their
schools and families to get a secondary education – which is only attainable in
Kathmandu. The Dolpa region is a long way away. It is twelve-day journey of
little planes and old buses and horse riding and walking.
Lots
of walking.
Very
steep walking.
The
travel distance and cost of going home to see their families is beyond the
budgets of most families so most kids will not go home at all until they finish
their education. That’s twelve years. Not seeing their mums and dads and
brothers and sisters for more than a decade. I can’t imagine the anguish of
such separation. It is tough. It is sad.
So some
friends and I help out each year and send home ten.
Kids
that is.
This
year eleven.
I am
not sure why eleven but we don’t mind at all.
It
doesn’t cost all that much – not by the standards of the people we mostly hang
around with. About three hundred dollars per kid.
Fuck
all.
The
school principal and his staff pick the children who are to go home and in
previous years I have just sent a cheque. This year my brother and I were in
Nepal just before this year’s group were due to go home so we went and met the
‘going home’ children at the school.
Eleven
of them.
They
are Karma and Karan and Pema and Bikash. There is Ayush and Bishwonath and
Sonam and Norbu and Tsering and Anil and Dup.
None
of these kids have returned to their homes for more than ten years. Not once.
Ten
years!
I
kid you not.
For
nearly their entire childhood the brightest of the mountain children of Dolpa are
separated from parents and grandparents. They have been apart from their
brothers and sisters and their aunts and uncles. They have missed births and
deaths and weddings and funerals and they have grown up alone. This is the
price that must be paid for an education for the majority of the mountain
people of Nepal.
The
bravery and perseverance and sacrifice that is made is remarkable.
It
really is.
I am
an absent parent.
I
know separation.
Not
for ten years though. Never for ten years.
My
brother has decided to stay on and go along this year with six of the eleven. He
is going to a very high area of Nepal called Dolpa with Karma and Karan and
Pema and with Bikash and Ayush and Bishwonath It was a spontaneous decision -
to go with them. We are over here anyhow and after meeting the kids Richard
just decided he wanted to see the faraway place these kids came from and to
witness the long going home.
He
told me that he felt compelled and it was a moment that he could not miss. I
told him that I didn’t need convincing. If I were physically up for it I would
do it in a blink.
I
told Richard that walking at the height of the Dolpa would certainly kill me
and he told me that he agreed.
My
brother is younger and fitter and stronger than me and he trains and works out
every day. He is a big unit.
He
is a very big unit.
I will
not mention nor indeed elaborate on the fact that my little brother has a very
big dick. I have mentioned it before in my writing and my mother didn’t like
it.
She
didn’t like it at all.
Mum
of course knows that we are both over here and she is worried that we are safe
and well. We are Mum.
-
Safe and well.
Richard
sends his love.
My
brother and I worry a lot when our mother worries which only worries her more.
And
on it goes.
I am
leaving Nepal in a couple of days but Richard won’t be going home for a while.
He is going to walk home with some sensational Nepalese kids in the Dolpa
region of the Himalaya. It is going to be a big walk and there are going to be
big moments.
He
will be on the top of the world.
The
going homes that he will witness will be fantastic.
They
will be sensational.
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