This is Nepal

       It was the second bus I had run to that day. My Ama and I were returning from Abua, where our Aunt gives us fresh milk every morning from her Buffalo. Despite how much I enjoy sitting outside the houses of our relatives, looking over the fields below while sipping tea, I was trying to hurry us home so my Bauju wouldn't be stuck doing all of the cooking alone. As I caught up to the bus and grab one hand around the nearby railing, enough to hold onto in case the bus takes off mid-entrance (a fairly common occurrence in Nepal), my Ama came trotting behind with the milk and we clamber on.

       Well, more like we squeezed on, into a tightly knitted mass array of bodies wedged between worn seats. Though Nepalis are very hospitable when you are a guest in their house, they tend to be much less accommodating on crowded buses. There can be enough standing space for five people in the back of the bus (a lot for Nepal), and yet people in the middle will refuse to move back any further than forced. Aka, the front of the bus will look like the crowded pit of at a concert, while the back is spacious and open. I finally managed to wedge myself far enough into the bus that I wasn't concerned about toppling out the open door on any sharp turns. This, however, involved awkwardly leaning at a 45 degree angle over the seats of two nearby passengers, nearly falling in the lap of an older Nepali man, and straddling a goat (yes a goat) on the bus floor.

      Nothing shocks me too much on a bus anymore. But the most amusing thing about this bus ride, was that the lady with the goat seemed very convinced that I was going to step on her goat. My feet were carefully placed far from the goat, and I was more in danger of falling on nearby passengers than on her badly placed goat. Despite this, the small, fabric-wrapped lady continued to give me a strong push against my arm every thirty seconds or so. She obviously was not very happy. And I was near laughing at the strangeness of the situation, as I was falling into the lap of this poor old man.


The man looked up at me with a wrinkled grin and chuckled, cheer in his eyes. And the first words he said to me, with an amused laugh, as I grabbed at something to support my awkwardly angled position, was "Yo Nepal Ho!" - This is Nepal.

We had an enjoyable conversation for the rest of the bus ride, as the woman behind me continued to give me a few pushes every now and then in defense of her goat. Mud huts and bushy trees passed us by, as our bus rocked back and forth up the road home. His hilariously translated statement has stayed with me, in every moment when I'm again reminded that I'm not in the cozy town of Port Townsend, the busy lifestyle of Thousand Oaks where there's always a Starbucks not to far out of the way - but rather in Nepal. In the middle of green, loving, loud, chaotic, beautiful, breath-taking Nepal.


          I'm reminded when my Ama calls me in to see spiders the size of my face that have made their way in to our house. I'm reminded when my father tells me that if I don't sleep with a blanket over my face my head I'll have a sore throat in the morning. I'm reminded every time I go into school and hear students chanting pages of their textbook from their wooden benches. This is Nepal, ladies and gentleman. This is Nepal.



            Where students will thrust their notebooks into the small space between your face and the other student's book that you are currently checking. Where you might have to pry their affectionate arms from around your waist just to walk into the classroom. Where teachers will reprimand a child for hitting another kid and, as their punishment, proceed to hit them (more on that to come). This is Nepal - where black eyes, and scrapes and sores are normal, and school uniforms torn to the brink of literally falling off still cling to young students' bodies.



      This is Nepal, where people telling you that you're getting fat is supposed to be taken as a compliment, and where anything medical related is rarely tmi or kept private. Where MASSIVE amounts of rice are consumed everyday, and where despite eating the same food everyday, people will always say their favorite food is Dahl Baht.




          This is Nepal, where students call "Miss, Miss, Miss!" - a chant that will be ringing in my ears for years to come. Where neighbors sit in front of their houses, and always ask where you are going when you pass by. Where strangers ask you if you are married and then almost always follow up with the question: "which is more enjoyable - Nepal or America?"

This is Nepal. Where fog brings in the cold, and the school bells ring to bring my teachers wrapped in colorful scarves and hats. Where I spend nights sitting on my green carpeted floor stapling together yet another activity book for my students, craning over lesson ideas and new games. Where I can leave my school work behind to crawl into bed with my Bauju and lean over her tiny new born baby. His eyes will open just wide enough to make out my shape.

This is not cozy Port Townsend or bustling Thousand Oaks.
This is Nepal. Green, loving, loud, chaotic, beautiful, breath-taking Nepal.

On Being Loved

           I don't know what the Nepali word for "lucky" is. I've never been forced to learn it because everyone in Nepal seems to know the English translation. In the midst of a conversation completely in Nepali, one of my co-teachers might throw in the phrase "it's good luck" or "you are a lucky man" (man, woman - close enough).
        At first, I was extremely sick of people telling me how lucky I was. the Nepali's seemed to have a very different idea of what we ETAs were looking for in our experience here. It is assumed that we all wanted the western style houses with a spacious bedrooms, big schools with English speaking teachers, and as American-like of a lifestyle as we could find - when really, of course, most of us wanted the opposite. Most of us craved the small schools in remote areas, the rustic homestays with lifestyles as far from our own as we could get. And considering how challenging the huge class sizes have been at Shree Mahendra, I was sick and tired of being told I was lucky to have so many students.

             That being said, I of course agree with all those who tell me I am very lucky, in many ways and for  many reasons. And though I could spend years making lists of all these reasons, all these things that make my experience here, it is efficient to say that all these things boil down to one very important aspect: Here - in Das Kilo, Nepali with my Nepali family and cheerful teachers, wedged in the mountains amongst hundreds of rosy cheeked students - Here, I am extraordinarily loved.


          I feel it every day in the kisses and hugs from my sister, Sachina. In the way she falls into my arms for me to carry her around the house, in the way she grabs my hand to walk down the stairs in the morning, counting each step along the way, and in the way she whispers into my ear at dinner, prompting me to sing her favorite new English songs with her.


          I feel it in my house everyday greeting my mother in the morning and afternoon, in the way she will make me pasta for lunch every now and then, even when no one else in the house likes it, just because she knows it makes my day. I feel it in the way that my family laughs at little things I do, the way they teach me new words and new traditions, and in the way they are overwhelmingly protective over me. I feel it every night when I'm able to share everything about my students, the things that drive me crazy about the school and the things that I love, over card games with my sister-in-law.

           And even on the bad days, I feel it with my students, in the way they stand near so I can drape my arm around them or hold their hand. I know I'm loved when they smile each time I pass their classroom window and they break into shy smiles or enthusiastically call for me to come teach in their class.

 I feel it when the fifth graders come find me, just 20 minutes after finishing an hour of dance practice, asking to dance again. I feel it in the way my second graders blow kisses and shriek with joy whenever I walk into the classroom - despite the fact that I come at the same time every day. I feel it in the way my first graders, come to shake my hand every morning, greet me with their cute smiles, and ask if they will get to write again today (turns out they really like their activity books). I know I am loved because even after a rough week of me shouting "chup chup chup" (the Nepali equivalent of shut up) over a sea of voices, my students still run to give me hugs and enthusiastically wave goodbye when the period is over. I feel it in the smiles, in the laughter, in the greetings, in the goodbyes.

          So when I heard the word the other day over dinner at my principal's house, I didn't shy away from it. With the smell of spices in the background, my legs cross-legged beneath me to keep the mosquitoes from my feet, we discussed my work at the school. Of everyone, my principle has always been amazingly supportive and appreciative of what I'm doing at the school. He was glad to see I was happy and added "you are lucky." "You are very lucky, because, here, you are very loved." Between handfuls of dahl baht, I nodding in agreement. This time, I couldn't agree more.

Change is in the Air

      With the chaos of the holidays finally winding down, and the completion of my first three months passing me by from out of nowhere, life here has blossomed into an experience I could never have predicted. Honestly, my life is different here than I had expected - with  the many unexpected cultural differences and teaching challenges. But I also never could have expected that I would be so happy.


         For one thing, teaching feels like it has finally clicked into place. During the holiday I spent a significant of amount of time at local stationary shops creating forty copies of a thirty-page English coloring/activity book. Despite using a tree and a half to make it, the coloring book has been the best thing I've ever created. The book has given my lower students a graphic organizer to help them learn to write and it has given my higher students the ability to go at their own pace. My behavior problems have somewhat lessened - my relationship with my students has changed. I have finally earned the respect of my higher level students. I may be the first teacher to recognize their ability and provide them with the respect and challenge they deserve.
        And the lower level students, often ignored, have become more attached to me. Taking the time, even when it's not available, to meet each of their individuals needs, to sit with them and patiently count on fingers, has paid off in a million different ways. It's taken a while, but I think my respect for the students is slowly but surely being reciprocated - and I'm starting (with relief) to see that what I'm doing in the classroom makes progress in time. I'm reminded that one must be patient to see change.

Making Paper Frogs

Because We Were Learning the Word "Frog"

And Because Learning Should Be Fun.

*Side note: Even on bad discipline days, I absolutely adore my students (especially my first graders). I have no idea how I will ever say goodbye to them - It might be the hardest thing I ever have to do.

        Also, my Nepali has developed a considerable amount over the past three months. I've come to realize that I can understand a whole lot more than before, even fast conversation I'm sometimes able to pick up on. This has definitely come in handy, like the time it allowed me to defend myself when I realized that my Ama was telling the whole community that I lost my voice because I had put iodine tablets in my water (more interesting health remarks to come in a later post). Communication is so important to me, and though I know I have a long way until fluency, becoming conversational in just three months is highly motivating. Not to mention I think my Nepali family and I are both proud when we can answer "yes" to the oh-so-common question from strangers: "Does she speak Nepali?"

My Fifth Graders Practicing Their "American" Dance

    Another great change is that I've finally begun to connect with the older students at my school. I've been dancing with class 9 and 10 students for sports week - we have our big dance show today - and the week has allowed me to learn a few more names and faces. As a result, I now receive many more "good mornings" and smiles when I pass through the school, and it's so nice to feel that connection with some of the older students. All the kids were eager to learn an "American" dance as well, so I have spent several afternoons teaching sixteen eager fifth graders simple steps to an Ingrid Micheals song. Teaching it was a chaotic process which involved shoving excess people out the door, going over the same step twenty or thirty times, and nodding yes to a lot of my fifth grader's questions when I'm not really sure what was asked. But despite that, I don't think I've ever felt so proud or such happiness as when I watch them dance (even if their a bit off the music most of the time). The joy I see on their faces warms my heart so so much. One thing that Nepal is surely not lacking - despite its poverty - is joy.

     With the dance show over, I have a student/teacher tour to Lumbini (the birth place of Buddha) to look forward to and a new baby arriving soon (my Bauju is currently very pregnant). Last but not least on that list is the promise that in three weeks a private car will drive the four hours out to Gorkha to take us ETAs to a real Thanksgiving dinner at our adviser's house in Kathmandu. Talk about spoiled.

Nepal has officially become one of those experiences in life that makes me think that it doesn't get better than this.