Sunset through the trees...and smog
March 20, 2005
Life
Obviously, during this week I spent a lot of time marking, checking and totalling the kids’ exam papers. I didn’t have an awful lot of energy for socialising or the inclination to do so until the exams were over and done with. I’d become fast friends with Michael in the short time since his arrival – to the point where I’d invited him to come trekking with me and Don in Jomsom as the school holidays would prevent him from teaching for a few weeks anyway. We were both aware that we might not be in the best physical condition for nine days of climbing and descending mountains and we had decided that we ought to have a training run the weekend before we set out. The reason the school week had finished on Thursday was due to the Hindu religious festival of Holi. Michael and I decided to use this extra day in our weekend to take a little trek around the Kathmandu Valley – up to Nagarkot and then, on the Saturday, down to Dulikhel and Banepa. The night before we were due to set off, Ram and Sarita had kindly invited me round to join them and Michael for supper – an invitation I accepted with eager delight after the culinary delights of my last visit.
After leaving school, I had time to get home and change before heading over to Ram’s for the appointed time. We sat in the kitchen and chatted and I noticed just how proficient Michael was becoming in Nepali…and I also saw the great rapport he’d established with Ram and Sarita after such a short time living there. I must admit to feeling some regret at my decision not to come and stay with them after the concrete floor had been laid as I’m sure I would have really enjoyed getting to know them and little Roshan. However, in retrospect, not having to commute to school in the ludicrously small tempos nor having to worry about being home in time in the evenings were two things I was happy to forego. Having my independence staying at Lotus played a big part of my experiences in Kathmandu and, much as I’m sure Michael wouldn’t wish to alter his experience, I wouldn’t change a thing about mine. After another delicious meal and some pleasant time spent chatting about my teaching experiences, I left shortly after 9.30 and Michael and I arranged to meet at the Bouddha Gate for 6am in time to get our bus out to Sundarijal where we were planning to begin our hike.
I should perhaps explain that Holi is the Hindu festival of colour and water, meaning that the streets of Kathmandu on Friday were likely to be filled with roaming gangs of kids (and adults) carrying water bombs, buckets and large bags of red dye with which to attack anybody that moved. Michael and I had surmised that the earlier we left, the less chance we’d have of being pelted.
When he arrived, bleary-eyed and a little green around the gills, he began to apologise for being late and explained that he’d been awake most of the night, feeling unwell. While he hadn’t actually been sick since getting up he professed to feeling nauseous and a little weak. Of course, I asked him if he wanted to cancel the hike and head home and made it clear that I wouldn’t be at all upset if this was what he felt he should do. Bravely though, he decided to soldier on and we caught a taxi down the road to Jorpati, where we hoped to get a bus out to Sundarijal. Little did we know that from that moment on our little expedition was to be beset on all sides by a variety of troubles.
Our taxi driver was unsure as to which bus would take us to Sundarijal but, unfazed, we simply asked around on the street. I had correctly identified the road that would take us to our destination so both Michael and I were surprised to be directed to a bus facing the other way on the opposite side of the road. On the bus, we enquired several times, enunciating clearly, whether this was indeed the bus to Sundarijal and our queries were met with emphatic affirmative nods so, when it set off still facing in the wrong direction, we were not unduly worried.
Twenty minutes later, when we still hadn’t made any noticeable turns towards the direction we thought we should be going, we began to think that something might be wrong. For whatever reason (none that I can actually think of, looking back) we remained on the bus until it arrived in the centre of Old Kathmandu. Pointing at a famous landmark, with a big grin all over his face, our conductor announced, ‘Sundara Tower’. The poor guy had obviously thought we were stoopid toorists, unable to pronounce the name of this famous site and had kindly ignored our questions to bring us safely to our intended destination. More than a little irked, Michael and I strode off towards the old bus station, ignoring his shouted demands for payment.
Well over an hour later – in no better mood – we arrived back at the Bouddha Gate and decided we should make the most of the delay and go to get some breakfast now that some of the restaurants were actually open. As we were walking alongside this most holy of Buddhist shrines, I turned to ask Michael how his stomach was feeling. In answer, he suddenly turned away from me and produced a large puddle of bile and stomach lining on the paved route around the Stupa. After a little remedial work with the roll of loo-paper I’d fortunately packed, I ushered him back to my guesthouse for a proper clean-up and a council-of-war about our plans for the day.
It seemed unlikely at this point that Michael would want to spend all day walking in the sun, getting further and further from the comforts of home. However, after a wash and brush up, he professed himself to be feeling much better and even seemed interested in the idea of food. We went to Double Dorjee, where I had a full Tibetan breakfast and he restricted himself to a more sensible option of toasted Tibetan bread and butter.
Far behind our intended schedule and not a little disheartened by the course of events thus far, we decided to modify our plans by getting a taxi out to Bramhakhel and using the day’s hike to see a couple of important Hindu temples in the Eastern Valley, on the way to Nagarkot. Our taxi ride was made somewhat more interesting by a loud knocking sound which developed about 10 kilometres outside Jorpati. Our driver stopped and we inspected the four tyres for a puncture, fully expecting to find a flat. However, nothing was immediately obvious and we went on our way again…only for the same loud knocking to reappear the minute we topped 10km/h. Again we stopped and this time, whilst warily eyeing some hopeful looking local youths carrying large water syringes and bags of red powder, I managed to spot that the nearside rear wheel was within a few threads of falling off. Totally unperturbed, Drives simply tightened the nuts and we set off again at the usual breakneck speed, while I tried to ignore the fact that the tyre I’d seen was completely bald anyway. We overshot our intended destination at first but this gave Michael and I ample opportunity to study the offensive strategy of the local Holi celebrants as our cab (all windows tightly wound up!) careened through water and powder ambushes at either end of the next village. When we finally got back to Bramhakhel, we both agreed that we would likely get ‘nailed’ at some point during our 25km hike.
As we walked over the hills towards Changu Narayan (a 17th century temple standing on a site with origins back in the 4th century!), Michael seemed to be on the road to recovery and we had a pleasant time chatting about the pleasures of getting out of the city and comparing the local surrounds to the lush, green fields of home. Here in the fertile bottom of the higher reaches of the Bagmati Valley, verdant fields of crops swayed and sighed in the light breeze, very reminiscent of an early summer day in Yorkshire. Unfortunately, it was a little warmer than that and, while I was sweating profusely by the time we’d climbed a steep hill to the temple, Michael had begun to feel unwell again. As I sat in the shade of tall shrine, I witnessed the highly amusing sight of Michael vomiting on his second sacred religious monument of the day. The poor guy was heaving painfully into a gutter and all I could do was giggle and think about reaching for my camera. In the end, though, my sympathy got the better of me and I wandered over with a bottle of water and some more loo-roll for the poor sod. While he recovered in the shade, I took a quick look around this ornate and highly sacred temple dedicated to Vishnu in his incarnation as Narayan. The delicate carving of the roof struts (depicting many-armed avatars of the Hindu pantheon) and the richness of decoration was akin to anything I’d seen in nearby Bhaktapur and the commanding views of the valley from its hilltop setting were worth the climb up…for me at least.
Needless to say, after this second episode, Michael decided to call it a day and after a slow walk back to Bramhakhel, I waited for him to hail a passing taxi before continuing alone to Sankhu, where the path led off to the Vajra Jogini (one of four Buddhist /Hindu temples in the valley that are dedicated specifically to the Mother Goddess). This temple, nestled on the side of a steep hill in a beautiful grove of old trees had a definite air of tranquillity and was devoid of the camcorder-toting tourists I’d seen at Changu Narayan. I spent a peaceful half hour here, relaxing and drinking in the atmosphere, whilst cooling down from the exertions of the walk up. When the resident monkeys (a regular feature of most religious monuments in Nepal) started to take offence at my presence and began to throw twigs and berries at me, I realised, reluctantly, that it was time to go. Apart from anything else, I still had a good long way to go to get to Nagarkot and the morning would soon be turning into afternoon. Shouldering my pack (a full 20kgs in preparation for trekking) I set off back down the hill to cross back over the river and head on towards Nagarkot.
It was a long, hot afternoon as I found my way across the river and then worked my way through 1000m of climbing up the long path to Nagarkot. Up to Telakot, where the path meets the winding, hairpin road to the top, I had managed to successfully talk or run my way out of Holi drubbings. The ‘I’m a Christian not a Hindu and we don’t celebrate Holi’ line, whilst a little spoil-sport had extricated me from a few scrapes with older locals and, even with my pack and low fitness levels, I was quick enough to escape from the gangs of marauding children and their less considered tactics. In the end, it was inevitable that I’d get caught and a big gang of beer-fuelled local twenty-somethings gave me the good news with great handfuls of bright red powder. They were perfectly good-natured about it and I succumbed to my fate with a wry grin on my face but all the time I was silently regretting donning my favourite Café Del Mar wife-beater as its light grey became a uniform pink.
I eventually arrived in Nagarkot feeling knackered and ready for a hot shower. After my last 5-star sojourn, any different accommodation was going to seem a little poor by comparison but even had it been my first time, I would have found the Galaxy View Tower just as irritating and poorly staffed.
I took my room under the impression that I would definitely have a working hot water shower and, after watching a disappointing, pollution-obscured sunset in a stiffening, cold breeze, this was exactly what I wanted. To my chagrin, I found that my shower was not working and then, to add insult to injury, I was forced to walk half a mile to the other end of the hotel’s complex to get to a shower that was hot. On top of this the food was cold and my bed was uncomfortable…and I’d managed, unaccustomed to the strength of a Nepali Spring sun, to get burnt during my hike. I went to bed a less-than-happy camper, very much hoping that dawn would bring a better day.
When I woke up to the pain of sunburnt shoulders (I’d fortunately kept my sparsely-covered pate under my trusty North Face hat) I realised that my hike was over. There was no way I could envisage shouldering my big pack for another 20km…especially as I’d want my shoulders back in perfect health in time for the trek proper, the following weekend. I didn’t bother to get out of bed for what was no doubt another disappointing sunrise and, after a late breakfast and a ‘discussion’ with the manager about the bill, I wandered, slightly disconsolately, down the road, wincing from the pain on my fried shoulders and pondering the pleasures of a local bus back to the city. As I trudged down the hill towards the bus stop, a long, sleek classic Mercedes glided past and, surprisingly, came to a halt a few yards ahead.
A nice-looking lass leaned out of the back window and said, ‘Are you wanting a lift to Kathmandu?’ Suddenly, it seemed my luck had changed and, as I eased into the the beautifully upholstered leather passenger seat, I couldn’t help but smile. The two girls in the back (Vickie from England and Claire from New Zealand) were also teaching volunteers and we spent a pleasant hour comparing notes on our experiences before they dropped me off in Thamel. I spent an hour in the internet café and popped in to see Santosh at the gallery (and made moon eyes at my Ganesha again!) before heading back to Bouddha and kicking back for the rest of the day with a book in the cool shade of my bedroom.
After leaving school, I had time to get home and change before heading over to Ram’s for the appointed time. We sat in the kitchen and chatted and I noticed just how proficient Michael was becoming in Nepali…and I also saw the great rapport he’d established with Ram and Sarita after such a short time living there. I must admit to feeling some regret at my decision not to come and stay with them after the concrete floor had been laid as I’m sure I would have really enjoyed getting to know them and little Roshan. However, in retrospect, not having to commute to school in the ludicrously small tempos nor having to worry about being home in time in the evenings were two things I was happy to forego. Having my independence staying at Lotus played a big part of my experiences in Kathmandu and, much as I’m sure Michael wouldn’t wish to alter his experience, I wouldn’t change a thing about mine. After another delicious meal and some pleasant time spent chatting about my teaching experiences, I left shortly after 9.30 and Michael and I arranged to meet at the Bouddha Gate for 6am in time to get our bus out to Sundarijal where we were planning to begin our hike.
I should perhaps explain that Holi is the Hindu festival of colour and water, meaning that the streets of Kathmandu on Friday were likely to be filled with roaming gangs of kids (and adults) carrying water bombs, buckets and large bags of red dye with which to attack anybody that moved. Michael and I had surmised that the earlier we left, the less chance we’d have of being pelted.
When he arrived, bleary-eyed and a little green around the gills, he began to apologise for being late and explained that he’d been awake most of the night, feeling unwell. While he hadn’t actually been sick since getting up he professed to feeling nauseous and a little weak. Of course, I asked him if he wanted to cancel the hike and head home and made it clear that I wouldn’t be at all upset if this was what he felt he should do. Bravely though, he decided to soldier on and we caught a taxi down the road to Jorpati, where we hoped to get a bus out to Sundarijal. Little did we know that from that moment on our little expedition was to be beset on all sides by a variety of troubles.
Our taxi driver was unsure as to which bus would take us to Sundarijal but, unfazed, we simply asked around on the street. I had correctly identified the road that would take us to our destination so both Michael and I were surprised to be directed to a bus facing the other way on the opposite side of the road. On the bus, we enquired several times, enunciating clearly, whether this was indeed the bus to Sundarijal and our queries were met with emphatic affirmative nods so, when it set off still facing in the wrong direction, we were not unduly worried.
Twenty minutes later, when we still hadn’t made any noticeable turns towards the direction we thought we should be going, we began to think that something might be wrong. For whatever reason (none that I can actually think of, looking back) we remained on the bus until it arrived in the centre of Old Kathmandu. Pointing at a famous landmark, with a big grin all over his face, our conductor announced, ‘Sundara Tower’. The poor guy had obviously thought we were stoopid toorists, unable to pronounce the name of this famous site and had kindly ignored our questions to bring us safely to our intended destination. More than a little irked, Michael and I strode off towards the old bus station, ignoring his shouted demands for payment.
Well over an hour later – in no better mood – we arrived back at the Bouddha Gate and decided we should make the most of the delay and go to get some breakfast now that some of the restaurants were actually open. As we were walking alongside this most holy of Buddhist shrines, I turned to ask Michael how his stomach was feeling. In answer, he suddenly turned away from me and produced a large puddle of bile and stomach lining on the paved route around the Stupa. After a little remedial work with the roll of loo-paper I’d fortunately packed, I ushered him back to my guesthouse for a proper clean-up and a council-of-war about our plans for the day.
It seemed unlikely at this point that Michael would want to spend all day walking in the sun, getting further and further from the comforts of home. However, after a wash and brush up, he professed himself to be feeling much better and even seemed interested in the idea of food. We went to Double Dorjee, where I had a full Tibetan breakfast and he restricted himself to a more sensible option of toasted Tibetan bread and butter.
Far behind our intended schedule and not a little disheartened by the course of events thus far, we decided to modify our plans by getting a taxi out to Bramhakhel and using the day’s hike to see a couple of important Hindu temples in the Eastern Valley, on the way to Nagarkot. Our taxi ride was made somewhat more interesting by a loud knocking sound which developed about 10 kilometres outside Jorpati. Our driver stopped and we inspected the four tyres for a puncture, fully expecting to find a flat. However, nothing was immediately obvious and we went on our way again…only for the same loud knocking to reappear the minute we topped 10km/h. Again we stopped and this time, whilst warily eyeing some hopeful looking local youths carrying large water syringes and bags of red powder, I managed to spot that the nearside rear wheel was within a few threads of falling off. Totally unperturbed, Drives simply tightened the nuts and we set off again at the usual breakneck speed, while I tried to ignore the fact that the tyre I’d seen was completely bald anyway. We overshot our intended destination at first but this gave Michael and I ample opportunity to study the offensive strategy of the local Holi celebrants as our cab (all windows tightly wound up!) careened through water and powder ambushes at either end of the next village. When we finally got back to Bramhakhel, we both agreed that we would likely get ‘nailed’ at some point during our 25km hike.
As we walked over the hills towards Changu Narayan (a 17th century temple standing on a site with origins back in the 4th century!), Michael seemed to be on the road to recovery and we had a pleasant time chatting about the pleasures of getting out of the city and comparing the local surrounds to the lush, green fields of home. Here in the fertile bottom of the higher reaches of the Bagmati Valley, verdant fields of crops swayed and sighed in the light breeze, very reminiscent of an early summer day in Yorkshire. Unfortunately, it was a little warmer than that and, while I was sweating profusely by the time we’d climbed a steep hill to the temple, Michael had begun to feel unwell again. As I sat in the shade of tall shrine, I witnessed the highly amusing sight of Michael vomiting on his second sacred religious monument of the day. The poor guy was heaving painfully into a gutter and all I could do was giggle and think about reaching for my camera. In the end, though, my sympathy got the better of me and I wandered over with a bottle of water and some more loo-roll for the poor sod. While he recovered in the shade, I took a quick look around this ornate and highly sacred temple dedicated to Vishnu in his incarnation as Narayan. The delicate carving of the roof struts (depicting many-armed avatars of the Hindu pantheon) and the richness of decoration was akin to anything I’d seen in nearby Bhaktapur and the commanding views of the valley from its hilltop setting were worth the climb up…for me at least.
Needless to say, after this second episode, Michael decided to call it a day and after a slow walk back to Bramhakhel, I waited for him to hail a passing taxi before continuing alone to Sankhu, where the path led off to the Vajra Jogini (one of four Buddhist /Hindu temples in the valley that are dedicated specifically to the Mother Goddess). This temple, nestled on the side of a steep hill in a beautiful grove of old trees had a definite air of tranquillity and was devoid of the camcorder-toting tourists I’d seen at Changu Narayan. I spent a peaceful half hour here, relaxing and drinking in the atmosphere, whilst cooling down from the exertions of the walk up. When the resident monkeys (a regular feature of most religious monuments in Nepal) started to take offence at my presence and began to throw twigs and berries at me, I realised, reluctantly, that it was time to go. Apart from anything else, I still had a good long way to go to get to Nagarkot and the morning would soon be turning into afternoon. Shouldering my pack (a full 20kgs in preparation for trekking) I set off back down the hill to cross back over the river and head on towards Nagarkot.
It was a long, hot afternoon as I found my way across the river and then worked my way through 1000m of climbing up the long path to Nagarkot. Up to Telakot, where the path meets the winding, hairpin road to the top, I had managed to successfully talk or run my way out of Holi drubbings. The ‘I’m a Christian not a Hindu and we don’t celebrate Holi’ line, whilst a little spoil-sport had extricated me from a few scrapes with older locals and, even with my pack and low fitness levels, I was quick enough to escape from the gangs of marauding children and their less considered tactics. In the end, it was inevitable that I’d get caught and a big gang of beer-fuelled local twenty-somethings gave me the good news with great handfuls of bright red powder. They were perfectly good-natured about it and I succumbed to my fate with a wry grin on my face but all the time I was silently regretting donning my favourite Café Del Mar wife-beater as its light grey became a uniform pink.
I eventually arrived in Nagarkot feeling knackered and ready for a hot shower. After my last 5-star sojourn, any different accommodation was going to seem a little poor by comparison but even had it been my first time, I would have found the Galaxy View Tower just as irritating and poorly staffed.
I took my room under the impression that I would definitely have a working hot water shower and, after watching a disappointing, pollution-obscured sunset in a stiffening, cold breeze, this was exactly what I wanted. To my chagrin, I found that my shower was not working and then, to add insult to injury, I was forced to walk half a mile to the other end of the hotel’s complex to get to a shower that was hot. On top of this the food was cold and my bed was uncomfortable…and I’d managed, unaccustomed to the strength of a Nepali Spring sun, to get burnt during my hike. I went to bed a less-than-happy camper, very much hoping that dawn would bring a better day.
When I woke up to the pain of sunburnt shoulders (I’d fortunately kept my sparsely-covered pate under my trusty North Face hat) I realised that my hike was over. There was no way I could envisage shouldering my big pack for another 20km…especially as I’d want my shoulders back in perfect health in time for the trek proper, the following weekend. I didn’t bother to get out of bed for what was no doubt another disappointing sunrise and, after a late breakfast and a ‘discussion’ with the manager about the bill, I wandered, slightly disconsolately, down the road, wincing from the pain on my fried shoulders and pondering the pleasures of a local bus back to the city. As I trudged down the hill towards the bus stop, a long, sleek classic Mercedes glided past and, surprisingly, came to a halt a few yards ahead.
A nice-looking lass leaned out of the back window and said, ‘Are you wanting a lift to Kathmandu?’ Suddenly, it seemed my luck had changed and, as I eased into the the beautifully upholstered leather passenger seat, I couldn’t help but smile. The two girls in the back (Vickie from England and Claire from New Zealand) were also teaching volunteers and we spent a pleasant hour comparing notes on our experiences before they dropped me off in Thamel. I spent an hour in the internet café and popped in to see Santosh at the gallery (and made moon eyes at my Ganesha again!) before heading back to Bouddha and kicking back for the rest of the day with a book in the cool shade of my bedroom.
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.
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