Kathmandu Unfolding – A Birthday I Never Expected
I never imagined myself going to Kathmandu. It was never on any bucket list of mine and certainly not something I had daydreamed about. As a teenager I had been swept away by John Irving’s Hotel New Hampshire and the rugged romance of Maine. I was convinced that one day I would end up there with buckets of clams and lobster, crisp white wine, sea air and a group of pals living out the kind of trip you only ever see in films. Blimey it felt vivid.
So when I first floated the idea of my sixtieth birthday celebrations that is exactly what I suggested. A Winnebago, lobster claws, clam buckets. My friends loved it. It landed beautifully and everyone could picture it. I could almost taste the salt.
But then a little voice in me began to question it. Something did not feel quite deep enough. It felt a bit too tidy, a bit too expected, and somehow a bit thin.
At the same time I started learning more about New Futures Nepal and the Hope Centre, an orphanage, and I began sponsoring a child there. Something shifted. The idea of Maine quietly loosened its grip and Kathmandu began to drift into view. A whisper really. A nudge. The plan changed direction without fuss.
I got in touch with Andrew Small who had been part of the group who established New Futures Nepal and started supporting the Hope Centre, almost twenty years earlier after seeing the reality for homeless children in Kathmandu. He helped piece together an itinerary. I shared it with the group and watched tumbleweed drift through WhatsApp. Silence. A hesitant reply. A long pause. But I held my nerve and slowly the yes began to form.
In the end there were nine of us. All women. Some Soroptimists. Some lovely long standing friends. Some complete strangers until the airport. Each drawn by something different. Nepal. Friendship. Curiosity. Adventure. Or perhaps a sense that marking a sixtieth birthday could be something richer than cake and candles. When we arrived in Kathmandu Andrew and Tilak, Manager of the Hope Centre, met us there and helped us settle.
And there we were dancing the Macarena with a group of joyous young people. Their laughter and unfiltered delight was a tonic to the soul. We had brought gifts and the gratitude and sweetness in how they were received moved us as much as the dancing and games. Then we visited Nirmala where we saw five brand new wheelchairs arriving, bought with funds raised by Leamington Soroptimists, ready to change lives in a very real way. It was one of those moments where your throat catches and you try not to be a soppy mess.
I knew then that trusting my instincts had been right. Maine could wait. Kathmandu was unfolding one day at a time. And yes I was still perfectly happy to gather a few mates to eat clams and claws at some future point. There is always room for seafood in a girl’s life.
There were moments when we felt unsure of our footing. The old worry that to feel good about giving, someone else had to appear needy or lesser. The Comic Relief style backlash flickered. But the Mothers Children’s Centre washed that away. We saw mothers of children with cerebral palsy supporting each other with astonishing strength. Tight spaces. Improvised aids. Wheelchairs made from blocks of wood. Yet warmth and dignity and deep community filled the room. We were not there to rescue. We were there to witness. To honour. To take it in. It was humbling in the best way.
“Rain pouring. Clouds gathering. And then sunrise set each peak on fire. Jumbo bats returning to roost above us. Farmers herding cattle below. An amphitheatre of vastness and green that none of us will ever forget. We just stood there. Quiet. A bit awestruck. A bit altered.”
Later we stood by the river as families washed their recently departed loved ones before cremation on open pyres. We wondered if we were intruding and were gently reassured that public grief is not diminished by being seen. It is human and sacred and shared.
One morning we woke at four and travelled further afield to glimpse the Himalayas. Rain pouring. Clouds gathering. And then sunrise set each peak on fire. Jumbo bats returning to roost above us. Farmers herding cattle below. An amphitheatre of vastness and green that none of us will ever forget. We just stood there. Quiet. A bit awestruck. A bit altered.
The whole week was more than sightseeing. We shared shock. Grief. Surprise. Gratitude. Awe. Belly laughter. Tears that arrived out of nowhere. A renewed sense of our own significance. There was not one bad word. Not one side glance across a dinner table. The best of women travelling together. Friendship. Kindness. Generosity of spirit. And yes, love.
“If anyone asks whether they should go, whether they should visit, whether they should trek, whether they should support the Hope Centre, I say yes. Because it changes something in you. Because you see the impact with your own eyes. Because the children matter. Because the future matters. Because sometimes instinct leads you exactly where you are meant to be.”
Even a couple of months later I had not fully unpacked the experience. It topped all my hopes and dreams. The hope still lingers. The desire to get more involved has not faded. It was a remarkable week unlike any other. A big team of hearts held together by purpose and curiosity and shaped forever by what we saw.
So if anyone asks whether they should go, whether they should visit, whether they should trek, whether they should support the Hope Centre, I say yes. Because it changes something in you. Because you see the impact with your own eyes. Because the children matter. Because the future matters. Because sometimes instinct leads you exactly where you are meant to be.
Maine will still be there. Clams. Claws. And all. But a piece of my heart now lives in Kathmandu with the children, the mothers, the mountains and the women who said yes to the unknown.