A Layover in Distress

"In a world that rarely pauses, sometimes the only peace is in disconnection." - Author Unknown.

We couldn't escape the school transformations just yet, even though we had finally arrived in Bangkok, Thailand—a city that promised us a brief breath before the climb to Nepal. Instead of rest, our one day in Bangkok, meant to be a buffer, turned out to be a continuation of the stressful meeting days in Siem Reap. The physical distance from Cambodia only made things worse. Without face-to-face contact, we couldn’t read the emotions on our team’s faces or soothe rising tensions with a steady presence.

From our small hotel room, the city buzzed around us—traffic snarled outside, street vendors called out with fried snacks in hand, and the neon lights blinked in that chaotic rhythm Bangkok never seems to sleep to. But our minds were still fixed on Kulen Mountain.

That morning, we received a concerning call from one of our partner organizations. He had caught wind of rumors circling in the mountain community—grumbling frustrations, misinterpretations, and accusations. His voice was calm but probing. The weight of his questions pulled at our nerves. We outlined every step, including the new policies, the reasoning, and the delicate communications with the families. He listened, then offered tips and guidance—how to communicate more clearly, what to avoid, and how to rebuild trust that had been broken.

That same afternoon, our team in Cambodia hand-delivered a formal letter to the local governance of the villages on Kulen Mountain. It was our first official attempt to repair the delicate threads of trust that were fraying within the community.

That evening, in the fluorescent light of our hotel room, we had a lengthy and vital call with our team, who had communicated with the mountain chiefs earlier that day. We listened to their concerns, some of which were valid, while others stemmed from fear or confusion. We took notes and wrote another response letter—one filled with understanding, clarity, and a message of hope. Trying to stabilize and, in the best case, improve community relations.

By nightfall, the school had officially closed for the holiday, and our staff and caregivers began their break. We could only hope that time and distance would help let the dust settle. The lull we were craving might finally arrive.

But the next morning, chaos reigned again.

Before dawn, we departed for the airport to catch our flight. In the back of a rattling Thai taxi, as the skyline of Bangkok slowly gave way to the industrial outskirts, we were still typing, finalizing documents, and checking spreadsheets. We were coordinating the student transfers: grade 6 students from the remote district to Siem Reap, and former boarding students returning to schools near their homes. Our laptops balanced on our knees, we hit “send” while already seated on the plane, just before it started moving.

Of course, we were seated right behind a toddler who cried the entire four-hour journey. The sky outside was pale blue with streaks of sunrise, but inside the plane, sleep was out of the question.

As our plane soared over Nepal, the jagged peaks of the Himalayas pierced through the blanket of clouds, a breathtaking preview of the adventure ahead.

We landed at Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu on the morning of October 14th, 2024. The chaos there made Bangkok seem tame. The arrivals hall was a tangle of shouting voices, taxi drivers waving hand-written signs, and the heavy scent of incense and diesel. We fought our way through the crowd, sweat trickling down our backs, and finally managed to grab our bags.

Overwhelmed and overstimulated, we tried to get a taxi, but the noise, heat, and relentless haggling wore us down. We decided to walk a bit to escape the madness. That’s when we met Yugi—a solo traveler from Japan. He approached us gently and asked if we’d like to share a cab. We agreed instantly. He was also heading to Thamel, the bustling tourist district of Kathmandu. During the drive, we chatted about education, global citizenship, and what travel can teach you if you let it. Yugi was kind, curious, grounded, and open-minded.

Once in Thamel, we arrived at our hotel, nestled in a narrow alley of prayer flags and scooter horns. The rooms weren’t ready yet, but the receptionist, a soft-spoken man in a dark blue vest, let us drop our backpacks. We stepped out again into the heartbeat of Kathmandu: prayer wheels spinning under fingertips, the distant hum of chanting from a monastery, cafés pulsing with reggae music, and dogs sunbathing lazily on the steps of temples.

And in that moment, with no Wi-Fi and no messages pinging in, we left more than just our backpacks behind; we left behind the weight of the last few weeks. Even if just for a few hours, we finally exhaled.