Nepal Part 2: Hope Among the Ruins

Laxmi (our lovely program director of the Nepal Hemophilia

When visiting developing countries, I love visiting hemophilia families out in their homes, something I’ve been doing for almost 20 years. These can
be rough days. It’s hot, we’re at a high altitude in Kathmandu, Nepal; my heart
pounds when I exert myself too much, and I get dehydrated quickly. But think of
what these families endure, especially post-earthquake. They give me strength.

Binita’s house 

Binita and son Aayush
Laurie Kelley and Aayush 
Ujol, Guyatri, Binita, Laurie, Barun, Nirmal, Manil
Society), Gyatri (admin assistant) and Beda (person with hemophilia and president of NHS) came at 10 to get me in a sturdy land rover. I had four gift bags of donated
items for any kids we would visit. We dodged
the traffic jams of downtown Kathmandu and hit the outskirts. Our first stop was not too far. We parked the
car, stepped out. Before starting the ascent of stairs to our first home, I noticed a lowly worm
writing in the dust at the foot of the first stair, ants crawling on it. I love
garden creatures, worms especially (I guess because they are so helpless), and
always am fascinated when I find them. To the horror of my hosts, I bent over
and picked it up and tossed it gently into the plants, so it could live. The
ants would surely eat it. Laxmi gasped… but Beda said, “It’s a living thing,
too.” “Yes, I added, and they are good for the earth.” I made them laugh when I
cheered, “Save One Life!” Or worm.

Living in a shed
The house we
visited was grand, tall, mounted on a small hill. But it was damaged in the earthquake
and now has been deemed unlivable. Binita greeted us; she’s a beautiful woman, but
her eyes carry such sadness in them. Her husband, a handsome man in his early
40s, died last year of cancer. This leaves her a widow, never able to remarry
according to custom, and alone now with a child with hemophilia in a land that
provides no factor, save for donations that trickle in. There are never enough
donations for the needs.
She greeted me
warmly and we hugged, as if we had known each other for years. We gingerly stepped
inside. Cracks and fallen plaster abounded. We climbed the wooden stairs, up to
the second and then third floors, until we stood on the upper balcony, which
provided a rich view of lush Kathmandu Valley. What a shame; this is truly a
lovely house.
Aayush, her son,
a handsome young boy with a dazzling smile gladly let us take photos.
Back downstairs
and we navigated through the dirt and sometimes mud to Binita’s temporary
house. This means she lives in a corrugated steel shed. Yes, a shed. It bakes
them in the intense heat, and deafens them when the rains come. There is no
insulation or luxury. The carpets on the floor were soaked. We kicked off our
shoes at the door, as is the custom, before entering and our feet were wet
immediately. Kindly, Binita poured us Mountain Dew, a popular drink here. We sat and chatted. On the wall were photos of
her and her husband from when they got married. A beautiful couple, full of
hope.
I asked Laxmi
about her situation. “Will she be able to remarry one day?” “Oh no,” Laxmi
said. “She cannot.” Many women, some young, lost their husbands during the
decade-long armed Maoist insurgency, I’ve read. To remarry, even when widowed
at the tender age of 21, would be to flaunt the social order. And the pressure
can be intense and cruel. It’s difficult for a woman to be single here. Almost
impossible. Binita added, “Nine people live here too.” Her in-laws, and more. I
looked around slowly. The shed couldn’t be more than 15 ft x 20 ft. Nine
people…
Reconstruction everywhere

When we emerged from the
shed, we caught Barun (a man with hemophilia who used to be on the executive
committee of the Nepal Hemophilia Society) smoking over by a barrel. We
tsk-tsked him but he jokingly quipped, “My painkiller.”  We trudged back to the car a slightly
different way, and eventually down a paved road by a massive wall of stone.
“This had been totally collapsed from the earthquake,” Laxmi narrated. Looking
up, we saw men diligently at work, cementing the new stones in place. It seemed
everywhere in Kathmandu construction was happening.
Next stop, Puskar’s home. This took us further out away from Kathmandu, into a
more rural area, in the Kageshwaori Municipality, a town called Sanchez. The
drive was probably not more than 40 minutes. We parked near a field, and then hiked
down a dirt road. Up ahead was a terrible site: a brick home, completely collapsed.
Caved in, red dusty bricks strewn everywhere, but mostly in a vermillion heap.
Laxman, the father, stood nearby. He has a handsome, intense face, with a flash
of white teeth and readily smiles. Which is hard to believe when you look at
what is left of his house. Puskar, who was at school, is 11, factor VIII
deficient.
We peppered him
with questions: where was he when the quake hit on April 25? What happened?
Ujol and Laurie at Puskar’s home
Laxman said he
was outside; no one was in the home, thankfully. Indeed, it seems that everyone
considers themselves lucky. Lucky that it was a Saturday, and more people were
not in office buildings. Lucky it was not a school day, or more children would
have died. Lucky, lucky, lucky. It’s a testament to their faith, their reliance
that despite their profound losses, they consider themselves lucky.
Chatting in
Nepalese, the father and the group of NHS executives all laughed. I marveled at
how he could be laughing when fate has dealt him blow after blow: a child with
hemophilia, poverty, earthquake. There’s no self-pity, only perseverance and
reliance.
 
We then took a
walk, through an open field that was actually refreshing in the mid-day heat,
and then through rice crops, startling green and lush, and then over a creek. I
had to jump across. For Barun, it was a challenge as he has contractures in his
joints. With helping hands from Ujol, the NHS general secretary and father of a son
with hemophilia, Barun made it across. We spied a steel, corrugated shed, just
like Binita’s, up ahead. This was Laxman’s temporary home. Inside, much the same
as Binita’s: hot, dark with a wet floor. Laxman’s wife was present, and sweetly
presented us with Mountain Dew.
 
The hospitality
of the poor never ceases to amaze me.
We chatted a
while, and took photos. I asked Laxman who was helping him rebuild his home.
With Laxmi (the program director of NHS) translating, he replied, “No one. I’m
doing it myself.” He works in the daytime at a desk job, then returns each
evening to lay bricks. All this was said without self-pity or arrogance.
Puskar’s temporary home
When we walked
outside we caught Barun again having a smoke, and kidded him about his painkiller.
Though this time I think he really needed it.
We brushed
through the rice fields again, and back to our trusty Land Rover. Our next stop
was to go to the school Puskar attends. It was a short drive, and an impressive
school. With 400 uniformed children, the school provided classes, recreation (including
a pool) and hot meals. American cartoon characters were brightly painted on the
faded yellow wall surrounding the school. Just inside the main gate, gaily
colored statues of Buddha, Shiva and Kali.
Kali
I asked the
headmistress how she felt caring for a child with hemophilia at her school. “It
is fine,” she said in perfect English. “We welcome him. The father told us
about hemophilia, and we know what to do.” She added, in more measured tones,
“We do ask that the children not push him or hurt him. So he often does not
play as much as the others.” While she spoke, Puskar walked up, a gangly
11-year-old, all arm and legs, slim, with pale skin, and large eyes. I’m sure
he felt embarrassed being called out in front of his classmates, who were all
seated quietly under a canopy, eating lunch.
Laxman and son Puskar
The headmistress
pointed to the main building, which had visible cracks. “Normally we have class
in there,” she explained, “but due to the earthquake, we have to hold class
outside.”

Puskar waited patiently, answered some basic questions in English, which he is
studying. But I could tell he really wanted to get back to his classmates! We
excused him and he took off like a shot, with all of us admonishing him to slow
down! It did no good.

We piled back
into the Land Rover and headed for the next house. This was in an area very
hard hit by the earthquake. Every single building had damage, and whole blocks
were nothing but rubble. The earthquake loosened the plaster, covering the buildings,
and the bricks tumbled out like a Lego set dumped from a box.  It looked like a bomb had gone off in
the center square. In what used to be a park in the center were tents, and squatters
in the them.  
A mother shyly
tagged alongside me, holding a wide-eyed baby in her arms. She was dirty, thin,
but coy. I find the people are always surprised when you smile back and chat
with them. She was excited to make contact; her baby not so much, as he leaned
way back away from me. She lived in the tent now, and came from another village
that was totally destroyed. I thought ironically, we pay to go camping in
tents. Her life is now reduced to living in a tent like a refugee.
On to Danchi, Sankhu.
We next arrived at the home of Achyut Shrestha, age 26, who wasn’t at home.
He’s a government employee now, and no longer in the Save One Life program;
another success! The tall, narrow brick home stood on a corner. The mother, a
short, dark woman in a flaming red sari, descended slowly down the stairs. She
gave us a namaste, and clasped my hands, so happy to see us. Her daughter was
also present, and warmly greeted us. They invited us in right away, something I
was not so sure we should do. Up the concrete stairs and ducking, entered the
small second story room. Cracks veined every wall, and fresh concrete had just
been applied to patch up some. It’s a poor home, and not livable. “We use this
in the day time to cook,” the mother explained. “But at night we sleep
somewhere else.” The government has condemned most of the buildings in town.
I’m not sure what will be the fate of everyone.
Hospitality in the temporary home
The funds donated
by Save One Life and the Mary Gooley Treatment Center (Rochester, NY) will help
pay for repairs. We walked down the road, out side the town, and saw sprawling
hills, green fields and small temples. Next to the temples, more tents; a half
naked baby boy toddled outside one of them. We smiled at his charm, but inside
felt sad about his condition. Down the road, around a bend, we came to another
part of town. The mother explained she was having a new house built. Sure
enough, a man, woman and young girl were busy laying bricks. There would be two
homes, in one building.
Why two? She
smiled shyly. “Because I have two sons.” I realize she wants them married with
their own homes. We all smiled.
Our last stop was the home of the
Rajbchak family. Here live the parents and two young men with hemophilia,
Jagatman (age 25) and Jagatlal (nicknamed “Monsoon”). Monsoon was on hand to greet
us and was the only family member who spoke English, and not just English but
flawless English. He was charming and intelligent. To the left, the remnants of
his two-story family home. Half the house collapsed into the lot next to it. I
climbed the rubble heap to have a closer look, and down at my feet, amidst the
ruins, fresh, strong sprouts were shooting up. It reminded me of a quote from
Robert Frost when asked about the meaning of life. His response, “It goes on.”
The sprouts reminded me of the reliance of the Nepalese.
Monsoon, like the others, had no
self-pity. How could anyone? They all faced the same problems. The boys’ father
appeared, a strong man, who is in the process of also singlehandedly building a
new home. It’s also a metal shed, but he is plastering the walls to make it more
livable. It’s much bigger than the other sheds. We stood inside for a photo.
We walked down the road to see our
magnum opus: a mobile cell phone repair shop. Though humble by Western
standards, the shop was perched at a crossroads (perfect location!) and had an
open front that promoted watches, toys, picture frames and candy. Inside,
visible from the front counter, was a young man busily at work: Jagatman. He’s
rather famous to both Save One Life and Project SHARE.
We first heard of Jagatman when he needed
to have his leg amputated, result of an untreated bleed. We quickly gave the
donation and the operation was a success. He has an artificial leg that enables
him to walk about without crutches. So here he is: 26, one leg, hemophilia,
with no home. He was busy at work, surrounded by all sorts of electrical parts,
wires and circuits. He knew what he was doing. Through Save One Life he
received a scholarship to get training in cell phone repair. Then, with our
mircrogrant, he opened his own repair shop.
I consider him a miracle, a marvel.
He has unending reservoirs of strength. He paused long enough to smile and
thank us, but got back to work. I think he wanted to prove to us that our
investment was well used!
We all started to relax, seeing the
man he has become, tired after our long day, and happy with this family’s
enduring success. The boys’ mother brought out fresh yogurt drink, which was
lovely after a long day with no food. We entirely forgot about lunch! At least
seven hours had slipped but without food.
Monsoon shared, “The shop is doing
well. We are making about $500 a month now. But we have to pay rent and for the
items.” Still, $500 a month is an astounding figure for Nepal, and for a
disabled person, and just after a major earthquake.
When it was time to go, we shook
hands, gave our namastes, and waved good-bye. The long and bumpy ride back to
Kathmandu was punctuated with laughs and shrieks from the back seats: the young
people, Laxmi, Barun, Nirmal, were swapping stories and jokes. I didn’t know what
they were saying but their laughter gave me so much pleasure and hope.

Jagatman and brother Jagatlal, who both have hemophilia
Jagatman’s store: a Save One Life success story!
The Nepalese seem to have great
faith, and the most reliant of spirits. It seems nothing can keep them down
long. I hope this is true, because they still have much to do in the aftermath
of April 25. But they—we—will do it together.

Phoenix: Nepal Rises from the Earthquake

Namste!

The Nepalese customs official barely looked at my passport–which contained an official visa that expired the next day– smiled, stamped it and wished me
a nice stay. I arrived Sunday evening, August 30 in Kathmandu, capital of this ancient land. The Tribhuvan International airport was fairly devoid of travelers and I collected my two 50 lbs. suitcases,
stuffed with factor and lots of goodies picked up from the NHF meeting we just attended. I walked easily through the
airport and out into the humid evening air. It’s the monsoon season in Nepal, and I expected sheets of rain and puddles to wade through. Luckily the rain held off!

Beda Raj and Ujol KC, person with hemophilia, father of a child with hemophilia and president and chair respectively of the Nepal Hemophilia Society, showed up at the
airport with a marigold garland and bouquet of flowers for me; so thoughtful! We greeted each other with the traditional namaste, by placing hands together in prayer fashion.
The days start
late here, which is actually nice and relaxing. I had a 10 am meeting Monday morning at the
NHS office, which is in a gated community. Beda picked me up in a taxi, and I
had my first glimpse of Kathmandu in 14 years. Much has stayed the same:
terrible air quality, leaving my throat raw and my eyes watering. At times you
feel as though your lungs are hooked to an exhaust pipe. About 25% of the people were
surgical filter masks to protect their lungs. I have one but forgot to pack it.
There seem to be more people, heavier traffic, fewer beggars. Motorbikes, cars, rickshaws, trucks all seem to pulse and weave through arteries helter-skelter, belching thick clouds of black exhaust, while above, massive networks of telephone wires and cables lace the streets like
ganglia of nerves. And through this thriving body of humanity, the heat felt
like a fever.
Laxmi Karki and Laurie Kelley

The shops, buildings and signs are colorful, painting an explosion of sights against the faded blue canvas of the massive hills that encircle Kathmandu. The cows have
mostly been removed; there were so many more in 2000, and it always amuses me
to see, in the midst of the chaotic race of vehicles swerving and maneuvering,
to see a placid cow just standing in the middle of the bedlam, as if it knows it’s holy and trusts it will not be hit.

Arriving at the NHS office, I kicked off my shoes per the Hindu custom, and entered. The office consists of  two rooms, a bathroom and soon to be “cold room,” for
storing factor. 

The executive staff warmly greeted me. We sat in a ring
of chairs, and Beda formally welcomed me, placing another garland of marigolds around
my neck. Present were: Ujjol KC, whose son has hemophilia; Manil
Shrestha, who has hemophilia; Dilli Adhikari, who has factor X; Beda Raj, president
since 2012, who has hemophilia. Shashi, factor IX deficient, treasurer; Guyatri, assistant; and Laxmi Karki, program director.
Laxmi, who I have been corresponding with to arrange the trip, entered graceful into the room. Only 24, she has the responsibilities of a seasoned professional.  She walked
out, smiling, reached over and offered a hug. Given her warm and welcoming
emails, this fit her style. Next, Dilli glided in, and I have not
seen him in 14 years, since I was last here. He looked the same! Minus a
moustache and sporting a bit of gray at the temples. Nepalese people are very
gentle and soft spoken, mindful of civility and manners at all times. What a
contrast to us in the West!
A gift from Project SHARE

Beda formally welcomed
me, and slipped a red scarf around my
neck, a Hindu greeting. In return, I presented the NHS members with factor from
Project SHARE. Then Beda gave a
presentation, using the wall as a screen. He put time into this presentation. Beda’s
slide show revealed:  There are only 2
diagnostic labs; a lack of coag labs means few patients get diagnosed. There
are superstitious beliefs about hemophilia, which often prevent families from
coming in for treatment. There’s no medical support from government. While the
NHS now has opened 5 chapters in “districts,” there is a lack of resources to
develop these district chapters or open more. There are no permanent resources
to develop sustainability; in other words, they struggle mightily for funding.
They do get factor donations, from WFH, SHARE and FBIS (Swedish society, with
whom they were twinned).

A new national constitution is underfoot; indeed, with 25% of the population not in favor of
it, there have been clashes with the police from demonstrations; nine policemen were killed by mobs just before my visit. If ratified, the
constitution will recognize hemophilia at long last. Hemophilia will be
included in the Disability Rights act, as a separate disability—this gives the
NHS a leg to stand on for lobbying and promotion. It would be a massive win for
NHS to have the constitution ratified.
Then the
conversation turn to Save One Life. Nepal was our second country to join—a fact which I
had completely forgotten! India was our first; Nepal our second.
Why Nepal? I had been there in 1999 and 2000. I saw the dedication and hard
work of the then newly born NHS. I believed in the staff, and trusted them. My
gut instinct proved correct: they have implemented the program to perfection.
We have 86 beneficiaries, a very high number. There are four scholarships and
one microenterprise grant. Seven patients have their own businesses.
Ganglia of wires
It has changed lives:
four young men got government jobs. There’s a change in the family concept too:
they realize others care about them, and it helps families to come in to visit
the NHS, be evaluated, and understand NHS and the value of its programs. That’s
just what I envisioned when I developed the program.
Conversation then turned
to the earthquake. I was curious to know how it affected them; what
happened. I wanted to hear their story. It was deadly. On Saturday,
April 25, at noon, the tectonic plates under the Himalaya shifted, triggering a
massive earthquake registering 7.9 on the Richter scale. For 50 some seconds—an
eternity for an earthquake—homes crumbled, buildings collapsed, people were
crushed.
More than 9,000 people were
killed, and more than 23,000 injured. Continued aftershocks occurred throughout Nepal at the intervals of 15–20 minutes,
with one shock reaching a magnitude of 6.7 on 26 April.

Barun, a handsome man with
hemophilia I had first met in 2000, opened up somberly. “My first thought was
factor: what if they were all lost?” He was honest; factor was the most
important thing to him. “It was so hard for PWHs [patients with hemophilia]. We’re taught to get out fast
when there is an earthquake. But we can’t run, we can’t get out into the open
spaces. We have disabilities. I thought, ‘I should leave my house in one minute
as so, but how?’ Our phones didn’t
work for a couple of hours afterwards. We couldn’t contact one another; it was
frustrating. Eventually everyone lived in tents supplied by the government and
relief agencies.” Manil, educated, polished, lived in a tent for two months.

Earthquake damage is seen everywhere

Barun continued. “We don’t store
factor in our homes; only at the Society office.” Manil added,  “Our first thought was factor! After two days,
we were able to get into the office.” There were 15 other earthquakes, and a
recorded 386 aftershocks as of September 2, including one during my visit,
that very night. The aftershocks ensured that the population would live in
tents until there were no more rumblings. More
than three-quarters of the buildings in Nepal’s capital, Kathmandu, were
uninhabitable or unsafe.

Some were injured and treated at
Bir Hospital. Injured while running outside, to escape collapse.
“We were mentally distressed,”
admitted Barun. “We needed someone to come and help us, but there was no one.
We were on our own.”

Help
eventually arrived: factor donations from the WFH, Sweden and Project SHARE.
The Mary Gooley Center (now twinned with the Civil Service Hospital) donated $45,000, and
Save One Life raised about $15,000, mostly though Facebook. “But there was no
help at all from our own government,” Barun added.

When they finally could, with some still
living in tents, the executive members hired a four-wheel drive vehicle for
$100 a day, and tried to reach families who lived outside the capital city. It took
25 days to see most of the hemophilia families in the field. The tally of
destruction was sobering: out of their known 500 members, 63 homes collapsed. Two
mothers dead. One eight-year-old sister dead.
Sanu Maiya Kapali

The story that saddened them the most was of Sanu, perhaps because of how she died. Sanu Maiya Kapali, mother of a child
with hemophilia, had volunteered at NHS for 10 years, at the care center,
helping the children, consoling the young men in pain. She was a mother-figure
to all. She was conducting a blood donation camp at a hospital, which collapsed.
Blood donations are often done right on the sidewalks, in front of hospitals.
This sounds unsanitary and unsafe, but it’s fast and works for advertising as
the hospitals are typically clogged with patients, doctors and visitors—all
walking by the beds and blood collecting operations. Sanu was outside,
collecting blood to help boost the supply of plasma and cryo for the blood
bank. Huge slabs of concrete fell from the building. She was killed instantly from
falling rubble, along with the two donors she was administering to. Her photo
shows a beautiful woman with a flawless porcelain complexion, dignified smile,
gleaming white teeth, arched eyebrows. Aristocratic, kind. She left behind two
children, one with hemophilia. Everyone knew her, and her death seems to have
left a gaping hole in the strong spirit of the NHS. I realize how deeply bound
everyone here is to one another.

The NHS has worked hard to help the
survivors. To date it has distributed donated funds to 56 persons, and wisely
asks for receipts for construction expenses and photos of rebuilding from each
recipient, before administering more. I expressed how glad we were to help, but
I feared they would need more money before the year was out.
It has been four months since Nepal’s second
more devastating earthquake in 100 years. Barun, not one to hide his feelings,
confirmed: “You’re the first person from the hemophilia community to visit
Nepal. Thank you.”
Welcome from the Mother’s Group

We were running late, and it takes time to
travel anywhere in the crowded city, so we headed for our next meetings, at the
hospitals. There are two hospitals serving hemophilia patients: the Bir
Hospital, and the Civil Services Hospital. The NHS Care Unit at the Bir Hospital
is where most patients go for treatment. 
It’s basically a room on the
second floor. I had been here in 2000, and not much had changed. It is a
typical hospital in a developing country: crowded, dark, concrete.


First, outside, we came upon a tent on the
sidewalk with a group of women wearing the same pretty blue saris, and bustling
activity within. As Beda tried to explain what was happening, a dark-skinned
woman with a red tikka on her forehead fairly attacked me with pleasure,
crying, “Welcome! Welcome!” It was Nira, chair of the Mother’s Group. She shook
my hand vigorously, and eventually just hugged me. This is extraordinary
because hugging is not a cultural tradition. She beamed, “I so happy to see you!”
The Mother’s Group was busily signing up pedestrians for  blood donations; here was a blood donation
camp happening right in front of me. This was great timing, as I was to learn
later, these only happen twice a year with this energetic group.
Barun gets a welcome too!

Like all mothers of children with hemophilia,
we bonded instantly. The warmth of the day penetrated our bodies, and seemed to
emanate outward. Nira quickly took charge. She marshaled the other mothers, who
all welcomed me, and shook hands, some shyly. Making a little ceremony on the
spot, she organized the other mothers to stand near me, and then honored me
with a yellow scarf, a Buddhist tradition, while Barun took photos. I now had a
red scarf, a yellow scarf, red beads and a marigold garland about my neck in
the 90 degree heat. I was staring to sweat up a storm.

In the midst of our joyous mothers meeting, a
poor woman in a yellow outfit lay patiently on a cot, waiting to donate blood.
I worried that we were going to forget about her! But patience is a way of life
in Nepal. Beside her was a man, needle in his arm—a doctor! And hematologist no
less, donating blood outside in the blistering heat on his lunch break. He
smiled for the camera.
On our way up, navigating the stone steps,
Beda pointed out the cracks in the walls from the earthquake. Considering the
whole building is made of this dense and heavy concrete, it was a bit disconcerting.
On the first floor, sections were being pulled apart to rebuild again.
Construction was happening everywhere; rubble was everywhere. Plastic walls
were tacked up to feign protection from dust.
The hospital was damaged

I took note of the sorry little sign that
read “Hemophilia Care Unit,” nailed to the crumbling wall,  and vowed to bring, on my next trip, a new
sign. In the care unit, two patients were receiving treatment. A teen and a
young boy. Before greeting them, the team was anxious to show us Sanu’s photo. The
photo was treated with great respect and placed gently and carefully on a
table, hear the infusion tables. We draped the marigold garlands on it and
several people clasped hands in prayer and bowed to her photo. To me, to us,
she was like a gentle warrior, fighting against pain and suffering, who died in
battle.

Getting an infusion

Our next stop was the Civil Service Hospital,
a government hospital. We were immediately greeted 
by the friendly and hyperkinetic Dr.
Bishesh Poudyal, casually dressed in a red shirt and khakis, which suited him
and his high energy level. He works at three hospitals, consults
and handles all hematology/oncology cases. The list of his activities and travels
were astounding. I had to almost run to keep up with him as he darted through
the hospital, giving me the 20-minute tour. He had a plane to catch to the Philippines!
At the end, after introducing me to one of his colleagues, he expressed his
immense gratitude for Project SHARE. “You’ve given us a lot of factor over
time,” he reminded me. “You’ve really helped us to save lives here. Thank you.”

Dr. Bishesh Poudyal with Ujol KC

We convened outside, in the burning sunshine,
so bright that I had to wear sunglasses at all times. Clothes stuck to my skin;
wearing a skirt is brilliant in these climates, or wearing a salwar kameez,
with its absorbent cotton. Unfortunately, I had not packed any of these from my
previous trips. We decided, now that it was 3 pm, to have lunch. None of us had
eaten in seven hours. A restaurant was close by so we decided to walk. Barun
had his motorbike, and looked dashing with his black jacket and dark sunglasses. Beda, who had trouble walking, hopped
on back and met us there. We walked through a dirt lot, onto a major avenue,
where we were surprised to see a few policemen, in their blue camouflage
uniforms, with guns. As we walked we spied more. And more. Pretty soon, we were
gazing upon a riot squad, compete with shields, helmets and armored vehicle.

Laxmi, ever sweet, approached one of the
policemen who was only too glad to chat with the charming girl. She told me,
“There are protesters coming down the street. The police are hoping it is peaceful.”
But the armaments proved they were prepared for the worst. We climbed the
stairs to the second floor and sat at a banquet and ordered Cokes. I could see
from my seat the riot squad. I hope this would not be our entertainment at
lunch. Fortunately, nothing came of it. In fact, despite the 60 or so
policeman, I never saw a single protester.
Lunch was delicious, an assortment of savory tastes
of Nepal. I let my hosts order for me. Wary of too spicy food, I nibbled this
and that, only once hitting on something that set the tip of my tongue on fire.
Barun sat next to me, and we chatted about his wife, his little boy, how happy
he was to know  he would have a boy. “I
was so worried to have a girl,” he confided candidly. “Now, there is no more
hemophilia. I’m not having any more children.” Abortion was legalized only in
2004 in Nepal; it offers a way to end the transmission of hemophilia in countries
where no factor is provided.
Life is challenging enough in a country like
Nepal. Compounded with hemophilia and a major earthquake, it is a test of one’s
character, fortitude and faith to continue on. I am amazed at the camaraderie
and above all the joy that bonds everyone together here.
At the end of lunch, we step back into the
heat and wait for our taxi. One mother keeps catching my gaze; I wasn’t able to
speak with her because he doesn’t know English, and I don’t know Nepalese, more
to the point! Laxmi translated, “She wanted to say thank you for all your help.
She came all the way from her home just to meet you.” Our eyes locked in understanding,
we clasped hands, and she offered a tentative “Tank you” in English. Then we
hugged and took a photo. The power of being with people in person can never be overestimated
in hemophilia. It’s so easy to forget that we have our brothers and sisters in
need elsewhere in the world, when we are seduced and enticed with all the
entertainment and distractions life in developed countries offers. But life here strips away much of this to reveal the basics: connection, caring, sharing. 
Next week’s blog: visiting the earthquake zone.
Great Book I Just Read

Into Thin Air [Kindle]
Jon Krakauer
In Nepal, it’s tempting to read about mountaineering when so close to the Himalaya. This incredible eye witness account is of the devastating 1996 Mt. Everest expedition in which 12 people died, at that time the greatest disaster in its history. A perfect storm: too many clients, too much competition, confused leadership, uncooperative teamwork between the groups, a massive, unpredictable storm. Krakauer escaped with his life and attempts to detail the various teams, personalities and choices made that may have lead to unnecessary deaths. A must read for anyone interested in survival and/or mountaineering. Krakauer has been criticized by many for the accuracy of his account (which he himself second-guesses at times), but he carries with him unrelenting guilt for not doing more… and for surviving. Four/five stars.