Walked up to Kopan Gompa, just a ten-minute walk from the house. Unfortunately, it’s closed until early December, because of a retreat for Westerners. Walking down the hill again, I pass a group of young Nepali teenage girls. They call out, “Hello!” and introduce themselves. They all wear jeans and pretty shirts, and their dark hair is pulled back. “Where are you going?” They had also wanted to visit the Gompa today, and are disappointed to find it closed to the public. When I tell them I don’t have any plans, they say cheerfully: “Let’s go together then!” and we go together—by bus to their home a short distance from Boudha.

They speak good English and are well educated. “We always say hello to tourists,” they tell me. “But they don’t like to talk to us. You friendly, like us!”

On the way to Poonam’s house, walking on a dirt path past shops and houses, the girls beg me to say I was lost at the bus station in their town. “We didn’t get permission to go to Kopan today—please, sister, help us! Or our mother will beat us with broom!” They laugh, but I promise not to give them away.

Poonam’s house is clean and bright, with lots of patterned fabrics and odds and ends. We go up on the roof. A little boy is running around naked. Another little girl is being bathed—water streaming over her thick dark hair. They give me a whole bowl of pickles to eat, so spicy my eyes water and I ask for a glass of water. I know the water’s not purified, but it’s time for my immune system to earn its keep. They feed me dal bhaat. The family is noisy and happy, but seem more sophisticated and well-mannered than other Nepali families I've met through the ani-haru.

At the front door, Poonam ceremoniously hands me a wrapped package in a plastic bag. “Small gift,” they explain. “We have never been so close with tourist people—now, you our sister!” I open it later—a plastic picture frame and a greeting card.

We go to each of their houses in turn and visit briefly. Each girl seems to have a four year old brother. Their mothers are all very different, but each of them friendly and interested. One older lady, who just had returned from a visit to Fargo, North Dakota,
said, “America giving lots of aid—thank you!”

Everyone asks to see Nick’s photo, and they all agree that he looks Nepali. “Your children, perfect Nepali!”

The girls guide me back to the main road and put me on a micro heading to Boudha, a packed minivan. Halfway there, the engine dies. The van fills with smoke, everyone jumps out in a panic! Another micro pulls up, “Boudha, Boudha!” I get on, and reach home uneventfully.

(Later I regret giving the girls my phone number, as they call nearly every day, to giggle and say, “Guess who!”)