Sanjeev and Binod
March 20, 2005
Class 5B 16:15 - 17:00
As the final class of the day, this group of 30-odd boisterous lads could have been a real nightmare – especially coming hot on the heels of 4A. However, as with so many of my classes, they were chock full of personality and, regardless of their teenage-boy physiology, were nearly always a pleasure to teach. They often surprised me by getting through the workload of much smaller classes and it was a testament to their over-riding good natures (coupled with a strong desire to get outside and play) that I rarely had to shout at them…although one or two recalcitrants were often to be found squatting away in front of the blackboard.
Many of the boys had it in them to be every bit as unpleasant as their older friends in 6A but some basic decentness of character seemed to prevent them from falling into these bad habits. There was a not-inconsiderable amount of beating and the occasional unkind name-calling but, for the most part, they seemed to throw their lot in together as a class and, even when over-excited, mostly seemed to police themselves. Much as with their peers in 5A, they really seemed to have benefited from the extra time they’d spent at Samata school compared to the Class 6 boys. However, in their case, I think it was their behaviour that had been ameliorated by the community spirit and discipline of the school.
There was no natural leader as such, probably as there were so many personalities and characters in the class that there was too much competition for one or two guys to hold sway over everyone else. Being clever in 5B was not seen as being uncool and, in fact, one of the most popular kids, Rajesh, was probably one of the brightest kids in the school…and a total malco when it came to sports and games. In a British school this would be a recipe for being the butt of many jokes but his generous nature meant that he was always willing to share his knowledge and, thus won himself many friends.
These guys certainly knew how to have fun and I think, in a way, I was privileged to have them for the last lesson of the day…as long as there was a bit of time to escape to the playground. A full eight lessons stuck inside would often have them champing at the bit, which could be difficult if there was too much work to get through – but if we did get out into the playground they always played every game to the limits and revelled in the freedom to run and shout unrestrained. Binod and Sanjeev – two of my quieter, younger and best-behaved boys, who would sit and work unbidden at the front of the class – would fly onto the bricked surface like trained gymnasts onto the floor and pull of a string of exuberant handsprings to celebrate their freedom. British Bulldogs was always competed fiercely with no quarter asked or given by the smallest or the largest. The most fun I can remember having with them though was when Michael and I were instructed by them in the pleasures of Nepal’s national sport, Kabbadi. I had distant childhood memories of watching this exciting, but incomprehensible, sport on Channel 4 of a Sunday morning and it felt very surreal to be playing it out there on the playground. It was hilarious when Michael and I tried to keep up our constant ‘Kabbadi, Kabbadi, Kabbadi…’ as dictated by the rules during forays into enemy territory…we often ended up tongue-twisted and laughing and would be derided by the kids before being made to sit out on the sides.
Back in the classroom the laughter was never far from my lips. Sometimes I’d be suppressing giggles as dopey Norbu dropped himself in it for the umpteenth time and found himself squatting at the front. He always wore an air of resigned nonchalance befitting of the class clown and, to his credit, never complained when justly punished. The kid was strong and could pull off enormous numbers of reps without pause but the sweat would, nevertheless be streaming down his face by the time he sat down. Just because he was a clown didn’t make him stupid and, despite all the time spent doing exercises, he scored consistently good marks throughout the term. More than could be said for his partner in crime Pramod – every bit as much the clown with a mile-wide grin and a love of being centre of attention. He would take his punishments with pleasure and a big ‘Ehh!’ and consequently I took to calling him Roland after the daft TV rat of my childhood.
Buddha and Bishnu (fittingly named after Gods) were both tall and strong and the owners of particularly winning smiles (which, incidentally, made them very popular with some of the girls in 5A!). Neither was particularly talented in the academic department but their close friendship with Rajesh and a willingness to work hard meant that they always stayed near the top of the class. Alongside Phurba – with his oversized Rasta beanie and silly faces – those mentioned were among my favourite students. As with 5A, I could spend all day describing other members of the class but these were the standout characters in a class full of brio and ebullience. With luck, I’ll be able to follow their progress and, hopefully, see them again before they leave the school.
Many of the boys had it in them to be every bit as unpleasant as their older friends in 6A but some basic decentness of character seemed to prevent them from falling into these bad habits. There was a not-inconsiderable amount of beating and the occasional unkind name-calling but, for the most part, they seemed to throw their lot in together as a class and, even when over-excited, mostly seemed to police themselves. Much as with their peers in 5A, they really seemed to have benefited from the extra time they’d spent at Samata school compared to the Class 6 boys. However, in their case, I think it was their behaviour that had been ameliorated by the community spirit and discipline of the school.
There was no natural leader as such, probably as there were so many personalities and characters in the class that there was too much competition for one or two guys to hold sway over everyone else. Being clever in 5B was not seen as being uncool and, in fact, one of the most popular kids, Rajesh, was probably one of the brightest kids in the school…and a total malco when it came to sports and games. In a British school this would be a recipe for being the butt of many jokes but his generous nature meant that he was always willing to share his knowledge and, thus won himself many friends.
These guys certainly knew how to have fun and I think, in a way, I was privileged to have them for the last lesson of the day…as long as there was a bit of time to escape to the playground. A full eight lessons stuck inside would often have them champing at the bit, which could be difficult if there was too much work to get through – but if we did get out into the playground they always played every game to the limits and revelled in the freedom to run and shout unrestrained. Binod and Sanjeev – two of my quieter, younger and best-behaved boys, who would sit and work unbidden at the front of the class – would fly onto the bricked surface like trained gymnasts onto the floor and pull of a string of exuberant handsprings to celebrate their freedom. British Bulldogs was always competed fiercely with no quarter asked or given by the smallest or the largest. The most fun I can remember having with them though was when Michael and I were instructed by them in the pleasures of Nepal’s national sport, Kabbadi. I had distant childhood memories of watching this exciting, but incomprehensible, sport on Channel 4 of a Sunday morning and it felt very surreal to be playing it out there on the playground. It was hilarious when Michael and I tried to keep up our constant ‘Kabbadi, Kabbadi, Kabbadi…’ as dictated by the rules during forays into enemy territory…we often ended up tongue-twisted and laughing and would be derided by the kids before being made to sit out on the sides.
Back in the classroom the laughter was never far from my lips. Sometimes I’d be suppressing giggles as dopey Norbu dropped himself in it for the umpteenth time and found himself squatting at the front. He always wore an air of resigned nonchalance befitting of the class clown and, to his credit, never complained when justly punished. The kid was strong and could pull off enormous numbers of reps without pause but the sweat would, nevertheless be streaming down his face by the time he sat down. Just because he was a clown didn’t make him stupid and, despite all the time spent doing exercises, he scored consistently good marks throughout the term. More than could be said for his partner in crime Pramod – every bit as much the clown with a mile-wide grin and a love of being centre of attention. He would take his punishments with pleasure and a big ‘Ehh!’ and consequently I took to calling him Roland after the daft TV rat of my childhood.
Buddha and Bishnu (fittingly named after Gods) were both tall and strong and the owners of particularly winning smiles (which, incidentally, made them very popular with some of the girls in 5A!). Neither was particularly talented in the academic department but their close friendship with Rajesh and a willingness to work hard meant that they always stayed near the top of the class. Alongside Phurba – with his oversized Rasta beanie and silly faces – those mentioned were among my favourite students. As with 5A, I could spend all day describing other members of the class but these were the standout characters in a class full of brio and ebullience. With luck, I’ll be able to follow their progress and, hopefully, see them again before they leave the school.
Exams
Once I’d realised that I was expected to conduct exams for my classes towards the end of term (as Nepali New Year is on our April 13th, these exams, coming at the end of the school year, would be, in effect, final exams, on which progress into the next class would be based), there was never any doubt in my mind that I would be giving oral examinations. I was quite certain that, as an English conversation teacher, I should be measuring their ability to converse in English. Accordingly, I designed my exams with a 75% / 25% split, favouring the oral exam over the listening exam. All of this seemed natural to me on the basis of my own language-learning experiences and I figured that, as it wasn’t my responsibility to teach the children grammar or how to write or spell in English, nor was it my responsibility to give them written examinations in such. As logical as this sounded to me (and I’m sure to anybody else who has studied in the Western tradition), I still had a hell of a job on my hands to convince Uttam of its necessity. Fortunately, by the time I came to expressing the idea to him, I’d been around him long enough to take a good leaf out of his own book: I simply presented the idea to him as a fait-accompli, a given…and though he argued about the necessity for written exams (something to show the parents!) and carped about the breaking of traditions, my stubbornness eventually won through. I’d like to think I’d convinced Uttam of the principles behind an oral exam for a spoken subject…but I think he acceded in the end, primarily, because he admired my stubbornness, which he recognised as being closely akin to his own.
Having convinced Uttam that the exams were going to happen, I then had to go through the further joys of convincing him to allow me the time and logistical support to carry out the exams themselves. The listening exam certainly wouldn’t pose any difficulties as I would simply take each class at its usual time and perform the exam as I had countless listening comprehensions before (with a few minor changes, as you’ll see). When he understood that I would then require 3 days during which to examine the rest of the children, one by one, I saw a hurt, almost betrayed look in his eyes. ‘But who will watch the children in your classes if you’re not there?’ Still flush with the victory of stubbornness, I was less than sympathetic in my reply, ‘I guess we’ll just have to trust the kids to look after themselves, eh?’ In the face of such apparent unconcern, Uttam had little choice but to surrender…and so, for the first time ever, the kids were actually going to be tested on their ability to converse in English. Explaining this all to the kids brought a more mixed reaction.
One group (in fact, the vast majority of my pupils) just seemed to accept that this would be the way things were…and were merely interested in the mark scheme and trying to understand what it was that they would be marked on. Another group, no brighter but perhaps more workshy, quickly cottoned on to the fact that they wouldn’t have to write an exam and, misguidedly perhaps, took this to mean that I was giving them an easy ride. The last group of mostly intelligent, slightly under-confident kids quickly understood the more scary implications of having 5 minutes, utterly alone under my inscrutable gaze, in which to prove their grasp of my language. Anything that encouraged them to work harder was a good thing as far as I was concerned and I certainly didn’t make any efforts to undermine their fears. As the exams approached, I was gratified to see that most students were now tending towards this latter category, in the face of, effectively, an entirely new concept for them. This could be measured by the steadily increasing number of questions about the exam that started to crop up at the start and end of nearly every lesson in the final weeks. I could barely stop myself from smiling on one occasion:
Pramila: Fin-Sir, when we do the exam, will we have to come in one at a time?
Fin-Sir: Er…yes.
Pramila: And then we have to talk to you in English the whole time?
Fin-Sir: Er…yes.
Pramila: For 5 minutes?
Fin-Sir: Yes
Pramila (very quietly): Oh…
As I’ve said, I wasn’t going to prevent a bit of good, old-fashioned terror from making them work harder but, also, I didn’t want to allay their fears with platitudes about the exam being easy: simply because it wasn’t true. Some might think it cruel of me to bring in new exam techniques on these unsuspecting kids without at least making it easy to pass but these kids were bright and they all had an excellent command of English (certainly far better than my early schoolboy French) and I really wanted to test them and see how well they could do. Even for the class 4 students, both the role-play scenarios and general conversation topics were as tough as those in my 1st year French orals…and they’d have to do very well to get high marks.
Back, for the time being, to the listening exams, which I conducted on the Sunday of, this, my final week of actually teaching at the school. The first and biggest surprise for most of the children was to find out that half of them were to be sent outside to the playground. On account of the cramped conditions in the classrooms, I’d concluded that it was impossible to conduct fair tests with the children sitting so close to their friends. The solution was to split the classes in two and have each half of the class do their listening comprehensions separately. This meant that there were only two kids to a bench instead of four and I was able to seat them directly behind each other and with bags placed on the desk either side in order to prevent any peering or cribbing from going on. With no more than 20 pupils in the class at any one time, it was also far easier to prowl the aisles and see if anybody was turning round or whispering. I could tell from one or two shocked looks that some of the kids felt it was unfair of me to disrupt perfectly honourable cheating arrangements that had probably been the basis of friendships for some years. However, they all accepted their fate without grumbling and, for the most part, proved that they had been working hard and paying attention all term. Unfortunately, despite my repeated imprecations and earlier attempts to prevent copying, it became apparent that one or two individuals had not bought into the idea of doing their own work. Whilst marking the papers in between lessons and later that evening, I found to my surprise and disappointment that Sandhya (Class 7), Sony (Class 4A) and Sunita (4B) – who had all been scoring good marks and, consequently, had never been asked to attend any extra lessons – had all suffered from an appalling loss of form that could only be reasonably explained by previous cheating. I suppose there may have been others whose scores had dropped less dramatically (so that I wouldn’t have noticed) but these 3 had gone literally from heroes to zeros in one fell swoop and I was frustrated that their dishonesty had prevented me from helping them in time. On the bright side though, they were but three out of almost two-hundred and, by Sunday evening I was sat looking proudly at a big pile of passes and a very small pile of fails.
Where the aural exams went smoothly and painlessly (for me), the oral exams were a lot tougher and, by the end of three long days, I left the sewing room (my temporary exam hall) exhausted and with a new-found respect for my former French and German teachers – who must have performed literally thousands of these highly repetitious affairs over the years and mostly with the dread fore-knowledge of their (mostly) bland uniformity. There were a few incidents of high comedy (the best of these being:
Fin-Sir: So, Bir, what is it about Kuldos that you like?
Bir: I like Kuldos because he is good and nice and helps me with my work, Sir.
Fin-Sir (probing to try and give extra marks after repeatedly telling the kids they’d get no marks for vocabulary by using rubbish adjectives such as ‘good’ and ‘nice’: Okay…and are there any other reasons that you like Kuldos?
Bir (after a short pause and a dim light-bulb flickering in his eyes: Oh, yes, Sir. I like Kuldos because his hair is well-oiled.
Fin-Sir (trying not to piss his pants laughing): Right. Okay. Let’s talk about your hobbies then…)
and the occasional excitement of having to chase kids off who were trying to help their classmate who was preparing his role-plays outside. At one point I had to severely chastise some of my 5B boys after one of them actually returned to the classroom with the role-play to ask for advice. After instilling the fear of god into them I was then forced to rip up the role play so that they all knew nobody else would be able to benefit from it. Despite being annoyed at losing one of my limited number of role-plays, I couldn’t help but smile to myself at their ingenuity and boldness. Of course, the fact of the limited numbers of role-plays was entirely my own fault and one that I couldn’t seriously hold anyone else responsible for.
The week before the exams, I’d developed all my role-plays in English and had taken them to Pratiba to translate into Nepali for me. As the instructions for my French role-plays had always come in English (meaning that I would have to come up with all necessary French phrases myself), I was determined to produce a similar situation for my students. In the midst of the final teaching and preparation for her own exams (all of the rest of the school exams were due to start the week after mine), Pratiba very graciously and kindly took my scribblings away and wrote them out for me in flowing Nepali script. Without her initial help, there was no way my exams could have been properly conducted…and for this I was very grateful. My intention had been to copy these sentences onto 16 cards which, placed face-down, the children would select their two set role-plays from. Unfortunately, on Sunday evening when I settled down to the copying after finishing marking the aural exams, I found that I was unable to transcribe Pratiba’s sentences with the certainty that the children would still be able to read them.
I turned up at school very early on Monday morning, in somewhat of a panic, hoping to find Pratiba to ask for her help once more. Unfortunately, as she lived some distance from the school, it was very rare for Pratiba to arrive much before 9.30…and with the first of 187 oral exams due to start at 9.45, I really needed someone to save the day. Cue Soba! Despite being snowed under with work and with several clamouring parents rattling her cage about various matters, this little angel very kindly copied out the first four role-plays for me in time to start the exams. Later on, she came back with another four so that I could at least give the kids some pretence of choice as I had promised. I really felt like she’d saved my life and will always be eternally grateful to her for it. From hereon the orals went pretty much without a hitch (apart from those previously mentioned). Several times it became apparent on entering that some of the girls had really let their imaginations run riot about the difficulty of the exam and I had to spend a few minutes calming them down and getting them into a fit state to give a good account of themselves. Fortunately, these cases were few and far between and, regardless, all of the little treasures excelled themselves in the end.
It was gratifying after the weeks of hard work to see how well all the kids did – particularly those who had improved with extra tuition. Despite being totally knackered after my 3 days cooped up in the hot, stuffy sewing room, I was elated that the kids had done so well. Also, because I’d managed to stick to the tight schedule I’d given myself, I now had my full final day, Thursday, to say a proper goodbye to all my classes.
Most of the day, I was able to take the kids outside to play games although frequent showers had us running for the classrooms, where I spent a lot of time getting photos of my favourite kids and classes. A lot of the kids gave me handmade cards and little keepsakes…all of these were very touching and, as each lesson ended, another piece of my heart was left behind. At the end of the day I had been planning one final surprise for my kids during the evening assembly. Throughout the term, having discovered my penchant for dance music, two of my classes (5A and 6A, surprisingly ;-) ) had been begging me to play them some music and dance for them. Without a decent sound-system on the laptop and, unwilling to dance without a steady, reassuring bassline, I’d been putting them off with promises of performing if they all passed their exams. I knew full well that they would probably all pass and I certainly never intended to break my word so it seemed to me that the only option would be to play some trance through Uttam’s PA and give them a show of some of my finest shape-throwing in the playground. Once I’d decided this, there seemed no point in excluding the rest of the kids and so I’d been telling them all to leave their bags in their classrooms at the end of the day (so that they too, obviously seized by the power of trance, would be able to dance). What I hadn’t counted on was a kind of Speech Day at this final assembly which meant that the rest of the teaching staff (normally out of the gates like a rat up a drainpipe at the sounding of the 5pm bell) were all there to witness my performance too. I was able to say a few heartfelt words to the kids, telling them how much I’d enjoyed teaching them and wishing them luck for their exams and the future and then I got Uttam to crank up the sound as he unleashed Reflekt’s ‘Need to Feel Loved’ on their unsuspecting ears. After their initial surprise – and a few delighted squeals at Fin-Sir making a prat of himself – a surprising number of the kids joined in and seemed to move to the rhythm in a totally natural and uninhibited way. After a few minutes bopping away in the late afternoon sunshine, I was starting to perspire and asked Uttam to turn it down. The kids gave me a very heart-warming round of applause (not for my dancing skills, I’m sure) and three cheers at Uttam’s request. I was touched by their enthusiasm and it was good to know that the kids seemed to think as much of me as I did of them. It was a strange kind of parting as I knew I would see many of the kids the following week whilst invigilating at their exams. Also, with another 6 weeks planned in and around Nepal, I was sure that I’d get plenty more opportunities to see them and say goodbye again. Still, having finished teaching and examining them, it seemed fitting to draw this chapter to a proper conclusion.
Having convinced Uttam that the exams were going to happen, I then had to go through the further joys of convincing him to allow me the time and logistical support to carry out the exams themselves. The listening exam certainly wouldn’t pose any difficulties as I would simply take each class at its usual time and perform the exam as I had countless listening comprehensions before (with a few minor changes, as you’ll see). When he understood that I would then require 3 days during which to examine the rest of the children, one by one, I saw a hurt, almost betrayed look in his eyes. ‘But who will watch the children in your classes if you’re not there?’ Still flush with the victory of stubbornness, I was less than sympathetic in my reply, ‘I guess we’ll just have to trust the kids to look after themselves, eh?’ In the face of such apparent unconcern, Uttam had little choice but to surrender…and so, for the first time ever, the kids were actually going to be tested on their ability to converse in English. Explaining this all to the kids brought a more mixed reaction.
One group (in fact, the vast majority of my pupils) just seemed to accept that this would be the way things were…and were merely interested in the mark scheme and trying to understand what it was that they would be marked on. Another group, no brighter but perhaps more workshy, quickly cottoned on to the fact that they wouldn’t have to write an exam and, misguidedly perhaps, took this to mean that I was giving them an easy ride. The last group of mostly intelligent, slightly under-confident kids quickly understood the more scary implications of having 5 minutes, utterly alone under my inscrutable gaze, in which to prove their grasp of my language. Anything that encouraged them to work harder was a good thing as far as I was concerned and I certainly didn’t make any efforts to undermine their fears. As the exams approached, I was gratified to see that most students were now tending towards this latter category, in the face of, effectively, an entirely new concept for them. This could be measured by the steadily increasing number of questions about the exam that started to crop up at the start and end of nearly every lesson in the final weeks. I could barely stop myself from smiling on one occasion:
Pramila: Fin-Sir, when we do the exam, will we have to come in one at a time?
Fin-Sir: Er…yes.
Pramila: And then we have to talk to you in English the whole time?
Fin-Sir: Er…yes.
Pramila: For 5 minutes?
Fin-Sir: Yes
Pramila (very quietly): Oh…
As I’ve said, I wasn’t going to prevent a bit of good, old-fashioned terror from making them work harder but, also, I didn’t want to allay their fears with platitudes about the exam being easy: simply because it wasn’t true. Some might think it cruel of me to bring in new exam techniques on these unsuspecting kids without at least making it easy to pass but these kids were bright and they all had an excellent command of English (certainly far better than my early schoolboy French) and I really wanted to test them and see how well they could do. Even for the class 4 students, both the role-play scenarios and general conversation topics were as tough as those in my 1st year French orals…and they’d have to do very well to get high marks.
Back, for the time being, to the listening exams, which I conducted on the Sunday of, this, my final week of actually teaching at the school. The first and biggest surprise for most of the children was to find out that half of them were to be sent outside to the playground. On account of the cramped conditions in the classrooms, I’d concluded that it was impossible to conduct fair tests with the children sitting so close to their friends. The solution was to split the classes in two and have each half of the class do their listening comprehensions separately. This meant that there were only two kids to a bench instead of four and I was able to seat them directly behind each other and with bags placed on the desk either side in order to prevent any peering or cribbing from going on. With no more than 20 pupils in the class at any one time, it was also far easier to prowl the aisles and see if anybody was turning round or whispering. I could tell from one or two shocked looks that some of the kids felt it was unfair of me to disrupt perfectly honourable cheating arrangements that had probably been the basis of friendships for some years. However, they all accepted their fate without grumbling and, for the most part, proved that they had been working hard and paying attention all term. Unfortunately, despite my repeated imprecations and earlier attempts to prevent copying, it became apparent that one or two individuals had not bought into the idea of doing their own work. Whilst marking the papers in between lessons and later that evening, I found to my surprise and disappointment that Sandhya (Class 7), Sony (Class 4A) and Sunita (4B) – who had all been scoring good marks and, consequently, had never been asked to attend any extra lessons – had all suffered from an appalling loss of form that could only be reasonably explained by previous cheating. I suppose there may have been others whose scores had dropped less dramatically (so that I wouldn’t have noticed) but these 3 had gone literally from heroes to zeros in one fell swoop and I was frustrated that their dishonesty had prevented me from helping them in time. On the bright side though, they were but three out of almost two-hundred and, by Sunday evening I was sat looking proudly at a big pile of passes and a very small pile of fails.
Where the aural exams went smoothly and painlessly (for me), the oral exams were a lot tougher and, by the end of three long days, I left the sewing room (my temporary exam hall) exhausted and with a new-found respect for my former French and German teachers – who must have performed literally thousands of these highly repetitious affairs over the years and mostly with the dread fore-knowledge of their (mostly) bland uniformity. There were a few incidents of high comedy (the best of these being:
Fin-Sir: So, Bir, what is it about Kuldos that you like?
Bir: I like Kuldos because he is good and nice and helps me with my work, Sir.
Fin-Sir (probing to try and give extra marks after repeatedly telling the kids they’d get no marks for vocabulary by using rubbish adjectives such as ‘good’ and ‘nice’: Okay…and are there any other reasons that you like Kuldos?
Bir (after a short pause and a dim light-bulb flickering in his eyes: Oh, yes, Sir. I like Kuldos because his hair is well-oiled.
Fin-Sir (trying not to piss his pants laughing): Right. Okay. Let’s talk about your hobbies then…)
and the occasional excitement of having to chase kids off who were trying to help their classmate who was preparing his role-plays outside. At one point I had to severely chastise some of my 5B boys after one of them actually returned to the classroom with the role-play to ask for advice. After instilling the fear of god into them I was then forced to rip up the role play so that they all knew nobody else would be able to benefit from it. Despite being annoyed at losing one of my limited number of role-plays, I couldn’t help but smile to myself at their ingenuity and boldness. Of course, the fact of the limited numbers of role-plays was entirely my own fault and one that I couldn’t seriously hold anyone else responsible for.
The week before the exams, I’d developed all my role-plays in English and had taken them to Pratiba to translate into Nepali for me. As the instructions for my French role-plays had always come in English (meaning that I would have to come up with all necessary French phrases myself), I was determined to produce a similar situation for my students. In the midst of the final teaching and preparation for her own exams (all of the rest of the school exams were due to start the week after mine), Pratiba very graciously and kindly took my scribblings away and wrote them out for me in flowing Nepali script. Without her initial help, there was no way my exams could have been properly conducted…and for this I was very grateful. My intention had been to copy these sentences onto 16 cards which, placed face-down, the children would select their two set role-plays from. Unfortunately, on Sunday evening when I settled down to the copying after finishing marking the aural exams, I found that I was unable to transcribe Pratiba’s sentences with the certainty that the children would still be able to read them.
I turned up at school very early on Monday morning, in somewhat of a panic, hoping to find Pratiba to ask for her help once more. Unfortunately, as she lived some distance from the school, it was very rare for Pratiba to arrive much before 9.30…and with the first of 187 oral exams due to start at 9.45, I really needed someone to save the day. Cue Soba! Despite being snowed under with work and with several clamouring parents rattling her cage about various matters, this little angel very kindly copied out the first four role-plays for me in time to start the exams. Later on, she came back with another four so that I could at least give the kids some pretence of choice as I had promised. I really felt like she’d saved my life and will always be eternally grateful to her for it. From hereon the orals went pretty much without a hitch (apart from those previously mentioned). Several times it became apparent on entering that some of the girls had really let their imaginations run riot about the difficulty of the exam and I had to spend a few minutes calming them down and getting them into a fit state to give a good account of themselves. Fortunately, these cases were few and far between and, regardless, all of the little treasures excelled themselves in the end.
It was gratifying after the weeks of hard work to see how well all the kids did – particularly those who had improved with extra tuition. Despite being totally knackered after my 3 days cooped up in the hot, stuffy sewing room, I was elated that the kids had done so well. Also, because I’d managed to stick to the tight schedule I’d given myself, I now had my full final day, Thursday, to say a proper goodbye to all my classes.
Most of the day, I was able to take the kids outside to play games although frequent showers had us running for the classrooms, where I spent a lot of time getting photos of my favourite kids and classes. A lot of the kids gave me handmade cards and little keepsakes…all of these were very touching and, as each lesson ended, another piece of my heart was left behind. At the end of the day I had been planning one final surprise for my kids during the evening assembly. Throughout the term, having discovered my penchant for dance music, two of my classes (5A and 6A, surprisingly ;-) ) had been begging me to play them some music and dance for them. Without a decent sound-system on the laptop and, unwilling to dance without a steady, reassuring bassline, I’d been putting them off with promises of performing if they all passed their exams. I knew full well that they would probably all pass and I certainly never intended to break my word so it seemed to me that the only option would be to play some trance through Uttam’s PA and give them a show of some of my finest shape-throwing in the playground. Once I’d decided this, there seemed no point in excluding the rest of the kids and so I’d been telling them all to leave their bags in their classrooms at the end of the day (so that they too, obviously seized by the power of trance, would be able to dance). What I hadn’t counted on was a kind of Speech Day at this final assembly which meant that the rest of the teaching staff (normally out of the gates like a rat up a drainpipe at the sounding of the 5pm bell) were all there to witness my performance too. I was able to say a few heartfelt words to the kids, telling them how much I’d enjoyed teaching them and wishing them luck for their exams and the future and then I got Uttam to crank up the sound as he unleashed Reflekt’s ‘Need to Feel Loved’ on their unsuspecting ears. After their initial surprise – and a few delighted squeals at Fin-Sir making a prat of himself – a surprising number of the kids joined in and seemed to move to the rhythm in a totally natural and uninhibited way. After a few minutes bopping away in the late afternoon sunshine, I was starting to perspire and asked Uttam to turn it down. The kids gave me a very heart-warming round of applause (not for my dancing skills, I’m sure) and three cheers at Uttam’s request. I was touched by their enthusiasm and it was good to know that the kids seemed to think as much of me as I did of them. It was a strange kind of parting as I knew I would see many of the kids the following week whilst invigilating at their exams. Also, with another 6 weeks planned in and around Nepal, I was sure that I’d get plenty more opportunities to see them and say goodbye again. Still, having finished teaching and examining them, it seemed fitting to draw this chapter to a proper conclusion.
March 13, 2005
Life
There wasn’t a great deal of time for extra-curricular activities in this, the final week before my exams started for the children. What little time I had was devoted to the hunting of antique, hand-carved masks for my good friend, Uncle Al, back in Harrogate. He’d given me a crash course (via e-mail) on identifying authentic and replica masks, in the hope that I’d be able to pick him up some Billy Bargains to add to his (already extensive) collection. Once I’d learnt to identify the real thing, I must admit I was hooked and found myself arrested by the sight of masks adorning the many shopfronts surrounding the Bouddha Stupa. With my borrowed knowledge from Uncle Al, I was able to impress the proprietors who were obviously used to dealing with your average ignorant tourist. As well as honing my mask-hunting skills, I soon became adept at the local style of haggling – and, before I knew it, I was the proud owner of 10 fine Nepali and Bhutanese masks for Al and myself. With Don’s imminent arrival the next Thursday, I’d already planned to get the majority of them home safe before I even left Kathmandu.
On Saturday – after a particularly satisfying set of purchases – I was able to sit down in the tranquil quiet of the Lotus Guesthouse’s gardens in order to write the listening comprehensions and develop the role play scenarios for the children’s oral exams. After a hard afternoon’s graft I wandered into Thamel and decided to pay a visit to a chap called Santosh who ran an establishment called the Lotus Gallery. Some of you may recall that my friend, Crazy Bill, had rhapsodised about chicken tandoori and butter naan on the floor of a friend’s gallery in Kathmandu…well Santosh was this friend and Lotus was that same gallery. I had popped my head in during my first week in Kathmandu to say hi from Bill and had been unable to come back since, after moving to Bouddha to be nearer to school. Santosh was pleased to see me and insisted that I sit down and join him for a cup of tea while I found my eye drawn towards the beautiful selection of traditional arts covering his walls. One painting in particular – a beautiful thanka (religious art, traditionally hand-painted on cotton) of the Hindu God, Ganesh – caught my eye and I was crestfallen to discover that it was over $200, even to a friend of Bill’s. Art definitely hadn’t been among the things I’d envisaged picking up on my travels, especially high-end stuff like this and I quickly put the idea out of my mind. I spent a pleasant half-hour nattering with Santosh and swapping tales of Bill’s escapades and I promised to return with the laptop sometime to show him photos of the places Bill and I saw in Laos. After this pleasant interlude, I met Michael for a couple of quiet beers in Tom & Jerry’s before heading back to Bouddha for an early night in preparation for exam week.
On Saturday – after a particularly satisfying set of purchases – I was able to sit down in the tranquil quiet of the Lotus Guesthouse’s gardens in order to write the listening comprehensions and develop the role play scenarios for the children’s oral exams. After a hard afternoon’s graft I wandered into Thamel and decided to pay a visit to a chap called Santosh who ran an establishment called the Lotus Gallery. Some of you may recall that my friend, Crazy Bill, had rhapsodised about chicken tandoori and butter naan on the floor of a friend’s gallery in Kathmandu…well Santosh was this friend and Lotus was that same gallery. I had popped my head in during my first week in Kathmandu to say hi from Bill and had been unable to come back since, after moving to Bouddha to be nearer to school. Santosh was pleased to see me and insisted that I sit down and join him for a cup of tea while I found my eye drawn towards the beautiful selection of traditional arts covering his walls. One painting in particular – a beautiful thanka (religious art, traditionally hand-painted on cotton) of the Hindu God, Ganesh – caught my eye and I was crestfallen to discover that it was over $200, even to a friend of Bill’s. Art definitely hadn’t been among the things I’d envisaged picking up on my travels, especially high-end stuff like this and I quickly put the idea out of my mind. I spent a pleasant half-hour nattering with Santosh and swapping tales of Bill’s escapades and I promised to return with the laptop sometime to show him photos of the places Bill and I saw in Laos. After this pleasant interlude, I met Michael for a couple of quiet beers in Tom & Jerry’s before heading back to Bouddha for an early night in preparation for exam week.
Class 4A 15:30 - 16:15
As a class, it would be easy to take 4A for a ‘right little bunch of bastards’ – to borrow a phrase from a former teacher of mine – but this would be extremely unfair on the vast majority of the kids in the class. There were some very sweet, well-behaved girls who unfortunately had enough on their plate putting up with the disruption, slowness and general apathy of their less industrious classmates – and it was for them that I always made sure to enter the classroom with a smile on my face and the best of intentions in my mind.
More often than not, the smile would be gone within 10 minutes after I’d already had to tell them to shut up or stop beating several times. The class’s two big problems were that most of the boys were none too bright, nor motivated and the bunch of older girls at the back of the room were just too cool for school – consequently the class lacked leadership. Unlike my other classes, the bright, nice kids in 4A were not possessed of particularly strong personalities and, as such, could do nothing but sit their in resigned silence while these other kids made trouble. The one girl, Manjita, who was both bright enough and strong-willed enough to be a leader, was probably the most unpleasant kid in any of my classes. She had a nasty, spiteful tongue that was unleashed on all and sundry with little reason or warning at frequent intervals. She thought nothing of grassing up her ‘friends’ or laughing when people couldn’t answer a question (usually shortly before crowing it for everyone to hear without being asked) and I’d seen several of the other girls reduced to tears on a number of occasions.
Every cloud has a silver lining and, as I’ve already mentioned, some of my more difficult students from this class gave me cause for real enjoyment in the after-school extra lessons. On top of this the better-behaved kids like Dolma, Ang Doma, Maya and Hena (girls) as well as Chitiz and Kuldos (boys) tried their very best to make up for their errant classmates so I never really lost my rag with them completely. It seemed a little unfair that these kids had to put up with the rest and I was hopeful that the good and bad elements of 4A and 4B might be better matched the following year…although I can only imagine the kind of hellish class this type of tampering might produce. All I can say is that I was always relieved when the bell went to signify the end of my lesson with this lot.
More often than not, the smile would be gone within 10 minutes after I’d already had to tell them to shut up or stop beating several times. The class’s two big problems were that most of the boys were none too bright, nor motivated and the bunch of older girls at the back of the room were just too cool for school – consequently the class lacked leadership. Unlike my other classes, the bright, nice kids in 4A were not possessed of particularly strong personalities and, as such, could do nothing but sit their in resigned silence while these other kids made trouble. The one girl, Manjita, who was both bright enough and strong-willed enough to be a leader, was probably the most unpleasant kid in any of my classes. She had a nasty, spiteful tongue that was unleashed on all and sundry with little reason or warning at frequent intervals. She thought nothing of grassing up her ‘friends’ or laughing when people couldn’t answer a question (usually shortly before crowing it for everyone to hear without being asked) and I’d seen several of the other girls reduced to tears on a number of occasions.
Every cloud has a silver lining and, as I’ve already mentioned, some of my more difficult students from this class gave me cause for real enjoyment in the after-school extra lessons. On top of this the better-behaved kids like Dolma, Ang Doma, Maya and Hena (girls) as well as Chitiz and Kuldos (boys) tried their very best to make up for their errant classmates so I never really lost my rag with them completely. It seemed a little unfair that these kids had to put up with the rest and I was hopeful that the good and bad elements of 4A and 4B might be better matched the following year…although I can only imagine the kind of hellish class this type of tampering might produce. All I can say is that I was always relieved when the bell went to signify the end of my lesson with this lot.
Playing the PR game
After 5 weeks I’d grown used to having the kids to myself. When Michael first arrived, and before he was given a timetable, he shadowed me for a few lessons. I found myself getting intensely jealous of the interest the kids took in him…these were my kids…they were supposed to love me! Of course, in the end, I was just proud of them as they asked him all kinds of questions in perfect English and I could see Michael warming to them straight away. For the rest of term I had to put up with playful taunts from my class 6 girls as they pretended to be itching to have Michael as their teacher. I think when you invest time and energy in anybody there’s a natural reaction of not wanting to let them go too easily. Fortunately, having Michael around for all that time before I left demonstrated that I’d be leaving the kids in capable hands and that was, in the end, preferable to leaving them with some faceless stranger.
Much as I’d been a useful PR pawn at the Saraswati Puja in my early days at the school, Michael found himself pushed immediately into the fray as we were both dragged along to the ceremonial blessing of the foundation stones at the site of the new school in Bhaktapur. This momentous occasion was of great significance to Uttam – finally being able to take the first steps towards the next stage of his dream after 5 years of getting the Kathmandu school up and running – and he was determined to get as much positive coverage as possible. Having Michael and I there to represent the schools much-vaunted involvement with foreign volunteers was an absolute must. Despite our driver taking a wrong turning (fortunately, after my previous visit to Bhaktapur, I had a rough idea of the site of the school and was able to set us straight) and dropping us off late, the ceremony went off without a hitch and the 2 dozen brightly dressed pupils who’d come to take part, were considered photogenic enough to make the front page of the national dailies the following day. On top of this, the editor of the Kathmandu post, used Uttam as a shining example in an editorial about the disparities in education for girls and children of poor socio-economic backgrounds. While I wouldn’t wish to be identified as a media whore, it really did feel exciting to be even a small part of something so relevant and important as Uttam’s vision. When I read that editorial my heart swelled with pride for the man who, frankly, deserves all the recognition he can get…particularly if it helps him to achieve his aims.
Much as I’d been a useful PR pawn at the Saraswati Puja in my early days at the school, Michael found himself pushed immediately into the fray as we were both dragged along to the ceremonial blessing of the foundation stones at the site of the new school in Bhaktapur. This momentous occasion was of great significance to Uttam – finally being able to take the first steps towards the next stage of his dream after 5 years of getting the Kathmandu school up and running – and he was determined to get as much positive coverage as possible. Having Michael and I there to represent the schools much-vaunted involvement with foreign volunteers was an absolute must. Despite our driver taking a wrong turning (fortunately, after my previous visit to Bhaktapur, I had a rough idea of the site of the school and was able to set us straight) and dropping us off late, the ceremony went off without a hitch and the 2 dozen brightly dressed pupils who’d come to take part, were considered photogenic enough to make the front page of the national dailies the following day. On top of this, the editor of the Kathmandu post, used Uttam as a shining example in an editorial about the disparities in education for girls and children of poor socio-economic backgrounds. While I wouldn’t wish to be identified as a media whore, it really did feel exciting to be even a small part of something so relevant and important as Uttam’s vision. When I read that editorial my heart swelled with pride for the man who, frankly, deserves all the recognition he can get…particularly if it helps him to achieve his aims.
March 06, 2005
Life
I can honestly say that this turned out to be my least favourite week in Nepal. After returning from Pulchowki on Saturday afternoon, I suffered 4 days of the dreaded trots. My diet of plain biscuits, juice and water was supplemented with some lovely fresh fruit, which Ram very kindly brought over for me when he came to check on my welfare. Of this, I’d say I managed to digest the bare minimum necessary to prevent myself from becoming really ill. Mercifully, I didn’t suffer anymore of the mind-bending stomach cramps that had assailed me during Saturday’s walk. However, to put it delicately, I produced nothing solid from Saturday morning until Tuesday evening and managed to lose a good 5 kg of weight…which, I suppose, was the silver lining in the cloud after 5 well-fed months in Asia. I had to resort to using the emergency supply of Metronidazole given to me by Aussie Tony (in the Phillipines, back in November) for just such an eventuality. The full course of ten enormous, yellow tablets, followed by 2 immodium just about did the job…although I was still very cautious about breaking wind for a few days after.
All of this meant that I missed the biggest Hindu festival in Nepal – that of Shivaratri, celebrated most brilliantly at the magnificent temple of Pashupatinath on the banks of the holy Bagmati River. I don’t know how much I’d really have enjoyed being crushed in the massive crowds of locals and tourists but the sight of thousands of holy Sadhus from all over the Hindu world is definitely not one to be missed if it can be helped. Shiva, as the creator and destroyer of all things, is the most revered member of the Hindu pantheon in Nepal – particularly his incarnation as the lord of the beasts, Pashupati. This particular form of Shiva is obviously the focus of worship at Pashupatinath and hence the big song and dance here on Shivaratri…which is actually Shiva’s birthday. Perhaps one thing that contributes to the general levels of merriment is Shiva’s renowned association with the smoking of marijuana – something that appears to grow in great abundance all over Nepal. For one day of the year, by Royal Decree, Nepal’s citizens are legally allowed to partake of the ’erb…and many, it seems do. Of course, I missed out on all these shenanigans, being tucked up in bed most of the day and nursing myself back to full strength during the evening. On my first day back in the classroom the following day I did, however, find several of my students a little the worse for wear after smoking too much hashish with their parents and even grandparents!!
The one useful thing I managed to do during my illness was to send a long, well-thought out e-mail to Dawa explaining my reasons for not wanting to see her any more. Some might say it was a little callous to dump her by electronic means (first time I’ve done it, honest!! But come on…we are living in the digital age!) but with her slightly dodgy command of English it would have been a painstaking and clumsy process face-to-face…and there were some important points that I wanted her to understand and, hopefully, take to heart. In essence, I told her that I thought it was a shame that she did so little with her time and her great people skills. I expressed disappointment at her willingness to live off her hard-working siblings in a country where so many people needed practical help. In short, I told her to get a job! I’ve no idea whether any of this hit home as I’ve heard not a word from her since…and, just occasionally when my old cynicism resurfaces, I do wonder whether she regularly preys on a constantly replenished supply of unsuspecting Westerners to inject a little entertainment into her life. I certainly don’t regret a minute I spent with her and she was a big part of my early experiences of Nepal – introducing me to her culture and showing me some of the nicer spots around the valley. I just knew when it was time to move on.
The other significant event of the week was the arrival, from England of yet another Mondochallenge volunteer. Michael Mann, it turned out, was from my very own hometown of Harrogate…and he made himself useful before he even arrived in Nepal. Some weeks previously I’d managed to lose my credit card and had been having all kinds of problems trying to get a replacement sent to Kathmandu. Along with a few other essentials (such as socks and, of course, Cadbury’s Dairy Milk), Michael very kindly brought my card, which my mother had been able to drop off at his parents’ house – less than 1½ miles from our doorstep!! Being a good 5 years apart (Michael was 22) and having studied at different schools, we’d never met each other before…but we were still able to have a good old yak about favoured watering holes and old haunts when we eventually met.
This happened at a meal organised by Ram at a rooftop restaurant in the heart of Patan’s historic Durbar Square, where I duly impressed the waiting staff by consuming both a King Burger and two toasted sandwiches as I pursued my lost kilos. After dinner – this being a Friday evening – Michael joined Edd and I for our usual pool and beer session at Tom & Jerry’s and I immediately took to his self-deprecating humour and easy manner. I was pleased to hear that he too would be coming to teach at Samata School so that my kids would have some kind of continuity after I’d left. In the intervening weeks prior to my departure he’d be teaching the younger children in the upper school…a good way to break himself in gently before coming to grips with the older kids. After a fun evening in T&J’s I was looking forward to seeing him around the school the following week.
All of this meant that I missed the biggest Hindu festival in Nepal – that of Shivaratri, celebrated most brilliantly at the magnificent temple of Pashupatinath on the banks of the holy Bagmati River. I don’t know how much I’d really have enjoyed being crushed in the massive crowds of locals and tourists but the sight of thousands of holy Sadhus from all over the Hindu world is definitely not one to be missed if it can be helped. Shiva, as the creator and destroyer of all things, is the most revered member of the Hindu pantheon in Nepal – particularly his incarnation as the lord of the beasts, Pashupati. This particular form of Shiva is obviously the focus of worship at Pashupatinath and hence the big song and dance here on Shivaratri…which is actually Shiva’s birthday. Perhaps one thing that contributes to the general levels of merriment is Shiva’s renowned association with the smoking of marijuana – something that appears to grow in great abundance all over Nepal. For one day of the year, by Royal Decree, Nepal’s citizens are legally allowed to partake of the ’erb…and many, it seems do. Of course, I missed out on all these shenanigans, being tucked up in bed most of the day and nursing myself back to full strength during the evening. On my first day back in the classroom the following day I did, however, find several of my students a little the worse for wear after smoking too much hashish with their parents and even grandparents!!
The one useful thing I managed to do during my illness was to send a long, well-thought out e-mail to Dawa explaining my reasons for not wanting to see her any more. Some might say it was a little callous to dump her by electronic means (first time I’ve done it, honest!! But come on…we are living in the digital age!) but with her slightly dodgy command of English it would have been a painstaking and clumsy process face-to-face…and there were some important points that I wanted her to understand and, hopefully, take to heart. In essence, I told her that I thought it was a shame that she did so little with her time and her great people skills. I expressed disappointment at her willingness to live off her hard-working siblings in a country where so many people needed practical help. In short, I told her to get a job! I’ve no idea whether any of this hit home as I’ve heard not a word from her since…and, just occasionally when my old cynicism resurfaces, I do wonder whether she regularly preys on a constantly replenished supply of unsuspecting Westerners to inject a little entertainment into her life. I certainly don’t regret a minute I spent with her and she was a big part of my early experiences of Nepal – introducing me to her culture and showing me some of the nicer spots around the valley. I just knew when it was time to move on.
The other significant event of the week was the arrival, from England of yet another Mondochallenge volunteer. Michael Mann, it turned out, was from my very own hometown of Harrogate…and he made himself useful before he even arrived in Nepal. Some weeks previously I’d managed to lose my credit card and had been having all kinds of problems trying to get a replacement sent to Kathmandu. Along with a few other essentials (such as socks and, of course, Cadbury’s Dairy Milk), Michael very kindly brought my card, which my mother had been able to drop off at his parents’ house – less than 1½ miles from our doorstep!! Being a good 5 years apart (Michael was 22) and having studied at different schools, we’d never met each other before…but we were still able to have a good old yak about favoured watering holes and old haunts when we eventually met.
This happened at a meal organised by Ram at a rooftop restaurant in the heart of Patan’s historic Durbar Square, where I duly impressed the waiting staff by consuming both a King Burger and two toasted sandwiches as I pursued my lost kilos. After dinner – this being a Friday evening – Michael joined Edd and I for our usual pool and beer session at Tom & Jerry’s and I immediately took to his self-deprecating humour and easy manner. I was pleased to hear that he too would be coming to teach at Samata School so that my kids would have some kind of continuity after I’d left. In the intervening weeks prior to my departure he’d be teaching the younger children in the upper school…a good way to break himself in gently before coming to grips with the older kids. After a fun evening in T&J’s I was looking forward to seeing him around the school the following week.
Class 5A 14:00 - 14:45
If there was one class that I would have liked to pick up and give a huge, collective hug, 5A was it. This enormous class of 39 girls were all cute-as-buttons and ridiculously sweet of nature. It was like having a classroom full of brown-skinned, black-haired versions of my goddaughter Celia and theirs was always a lesson I’d arrive early at after my lunch break. For such a big class it was extremely easy to get through the workload because they always behaved and paid attention when necessary. The class was full of characters and even the one teacher’s pet, Babita, had enough chutzpah to get away with always shouting out answers and generally being far too keen. The secret to their success, I think, was their ability to giggle and whisper sufficiently quietly amongst themselves for it not to cause difficulties for the people I was trying to teach. As I moved around the classroom a kind of exclusion zone of silence would follow me, on whose periphery all kinds of antics would ensue. Occasionally, the noise levels would creep up over the acceptable limits and I’d have to break off from what I was doing. However, far from having to shout or bang the duster against the blackboard, often just a supplicatory look or a gentle appeal to their better natures would ensure workable quiet for the rest of the lesson.
The whole class were extremely bright and you could really see that the earlier start in the English-medium had put them in a better position than some of their older schoolmates. Still a year behind their friends in 6B, their English was every bit as good and their better-trained minds seemed to pick things up far more quickly. Interestingly (and unusually for the school) there were no older pupils who’d been kept back from previous years. It often seemed to me to be the case that such students, lacking motivation, would hold the rest of a class back somewhat – and 5A, unencumbered by such, were able to move on at a uniform, fast pace. Of all my classes, they were the ones I had most difficulty in keeping from unnecessary extra lessons – mainly because they were so eager to learn but also, I think, because they just wanted to stay at school with their friends for as long as possible. For such a big class of 12-13 year olds, there was little in the way of bitching you’d expect from British girls. There were of course the little cliques of friends who’d known each other longer and those who lived in close proximity but I never once saw anyone excluded from activities or conversations and they were quite happy to work or play in any groups I put them.
If there was any hierarchy amongst these girls it was established on purely meritocratic grounds. The biggest personalities belonged to Kolpana and Sangita and, as such, their classmates gravitated towards their natural air of authority. While I could always count on these two to call the class to order, they would also be the first to play jokes or suggest a game. Having such rounded personalities influencing the more impressionable girls certainly didn’t seem to have done the class any harm and I’m sure they’ll both make great prefects when their time comes.
The class brainbox was Akriti, as adept at picking up English idioms as she was at mental arithmetic and Nepali. Her best friend and partner-in-crime was the artistic, behind-hand-giggler Rupa. Their role-plays were always amusing and well-thought out as well as being delivered in perfect English.
Quieter than these four, much more measured in her output, but nevertheless an important influence on the rest of the class, was Muna. She’d sit quietly at the back of the class, observing and taking note, before hesitantly piping up with yet another keen insight. Muna had a very thoughtful and gentle nature and could easily be seen as the calming influence on her best friend Sangita. Countless times, I’d seen her helping her classmates to understand a difficult point; if someone was ill or hurt, she’d be the one to take them to Soba’s office for help; and the way she looked after her two younger sisters during the lunchbreak was a pleasure to behold. As the eldest daughter in a fatherless household, she’d obviously learnt the skill of mothering…and she wasn’t mean about who she lavished it upon.
It seems unkind to only highlight these five girls – the whole class really were a bunch of superstars…and every single one of them was the proud owner of a beautiful smile that could light up a room. However, in this galaxy of talent, these were the ones who truly stood out…and I’d be here all day if I tried to do all the others justice.
Of all my classes, this little lot were the most prone to giving me little presents and cards. Twice, Babita (of teacher’s pet status) gave me Aishwarya Rai postcards after I’d made a passing reference to the beauty of this Queen of Bollywood. Most touching though was a beautiful pop-up card with a picture of the school on the front (designed by Rupa), given to me by the whole class on the day I left. As with 6B, I’m truly excited at the prospect of staying in touch with these kids and seeing how they turn out in the coming years.
The whole class were extremely bright and you could really see that the earlier start in the English-medium had put them in a better position than some of their older schoolmates. Still a year behind their friends in 6B, their English was every bit as good and their better-trained minds seemed to pick things up far more quickly. Interestingly (and unusually for the school) there were no older pupils who’d been kept back from previous years. It often seemed to me to be the case that such students, lacking motivation, would hold the rest of a class back somewhat – and 5A, unencumbered by such, were able to move on at a uniform, fast pace. Of all my classes, they were the ones I had most difficulty in keeping from unnecessary extra lessons – mainly because they were so eager to learn but also, I think, because they just wanted to stay at school with their friends for as long as possible. For such a big class of 12-13 year olds, there was little in the way of bitching you’d expect from British girls. There were of course the little cliques of friends who’d known each other longer and those who lived in close proximity but I never once saw anyone excluded from activities or conversations and they were quite happy to work or play in any groups I put them.
If there was any hierarchy amongst these girls it was established on purely meritocratic grounds. The biggest personalities belonged to Kolpana and Sangita and, as such, their classmates gravitated towards their natural air of authority. While I could always count on these two to call the class to order, they would also be the first to play jokes or suggest a game. Having such rounded personalities influencing the more impressionable girls certainly didn’t seem to have done the class any harm and I’m sure they’ll both make great prefects when their time comes.
The class brainbox was Akriti, as adept at picking up English idioms as she was at mental arithmetic and Nepali. Her best friend and partner-in-crime was the artistic, behind-hand-giggler Rupa. Their role-plays were always amusing and well-thought out as well as being delivered in perfect English.
Quieter than these four, much more measured in her output, but nevertheless an important influence on the rest of the class, was Muna. She’d sit quietly at the back of the class, observing and taking note, before hesitantly piping up with yet another keen insight. Muna had a very thoughtful and gentle nature and could easily be seen as the calming influence on her best friend Sangita. Countless times, I’d seen her helping her classmates to understand a difficult point; if someone was ill or hurt, she’d be the one to take them to Soba’s office for help; and the way she looked after her two younger sisters during the lunchbreak was a pleasure to behold. As the eldest daughter in a fatherless household, she’d obviously learnt the skill of mothering…and she wasn’t mean about who she lavished it upon.
It seems unkind to only highlight these five girls – the whole class really were a bunch of superstars…and every single one of them was the proud owner of a beautiful smile that could light up a room. However, in this galaxy of talent, these were the ones who truly stood out…and I’d be here all day if I tried to do all the others justice.
Of all my classes, this little lot were the most prone to giving me little presents and cards. Twice, Babita (of teacher’s pet status) gave me Aishwarya Rai postcards after I’d made a passing reference to the beauty of this Queen of Bollywood. Most touching though was a beautiful pop-up card with a picture of the school on the front (designed by Rupa), given to me by the whole class on the day I left. As with 6B, I’m truly excited at the prospect of staying in touch with these kids and seeing how they turn out in the coming years.
Colleagues
As I’ve previously mentioned, the staff at Samata School had always been very pleasant and welcoming towards me but there were a few who went out of their way to talk to me and truly make me feel like a part of the gang. Clear winners in terms of making me feel at home were obviously the Didis – particularly Boss Komala and her able deputy, Gyanu – the two mainstays of the kitchen staff throughout my 3½ months of contact with the school. Their cheery natures, great cooking and sisterly love made a real place for them in my affections and, as much as with any of the kids, I had a real lump in my throat when it was time to say goodbye to them at the end of my time in Nepal. Once I had bumped into Komala on Bouddhanath (the main road in my part of town) while I was with Michael (my volunteer successor at Samata – more of whom in the next few chapters). She insisted on taking us for tea and cakes at a nearby café and wouldn’t hear of us paying a single rupee after force-feeding us just about every type of cake in the cabinet. Her motherly generosity and spirit of hospitality was, as I was to learn, the very essence of Nepal and I’ll look forward to returning her many kindnesses in (I hope) the not-too-distant future.
Aside from the guardians of my appetite there were really four members of the teaching staff who I came to know a little during my short stay. The least shy of these was the school’s advanced English teacher, Pratiba, who often came seeking advice and meaning on the ridiculously tough Oxford textbook she was expected to teach her classes. I do not wish to imply that she was simply using me for my knowledge of my native language even if this did account for the vast majority of our conversations. She was an extremely dedicated teacher, under a lot of pressure to teach well-nigh impossible topics to often-poorly-motivated kids…if she didn’t have more time to shoot the breeze or exchange pleasantries, I could understand. However, she never had a problem talking to me after the ice had been so easily broken and I would occasionally show her photos from my travels or of friends and family at home and we would sometimes be able to talk about our family backgrounds and the major differences between Nepali and British life. Of course, I’ll never be able to think of her without smiling at the memory of trying to explain to her (repeatedly!) the scoring system of tennis, necessitated by a totally loony chapter in her text book on Steffi Graf’s astounding comeback against Jana Novotna in the 1993 Wimbledon final. (!)
In my first few days at the school I really noticed my separateness from the other staff and can still remember feeling extremely grateful when one of the younger teachers began to talk to me one lunchtime as I sat on my own in the corner of the staffroom. Muskaan had lightish skin, dark, pretty eyes and a wicked smile. Dressed in her uniform sari with her jet black hair tied back in a quite severe fashion she looked at once stern and incredibly attractive. Of course, I had no pretensions of trying anything on with one of my recently-acquired colleagues, but I can’t deny that it was an absolute pleasure to be chatting and laughing with someone so easy on the eye. Better still, Muskaan came as part of a double act – her accomplice, Reshma, being of darker skin and a lighter nature, was just as pretty and the possessor of a pair of smiling eyes that could melt hearts. Over those first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time getting to know these two while they taught me Nepali during lunch hour. I had to keep reminding myself that they were probably no more than 18 (student teachers) because they were far more serious-minded and interesting than their average counterpart back at home. As well as demonstrating beyond doubt the highly alluring and diverse appeals of the Nepali womenfolk, they also gave me an insight into the teaching profession in their home country. I mean no disrespect to either them or any of their colleagues at Samata School (there really were some talented and dedicated teachers among them) but it was plain that the selection criteria for teaching were scant. It was an interesting fluke that these two should, whilst showing me two attractive ends of the scale of ethnic diversity, also demonstrate two ends of the scale of job satisfaction. I soon came to realised that Muskaan’s usually stern demeanour was hiding a deep unhappiness with her job. Conversely Reshma, who was forever smiling and laughing seemed to be perfectly at home in the classroom…and from what I saw, her kids adored her. I sat in on a few of Muskaan’s UKG (upper kindergarten) lessons and could see that she really wasn’t comfortable with the kids and didn’t seem to know the best way to keep discipline. Perhaps taking her example from the older teaching staff, she carried a stick which she used frequently – more for emphasis than punishment, I might add. Unfortunately, it seemed that having to use the stick caused her great self-revulsion and a number of times I could see that she was close to tears. In the end, it was of little surprise to me, when she upped and left to go back to college. If perhaps there were better selection procedures for new teachers and perhaps a little more in the way of training for these poor young things (barely out of the classroom themselves!!), this kind of situation could be avoided. It was obviously a negative experience for Muskaan and I don’t doubt that it must have been emotionally wrenching for the kids in her class, who may even have felt themselves to blame for her abrupt departure.
Reshma, on the other hand, remained at the school during the rest of my stay. Her bright smile and warm personality – not to mention her stunning looks ;-) – were always something to look forward to at lunchtime and, in our measure, we became reasonably good friends. I was disappointed to learn that she left the school shortly before the end of my stay in Nepal – a real shame considering the rapport she’d established with the kids. However, I think she’d left for practical reasons to concentrate on passing her exams at college (she and Muskaan would go to lectures from 6-9 every morning before coming to school!)…and I really hope she goes back to the school when these are over.
Last, but by no means least, of my better known colleagues was the formidable Soba. This diminutive beauty was effectively the school’s deputy principal – certainly in charge more often than not during my latter days as Uttam was more closely concerned with certain events in Bhaktapur. Sitting serenely at her desk, collecting fees from parents or tenderly nursing a sick or injured child you would see her as a pretty, sweet-natured girl, whom all the kids adored. Flying into action with her big stick or shouting at a shonky tradesman and you would see the terrifying disciplinarian, so feared by the wideboys of the upper classes. She was never anything but sweetness and light towards me and, particularly, I’ll never forget her bringing me freshly-washed grapes and hot milk tea when I was suffering from some mystery illness that left me pole-axed and dizzy in the staffroom. Once again, different in looks from both Reshma and Muskaan, she was yet another stunning example of Nepali beauty. When the kids weren’t around she had a mischievous sense of humour and was the only adult I knew who could get a laugh out of the forever-focused Uttam. She had all the necessary attributes to take on the running of a school of her own, just as, I’m sure, Uttam intended.
During my short stay at the school, these were the people who I can honestly say that I got to know a little. The other staff (for reasons already explained) remained, polite and smiling, in the background. Of course, they weren’t there to meet volunteers but to teach children…and those that stayed certainly seemed committed towards this.
Aside from the guardians of my appetite there were really four members of the teaching staff who I came to know a little during my short stay. The least shy of these was the school’s advanced English teacher, Pratiba, who often came seeking advice and meaning on the ridiculously tough Oxford textbook she was expected to teach her classes. I do not wish to imply that she was simply using me for my knowledge of my native language even if this did account for the vast majority of our conversations. She was an extremely dedicated teacher, under a lot of pressure to teach well-nigh impossible topics to often-poorly-motivated kids…if she didn’t have more time to shoot the breeze or exchange pleasantries, I could understand. However, she never had a problem talking to me after the ice had been so easily broken and I would occasionally show her photos from my travels or of friends and family at home and we would sometimes be able to talk about our family backgrounds and the major differences between Nepali and British life. Of course, I’ll never be able to think of her without smiling at the memory of trying to explain to her (repeatedly!) the scoring system of tennis, necessitated by a totally loony chapter in her text book on Steffi Graf’s astounding comeback against Jana Novotna in the 1993 Wimbledon final. (!)
In my first few days at the school I really noticed my separateness from the other staff and can still remember feeling extremely grateful when one of the younger teachers began to talk to me one lunchtime as I sat on my own in the corner of the staffroom. Muskaan had lightish skin, dark, pretty eyes and a wicked smile. Dressed in her uniform sari with her jet black hair tied back in a quite severe fashion she looked at once stern and incredibly attractive. Of course, I had no pretensions of trying anything on with one of my recently-acquired colleagues, but I can’t deny that it was an absolute pleasure to be chatting and laughing with someone so easy on the eye. Better still, Muskaan came as part of a double act – her accomplice, Reshma, being of darker skin and a lighter nature, was just as pretty and the possessor of a pair of smiling eyes that could melt hearts. Over those first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time getting to know these two while they taught me Nepali during lunch hour. I had to keep reminding myself that they were probably no more than 18 (student teachers) because they were far more serious-minded and interesting than their average counterpart back at home. As well as demonstrating beyond doubt the highly alluring and diverse appeals of the Nepali womenfolk, they also gave me an insight into the teaching profession in their home country. I mean no disrespect to either them or any of their colleagues at Samata School (there really were some talented and dedicated teachers among them) but it was plain that the selection criteria for teaching were scant. It was an interesting fluke that these two should, whilst showing me two attractive ends of the scale of ethnic diversity, also demonstrate two ends of the scale of job satisfaction. I soon came to realised that Muskaan’s usually stern demeanour was hiding a deep unhappiness with her job. Conversely Reshma, who was forever smiling and laughing seemed to be perfectly at home in the classroom…and from what I saw, her kids adored her. I sat in on a few of Muskaan’s UKG (upper kindergarten) lessons and could see that she really wasn’t comfortable with the kids and didn’t seem to know the best way to keep discipline. Perhaps taking her example from the older teaching staff, she carried a stick which she used frequently – more for emphasis than punishment, I might add. Unfortunately, it seemed that having to use the stick caused her great self-revulsion and a number of times I could see that she was close to tears. In the end, it was of little surprise to me, when she upped and left to go back to college. If perhaps there were better selection procedures for new teachers and perhaps a little more in the way of training for these poor young things (barely out of the classroom themselves!!), this kind of situation could be avoided. It was obviously a negative experience for Muskaan and I don’t doubt that it must have been emotionally wrenching for the kids in her class, who may even have felt themselves to blame for her abrupt departure.
Reshma, on the other hand, remained at the school during the rest of my stay. Her bright smile and warm personality – not to mention her stunning looks ;-) – were always something to look forward to at lunchtime and, in our measure, we became reasonably good friends. I was disappointed to learn that she left the school shortly before the end of my stay in Nepal – a real shame considering the rapport she’d established with the kids. However, I think she’d left for practical reasons to concentrate on passing her exams at college (she and Muskaan would go to lectures from 6-9 every morning before coming to school!)…and I really hope she goes back to the school when these are over.
Last, but by no means least, of my better known colleagues was the formidable Soba. This diminutive beauty was effectively the school’s deputy principal – certainly in charge more often than not during my latter days as Uttam was more closely concerned with certain events in Bhaktapur. Sitting serenely at her desk, collecting fees from parents or tenderly nursing a sick or injured child you would see her as a pretty, sweet-natured girl, whom all the kids adored. Flying into action with her big stick or shouting at a shonky tradesman and you would see the terrifying disciplinarian, so feared by the wideboys of the upper classes. She was never anything but sweetness and light towards me and, particularly, I’ll never forget her bringing me freshly-washed grapes and hot milk tea when I was suffering from some mystery illness that left me pole-axed and dizzy in the staffroom. Once again, different in looks from both Reshma and Muskaan, she was yet another stunning example of Nepali beauty. When the kids weren’t around she had a mischievous sense of humour and was the only adult I knew who could get a laugh out of the forever-focused Uttam. She had all the necessary attributes to take on the running of a school of her own, just as, I’m sure, Uttam intended.
During my short stay at the school, these were the people who I can honestly say that I got to know a little. The other staff (for reasons already explained) remained, polite and smiling, in the background. Of course, they weren’t there to meet volunteers but to teach children…and those that stayed certainly seemed committed towards this.
February 27, 2005
Life
I met up with Dawa a couple of times during the week for hot lemon and ginger at one of Bouddha’s rooftop cafes and, obviously, was overflowing with excitement at the instigation of my extra lessons. It was during these rendezvous that I began to notice how little she really had to say for herself. In my eyes a good heart and generous nature will get most people a long way and thus far it had carried Dawa far in my affections. However, having mutual interests and a little intellectual stimulation is necessary for me to truly form attachment with any friend…and I was beginning to discover that Dawa wasn’t really equipped to offer me either.
I put most of this down to her mostly indolent lifestyle – one afforded her by the privilege of having a brother and sister working in Canada who were able to provide for her and her other sister as they remained in Kathmandu. On account of this, she had no need to seek gainful employment and therefore saw it as her right to sit around all day doing absolutely nothing. Not only did this mean she had nothing to talk about on a day-to-day basis but it meant her brain was almost atrophying from a lack of stimulation. As a result of this, she wasn’t overly keen on talking about anything for long and I’d often find myself biting my tongue about the day’s success story or a taxing encounter with Uttam as her butterfly attention alighted on some trifle in the vicinity. At this point, I was sufficiently taken with her happy disposition and kind-heartedness for my doubts to be overcome but I think I was secretly relieved to be without her company over the majority of the weekend, as Edd and I had made plans to climb the Valley’s highest peak, Pulchowki (2700m) in preparation for our impending treks.
Before this though I must mention my first momentous visit to Ram’s house for dinner. Edd and I had been due to visit a few weeks previously but that happened to be the day on which I was struck by my strange dizzy illness and Edd had gone alone. The reports he’d brought back had been very encouraging and it was with some anticipation that I sat down with him and Ram at Sarita’s table. I certainly wasn’t disappointed and had to admit that her Dal Bhat was, without question, the finest I’d eaten. (Apologies to Komala and the Didis at this point as I’m sure with hand-picked ingredients and not having to cook for hundreds, their food would measure up to Sarita’s.) I’d taken along a bottle of wine as a gift and was pleased to see that Ram enjoyed a good tipple as well as the next man – strictly with his dinner, of course. Neither Edd nor I stayed too late, both having school in the morning but we were certainly eager to repeat the experience and I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to do so.
He and I took it slightly easier than normal at the usual Friday night session in Tom & Jerry’s and I was tucked up in bed well before midnight. I met him at the Great Wall at 7am and we went up to the roof to check the weather out before setting off. Not pleased with what we saw, we adjourned to Helena’s for a prolonged breakfast in the hope that an ominous batch of storm clouds would dissipate so we could head south and start our ascent. By the time we’d eaten and taken a thorough look at the still-flimsily-thin local papers (starved of any real news and still being censored due to the King’s ongoing edict) we found to our relief that the clouds had moved on and that the weather was looking reasonable for a successful summit attempt.
An hour-and-a-half later, we scrambled out of a microbus at Godavari and set off up the track in bright sunshine with a jaunty step. After this, I’m afraid, things started to go a little wrong. We’d barely climbed even a tenth of the way up an admittedly steep path and I was beginning to feel seriously under the weather. At first, I was keen to put it down to my total lack of exercise for several months, exacerbated by the appalling pollution in Kathmandu. However, it didn’t take me long to discover that this was assuredly not the main cause of my dizziness and excessive weakness. After scrambling up a particularly steep and slippery section of the path, I suddenly found myself doubled over with the most excruciating stomach cramps. Barely having time to grab Edd’s last packet of tissues, I stumbled for cover and got my lower garments clear of the dangerzone just in time. Needless to say, after almost five months of gastric good-health, I’d finally succumbed to the horrors of ‘Delhi belly’…or, more accurately, ‘Kat Gut’. ;-)
After this first attack, whilst I suddenly found myself sweating profusely, I felt a damn sight better than I had 5 minutes previously and at this stage I saw no reason not to continue up the hill. We opted to follow the army-built road instead of taking the forested (and more difficult) footpath and were making fine upwards progress when the weather decided to throw his hat into the ring. Out of nowhere we were suddenly hit by a deluge of steadily-increasing rain and the cloud ceiling decided to come and take a closer look at the mountain and surrounding valley. Unsure whether to proceed and unprepared for foul weather, we hunkered down under the shelter of some trees and tucked into our packed lunch to wait and see how the weather developed.
Several times the rain stopped and we advanced a few hundred metres further up the trail, only to be sent scurrying for cover by fresh downpours. As this went on, our enthusiasm certainly began to wane and the final straw came when my innards announced a new and urgent desire to be elsewhere once again. Unable to deny my spasming guts and fresh out of tissues after the previous episode, I was forced to tear several pages from my, hitherto pristine, Nepal Lonely Planet (sorry, Mum!) to do the necessary. At this point I was extremely grateful for the hand sanitizer I’d picked up in Cambodia so many weeks before – but clean hands or no, the only thing I wanted to do was get off that mountain and be within running distance of some decent toilet facilities. Reluctantly, we abandoned our attempt on Pulchowki (Edd’s second after the ill-fated trip with his kids) and headed back to town, where I wisely stocked up on plain biscuits, fruit juice and water and gratefully wrapped myself up in a sleeping bag.
I put most of this down to her mostly indolent lifestyle – one afforded her by the privilege of having a brother and sister working in Canada who were able to provide for her and her other sister as they remained in Kathmandu. On account of this, she had no need to seek gainful employment and therefore saw it as her right to sit around all day doing absolutely nothing. Not only did this mean she had nothing to talk about on a day-to-day basis but it meant her brain was almost atrophying from a lack of stimulation. As a result of this, she wasn’t overly keen on talking about anything for long and I’d often find myself biting my tongue about the day’s success story or a taxing encounter with Uttam as her butterfly attention alighted on some trifle in the vicinity. At this point, I was sufficiently taken with her happy disposition and kind-heartedness for my doubts to be overcome but I think I was secretly relieved to be without her company over the majority of the weekend, as Edd and I had made plans to climb the Valley’s highest peak, Pulchowki (2700m) in preparation for our impending treks.
Before this though I must mention my first momentous visit to Ram’s house for dinner. Edd and I had been due to visit a few weeks previously but that happened to be the day on which I was struck by my strange dizzy illness and Edd had gone alone. The reports he’d brought back had been very encouraging and it was with some anticipation that I sat down with him and Ram at Sarita’s table. I certainly wasn’t disappointed and had to admit that her Dal Bhat was, without question, the finest I’d eaten. (Apologies to Komala and the Didis at this point as I’m sure with hand-picked ingredients and not having to cook for hundreds, their food would measure up to Sarita’s.) I’d taken along a bottle of wine as a gift and was pleased to see that Ram enjoyed a good tipple as well as the next man – strictly with his dinner, of course. Neither Edd nor I stayed too late, both having school in the morning but we were certainly eager to repeat the experience and I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to do so.
He and I took it slightly easier than normal at the usual Friday night session in Tom & Jerry’s and I was tucked up in bed well before midnight. I met him at the Great Wall at 7am and we went up to the roof to check the weather out before setting off. Not pleased with what we saw, we adjourned to Helena’s for a prolonged breakfast in the hope that an ominous batch of storm clouds would dissipate so we could head south and start our ascent. By the time we’d eaten and taken a thorough look at the still-flimsily-thin local papers (starved of any real news and still being censored due to the King’s ongoing edict) we found to our relief that the clouds had moved on and that the weather was looking reasonable for a successful summit attempt.
An hour-and-a-half later, we scrambled out of a microbus at Godavari and set off up the track in bright sunshine with a jaunty step. After this, I’m afraid, things started to go a little wrong. We’d barely climbed even a tenth of the way up an admittedly steep path and I was beginning to feel seriously under the weather. At first, I was keen to put it down to my total lack of exercise for several months, exacerbated by the appalling pollution in Kathmandu. However, it didn’t take me long to discover that this was assuredly not the main cause of my dizziness and excessive weakness. After scrambling up a particularly steep and slippery section of the path, I suddenly found myself doubled over with the most excruciating stomach cramps. Barely having time to grab Edd’s last packet of tissues, I stumbled for cover and got my lower garments clear of the dangerzone just in time. Needless to say, after almost five months of gastric good-health, I’d finally succumbed to the horrors of ‘Delhi belly’…or, more accurately, ‘Kat Gut’. ;-)
After this first attack, whilst I suddenly found myself sweating profusely, I felt a damn sight better than I had 5 minutes previously and at this stage I saw no reason not to continue up the hill. We opted to follow the army-built road instead of taking the forested (and more difficult) footpath and were making fine upwards progress when the weather decided to throw his hat into the ring. Out of nowhere we were suddenly hit by a deluge of steadily-increasing rain and the cloud ceiling decided to come and take a closer look at the mountain and surrounding valley. Unsure whether to proceed and unprepared for foul weather, we hunkered down under the shelter of some trees and tucked into our packed lunch to wait and see how the weather developed.
Several times the rain stopped and we advanced a few hundred metres further up the trail, only to be sent scurrying for cover by fresh downpours. As this went on, our enthusiasm certainly began to wane and the final straw came when my innards announced a new and urgent desire to be elsewhere once again. Unable to deny my spasming guts and fresh out of tissues after the previous episode, I was forced to tear several pages from my, hitherto pristine, Nepal Lonely Planet (sorry, Mum!) to do the necessary. At this point I was extremely grateful for the hand sanitizer I’d picked up in Cambodia so many weeks before – but clean hands or no, the only thing I wanted to do was get off that mountain and be within running distance of some decent toilet facilities. Reluctantly, we abandoned our attempt on Pulchowki (Edd’s second after the ill-fated trip with his kids) and headed back to town, where I wisely stocked up on plain biscuits, fruit juice and water and gratefully wrapped myself up in a sleeping bag.
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.
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