Breakfast has always seemed such a mundane meal to me. The taste-tantalizing delights of a Porterhouse steak, or a filet mignon, topped off with cheesecake or a chocolate sundae, are missing. Instead, my normal fare is juice, fruit, toast, cereal or eggs and coffee. Occasionally I’ll change this menu and revert to an English breakfast my mother used to prepare… kippered herring.
There is one breakfast, however, that definitely stands out in my mind. On a tour of six southern Asian countries … Sri Lanka, Thailand, India, Nepal, Afghanistan and Pakistan… I found myself in Kathmandu, Nepal over the holiday season.
We stayed in the Soaltee Oberoi Hotel, a beautiful first-class hotel, which seemed to be catering to Western tourists, by placing a tall Christmas tree in the lobby and gaily wrapped presents underneath. Christmas carols blared continuously over the hotel’s PA system. How strange that seemed in a Hindu and Buddhist country, where even the hotel clerks wore turbans with their uniforms, and business suits. As a group, we toured the cities of Kathmandu, Patan, and Bhadgaon, all very old, but very poor, dirty and crowded cities. We were told they looked much the same as they had 1,000 years ago, and it was believable. It somehow seemed incongruous to me that in each of these cities, rising amidst such squalor, were beautiful, elaborate, towering pagodas, enshrined in gold, with the symbolic eye gazing down on everyone.
Animals were everywhere. Cows lay down in pathways causing a person to walk around the animal; a pig scampered away, and a goat was tied up at a shop much as we would leave our dog outside McDonald’s. In the middle of the Square, in the bustling town of Patan, one man was getting a haircut while squatting on the ground, and another was getting a shave. The next customer, waiting his turn, sat hunched down behind him. I watched an old woman squatting in the street, naked from the waist up, receiving a message, with no one paying any attention. I couldn’t imagine the same thing occurring in a city, or even a small town, in America without attracting a crowd of curious onlookers. The streets were narrow and twisting, and the houses no more than hovels. Dust covered everything in the open-air shops.
One of our group quietly commented, “If these conditions were anywhere in the States, the Health Department would have shut the town down long ago.” Our tour guide seemed so proud of his native city. In spite of all this poverty and squalor, these cities were like open-air museums of art and architecture, with their ornate pagodas and stupas, shrines, and monasteries. And surrounding all this poverty loomed magnificent mountains, including Mt. Everest, the highest peak in the world.
When a small group of us were awakened at 4:45 on Christmas morning, I wondered why I had agreed to climb a mountain to see the sunrise. Goodness knows I’d seen enough sunrises in my life. “Weren’t they all the same–a bright red sun coming up in the east? But here I was, crawling out of bed in the darkness, wondering if it would be cold, and if I should take an extra sweater with me. Five of us gathered in the hotel lobby and, then as directed, got into a minivan. None were talking much, though we did say “good morning” to the driver and nodded to each other. We rode for an hour to a small mountain at the foot of the Himalayas. It was this foothill we planned to climb and witness sunrise. Even at this early hour, hordes of Nepalese children waited at the foot of the mountain, anxious for us to buy their prayer wheels and other souvenirs. For them it was not Christmas; it was simply another day. They walked alongside us up the mountain as we climbed the short distance to the top. “Buy prayer wheel. Good price. You want, missy?” they chattered at us in broken English. Many had learned a few words of our language from visiting missionaries or through the Peace Corps, enough to communicate with their country’s visitors.
As I trudged up the mountain, I found myself making a comparison to when I’d climbed Mt. Fuji in Japan, twenty-five years earlier. Fuji, in many parts, had been sheer rock. This climb was not difficult, but rather a gentle grassy slope. Guides, with lanterns helped light our way. My walk was made much more enjoyable by a young lad who practiced English by chatting with me all the way to the top. “You okay, missy?” he asked. “You take hand. I help you.” I gladly held his hand for, even with the lanterns, it was difficult to see too far ahead. “Thank you. Where did you learn English?” I asked him. “You speak quite well, you know.”
“Peace Corps, here Kathmandu. I want to go Amelica some day,” he said in his winning way. He gave me a big, toothy grin. We were now friends.
In a short while, less than an hour and still in total darkness, we reached the summit of the mountain. For those of us who lived in cities where lights and atmospheric conditions cloud our vision, the myriad stars left us gasping in pure delight. We stood talking with each other, rubbing our hands together, and stomping our feet, for it was quite chilly. As the sun started to rise, the sky suddenly turned rose and pink and golden as if a giant paint brush had swept through the sky. Dawn had arrived on Christmas Day.
We turned to each other, “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas,” we repeated with a smile. Oh yes, I thought, it was well worth getting up so early. Yes, it was worth it. On the descent, some of us purchased the children’s prayer wheels. Somehow it seemed a fitting gesture on this our special day of rejoicing. The children talked among themselves. Someone in our group began singing, Jingle Bells. It was pleasant to hear the young Nepalese joining in as well as they could. They didn’t know the words, but they’d heard the tune many times blaring from hotel loudspeakers, or on the streets of Kathmandu. I laughed when my new friend tried to pronounce, “Jingle.” He was such a nice young lad and he well deserved the good tip I gave him. As we left, I waved goodbye.
At the base of the mountain we got back into the minivan and drove a short distance down a winding road, then stopped. Getting out, I sat on a small hillock at the side of the road, while others perched on a large outcropping of rocks. The driver handed each of us a paper sack–our breakfast prepared for us by the hotel–two hard-boiled eggs, an apple, a piece of fruitcake, and coffee poured from a thermos.
I gazed in wonder, for there in front of me on a beautiful crisp day were the majestic Himalayas. I recalled eating much finer holiday breakfasts in the past–in homes across the country, in fancy restaurants, with family and with friends…but I knew this would remain a meal I would not soon forget.
Even though low-hanging clouds hid Mt. Everest, the snow-covered Himalayas in the far distance still looked imposing. As I sat there on the grassy hillock, enjoying an apple, I thought, What more could I ask for on Christmas Day!
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