With about two hours to see Bhaktapur’s Durbar Square on my one day tour of Nepal’s Kathmandu Valley, I’m here to see the temple at Taumadhi Square; peruse genuine Newari pottery in Pottery Square; marvel at what’s left of a city nearly destroyed by a devastating earthquake less than a year ago.
My walk takes me past buildings standing precariously amid piles of rubble. Am I the only one who sees?
“Namaste, madam!” The voice of a child catches my attention. He approaches with friends, all smiling.
“You are American, madam?”
I nod and return the smile.
“Statue of Liberty!” one of them shouts.
“Yes.” I’m laughing with them. I find myself walking with an entourage now. These boys want to be my tour guides, one boy in particular. He is proud of his English and wants to show me his part of this city.
“Come,” he tells me, and leads me to a wide plaza with rows of freshly-cast clay pots and bowls and jugs baking in the blazing sun. The other boys have wandered away. It is only this boy and I; this boy with his enthusiasm and his near-perfect English. “This is all genuine Newari pottery, madam,” he tells me.
“Come, he says, and I will show you something very special.”
I follow him to a makeshift shack in a long brick wall, with nothing to shield it from the busy square but the shade of a simple awning. The man inside is not his father, but someone he knows well. The boy translates.
“Madam, this fine artist will show you how he makes the pottery.” Beyond the shadows, I can see the potter’s wheel, its frayed electrical cord hangs dangling from above. The man sits on a low wooden stool and easily smoothes a lump of clay into a perfect urn. When he stands, he looks at me and speaks words I do not understand.
“Madam,” my young friend explains. “He wants you to sit.”
“Me?” I know nothing about pottery, but I sit. I try. I create a beautiful lump of misshapen clay. “Thank you,” I say, feeling silly, but also grateful. I rinse my hands under the stream of a small hose and dry them on my pants. I should buy something, but I have no room in my luggage for anything fragile.
The boy leads me along the road, pointing out places of interest and offering stories and background information that puts my paid tour guide to shame. When we happen upon three women, he grows excited. “Madam,” he exclaims. These are my teachers!” Their English is poor, but I learn he is a good student. I also learn that much of their school building has been destroyed by the earthquake, so class sizes have become much larger and more challenging.
It’s time to leave, so I pull out my wallet. This child has earned something for his time. If I could do it, I’d rebuild his school, or these crumbling streets. I want to do something. I hold out the cash and he recoils.
“No, madam, please. I cannot take your money. It was my pleasure to speak with you.”
I will not leave like this. My soul is on fire. “There must be something you want. Maybe I can buy you a cold drink.” Perhaps I feel the warmth of this climate more than he does. He shakes his head.
I have to try one more time. “Isn’t there something you want?”
There is a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Well,” he begins hesitantly. “I would very much want an English dictionary.”
When I leave him, he is holding his new dictionary and a slip of paper with my email address. I am holding something new too; a new kind of optimism for that boy, for me, and for the future.