The Boy from Kathmandu

I met Kali in Kathmandu on an April afternoon, 2006, when I was trying to find the Yeti Airlines ticket office before closing. The barefoot boy approached me, holding a tray with three small stale-looking cookies. I recognized the boy. I had seen him on the streets two weeks prior, when I was in Kathmandu before my EBC trek. “Want to buy a biscuit?” he asked. When I declined, the boy asked if I was trying to find my hotel. Did I look lost? Maybe he was looking for ways to show acts of kindess in return for US dollars. I told him where I was going and he led me there, barely a minute away. There was a huge sign on top of the building that said Yeti. How had I missed it? I thanked him and handed him a dollar. When I walked out of the building 45 minutes later, the boy was waiting for me. Did I need help finding my hotel, he wanted to know. No, I knew how to get there, I told him. He still tried to sell me a biscuit. As we walked side-by-side, I learned that the boy was eleven years old and his name was Kali. As he spoke to me in perfect English, I could not help but notice his bare, dirty, scraped and calloused feet. Sad. But no way was I going to just hand him money out of sympathy or to encourage him to go away. As he warmed his way into my heart, I asked him if he had shoes and he said “No.” By the looks of Kali’s feet, I doubted he had ever owned a pair. Then suddenly, I felt an urge to do something special for this young boy. I told Kali that if we saw a shoe shop, I would buy him a pair of shoes. He looked at me quizzically, like he was not sure he had heard me right. We went into a popular outfitters store and I asked if they carried children’s shoe sizes. (They didn’t.) Two American climbers overheard my question and one gave me his advice that the best thing for me to do was ignore the beggars. Not worth a comment! Continuing on, Kali led me down a side street and into a small shoe store, obscure and sandwiched in between many other shops. Within five minutes, he picked out a pair of white tennis shoes (with a little bit of growing room) and a pair of blue socks. His eyes had grown three times in size, and his face expressed wonder and disbelief. He looked down at his feet, never looking up as he tried out his new shoes along the narrow sidewalk. Watching his awkwardness, I could tell he was adjusting to an unfamiliar feeling. And watching his expression, I knew without a doubt that this was Kali’s first pair of shoes. By now it was after 6 o’clock and dark and unsafe for me to continue on foot to my hotel, due to the political unrest. As I hailed a rickshaw, I told Kali goodbye. He insisted on climbing into the rickshaw with me. Was he expecting a dollar? Did he want to know where I was staying so he could come back to see me tomorrow? Or did he simply want to be friends with someone who had bought him his first pair of shoes? During the short ride, Kali kept his eyes on his feet. When the driver left us off, I sadly said goodbye to Kali, holding back tears, and told him I would be leaving Kathmandu the next morning.

For the next three days while I was in the Chitwan National Park, I thought often of the boy who left an imprint on my heart and soul. Would he sell the shoes for money? Or would he proudly wear them each day while peddling biscuits? My curiosity got the best of me, and I decided that I would head straight to the Central district to find Kali after arriving back in Kathmandu. This plan fell apart because the city was in “lock down” when I returned. All banks, stores, and restaurants were closed and visitors were confined to their hotels. I left for the US the following morning.

Today, Kali is a teenager and I wonder if I would recognize him. I’ve often reflected on how our chance meeting and a new pair of shoes may have made a difference in Kali’s life. I would love to cross paths with Kali again, someday.

As a young girl, 10ish or so, I was left at Mary and Herman Linne’s for a couple of weeks. From the midst of a troubled childhood, I never forgot the attention and peace I took in while in their home. Herman would simply sit out in the yard under the trees with me and feed the squirles. I discovered the joy of strawberry milk which Mary would serve me. And at bedtime as a regular routine, Herman would fix himself a huge bowl of icecream and for me a more normal size! Kindness is always a pleasure and sometimes, an unexpected difference is made in one’s life.

It was my first year out of ITMI and I had a group from Great Britain.

Many were elderly, but one couple looked like they could be parents of the rest.  They appeared frail and had knees that longed for rest stops. They moved on and off the coach with difficulty. But their minds were as sharp as a new Ginsu.

As we approached Niagara Falls I joked that I had misread the map and was now disappointed cuz I thought it had said Viagra. Without missing a beat she whipped her head to the side looking out the window in mock disgust and quipped, “Yeah, I was hopin’ the same thing.”

He usually had residue from food and drink on his shirt and there was evidence of a bladder problem. Somewhat shy and soft spoken. He mentioned to me more than once he sad that this would be their last trip to North America. But once he felt comfortable he shared stories. And he had much to tell.

He was an artist and had been drafted into the Royal Navy during WW II. He said he reported to this huge recruiting hall full of young men receiving oders and completing paperwork. In the midst of it all he heard his name called over  loud speaker.

An officer took him into an adjoining office and explained that he possessed talents that could be used at home. He said he looked out into the hall and asked the officer if someone would have to go in his place. He said the officer told him yes.

With that he refused and reported for active duty. He found himself below decks in the South Pacific when General Quarters was sounded. He scampered up a ladder and swung open a hatch and popped up waist high onto the weather deck. He was stopped short staring up into the muzzle of a Japanese rifle.

He said he and the young Japanese sailor locked stares, but only for a moment. There there was a flash of orange and smoke filled the air. He was wounded in of all places the fingers that held his brush and the arm that moved it over his work.  There was limited movement of his arm and middle and ring fingers were numb and stiff.

His talent now came with new challenges. But it did not stop him. Upon his return to England he was commissioned to paint script below the windows and some art in the Chapter House at West Minster Abbey. He said the original, dating back centuries, had been destroyed by Nazi bombs.

I was sad on a visit to the Abbey last year to find the Chapter House locked.

But most of all I am sad when I think of him and his wife. I wonder about his return to the UK. His children. And if they really appreciated him. And if he had been as forthcoming with those close to him and he was with a stranger from another continent. And if they knew all he had done surviving the Japanese and later celebrating victory over the Germans with palate and brush. And I wonder how many new years might have been left for him and his wife.

Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind.  The very best wishes to you and yours for the holiday and the new year.

Darrell Hosack

ITMI #170

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all.

On one of my Alaska trips I had a guest, Erma Smith, who celebrated her 90th birthday with us. It was a small group and everyone looked out for her. I got her a coursage first thing in the morning and we had all signed her card.

Our first stop was the museum in Fairbanks where we mentioned her birthday.

Lunch at the gold mine with cake and song.

Next stop was on the boat excursion with 300 people. My group was the only one to depart before everyone else that day. I asked the announcer to mention that one of my guests, Erma, celebrated her 90th birthday. He thought I was crazy. She stood up and said “that’s me” and spontanously everyone on the boat sang her “Happy “Birthday”. We had dinner and, of course, there was a cake and a “Happy Birthday” from everyone in in the restaurant.

All in all, it was one of the most memorable tours for us all. I found out later on that she only lived another 6 months but talked about her tour for the rest of her life.

Ulla Kaprielian

Hello, I haven’t been active as a tour guide since taking your seminar for tour guiding in 2000, but am still interested in the touring profession. After reading your note regarding meeting people who are interesting, I thought I’d share with you my wife and my experience.    From October 2008 until October  2009 we spent a year in Moscow, Russia.   My wife is of Russian/Ukrainian  heritage with her father having  served in the Soviet army in WWII and being a German prisoner of war for the last four or so years of the war.   My wife grew up in Marrakech,Morocco going to French schools and speaking Russian at home.  Her father had a pre-Bolshevik education and spoke “Pushkin” or “intelligentsia” Russian which she learned at home.   She was offered a position through a company which hires people, including linguists, to work for the American embassy.    As a result we lived in Moscow and saw much of the Moscow including  surrounding historical and cultural sites.   We spent a year with out an automobile and used the Metro to get around.    The system as most know is extensive and we thought relatively cheap.     With a Metro map and my wife’s Russian skills we either walked or rode to also every attraction in the Moscow region and nearby “Golden Ring” cities. Two groups of people come to mind.   One was the American Embassy workers my wife worked with who were from all over the U.S. from Washington  D.C. to California and the other were the  Russians living in Moscow.     The Russians were at first a little leery when my wife asked directions or information, but, after they heard her Russian were helpful and curious.     Included in the group were some young Russian girls who worked in a gated foreign housing area called Rosinka  about 10 or 12 miles northwest of the American Embassy  where many American workers lived.       I found it interesting to talk to them and try get an idea of their education background and what they knew about the world outside of Russia.    They worked in the gated community offices and community center because they spoke and had studied English.   The group I thought were interested because they representative of  the future of Russia, including the Russian view of the outside world and the United States.      Although educated these young ladies had biases based on the past like many of our youth also have.   This included a limited awareness of things not Russian.    When Michael Jackson died in June, there was a big display set up outside the American Embassy in his memory. Young Russians are interested in American entertainment icons, but, unfortunate, like young Americans, accepted views of the world from previous times.    World War II was a war fought between Russia and Nazi Germany.     Oh yes,there was fighting in other areas, but, only secondary to the “Great Patriotic War.’
These experience are some which a tour group would not be able to obtain on a limited time tour of a place such as Moscow or St. Petersburg.    Moscow is not high on tour places for American or Western tourists, but I believe it would be very enlightening for many.    In the spring of the year the American Consulate office had Russian youths lined up to get visas for  foreign travel, many for summer visits to the U.S., but I cannot recall talking to any American young in  Moscow.   The year was enlightening, but, I realize not practical for tours by American for profit tour companies.  Unfortunately both the American employed overseas and the locals are interesting if you have long enough to get to know them.    Unfortunately  this is not the case.   Ray Pregl     winter -  2000 ITMI seminar

The year was 1992 sometime near the end of February and I was returning from Nova Scotia to Vancouver via Toronto after spending several weeks with my mother who at the time was critically ill. As it was, I was using “points” for this flight since at that particular time in my life, I did not possess very much money but was fortunate enough to have accrued enough credit with the airline to be able to make this trip. Upon arriving in Toronto and while waiting for my connecting flight to Vancouver, I sat next to a young man who’s age I would have guessed to be late twenties or early thirties. He indicated he had just spent a month visiting with his mother and this was probably the last time he would see her as he revealed to me that he was in the final stages of a terminal illness. As it turned out, we were on the same flight to Vancouver and he told me he had tried to get a window seat as he really wanted the opportunity to see his country from the air is this would in all likliehood be his final trip across Canada. Unfortuantely the boarding agent had told him there were no window seats available for this flight. I then looked at my boarding pass for the flight and realized I had a window seat. I excused myself and went to the gate agent and explained to her that I would like to give this young man my seat and would in turn take his middle seat which was further down the aisle on the aircraft and asked her not to tell the young man I had made his request for a window seat possible. The agent then looked at her colleague and back at me and they both had tears in their eyes as she handed me my new boarding pass and then went over to the young man to let him know a window seat had become available. By this time, the flight was boarding and I watched from a distance as the young man slowly and with some difficulty got up from his seat and proceeded down the gangway and onto the aircraft before I myself headed that way and upon arriving at the door of the plane was met by both gate agents I had met earlier as well as the captain, the latter who invited me to be seated in the forward cabin of the aircraft which I thought a bit strange at the time. Upon landing in Vancouver, I looked for the young man as I wanted to ask him if he had enjoyed the flight. I did not see him leave the aircraft nor was I able to locate him in the luggage area nor outside the arrival area of the terminal. In fact, I never saw him again and have to this day no idea who he was or how long he may have lived after our meeting. On the many occassions I have had to fly back and forth across Canada, I have often reflected on that day back in February 1992 when I met a complete stranger and how in the space of a very short time he managed to change how I viewed the frailty of life and the wonderful gift we are given from the time we take our first breath until we breathe our last. As I sit here putting together this I am reminded of the poem possibly written by the Polish poet, Aleksandra Lachut which I have pasted below and called:

A   R EA S O N   A   S E A S O N   O R   A   L I F E T I M E

So, the question for you, I guess is: did this young man come into my life for a reason, a season or a lifetime? I will leave it to the reader to ponder this for themselves and come to their own conclusion. As for myself, I know today I have the answer and know who I have to thank.

Snowshoeing to Chickadee Point-Lake Tahoe & Friendships that Last A Lifetime

By Mark Bradley

High in the Sierra Nevadas overlooking Lake Tahoe you’ll find a magical place called Chickadee Point.  Wild chickadees welcomed us with a song and ate from our hands as they chirped and fluttered about the snow covered Ponderosa pines. You won’t find it on any map and it’s only accessible during the winter by snowshoe or cross country ski.  So how did I find it?

When my friend Donna Miller Nielsen (IVC ’73 Classmate) and I set out last month on snowshoes we were fulfilling a pledge we had made in Sept. 2003 at our 30 year high school reunion.  Donna now lives in nearby Reno NV and we have known each other almost 44 years going back to first grade in Rome.  We had decided there was some life left in us yet so we invited classmates Roger Anderson, Greg Brown, and others to join us in the adventure.  Sadly, it was only the two of us who set out through this winter wonderland to explore the beauty of the high Sierras.

As we approach our 50^th birthdays later this year, we reminisced about growing up in Rome and Chillicothe.   Tromping through the 6-10 foot snowpack brought back memories of a big snowstorm during the ‘60’s when we were in Rome and how she had to commandeer the family tractor to make it to school.   But we also realized how lucky we were to be able to reestablish our friendship and to understand the signifigance of friends and family as we get older.

As we emerged from the forest after plodding up a ridge, the glory of God’s creation lay before us.   The wide expanse of Lake Tahoe shimmered below surrounded by a majestic crown of snow capped mountains.   I’m not sure what was more breathtaking- the scenery or the high altitude (8,500 feet) we had reached.  Nevertheless, we knew we had stumbled upon a unique place that only a few will find and enjoy.

I have traveled the world in the last few years observing different countries and cultures.  I have observed the Masai tribe in Africa; the Incas in Peru; and the Aborigines in Australia.  Many of these people live in poverty and conditions beyond our imagination yet they are content and happy.  Why?

Because they understand that all that really matters in the end is family, friends, and a sense of community welfare.  This same realization struck me as Donna and I led an expedition of friends back to Chickadee Point for a wine and cheese party that weekend.  We were among the few who get it.