A working mother’s guilt

“Mum, Mum, Sangjay’s been playing with a python.” Rinchen was hoping to get one up on his elder sibling, but he knew he had to come up with something pretty spectacular to get my attention.

“That’s nice, darling.”

Tiger Tops’ rustic ‘office’ had a thatched roof, wood rafters and mesh windows, and I was distracted by a guest relations manual update and tomorrow’s rooming list. I trusted my teenage boys to read jungle lore, and to know the difference between harmless and dangerous snakes.

On a shelf above me, dusty glass jars of formaldehyde contained some of the more lethal varieties preserved for science: sinister yellow banded kraits and a lurid green pit viper. A deer barked in the distance and the cooks clattered in the adjacent kitchen.

Read also: Chitlan, Chitwan and children, Lisa Choegyal

He tried again: “And it wasn’t a very small one. Tim and Jack dared him to pick it up.” The four boys were just back from one of their elephant-back expeditions through the Chitwan grasslands, this time up the Surung Khola valley – an unruly quartet close in age and fast friends since infancy. Disturbed from its winter torpor, the python did not appear bothered by its rude manhandling and was soon safely restored back into its Chitwan freedom.

My two sons were dragged up in the wake of my own enthusiasms Bardia National Park 1994

Tenzin and I trekking with the boys 1993

I like to consider myself an exemplary parent, but probably all mothers think that. The truth is that my two sons were dragged into the wake of my own enthusiasms. Lucky their father seldom left home, as my selfish priorities may not have always featured family first. Our photo books support me in providing a peripatetic and sometimes idyllic childhood, but always to suit my travels, my schedule and my work in wildlife, conservation and adventure.

Two little boys posing in checked shirts on a Khumbu chorten, peering out of a tent on a remote terraced hillside with early morning peaks behind, bundled in life jackets hanging on through the white water, and embracing an elephant deep in the jungle grasslands. There were many years of birthday cakes for Tim Jack Sangjay or Rinchen, moulded out of elephant dung, elaborately iced and delivered by a decorated hati, a perennial delight with everyone valiantly keeping up the well-worn joke to please the grown-ups.

Brought up in Kathmandu, our boys attended the British School until their early teens, both speak Nepali like natives, and both consider this Valley their home. As children they were forced to follow me on various missions – the picture albums show coconut throwing competitions in Sabah, canoeing in the back blocks of Sarawak, volcano trekking in Indonesia, horse-riding in Mongolia, cycling in Vietnam, rock climbing in Kenya and abseiling in Wyoming. After a particularly arduous trek recce wading rivers and lost in the Chandragiri hills, Rinchen declared: “Never again, Mum.”

One result of their upbringing was an early affinity with animals. Sangjay’s first spoken word was “hati”. Stopping for a break at the riverside village of Malekhu, its fish delicacies hung skewered ready for the barbecue at the shop front. “Doesn’t it hurt the fish?” asked Sangjay, aged three. I was stuck for a glib answer.

He showed the same concern for a pig on the solid iron spit roasting over a pit of burning coals in front of the Lodge – a favourite for special celebrations that could take 24 hours to cook, laboriously turned by relays of men through the night.

Rinchen’s self-possession served him well as a pageboy, aged two, at my brother’s wedding in Chelsea Old Church. Both boys made it down the aisle behind the beautiful bride in their purple silk Khampa chubas, white tights and ballet shoes (promising they’d look “just like Ninja Turtles”, when Sangjay aged four refused to put his on). But during the service Rinchen was last to remain standing alone in attendance behind the happy couple, all the other older bridesmaids and pageboys having fled back to their parents in the pews.

Read also: The Eyes of Truth, Lisa Choegyal

There were the usual close shaves as toddlers. Sangjay tumbling down a flight of stairs, almost being swept into a flooded stream, crashing from the top steps of a slide, and falling backwards off a sofa through our sitting room window; the ensuing wound’s 12 stitches still show as a white scarred patch when his thick dark hair is cut short.

Rinchen must have been less reckless as I recall few childhood mishaps, but instead a healthy curiosity and keen observation. Driving to school one morning a small voice from the back seat asked: “What are those dogs doing Mummy.”

“Mating, darling,” I replied, with an attempt at insouciance. There was a long pause. “Looks like awfully hard work to me!”

I can hardly bear to recollect the time they went missing at my mother’s home on that same British visit. (‘They’ll be absolutely safe playing out in the garden,’ she had said, never dreaming they would venture beyond the hawthorn hedges.) After an agonising half hour, they were found wandering near the main Oxford London railway line a couple of fields away. I was never sure I believed their story about a passing train driver who stopped for a friendly chat, as all the locomotives I saw hurtled past at horrifying speed.

Probably the depth of my attempts at responsible motherhood was when I misplaced them in Christchurch Airport. Stopping to change planes after a trip exploring New Zealand’s West Coast, I was absorbed chatting with mountaineering friends when we noticed they were gone.

After a frantic search with thudding heart, we heard the humiliating announcement: “Would the mother of two small boys please collect them from lost property.” A kindly old Kiwi couple had found them on the sidewalk outside and handed them in.

Rinchen had his own python encounter during a gap year job at a river running camp near Rishikesh, but it did not end so happily. Finding a python being burned by villagers mistakenly to protect their livestock, they reported this violation of an endangered species to the Indian wildlife authorities. Three of the team were arrested for their pains, and the poor snake died anyway.