Chapter 9
Nepal
‘Namaste.’ A petite woman with shiny black hair greeted us as we climbed out of the minibus, her hands together in prayer. She had a flower tucked behind her ear and wore a green tunic with matching trousers trimmed with pink braid. ‘Welcome to the One World Project in Chitwan. I am Meena.’
Two young men in One World staff T-shirts scrambled onto the roof rack and helped the minibus driver to unstrap our luggage.
The drive had taken four hours from Kathmandu, with a couple of stops en route for surprisingly good coffee and snacks from roadside sellers.
My fellow travellers were three eighteen-year-old boys, all friends from school, and fresh off a long-haul flight from London.
While they slept, I listened to my audiobook and composed a WhatsApp message to Sadie and the rest of my book group, updating them on my whereabouts and asking if it would be okay to join them again when I returned home at Easter.
Replies came back instantly from all of them with a resounding yes, interspersed with countless questions about my trip, expressions of envy and requests for updates.
The conversation left me glowing. It was only a small step back to normality, but it felt good to ease myself back into my book-loving community.
We’d traversed hills and valleys, followed the path of sparkling rivers, honked our way through busy towns – at one point I’d seen two men on a scooter, the one at the rear holding a goat across his lap – and finally entered the Chitwan valley.
It was early evening and several degrees warmer than Kathmandu. I pressed my hands into the small of my back and stretched, drinking in the blue sky and inhaling air fragrant with the smell of tropical flowers.
We each introduced ourselves and the boys were led away to their room by the men.
I looked around me, taking in my new surroundings.
There were two single-storey buildings: a long L-shaped one where the boys had gone and a second rectangular one which looked like it contained classrooms. Outside was a fenced-in area with brightly coloured outdoor toys, a swing and a couple of little tricycles. The kindergarten, I presumed.
‘Tiff has told me about your journey,’ said Meena, gesturing for me to follow her.
‘From the UK to Nepal?’ I said, falling into step beside her.
‘About your daughter, your journey from loss back to life.’ She smiled kindly. ‘I hope Chitwan is good for you, and you find what you are looking for to take onward with you.’
‘Thank you, Meena.’ I didn’t know what I was looking for, nor where to look. But if time was supposed to be a healer then at least I knew I had that, and that was a start.
‘The volunteers are out on a walk down to the river now, so it is very quiet. Please, follow me. I will show you to your bedroom. Tiff says you need a room to yourself?’ She looked at me, as if trying to gauge what reason I had for the request. I’d never felt more like a diva in my life.
I hoped Tiff hadn’t said anything about the lentils.
‘I wouldn’t say need ,’ I said, making light of it. ‘More of a preference. Sometimes it’s nice to have company.’
‘I understand. I will let you decide.’ She ushered me across a bare concrete yard and into the accommodation block.
‘There is space in one of the girls’ rooms. This one.
’ Meena opened a door and gestured for me to take a look.
The smell of ripe bodies wafted out. There were two sets of bunk beds separated by a slim gap.
You could have probably held hands with the person in the opposite bed.
The floor was decorated with trainers and discarded clothes and tiny bikinis hung from the bedframe.
The spare bunk was on the top – of course it was.
I didn’t know what was worse: the thought of climbing the ladder, or having three young pairs of eyes averting their gaze from the horror of my big bikini bottoms hanging next to theirs.
‘And there is a single room …?’ I said, backing out of the dorm.
‘Of course.’ Meena nodded and showed me through the next door. This room was so narrow that I’d have to walk sideways to pass the bed, but it had a door and a window and I wouldn’t need to use a ladder to get into bed.
‘This is perfect,’ I told her.
‘You can find places to eat in Sanaura village tonight – from tomorrow all your meals will be provided. Breakfast is at seven in the dining hall. The children arrive at eight. Namaste.’
She left me to settle in and I sat down on the bed and unzipped my suitcase.
But the floor space was so tiny that once it was open, I realised I’d blocked myself in.
I clambered over and slid it under the bed.
Then I reached inside, took out my toiletries and arranged them on the small chest of drawers at the end of my bed.
I thought wistfully of my triple wardrobe at home, my dressing table and the mirror with the lights around it and my own private bathroom.
But then I also remembered that my cottage despite all its home comforts had felt like an empty shell with the heart ripped out of it, and that for now being in cramped quarters and sharing a bathroom with strangers was easily a better option.
I opened my bedroom door to go in search of the bathroom, and in stalked a scrawny tabby cat.
‘Hello.’ I bent to stroke it, but it dodged my hand and jumped up on the bed. ‘Oh no you don’t, fleabag.’
I lifted it off the bed and it lashed out, scratching my hand.
‘Ouch. It’s like that, is it?’ I set it down in the corridor outside my room and shut the door firmly behind us both.
I opened the bathroom door and screamed as two cockroaches came scuttling out.
I glanced downwards, expecting them to be followed by the rest of their army.
The coast seemed clear, so I stepped inside.
There was no other word for it other than disgusting.
It smelled of drains, the tiled floor was slippery, and every square centimetre of space was covered with other people’s toiletries.
I resolved to keep my ablutions to a minimum for the next two weeks; the less time I spent in there, the better.
I grabbed my bag and headed out of the camp to explore.
The shops were shutting up for the day, but I bought water and fruit and followed a sign to the Rapti river. I passed men cooking spiced meat over charcoal, stalls selling savoury snacks, and people selling bottles of cola and beer straight from coolboxes.
The quay down by the river was lively too.
Little boats strained at their moorings and clusters of children fished with pieces of line.
A man wearing a nautical hat was trying to sell boat tour tickets to a large family, and a group of young Chinese men were taking it in turns to snap selfies with the setting sun as a backdrop.
I took a seat on an empty bench at the river’s edge and let my senses tune into the new neighbourhood.
The gentle slosh of the water, the sulphur scent of the washed-up debris on the riverbank, the soft heat of the dying sun on my skin, an insistent whine from a mosquito …
My eyelids fluttered, a wave of weariness reminding me that I’d barely stopped to catch my breath since I’d arrived.
The bench shifted and I opened my eyes to see I’d been joined by an elderly couple. They nodded to me and then, hands interlinked, her head on his shoulder, they gazed out across the water and pointed things out to each other.
A pang of loneliness washed over me.
It had been a while since I gave up dating.
How had Bronte put it? Oh yes, I had the saddest love life known to humanity.
Charming, although there was more than a grain of truth in it.
Seeing her so happy with Harry had made me think about dipping my toe in the dating pool again, but nothing had come of it.
Kat said I was too fussy; I preferred to think I had high standards.
Maybe now it was time to look for love again. Maybe.
I shook away the thought and stood up, deciding to get back to my accommodation before it got too dark.
There were bars and restaurants on my way, but I wasn’t tempted to stop. I didn’t usually mind dining or drinking alone, but tonight I couldn’t face it. Even the one playing Coldplay and decorated with thousands of pretty fairy lights couldn’t lure me in.
‘Hey, Maggie!’ yelled a voice from somewhere behind me.
I turned to see a group of young people crowded round a table loaded with beer bottles, their faces lit by the lights strung above them.
‘Hey,’ I waved back.
‘Join us!’ shouted one of the boys from the minibus.
I walked towards them, feeling every one of my years. There were about twelve of them, boys and girls. All around Bronte’s age.
‘Thank you, you’re very kind. But I’ve had a long day and I don’t want to cramp your style,’ I said.
‘Babe, you are rocking those jeans,’ said one of the girls, taking her feet off a chair and patting it for me to sit. ‘You’re the stylish one. And look, snap!’ She held up her foot. We were wearing the same Birkenstocks. ‘I’m Izzy, by the way.’
‘Yeah, come on!’ said another girl, waving her beer bottle in the air. ‘We’re swapping stories with the new boys.’
The boys who’d only smiled shyly on the drive here were now full of energy, possibly alcohol-fuelled. One of them looked particularly glassy-eyed.
‘I could have one, I suppose,’ I relented, despite the fact that my pyjamas were calling. ‘What’s everyone having?’
The gang erupted into cheers as I climbed over the wall to join them and caught the eye of a barman.
Two hours later, I’d forgotten about my pyjamas. I was on first-name terms with Krishna the barman, and Izzy had persuaded me to sing ‘Maggie May’ with her on the bar’s rudimentary karaoke machine. Everyone cheered at the end of our terrible duet, and I resumed my seat gratefully.
‘So what’s your story?’ asked a girl called Naomi, setting a beer in front of me.
I puffed out my cheeks. ‘Honestly? My daughter died at twenty-three. This was meant to be her gap-year trip. Now it’s her mum’s gap year instead.’
The group fell quiet.
I could have kicked myself for ruining the mood. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Oh Maggie, that’s so sad,’ said Izzy, jutting out her bottom lip.
‘Mums are great, aren’t they?’ mumbled a curly-haired boy called Colin.
‘Yeah,’ said a couple of the others morosely, as if suddenly hit by a wave of homesickness.
‘To mums!’ Naomi cried, raising her beer bottle.
‘To mothers everywhere.’ Another boy drummed on the table with his fingers and whooped.
‘To mums!’ yelled everyone else.
I raised my beer bottle but kept quiet; I couldn’t bring myself to toast my mum. Even after all these years.