Sunset on Lhosar
February 13, 2005
Life
During this last week of Lhosar (which lasts from the Full Moon until the New Moon…i.e. two weeks), I began to appreciate a new shortcoming to my digs at the Lotus Guesthouse. Being run by the Tabsang Gompa and situated in the middle of Kathmandu’s most prosperous Tibetan district, my room was surrounded by no less than three gompas…with a further four within 5 minutes walk. I started waking up at stupid o’clock (4am most mornings) to the sound of horns being blasted and gongs and drums being thrashed frenetically by devout monks. Prior to my sojourn in Bouddha, I’d always been well-enamoured of Buddhism and admired its proponents for their peace-loving ways. A week of waking up at the crack of dawn in a gelid bedroom (my monastery-run guesthouse suffered from damp as well as noisy neighbours!) soon had me cursing ‘those bloody monks!’ with a full spectrum of profanity.
None of this, however, affected my burgeoning relationship with Dawa and, on the Wednesday, she insisted on taking me and Edd out for dinner to celebrate the New Year festival. Hospitality is a strong part of the Buddhist tradition and, as we were guests in her country, she insisted on treating us to dinner and showing us a good old time. I met her at the Stupa in the evening and she really did look beautiful in her traditional Tibetan dress. After three chora (one chora is walking a complete circuit around the Stupa) surrounded by smiling, happy Tibetan pilgrims, we had a quick drink in one of the roof-top cafes before heading over to Thamel to join Edd for dinner at Yin Yang. A tasty dinner was followed by (the usual) beer and pool at Tom & Jerry’s – a very pleasant way to spend the second New Year of my trip. After such a pleasant evening, we all arranged to meet again for dinner on the Friday.
Come Friday, Dawa and I had been expecting Edd by 7pm and I began to suspect that he’d succumbed to Nepali time (on Nepali time, 10 minutes late is still 5 minutes early!). I was enjoying Dawa’s company sufficiently to be only mildly concerned by Edd’s failure to show at the agreed time and, having left messages for him at likely locations, we ate alone. He eventually turned up over an hour late looking rather distraught and only stopped long enough to tell us what had delayed him and to arrange to meet us for a much-needed drink later on. It seemed that the school trip he’d been on that day had been led by a complete idiot who had somehow managed to lose two of the children. Edd and Colin (another young English volunteer) had managed to prevent yet more missing children by staying with two groups who’d been too exhausted to climb the 2700m Pulchowki that had been the day’s aim. When they had reconvened with the teacher and the rest of the children at the bus it became apparent that two of the younger boys who had been with the teacher had failed to come back down from the summit. A frantic, but darkness-curtailed search had not been successful and, eventually, the rest of the group had been forced to return to waiting parents. Being their first school-trip as responsible adults, Edd and Colin were obviously very upset and unable to help feeling partly responsible. As I explained to them, if the teacher in charge had refused to listen to any of their suggestions and had been the last to see the missing children, then they were certainly not responsible. I had strong urges to go and find their errant colleague and punch his lights out – not only for losing two children, but also for causing such distress to this pair of utterly blameless and very likeable young lads. Edd and Colin were due in school the following morning for a parents’ day and would be unable to find out any more until then…so we did the right and proper thing and got totally shit-faced.
The following morning, Dawa and I got up late and spent a fruitless couple of hours looking for a computer repair-shop for my ailing laptop. It was the first really hot day of what had now become Spring and the excessive number of Everests from the night before were really taking their toll. With the heat, the effects of pollution and noise seemed to intensify and in the end I was only too glad to jump on a micro (minivan / bus) with Dawa to get out of the chaos of Kathmandu and head to the Botanical Gardens at Godavari. After almost three weeks in the stench and hassle of the city it was pure bliss to sit on green grass and hear the sound of running water and the wind whispering in the trees. Lying there in the sunshine I could feel the stress of city life ebbing out of me and my energy levels being replenished. It seemed a shame to have to go back into town but we’d made arrangements to meet with Edd and I was keen to find out what had happened with his kids…so off to Tom & Jerry’s we went.
I could see immediately that Edd was in better spirits when we met him and it turned out that both the boys had been found unharmed. Nevertheless, one boy had collapsed, exhausted, by the side of the road to be discovered by the army late at night; the second had managed to find his way to a village, where he had been given food and shelter by a generous local family until the following morning. Edd and Colin had made their school’s headmaster promise never to let the irresponsible teacher lead another school trip again. For once I was left thinking that Asia’s lack of health & safety laws had some serious shortcomings…
None of this, however, affected my burgeoning relationship with Dawa and, on the Wednesday, she insisted on taking me and Edd out for dinner to celebrate the New Year festival. Hospitality is a strong part of the Buddhist tradition and, as we were guests in her country, she insisted on treating us to dinner and showing us a good old time. I met her at the Stupa in the evening and she really did look beautiful in her traditional Tibetan dress. After three chora (one chora is walking a complete circuit around the Stupa) surrounded by smiling, happy Tibetan pilgrims, we had a quick drink in one of the roof-top cafes before heading over to Thamel to join Edd for dinner at Yin Yang. A tasty dinner was followed by (the usual) beer and pool at Tom & Jerry’s – a very pleasant way to spend the second New Year of my trip. After such a pleasant evening, we all arranged to meet again for dinner on the Friday.
Come Friday, Dawa and I had been expecting Edd by 7pm and I began to suspect that he’d succumbed to Nepali time (on Nepali time, 10 minutes late is still 5 minutes early!). I was enjoying Dawa’s company sufficiently to be only mildly concerned by Edd’s failure to show at the agreed time and, having left messages for him at likely locations, we ate alone. He eventually turned up over an hour late looking rather distraught and only stopped long enough to tell us what had delayed him and to arrange to meet us for a much-needed drink later on. It seemed that the school trip he’d been on that day had been led by a complete idiot who had somehow managed to lose two of the children. Edd and Colin (another young English volunteer) had managed to prevent yet more missing children by staying with two groups who’d been too exhausted to climb the 2700m Pulchowki that had been the day’s aim. When they had reconvened with the teacher and the rest of the children at the bus it became apparent that two of the younger boys who had been with the teacher had failed to come back down from the summit. A frantic, but darkness-curtailed search had not been successful and, eventually, the rest of the group had been forced to return to waiting parents. Being their first school-trip as responsible adults, Edd and Colin were obviously very upset and unable to help feeling partly responsible. As I explained to them, if the teacher in charge had refused to listen to any of their suggestions and had been the last to see the missing children, then they were certainly not responsible. I had strong urges to go and find their errant colleague and punch his lights out – not only for losing two children, but also for causing such distress to this pair of utterly blameless and very likeable young lads. Edd and Colin were due in school the following morning for a parents’ day and would be unable to find out any more until then…so we did the right and proper thing and got totally shit-faced.
The following morning, Dawa and I got up late and spent a fruitless couple of hours looking for a computer repair-shop for my ailing laptop. It was the first really hot day of what had now become Spring and the excessive number of Everests from the night before were really taking their toll. With the heat, the effects of pollution and noise seemed to intensify and in the end I was only too glad to jump on a micro (minivan / bus) with Dawa to get out of the chaos of Kathmandu and head to the Botanical Gardens at Godavari. After almost three weeks in the stench and hassle of the city it was pure bliss to sit on green grass and hear the sound of running water and the wind whispering in the trees. Lying there in the sunshine I could feel the stress of city life ebbing out of me and my energy levels being replenished. It seemed a shame to have to go back into town but we’d made arrangements to meet with Edd and I was keen to find out what had happened with his kids…so off to Tom & Jerry’s we went.
I could see immediately that Edd was in better spirits when we met him and it turned out that both the boys had been found unharmed. Nevertheless, one boy had collapsed, exhausted, by the side of the road to be discovered by the army late at night; the second had managed to find his way to a village, where he had been given food and shelter by a generous local family until the following morning. Edd and Colin had made their school’s headmaster promise never to let the irresponsible teacher lead another school trip again. For once I was left thinking that Asia’s lack of health & safety laws had some serious shortcomings…
Class 6A 10:30-11:15
They say variety is the spice of life and, if I’d wanted a bit of a change from 4B to liven things up, then I certainly got it with this lot. 6A were my first all-boys class and, after the novelty and the WWF jokes had worn thin, they mostly turned out to be a big pain in the neck. Most of them never missed an opportunity to copy their neighbours work or, while my back was turned, to offer a solid thump between the shoulder blades of their nearest enemy. (‘Sir, Sir…he’s beating me!’ was a cry too-often heard in this lesson.) There were a few exceptions to the rule – mostly the younger or brighter kids – but the vast majority of this class of 18 just didn’t want to be there. As I grew to learn more about the school (from Uttam) and got to know all my children, I came to realise how unusual this attitude was and thought all the less of the main trouble-makers for spurning the opportunity they’d been given. It was also very frustrating to see them spoil things for the kids who did want to be there and, unfortunately, my metaphorical stick saw more action here than in all the other classes put together. Conversely, it was very rare that 6A got chance to play outside and this really was a shame because, on these rare occasions, the child inside even the older, surlier ones often showed his smiling face. For all there bad behaviour and lack of respect, most of the kids were reasonably bright and spoke reasonable English. Of those that were a bit thick, Udip and Dipendra had easily the sweetest natures in the class and, in the end, became two of my biggest success stories. Udip, particularly, spoke very little (intelligible) English and also found it extremely hard to understand what I was saying most of the time and was in fact the catalyst that pushed me into offering extra lessons after school. After just two weeks, I could see that he was never going to pass an exam without a lot of extra help and one-to-one tuition. More importantly, he needed an undisturbed learning environment away from the squabbles and disruptions of his classmates. Dipendra also needed the extra work – but mainly to fix the vocabulary in his somewhat sketchy memory.
Thankfully, there were plenty of characters in the class to lighten my mood so it was a very rare occasion when I left them feeling totally drained. There was Ganesh with his bizarre hip-hop dress-sense (this being one of the few classes in which almost nobody wore their school uniform), which often had me in silent stitches. His main competitor in the cool stakes was Kapil with his ‘Westside’ lingo and gangster poses – although, in terms of cool, Ganesh had to be a hands-down winner as Kapil was both bright and keen when it came to studying. Sanjay always made me smile with his wide-eyed innocence and unfortunate air of undeniable culpability whenever there was trouble and Gaurav always had a cheeky grin and a knowing twinkle in his eye, which made it impossible to feel really angry when you caught him cheating or ‘beating’. Of the bright kids (other than Kapil) Rajesh was the quietest while Razu had the brightest, most endearing personality. Unfortunately, being bright in this class seemed to be a recipe for being bullied and these two often caught it from their less industrious classmates. Kalden too was a bright spark with a cheeky grin but spent so much of the time disrupting and sulking that he managed to disguise his obvious native wit from both me and the other boys. He and Dukpa (a tall, sullen, short-tempered oaf, often given to swearing at me in Nepali) gave me by far the most trouble and spent more time than most performing their squats and staying inside instead of playing.
As the term drew on the class moved painfully slowly towards completing the syllabus I’d devised and, in the end, I’m pleased to say, they all passed their exams…although for some it was a bit of a scrape.
Thankfully, there were plenty of characters in the class to lighten my mood so it was a very rare occasion when I left them feeling totally drained. There was Ganesh with his bizarre hip-hop dress-sense (this being one of the few classes in which almost nobody wore their school uniform), which often had me in silent stitches. His main competitor in the cool stakes was Kapil with his ‘Westside’ lingo and gangster poses – although, in terms of cool, Ganesh had to be a hands-down winner as Kapil was both bright and keen when it came to studying. Sanjay always made me smile with his wide-eyed innocence and unfortunate air of undeniable culpability whenever there was trouble and Gaurav always had a cheeky grin and a knowing twinkle in his eye, which made it impossible to feel really angry when you caught him cheating or ‘beating’. Of the bright kids (other than Kapil) Rajesh was the quietest while Razu had the brightest, most endearing personality. Unfortunately, being bright in this class seemed to be a recipe for being bullied and these two often caught it from their less industrious classmates. Kalden too was a bright spark with a cheeky grin but spent so much of the time disrupting and sulking that he managed to disguise his obvious native wit from both me and the other boys. He and Dukpa (a tall, sullen, short-tempered oaf, often given to swearing at me in Nepali) gave me by far the most trouble and spent more time than most performing their squats and staying inside instead of playing.
As the term drew on the class moved painfully slowly towards completing the syllabus I’d devised and, in the end, I’m pleased to say, they all passed their exams…although for some it was a bit of a scrape.
Finding my feet
After the difficulties of my first week, I had resolved to find ways to make teaching easier and my life a lot less stressful. On the Sunday afternoon after I returned from the Saraswati Puja, I set to creating a syllabus and basic teaching plans for all my lessons. Much of my invention and the structure of my lessons came from my experiences of being taught foreign languages at school. I realised that getting the children to speak English as much as possible was the key to improving their pronunciation. On top of this, in order to learn and remember vocabulary there would have to be structured, relevant topics. Finally, to aid their comprehension of spoken English (with an English accent!!), I also worked out that they would need to hear plenty of me! I came up with a formula that involved role-play conversations and listening comprehensions, which relied heavily on partner work and individual one-to-one teaching with each student. While progress around a class of 39 students was bound to be slow, it would guarantee that every kid would be listening to and pronouncing the requisite English words. It also meant that I’d be able to give close attention to the kids that were struggling and allow the brighter kids the chance to practice with partners while I was busy elsewhere. Once I’d established this simple formula, my preparation work for each class was cut considerably as I was able to use the same lesson plans with different classes. As well as the incentive of doing well in their work, most kids were quick to learn that if the work set for the week was completed quickly, we’d be heading out to play games like British Bulldogs, Stick-in-the-Mud, rounders etc. Those kids (invariably the boys in the ‘too cool for school’ gang) who didn’t knuckle down and thought they could get away with messing around because I didn’t carry a stick (all the teachers carried a thin bamboo stick, used to greater or lesser degrees for punishment or encouragement) soon found themselves performing long sets of squats in front of the blackboard. I was often amazed at some of the boys’ resilience – performing, literally, hundreds of reps – but eventually, lactic acid caught up with everyone…and they were (mostly) slow to repeat their mistake. Occasionally, with the stronger, older boys, there wouldn’t be sufficient time for enough squats to cause them inconvenience. In these cases good old-fashioned shame was always a sure-fire winner: having them kneel on the ground outside the classroom with their finger and thumb pinching their earlobes while the girls from other classes walked by was usually sufficient to cause them to think twice.
All in all, by the end of my second week, my classes were generally running smoothly. The combination of well-prepared lessons, the carrot of playground and the metaphorical stick worked reasonably well…and when all else failed – as anybody who’s heard me shout would willingly testify – a well-timed ‘Chup Lag!’ (Nepali for ‘Shut Up!’) bellowed in the correct ears usually brought a shocked silence for long enough to finish making my point.
So most of the kids, at least, were under control. Conversely, the Didis had me wrapped around their little fingers. Every lunchtime, I would stoop into the low, lean-to of a kitchen, perch my mammoth backside on a tiny little stool and have outrageous portions of Dal Bhat heaped in front of me until I was crying for mercy. Komala and Pompa were my two main tormentors…always placing another tasty morsel or mound of rice on my plate just as I was finishing and had my eyes closed with sated pleasure. I quickly learnt that nodding at the wrong time or misunderstanding their quick-spoken Nepali, would invariably end in my having to eat even more. Under their necessary tutelage, I quickly picked up a working grasp of the language…if only to defend my ever-increasing waistline. Eventually, I would stagger out from the dark, cosy shack into brilliant sunshine, weak-kneed and sway-bellied and find some dark corner of the staff-room to collapse and ruminate. In the afternoon, someone (usually Gyanu or Pompa) would come and find me in my free period and present a piping cup of Nepali tea to me on a silver platter (okay, it was a stainless steel plate – but I still felt as though I was being treated like royalty!). As my mother and most close friends will know, the way to Fin’s heart is through his stomach and I soon developed a warm affection for these cheery souls – always smiling, often laughing and constantly chirping away in Nepali and poking good-natured fun at me with fresh chillis and too-big portions of delicious food.
If only making friends with my fellow teachers could have been so easy… First of all I should say that I don’t hold their natural reticence and shyness against them in any way shape or form. Cultural traditions, gender-based discomfort and plain old fear were probably the major reasons that I didn’t get to know the majority of the teaching staff at Samata School. I do believe another part of it was to do with the special treatment that we volunteers were afforded: for a start, we had traditionally eaten lunch separately in the kitchen 45 minutes (our free period) before the others ate in the staff room. The rest of the staff did not get fresh rice and Dal – usually being given chura (beaten rice) with vegetable curry or, occasionally and much to their disgust, packet noodles. Finally, none of the other teachers were brought tea on a silver platter. I don’t think any of the staff begrudged us these privileges, knowing full-well that we were unpaid and appreciating that our delicate digestive systems needed nurturing, but our preferential culinary treatment was just one of many factors that set us apart. For a start, the teachers had their own uniform – beautiful red and blue saris with a white blouse. I appreciate that I would have looked rather daft in a sari but, nevertheless, it was a difference. Secondly, we volunteers, were the only teachers who were allowed to take the older children out to the playground to let off steam – something I’m sure some of the meeker teachers would have loved to do with some of the more surly students. Thirdly and I think extremely importantly – even to the younger, less-inhibited teachers – there was the language barrier. Despite the fact that all lessons were supposedly conducted in English, many of the teaching staff had a poor practical knowledge of the language. Perhaps more than anything else, I believe this was what stopped many of them from striking up conversations…why, after struggling to explain things in a difficult second language all day long, would one want to try and converse in the same language during your leisure time? Many of the teachers were friendly enough to smile and exchange pleasantries – and I could see by the way they listened or asked questions when I was talking with someone else that they were interested – but, in the end, I think the thought of trying to hold an in depth conversation must have seemed like too much hard work.
All of the above factors had been applicable to my predecessor Lucy and, having talked a little with her in the short time before she left, I had gathered that she’d found it hard to establish relationships with many of the teaching staff. I was, therefore, not expecting to develop close, life-long friendships with the staff during my short stay. However, all the past experiences of the teaching staff with Western volunteers had been with women and I think my overwhelming maleness, in the end, was the biggest barrier to developing relationships with these women in a country where the Hindu religion and a lack of awareness of feminist issues make inter-gender, platonic friendships rare.
Having said all that, the staff never made me feel anything but welcome and a few of them, driven by necessity or facilitated by the boldness of youth, went out of their way to talk to me and include me in the staffroom banter. More on them later…and much, much more on the enigma that is Uttam.
All in all, by the end of my second week, my classes were generally running smoothly. The combination of well-prepared lessons, the carrot of playground and the metaphorical stick worked reasonably well…and when all else failed – as anybody who’s heard me shout would willingly testify – a well-timed ‘Chup Lag!’ (Nepali for ‘Shut Up!’) bellowed in the correct ears usually brought a shocked silence for long enough to finish making my point.
So most of the kids, at least, were under control. Conversely, the Didis had me wrapped around their little fingers. Every lunchtime, I would stoop into the low, lean-to of a kitchen, perch my mammoth backside on a tiny little stool and have outrageous portions of Dal Bhat heaped in front of me until I was crying for mercy. Komala and Pompa were my two main tormentors…always placing another tasty morsel or mound of rice on my plate just as I was finishing and had my eyes closed with sated pleasure. I quickly learnt that nodding at the wrong time or misunderstanding their quick-spoken Nepali, would invariably end in my having to eat even more. Under their necessary tutelage, I quickly picked up a working grasp of the language…if only to defend my ever-increasing waistline. Eventually, I would stagger out from the dark, cosy shack into brilliant sunshine, weak-kneed and sway-bellied and find some dark corner of the staff-room to collapse and ruminate. In the afternoon, someone (usually Gyanu or Pompa) would come and find me in my free period and present a piping cup of Nepali tea to me on a silver platter (okay, it was a stainless steel plate – but I still felt as though I was being treated like royalty!). As my mother and most close friends will know, the way to Fin’s heart is through his stomach and I soon developed a warm affection for these cheery souls – always smiling, often laughing and constantly chirping away in Nepali and poking good-natured fun at me with fresh chillis and too-big portions of delicious food.
If only making friends with my fellow teachers could have been so easy… First of all I should say that I don’t hold their natural reticence and shyness against them in any way shape or form. Cultural traditions, gender-based discomfort and plain old fear were probably the major reasons that I didn’t get to know the majority of the teaching staff at Samata School. I do believe another part of it was to do with the special treatment that we volunteers were afforded: for a start, we had traditionally eaten lunch separately in the kitchen 45 minutes (our free period) before the others ate in the staff room. The rest of the staff did not get fresh rice and Dal – usually being given chura (beaten rice) with vegetable curry or, occasionally and much to their disgust, packet noodles. Finally, none of the other teachers were brought tea on a silver platter. I don’t think any of the staff begrudged us these privileges, knowing full-well that we were unpaid and appreciating that our delicate digestive systems needed nurturing, but our preferential culinary treatment was just one of many factors that set us apart. For a start, the teachers had their own uniform – beautiful red and blue saris with a white blouse. I appreciate that I would have looked rather daft in a sari but, nevertheless, it was a difference. Secondly, we volunteers, were the only teachers who were allowed to take the older children out to the playground to let off steam – something I’m sure some of the meeker teachers would have loved to do with some of the more surly students. Thirdly and I think extremely importantly – even to the younger, less-inhibited teachers – there was the language barrier. Despite the fact that all lessons were supposedly conducted in English, many of the teaching staff had a poor practical knowledge of the language. Perhaps more than anything else, I believe this was what stopped many of them from striking up conversations…why, after struggling to explain things in a difficult second language all day long, would one want to try and converse in the same language during your leisure time? Many of the teachers were friendly enough to smile and exchange pleasantries – and I could see by the way they listened or asked questions when I was talking with someone else that they were interested – but, in the end, I think the thought of trying to hold an in depth conversation must have seemed like too much hard work.
All of the above factors had been applicable to my predecessor Lucy and, having talked a little with her in the short time before she left, I had gathered that she’d found it hard to establish relationships with many of the teaching staff. I was, therefore, not expecting to develop close, life-long friendships with the staff during my short stay. However, all the past experiences of the teaching staff with Western volunteers had been with women and I think my overwhelming maleness, in the end, was the biggest barrier to developing relationships with these women in a country where the Hindu religion and a lack of awareness of feminist issues make inter-gender, platonic friendships rare.
Having said all that, the staff never made me feel anything but welcome and a few of them, driven by necessity or facilitated by the boldness of youth, went out of their way to talk to me and include me in the staffroom banter. More on them later…and much, much more on the enigma that is Uttam.
February 06, 2005
Life
Outside of school, there really wasn’t too much to report in this first week of teaching. I was coming home from school every evening feeling utterly exhausted and certainly not keen to sample the local nightlife. One small coincidence did, however, shape my earlier experiences of Kathmandu and give me some relief from the, at first, endless work treadmill: Dawa, my Tibetan friend from my birthday, called out to me in the street as I was walking back to my new guesthouse after my first day of teaching. It seemed that she and her sister lived close by and she seemed keen to meet up again. Two or three times that week, we sat out on the terrace of one of the many cafes surrounding the Bouddha Stupa, drinking hot lemon and ginger while she told me all about her Tibetan background and explained to me the significance of the monument and the Lhosar (Tibetan New Year) celebrations that were ongoing at the time. Being far from the hustle and hassle of Thamel was pleasant – Bouddha being a far more relaxing quarter of town…just as well with the pressures of teaching! The downside to Bouddha could have been the enforced loneliness, with most of the other Westerners (including Edd, of course) residing in Thamel. While I appreciate my own company, having somebody to yak with at the end of a long day never goes amiss and with her cheery nature, Dawa seemed the perfect antidote to workday woes.
That first week was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to cope with. Without a syllabus or text books, I really had no idea what I was supposed to teach the kids. Couple this with my total lack of teaching experience and a suddenly blank memory on schoolyard games and I was spending every night and early morning racking my brains and designing ever-more-elaborate games and lesson plans. Dawa was great light relief from the stress and I really found myself growing to like her company. Come the weekend, I was more than ready for Everest Beer and pool at Tom and Jerry’s with Edd…and Dawa came along to join us. Saturday was spent chilling my beans at the Bouddha Stupa, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere, Buddhist chanting music and the fluttering of prayer flags. Behind the white and gold of the stupa the dark silhouettes of the surrounding hills marked the outer boundary of the Kathmandu Valley and, further in the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Himalaya peered over their shoulders to complete the picture. I felt serenely peaceful and positive about the rest of my stay in Kathmandu.
That first week was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to cope with. Without a syllabus or text books, I really had no idea what I was supposed to teach the kids. Couple this with my total lack of teaching experience and a suddenly blank memory on schoolyard games and I was spending every night and early morning racking my brains and designing ever-more-elaborate games and lesson plans. Dawa was great light relief from the stress and I really found myself growing to like her company. Come the weekend, I was more than ready for Everest Beer and pool at Tom and Jerry’s with Edd…and Dawa came along to join us. Saturday was spent chilling my beans at the Bouddha Stupa, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere, Buddhist chanting music and the fluttering of prayer flags. Behind the white and gold of the stupa the dark silhouettes of the surrounding hills marked the outer boundary of the Kathmandu Valley and, further in the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Himalaya peered over their shoulders to complete the picture. I felt serenely peaceful and positive about the rest of my stay in Kathmandu.
Class 4B 09.45 - 10.30
As first impressions of teaching go, you could do a lot worse than Class 4B. For a start, not one of them standing on tiptoes could have reached my chin and they were all convinced that I had a former occupation in the WWF (no, not the animal charity…the World Wrestling Federation!). So, at least the first time they saw me, there was a kind of awed silence and a ready willingness to do whatever I said. Of course, they soon realised that I wasn’t going to be using my size advantage in disciplining them and they soon remembered that they were 11yr old kids and forgot that they were in the classroom to learn as opposed to chatting to their neighbour…or shouting across the classroom to their friends. For all their innocent, childish misbehaviour, 4B were really a very good class. For the most part clever – and hard-working when there was a test or written work to be handed in. More importantly there were enough of them with bold personalities and bright natures to make them both amusing and pleasurable to teach. They quickly came to understand that if the necessary work was completed, there would always be plenty of time for fun and games. They were a little unfortunate that their lesson (being the first of the day) clashed with the lower school assembly in the playground. This meant that they probably didn’t get nearly as much playground time as the other kids…but they bore it like true Nepalis – with stoicism and a smile. We were often forced to play blackboard games in the first half of the term and it was no surprise that these vibrant energetic kids sometimes exploded into over-exuberance. Probably one of the memories of the school that will always stay with me was the ‘Great Fire of Niketan’. Not long into my visit, it happened to be the feast day of the goddess of education, Saraswati. Our headteacher, principal and school-founder, Uttam Sandjel had organised a day long religious celebration which he hadn’t really given me any details about. After an overwhelming first week of teaching and two weeks of the grim realities of Kathmandu’s pollution and poverty, I would gladly have given my right arm for a two-day weekend and, if I’d realised I wasn’t required to teach, would probably have escaped to the valley-edge on Sunday too. Uttam, as I was to learn, is a master of PR and had no intention of allowing the fact of the school’s Western volunteers to escape notice on such an auspicious occasion. With several print journalists and a TV crew due to report on the event, he simply told me that I needed to be at school on the Sunday. In the end, I’m glad I attended what was a unique occasion and my first real opportunity to see the tight community spirit of the school. Arriving at school on Sunday morning, I found the playground dotted with little chimneys and rush matting. As I was to see later the children and teachers were to use the chimneys to burn votive offerings of rice and oil to the gods during a long religious ceremony presided over by a Hindu holy-man and his team of helpers. In the classrooms, prior to the ceremony, the children were drawing pictures of the goddess, burning incense and decorating the classrooms with holy signs. Although there was no teaching, I headed up to 4B to sit with them before the ceremony. To my consternation, I found three of the boys playing with matches (for lighting the incense sticks. Come on!! No health and safety remember…this is Asia!!) and burning a pile of rubbish and offcut bamboo outside the classroom. I kicked the fire over and made a real fuss of shouting at them and explaining how dangerous it was to play with fire so near so many wooden buildings - and it seemed to have sunk in as two of the boys were looking slightly tearful by the time I’d finished berating them. (My mother may recall discovering me burning small piles of dead twigs under a 50ft conifer in our front garden in Cottingham…I don’t seem to remember being deterred from pyromania by the ticking off I got either…)
After the celebrations there was the symbolic release of white doves by some of the children and then it was time to eat…at least for me. I was fed my portion of the day’s special meal (vegetable curry followed by keer – a delicious, spiced rice pudding), which had been cooked separately from the enormous cooking pot for the kids and teachers so that I wouldn’t be hungry. I hung around for an hour or so after eating, chatting with some of the kids but eventually decided to head home and catch up on some e-mail after the recent resumption of internet services.
After I’d gone, it seems that our three likely lads had gotten handy with the matches again and proceeded to burn down (entirely by accident) one classroom and seriously scorch a couple of others.
Needless to say I got a shock when I walked into teach 4B the following morning and found the neighbouring classroom a pile of smouldering cinders. Less surprising was the absence of the three culprits (suspended)…and the classroom had become instantly quieter. One of the little terrors, Shakthi, had been the noisiest, brightest kid in the class and it was suddenly a lot easier to complete the one-to-one work with some of the shyer, quieter children…but somehow the classroom also seemed to lack a certain spark. Two weeks later, he was back…without his partners in crime, who had apparently left in shame when it became apparent that they had been chiefly responsible for the incident. Still voluble and bright, Shakthi seemed to have learned from his lesson and behaved much better thereafter. The same could not be said for the class’s other resident ‘bad’ boy – Roshan. Forever talking, throwing things, hitting people and generally disrupting anything constructive, he would, irritatingly, always score full marks on the weekly listening comprehensions. In fact, he really reminded me of a certain 11 year-old I knew about 17 years ago…;-) Despite their ability to spoil things and their annoying habit of shouting out answers that I’d want the shy kids to come up with, these two had as much personality as anyone in the school and (secretly!) were two of my favourite students. Of course, I would have to shout extra loud at them to shut up and they were often at the front of the room doing punishment exercises (usually squats) just so that I could have enough peace and quiet to teach the other kids…but it didn’t do them any harm.
In complete contrast to the bad lads, my other 4B favourites were the (extremely) good girls. Right at the front sat Saraswati, Rochana, Anu and Anju. Their work was always immaculate, their handwriting a pleasure to read and they always wore looks of sweet innocence and did exactly as they were told. At the same time, they were far from being creeps and they certainly weren’t geeks. When it came to the conversation role-plays, I could always rely on them to ham it up and put a cheeky slant on whatever situation was being acted out. There was certainly no shortage of giggling and amusement if they were given time to talk amongst themselves.
Of course, the whole class were fantastic – some were shyer than others, some a little lacking in brains, others in imagination but none lacked a sense of fun. They all had the childish innocence that so sadly seems to be missing in British kids of similar ages and they never worried about looking ridiculous. We had a lot of fun playing Simon Says and Wink Murder and nearly all of them improved their English and passed their exams with flying colours. I certainly have high hopes for some of them and look forward to staying in touch with them and following their progress through the school over the coming years.
After the celebrations there was the symbolic release of white doves by some of the children and then it was time to eat…at least for me. I was fed my portion of the day’s special meal (vegetable curry followed by keer – a delicious, spiced rice pudding), which had been cooked separately from the enormous cooking pot for the kids and teachers so that I wouldn’t be hungry. I hung around for an hour or so after eating, chatting with some of the kids but eventually decided to head home and catch up on some e-mail after the recent resumption of internet services.
After I’d gone, it seems that our three likely lads had gotten handy with the matches again and proceeded to burn down (entirely by accident) one classroom and seriously scorch a couple of others.
Needless to say I got a shock when I walked into teach 4B the following morning and found the neighbouring classroom a pile of smouldering cinders. Less surprising was the absence of the three culprits (suspended)…and the classroom had become instantly quieter. One of the little terrors, Shakthi, had been the noisiest, brightest kid in the class and it was suddenly a lot easier to complete the one-to-one work with some of the shyer, quieter children…but somehow the classroom also seemed to lack a certain spark. Two weeks later, he was back…without his partners in crime, who had apparently left in shame when it became apparent that they had been chiefly responsible for the incident. Still voluble and bright, Shakthi seemed to have learned from his lesson and behaved much better thereafter. The same could not be said for the class’s other resident ‘bad’ boy – Roshan. Forever talking, throwing things, hitting people and generally disrupting anything constructive, he would, irritatingly, always score full marks on the weekly listening comprehensions. In fact, he really reminded me of a certain 11 year-old I knew about 17 years ago…;-) Despite their ability to spoil things and their annoying habit of shouting out answers that I’d want the shy kids to come up with, these two had as much personality as anyone in the school and (secretly!) were two of my favourite students. Of course, I would have to shout extra loud at them to shut up and they were often at the front of the room doing punishment exercises (usually squats) just so that I could have enough peace and quiet to teach the other kids…but it didn’t do them any harm.
In complete contrast to the bad lads, my other 4B favourites were the (extremely) good girls. Right at the front sat Saraswati, Rochana, Anu and Anju. Their work was always immaculate, their handwriting a pleasure to read and they always wore looks of sweet innocence and did exactly as they were told. At the same time, they were far from being creeps and they certainly weren’t geeks. When it came to the conversation role-plays, I could always rely on them to ham it up and put a cheeky slant on whatever situation was being acted out. There was certainly no shortage of giggling and amusement if they were given time to talk amongst themselves.
Of course, the whole class were fantastic – some were shyer than others, some a little lacking in brains, others in imagination but none lacked a sense of fun. They all had the childish innocence that so sadly seems to be missing in British kids of similar ages and they never worried about looking ridiculous. We had a lot of fun playing Simon Says and Wink Murder and nearly all of them improved their English and passed their exams with flying colours. I certainly have high hopes for some of them and look forward to staying in touch with them and following their progress through the school over the coming years.
Samata Shikshya Niketan
At 10 am on Sunday 6th February 2005, I walked into the most significant place so far on my travels. There was no towering edifice akin to Angkor Wat, no deserted tranquillity like Serendipity or Don Det, no horrifying reminders of man’s capacity for cruelty like S-21 or the War Remnants Museum. It was not a place that would immediately work its magic or instantly leave an impression on my memory…but in the next two months it was to assume a very special place in my heart and its diminutive denizens were to become as important to me as anybody in my life. Samata Shikshya Niketan School (in Nepali this means Global Togetherness and Fraternity) was like nothing I’d expected and yet, at once, was visually appealing. Countless other schools that I’d seen on trips around Kathmandu had resembled dilapidated (yet still recognisably ‘British 70’s municipal’) versions of the kind of concrete architecture that so delight the heir to our throne (the man does appear to have some taste…at least as far as architecture goes!). To be thus confronted, then, with this oasis of beauty amidst the detritus, filth and unfinishedness of Jorpati (one of Kathmandu’s less affluent districts) was, indeed, surprising. Around the main brick-paved playground were a succession of pretty white huts, constructed from bamboo and cowshit (for insulation I understand). Sitting atop one of these individually detailed huts was even a brightly painted replica of a stupa tower. Away to the north-west corner of the site, I caught a glimpse of another courtyard centred on a beautiful ornamental garden and similarly surrounded by a succession of attractive white huts. Over the course of the day (Lucy’s last and, therefore, a succession of mini School Sports Days – 3-legged race, marble (instead of egg!) and spoon etc.) I got to know the most important people at the school. Firstly, the man behind it all Uttam Sandjel…someone who I would grow to respect enormously and a man who has never since ceased to amaze me with his capacity for work and a complete refusal to accept limitations on his dreams. Secondly, I met the ‘Didis’ (Nepali for sisters), otherwise known as Komala, Gyanu, Pompa and Umilla, the kitchen staff and guardians of my appetite. Finally, and most importantly, I started getting to know the kids. All but the oldest and surliest boys struck me as heart-achingly cute and most of these kids had been endowed with a surfeit of personality and a mouth full of shining white teeth, which they loved nothing better than to show off in gleeful grins. All day long I had to deny my secret identity as a WWF wrestler and field forthright questions about my origins and history from some of the bolder, little blighters. Perhaps the biggest single impression was the kids’ impressive stoicism in the face of agonies that would have had most Premiership footballers in traction for several months. Unaccustomed to the teamwork required by being tied at the ankle, some of the kids stacked it quite brutally onto the hard brick floor during the 3-legged race. Instead of raising the dead with screams like most British kids would surely have done, they simply righted themselves, dusted off any excess, unattached skin from their kneecaps and dutifully completed the race. My first impressions of the kids were that they were bright, tough and personable…and the school seemed as pleasant an environment as any to conduct the business of learning. My two major worries, then, were the total lack of syllabus or textbooks for my ‘course’ and my own fears of inadequacy when under the bright-eyed scrutiny of the little monsters. Was I up to it? Would I let them down? Would the deep disparities between our cultures and the more obvious barrier of language come between teacher and pupils? I don’t remember feeling so scared or excited about anything in my life…
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