The Serpent Pool, Bhaktapur
February 20, 2005
Life
I’d come to the conclusion, after the midweek excesses of Lhosar, that I needed to see less of Dawa during the week if I was to be able to devote enough time and energy to the kids during the day. This had been difficult to explain to her without hurting her feelings but she seemed to take it reasonably well when I explained to her that I hadn’t come to Nepal in search of a girlfriend. Being sweet-natured – as she indubitably was – she was further placated when I expressed my desire to give 100% to my schoolkids and agreed to see me mainly at weekends and, occasionally, for tea during the week. Feeling somewhat guilty – and eager to kill a couple of birds with one stone – I decided to treat her to a slap-up meal and 5-star hotel in Nagarkot. This was somewhere I’d been keen to visit ever since my arrival on account of the stunning views of the Himalayas that could be enjoyed as dawn broke over its peaceful, valley-rim setting. Having read the Lonely Planet, I fancied a bit of luxury and pampering after the cold and privations of Kathmandu’s waning winter and duly made a booking at the Club Himalaya Resort.
This was all a secret as far as Dawa was concerned and it was with suppressed glee that I bundled her into a taxi on Friday evening and settled back for the 75 minute trip to escape the din and dust of the city. Our taxi-driver was, I suppose, no more (or less!) insane than any of the 10,000 others we could have chosen for the drive but I can only say that I am glad it was dark by the time we reached the winding hairpins on the final climb up to Nagarkot. I could feel the g-forces as the car swung violently into the turns and it was not unusual to also feel the back tyres scrabbling for traction as the rear end struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace being set by the front of our Shiv Maruti. Finally (and still in one piece) we arrived at the centre of the village where a small argument ensued between Dawa and I as to which way the taxi should turn. She knew well enough that there was only one hotel along the right fork of the road and was trying to insist that we should go the other way to find somewhere cheaper. Of course, her command of the local lingo soon had the driver heading the wrong way and it took some forceful persuasion on my part to get the poor fellow to reverse back down the hill and go the other way. Eventually, Dawa realised my purpose and sat there in numbed silence with starry eyes and a daft grin on her face as we pulled up outside a very plush looking, hilltop edifice. The pièce-de-resistance was delivered when the hotel’s doorman greeted me as I emerged from the taxi and insisted on carrying my bag into the stunning, picture-windowed reception with its views of the star-studded sky and twinkling valleys.
For a grand total of just over 30 quid, we were treated to a delicious 5-course meal, heated air-conditioned room with private balcony and breathtaking views of the Himalayan Dawn and a 3-course breakfast served on that same balcony. I wouldn’t go so far as to confirm the hotel’s service as 5-star…a lack of room service, unheated pool and cold Jacuzzi would surely mark it down in the eyes of the International Hoteliers Association…but comparatively, when considering the dilapidated state of Kathmandu and the country in general, this was something akin to the mythical 7-star status in my humble opinion. And to be quite frank, waking up to those views as the sun began to stream in at 6am, was utterly priceless.
After a lazy breakfast in the growing heat of a now fully-fledged Springtime, I slowly felt the effects of three bottles of wine beginning to creep up on me. We’d agreed to meet Edd in the ancient city of Bhaktapur (just at the foot of Nagarkot’s hill) by 11am and, trusting to the luck of finding a taxi, we’d already let the opportunity of the 10am ‘tourist’ bus go begging thanks to my throbbing head and bloated stomach. After 20 minutes sat waiting fruitlessly at the crossroads of the previous night’s dissension, we eventually found ourselves in the hotel’s own shuttle bus as it made its way to Tribhuvan Airport to pick up some Japanese tourists. For a much-reduced fee, our friendly driver dropped us off outside Bhaktapur and showed us a back way into the city that avoided the ticket booths where I’d be ‘robbed’ of $10 for the privilege of not being a citizen of an ASEAN country. I can’t really be bothered to rant about the extortionate disparity between ‘local’ and ‘foreigner’ prices at popular Nepali tourist attractions but I will say that for a country suffering a massive downturn in visitor numbers, they’re not exactly endearing themselves to the faithful few who still come!
Eventually, we met up with Edd about 35 minutes late…although it turned out that he’d been waiting since 10am, having not read the e-mail properly anyway…so I didn’t feel too guilty on account of his supreme dumb-assedness in the first place. ;-) Before we did anything else, I dutifully walked out of the main gates to pay my entry fee…as this fee need only be paid once and the ticket could be used as long as my visa was valid, I knew I’d be spreading the cost over several intended trips to the city.
Under the baleful glare of the sun my burgeoning hangover was not putting me in the best of moods for sight-seeing (sound familiar, anyone?) but the sheer, attractive antiquity and relative serenity of Bhaktapur (where motorised transport is practically forbidden) seemed preferable to returning to the drudgery of Kathmandu. First of all I insisted on sitting down somewhere, preferably shady, to eat and attempt to rehydrate. Edd had found us a reasonable little eatery and we emerged from there about an hour later feeling much fortified and better prepared for the sight-seeing fray. Of course, in this new, quieter Nepal, the last thing we were having to contend with was the thronged masses of tourist hordes and we were able to wend our way around the LP’s recommended walking route over the course of a thoroughly pleasant two hours. The sheer number and variety of Hindu temples and shrines simply beggars belief; the narrow backstreet tenements hid a surprising richness of finely-detailed wood and stone carving; great communal pools and water stands appeared from nowhere with beautifully worked brass spouts and stone guttering; the very taste of at-once defunct and living history abounded through the mazy ways of this beautiful old city. Before Nepal was united, the Kathmandu valley was divided into three kingdoms, the capitals being in Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur. The rich opulence of these ancient capitals is still much in evidence to this day – no more so than in Bhaktapur, where the depredations of 20th century life have been much abated by the intelligent removal of motorised vehicles. There is still a slightly grimy, but nevertheless authentic, patina of filth and the majority of the wood carvings and finely adorned buildings have been left to decay somewhat for a UNESCO world heritage site. I think many Westerners would be appalled at the run-down state of many significant religious monuments in this country – perhaps, to some tastes, this rich heritage has not been too well preserved. However, in the world’s second poorest country, I think it shows (unusual) good judgement on the part of the keepers of the public purse…and maybe it would be churlish to rant about that price difference after all…
On our way back to the bus station we stopped to check out some erotic temple carvings, as recommended by the Lonely Planet. It was an unsubtle reminder of how open the Hindu religion can be about our natural appetites…and I can only commend the imagination of the guys who produced the work several hundred years ago.
We returned to Thamel in the evening, where Mahendra had invited us all to go to the Dohori club with him. Dohori is traditional Nepali music and singing performed by 5 or more vocalists, accompanied by a 5-piece backing band playing traditional instruments. The customers sit in booths and eat snacks while drinking plenty of beer (or whisky and coke, in Mahendra’s case) and, much like a karaoke bar, choose songs to be performed. Instead of singing, though, the members of the table that nominated the tune are expected to front of the stage and dance like whirling dervishes while the song is performed. As you can imagine, later in the evening the dancing gets pretty wild as the levels of blood-alcohol and excitement rise. With heads, arms and legs flying about at warp-speed it’s almost inevitable that someone will get hurt…and while we were there, this did indeed happen as Edd and I saw a guy levelled by a beautiful ‘drunken-master’ style right hook, which caught him – totally unintentionally – flush on the jaw. The prone punter was merely moved to a seat out of the thick of the action and the others carried on dancing much as before. Needless to say, all of this was extremely entertaining and I only wished I’d been in a better state to enjoy myself. The remnants of my hangover, not improved by a hot day in the sun and a general lack of sleep, meant that I wasn’t on the best of form. Despite Mahendra’s generous hospitality and repeated pleas, I declined to strut my stuff on the dancefloor. I felt guilty for hurting his feelings (he kept asking, ‘Are you boring?’ – meaning ‘Are you bored?’) and promised that, before I left Nepal, we would certainly come to the Dohori again…and that this time I would dance. When it was time to leave, much to my and Edd’s consternation, Mahendra refused to let us pay, explaining (in much the same way Dawa had at Lhosar) that as we were guests in his country, he insisted on treating us. We let it pass on this occasion but vowed that, next time, it would be our tab.
This was all a secret as far as Dawa was concerned and it was with suppressed glee that I bundled her into a taxi on Friday evening and settled back for the 75 minute trip to escape the din and dust of the city. Our taxi-driver was, I suppose, no more (or less!) insane than any of the 10,000 others we could have chosen for the drive but I can only say that I am glad it was dark by the time we reached the winding hairpins on the final climb up to Nagarkot. I could feel the g-forces as the car swung violently into the turns and it was not unusual to also feel the back tyres scrabbling for traction as the rear end struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace being set by the front of our Shiv Maruti. Finally (and still in one piece) we arrived at the centre of the village where a small argument ensued between Dawa and I as to which way the taxi should turn. She knew well enough that there was only one hotel along the right fork of the road and was trying to insist that we should go the other way to find somewhere cheaper. Of course, her command of the local lingo soon had the driver heading the wrong way and it took some forceful persuasion on my part to get the poor fellow to reverse back down the hill and go the other way. Eventually, Dawa realised my purpose and sat there in numbed silence with starry eyes and a daft grin on her face as we pulled up outside a very plush looking, hilltop edifice. The pièce-de-resistance was delivered when the hotel’s doorman greeted me as I emerged from the taxi and insisted on carrying my bag into the stunning, picture-windowed reception with its views of the star-studded sky and twinkling valleys.
For a grand total of just over 30 quid, we were treated to a delicious 5-course meal, heated air-conditioned room with private balcony and breathtaking views of the Himalayan Dawn and a 3-course breakfast served on that same balcony. I wouldn’t go so far as to confirm the hotel’s service as 5-star…a lack of room service, unheated pool and cold Jacuzzi would surely mark it down in the eyes of the International Hoteliers Association…but comparatively, when considering the dilapidated state of Kathmandu and the country in general, this was something akin to the mythical 7-star status in my humble opinion. And to be quite frank, waking up to those views as the sun began to stream in at 6am, was utterly priceless.
After a lazy breakfast in the growing heat of a now fully-fledged Springtime, I slowly felt the effects of three bottles of wine beginning to creep up on me. We’d agreed to meet Edd in the ancient city of Bhaktapur (just at the foot of Nagarkot’s hill) by 11am and, trusting to the luck of finding a taxi, we’d already let the opportunity of the 10am ‘tourist’ bus go begging thanks to my throbbing head and bloated stomach. After 20 minutes sat waiting fruitlessly at the crossroads of the previous night’s dissension, we eventually found ourselves in the hotel’s own shuttle bus as it made its way to Tribhuvan Airport to pick up some Japanese tourists. For a much-reduced fee, our friendly driver dropped us off outside Bhaktapur and showed us a back way into the city that avoided the ticket booths where I’d be ‘robbed’ of $10 for the privilege of not being a citizen of an ASEAN country. I can’t really be bothered to rant about the extortionate disparity between ‘local’ and ‘foreigner’ prices at popular Nepali tourist attractions but I will say that for a country suffering a massive downturn in visitor numbers, they’re not exactly endearing themselves to the faithful few who still come!
Eventually, we met up with Edd about 35 minutes late…although it turned out that he’d been waiting since 10am, having not read the e-mail properly anyway…so I didn’t feel too guilty on account of his supreme dumb-assedness in the first place. ;-) Before we did anything else, I dutifully walked out of the main gates to pay my entry fee…as this fee need only be paid once and the ticket could be used as long as my visa was valid, I knew I’d be spreading the cost over several intended trips to the city.
Under the baleful glare of the sun my burgeoning hangover was not putting me in the best of moods for sight-seeing (sound familiar, anyone?) but the sheer, attractive antiquity and relative serenity of Bhaktapur (where motorised transport is practically forbidden) seemed preferable to returning to the drudgery of Kathmandu. First of all I insisted on sitting down somewhere, preferably shady, to eat and attempt to rehydrate. Edd had found us a reasonable little eatery and we emerged from there about an hour later feeling much fortified and better prepared for the sight-seeing fray. Of course, in this new, quieter Nepal, the last thing we were having to contend with was the thronged masses of tourist hordes and we were able to wend our way around the LP’s recommended walking route over the course of a thoroughly pleasant two hours. The sheer number and variety of Hindu temples and shrines simply beggars belief; the narrow backstreet tenements hid a surprising richness of finely-detailed wood and stone carving; great communal pools and water stands appeared from nowhere with beautifully worked brass spouts and stone guttering; the very taste of at-once defunct and living history abounded through the mazy ways of this beautiful old city. Before Nepal was united, the Kathmandu valley was divided into three kingdoms, the capitals being in Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur. The rich opulence of these ancient capitals is still much in evidence to this day – no more so than in Bhaktapur, where the depredations of 20th century life have been much abated by the intelligent removal of motorised vehicles. There is still a slightly grimy, but nevertheless authentic, patina of filth and the majority of the wood carvings and finely adorned buildings have been left to decay somewhat for a UNESCO world heritage site. I think many Westerners would be appalled at the run-down state of many significant religious monuments in this country – perhaps, to some tastes, this rich heritage has not been too well preserved. However, in the world’s second poorest country, I think it shows (unusual) good judgement on the part of the keepers of the public purse…and maybe it would be churlish to rant about that price difference after all…
On our way back to the bus station we stopped to check out some erotic temple carvings, as recommended by the Lonely Planet. It was an unsubtle reminder of how open the Hindu religion can be about our natural appetites…and I can only commend the imagination of the guys who produced the work several hundred years ago.
We returned to Thamel in the evening, where Mahendra had invited us all to go to the Dohori club with him. Dohori is traditional Nepali music and singing performed by 5 or more vocalists, accompanied by a 5-piece backing band playing traditional instruments. The customers sit in booths and eat snacks while drinking plenty of beer (or whisky and coke, in Mahendra’s case) and, much like a karaoke bar, choose songs to be performed. Instead of singing, though, the members of the table that nominated the tune are expected to front of the stage and dance like whirling dervishes while the song is performed. As you can imagine, later in the evening the dancing gets pretty wild as the levels of blood-alcohol and excitement rise. With heads, arms and legs flying about at warp-speed it’s almost inevitable that someone will get hurt…and while we were there, this did indeed happen as Edd and I saw a guy levelled by a beautiful ‘drunken-master’ style right hook, which caught him – totally unintentionally – flush on the jaw. The prone punter was merely moved to a seat out of the thick of the action and the others carried on dancing much as before. Needless to say, all of this was extremely entertaining and I only wished I’d been in a better state to enjoy myself. The remnants of my hangover, not improved by a hot day in the sun and a general lack of sleep, meant that I wasn’t on the best of form. Despite Mahendra’s generous hospitality and repeated pleas, I declined to strut my stuff on the dancefloor. I felt guilty for hurting his feelings (he kept asking, ‘Are you boring?’ – meaning ‘Are you bored?’) and promised that, before I left Nepal, we would certainly come to the Dohori again…and that this time I would dance. When it was time to leave, much to my and Edd’s consternation, Mahendra refused to let us pay, explaining (in much the same way Dawa had at Lhosar) that as we were guests in his country, he insisted on treating us. We let it pass on this occasion but vowed that, next time, it would be our tab.
Class 6B 11:15 -12:00
Knowing that I’d be going from the horrors of 6A to their far pleasanter female peers in 6B would always put a smile on my face. I make no secret of the fact that this class of girls was easily my favourite. They certainly weren’t a class of ass-kissing teacher’s pets but they were all bright and keen to learn…and they always did as they were asked…eventually! Probably the main reason that I liked them so much was their interest in me as a person and not just as another teacher. Quite often, rather than decamp to the playground, they’d prefer sit in and look at the photos on my laptop or ask me questions about my family and friends. I felt that in practical terms, their English improved so much more during these impromptu chats than in any of the structured lessons I designed. Quite often I’d find them reading those crappy teen girl magazines and have a laugh at them followed by semi-serious discussions about the lack of importance of material wealth and cosmetic appearance. I was loath to see these intelligent, attractive young girls obsessing about the same petty trivialities that seem to have replaced all intelligence in the minds of teenagers back at home. Mostly, they seem to have learnt to identify the bullshit but I don’t think they’ll forget in a hurry the eruption of amusement from yours truly when I was asked whether Miss Universe or Miss World was the more important competition.
Every member of the class had a good grasp of English before I arrived and they always seemed eager to learn more. Often, because they were so quick at picking things up, they’d be unwilling to get the lesson started – preferring, instead, to chat about some item from the news or randomly discovering a new-found interest in English cuisine. Because chatting with them like this was always enjoyable and often productive for their language skills, I’d let them get away with it for as long as possible before getting them to knuckle down to the work in hand. Occasionally they’d be unwilling to follow the lesson plan and I’d have to scold them like any other teacher. I then found out (much to my consternation) just how much they cared for my approval – even the slightest reprimand could bring a tear to an eye or (worse still) a day or two of betrayed, reproachful silence. While I couldn’t deny that I had my favourites, I’d like to think that I demonstrated fairness when any of the kids stepped out of line. Unfortunately, one aspect that distorted our relationship was the disturbed homelife that some of these girls led. Without going into detail, let’s just say that some of them had grown to distrust older men who should have been responsible and caring towards them. As a safe person who gave them nothing but positive attention, I think these girls really began to put their trust in me…and so were doubly wounded by a harsh word or even a mild telling-off. I began to think too of the emotional instability caused by people like me arriving, forming relationships and then leaving so soon after. It occurred to me that a lot of the kids must have dysfunctional lives at home and must really rely on the relationships they develop with friends and teachers alike at school. This, in turn, gave me an insight into the foundations of the special community spirit that makes Samata School so special. Through my relationship of respect and mutual affection with 6B I came to realise that, while the kids benefited practically from the short incursions by foreign volunteers, what they really needed was to establish long-term relationships, to feel continuity and to build trust. Slowly, over the course of several weeks these thoughts formulated in my subconscious and began to filter into my waking mind. On a day-to-day basis, though, these deeper thoughts were crowded out by the simple pleasures of bantering with the sparkling personalities of my classes…and, as far as personality goes, 6B definitely had the edge on the others.
Even the quieter, younger girls like Sangita, Sabu, Manila and Roji who sat in the front row had mischievous little smirks and flashing eyes which lit up at the prospect of escaping to the playground and getting out of their too-tiny, cramped little classroom. Tall Tara and the immaculate (always perfectly turned-out – dhoti pressed and neatly tied, hair in symmetrical bunches and pristine white shoes and socks, which never seemed to end up around the ankles like everyone else’s) Kabita completed the front row line-up and their demure, good-girl composure would only slip at the slightest hint of amusement, whereupon they’d both throw back their heads and laugh like drains. There were no real thickies in the class as far as I was concerned. Jasmine, the youngest, certainly seemed to show her age sometimes and the other girls would often get exasperated with her if she was slow to pick something up. One thing she certainly didn’t have a problem with was speaking English and, once I’d coached her a little more carefully on listening comprehension technique, she was soon scoring some of the better marks despite her occasionally wavering attention. Into the middle rows now – perhaps through friendship with some of the older, cooler kids – you’d find Sabita and Srisana: both of them as cute as buttons and often prone to long bouts of behind-hand giggling with big round eyes staring, expecting a reprimand or waiting for more to giggle at. Endearing as this lot all were, they were perhaps in the shadow of the bigger, more forward personalities in the class.
Easily the two prettiest girls in the class, Swasthani and Rajkumari were always together and seemed to rely on their sweet, innocent looks to keep them out of trouble rather than actually making a concerted effort to complete their work properly. If there were going to be two girls whispering and looking at magazines under their desk it would be these two and I was forever having to confiscate distracting photographs of Leonardo or Jonny to get their minds back on track. Of course, when they came to me at the end of the lesson, all puppy-eyed, asking for their precious pics back, I’d find it impossible to refuse. Far more difficult to handle was Bimala with her strange dreams and, often mercurial, personality. She was up and down like a yo-yo and often claimed to have seen me in a dream, fighting or drunk or busking outside religious monuments. More than any of my other kids, I think she formed a particularly close attachment to me and I’d hazard a guess that this was as a direct result of a turbulent homelife. Asking the kids outright would never produce anything other than a dignified silence, but I knew her father often beat her and, despite her playful demeanour and jokey manner, I could often see that she was unhappy. While I didn’t want to become too big an influence in her life due to my imminent departure, I couldn’t help but play along with her games and give her the emotional support she so clearly craved. By the time I left I was her ‘Grandfather’ – sufficiently distant to risk losing, but close enough to care. In comparison, the calm placidity of Niru and Sarita made them very easy to handle. Both calm and sweet-natured, Niru was my star student (scoring the best marks in the school in her final exam) while Sarita would be the first to volunteer for any errand or example. As much as any of my students, these two wanted nothing more than to learn and I wasn’t surprised to learn from Uttam at one point that Sarita, having arrived at the school 3 years previously almost illiterate, had such a hunger for learning that she had caught her classmates and now surpassed all but Niru in virtually every subject. This will to learn didn’t stop her from enjoying herself and I’m sure it was only her relatively short time at the school that kept her from being part of the class’s ruling tribe.
Now while there was no overt cliquish behaviour from any of the girls it can’t be denied that central to class opinion and arbiters of cool were ‘The Rasta Gang’. This ‘Famous Five’ contained the class’s nervous energy and you could tell as you walked into the room if there was something up in ‘Rastaland’ because there would be an unusual level of either quiet or excitement. There was the class clown, Laxmi, with her funny faces and practical joking – forever lightening the mood and occasionally, spoiling everyone’s concentration. Then there was Renuka – the kind of sister everyone wants to pick them up and dust them down after a fall – with her calm, measured, practical manner, which could give way at any second to a 1000 megawatt smile. Simran was the class brainbox – always lightyears ahead of everyone else and first to grasp a new idea (and consequently, a little lacking in the hard work department which let her down a little come exam time). Hamming up the role-plays and inventing new vocabulary of her own were two of her favourite games and she invariably had me and the rest of the class in stitches when it came to performing at the front. In many ways, as the brightest, she was often the class’s and even the school’s spokeswoman but her high-strung nature and occasional flightiness often left her wanting in the leadership stakes. An unkind word or thoughtless action from one of the boys in the other classes would often have her hyperventilating and sobbing like there’d been a death in the family. However, this depth of emotion worked in the other direction too and, more than the others she gave of her affection and friendship freely to whoever needed it most. Completing the gang were the two ‘older’ sisters, Dawa and Pramila. Bright, funny and mostly very happy they seemed to naturally assume a mantle of leadership – Dawa happy to lead by example and always presenting the best work; Pramila using her natural authority to ensure that the class work ethic matched her own. Their greatest attribute though was their ability to remember, when the work was all completed, that they were just a pair of ordinary teenage girls – laughing, smiling and shouting with the rest of the class.
All the kids at Samata School had this beautiful childish innocence that you just don’t find in British children anymore: delighting in the ridiculous, forgetting to be cool, laughing at themselves and genuinely enjoying immaturity – in no hurry to grow up too soon. Whatever unpleasant realities they had to face back at home, these kids left it outside the school gates and came in with a smile and a carefree attitude to spend blissful hours with their friends…their second family.
As a class, 6B were such a pleasure and so simple to teach that, after just 8 short weeks, I’d developed a very close bond with them – one that forced me to re-assess my plans for the future and something that I’ll always treasure more than anything else I’ve experienced on my trip.
Every member of the class had a good grasp of English before I arrived and they always seemed eager to learn more. Often, because they were so quick at picking things up, they’d be unwilling to get the lesson started – preferring, instead, to chat about some item from the news or randomly discovering a new-found interest in English cuisine. Because chatting with them like this was always enjoyable and often productive for their language skills, I’d let them get away with it for as long as possible before getting them to knuckle down to the work in hand. Occasionally they’d be unwilling to follow the lesson plan and I’d have to scold them like any other teacher. I then found out (much to my consternation) just how much they cared for my approval – even the slightest reprimand could bring a tear to an eye or (worse still) a day or two of betrayed, reproachful silence. While I couldn’t deny that I had my favourites, I’d like to think that I demonstrated fairness when any of the kids stepped out of line. Unfortunately, one aspect that distorted our relationship was the disturbed homelife that some of these girls led. Without going into detail, let’s just say that some of them had grown to distrust older men who should have been responsible and caring towards them. As a safe person who gave them nothing but positive attention, I think these girls really began to put their trust in me…and so were doubly wounded by a harsh word or even a mild telling-off. I began to think too of the emotional instability caused by people like me arriving, forming relationships and then leaving so soon after. It occurred to me that a lot of the kids must have dysfunctional lives at home and must really rely on the relationships they develop with friends and teachers alike at school. This, in turn, gave me an insight into the foundations of the special community spirit that makes Samata School so special. Through my relationship of respect and mutual affection with 6B I came to realise that, while the kids benefited practically from the short incursions by foreign volunteers, what they really needed was to establish long-term relationships, to feel continuity and to build trust. Slowly, over the course of several weeks these thoughts formulated in my subconscious and began to filter into my waking mind. On a day-to-day basis, though, these deeper thoughts were crowded out by the simple pleasures of bantering with the sparkling personalities of my classes…and, as far as personality goes, 6B definitely had the edge on the others.
Even the quieter, younger girls like Sangita, Sabu, Manila and Roji who sat in the front row had mischievous little smirks and flashing eyes which lit up at the prospect of escaping to the playground and getting out of their too-tiny, cramped little classroom. Tall Tara and the immaculate (always perfectly turned-out – dhoti pressed and neatly tied, hair in symmetrical bunches and pristine white shoes and socks, which never seemed to end up around the ankles like everyone else’s) Kabita completed the front row line-up and their demure, good-girl composure would only slip at the slightest hint of amusement, whereupon they’d both throw back their heads and laugh like drains. There were no real thickies in the class as far as I was concerned. Jasmine, the youngest, certainly seemed to show her age sometimes and the other girls would often get exasperated with her if she was slow to pick something up. One thing she certainly didn’t have a problem with was speaking English and, once I’d coached her a little more carefully on listening comprehension technique, she was soon scoring some of the better marks despite her occasionally wavering attention. Into the middle rows now – perhaps through friendship with some of the older, cooler kids – you’d find Sabita and Srisana: both of them as cute as buttons and often prone to long bouts of behind-hand giggling with big round eyes staring, expecting a reprimand or waiting for more to giggle at. Endearing as this lot all were, they were perhaps in the shadow of the bigger, more forward personalities in the class.
Easily the two prettiest girls in the class, Swasthani and Rajkumari were always together and seemed to rely on their sweet, innocent looks to keep them out of trouble rather than actually making a concerted effort to complete their work properly. If there were going to be two girls whispering and looking at magazines under their desk it would be these two and I was forever having to confiscate distracting photographs of Leonardo or Jonny to get their minds back on track. Of course, when they came to me at the end of the lesson, all puppy-eyed, asking for their precious pics back, I’d find it impossible to refuse. Far more difficult to handle was Bimala with her strange dreams and, often mercurial, personality. She was up and down like a yo-yo and often claimed to have seen me in a dream, fighting or drunk or busking outside religious monuments. More than any of my other kids, I think she formed a particularly close attachment to me and I’d hazard a guess that this was as a direct result of a turbulent homelife. Asking the kids outright would never produce anything other than a dignified silence, but I knew her father often beat her and, despite her playful demeanour and jokey manner, I could often see that she was unhappy. While I didn’t want to become too big an influence in her life due to my imminent departure, I couldn’t help but play along with her games and give her the emotional support she so clearly craved. By the time I left I was her ‘Grandfather’ – sufficiently distant to risk losing, but close enough to care. In comparison, the calm placidity of Niru and Sarita made them very easy to handle. Both calm and sweet-natured, Niru was my star student (scoring the best marks in the school in her final exam) while Sarita would be the first to volunteer for any errand or example. As much as any of my students, these two wanted nothing more than to learn and I wasn’t surprised to learn from Uttam at one point that Sarita, having arrived at the school 3 years previously almost illiterate, had such a hunger for learning that she had caught her classmates and now surpassed all but Niru in virtually every subject. This will to learn didn’t stop her from enjoying herself and I’m sure it was only her relatively short time at the school that kept her from being part of the class’s ruling tribe.
Now while there was no overt cliquish behaviour from any of the girls it can’t be denied that central to class opinion and arbiters of cool were ‘The Rasta Gang’. This ‘Famous Five’ contained the class’s nervous energy and you could tell as you walked into the room if there was something up in ‘Rastaland’ because there would be an unusual level of either quiet or excitement. There was the class clown, Laxmi, with her funny faces and practical joking – forever lightening the mood and occasionally, spoiling everyone’s concentration. Then there was Renuka – the kind of sister everyone wants to pick them up and dust them down after a fall – with her calm, measured, practical manner, which could give way at any second to a 1000 megawatt smile. Simran was the class brainbox – always lightyears ahead of everyone else and first to grasp a new idea (and consequently, a little lacking in the hard work department which let her down a little come exam time). Hamming up the role-plays and inventing new vocabulary of her own were two of her favourite games and she invariably had me and the rest of the class in stitches when it came to performing at the front. In many ways, as the brightest, she was often the class’s and even the school’s spokeswoman but her high-strung nature and occasional flightiness often left her wanting in the leadership stakes. An unkind word or thoughtless action from one of the boys in the other classes would often have her hyperventilating and sobbing like there’d been a death in the family. However, this depth of emotion worked in the other direction too and, more than the others she gave of her affection and friendship freely to whoever needed it most. Completing the gang were the two ‘older’ sisters, Dawa and Pramila. Bright, funny and mostly very happy they seemed to naturally assume a mantle of leadership – Dawa happy to lead by example and always presenting the best work; Pramila using her natural authority to ensure that the class work ethic matched her own. Their greatest attribute though was their ability to remember, when the work was all completed, that they were just a pair of ordinary teenage girls – laughing, smiling and shouting with the rest of the class.
All the kids at Samata School had this beautiful childish innocence that you just don’t find in British children anymore: delighting in the ridiculous, forgetting to be cool, laughing at themselves and genuinely enjoying immaturity – in no hurry to grow up too soon. Whatever unpleasant realities they had to face back at home, these kids left it outside the school gates and came in with a smile and a carefree attitude to spend blissful hours with their friends…their second family.
As a class, 6B were such a pleasure and so simple to teach that, after just 8 short weeks, I’d developed a very close bond with them – one that forced me to re-assess my plans for the future and something that I’ll always treasure more than anything else I’ve experienced on my trip.
Uttam
I think a natural reaction for most folk when they first meet Uttam is admiration and disbelief. You realise that this 31-year-old is responsible for the building, running and funding of a school that, unsupported by government or official charity, educates 1500 children on a daily basis. More than this, these children from some of the poorest backgrounds in Nepal (the 2nd poorest country in the world!) are often waived their monthly (paltry!) 100 rupee tuition fee, are fed if they are hungry, clothed where necessary and supplied with books and writing materials. Five years ago, when he first set about founding Samata School, Uttam had just 50,000 rupees…that’s less than £400!! Needless to say, he is a very unique individual. It is perhaps this uniqueness that has caused Uttam to be somewhat maligned and frequently misunderstood…and I must admit that it took me some weeks to get a handle on him and to accept him for the amazing person that he is.
As in any new situation, one always tries to prepare for any potential difficulties and, where possible, to ask advice of those who’ve been before. Before arriving in Nepal, I’d e-mailed some of the former volunteers from Samata School. Also, during my ‘induction’ week, I’d had the opportunity to speak to both Claus and Lucy about their experiences at the school. The one clear message coming from all these sources was that I would have an incredible experience…but to watch out for Uttam! None of this was said meanly, nor was there any implication that Uttam was anything other than a good person. They were all simply saying that Uttam would try to get as much out of me as possible. Having nothing to gauge this by until much later on, I arrived at Samata expecting to be given 7-day weeks, 10-hour days, terrible food, English lessons for the teachers and constant pleas for British visas. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find that Saturdays were mine; the school day consisted of 7 45-minute lessons, 2 frees and a half-hour lunch break; the food was delicious and healthy; I wasn’t expected to teach teachers and nobody wanted to leave the school and come to England! Rather than badger me for a visa, Uttam wanted to buy me drinks and cakes or take me for dinner at Double Dorjee Restaurant, whilst espousing his philosophies on life and enthusiastically describing his vision of Samata schools in each of Nepal’s 75 states. Now I’d be lying if I didn’t say that during my first few weeks this surfeit of extra-curricular contact was tiresome and a little bewildering. At the time, I really would have preferred to have the time to myself – either to relax or to prepare my lessons. Uttam is the kind of person you just can’t tune-out from when you’re sat beside him: he gives off this vibrant, nervous energy which grabs your attention and forces you to listen to every word of his broken, occasionally-confusing English. On top of coming to terms with teaching, I would often wander home from meeting Uttam dazed, confused and utterly drained…amazed that one person could do so much…and still have time to think of more! However, what those meetings gave me that I’m grateful for, was a deeper understanding of Uttam’s motives and beliefs…and in turn these taught me a profound respect of him. Uttam’s one and only failing is his inability to understand that the rest of the world is not as driven as he is. You cannot believe just how much this man crams into a day…and then you have to get your head round an ascetism that denies a celebratory beer or even a girlfriend with whom to celebrate his many triumphs. He wakes up in the morning and doesn’t need to think about what he’s going to do for the day…he already knows: every day is one more step along the road to that ultimate goal of 75 Samata schools…and nothing and nobody is going to stop him! This single-mindedness of purpose doesn’t make him a great manager of people, nor does it lend itself to making friendships, nor to stepping back and enjoying the moment. What it has achieved, though, is plainly obvious in the shining faces of 1500 children at assembly every morning; in the unusual ratio of girls to boys at Samata School (in a country where education for girls is not deemed a priority for poor families, there are usually 2 to 3 times as many boys as girls in a given age-group…at Samata there are actually more girls); in the hunger to learn and the strong characters of so many of the children; and, significantly, in the opening of Samata School No. 2 in Bhaktapur on the day I left Nepal. That one man can achieve so much with so little is truly inspirational…and it’s little wonder with his record for ‘doing’ that Uttam has such little patience for the ‘can’t do’ characters of this world. It can’t be denied that he wouldn’t have got so far without the assistance of many generous donors, a committed staff and the support of parents, pupils and local education chiefs…but the drive, the passion, the intensity and the ideas are all his. His commitment is so utter that he allowed himself to be disowned by his family in his pursuit of bettering life for Nepal’s youth. Instead of studying to be a doctor or a lawyer as his family wished, he left university in Mumbai to devote his time to preschool and after-school activity centres for the under-privileged kids of Jorpati. His ‘vision’ was already in place even at this early stage and he was merely biding his time until the opportunity arose to take the first step. This came when a plot of land came up for development. In those early years, it seems he had one major benefactor (who remains anonymous to this day) who was prepared to give him 50000 rupees to further the aims of his (already very successful Samata Club). When Uttam told him what he intended to do with the money, his backer balked. With no experience, few contacts and only 50000 rupees, how was he ever going to set up a school successfully? His sponsor told him in no uncertain terms that it was a crazy idea and one doomed to failure. Uttam, as I have come to learn, does not quit when the going gets tough – regardless of what anyone tells him, he has such a strength of belief in his own ideals and in his purpose that when he says he’s going to do something, he just goes out and does it. And five years later, here we are: Samata School is going strong and this year’s class 8’s (my class 7’s) will be the first to sit public exams. In a little less than 3 years the same children will hopefully be sitting their SLCs (School Leaving Certificate) at an officially accredited Samata School. Uttam’s dream, by way of his excellent PR skills has been trumpeted from the editorial of the biggest selling English daily paper in Nepal. In my short time there, I saw at least 3 front cover photos in various papers and TV news spots. His dream has already started to become a reality through his sheer, bloody-minded self-belief and hard work – driven by his love and respect for his young charges. When he’s in the playground with the children there is always an air of respect and mutual adoration…and because of this his dream has become their dream too. Girls whose best hope might have been a cleaning job or becoming a dutiful wife now dream of becoming doctors and lawyers. Those sinister nightmares spawned by the continuing trade of Nepali flesh over the border into India have been banished by the bright light of education. For the boys, alternatives have appeared to following their father into years of back-breaking toil as a porter or filling their lungs with the carcinogen-rich Kathmandu atmosphere behind the handlebars of a rickshaw. Is it any wonder that these kids look on Uttam as some kind of father figure?! After 2 months getting to know this remarkable man and seeing the difference that one passionate, committed human being can make, I find myself admitting that his dream has become a part of my dreams too. One day in the not-too-distant future, I look forward to returning to work alongside Uttam and, hopefully, imparting my soon-to-be-acquired knowledge and skills to him, his staff and, of course, his children.
As in any new situation, one always tries to prepare for any potential difficulties and, where possible, to ask advice of those who’ve been before. Before arriving in Nepal, I’d e-mailed some of the former volunteers from Samata School. Also, during my ‘induction’ week, I’d had the opportunity to speak to both Claus and Lucy about their experiences at the school. The one clear message coming from all these sources was that I would have an incredible experience…but to watch out for Uttam! None of this was said meanly, nor was there any implication that Uttam was anything other than a good person. They were all simply saying that Uttam would try to get as much out of me as possible. Having nothing to gauge this by until much later on, I arrived at Samata expecting to be given 7-day weeks, 10-hour days, terrible food, English lessons for the teachers and constant pleas for British visas. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find that Saturdays were mine; the school day consisted of 7 45-minute lessons, 2 frees and a half-hour lunch break; the food was delicious and healthy; I wasn’t expected to teach teachers and nobody wanted to leave the school and come to England! Rather than badger me for a visa, Uttam wanted to buy me drinks and cakes or take me for dinner at Double Dorjee Restaurant, whilst espousing his philosophies on life and enthusiastically describing his vision of Samata schools in each of Nepal’s 75 states. Now I’d be lying if I didn’t say that during my first few weeks this surfeit of extra-curricular contact was tiresome and a little bewildering. At the time, I really would have preferred to have the time to myself – either to relax or to prepare my lessons. Uttam is the kind of person you just can’t tune-out from when you’re sat beside him: he gives off this vibrant, nervous energy which grabs your attention and forces you to listen to every word of his broken, occasionally-confusing English. On top of coming to terms with teaching, I would often wander home from meeting Uttam dazed, confused and utterly drained…amazed that one person could do so much…and still have time to think of more! However, what those meetings gave me that I’m grateful for, was a deeper understanding of Uttam’s motives and beliefs…and in turn these taught me a profound respect of him. Uttam’s one and only failing is his inability to understand that the rest of the world is not as driven as he is. You cannot believe just how much this man crams into a day…and then you have to get your head round an ascetism that denies a celebratory beer or even a girlfriend with whom to celebrate his many triumphs. He wakes up in the morning and doesn’t need to think about what he’s going to do for the day…he already knows: every day is one more step along the road to that ultimate goal of 75 Samata schools…and nothing and nobody is going to stop him! This single-mindedness of purpose doesn’t make him a great manager of people, nor does it lend itself to making friendships, nor to stepping back and enjoying the moment. What it has achieved, though, is plainly obvious in the shining faces of 1500 children at assembly every morning; in the unusual ratio of girls to boys at Samata School (in a country where education for girls is not deemed a priority for poor families, there are usually 2 to 3 times as many boys as girls in a given age-group…at Samata there are actually more girls); in the hunger to learn and the strong characters of so many of the children; and, significantly, in the opening of Samata School No. 2 in Bhaktapur on the day I left Nepal. That one man can achieve so much with so little is truly inspirational…and it’s little wonder with his record for ‘doing’ that Uttam has such little patience for the ‘can’t do’ characters of this world. It can’t be denied that he wouldn’t have got so far without the assistance of many generous donors, a committed staff and the support of parents, pupils and local education chiefs…but the drive, the passion, the intensity and the ideas are all his. His commitment is so utter that he allowed himself to be disowned by his family in his pursuit of bettering life for Nepal’s youth. Instead of studying to be a doctor or a lawyer as his family wished, he left university in Mumbai to devote his time to preschool and after-school activity centres for the under-privileged kids of Jorpati. His ‘vision’ was already in place even at this early stage and he was merely biding his time until the opportunity arose to take the first step. This came when a plot of land came up for development. In those early years, it seems he had one major benefactor (who remains anonymous to this day) who was prepared to give him 50000 rupees to further the aims of his (already very successful Samata Club). When Uttam told him what he intended to do with the money, his backer balked. With no experience, few contacts and only 50000 rupees, how was he ever going to set up a school successfully? His sponsor told him in no uncertain terms that it was a crazy idea and one doomed to failure. Uttam, as I have come to learn, does not quit when the going gets tough – regardless of what anyone tells him, he has such a strength of belief in his own ideals and in his purpose that when he says he’s going to do something, he just goes out and does it. And five years later, here we are: Samata School is going strong and this year’s class 8’s (my class 7’s) will be the first to sit public exams. In a little less than 3 years the same children will hopefully be sitting their SLCs (School Leaving Certificate) at an officially accredited Samata School. Uttam’s dream, by way of his excellent PR skills has been trumpeted from the editorial of the biggest selling English daily paper in Nepal. In my short time there, I saw at least 3 front cover photos in various papers and TV news spots. His dream has already started to become a reality through his sheer, bloody-minded self-belief and hard work – driven by his love and respect for his young charges. When he’s in the playground with the children there is always an air of respect and mutual adoration…and because of this his dream has become their dream too. Girls whose best hope might have been a cleaning job or becoming a dutiful wife now dream of becoming doctors and lawyers. Those sinister nightmares spawned by the continuing trade of Nepali flesh over the border into India have been banished by the bright light of education. For the boys, alternatives have appeared to following their father into years of back-breaking toil as a porter or filling their lungs with the carcinogen-rich Kathmandu atmosphere behind the handlebars of a rickshaw. Is it any wonder that these kids look on Uttam as some kind of father figure?! After 2 months getting to know this remarkable man and seeing the difference that one passionate, committed human being can make, I find myself admitting that his dream has become a part of my dreams too. One day in the not-too-distant future, I look forward to returning to work alongside Uttam and, hopefully, imparting my soon-to-be-acquired knowledge and skills to him, his staff and, of course, his children.
February 13, 2005
Life
During this last week of Lhosar (which lasts from the Full Moon until the New Moon…i.e. two weeks), I began to appreciate a new shortcoming to my digs at the Lotus Guesthouse. Being run by the Tabsang Gompa and situated in the middle of Kathmandu’s most prosperous Tibetan district, my room was surrounded by no less than three gompas…with a further four within 5 minutes walk. I started waking up at stupid o’clock (4am most mornings) to the sound of horns being blasted and gongs and drums being thrashed frenetically by devout monks. Prior to my sojourn in Bouddha, I’d always been well-enamoured of Buddhism and admired its proponents for their peace-loving ways. A week of waking up at the crack of dawn in a gelid bedroom (my monastery-run guesthouse suffered from damp as well as noisy neighbours!) soon had me cursing ‘those bloody monks!’ with a full spectrum of profanity.
None of this, however, affected my burgeoning relationship with Dawa and, on the Wednesday, she insisted on taking me and Edd out for dinner to celebrate the New Year festival. Hospitality is a strong part of the Buddhist tradition and, as we were guests in her country, she insisted on treating us to dinner and showing us a good old time. I met her at the Stupa in the evening and she really did look beautiful in her traditional Tibetan dress. After three chora (one chora is walking a complete circuit around the Stupa) surrounded by smiling, happy Tibetan pilgrims, we had a quick drink in one of the roof-top cafes before heading over to Thamel to join Edd for dinner at Yin Yang. A tasty dinner was followed by (the usual) beer and pool at Tom & Jerry’s – a very pleasant way to spend the second New Year of my trip. After such a pleasant evening, we all arranged to meet again for dinner on the Friday.
Come Friday, Dawa and I had been expecting Edd by 7pm and I began to suspect that he’d succumbed to Nepali time (on Nepali time, 10 minutes late is still 5 minutes early!). I was enjoying Dawa’s company sufficiently to be only mildly concerned by Edd’s failure to show at the agreed time and, having left messages for him at likely locations, we ate alone. He eventually turned up over an hour late looking rather distraught and only stopped long enough to tell us what had delayed him and to arrange to meet us for a much-needed drink later on. It seemed that the school trip he’d been on that day had been led by a complete idiot who had somehow managed to lose two of the children. Edd and Colin (another young English volunteer) had managed to prevent yet more missing children by staying with two groups who’d been too exhausted to climb the 2700m Pulchowki that had been the day’s aim. When they had reconvened with the teacher and the rest of the children at the bus it became apparent that two of the younger boys who had been with the teacher had failed to come back down from the summit. A frantic, but darkness-curtailed search had not been successful and, eventually, the rest of the group had been forced to return to waiting parents. Being their first school-trip as responsible adults, Edd and Colin were obviously very upset and unable to help feeling partly responsible. As I explained to them, if the teacher in charge had refused to listen to any of their suggestions and had been the last to see the missing children, then they were certainly not responsible. I had strong urges to go and find their errant colleague and punch his lights out – not only for losing two children, but also for causing such distress to this pair of utterly blameless and very likeable young lads. Edd and Colin were due in school the following morning for a parents’ day and would be unable to find out any more until then…so we did the right and proper thing and got totally shit-faced.
The following morning, Dawa and I got up late and spent a fruitless couple of hours looking for a computer repair-shop for my ailing laptop. It was the first really hot day of what had now become Spring and the excessive number of Everests from the night before were really taking their toll. With the heat, the effects of pollution and noise seemed to intensify and in the end I was only too glad to jump on a micro (minivan / bus) with Dawa to get out of the chaos of Kathmandu and head to the Botanical Gardens at Godavari. After almost three weeks in the stench and hassle of the city it was pure bliss to sit on green grass and hear the sound of running water and the wind whispering in the trees. Lying there in the sunshine I could feel the stress of city life ebbing out of me and my energy levels being replenished. It seemed a shame to have to go back into town but we’d made arrangements to meet with Edd and I was keen to find out what had happened with his kids…so off to Tom & Jerry’s we went.
I could see immediately that Edd was in better spirits when we met him and it turned out that both the boys had been found unharmed. Nevertheless, one boy had collapsed, exhausted, by the side of the road to be discovered by the army late at night; the second had managed to find his way to a village, where he had been given food and shelter by a generous local family until the following morning. Edd and Colin had made their school’s headmaster promise never to let the irresponsible teacher lead another school trip again. For once I was left thinking that Asia’s lack of health & safety laws had some serious shortcomings…
None of this, however, affected my burgeoning relationship with Dawa and, on the Wednesday, she insisted on taking me and Edd out for dinner to celebrate the New Year festival. Hospitality is a strong part of the Buddhist tradition and, as we were guests in her country, she insisted on treating us to dinner and showing us a good old time. I met her at the Stupa in the evening and she really did look beautiful in her traditional Tibetan dress. After three chora (one chora is walking a complete circuit around the Stupa) surrounded by smiling, happy Tibetan pilgrims, we had a quick drink in one of the roof-top cafes before heading over to Thamel to join Edd for dinner at Yin Yang. A tasty dinner was followed by (the usual) beer and pool at Tom & Jerry’s – a very pleasant way to spend the second New Year of my trip. After such a pleasant evening, we all arranged to meet again for dinner on the Friday.
Come Friday, Dawa and I had been expecting Edd by 7pm and I began to suspect that he’d succumbed to Nepali time (on Nepali time, 10 minutes late is still 5 minutes early!). I was enjoying Dawa’s company sufficiently to be only mildly concerned by Edd’s failure to show at the agreed time and, having left messages for him at likely locations, we ate alone. He eventually turned up over an hour late looking rather distraught and only stopped long enough to tell us what had delayed him and to arrange to meet us for a much-needed drink later on. It seemed that the school trip he’d been on that day had been led by a complete idiot who had somehow managed to lose two of the children. Edd and Colin (another young English volunteer) had managed to prevent yet more missing children by staying with two groups who’d been too exhausted to climb the 2700m Pulchowki that had been the day’s aim. When they had reconvened with the teacher and the rest of the children at the bus it became apparent that two of the younger boys who had been with the teacher had failed to come back down from the summit. A frantic, but darkness-curtailed search had not been successful and, eventually, the rest of the group had been forced to return to waiting parents. Being their first school-trip as responsible adults, Edd and Colin were obviously very upset and unable to help feeling partly responsible. As I explained to them, if the teacher in charge had refused to listen to any of their suggestions and had been the last to see the missing children, then they were certainly not responsible. I had strong urges to go and find their errant colleague and punch his lights out – not only for losing two children, but also for causing such distress to this pair of utterly blameless and very likeable young lads. Edd and Colin were due in school the following morning for a parents’ day and would be unable to find out any more until then…so we did the right and proper thing and got totally shit-faced.
The following morning, Dawa and I got up late and spent a fruitless couple of hours looking for a computer repair-shop for my ailing laptop. It was the first really hot day of what had now become Spring and the excessive number of Everests from the night before were really taking their toll. With the heat, the effects of pollution and noise seemed to intensify and in the end I was only too glad to jump on a micro (minivan / bus) with Dawa to get out of the chaos of Kathmandu and head to the Botanical Gardens at Godavari. After almost three weeks in the stench and hassle of the city it was pure bliss to sit on green grass and hear the sound of running water and the wind whispering in the trees. Lying there in the sunshine I could feel the stress of city life ebbing out of me and my energy levels being replenished. It seemed a shame to have to go back into town but we’d made arrangements to meet with Edd and I was keen to find out what had happened with his kids…so off to Tom & Jerry’s we went.
I could see immediately that Edd was in better spirits when we met him and it turned out that both the boys had been found unharmed. Nevertheless, one boy had collapsed, exhausted, by the side of the road to be discovered by the army late at night; the second had managed to find his way to a village, where he had been given food and shelter by a generous local family until the following morning. Edd and Colin had made their school’s headmaster promise never to let the irresponsible teacher lead another school trip again. For once I was left thinking that Asia’s lack of health & safety laws had some serious shortcomings…
Class 6A 10:30-11:15
They say variety is the spice of life and, if I’d wanted a bit of a change from 4B to liven things up, then I certainly got it with this lot. 6A were my first all-boys class and, after the novelty and the WWF jokes had worn thin, they mostly turned out to be a big pain in the neck. Most of them never missed an opportunity to copy their neighbours work or, while my back was turned, to offer a solid thump between the shoulder blades of their nearest enemy. (‘Sir, Sir…he’s beating me!’ was a cry too-often heard in this lesson.) There were a few exceptions to the rule – mostly the younger or brighter kids – but the vast majority of this class of 18 just didn’t want to be there. As I grew to learn more about the school (from Uttam) and got to know all my children, I came to realise how unusual this attitude was and thought all the less of the main trouble-makers for spurning the opportunity they’d been given. It was also very frustrating to see them spoil things for the kids who did want to be there and, unfortunately, my metaphorical stick saw more action here than in all the other classes put together. Conversely, it was very rare that 6A got chance to play outside and this really was a shame because, on these rare occasions, the child inside even the older, surlier ones often showed his smiling face. For all there bad behaviour and lack of respect, most of the kids were reasonably bright and spoke reasonable English. Of those that were a bit thick, Udip and Dipendra had easily the sweetest natures in the class and, in the end, became two of my biggest success stories. Udip, particularly, spoke very little (intelligible) English and also found it extremely hard to understand what I was saying most of the time and was in fact the catalyst that pushed me into offering extra lessons after school. After just two weeks, I could see that he was never going to pass an exam without a lot of extra help and one-to-one tuition. More importantly, he needed an undisturbed learning environment away from the squabbles and disruptions of his classmates. Dipendra also needed the extra work – but mainly to fix the vocabulary in his somewhat sketchy memory.
Thankfully, there were plenty of characters in the class to lighten my mood so it was a very rare occasion when I left them feeling totally drained. There was Ganesh with his bizarre hip-hop dress-sense (this being one of the few classes in which almost nobody wore their school uniform), which often had me in silent stitches. His main competitor in the cool stakes was Kapil with his ‘Westside’ lingo and gangster poses – although, in terms of cool, Ganesh had to be a hands-down winner as Kapil was both bright and keen when it came to studying. Sanjay always made me smile with his wide-eyed innocence and unfortunate air of undeniable culpability whenever there was trouble and Gaurav always had a cheeky grin and a knowing twinkle in his eye, which made it impossible to feel really angry when you caught him cheating or ‘beating’. Of the bright kids (other than Kapil) Rajesh was the quietest while Razu had the brightest, most endearing personality. Unfortunately, being bright in this class seemed to be a recipe for being bullied and these two often caught it from their less industrious classmates. Kalden too was a bright spark with a cheeky grin but spent so much of the time disrupting and sulking that he managed to disguise his obvious native wit from both me and the other boys. He and Dukpa (a tall, sullen, short-tempered oaf, often given to swearing at me in Nepali) gave me by far the most trouble and spent more time than most performing their squats and staying inside instead of playing.
As the term drew on the class moved painfully slowly towards completing the syllabus I’d devised and, in the end, I’m pleased to say, they all passed their exams…although for some it was a bit of a scrape.
Thankfully, there were plenty of characters in the class to lighten my mood so it was a very rare occasion when I left them feeling totally drained. There was Ganesh with his bizarre hip-hop dress-sense (this being one of the few classes in which almost nobody wore their school uniform), which often had me in silent stitches. His main competitor in the cool stakes was Kapil with his ‘Westside’ lingo and gangster poses – although, in terms of cool, Ganesh had to be a hands-down winner as Kapil was both bright and keen when it came to studying. Sanjay always made me smile with his wide-eyed innocence and unfortunate air of undeniable culpability whenever there was trouble and Gaurav always had a cheeky grin and a knowing twinkle in his eye, which made it impossible to feel really angry when you caught him cheating or ‘beating’. Of the bright kids (other than Kapil) Rajesh was the quietest while Razu had the brightest, most endearing personality. Unfortunately, being bright in this class seemed to be a recipe for being bullied and these two often caught it from their less industrious classmates. Kalden too was a bright spark with a cheeky grin but spent so much of the time disrupting and sulking that he managed to disguise his obvious native wit from both me and the other boys. He and Dukpa (a tall, sullen, short-tempered oaf, often given to swearing at me in Nepali) gave me by far the most trouble and spent more time than most performing their squats and staying inside instead of playing.
As the term drew on the class moved painfully slowly towards completing the syllabus I’d devised and, in the end, I’m pleased to say, they all passed their exams…although for some it was a bit of a scrape.
Finding my feet
After the difficulties of my first week, I had resolved to find ways to make teaching easier and my life a lot less stressful. On the Sunday afternoon after I returned from the Saraswati Puja, I set to creating a syllabus and basic teaching plans for all my lessons. Much of my invention and the structure of my lessons came from my experiences of being taught foreign languages at school. I realised that getting the children to speak English as much as possible was the key to improving their pronunciation. On top of this, in order to learn and remember vocabulary there would have to be structured, relevant topics. Finally, to aid their comprehension of spoken English (with an English accent!!), I also worked out that they would need to hear plenty of me! I came up with a formula that involved role-play conversations and listening comprehensions, which relied heavily on partner work and individual one-to-one teaching with each student. While progress around a class of 39 students was bound to be slow, it would guarantee that every kid would be listening to and pronouncing the requisite English words. It also meant that I’d be able to give close attention to the kids that were struggling and allow the brighter kids the chance to practice with partners while I was busy elsewhere. Once I’d established this simple formula, my preparation work for each class was cut considerably as I was able to use the same lesson plans with different classes. As well as the incentive of doing well in their work, most kids were quick to learn that if the work set for the week was completed quickly, we’d be heading out to play games like British Bulldogs, Stick-in-the-Mud, rounders etc. Those kids (invariably the boys in the ‘too cool for school’ gang) who didn’t knuckle down and thought they could get away with messing around because I didn’t carry a stick (all the teachers carried a thin bamboo stick, used to greater or lesser degrees for punishment or encouragement) soon found themselves performing long sets of squats in front of the blackboard. I was often amazed at some of the boys’ resilience – performing, literally, hundreds of reps – but eventually, lactic acid caught up with everyone…and they were (mostly) slow to repeat their mistake. Occasionally, with the stronger, older boys, there wouldn’t be sufficient time for enough squats to cause them inconvenience. In these cases good old-fashioned shame was always a sure-fire winner: having them kneel on the ground outside the classroom with their finger and thumb pinching their earlobes while the girls from other classes walked by was usually sufficient to cause them to think twice.
All in all, by the end of my second week, my classes were generally running smoothly. The combination of well-prepared lessons, the carrot of playground and the metaphorical stick worked reasonably well…and when all else failed – as anybody who’s heard me shout would willingly testify – a well-timed ‘Chup Lag!’ (Nepali for ‘Shut Up!’) bellowed in the correct ears usually brought a shocked silence for long enough to finish making my point.
So most of the kids, at least, were under control. Conversely, the Didis had me wrapped around their little fingers. Every lunchtime, I would stoop into the low, lean-to of a kitchen, perch my mammoth backside on a tiny little stool and have outrageous portions of Dal Bhat heaped in front of me until I was crying for mercy. Komala and Pompa were my two main tormentors…always placing another tasty morsel or mound of rice on my plate just as I was finishing and had my eyes closed with sated pleasure. I quickly learnt that nodding at the wrong time or misunderstanding their quick-spoken Nepali, would invariably end in my having to eat even more. Under their necessary tutelage, I quickly picked up a working grasp of the language…if only to defend my ever-increasing waistline. Eventually, I would stagger out from the dark, cosy shack into brilliant sunshine, weak-kneed and sway-bellied and find some dark corner of the staff-room to collapse and ruminate. In the afternoon, someone (usually Gyanu or Pompa) would come and find me in my free period and present a piping cup of Nepali tea to me on a silver platter (okay, it was a stainless steel plate – but I still felt as though I was being treated like royalty!). As my mother and most close friends will know, the way to Fin’s heart is through his stomach and I soon developed a warm affection for these cheery souls – always smiling, often laughing and constantly chirping away in Nepali and poking good-natured fun at me with fresh chillis and too-big portions of delicious food.
If only making friends with my fellow teachers could have been so easy… First of all I should say that I don’t hold their natural reticence and shyness against them in any way shape or form. Cultural traditions, gender-based discomfort and plain old fear were probably the major reasons that I didn’t get to know the majority of the teaching staff at Samata School. I do believe another part of it was to do with the special treatment that we volunteers were afforded: for a start, we had traditionally eaten lunch separately in the kitchen 45 minutes (our free period) before the others ate in the staff room. The rest of the staff did not get fresh rice and Dal – usually being given chura (beaten rice) with vegetable curry or, occasionally and much to their disgust, packet noodles. Finally, none of the other teachers were brought tea on a silver platter. I don’t think any of the staff begrudged us these privileges, knowing full-well that we were unpaid and appreciating that our delicate digestive systems needed nurturing, but our preferential culinary treatment was just one of many factors that set us apart. For a start, the teachers had their own uniform – beautiful red and blue saris with a white blouse. I appreciate that I would have looked rather daft in a sari but, nevertheless, it was a difference. Secondly, we volunteers, were the only teachers who were allowed to take the older children out to the playground to let off steam – something I’m sure some of the meeker teachers would have loved to do with some of the more surly students. Thirdly and I think extremely importantly – even to the younger, less-inhibited teachers – there was the language barrier. Despite the fact that all lessons were supposedly conducted in English, many of the teaching staff had a poor practical knowledge of the language. Perhaps more than anything else, I believe this was what stopped many of them from striking up conversations…why, after struggling to explain things in a difficult second language all day long, would one want to try and converse in the same language during your leisure time? Many of the teachers were friendly enough to smile and exchange pleasantries – and I could see by the way they listened or asked questions when I was talking with someone else that they were interested – but, in the end, I think the thought of trying to hold an in depth conversation must have seemed like too much hard work.
All of the above factors had been applicable to my predecessor Lucy and, having talked a little with her in the short time before she left, I had gathered that she’d found it hard to establish relationships with many of the teaching staff. I was, therefore, not expecting to develop close, life-long friendships with the staff during my short stay. However, all the past experiences of the teaching staff with Western volunteers had been with women and I think my overwhelming maleness, in the end, was the biggest barrier to developing relationships with these women in a country where the Hindu religion and a lack of awareness of feminist issues make inter-gender, platonic friendships rare.
Having said all that, the staff never made me feel anything but welcome and a few of them, driven by necessity or facilitated by the boldness of youth, went out of their way to talk to me and include me in the staffroom banter. More on them later…and much, much more on the enigma that is Uttam.
All in all, by the end of my second week, my classes were generally running smoothly. The combination of well-prepared lessons, the carrot of playground and the metaphorical stick worked reasonably well…and when all else failed – as anybody who’s heard me shout would willingly testify – a well-timed ‘Chup Lag!’ (Nepali for ‘Shut Up!’) bellowed in the correct ears usually brought a shocked silence for long enough to finish making my point.
So most of the kids, at least, were under control. Conversely, the Didis had me wrapped around their little fingers. Every lunchtime, I would stoop into the low, lean-to of a kitchen, perch my mammoth backside on a tiny little stool and have outrageous portions of Dal Bhat heaped in front of me until I was crying for mercy. Komala and Pompa were my two main tormentors…always placing another tasty morsel or mound of rice on my plate just as I was finishing and had my eyes closed with sated pleasure. I quickly learnt that nodding at the wrong time or misunderstanding their quick-spoken Nepali, would invariably end in my having to eat even more. Under their necessary tutelage, I quickly picked up a working grasp of the language…if only to defend my ever-increasing waistline. Eventually, I would stagger out from the dark, cosy shack into brilliant sunshine, weak-kneed and sway-bellied and find some dark corner of the staff-room to collapse and ruminate. In the afternoon, someone (usually Gyanu or Pompa) would come and find me in my free period and present a piping cup of Nepali tea to me on a silver platter (okay, it was a stainless steel plate – but I still felt as though I was being treated like royalty!). As my mother and most close friends will know, the way to Fin’s heart is through his stomach and I soon developed a warm affection for these cheery souls – always smiling, often laughing and constantly chirping away in Nepali and poking good-natured fun at me with fresh chillis and too-big portions of delicious food.
If only making friends with my fellow teachers could have been so easy… First of all I should say that I don’t hold their natural reticence and shyness against them in any way shape or form. Cultural traditions, gender-based discomfort and plain old fear were probably the major reasons that I didn’t get to know the majority of the teaching staff at Samata School. I do believe another part of it was to do with the special treatment that we volunteers were afforded: for a start, we had traditionally eaten lunch separately in the kitchen 45 minutes (our free period) before the others ate in the staff room. The rest of the staff did not get fresh rice and Dal – usually being given chura (beaten rice) with vegetable curry or, occasionally and much to their disgust, packet noodles. Finally, none of the other teachers were brought tea on a silver platter. I don’t think any of the staff begrudged us these privileges, knowing full-well that we were unpaid and appreciating that our delicate digestive systems needed nurturing, but our preferential culinary treatment was just one of many factors that set us apart. For a start, the teachers had their own uniform – beautiful red and blue saris with a white blouse. I appreciate that I would have looked rather daft in a sari but, nevertheless, it was a difference. Secondly, we volunteers, were the only teachers who were allowed to take the older children out to the playground to let off steam – something I’m sure some of the meeker teachers would have loved to do with some of the more surly students. Thirdly and I think extremely importantly – even to the younger, less-inhibited teachers – there was the language barrier. Despite the fact that all lessons were supposedly conducted in English, many of the teaching staff had a poor practical knowledge of the language. Perhaps more than anything else, I believe this was what stopped many of them from striking up conversations…why, after struggling to explain things in a difficult second language all day long, would one want to try and converse in the same language during your leisure time? Many of the teachers were friendly enough to smile and exchange pleasantries – and I could see by the way they listened or asked questions when I was talking with someone else that they were interested – but, in the end, I think the thought of trying to hold an in depth conversation must have seemed like too much hard work.
All of the above factors had been applicable to my predecessor Lucy and, having talked a little with her in the short time before she left, I had gathered that she’d found it hard to establish relationships with many of the teaching staff. I was, therefore, not expecting to develop close, life-long friendships with the staff during my short stay. However, all the past experiences of the teaching staff with Western volunteers had been with women and I think my overwhelming maleness, in the end, was the biggest barrier to developing relationships with these women in a country where the Hindu religion and a lack of awareness of feminist issues make inter-gender, platonic friendships rare.
Having said all that, the staff never made me feel anything but welcome and a few of them, driven by necessity or facilitated by the boldness of youth, went out of their way to talk to me and include me in the staffroom banter. More on them later…and much, much more on the enigma that is Uttam.
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