A Very Long Day
Written April 29, 2016
Once I resolved that I wanted to get a better education in the United States to follow a very good education I received at St. Xavier’s School in Kathmandu, I became very driven and active.
It was early 1983, and I studied for and took the A-Level exams through St. Xavier’s school’s alumni association, Godavari Alumni Association (GAA) while I was meant to be going to the top-notch science/engineering college in Kathmandu, Amrit Science College (ASCOL). Colleges in Nepal, including ASCOL, that took in students after 10th grade (or around age 16 or 17) were of very poor quality. After a very good Jesuit education since first grade boarding school and getting a very well- rounded, high-quality academic and non-academic tutelage, ASCOL was a tremendous letdown. Many of my friends who came from wealthier backgrounds were also aware of the dire straits of the college education in Nepal and opted to go to colleges in India—my family could not afford these private colleges in India. In addition, I was convinced that the Indian colleges would be incrementally better than their Nepali counterparts—I was interested in superb quality, not dissimilar to the quality at St. Xavier’s. Hence, I set my sights on America.
It was a time long before the Internet so the information disparity was tremendous. I was an ardent visitor of the British Council Library and there I found an almanac of US universities—I still remember a thick book with yellow jacket. I studied that almanac from cover-to-cover reading about every college or university that spoke of Engineering courses and Scholarships for foreign students. It was a multi-week effort going in to the library for a few hours a few times a week. I managed to pull out about 8 names and sent each a typewritten letter asking about their application process and whether they provided scholarships to foreign students. Waiting for responses took weeks and, as I waited, each day going into ASCOL was disheartening. In those days, going abroad, perhaps beyond India for undergraduate education was unheard of—some older folks attended foreign universities for graduate education (Masters and PhD) with coordination with Nepal government and the foreign donors. In fact, my father had received his PhD from Grenoble in France after doing all his field work in Nepal and went to France, when I was in 9th grade just to finish the thesis and defend it—in French. The funding for Dad’s education was coordinated by his fellow scientist and collaborator, who happened to be on the faculty of the scientific university in Grenoble. It was not clear what I was attempting to do was even possible, yet I persevered due to the dire conditions at ASCOL.
Inevitably, responses from the 8 colleges in the United Strates started trickling in— while most were prepared to fund me from 50% to even up to 90%, due to Nepal’s situation, I was not convinced that our family could come up with enough funds to pay for even airfare, never mind any other costs like tuition or expenses. I had just turned 17 and these insurmountable problems were shoved to the backburner— and I kept busy. My mode of transportation was a red Honda 110cc motorcycle and I went everywhere with it—and I enjoyed weaving in and out of Kathmandu’s chaotic traffic. I was also teaching Math to a new class of students taking the A-Level exam, while I was waiting for my own results of the A-level exams I had just taken. Fr. Watrin, who oversaw the Cambridge University (UK) Advanced-Level (or A-level) program at GAA needed teachers for Math and Additional Math and it was very quick negotiations to come to terms with my teaching engagement for Math, which was my second teaching gig of the two paid gigs I had ever had in life (the first was to teach Electricity to two grades, 9th and 10th a few months after I had graduated from 10th grade). Also, it was a time when Nepali teenagers did not take on jobs— jobs were for working adults, not for teenagers. Yet, my Math skills were in demand and for someone who relied on his parents for money, getting a wad of cash stuffed in an envelope each week was extremely exhilarating and liberating. Fr. Watrin begged me to also teach the Additional Math course, yet I resisted because I wanted to spend more time researching how to get to the US. Ironically, when I went to pick up my A-Level results from Fr. Watrin he alerted me to a college in New Mexico that was looking to get a Nepali student to come for a 2-year International Baccalaureate program. I wrote directly to the college and Ms. Lu Lockwood, who was the president’s wife, responded with a brochure of this international school, called United World College (UWC), and told me about one scholarship that was set aside through a philanthropic benefactor’s generosity. It would pay for the 2-years education, expenses and even airfare to/from US. It seemed like after many months of research and some dead ends, this information was uplifting and, and reading between the lines, it seemed like Lu was excited to be communicating with a Nepali kid. Like all letters coming from colleges and universities in the United States, the envelope was very crisp, off-white and the type was clean, unlike the manual typewriter fonts on low quality paper that we used. Lu pointed me to a gentleman named Veit Berger, the consulate general of Austria to Nepal, who was going to conduct the interviews in Nepal on behalf of the college.
The interview lasted almost 3 hours at Mr Berger’s house, where two other interviewers were gathered. One was a Nepali scholar and the other was our school’s English teacher, Fr. James J Donnelley. I remember, the living room—it was exquisitely decorated, like a well-to-do expatriate’s residence in Nepal. The sofa was soft and obviously of western origin—certainly nothing that one could buy in Nepal in 1983. Across the room the three interviewers sat asking me question after question. Exhausted by the penetrating questions including academics, extracurriculars, and even my 21-days at Himalayan Mountaineering Institute at Darjeeling, I went home thinking this was just another dead-end of many dead-ends that I had to endure before I arrived at my goal of getting to the US. Fr. Donnelley also reminded all the referees that I had been award the “Best Boy Award” at St Xavier’s—an award given each year for the student with best academic, sports, and extracurricular records combined. It was prestigious and Fr. Donnelley made it a point to explain its stature in the long traditions of the most prestigious school in Nepal. The following day, I received the call from Mr. Berger who said, “You got it!” I inquired, “I got, what?” Mr. Berger, “You got the scholarship, including airfare.”
I didn’t know at the time, but Mr. Berger’s statement changed the course of my life. That evening I told my parents, “I might need a passport.” They asked alarmingly, “Why, where are you going?” I told them, “I think I’m going to the US.” Within a week, I received a telex from Lu Lockwood congratulating me and alerting me to the I-20 documents, which would arrive by mail—in those days, telex, a kind of telegram was the fastest method of communication after a telephone. Of course, due to the fact that my family did not have a telephone and the difficulty of 12 hours and 15-minute time difference with US Mountain Time, it was not going to be convenient to make telephone calls. Every day, I visited the small communications center that charged for telexes sent and received; I inquired about any telexes for me from the US. Often the answer was “No” but once in a while, I’d be handed a strip of paper about an inch wide and about 8 inches long with succinct words all typed up in capital letters that relayed the message. Summer in Nepal was hot, sunny, and dusty, but through the telex, I was in another world and I was almost giddy. Finally, after many months of hard work, worry, and “what-ifs” I saw light at the end of the tunnel. Nevertheless, the I-20 document from the college needed to secure a student visa (called F-1 visa) never arrived—later, I was convinced that the packet was most likely opened by Nepali post office staff because it would have been a fat envelope— and the staff at the Post Office opened letters looking for money or checks. And there were no international couriers like FedEx, DHL, or UPS in those days—a friend of a friend coming/going to Nepal was the only reliable courier system. Finally, after 6 weeks of waiting, in mid-August, I was compelled to send my own telex to Lu Lockwood asking for the I-20. Ms. Lockwood must have been surprised because she sent back a flurry of telexes promising a replacement I-20 packet and also information about the airline ticket, called the PTA (Prepaid Ticket Advice). The PTA allowed me to go and pick up a pre-paid ticket at a travel agency associated with Trans World Airlines (TWA).
In parallel, my parents were busy getting me my Nepali passport. In 1983, one did not just apply for a passport—it was controlled very strictly and only issued on an as-needed basis, to government officials and some business people, and to students who were studying abroad on funding arranged through the government of Nepal or intergovernmental organizations. My situation was very unique in that the government was not involved in the financing or admissions into practically a high-school program. Typically, police reports from one’s hometown were required as a pre-requisite to the passport application, and because my father grew up in a tiny village in Nepal, very far from our city of Kathmandu, the police report had to originate from my dad’s hometown (not my hometown of Kathmandu). The paperwork seemed to take ages. While I do not know the details, I do know my parents had to pull strings and call in many, many favors. Miraculously, about the same time the I-20 arrived, I was holding a shiny, new, green Nepali passport in my hand—the black-and-white photo of a lightly mustached young man, wearing traditional Nepali cap, as required of all official documents, was staring back at me.
The very next day, armed with the I-20 and my new passport, I went to apply for an F-1 student visa at the US Embassy. Unlike today, where one can often see long lines of visa applicants perhaps 100+ people deep each morning, on the sunny, August morning I was the only person at the visa entrance of the US Embassy. As soon as I walked into a small waiting area, the air-conditioned air exuded luxury and Western amenities. The consulate walked out and handed me my passport stamped with the F-1 visa and congratulated me—we had a short chat about studying in the US. Today, I’m convinced that the consulate came out to see what kind of person received I-20 documents from a college (actually high school) in New Mexico, he had never heard of. He may also have been testing my English and my demeanor—both I think passed and he patted me on the back and gave my dad a firm handshake and I was off to the travel agent to pick up my ticket.
Suddenly, sitting at the back of the motorcycle with my dad driving, I became aware that I would be leaving Nepal within a week. This was real. And it was happening very fast. And it was not a dream. At the travel agency situated at the lower level below street level on Kanti Path at the southwest corner of the Royal Palace, a mustached travel agent calmly laid down the 4 tickets in front of me. First, an hour-long flight from Kathmandu to Delhi on Air India, then after a 9-hour layover, around 2 am, I would board a TWA plane to Frankfurt, then another flight to JFK in New York, and after a 3-hour layover my final flight from JFK to Albuquerque airport in New Mexico, arriving around 10 pm local time.
My next stop was at the bank to draw up to $400 allowed per Nepali person leaving the country. Since I was the eldest of 3 sons, I was used to running many errands and getting bank and government errands done on my own. It was 10 in the morning and I had collected enough Nepali rupees to secure $400; it was what they called the “first hour” or the busiest and perhaps the most productive time in any office, in particular a government bank. Like all typical bank transactions in Nepal in 1983, everything was done in person—to withdraw cash, to deposit, to make loan payments, and rarely, as in my case, to convert Nepali money into US dollars legally—there was, of course, a black market for US dollars and other “hard currencies” but I wanted to get the $400 legally—and at the lowest rate possible in the market—and, frankly, I think that was probably the most my parents could scrounge together. I could tell there was a problem because I was called into an office rather than directed to the teller. There were three gentlemen and one lady in the office and they looked at me and asked where I was going and why I needed the foreign currency. In those days, I’m sure there was a lot of fraud. Without even allowing me to finish the gentleman who looked like the most senior person said my money would be given back and the government bank would not be providing me with the US dollars. I could feel my blood drain from my face—yet, the bold side of me mustered enough words to ask for an explanation; I said I was going to study in the United States and I had tickets to prove my departure. The four officers spoke among themselves, with me still in the room—the more strenuous argument was made by the lady, who said, “He’s just a boy going to get a better education abroad. We should just let him have his US dollars—it is not a lot.” They all looked at each other and within a few minutes, the US dollars in the form of four crisp American Express traveler's checks were given to me. These were the days prior to credit cards in Nepal and the secure way to carry currency was not as cash, but as counter-signable traveler’s checks. I hopped on my motorbike with another small victory under my belt.
The day for my departure arrived. It was bittersweet. I could tell my parents were worried, but also excited for me. My two younger brothers were super excited for me. My mother conducted the Ganesh ceremony to give “teeka” for good luck and safe travels—and you bite on a whole egg, chomp on a few fried, dry anchovies and bow to Ganesh. On the way out of your house, one puts a coin into the special water jar again bidding the house goodbye. Although I had seen these rituals done for others, including my dad when he went to France, it was slightly unreal that this was all happening to me. The airport was a hallowed ground of privileged folks who got on a plane and left or who arrived by plane. The Air India plane was on the tarmac—I walked up to the stairs connected to the plane, stood at the top of the stairs, and looked back at the terminal—the open, top terrace of the terminal was for people to wave to their loved ones. I spotted my parents and my two brothers waving back at me. Then I took a determined sweep of the skyline, unsure when I’d see the tall mountains that ring Kathmandu Valley and the higher Himalayan snow-capped peaks in the distance. I was the last one—on the top of the stairs, I took a whiff and I smelled the evening air—it was warm and sweet. The air hostess beckoned me in and the aircraft door shut tight behind me. I had been on two propeller planes for travel within Nepal when I was entering 1st grade and in 7th grade. But the jet plane seemed to go very, very fast—the hill and mountains below passed very quickly, and within 45 minutes the hills were behind us and we were over the plains of Nepal and India. The plane made an unscheduled fuel stop at Patna in India—they kept the plane door open for the 25 minutes or so. The air in India was hot and stuffy. Already I was missing my family and my country.
It was dark by the time we arrived in New Delhi airport. We had to take our checked luggage with us and wait in the international lounge for the flight to Frankfurt. The lounge was uncomfortable and full of solicitors and shifty folks, so I didn’t get a wink of sleep, although I did see many Westerners sleeping like babies on the floor and even crouched in uncomfortable hard plastic chairs. The TWA staff gave us our boarding passes to Frankfurt, rechecked our luggage, and shortly after 2 am I was in a much larger plane, which had a distinctly American feel to it.
It was early morning when we arrived into Frankfurt—the bright sunlight seemed a bit too bright, especially coming off a plane that was mostly dark and full of sleepy passengers. The hubbub in Frankfurt was nothing I had seen before—Delhi airport was large and cavernous, but not well-lit and looked like a third-world airport— Frankfurt was different. There were gleaming shops and people speaking many languages. Above all, it was very, very well-lit—I couldn’t believe how immaculate things were and how bright things were. And there were fancy restaurants right at the airport—outside there seemed to be hundreds of planes taking off, landing, taxing, or just sitting there. I was in awe—this was my first time being in a Western country and in a very busy airport, which seemed to work like clockwork.
There is one incident at Frankfurt airport, that was a harbinger of many “firsts” for me in the West. It was getting on and off an escalator. I had never seen an escalator before, much less used one. Even so, one can easily emulate what others are doing especially if one needs to get from one area to the next—I had to change terminals to get ready for my next hop, to New York/JFK in the United States. However, I had two hand-carry bags, one a bit on the bulky side. And I was trying very hard to time my step onto the escalator, but nervous. Despite best efforts, I couldn’t bring myself to get on—other people went around me and seemed to get on effortlessly. I stepped back and determined to jump on—but the timing of it was too unnerving. Finally, I got enough gall to throw the heavier bag on and a few steps later I jumped on. Offloading was another challenge—it turns out, bags don’t have legs so they don’t offload easily or at all. So my heavy bag was at the top of the escalator blocking my own passage. It was a very awkward offloading and garnered many stares from people all around—luckily enough, nobody snickered or laughed, but nobody helped either. I think they were just puzzled, unsure as to what was going on—I’m sure few realized that this was the very first escalator ride a poor boy from Nepal had taken.
We arrived at JFK in mid-afternoon—the sun was shining brightly and boldly. There was one very important task I was going to accomplish in New York: my uncle, who had emigrated in the 1960s, lived outside the city and I had his phone number, so I was going to make contact. There were plenty of pay phones at the airport—in fact, it seemed like a bank of phones stood every 100 steps or so. Studying the phone instructions, it seemed like I could use nickels, dimes, and quarters—the trouble was I didn’t know what kind of money nickels, dimes and quarters were—all I knew was they were coins—because there were slots for the coins. I went to a bank or money changer at the airport and counter-signed my first $100 American Express check and received many bills, but also a lot of various coins.
Another “first” was making a payphone call. I first put in the smallest coin—a dime, thinking it was a smallest denomination and dialed the 10 digits of my uncle’s number. There was some kind of recording that seems to indicate that the amount was not correct—I put in a few quarters, and the recording was different and all the coins were spit out to the bottom of the collection area of the payphone. This happened several times and in exasperation, I asked a kiosk attendant nearby and she said, “You don’t dial all 10 digits, leave out the area code.” I had to ask, “What’s an area code?” She stared at me as if I had just landed from Mars. Afterward, I had to ask her what a “dime”, a “nickel” and a “quarter” was. I think she felt sorry for me and must have realized I was a foreign traveler. I do remember how white her skin was and how bright her lipstick was—probably only in the late teens, so she was brusque and a bit impatient. It appeared the correct change was just one dime and the last 7 digits to call a New York number. Nothing seemed to work. Finally, I asked another person who seemed like an employee of the airport—this older gentleman came over and actually tried to help me. Even he could not get the phone to cooperate—he hurried on as he was going somewhere. Another shop attendant told me if it is “long distance” I’m required to dial a “1” before all 10-digits. He thought because the area code was different from the local “212” number, it must be a long-distance number. After much fiddling and asking a few more people, I managed to get the phone to ring at the other end—the right combination was “1” and the last 7 digits, because it was a NY number, but not from the same area code.
“Where are you?” asked my uncle as soon as the line connected. He was almost panicked. He said New York is a very dangerous place—“Do not leave the airport. I’ll come and get you. It will take me an hour to get to JFK from when I work, but just stay put.” I explained to him that my flight to Albuquerque was in a few hours so I couldn’t stay with him. He didn’t know that I was going to a school in New Mexico— everything happened so quickly that my mother probably hadn’t had a chance to write her brother a letter about the news, or, indeed, even if she had written to him, letters and aerograms usually took 2 weeks to reach the US. And because we didn’t have a telephone at home, we had never called anyone, including my uncle in the US.
The final leg of my long day was starting. I was sitting next to a TWA uniformed flight attendant, Kathy. She said she was going home, outside Albuquerque. We had many hours of very good conversation—she seemed to be incredulous that a 17-year-old kid from Nepal was coming to the US all on his own. She asked if I had a place to stay—“Yes, the UWC usually has a team waiting at the airport,” I explained. Little did I know that I’d be arriving close to 10 pm at night and ours seemed to be the last plane in—when everyone picked up their baggage and the baggage carousel stopped, the airport appeared very, very quiet and deserted.
And there was no welcoming party from the college.
Fortunately, I was now an expert at making a payphone call. I called the college, the security person answered, and I explained that I was a new student. He asked what my name was and after a brief pause, he responded, “You are not on here. Are you sure you are supposed to come to THIS college?” It sent chills down my spine—it was the culmination of months (even years) of hard work and this person was saying it was all a mistake? Not knowing what else to say or ask, I asked to speak with Marcel, the Math teacher whose name I remembered from the college brochure. “Marcel is in bed—you cannot speak to him now.” I must have begged because my options were limited in an empty foreign airport where the college didn’t have my name on the list. After about 10 minutes, Marcel got on the phone and yelled, “Hello, Sanjay!” as if I was his long-lost brother. “We were wondering whether you were going to come and use the scholarship assigned to you. But so happy to hear your voice. Listen, we are three hours away from the college—nobody can come and get you now but just book a hotel room for the night and take the first train from Albuquerque to Las Vegas, NM and we will be waiting for you here.” Ecstatic, I said, “Sure.” Also, he clarified one more thing instantly, “It appears, your last name is spelled KATHMANDU—that’s why the security guard didn’t find your name. We will have that corrected with your last name—Manandhar. Good night and we’ll see you tomorrow.” It seemed like a huge weight was taken off my shoulders—I was meant to be here, but perhaps due to the I-20 mix-up they were not fully sure when I would be arriving—now, however, the college was probably relieved as much as I was.
I had no clue how to arrange a hotel room at close to 10 pm in a new town I had just flown into in a new country. Fortunately, I read and spoke English well, albeit with a non-American accent. Pacing up and down the arrival lounge, I spotted banks of colorful phones with hotel plaques next to them—they were direct lines to various hotels in town. There were no fewer than 20 phones with just the colorful handset hanging from their hooks. I tried the first one—it connected me, but there were no rooms. The next—no rooms. There were so many phones, someone was bound to have a room. I tried all the phones and not one had a room—it seemed desperate, but at this point, I told myself, “I am tired. It has been a long day. But this is only a small discomfort. I cannot give up here and now. I am going to triumph in this next challenge.” So I went back and called the Holiday Inn, which seemed to have the least curt voice. The person at the other end seemed to understand that I was in a bit of a pickle. He offered a solution, “Maybe I can give you the room of someone who is hiking and camping out in the mountains—but it will be cleaned and prepared for you. However, you will have to pay me in cash when you arrive. And you will have to leave in the early morning.” I agreed and I told him I’d take the first train to Las Vegas. Fortunately, there were still taxis at the taxi rank and it was a short ride to the hotel, where I paid in cash about $45 and went to my room. On the way to the room I saw a vending machine—after dumping my stuff in the room I came out and got a can of Coke from the vending machine—my first drink from a vending machine! it was a very soothing and refreshing dinner. The room was next to the highway and the constant sound of cars going by kept me up for a while—it had been a long day, perhaps 30+ hours due to my travel from east to west. At some point, I fell asleep.
The next day I got on the train to Las Vegas and couldn’t believe my eyes—it was red clay everywhere. The stereotype of America is the tall skyscrapers, but I was in the middle of the desert, with red clay and mesas everywhere. It was pretty and it was my first view of New Mexico—the country of the American West. The dry air smelled sweet and it was exhilarating. And the sky was massive—it was very blue and seemed to occupy ninety percent of the view. In three hours, I got off at Las Vegas, New Mexico and our housemaster’s wife, Sue, was waiting at the station along with a few students from the college. Almost at the end of the 5-mile drive to Montezuma, where the college was, driving around the last hill, the vista opened to a huge castle, which I had seen on the college brochure. It was very stupendous and, finally, I felt I had reached my destination, both as a place and an endpoint of my multi-year quest for a high-quality education very far from home.
