The Story of Ali
I first met Ali Tamang years ago when I was living at the
Tushita Rest House in Kathmandu. The place had once served
as the US Embassy in Nepal but as usual the US personnel had
moved on to bigger and better things. It was a modest
establishment that catered to budget travellers, mostly
climbers, trekkers and upscale volunteer workers. I was the only
American residing there and one of the few permanent guests.
The first time I saw Ali he looked little different from any of the
myriad of street urchins one runs across in Kathmandu and all of
Nepal for that matter. 10 or 11 years old, dressed in rags,
barefoot, lice in the thick black hair -- and tearful. He was
mopping the cement floor of the dining area. My usual waiter,
Govinda, brought my coffee and I asked him about the new
boy.
"Sad case," Govinda said. "His name is Ali Tamang. His parents
died just recently leaving him and his 14 year old sister alone on
the farm. Of course, two children cannot run a farm so they
came to Kathmandu to try to find work. He's young and knows
nothing of hotel work but the manager took him on out of pity."
A common story in Nepal. Ali was at the bottom of the pecking
order in the hotel and most of the other boys tormented him
and gave him all the worst possible work -- cleaning the
charpis, mopping, all the dirty work. Of course, it broke my
heart as did most of what I saw in Nepal.
One morning when I was having my coffee I called Ali over to
my table and spoke with him. He told me his story and was very
concerned about his well being and future -- if any. A hotel boy
barked at him to get back to work. I told the boy he was at my
table by my own invitation and to leave him alone. The boy was
wise enough to do nothing but nod and smile. I was one of the
few who left "boxies" -- tips -- and as such was a preferred
customer. If one is wise one does not bite the hand that feeds.
Upon leaving I stuffed a 20 rupia note into Ali's hand. "For me?"
he said, astounded. "For you and you alone," I said. Maybe 50
or 75 cents at the time but perhaps a week's pay for Ali.
Next AM when I had my coffee I asked that Ali be my waiter.
The other boys balked, saying he was not a waiter at all but a
common "chami" (cleaning man or janitor -- often the caste to
which I was assigned by the Brahmins). I called the manager,
Prem, over and put my request to him. The "don't bite the hand
that feeds" wisdom came into play again. I was probably the
only permanent guest in the hotel. I took many meals at the
restaurant and LEFT BOXIES. I drank beer and khukuri rum in
the evening with a group of Nepali friends and LEFT BOXIES.
Sometimes I would bring guests from the Peace Corps and buy
them drinks and dinner and LEFT BOXIES. "If you want this boy
for your waiter you may certainly have him, however, it is my
duty to warn you that he has no experience as a waiter so if
your service is poor you have no one to blame but yourself." I
said, "bringing a pot of coffee requires little skill. I'll take my
chances."
And so Ali became my coffee server for the mornings and was
able to earn the coveted boxies left by the crazy queerie. Ali
got rid of the lice and was able to buy come chopples so he
didn't have to go barefoot and got a better shirt and pants. He
still slept on the bare concrete floor at night with no blanket or
pillow. Not an easy life being an orphan hotel boy.
Fall drifted into winter and Christmas was soon upon on us.
Some creative fellow on the hotel staff made a cardboard
profile of Santa and painted it red and white and set it in the
restaurant. A red and blue light bulb decorated the Santa. Not
much, but something, and enough to bring the Spirit of
Christmas upon me.
A couple of days before Christmas I spoke to Prem. "I want to
use Ali for 3 or 4 hours today. I need some help at the market."
"Of course, Bill Sahib. No problem."
So Ali and I went to the open market in Assan Bazaar. I bought
him some jeans and shirts, sports shoes, socks, a good warm
jacket, blanket and pillow. At first he didn't understand what I
was doing but when it finally dawned on him these items were
for him I've never seen a happier boy. When you have nothing it
is strange just how much joy a couple of simple gifts can
generate. Bottom line, Ali went back to the Tushita looking like
a jewel with a smile that was worth a thousand times more than
the few dollars I'd spent.
Back at the hotel I had a little talk with Ali. I said, "Son, nothing
in this life is free and neither are these clothes I bought you
today. I expect you to repay me. From this day on I want you
to deliver my morning coffee to my room. At 7Am I want to hear
you knock on the door and I want that coffee to be hot and
strong as you know I like it."
"I'll be there every morning" Ali said -- and so he was and with
that great smile.
When Yangdu and I got married I took Ali from the Tushita and
he became our "house boy." It was his duty to clean the house,
do the shopping, run errands and be general handyman and
gofer. He became like our own son and we loved him and he
loved us.
I had to leave Nepal and return to the US and make
arrangements for Yangdu to join me. A life in Nepal seemed
impossible for us. I could not tolerate the government
corruption which required a song and dance I refused to do in
order to stay and gain employment in the country. Ali and
Yangdu stayed together and waited. Finally, I got all the papers
together and Yangdu joined me in San Diego. Ali went to work
for Yangdu's sister, Sanu. He lasted a year or two and
disappeared but it was not to be the end of Ali.
Years later Yangdu and I returned to Nepal to visit. For some
reason I walked into a trekking shop in Thamel. A young man in
the group of Nepali trekking leaders waiting for cutomers jumped
up, ran over and hugged me. "Bill, Sahib! It's me, Ali!"
The ragged lice ridden boy had turned into a tall, very
handsome young man, well dressed, polite and still with that
broad overpowering smile. He turned to the other men in the
shop and said, "Boys, I want to tell you this man is like a father
to me. When I was a poor hotel boy he took me in and treated
me as his own. I will never forget what he did and will always
remember him -- And, now he has returned to see me again."
We had a wonderful reunion and Ali told us of what he had
done. He had learned a smattering of English when he was with
me and had listened to advice I had given him. He had gone to
school part time and had perfected his English. He changed his
name to better fit a trekker's image, and had got on in a
trekking shop as a kitchen boy. He worked hard and learned the
routes and as much as he could about trekking. This along with
his English language ability soon got him promoted to a trekking
guide. He studied and learned Japanese so he could take
Japanese trekkers on journeys through the Himalayas and had
become a top guide -- well paid and respected in trekking
community. He had overcome great adversity and had become
by any standard a success.
And therein lies the reward and what a great reward it is. Many
thanks, Little One, for making my life so much better.
I forgot one thing: What has this to do with khukuris?
