A Kathmandu Christmas

It was Christmas Day.

I was sitting in a rooftop restaurant, staring across as a neat crocodile of Nepalese school children staggered up uneven stairs, past statues of elephants and lions, to the imposing pagoda temple which towered over the square. My sister and I laughed as an angry shopkeeper chased a curious goat from his basket of fruit. Stray dogs basked in the blazing sunlight, whilst giggling children raced their bikes over the cobbles. Across the square, the god Bhairava watched from his shrine with stony eyes.

We were in Bhaktapur, literally the ‘City of Devotees’. A UNESCO World Heritage site, the ancient town is just a twenty minute taxi ride from the heart of Kathmandu. This was how I had imagined Nepal; huge wooden temples, traditional architecture, a square buzzing with life. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a little wistful.

We were a long way from our usual Durham Christmas. My mother, an English teacher with the British Army’s Brigade of Gurkhas, had brought us here to see the homeland of her students. Whilst our friends and family carved their turkey and overdid it on the wine, we nibbled on momo dumplings and sipped ginger tea. Whilst we sweltered in the twenty degree heat, my boyfriend was shovelling snow from our garden path back home. Everything I had seen in Nepal, from the golden Buddhist stupas to the stunning Himalayan skyline, had been a wonderful, alien sight. It was a glimpse into a world of which I knew very little. But I couldn’t help but think of what I may be missing at home - the Christmas I had always known and loved.

‘Are you not too hot wearing that?’ I asked my sister. Her orange jumper, embroidered with a smiling snowman, looked too cosy for the humid Nepalese weather.

‘It’s Christmas, isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter if I’m in Kathmandu or Durham. It’s Christmas, so I’m wearing my Christmas jumper.’
I looked over to my parents, gazing fascinated at the scene below. The friendly goat was jumping up the steps to the temple, sending timid tourists flying in its wake. A policeman was running behind, desperately attempting to herd it back down to the square. This was definitely not a Durham Christmas, but also not one I was likely to forget.

‘Yeah. It’s Christmas.’ I raised my mug of ginger tea, as the waiter placed down four bowls of fragrant dhal bhat curry. ‘Merry Christmas, family.’

We smiled, clinked glasses, and tucked into our own Christmas lunch.