Christmas in Kathmandu

We arrived back in Kathmandu about 3pm and had enough time to check-in to our favourite hotel and catch our breath before catching a taxi to 5.30 mass at the only Catholic church in Kathmandu. There was little sign of Christmas anywhere but as we entered the dark, narrow laneway that leads to the church we were met with the most wonderful sight. The church and all it’s grounds was covered with light. There was a huge Christmas tree all lit up, lights strung all over the church, a nativity scene and hundreds of candles. The church is surrounded by a high fence and we had to be frisked on entering as it was bombed last year by Hindu extremists.

The church was just as brightly decorated inside and soon became packed. They don’t have seats, just mats on the ground. Most of the people were Nepali, but there were quite a few ex-pats and mass was said in both English and Nepali so the bishop had to give the homily twice. The music was very lively with some lusty singing by one man in particular who was mostly in tune and accompanied by traditional Nepalese instruments. Going to communion was like driving in Kathmandu traffic—every man for himself! And of course, just so we didn’t forget where we were, the power kept going off despite the generator chugging away outside.

So how to make Christmas Day special for the kids? We woke them at 5.30am and said, "Merry Christmas, we’re going to see Everest." Our man in Kathmandu, Ganesh, who is a whole other wonderful story, arranged a car to take us to the airport for our 7.30am flight. Alas, Kathmandu mornings are very foggy in winter so all flights were delayed and delayed. There’s no heating anywhere here and the airport is no different. Luckily we’d dressed warmly and kept warm drinking Nepali milk tea. The toilets were about the scariest I’d encountered in Nepal. We passed the time chatting to an English couple in Nepal for a few days from Oman, where they live and work. They too were awaiting a mountain flight. I saw a Sherpa woman who later boarded a flight to Lukla, with a heavily bundled baby in a basket woven from bamboo, which she carried on her back, strapped to her forehead. I saw people taking photos despite many signs saying "Still and video photography is strictly prohibited" and the officials taking no notice. I looked around the departure "lounge" and wondered at why everything has to be made of concrete so that it looks like a Soviet bunker.

When we’d almost lost the will to live, we finally boarded the plane and were given a lolly by the flight attendant, and after another half-hour delay because of banked-up air traffic, we took off. It was now 10.45. So much for the plan to have brunch after the flight.

But it was worth the wait. The weather was crystal clear and the mountains were spectacular. I imagined Everest would be just another mountain among many, indistinguishable from the others, but it juts up clearly above all the rest, a plume of cloud streaming away from the summit. We were ushered in turns up to the cockpit but we all had window seats anyway. It was a narrow plane with about thirty seats, one row on each side, so we all had a clear view either there or back. And we got to see the notorious Lukla landing strip, notorious for planes crashing there and you can see why. It sits on a small plateau in the side of a mountain and looks just long enough. At one end the mountain rises sheer and at the other a cliff drops away sheer. So if you want to scale Everest you have to first survive that flight.

And that’s how we made our Christmas memorable. We missed brunch but managed lunch at about one o’clock then gathered around our little felt tree, with felt stars attached courtesy of Lindsey, and opened the few small gifts we’d bought each other. Christmas night we had dinner at the faithful New Orleans restaurant where they served Australian turkey and wild boar, mulled wine ("one buy, one get free") and Christmas cake. The place was lit up like, well, a Christmas tree and their guard at the entrance, to keep out hawkers, was dressed as Santa. And we all received a small gift: tiny tins of tiger balm, or small carved incense holders.

Occasionally, when we saw other westerners that day, we’d say "Merry Christmas" and they’d look up in some confusion and say, "Oh that’s right. It’s Christmas."