Beautiful snow-capped mountains above Muktinath
April 04, 2005
Muktinath
After a fitful night, during which we still managed 8 hours sleep, we awoke feeling a little groggy but surprisingly warm. Of the three of us Michael was certainly feeling the most chipper. Whether it was his extra day at altitude in Jomsom or a less-oxygen needy metabolism, he was definitely in better shape than Don or I. I had the same mild nausea I’d tried to combat the previous day by hovering up vast quantities of food and I also had a slight headache. Don had felt the lack of oxygen during the night and with his (now) bigger frame, he seemed to be feeling the strain the most. After a breakfast of Tsampa porridge with apple and two pieces of Tibetan bread, I used the remains of my black tea to wash down a veritable pharmacopia of medicines: 1g of paracetamol to combat the headache; 800mg Ibuprofen to ease a back that had suffered on Nepali mattresses and was now expected to shoulder a 20kg bag; finally, 500mg of Diamox to combat the slight aversion my body seemed to be taking to the current altitude and as a precautionary measure against the projected 1000m climb. As an afterthought, I also decided to dump the majority of my clothes at the teahouse as we would be passing back through the following day and there didn’t seem any point in making this first big climb any more difficult.
We set off in good spirits at around 8.30 and soon struck the steep trail leading up the side of the valley towards Muktinath. Whether I had some kind of placebo effect from the medicines (which would hardly have digested so quickly on top of my large breakfast) or was benefiting from the vast energy intake of the previous afternoon, I’m not sure – but I found myself powering up the slope as if in one of my favourite Scottish haunts. I can’t deny that my breath was coming harsher than usual or that my pack was making its weight felt, but I certainly wasn’t in the same straits as my brother. The higher we climbed the more magnificent became the views, both into the Mustang and back down the Kali Gandaki and I was torn between appreciating these and concern for Don. After that initial steep climb, he made two excellent decisions. The first was to take 500mg of Diamox and the second was to swap his pack with Suriya, who along with Michael had been cruising along serenely without even breaking sweat. While the rest of the journey was no cake-walk, I’m fairly certain that these two decisions meant that we were able to continue up and not have to return to Kagbeni. In turn, this allowed us to enjoy spectacular scenery on a day with only blue sky and brilliant sunshine for a backdrop. Thorung La and Nilgiri were the dominant features of a skyline completely encircled by snow-capped peaks. Glistening in the bright sun, the glacier tumbling in slow motion from the Thorung La Pass marked our destination and soon the path levelled off to a more gentle demeanour as it curved and meandered along the valley wall. As soon as he’d recovered sufficiently, Don shouldered his own pack once more and we were able to make good progress to Jharkot, where we stopped for 2nd breakfast. After an hour Don was intelligent enough (and man enough!) to throw in the towel – not relishing the prospect of the final 350m climb to Muktinath. We decided to spend the night in Jharkot, which meant Michael and I were able to ditch most of our gear and complete the hike less encumbered. Don settled himself on the sun terrace of our cosy teahouse and, as Michael, Suriya and I disappeared up the track, he watched with a mixture of envy and resignation…and a splitting headache.
Taking the steep trail at breakneck pace, I couldn’t help noticing a deterioration in my own well-being and it wasn’t too long before I had a headache of my own. We passed through the Wild West-looking town of Muktinath before finally arriving at the temple proper. It was set in a grove of budding trees and the peaceful atmosphere was only topped by the incredible views of mountain and valley surrounding the site on all sides. Everywhere was the musical sound of running water and the eternal flame, housed in its tumbledown shrine was sufficiently cool to make the physical discomfort worthwhile. The blue, natural gas flame in its recessed niche represents the continuity of the Buddha and the Mother Goddess. This holy place of mountains, water and fire is considered sacred to both Hindus and Buddhists and, as such, attracts pilgrims from Southern India to Tibet. After satisfying myself with the eternalness of the flame, I made a speedy descent back down to Muktinath village in order to get rid of my headache. Waiting here for Michael and Suriya to come by I noticed, once more, how disagreeable the vast majority of Israeli travellers can be when travelling in large numbers. I thought wistfully of Lior and Smadar – somewhere in the vicinity and far better ambassadors of their country. Sue had recommended me to stay at the Bob Marley Guesthouse if I came to Muktinath but it is clear that much changes in 4 years and I was only to glad to be returning down the hill and escaping from this pack of Tel Avivi.
Back at ‘Base Camp’ we found Don much-recovered and we spent the rest of a fine afternoon and evening basking in warm sunshine, surveying the mountains and feeding our burnished faces.
We set off in good spirits at around 8.30 and soon struck the steep trail leading up the side of the valley towards Muktinath. Whether I had some kind of placebo effect from the medicines (which would hardly have digested so quickly on top of my large breakfast) or was benefiting from the vast energy intake of the previous afternoon, I’m not sure – but I found myself powering up the slope as if in one of my favourite Scottish haunts. I can’t deny that my breath was coming harsher than usual or that my pack was making its weight felt, but I certainly wasn’t in the same straits as my brother. The higher we climbed the more magnificent became the views, both into the Mustang and back down the Kali Gandaki and I was torn between appreciating these and concern for Don. After that initial steep climb, he made two excellent decisions. The first was to take 500mg of Diamox and the second was to swap his pack with Suriya, who along with Michael had been cruising along serenely without even breaking sweat. While the rest of the journey was no cake-walk, I’m fairly certain that these two decisions meant that we were able to continue up and not have to return to Kagbeni. In turn, this allowed us to enjoy spectacular scenery on a day with only blue sky and brilliant sunshine for a backdrop. Thorung La and Nilgiri were the dominant features of a skyline completely encircled by snow-capped peaks. Glistening in the bright sun, the glacier tumbling in slow motion from the Thorung La Pass marked our destination and soon the path levelled off to a more gentle demeanour as it curved and meandered along the valley wall. As soon as he’d recovered sufficiently, Don shouldered his own pack once more and we were able to make good progress to Jharkot, where we stopped for 2nd breakfast. After an hour Don was intelligent enough (and man enough!) to throw in the towel – not relishing the prospect of the final 350m climb to Muktinath. We decided to spend the night in Jharkot, which meant Michael and I were able to ditch most of our gear and complete the hike less encumbered. Don settled himself on the sun terrace of our cosy teahouse and, as Michael, Suriya and I disappeared up the track, he watched with a mixture of envy and resignation…and a splitting headache.
Taking the steep trail at breakneck pace, I couldn’t help noticing a deterioration in my own well-being and it wasn’t too long before I had a headache of my own. We passed through the Wild West-looking town of Muktinath before finally arriving at the temple proper. It was set in a grove of budding trees and the peaceful atmosphere was only topped by the incredible views of mountain and valley surrounding the site on all sides. Everywhere was the musical sound of running water and the eternal flame, housed in its tumbledown shrine was sufficiently cool to make the physical discomfort worthwhile. The blue, natural gas flame in its recessed niche represents the continuity of the Buddha and the Mother Goddess. This holy place of mountains, water and fire is considered sacred to both Hindus and Buddhists and, as such, attracts pilgrims from Southern India to Tibet. After satisfying myself with the eternalness of the flame, I made a speedy descent back down to Muktinath village in order to get rid of my headache. Waiting here for Michael and Suriya to come by I noticed, once more, how disagreeable the vast majority of Israeli travellers can be when travelling in large numbers. I thought wistfully of Lior and Smadar – somewhere in the vicinity and far better ambassadors of their country. Sue had recommended me to stay at the Bob Marley Guesthouse if I came to Muktinath but it is clear that much changes in 4 years and I was only to glad to be returning down the hill and escaping from this pack of Tel Avivi.
Back at ‘Base Camp’ we found Don much-recovered and we spent the rest of a fine afternoon and evening basking in warm sunshine, surveying the mountains and feeding our burnished faces.
April 03, 2005
Jomsom
Up early and pre-packed, Don and I were able to leave quickly enough to make up for the fact that taxi services had ceased to run on account of the far-reaching strike. We strolled to the airport with our packs looking like a pair of soldiers on mountain training exercise. In contrast, Suriya shouldered a tiny knapsack which made a mockery of our intentions to pack light. At the airport we were able to breakfast on a very creditable and rapidly-served feast of eggs, toast and pan-fried potatoes, washed down with lashings of black tea. Our flight to Jomsom was on an even smaller plane than the previous day’s (entry hatch coming up to my sternum!)…but I was glad of this when I saw just how short the runway was at the other end. Our short flight transported us from the lush lowlands of Pokhara to the high arid desert of the Mustang. Shelving slopes of sand and scree seemed to have come from Nevada but the backdrop of jagged, snow-covered mountains were unmistakably Himalayan and, passing up the deep gorge of the Kali Gandaki, we got a preview of the route we were to retrace on foot over the succeeding week. Landing on Jomsom’s curtailed strip with a full view through the pilot’s windscreen was a sphincter-tightening, unforgettable experience – but this was topped by the views evident as I stepped down onto the tarmac. Nilgiri loomed magnificently over the shoulders of her foothills and blue, blue sky promised a warm days hike up to Kagbeni. We met Michael at the exit to the airport and, after showing our ACAP permits no less than 3 times, finally got underway.
There was no strenuous hiking on this first day and our path was clear up the meandering river valley. However, at this altitude (2700m), I definitely noticed the thinning of the atmosphere – but the short length of our trek and a minimal rise in elevation meant that we were easily able to wander along and appreciate our surroundings at leisure. Three hours steady walk brought us to the head of the valley at Kagbeni and from here there we had spectacular views back to Nilgiri and glimpses into the Annapurna Himal over the ridge up to Muktinath. At the northern end of the village we found fine views into the Mustang Conservation Area before wending our way through the narrow streets to visit the old Gompa. Suriya found us a pleasant teahouse and we settled down to a quiet afternoon of reading, eating and acclimatizing. The Devil, they say, make work for idle hands and it wasn’t long before I was indulging one of my favourite vices as I duped Don and Michael into playing cards along with Suriya. We spent an enjoyable hour playing Presidents and Arseholes (a la Vietnam) but when Suriya retired for dinner I soon progressed to the next stage of my plan: Taking Money from Unsuspecting Innocents (plan #347, courtesy of Wile E. Coyote Esq.) Five minutes of brief explanation and Don and Michael were soon happily playing Texas Hold ’Em – little realising the danger their wallets were in. After 2 hours (interrupted only by dinner – my 6th meal of the day) I had fleeced Michael for 82….rupees. Of course this was but a small beginning and I was to have him in my thrall for another 8 days yet. We retired to bed ridiculously early but, despite the short distance covered, there was no denying that we were feeling the altitude and it didn’t take us long to succumb to the Sandman, snuggled as we were in the warmth of sleeping bags. The next day promised to be strenuous as we were due to climb to the holy site of Muktinath – but being early to bed, we hoped to compensate for the restlessness caused by snoring room mates and thin air.
There was no strenuous hiking on this first day and our path was clear up the meandering river valley. However, at this altitude (2700m), I definitely noticed the thinning of the atmosphere – but the short length of our trek and a minimal rise in elevation meant that we were easily able to wander along and appreciate our surroundings at leisure. Three hours steady walk brought us to the head of the valley at Kagbeni and from here there we had spectacular views back to Nilgiri and glimpses into the Annapurna Himal over the ridge up to Muktinath. At the northern end of the village we found fine views into the Mustang Conservation Area before wending our way through the narrow streets to visit the old Gompa. Suriya found us a pleasant teahouse and we settled down to a quiet afternoon of reading, eating and acclimatizing. The Devil, they say, make work for idle hands and it wasn’t long before I was indulging one of my favourite vices as I duped Don and Michael into playing cards along with Suriya. We spent an enjoyable hour playing Presidents and Arseholes (a la Vietnam) but when Suriya retired for dinner I soon progressed to the next stage of my plan: Taking Money from Unsuspecting Innocents (plan #347, courtesy of Wile E. Coyote Esq.) Five minutes of brief explanation and Don and Michael were soon happily playing Texas Hold ’Em – little realising the danger their wallets were in. After 2 hours (interrupted only by dinner – my 6th meal of the day) I had fleeced Michael for 82….rupees. Of course this was but a small beginning and I was to have him in my thrall for another 8 days yet. We retired to bed ridiculously early but, despite the short distance covered, there was no denying that we were feeling the altitude and it didn’t take us long to succumb to the Sandman, snuggled as we were in the warmth of sleeping bags. The next day promised to be strenuous as we were due to climb to the holy site of Muktinath – but being early to bed, we hoped to compensate for the restlessness caused by snoring room mates and thin air.
April 02, 2005
Pokhara
Of course, only an idiotic optimist could have expected to enter the virtual cowshed of Tribhuvan’s domestic terminal and expect to leave it on time. The weather was fine and bright, all passengers had presented themselves for check-in by the required time and none of the flights into Kathmandu had been delayed – and yet, we still sat around in the departure ‘lounge’ for over an hour, twiddling our thumbs. When we finally saw our plane, it became apparent that we’d been caught in a plane juggling exercise.
At this time of year flights heading to Pokhara are usually busy and easily fill one of the jets used by Cosmic Air. However, the current political situation is obviously still putting off tourists – there were only 3 Westerners on our flight of around 20 passengers and we had obviously been dumped off onto the smaller turbo-prop that required Don and I to fold ourselves through its tiny door. Fortunately, the two air-stewardesses were delectable and as friendly and welcoming as any of the Nepali people I’ve come across. It was a truly pleasant flight of about 30 minutes with magnificent views of the rugged Himalayas and, by contrast, the lush green fields and geometric appeal of rice terraced hillsides.
We were met at the airport by an agent from our hotel (all booked through Mahendra at The Great Wall, using Asian Adventure Treks) and soon ensconced in a respectable twin room, but 30 seconds walk from the idyllic peace and beauty of the lake (‘pokhara’ being the Nepali for lake). It would have been pleasant to spend an afternoon idling in a boat (with someone else rowing, of course!) but there were more immediate concerns such as food and e-mail (both frustratingly slow!) and, by the time we emerged into the warm afternoon, an ominous bank of dark cloud was advancing down the valley and we decided to retreat indoors and catch up on a little sleep after two nights of celebration.
Come evening, we took a longer stroll to find an LP recommended restaurant and discovered just how badly Pokhara has been hit by the downturn in tourism. There were many places that were just shut down on account of a lack of business; no restaurant we passed had more than a couple of customers; and everyone was desperate to entertain our custom. It was slightly depressing to see the place like a ghost town – especially now, April, in what should be coming into high season.
We weren’t in the mood for carousing in so subdued and atmosphere and, besides which, we still had to get back to the guest house and meet our guide.
Once again the Maoist situation reared its ugly head as we were informed that our guide had been unable to come on the bus from Kathmandu due to the national strike that had started that morning. Fortunately (for us!), the same situation had prevented another guide, Suriya, from returning home to Kathmandu. Despite having just completed a Jomsom trek with another client, he was willing to take us - and I’m sure he welcomed the extra income. We arranged to meet at 6.30 in time for our 7.40 flight to Jomsom. Don and I toddled off to bed with English football on the cable to send us off.
At this time of year flights heading to Pokhara are usually busy and easily fill one of the jets used by Cosmic Air. However, the current political situation is obviously still putting off tourists – there were only 3 Westerners on our flight of around 20 passengers and we had obviously been dumped off onto the smaller turbo-prop that required Don and I to fold ourselves through its tiny door. Fortunately, the two air-stewardesses were delectable and as friendly and welcoming as any of the Nepali people I’ve come across. It was a truly pleasant flight of about 30 minutes with magnificent views of the rugged Himalayas and, by contrast, the lush green fields and geometric appeal of rice terraced hillsides.
We were met at the airport by an agent from our hotel (all booked through Mahendra at The Great Wall, using Asian Adventure Treks) and soon ensconced in a respectable twin room, but 30 seconds walk from the idyllic peace and beauty of the lake (‘pokhara’ being the Nepali for lake). It would have been pleasant to spend an afternoon idling in a boat (with someone else rowing, of course!) but there were more immediate concerns such as food and e-mail (both frustratingly slow!) and, by the time we emerged into the warm afternoon, an ominous bank of dark cloud was advancing down the valley and we decided to retreat indoors and catch up on a little sleep after two nights of celebration.
Come evening, we took a longer stroll to find an LP recommended restaurant and discovered just how badly Pokhara has been hit by the downturn in tourism. There were many places that were just shut down on account of a lack of business; no restaurant we passed had more than a couple of customers; and everyone was desperate to entertain our custom. It was slightly depressing to see the place like a ghost town – especially now, April, in what should be coming into high season.
We weren’t in the mood for carousing in so subdued and atmosphere and, besides which, we still had to get back to the guest house and meet our guide.
Once again the Maoist situation reared its ugly head as we were informed that our guide had been unable to come on the bus from Kathmandu due to the national strike that had started that morning. Fortunately (for us!), the same situation had prevented another guide, Suriya, from returning home to Kathmandu. Despite having just completed a Jomsom trek with another client, he was willing to take us - and I’m sure he welcomed the extra income. We arranged to meet at 6.30 in time for our 7.40 flight to Jomsom. Don and I toddled off to bed with English football on the cable to send us off.
Unable to take my laptop trekking (too damn heavy!) and unwilling to forget any of my experiences of the Himalaya, I took with me a beautiful, hand-made Tibetan paper journal, in which to record my daily thoughts. All the entries for my two treks in Annapurna (Jomsom Trek) and Solu Khumbu (Everest Base Camp Trek) have been copied faithfully from this journal and, as such, are a little more immediate and perhaps less detailed than a lot of the rest of the blog. However, I hope you can appreciate the rawness of the writing and enjoy it as much as the more retrospective stuff you’ve been used to.
April 01, 2005
Around Kathmandu
Don and I rose at a reasonable hour and found ourselves a decent breakfast before taking a look around some of the souvenir shops in Thamel. Don was set on buying Kukris for himself and Tony amongst others and, having spotted some likely examples, we agreed to come back and make our purchases after the trek. I also took him into Lotus Gallery to meet Santosh and because I knew the artwork in there would probably catch his tasteful eye. Much as with the kukri, we promised to return after the trek when we could apply some serious thought to Don’s carrying capacity for the trip home.
For lunch we took a taxi over to Kalapul to see Ram and Sarita and, once again, we were treated to an exquisite example of Nepali cuisine. Once again, I felt myself regretting missing out on Sarita’s fine culinary skills…but then, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be enjoying my newly-noticed comparative svelteness alongside my, now, much larger brother.
From Ram’s we took another taxi down to the school so I could show it to Don. I timed it so that we’d have a chance to speak to some of the kids as they were finishing their exams…and it just so happened that Uttam was around for a bit of a chat too. Don was really impressed by the bright, personable natures of my class 6 girls and I couldn’t help but swell with pride as I had when Michael had first met them. I felt a considerable sense of involvement in these young people’s lives and, over recent weeks I’d come to the conclusion that I didn’t want this involvement to end when I left Nepal.
Uttam had begun furnishing the old Samata Club with bunk beds to use as a boarding house for some of the girls who needed to escape (or were being forced out from) their unpleasant home environments. I’d asked him to let me know how much it would cost to sponsor a girl to live there for a year and, today, he’d come back to me with a figure of 10,000 rupees. At a little over 75 quid, I decided that I could afford to sponsor 4 of the girls and, to my delight, Don agreed to pitch in for a fifth. Uttam was obviously very pleased and I was excited to be able to extend my involvement with the kids for another year – at least until my future prospects were a little more certain. I also revealed the second part of my plan to Uttam – namely, that after qualifying and gaining some experience, I intended to come back to Samata School for a much longer stay (hopefully a year) and, as well as teach these fantastic children again, I wanted to share my teacher training with the school’s staff. Secretly, I think Uttam had been hoping for something like this as a strong friendship had developed between us over my final weeks at the school and, for the rest of the time we were there, he couldn’t keep a big grin off his face.
After bidding farewell to Uttam and the girls, Don and I ambled slowly up to Bouddha so I could show him where I’d been living for the past few months. The one item he’d been unable to bring over with him was an airhorn, with which I’d been hoping to exact a delicious revenge on the horn-happy monks at the local Gompa. As I showed him my former digs and pointed out the proximity of the three nearby monasteries, a clear, piercing horn note emanated from one and he immediately understood why a dawn chorus of those every day could be a tad irritating. We could only rue the missed opportunity for practical jokery and after that I set about showing him the quieter pleasures that had made Bouddha such a good place to live during my teaching post. As dusk began to settle we headed back up to Thamel for a dinner date with an e-buddy he’d made on a trekking website’s message board…and the blonde Canadian he’d mailed me about from Dubai.
We met everyone at Rum Doodle’s for pizza and I was introduced to Steve (Don’s Aussie trek-chat buddy), Anna (cute, blonde) and Brent (Anna’s fellow volunteer from Canada). Everyone got on very well and, when Steve took his leave at 9pm (on account of an early flight to Lukla and a full day trekking towards Everest Base Camp), the rest of us adjourned to Tom & Jerry’s to shoot some pool and drink a few Everests. I’d been careful to book a late flight for Don and I to Pokhara the following day and we wouldn’t actually be trekking until we arrived in Jomsom on the Sunday so we were able to cut loose and enjoy our Friday night with Brent and Anna. They had both come to Nepal to volunteer at the local children’s hospital in order to do something worthwhile…and gain some experience. Anna’s job as a paramedic in Toronto gave her plenty of excitement and initial care of patients but she wanted to be involved with her patients longer than dropping them off at the hospital doors. Brent, as a full time lab researcher had come looking for some more hands-on experience. Brent was excellent fun to hang out with (not least, because he got all my South Park gags!) but it was Anna’s sweet nature and cute looks that really had me interested.
It also happened to be Colin’s (teaching colleague of Edd’s) last night in Kathmandu after three months so we chinked a few valedictory glasses in his name. His acerbic wit and different take on life had provided an amusing counterpoint to many evening’s on the Everest with Edd. He was heading on to the pleasures of India and I found that I didn’t envy him at all. It seemed right and proper to give him some kind of decent send-off before he headed into the unknown.
We all parted company at some hideously late hour – with promises between Don, myself and the Canadians to hang out again when Don and I returned. While nothing had yet happened between Anna and I, I definitely sensed a mutual attraction, which I was looking forward to investigating further.
For lunch we took a taxi over to Kalapul to see Ram and Sarita and, once again, we were treated to an exquisite example of Nepali cuisine. Once again, I felt myself regretting missing out on Sarita’s fine culinary skills…but then, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be enjoying my newly-noticed comparative svelteness alongside my, now, much larger brother.
From Ram’s we took another taxi down to the school so I could show it to Don. I timed it so that we’d have a chance to speak to some of the kids as they were finishing their exams…and it just so happened that Uttam was around for a bit of a chat too. Don was really impressed by the bright, personable natures of my class 6 girls and I couldn’t help but swell with pride as I had when Michael had first met them. I felt a considerable sense of involvement in these young people’s lives and, over recent weeks I’d come to the conclusion that I didn’t want this involvement to end when I left Nepal.
Uttam had begun furnishing the old Samata Club with bunk beds to use as a boarding house for some of the girls who needed to escape (or were being forced out from) their unpleasant home environments. I’d asked him to let me know how much it would cost to sponsor a girl to live there for a year and, today, he’d come back to me with a figure of 10,000 rupees. At a little over 75 quid, I decided that I could afford to sponsor 4 of the girls and, to my delight, Don agreed to pitch in for a fifth. Uttam was obviously very pleased and I was excited to be able to extend my involvement with the kids for another year – at least until my future prospects were a little more certain. I also revealed the second part of my plan to Uttam – namely, that after qualifying and gaining some experience, I intended to come back to Samata School for a much longer stay (hopefully a year) and, as well as teach these fantastic children again, I wanted to share my teacher training with the school’s staff. Secretly, I think Uttam had been hoping for something like this as a strong friendship had developed between us over my final weeks at the school and, for the rest of the time we were there, he couldn’t keep a big grin off his face.
After bidding farewell to Uttam and the girls, Don and I ambled slowly up to Bouddha so I could show him where I’d been living for the past few months. The one item he’d been unable to bring over with him was an airhorn, with which I’d been hoping to exact a delicious revenge on the horn-happy monks at the local Gompa. As I showed him my former digs and pointed out the proximity of the three nearby monasteries, a clear, piercing horn note emanated from one and he immediately understood why a dawn chorus of those every day could be a tad irritating. We could only rue the missed opportunity for practical jokery and after that I set about showing him the quieter pleasures that had made Bouddha such a good place to live during my teaching post. As dusk began to settle we headed back up to Thamel for a dinner date with an e-buddy he’d made on a trekking website’s message board…and the blonde Canadian he’d mailed me about from Dubai.
We met everyone at Rum Doodle’s for pizza and I was introduced to Steve (Don’s Aussie trek-chat buddy), Anna (cute, blonde) and Brent (Anna’s fellow volunteer from Canada). Everyone got on very well and, when Steve took his leave at 9pm (on account of an early flight to Lukla and a full day trekking towards Everest Base Camp), the rest of us adjourned to Tom & Jerry’s to shoot some pool and drink a few Everests. I’d been careful to book a late flight for Don and I to Pokhara the following day and we wouldn’t actually be trekking until we arrived in Jomsom on the Sunday so we were able to cut loose and enjoy our Friday night with Brent and Anna. They had both come to Nepal to volunteer at the local children’s hospital in order to do something worthwhile…and gain some experience. Anna’s job as a paramedic in Toronto gave her plenty of excitement and initial care of patients but she wanted to be involved with her patients longer than dropping them off at the hospital doors. Brent, as a full time lab researcher had come looking for some more hands-on experience. Brent was excellent fun to hang out with (not least, because he got all my South Park gags!) but it was Anna’s sweet nature and cute looks that really had me interested.
It also happened to be Colin’s (teaching colleague of Edd’s) last night in Kathmandu after three months so we chinked a few valedictory glasses in his name. His acerbic wit and different take on life had provided an amusing counterpoint to many evening’s on the Everest with Edd. He was heading on to the pleasures of India and I found that I didn’t envy him at all. It seemed right and proper to give him some kind of decent send-off before he headed into the unknown.
We all parted company at some hideously late hour – with promises between Don, myself and the Canadians to hang out again when Don and I returned. While nothing had yet happened between Anna and I, I definitely sensed a mutual attraction, which I was looking forward to investigating further.
March 31, 2005
Brothers together again
There was no great excitement at school in this final week. With every kid in the school taking exams, even the hours were easy. For invigilation purposes we were expected to arrive by 1pm…and most kids were finished by 4. To overcome the small classrooms and close proximity of the children, each class was split up, with a small number being sent to each classroom. This meant that in any given room, you’d be invigilating every class from 1 to 7 and would try to sit the kids so that they couldn’t see their peers’ work. Of course, this couldn’t prevent the older kids from helping the younger ones out if they so wished and, while the other teachers I saw didn’t seem to bothered about this, I would be constantly on the prowl until most of them had finished and the remainder were well spread out. I used my spare mornings and quiet evenings to try and catch up on the blog, but by now (what with breakdowns, illness and too much schoolwork) the backlog was so huge that I found the task somewhat daunting…and, with my big surprise all booked and confirmed, I figured that I’d have plenty of time to work in a more familiar and wi-fi-friendly environment ;-).
All of this, however, was just killing time until the big event on Thursday evening. After 6 long months, I would finally be reunited with my brother, who was coming over to join me trekking in the Himalayas. Having never had a brother (not that I don’t appreciate my two sisters, of course!), the two years prior to my trip had been a great adventure after suddenly acquiring one. While there are no blood ties between Don and I, our similarity of character, love of life (and music) and a passing physical resemblance had more than confirmed our fraternity as we shared many of life’s pleasures. Leaving him at home in the capable hands of his lovely, new wife, Vickie, had been a reassuring, but nevertheless wrenching, experience and I was really looking forward to having him back in my life – albeit, briefly.
After invigilating my last exam, I headed down to the internet café to see if there had been any news from him. I wasn’t totally surprised to hear that his flight had been delayed…but was intrigued to hear that he was stuck in Dubai airport talking to a ‘very cute, blonde Canadian’. Being happily married, I was sure he wasn’t chatting to her for his benefit and could only assume from his message that he was grooming her for my attentions. (;-) What else are brothers for?) I took a taxi to Thamel, where I was now firmly re-installed in The Great Wall and happily surrounded by the friendly faces of Captain Mahendra and his crew. Mahendra and I had talked about the possibility of visiting the Dohori house again this weekend before Don and I departed on our trek…but in the end we decided it might be a better plan to save it until we’d come back…after we’d climbed all those mountains.
I headed down to the airport at around 7pm and still spent a good hour kicking my heels, waiting for the flight to clear customs and retrieve baggage. Interestingly, it being that time of year, many members of several Everest summit teams seemed to be arriving on Don’s flight and the previous one. I was gratified to see someone carrying an Adventure Consultants board and was reminded of gripping events I’d read of in Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into Thin Air’. I had kept the book with me throughout all my travels, since reading it in Korea and I had decided to take it with me on my trek to Everest Base Camp after Don’s departure.
Finally, I saw Don emerging through the gate and hid myself behind a pillar until the last possible moment before jumping out and surprising him. Our joyful hugs were cut short when Don felt a strange damp sensation against his leg…no, we hadn’t wet our pants in the excitement…unfortunately, it seemed someone had run into his bag with a trolley, causing the very nice bottle of Scotch he’d brought me to redistribute itself among the finer components of his Blackberry, Camera and CD-player…and to (in)delicately perfume his fleece and canvas bag. Obviously this put a little dampener on the occasion but, after leaving a few things out to dry, it didn’t stop us from enjoying our evening.
After the initial flurry of questions and a good catch up on all the latest gossip from Blighty, we went out for a traditional Nepali meal of Dal Bhat at one of my favourite little establishments, The Thamel Brasserie. This place is no frills, formica-topped table dining but the staff are friendly, the food delicious and the prices incredible (just a pound for both of us to have our fill and re-fill of dal, rice and veg curry). Don had brought a special package over to Nepal for me, after I’d had to get it Fed-Exed to his work address in a fit of panic the week before. I’d been very mysterious about its contents until this point and, over dinner, I finally revealed to him the nature of its contents. It was my return ticket from Mumbai to London Heathrow, dated 16th May…3 months earlier than my planned return home. As he looked blankly at the ticket, a slow recognition began to spread across his face until he eventually cracked a wide smile.
‘You’re coming back?’ he asked in a slightly disbelieving tone.
’Yup! And guess what it is that weekend.’
After a few moments of mental calculation, Don’s smile broadened as he uttered a single word, ‘Serious?!!’
Serious @ The Cross is, in my mind, the best regular dance night in London. The venue, The Cross, is a set of converted railway arches in the Old King’s Cross Goods Yard. These have been tastefully decorated, retaining much of their olde world charm, and the ceiling adorned with several thousand pounds worth of light and sound equipment to make one of the cosiest, most intimate clubs I’ve ever seen. Add to this the pleasures of a leather-sofa-strewn garden, dotted with palm trees and you can understand why so many people become regulars at the club’s many great nights. Far more important than all of this, though, is the quality of the people and the music you get at Serious. Virtually my entire circle of close friends in London (including Don, Sue, Andy, Katka, Ed and Gordana) have come into my life at this one night. The resident DJ (a seriously talented young Northern Irish guy called Si Patterson – a.k.a Dogzilla) has, over time, become a good friend of mine and Don’s and his music policy is always cutting edge and guaranteed to give you a top night. Several of our friends (soon to include my younger, Scouse brother, Dave of Thai Christmas fame) have played sets there in the last year and we truly seem to have a family atmosphere amongst those of us who go regularly. Before I left to start my travels I hadn’t missed a single Serious for 16 consecutive months…in short, for a night out in London, there’s no other place I’d call home.
Now of course, there is no way on Earth that I would have just booked an expensive flight back to England just to come out clubbing for the weekend…even if it did mean I’d get to see all of my much-missed friends again. In reality, my application for a PGCE course at London Metropolitan University had resulted in my being asked for an interview. The date in May (19th) fitted in nicely with my plans in Nepal (meaning that I wouldn’t have to change or cancel anything), happened to be the day before my only nephew’s 1st birthday…and also happened to be two days before my favourite clubbing night. It would seem that fate was conspiring to bring me home that week and, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I’d accepted the interview, booked the tickets and had them delivered to Don in time for him to bring them over to me.
After this little surprise, Don was every bit as excited as me and we both spent the evening gabbling away at Murray Walker speeds and volumes. The poor bugger had slept less than 1 hour in the previous 24 – but we didn’t let that get in the way of having a good yarn well into the night.
All of this, however, was just killing time until the big event on Thursday evening. After 6 long months, I would finally be reunited with my brother, who was coming over to join me trekking in the Himalayas. Having never had a brother (not that I don’t appreciate my two sisters, of course!), the two years prior to my trip had been a great adventure after suddenly acquiring one. While there are no blood ties between Don and I, our similarity of character, love of life (and music) and a passing physical resemblance had more than confirmed our fraternity as we shared many of life’s pleasures. Leaving him at home in the capable hands of his lovely, new wife, Vickie, had been a reassuring, but nevertheless wrenching, experience and I was really looking forward to having him back in my life – albeit, briefly.
After invigilating my last exam, I headed down to the internet café to see if there had been any news from him. I wasn’t totally surprised to hear that his flight had been delayed…but was intrigued to hear that he was stuck in Dubai airport talking to a ‘very cute, blonde Canadian’. Being happily married, I was sure he wasn’t chatting to her for his benefit and could only assume from his message that he was grooming her for my attentions. (;-) What else are brothers for?) I took a taxi to Thamel, where I was now firmly re-installed in The Great Wall and happily surrounded by the friendly faces of Captain Mahendra and his crew. Mahendra and I had talked about the possibility of visiting the Dohori house again this weekend before Don and I departed on our trek…but in the end we decided it might be a better plan to save it until we’d come back…after we’d climbed all those mountains.
I headed down to the airport at around 7pm and still spent a good hour kicking my heels, waiting for the flight to clear customs and retrieve baggage. Interestingly, it being that time of year, many members of several Everest summit teams seemed to be arriving on Don’s flight and the previous one. I was gratified to see someone carrying an Adventure Consultants board and was reminded of gripping events I’d read of in Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into Thin Air’. I had kept the book with me throughout all my travels, since reading it in Korea and I had decided to take it with me on my trek to Everest Base Camp after Don’s departure.
Finally, I saw Don emerging through the gate and hid myself behind a pillar until the last possible moment before jumping out and surprising him. Our joyful hugs were cut short when Don felt a strange damp sensation against his leg…no, we hadn’t wet our pants in the excitement…unfortunately, it seemed someone had run into his bag with a trolley, causing the very nice bottle of Scotch he’d brought me to redistribute itself among the finer components of his Blackberry, Camera and CD-player…and to (in)delicately perfume his fleece and canvas bag. Obviously this put a little dampener on the occasion but, after leaving a few things out to dry, it didn’t stop us from enjoying our evening.
After the initial flurry of questions and a good catch up on all the latest gossip from Blighty, we went out for a traditional Nepali meal of Dal Bhat at one of my favourite little establishments, The Thamel Brasserie. This place is no frills, formica-topped table dining but the staff are friendly, the food delicious and the prices incredible (just a pound for both of us to have our fill and re-fill of dal, rice and veg curry). Don had brought a special package over to Nepal for me, after I’d had to get it Fed-Exed to his work address in a fit of panic the week before. I’d been very mysterious about its contents until this point and, over dinner, I finally revealed to him the nature of its contents. It was my return ticket from Mumbai to London Heathrow, dated 16th May…3 months earlier than my planned return home. As he looked blankly at the ticket, a slow recognition began to spread across his face until he eventually cracked a wide smile.
‘You’re coming back?’ he asked in a slightly disbelieving tone.
’Yup! And guess what it is that weekend.’
After a few moments of mental calculation, Don’s smile broadened as he uttered a single word, ‘Serious?!!’
Serious @ The Cross is, in my mind, the best regular dance night in London. The venue, The Cross, is a set of converted railway arches in the Old King’s Cross Goods Yard. These have been tastefully decorated, retaining much of their olde world charm, and the ceiling adorned with several thousand pounds worth of light and sound equipment to make one of the cosiest, most intimate clubs I’ve ever seen. Add to this the pleasures of a leather-sofa-strewn garden, dotted with palm trees and you can understand why so many people become regulars at the club’s many great nights. Far more important than all of this, though, is the quality of the people and the music you get at Serious. Virtually my entire circle of close friends in London (including Don, Sue, Andy, Katka, Ed and Gordana) have come into my life at this one night. The resident DJ (a seriously talented young Northern Irish guy called Si Patterson – a.k.a Dogzilla) has, over time, become a good friend of mine and Don’s and his music policy is always cutting edge and guaranteed to give you a top night. Several of our friends (soon to include my younger, Scouse brother, Dave of Thai Christmas fame) have played sets there in the last year and we truly seem to have a family atmosphere amongst those of us who go regularly. Before I left to start my travels I hadn’t missed a single Serious for 16 consecutive months…in short, for a night out in London, there’s no other place I’d call home.
Now of course, there is no way on Earth that I would have just booked an expensive flight back to England just to come out clubbing for the weekend…even if it did mean I’d get to see all of my much-missed friends again. In reality, my application for a PGCE course at London Metropolitan University had resulted in my being asked for an interview. The date in May (19th) fitted in nicely with my plans in Nepal (meaning that I wouldn’t have to change or cancel anything), happened to be the day before my only nephew’s 1st birthday…and also happened to be two days before my favourite clubbing night. It would seem that fate was conspiring to bring me home that week and, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I’d accepted the interview, booked the tickets and had them delivered to Don in time for him to bring them over to me.
After this little surprise, Don was every bit as excited as me and we both spent the evening gabbling away at Murray Walker speeds and volumes. The poor bugger had slept less than 1 hour in the previous 24 – but we didn’t let that get in the way of having a good yarn well into the night.
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.
March 13, 2005
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