Sagar, Suroj, Kiran and Sanjay - brainboxes R us
February 27, 2005
Class 7 12:00 - 12:45
The best way to describe Class 7 would be: good. They were good students; their behaviour was good; their marks were good; and they always had good fun when we finished the work (inevitably, very quickly) and went out to the playground. It would be unfair to say that they were too good because there were characters like Arun, Rachana and Jyoti who livened things up and made their lessons entertaining but, with the exception of Malati, I didn’t really establish any great emotional connections with any of these kids. They just didn’t have the requisite level of naughtiness, that cheeky grin or wayward streak to remind me of my own school days and, more often than not, we maintained a quite sterile, professional relationship between us. I suppose, in many ways they’d been conditioned and self-selected to be an extremely well-behaved bunch of kids. As the oldest class in the school (still growing after just 5 years so that this year’s class 7’s would be the first ever Class 8 next year) they had been instilled with a sense of responsibility for the younger children a lot earlier than would normally be expected. Since starting in Class 3, they would have been the seniors that the smaller, younger kids looked up to and expected guidance from. Over the course of 5 years this had shaped them into the exemplary young students that they were. Add to this the natural loss of more disruptive and less able students (not necessarily lost from the school, as they could have been kept back a year to swell the ranks of the belligerent 6A) as time moved on and it’s easy to understand the unusually keen and approval-seeking behaviour of this top class. Of course, for a bunch of 11-16 year olds, they were just as prone to excitement and just as hungry for fun as any other…they just kept a tight rein on this until any work had been completed.
Owing to their superlative studying skills, Class 7 definitely spent more time in the playground than anybody else and, as well as teaching them a great variety of English schoolyard games, I also learnt a lot of their games…which I was always sufficiently crap at to give them a good giggle. They took whole-heartedly to British Bulldogs and Stick-in-the-Mud, much as the younger children had but, with the extra time, I was able to instruct them in the joys of Rounders, which soon became the only game they’d agree to play. In the end, they became so good at it that a single-innings game managed to run to19 rounders apiece and took up an entire 45-minute lesson! While a lot of the boys were able to make use of their cricketing skills, I was often surprised at the power generated by some of the meeker, quieter girls, which often sent the ball flying over the fence or into the roof space of one of the classrooms.
One member of the class who could never quite bring himself to play during lesson time was Sanjay – always preferring to remain inside and study his books while the others ran riot outside. I never got to the bottom of this little mystery – whether it was a perceived lack of athleticism or a bona fide preference for study – but he was a serious student and I never questioned his choice. He and the other boys on the front row (including Sagar and Kiran) were as close as it came to being teacher’s pets. However there was none of the sycophancy one would associate with, for instance, Dennis the Menace’s arch-enemy, Walter the Softy. They simply liked to get good marks and responded well to praise and encouragement. One row back, the slightly older boys Aakash, Arun, Pawan and Norsang were definitely not desperate for approval and I’m sure back in the UK their ‘a bit too cool for school’ attitude would have been replaced by full-scale delinquency in similar boys. I never once saw Norsang nor Arun wearing their uniforms – and with Pawan and Aakash it was a rare event – but they were never anything other than utterly respectful and their class work was always perfectly presentable. The time to watch them was during listening comprehensions or when the class played Pictionary – on these occasions they weren’t averse to the idea of bending the rules to get ahead.
Over on the other side of the classroom (boys and girls seemed to self-segregate as far as I could tell) there were a few bright lights who’d put a smile on my face. Lhamo and Sunita were the centre of the ‘in’ group, being somewhat older and taller than the others. I was always having to separate them - both from each other and from the brighter and more studious Deepa, who wasn’t beyond helping them out if my back was turned. If there was any whispering and giggling to be found it would have its epicentre between these two and Anita, their partner in crime. Anita was clearly a girl who was still learning to have confidence in herself and often would hesitate to give the right answer for fear of it not being right. When she did make a mistake she’d crack a silly grin and wave her hands frantically up and down towards her forehead. I later learnt that when she first arrived at the school her reaction to errors was to pull clumps of her own hair out in frustration – God only knows how this distressing habit developed! With the help of the staff and her classmates this behaviour had evolved into the less damaging waving display just described and, with any luck, in a few more years she won’t feel the need to berate herself at all.
Down the bench from Anita was the one girl I could always count on to be included in extra lessons, Rachana. Neither slow nor stupid, she was perhaps a little younger than most of the others and had a slight deficit in the attention department so she often found herself expected to provide an answer and realised that she had no idea what the question was. With her flashing eyes and honest, unrestrained grin it wasn’t possible to get angry with her myself…although the boys would sometimes get irritated if her answer was between them and the playground.
One row forward sat the good girls of the class: sweet-natured, sweet-smiled and immaculate in both appearance and presentation. Of these, I got to know Malati best during the help she gave me with Mina’s dyslexia. She was a model student in every respect and with a lovely demeanour to boot. She really seemed to enjoy helping out and had a natural gift for explaining things…I really hope she considers being a teacher when she’s finished with school because I really think she’d be very good.
Back at the front once more and you’d find the irrepressible character of Jyoti: never short of a word to say (regardless of the subject), I was forever having to tell her to be quiet and stop her from shouting out the answers. Unusually, as a girl, she was the only member of the class to be found performing squats on a regular basis. However, she never took exception to her just punishment and, for my part, I never felt any rancour towards her cheerful cheekiness.
All in all, Class 7 were easy to teach and they certainly didn’t have any trouble passing their exams. If I’d been looking for an easy time, I’d have wished all my classes were like them…but if they had, I’m sure my time at Samata School would have been far less fulfilling.
Owing to their superlative studying skills, Class 7 definitely spent more time in the playground than anybody else and, as well as teaching them a great variety of English schoolyard games, I also learnt a lot of their games…which I was always sufficiently crap at to give them a good giggle. They took whole-heartedly to British Bulldogs and Stick-in-the-Mud, much as the younger children had but, with the extra time, I was able to instruct them in the joys of Rounders, which soon became the only game they’d agree to play. In the end, they became so good at it that a single-innings game managed to run to19 rounders apiece and took up an entire 45-minute lesson! While a lot of the boys were able to make use of their cricketing skills, I was often surprised at the power generated by some of the meeker, quieter girls, which often sent the ball flying over the fence or into the roof space of one of the classrooms.
One member of the class who could never quite bring himself to play during lesson time was Sanjay – always preferring to remain inside and study his books while the others ran riot outside. I never got to the bottom of this little mystery – whether it was a perceived lack of athleticism or a bona fide preference for study – but he was a serious student and I never questioned his choice. He and the other boys on the front row (including Sagar and Kiran) were as close as it came to being teacher’s pets. However there was none of the sycophancy one would associate with, for instance, Dennis the Menace’s arch-enemy, Walter the Softy. They simply liked to get good marks and responded well to praise and encouragement. One row back, the slightly older boys Aakash, Arun, Pawan and Norsang were definitely not desperate for approval and I’m sure back in the UK their ‘a bit too cool for school’ attitude would have been replaced by full-scale delinquency in similar boys. I never once saw Norsang nor Arun wearing their uniforms – and with Pawan and Aakash it was a rare event – but they were never anything other than utterly respectful and their class work was always perfectly presentable. The time to watch them was during listening comprehensions or when the class played Pictionary – on these occasions they weren’t averse to the idea of bending the rules to get ahead.
Over on the other side of the classroom (boys and girls seemed to self-segregate as far as I could tell) there were a few bright lights who’d put a smile on my face. Lhamo and Sunita were the centre of the ‘in’ group, being somewhat older and taller than the others. I was always having to separate them - both from each other and from the brighter and more studious Deepa, who wasn’t beyond helping them out if my back was turned. If there was any whispering and giggling to be found it would have its epicentre between these two and Anita, their partner in crime. Anita was clearly a girl who was still learning to have confidence in herself and often would hesitate to give the right answer for fear of it not being right. When she did make a mistake she’d crack a silly grin and wave her hands frantically up and down towards her forehead. I later learnt that when she first arrived at the school her reaction to errors was to pull clumps of her own hair out in frustration – God only knows how this distressing habit developed! With the help of the staff and her classmates this behaviour had evolved into the less damaging waving display just described and, with any luck, in a few more years she won’t feel the need to berate herself at all.
Down the bench from Anita was the one girl I could always count on to be included in extra lessons, Rachana. Neither slow nor stupid, she was perhaps a little younger than most of the others and had a slight deficit in the attention department so she often found herself expected to provide an answer and realised that she had no idea what the question was. With her flashing eyes and honest, unrestrained grin it wasn’t possible to get angry with her myself…although the boys would sometimes get irritated if her answer was between them and the playground.
One row forward sat the good girls of the class: sweet-natured, sweet-smiled and immaculate in both appearance and presentation. Of these, I got to know Malati best during the help she gave me with Mina’s dyslexia. She was a model student in every respect and with a lovely demeanour to boot. She really seemed to enjoy helping out and had a natural gift for explaining things…I really hope she considers being a teacher when she’s finished with school because I really think she’d be very good.
Back at the front once more and you’d find the irrepressible character of Jyoti: never short of a word to say (regardless of the subject), I was forever having to tell her to be quiet and stop her from shouting out the answers. Unusually, as a girl, she was the only member of the class to be found performing squats on a regular basis. However, she never took exception to her just punishment and, for my part, I never felt any rancour towards her cheerful cheekiness.
All in all, Class 7 were easy to teach and they certainly didn’t have any trouble passing their exams. If I’d been looking for an easy time, I’d have wished all my classes were like them…but if they had, I’m sure my time at Samata School would have been far less fulfilling.
Extra Lessons
As time drew on, I was getting to know my pupils better and also getting a better idea of their individual strengths and weaknesses. After 3 weeks, it became apparent that, while some children were going to have little difficulty completing the syllabus, there were others who would struggle if something didn’t change. I was loath to alter the syllabus, which I judged was of the right level – apart from anything else, I really didn’t want to leave the brighter kids short-changed – so, in the end, I opted for helping the less able children to get up to speed. I informed all of my children that I would be running extra lessons and asked anybody who felt that they needed more help to come to one of the bigger classrooms after school on Sunday. I really hadn’t counted on the learning appetites of my children and was totally overwhelmed when well over 100 of them turned up on that first night. Obviously, most of the kids did not need to be there and I realised that I’d have to find a better way of selecting out those kids who would benefit from extra tuition. I think many of the kids had come because they thought that I’d be teaching yet more vocabulary, some came because they would rather be at school than at home…and, probably, some just turned up because their friends were going to be there. In the end, I decided that the kids who were getting poor marks in their listening comprehensions were probably the ones who would benefit most…and this would necessitate splitting the extra lessons up by class so that everyone was on the same page. So Monday evenings came to be for class 4’s, Tuesdays for class 5’s, Wednesdays for classes 6 & 7, leaving Sundays and Thursdays for those kids who were really struggling (just one or two students) and needed direct one-to-one tuition.
One further problem created by this system was the absolute need for the children to be doing their own work during listening comprehensions. The classrooms were very cramped – sometimes with four to five children crammed onto a narrow, 5ft bench. Given this close proximity, copying other people’s work was very common and, unfortunately, due to the teaching methods employed, not something that normally bothered the other teaching staff too much. As my entire extra teaching strategy was based on the kids’ weekly performance, it was important for me to know that it was their performance. I started putting bags up on desks between the children’s copy books, splitting up the known confederates and getting some of the better-behaved girls (much to their chagrin!) to sit between some of the naughtier boys. Every time we had a listening comprehension I made a real point of explaining to the kids the importance of doing their own work – you know, the ‘it’s you you’re cheating, not me’ speech. It was a new game for a lot of the kids to play, but I think by the time term was coming to an end most had got the basic concept. Unfortunately, as the exam demonstrated, there was at least one exception.
The extra lessons themselves became something that I’d really look forward to at the end of every day. With fewer bodies to manage and a genuine need for most of the attendees, I was able to enjoy some truly rewarding teaching. Being able to concentrate one-to-one with a student for more than 60 seconds gave me some real, tangible returns – I could actually see them improving in front of my very eyes. These kids – often shy and retiring when surrounded by a classroom full of their peers – started to come out of their shells and often astounded me with their ability to pick up phrases and constructions that had entirely eluded them just days earlier. Each and every one of the kids who came regularly to these extra lessons (for there was always the odd brighter kid who just hadn’t done the work that week) improved immeasurably over the course of 4 weeks. Boys like Udip (6A) and both Bal and Bir (4A) who had no chance of passing any exam when I first arrived, ended up passing comfortably and even surpassing some of their brighter, but more lackadaisical, peers. The extra lessons also gave me the opportunity to identify that Mina (again, from 4A) was actually dyslexic in English…but not in Nepali (a phonetic language). This got me all worked up at first as I couldn’t understand why she was being taught at an English-medium school, where she was unable to read the text books or even understand what she had written. I soon realised that, due to my short-termer status, it wasn’t really up to me to question the whys and wherefores of the situation but simply to get on with it and make the most of the situation.Over the last 3 weeks, with much-appreciated help from Malati (one of my Class 7 students), Mina and I worked really hard on using phonetic representations of English words to allow her to take (and pass!!) her exams.
All of these kids made me immensely proud and these extra lessons even gave me the opportunity to learn to love some of the more annoying and less-respectful little blighters. Often I’d find the hairs on my neck standing on end as I saw them slowly grasping something I was trying to teach them and I would always float out of that classroom – even after a long, tiring day – smiling and thoroughly energised. A few times, particularly after difficult but successful lessons with Mina and Malati, I was moved almost to tears and I thought my heart might break with the sheer joy of seeing that light come on and the smile appear on her face…and for seeing Malati’s selfless generosity towards a girl, who more-often-than-not was pilloried by her less pleasant schoolmates. More than anything else, I think my after-school experiences confirmed my desire to be a teacher. I began to feel a genuine and growing need to coach, to impart knowledge…in essence, to educate.
One further problem created by this system was the absolute need for the children to be doing their own work during listening comprehensions. The classrooms were very cramped – sometimes with four to five children crammed onto a narrow, 5ft bench. Given this close proximity, copying other people’s work was very common and, unfortunately, due to the teaching methods employed, not something that normally bothered the other teaching staff too much. As my entire extra teaching strategy was based on the kids’ weekly performance, it was important for me to know that it was their performance. I started putting bags up on desks between the children’s copy books, splitting up the known confederates and getting some of the better-behaved girls (much to their chagrin!) to sit between some of the naughtier boys. Every time we had a listening comprehension I made a real point of explaining to the kids the importance of doing their own work – you know, the ‘it’s you you’re cheating, not me’ speech. It was a new game for a lot of the kids to play, but I think by the time term was coming to an end most had got the basic concept. Unfortunately, as the exam demonstrated, there was at least one exception.
The extra lessons themselves became something that I’d really look forward to at the end of every day. With fewer bodies to manage and a genuine need for most of the attendees, I was able to enjoy some truly rewarding teaching. Being able to concentrate one-to-one with a student for more than 60 seconds gave me some real, tangible returns – I could actually see them improving in front of my very eyes. These kids – often shy and retiring when surrounded by a classroom full of their peers – started to come out of their shells and often astounded me with their ability to pick up phrases and constructions that had entirely eluded them just days earlier. Each and every one of the kids who came regularly to these extra lessons (for there was always the odd brighter kid who just hadn’t done the work that week) improved immeasurably over the course of 4 weeks. Boys like Udip (6A) and both Bal and Bir (4A) who had no chance of passing any exam when I first arrived, ended up passing comfortably and even surpassing some of their brighter, but more lackadaisical, peers. The extra lessons also gave me the opportunity to identify that Mina (again, from 4A) was actually dyslexic in English…but not in Nepali (a phonetic language). This got me all worked up at first as I couldn’t understand why she was being taught at an English-medium school, where she was unable to read the text books or even understand what she had written. I soon realised that, due to my short-termer status, it wasn’t really up to me to question the whys and wherefores of the situation but simply to get on with it and make the most of the situation.Over the last 3 weeks, with much-appreciated help from Malati (one of my Class 7 students), Mina and I worked really hard on using phonetic representations of English words to allow her to take (and pass!!) her exams.
All of these kids made me immensely proud and these extra lessons even gave me the opportunity to learn to love some of the more annoying and less-respectful little blighters. Often I’d find the hairs on my neck standing on end as I saw them slowly grasping something I was trying to teach them and I would always float out of that classroom – even after a long, tiring day – smiling and thoroughly energised. A few times, particularly after difficult but successful lessons with Mina and Malati, I was moved almost to tears and I thought my heart might break with the sheer joy of seeing that light come on and the smile appear on her face…and for seeing Malati’s selfless generosity towards a girl, who more-often-than-not was pilloried by her less pleasant schoolmates. More than anything else, I think my after-school experiences confirmed my desire to be a teacher. I began to feel a genuine and growing need to coach, to impart knowledge…in essence, to educate.
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
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