MoonStar
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Juntara means MoonStar
Last night at 7:00 PM
“Maggie, I don’t want to go without you. I’m gonna get lost.”
“Juntara, I wouldn’t let you go there if I thought you were going to get lost. There will be so many people to help you there and I have to get back to Nepal. You have everything you need. You’ll be fine,” I say.
I’ve packed her bag with cookies and peanuts, trail mix, chewing gum, dried coconut and, apples. She has her new blue jeans, sneakers, a fuzzy green sweater, pink jacket with a pink hat all laid out on the bed. We have to leave our hotel at 3:00 in the morning.
“If you’re not going, then I’m not going,” she says.
“If you don’t go, then how will you get your operation?” I ask.
“I won’t be able to get my operation anyway if I’m lost.”
This morning at 4:o0 AM
I’m at the British Airways counter. I’m frantic and jittery.
“Sir, please have one of your people guide them through customs and security. I’ve booked a wheelchair.”
I’ve explained the whole story, the whole everything, every last detail.
“Yes, yes Ma’am.”
“Sir, you’ll have someone fill out all their forms?”
“Yes, of course. We’re sending two of our staff with them.”
“Sir, they’ll put them directly onto the airplane?”
“Yes, you’ve booked a wheelchair. Our people can’t leave them until they’re on the airplane in their seats.”
“Okay, and they’ll talk to the flight attendants and explain everything to them too right?”
“Yes, yes of course. Miss, this isn’t the first time we’ve done this,” he says.
I’ve repeated myself 3 or 4 times with the same questions but I can’t stop myself.
I’m talking to the airline correspondents and the wheelchair-pusher now.
“Please, you have to take them all the way to the gate. Please help them through security. Please put them on the airplane yourself and please explain the situation to the flight attendants and all the crew.”
Juntara and her father have over-sized BRIGHT RED laminated name tags tied to lanyards around their neck. They have custom-made “help me” signs pinned to their backs with their full names, photographs, an emergency contact number and their flight information. My friend Megan, sensing my anxiety, made them on her computer the day before yesterday and sent them to me to print.
“PLEASE HELP US. We are on our way to the U.K. for emergency medical treatment. We speak Nepali and cannot read or write. Sarah Driver-Jowitt of Facing the World will be waiting for us in London Heathrow.”
I’ve talked to every single person in line near us that’s going on the same flight.
“Please if you don’t mind, just keep your eye on them,” I request.
They’re starting to wheel Juntara away.
“There are so many people here to help you Juntara, so many people to take you to the airplane. You’ll do great. You’re all set. I’ll miss you. I love you,” I say.
She’s crying.
I feel my heart start to beat in my chest. I’m touching her face and holding her hand. When will I see her again? When will I see her again?
They’re taking her away.
There’s a big Indian guard with a mustache in a brown uniform decked out in badges standing at a security gate. I know I can’t go any further. I look to Juntara’s father. He’s been terrified at the prospect of going these past few days. He’s worried about his buffalo and his goats back in his village He too, is convinced they’re going to get lost.
“You’re in good hands. You’re safe. You’ll be fine. They’re taking you straight to the plane. I’ll talk to you when you get there. You’re really safe.”
He has tears in his eyes now and so do I.
I look at Juntara one last time. I’m crying now. I can’t stop touching her face. They’re taking her away and I have to let go now.
I watch as they go through customs. I stand on my tippy-toes and stretch my neck as far as it will go. I watch as they drift away further and further.
I can barely make them out now. They’re heading for security.
All I can see is Juntara’s father’s Nepali hat. I’m watching and crying and crying. My first tears in weeks are monsooning down my face. I’m trying to sniff it all in. I’m trying to stop my chest and my stomach from huffing and pumping in and out. You know how it does that when you really really cry?
Suddenly his hat disappears.
They’re gone.
The hours pass. I get it together. I buy myself a cup of tea. I sit at the airport. My flight to Kathmandu isn’t until 11:00 this morning.
7:00 PM
I’ve set my watch to London time and have been looking at it all day.
Finally it’s 12:00 in the afternoon in London and I call Sarah at Facing the World.
“They just landed. They’re here. They’re with us. They’re fine. They’re fine Maggie. They’re here.”
She puts the phone on speaker and passes it to Juntara and her father.
They’re happy and fine and on the way to the hospital.
10:45 P.M.
I arrive in Surkhet. The lights are on in the house and before I can open my car door all the kids are running through the front gate to greet me.
“What are you still doing up!?! It’s a school night.”
They all ask about Juntara as we walk into the house.
“Go upstairs and get ready for bed, then I’ll tell you the whole story from start to finish,” I say.
I eat my dinner with our staff, then head upstairs into the pink girls’ room where the kids are all sitting. All the youngest ones have fallen asleep.
“Do you know what Juntara’s name means in English?” I ask.
I can see them trying to do the translation in their heads.
Nisha is the first to answer.
“Juntara means moonstar,” she says.
As I tell them the story, it's hard to keep my eyelids from closing. I haven't slept in 48 hours and I'm exhausted.
"And right now, right this minute, Juntara's in London at the hospital getting a few last tests before the doctors start her operation. And everything's fine."
We cuddle up in bed and fall asleep.
Thank you British Airways for your kindness and professionalism! It was a pleasure for Juntara and her father to fly with you.