PRAYER FLAGS FLAPPED IN THE BREEZE, THEIR BLUES, GREENS, AND reds in stark contrast to the soaring snowcapped Himalayan peaks. The Buddhists believe that prayers can be answered if they are written on flags that are hung outdoors. As the wind passes over the flags, the prayers are lifted up to heaven.
On this particular morning the winds made prayer traffic quite heavy. I pulled my ski cap tighter and inhaled deeply. The smell of cedars mixed with the smoke from the fire over which milk tea was brewing. The homecoming, nearly a year since my pledge to the teachers of Bahundanda, made me feel that all was right with the world.
The morning serenity was a welcome antidote to my current life amidst the noise and pollution of Beijing. Microsoft had posted me to a new role as director of business development for the Greater China Region. We had won the Coles Myer business against IBM, and part of my new and expanded role would be helping to start our dormant electronic-commerce initiatives in mainland China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. I was excited by the role, and the promise inherent in the world’s fastest-growing technology market. But there were already problems with life in Beijing. The athlete in me was suffering from life in a bitter-cold and polluted city. The lack of public space for running or cycling was in sharp contrast to my prior life in Sydney and Seattle. My weight had shot up by ten pounds after just two months. I had a constant cough as pollution stuck in my throat.
Morning in Nepal felt enlivening, life-affirming, and peaceful.
My father was with me. I poured cups of milk tea as we greeted the day. I had not ever expected to travel with him to a place this remote. Events had conspired to make him every bit as enthusiastic about the Bahundanda library project as I was, even though he had never set foot in Nepal.
We drank tea, ate cheese omelets, and discussed how excited we were that each student in Bahundanda would soon have access to books. I asked if he had ever thought that our book drive would be such a success that we’d have to hire a “donkey train” to carry them all. Eight beasts of burden were tied up in the field next to our small lodge. The “donkey driver” was loading two overstuffed boxes of books on each animal. They munched on grass in preparation for the day’s labor. I told my father about the original vision of renting a yak. “Our book drive was such a success that one animal would not be enough.”
We soon set off on the trail, the donkeys and their driver following behind. The donkey bells, hung around each neck to warn susceptible hikers of their stubborn approach, clanged in a chorus. We followed the ice-cold and fast-flowing Marsyendi River upstream, crossing it several times on rickety bridges. Unbeknownst to us, preparations were being made for our arrival a few hours up the trail.
THE SUN BEAT DOWN RELENTLESSLY AS WE CLIMBED UP A SERIES OF steep switchbacks. Sweating profusely, I stopped at a small stream. I was so far ahead of the donkey train that I could not hear their bells. After washing my face, I looked up to see a Nepalese man joining me to take a drink from the icy waters. Wearing a baseball cap and a broad smile, he offered me a warm “Namaste.” I answered, “Kasto cha,” Nepali for “How are you?” His answer came in a rapid torrent of broken English.
“Today, sir, I am very happy. Today is a very big day for our village. There is a man coming here today with books for our school. We do not know how many, and we do not know where he is from. I think he is from Holland—that is what somebody told me. So our students are waiting, and I am going there now to greet his arrival.”
A chill convulsed my body. Did our little book project mean this much to the community? I extended my hand. “My name is John. I am from America. This is Woody. The books are right behind us. Can you show us to the school?” Sushil said he would be happy to be our guide.
Woody and Sushil chatted. I fell several steps behind, focusing on my thoughts. The next hour would be the culmination of a year of planning. I wondered if it would live up to our expectations. Would the children be as excited as we’d imagined? Who were we to be showing up in this remote village with a bunch of used books? We had spent so much time, traveled so far. There were many reasons to be optimistic, including Sushil’s enthusiasm. Still, I wondered whether anything could make the reality as wonderful as the scene that had played out in my imagination over the last year.
AS WE GOT CLOSE TO THE SCHOOL, A CACOPHONY OF VOICES COULD BE heard. Our pace quickened. In the dusty schoolyard, children were running around. Teachers were shouting. The headmaster approached and gave me a warm hug.
The students had formed a human corridor through which we were to walk. Sushil urged me to go first. I pressed my hands together, bowed, and said, “Namaste,” to the first child, a five-year-old girl. She had jet-black hair and an ivory-white smile. She hung a marigold garland around my neck. Laughter ensued as several other girls competed to be the next to hang their garlands. We moved slowly through the line. Every moment of contact with each student was to be relished. The youngest ones had picked flower petals in the forest. These small offerings piled up in our hands. By the end, we could have opened a small flower shop.
We were led to a makeshift podium. The teachers were waiting to greet us. I recognized faces from the prior year. We shook hands and exchanged “Namastes.” The children were hushed, and the headmaster made a brief speech:
“This is a very big day for our school and our village. We now have a library full of books. Inside books you will find hidden the mysteries of the world. With books, you can learn, and you can make a better future for your families and for our country. We wish to thank Mr. John and his father, Mr. Woody, for giving us such a precious gift, and we promise to always take good care of the books.” I made a mental note to ask him not to lock these books up and wondered whether I should assure him that we’d return each year with new books to replace those that had been damaged.
And with that, we relieved the donkeys of their burden. As we unloaded the books, children rushed toward us, eagerly grabbing for the new treasure. As boys do, one of them bonked his friend on the head to secure a better spot in line. Except that there was no line. Only chaos. The students’ excitement indicated that this was their first encounter with brightly colored children’s books. They were wide-eyed as they gazed at photos of giraffes and hippos. They motioned eagerly to friends to point out the rings of Saturn. A girl’s face was frozen in fear at her first encounter with the teeth of a great white shark. A small group giggled at a picture book of Labrador puppies.
As we watched, a teacher joined us. He took my hand in his. His brown eyes were moist and his face wore a wide smile. “You have given our children so much. We have so little to offer in return.”
I had a lump in my throat. Words were hard to find. I struggled to explain that the school had filled my heart with a feeling it had never before experienced—that I had made a difference in the world, or at least one very small part of it. For these children, there was a bit more opportunity today than there had been yesterday. All of this had come about because of a simple request a year ago—“Perhaps, sir, you will someday come back with books.” Woody and I made our best attempt to respond. But the real heroes were our friends around the world, old and new, who had helped us not to show up at this party empty-handed.
WE WALKED BACK DOWNHILL, THE UNBURDENED DONKEYS MAKING double time. At the guesthouse, I paid our donkey driver with a fistful of Nepalese rupees and a generous bonus. He bounced happily down the trail. I offered to buy my father a celebratory beer. We sat outside, on the lodge’s rough and weather-beaten wooden picnic table. As the sun warmed us, a breeze from the river provided some relief.
For today at least, my fears about lack of father-son communication were not relevant. The day had provided many topics of conversation. As I poured our Carlsbergs into dusty glasses, I began to inundate him with my thoughts. I explained that I had so enjoyed the experience of delivering the books, but that my mind was also racing with questions about what else might be possible. This was too fun to stop now.
He asked what I thought was possible.
“Well, I was doing some research before we flew here, and I read that Nepal has twenty-three thousand villages. I was amazed that a country that looks so small on a map of the world could have so many. I wonder how many of these communities face a problem similar to that in Bahundanda. The illiteracy rate here is around seventy percent, so obviously this is not an isolated problem. And I know from my travels in places like Vietnam, Cambodia, Zambia, and Guatemala that they face similar issues. So I just wonder how to take this small project and move it beyond just a few villages in Nepal.”
The fiery sun was dipping below the nearest peak for its 12-hour siesta, so I went inside to retrieve our jackets. I did not want the conversation to end, and upon returning to the table I kept asking questions. I started by inquiring whether Woody could remember how important the library was to me during my childhood.
“Yes, very much. We could not afford all the books you wanted. You were a voracious reader, but money was always tight. At the library, you were always trying to check out more books than the allowed maximum.”
He smiled at the memory. I knew he was proud of me. I was surprised that he had this vivid of a memory of my childhood. He had always worked so hard and was so quiet. But just because he did not talk did not mean he was not paying attention. I silently toasted this new era in father-son communications by draining my beer.
“Dad, think about all the villages in the world where children don’t have that option. How many millions of kids will not have the opportunities I have in life, simply because they were denied an education at a young age? It’s almost like there is this ‘lottery of life.’ At a young age children are arbitrarily deemed to be winners or losers, based upon where they were born. You’re born in Scarsdale, you win the right to gain an education. You’re born in Bogotá, you’re denied that opportunity. It’s arbitrary. It’s not fair. I think it’s in our power to do something about it.”
“True. But it would take a lot of time and effort to do so. And what about your new job at Microsoft? Don’t you have Bill Gates visiting next month?”
“Oh, yeah, right, I forgot. That real-life thing.” Out in the Himalayas, one can forget about reality.
This did not, however, dampen my enthusiasm. This was important work. It was life-affirming. There could be no excuses. I’d work nights on this project. Weekends. Holidays. Whatever it took.
I went to bed that night with fantasies of subsequent trips delivering books to the schools of Nepal. I vowed that next time we would need even more donkeys, or perhaps we’d upgrade to a team of yaks.