April 2016

I am four stories high and can somehow still hear people spitting down on the street over 40 feet below. Dogs are barking and horns are blowing and voices are yelling. The sheets in the room are dirty and the sink water goes straight to the floor through the pipe that isn’t there. The streets smell of spices and some buildings have wooden pillars diagonally pressed against their walls as reinforcement.  Rocks, dust and dirt mix beneath my feet. Anything white gets bronze. Unlike other places I’ve encountered most of the store owners in Nepal listen when you say No Thank You.

I am crammed onto a bus that breaks down twice on our way to the village. I am sandwiched next to strangers who smile like family, squished beside neighbors who become a second skin. I am hot and incredibly uncomfortable and I don’t know what minute movement I’ll have to make next in order to relieve the pain in my hip and my knee and my tail bone, but I know somehow, with no clear plan, that I’ll shift just enough to last me the next few moments, and then the next few moments, and then the next few moments. I smile in awe of knowing that every local around me knows no other way than this.

I am sitting on a straw mat surrounded by a family who barely speaks english. A USAID tarp is used as their floor. It’s 5pm and they’re waiting for the water to come. They have access to water two hours a day and they use it wisely filling up tubs and setting them aside for dishes, showering, drinking, cooking. They wash up to their elbows and knees, splash water on their face, continue to smile, offer me tea, offer me dinner, invite me back anytime. We walk the fields and nearly every home we pass invites us in. The few who speak english say, “This is my new house!” and point at what they’ve managed to build since the earthquake. Their faces beaming, hands pointing, This Is My New Home they’d say. So resilient.

I am alone on the 5th floor in our $6 hotel room when the lights black out and the building sways. I immediately scoot forward and grip the mattress that I’m sitting on. I am frozen, every cell in my body alert and vibrating, and am sizing up the option of bracing myself beneath the door way or running downstairs outside. Nothing else happens and I remain motionless for several minutes. The commotion commences down below as if this is normal. Aftershocks. One year later and they’re still experiencing aftershocks.

I am at 9,000ft in the Himalayas and my eyes brim with tears as the sun rises upon a mountain top that I swear is the same exact peak my mom had a picture of up in her room during my entire childhood. I stand and watch the light shift the shadow, witness the sun brighten up the snow – so white – standing, breathing, thinking My God, this is it Mama, This Is It – You Made It. The sun moves quick and an hour passes, just like the clouds below that move through the valley. We retreat for breakfast, apple pancakes, and I am changed.

Everyone stares. A lot. And asks questions and calls you sister and brother and friend. The greeting “Namaste” resounds throughout every corner and cab and coffee shop, every street vender and local and tourist alike. “Namaste, Didi” my host sister would say to me sweetly. I’d smile back and warmly respond, “Namaste, Didi”. Hello, Sister – Good Morning, Sister – I See You, Sister. “Namaste”, “Namaste”, “Namaste”, the streets ring.