7 Steps to a Wonderful Christmas Abroad

       * Yes, I am aware it is already February.

       * No, that doesn't mean it's too late to blog about Christmas. 

    Ahhem. I have found that spending your first Christmas abroad away from family requires you to do it right (if you are to avoid an excess amount of homesickness and I-should-be-eating-homemade-fudge-right-now type thoughts). And doing Christmas right abroad requires a few essential materials: Good friends, access to pizza, french toast, and coffee, a beautiful city to explore, and a paper Christmas tree. Here's some easy to follow (maybe) steps to help you have as wonderful of an abroad Christmas experience as I did this past December. 

Step 1: Make a Paper Christmas Tree.

           This is the first AND most important step. Because what is Christmas without a highly decorated Christmas tree? No suitcase-sized evergreens around? No problem. Green construction paper and some tape will do the trick. 

Note: Take this paper Christmas tree with you everywhere. Though we got some laughs, I'm pretty sure everyone actually just really enjoyed this extra bit of Christmas spirit, even if it was taped to what may have been a palm tree. 

Step 2: Get Your Mom to Send You a Ridiculous Amount of Gifts From America in the Mail. 

    Okay, it wasn't quite that many packages - but I honestly barely made it back to Gorkha on the local bus with the two giant packages she sent!

Thanks, Mom! :)

Step 3: Wrap Said Gifts in Newspaper to Give to Your Wonderful Host Family (and Make Paper Stockings to Boot!)

 .... because Christmas is more beautiful when you share it. Especially with a family who has never been told they have to wait to open their presents before. Surprises are especially fun in a culture that doesn't celebrate with them in the same way we do in the US. It was a little difficult to keep Sachina from opening all of the packages at once, but well worth it in the end.

     We made hot chocolate with our fresh local buffalo milk, turned on some holiday music, and watched the happiness of a first Christmas unfold.

Step 4: Get Yourself to a Lake and Eat Some Dang-Good American Food

           For this step, good friends highly enhance the experience. Also advised is a 10-minute version of Secret Santa where you buy each other a mixture of cheap gifts from tourist shops mostly consisting of over-sized wool hats and socks. 

"Friends in life are those that make you laugh a little louder, smile a little brighter, and live a little better."

Step 5: Go on an Awesome Excursion.

         I don't completely recommend getting lost in the woods and following a local gathering wood up a non-existent path for 40 minutes and then separating from her to trek off in the direction she claimed the trail to be. However, hiking and going on an amazing excursion I do recommend. We did find the trail, eventually. And... despite getting stabbed by the thistles of a thankfully non-poisonous caterpillar, we had a very relaxing hike to the beautiful World Peace Pagoda overlooking all of Pokhara. The best part of adventuring on Christmas is that you don't feel like your missing out on too much back home (heck yes I want to see an amazingly stunning view from a mountain in Nepal instead of being at home for Christmas - Sorry, Family! I love you!)

Also, you know you are doing Christmas right when you are pleasantly surprised

by wild Poinsettias blossoming everywhere!

Step 6: See the Sunrise (on the Himalayas if at all possible)

        This is quite possibly one of the most incredible experiences I've had while being in Nepal. First of all, the Himalayas are breathtaking by themselves. But when the rose-colored light of the sun is just painting their white tips in the first breaths of the morning - this creates a moment in time completely indescribable. The stunning view, seemingly just an arm-reach away from where our feet were placed beneath us, reminded me to never settle for anything less in this world. Anything less than beautiful, astonishingly amazing, breath-taking life. To never settle for anything less than being fully alive in every way possible. 

Extra bonus: Have a cup of milk tea while watching the sunrise on the Himalayas.
Does life get any better than this?

Step 7: Call Your Family and Appreciate All You Have.

     And of course, if it's Christmas, and you are away in a foreign country without your family, the most important thing to do (alongside making a paper Christmas tree) is to call your family and tell them how much you love them. Because even the best American food, even seeing sunrises, having crazy adventures, and being surrounded by good friends doesn't fully make up for how much you miss them. And it's important to let them know - whether it's for the millionth time or not - that you love them dearly, that they are your support system, your sunshine, and who you'll always be thinking about every single Christmas and every single day you are away. 

       When spending Christmas abroad, love all that is around you and all that is far away. Appreciate all you have, and celebrate the life around you. It is a very special thing. So enjoy it. And if that means ordering dessert at every single restaurant you go to, then do. 

Wishing you all love, laughter, and amazing adventures in the new year. 

An Education (and Why I'm Locking Myself in with the Kindergartners for the Next Three Months)

At this point I'm just shaking my head.

At everything. At some of the strange recommendations or demands that come from my family, at the unfathomable amount of times my teachers will blame anything and everything on the cold. At the way kids continue to thrust their papers into my face in an attempt to be tended to first - and the fact that sometimes it works.

More often than not, the strangeness, craziness, loudly colorful mess of Nepal, fades into the background for me as more normal than not. But some days, it comes running at me, slapping me in the face like a huge gust of 90 mph wind. Why can't the kids just be quiet for once? Did my teacher really just brag about hitting students more than any other teacher in the school? Is it really necessary to spell every single word out-loud in a frighteningly hypnosis-like chant?

        Nepal makes me really rethink the meaning of education. We insist, beg, and bribe kids to come to school; We rant about its importance. And I do believe education is important, more than anything. But I wonder sometimes if I can fully believe in the product we are selling at my school here in Gorkha, if I can still insist students stay in school; still insist that this is an education worth fighting for. Because sometimes I look at what the kids are learning, what they are truly being taught - and it's much more (or less?) than the ABC's and 123's.

          Firstly, they are being taught to memorize. To pour over meaningless words, to chant their spelling, to repeatedly, repeatedly, repeatedly drill lines and formulas. Nepali education squeezes every ounce of creativity out of children that it can, twisting and turning them until the last drop is gone. Students are taught to copy exactly what they see before them, to ingrain it in their brains - as though the brain was a blank copy, to be filled with the words lining the book of general knowledge. They learn this from the moment they walk into school - and as a result, I find my students are most calm when they are writing, copying dust-written letters from the chalkboard. It's what they know. And after they have copied the meaningless letters into their notebook, they won't feel validation unless a red Teek (check mark) has been written across their page. Whether it is really teaching the students or not - this is the role that has been taken on by many teachers in Nepal - come to school, write with chalk across the board, and give a red check of validation to those who can copy your words onto paper. As if that were teaching. As if that could ever constitute teaching.

          What else are the students taught? They are taught to cheat, to rely on others, and to shuffle into their assigned place in the Nepali classroom - the role of top student, or that of the others. The best students know who they are. They are the ones who are called on in class, whom the teachers address, whose scores the teachers love to look at and compare. I do too. It's fun to see the students who get nearly 100% on their exams, who come within one point of each other. It's easy to give these students attention. But so few people ever look at the other scores. Those who just barely passed the exam, more from guessing than from anything else. Or the students in class three that still don't know how to write their name, the first grader that wrote gibberish instead of "c-a-t, cat" despite how many times we've gone over it. What about the five students in grade one math that can't produce the number 3 or 4 when I ask them to write it? Who struggle to count to five? These kids learn to rely on the smart kids, if they want to get by. Cheating, prodding the teacher into giving them the answer, or simply having another kid write the answer for them.  As in most American classrooms as well, students are quick to learn their place - am I a good student or a bad student? I think I would be afraid to hear their answers. And when I feel at my breaking point in the realm of discipline, all I need is a quick remind that these kids need love and encouragement more than anything.

       Finally, they are learning to hit. I can't say enough about this one. You know that old phrase: "monkey say monkey do?" And its accompanying philosophical warning: "practice what you preach?" Well they are right on point... especially in terms of young kids that absorb things like sponges. I'm at quite a loss, because I spend half of my day telling kids not to hit each other, and the other half watching teachers, themselves, beat students. And how quickly the students have learned the Nepali way to deal with their problems (so much for Kelso's choices). These kids will hit each other for anything and everything. They push in line (if you could call it a line), they grab things from each other, they throw things. They even hit me (out of love I tell myself), hang off of me, shove things in my face (as I've mentioned before), and I've definitely had some things thrown at me - I probably should have run for the woods as long time ago.

       But no, I'm not in any real danger. My first graders sure are though. I literally have a kid crying in every single class. Or a bloody nose, a scrapped shin, a pen-punctured hole in someones hand. For the most part, the hitting isn't completely dangerous to the kids, in the sense that they don't usually hit hard enough to do any damage, but it is endless. And though I say the words "na pita!" (don't hit) like a broken record throughout the class, I know that it's exactly that - a broken record - and nothing more.  As long as the kids see the teachers come in with sticks, giving misbehaving students hard slaps across the back, they will never agree to practice the badly pronounced Nepali commands that come from my American mouth.

Because they have already learned a lot, through this education of theirs.

        On the other hand, I recently discovered this heavenly little sanctuary called Kindergarten. It's quiet, and happy, and filled with new brains with adorable little hats that look like football helmets. It's full of sponges that haven't been too heavily affected by all the things that have caused so many problems in all of my other classes. It's a warehouse full of boats ready to be built, instead a lake of sinking ships - with me desperately bailing water from boats with holes in their bottom.

         My father often laughs on days when I tell him I'm going to Kindergarten instead of class five. "You enjoy Kindergarten, huh?" he'll chuckle - likely with the common Nepali view that "babies" are too small to be taught anything.  But if Nepal has taught me anything - it's to know where a problem begins, and to not fight a fight you can't win. So when my class three teacher insisted we stick to the textbook for the next three weeks to prepare for the exams, I nodded my head, and headed for a different class. When my teacher told his students to copy three pages of their textbook ten times as homework, I took a deep breath and started planning for the lesson where I'm going to teach them present tense (because they should know what "I am happy" means by fifth grade). When my teacher comes in and draws four pictures on the board and asks if it's okay if she leaves for the hour, or stays in class only to stare out the window for the entire period, I let out a high-pitched scream of frustration inside of my head, and turn again to my students, to give them what she will not, and to the teachers who come in with a desire for change. I don't stay in sinking ships. I've learned to find the ones that I can patch.

        A good amount of time, I feel like I'm banging my head against a wall, but I'm also learning how to turn away from tall, immovable concrete walls to face a new direction. To know what I can change. And what I cannot. To see the progress in the teachers who adopt my songs and play new games in the class. To love the moments where I realize children I thought weren't listening have finally learned how to say "This is a hen." To love what is here, to learn from it, and to better it in ways that I am able. What is taught inside the walls of my school may not always be the greatest education for its students, but it sure has been an education for me.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

         Surprisingly, most everything you could ever need is available in Nepal, if you look hard enough for it. The other ETAs and I have gone on some interesting adventures, coming back with many interesting purchases - kidney beans to use as markers for Bingo, clothing pins to hang up student work, overpriced packets of Uno and Jenga... we even found Reeses and Hershey's Kisses in Pokhara.

      The few things I can't find - mostly specific sweets that I find myself craving (smarties, york mints, hot chocolate) - I've received in packages from a certain wonderful mother of mine. But I've been pleasantly surprised at what is available in this country that is so different from my own. After some very thorough searches, I've had success in finding things like whiteboards, specific American breakfast items, good dark chocolate, and even baking powder.

My Oh-So-Wonderful American Breakfast Food in Nepal

              But, I think I may have finally reached my limits. My luck has finally been stretched to its breaking point... because I'm pretty sure what I need now is something nowhere to be found in Nepal, even if I searched it from top to bottom. You see, because what I have found myself needing this past week or so is somewhat of a strange item. Strange indeed. You see, I have found myself in great need of a....... snorkel.
Let me explain.

When the earth gets half way around the sun and is suddenly tilting away from its rays on my side of the equator, the days get quite short... which means a lot of dark, chilly fog and a very limited amount of gham (sunshine) to burn it off. This makes it cold, and also very difficult to dry laundry, shower, or eat oranges - because for some reason, in Nepal, it's only socially acceptable to eat oranges in the sun.

This doesn't explain why I might need a snorkel? Well, let me rephrase. With all the fog and the sun taking a long vacation from Gorkha, the Nepali "chiso" of winter has finally arrived.
 Just in time for Christmas: "baby, it's cold outside."

.... And inside. And in the tiled bathroom, and in the school classrooms, and in the office. It's cold, in the morning, at night. When I open my door, when I shut my door.  It's cold upstairs and downstairs. On the carpet and on the concrete. It's cold here, it's cold there, It's cold everywhere!

       Which leads me to my next point. There are no heaters in rural Nepal. or hot water to shower with. Or hair dryers. Am I making you cold just thinking about it? I'm currently wearing four layers on top, two layers of pants, a fleece hat, and wool socks while writing this.

          As soon as the temperature was a little less than 70 degrees outside, the Nepali's started complaining about the cold. But now it's in the 30's and 40's at night - so 3 months later, the Nepalis are finally right. The "chiso" has arrived.

Still confused as to why I need a snorkel? Understandable.

        You see, the only place I've found to be suitable for survival of these next few months, (despite the fact that I'm still expected to attend school and act like a regular human being) is the heavenly spot where, curled up, I am completely buried underneath two layers of heavy blankets in my bed. This, though cozy, is completely debilitating, in terms of getting anything done.

The result? I sleep a lot. Like a lot a lot. My thought train goes from "oh... I'll do some lesson planning tonight".... to "oh... it's a little cold in here, maybe I should grab a jacket"... to "actually, you know, those blanket wrapped around me would be a lot warmer".... to "hmm... It's kind of hard to write, and I'm letting the cold air in, better make sure I'm all wrapped up".... and then, somehow, I find that I've disappeared under my blankets into a horizontal position. And it's only 8 pm. "It's okay to go to bed at 8 pm right?".... "well, there's no getting out of these blankets now.. so I guess it's fine... I'll just get up early."

Well, you can guess what that looks like in the morning. Trying to pull me out of warm blankets, no matter how many consecutive hours I've already been in them, is like trying to hide chocolate from my bahini, Sachina - flat out near impossible.

But the good news is, Nepal has made me an inventor. Because the end goal is that I could be both productive and warm at the same time - which is what they invented snuggies for. Someone send me a snuggy suitable for Nepali winters (aka five snuggies that I can wear at one time). I've decided that my only practical solution, besides asking my mom to send me a space heater in the mail (also not so practical) is to lay the blankets over me like a tent and simply invest in a snorkel to take care of my face's inconvenient need for oxygen. Then I could type on my computer without loosing fingers in the process (to frostbite, of course), I could grade my student's homework, even read a book! Who knew the one thing I would need to complete my life here in Nepal would be something not readily available in landlocked, chilly country where every swim-able body of water is likely polluted anyways. They really should have put it on the packing list anyways.

            Since I probably won't be locating a snorkel anytime soon, here's to doing as the Nepalis do: wearing several layers of clothing at all times (to the point where I'm almost unrecognizable), only mustering up the courage to shower every seven days (opps, did I say that out loud?), and getting lots and lots of sleep.

And then, we do as the Americans do... run to any hotel with hot water as fast and as often as we can!

To all those back home, may you stay warm and healthy during this holiday season - but mostly warm.

Happy Holidays!

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.

Waking Up in Nepal

         Waking up in Nepal is some days normal, some days out of place.

         It's rolling over in my bug net, and pulling my feet back in from the outskirts to make sure they don't get bitten by any lingering mosquitoes. It's running down our concrete stairs to the bathroom and stumbling in the dark if the electricity is out again.

        Waking up in Nepal is sometimes pondering over strange dreams involving U.S. people and places that force me to reorienting myself and bring my mind back to Nepal. Sometimes the dreams temporarily convince me that things I've been looking forward to in Nepal - travels with my teachers, events with students, my final goodbye - have already happened without my knowing.

     Sometimes waking up in Nepal means waking up with a fever, or a headache, or a sore throat choking back my ability to swallow. Then it means my family lingering over my health, sharing all health details with passing neighbors, and blaming the changing climate for anything and everything. For the past two weeks it's meant waking up with my ears plugged up - creating a muffling affect that makes understanding Nepali that much more difficult.

       Sickness, homesickness, and general this-would-never-happen-in-the-US annoyances aside, waking up in Nepal is something I suspect I will miss, even crave when I'm back in under my own covers five months from now.

       Because waking up in Nepal means a soft face full of sunlight at 5:30 in the morning as a gentle reminder that I can sleep until 6.  It means the sound of water running, chicken flocking about, and steam hissing as it shoots out of the pressure cooker full of boiling dahl. It means greeting my Ama, Bauju, Bua, and little Sachina with a smile and a "good morning" (with maybe some extra tickles for Sachina). It means Sachina falling into me for a morning hug, wrapping her arms around my legs and letting me hold her up as her morning sleepiness slowly wears its way off.

          Waking up means steaming milk tea in the front of the house, perfectly contrasted by the morning air, chilled by the valley's fog. It means three easy hours to sit cross legged on our wooden benches and write in my journal or to watch my Bauju cook in the kitchen as I ponder over lesson plans. It means watching neighbors pass with loads of grass and wheat on their back, looking up at me as they pass, the weight of their load attached by a strap to their forehead, their arms wrapped as support around the backs of their heads. It means peace. It means refreshment.


           Eventually, it means realizing the morning is almost gone, rushing back up to my room and speedily cutting out endless words and drawings on paper to accompany whatever I've come up with for the day - large cut outs of insects, verbs written out on small slips, six or seven sets of the months of the year all rubber-banded together for a game.  Teaching classes of 30-40 students means lot's of teaching supplies - my teachers are always questions what is inside that big bag of mine.

        Then, in the midst of throwing together all my supplies for the day, my Bua's voice will echo up the stairs "Aarati! Abaa Kana Kanne!" and I'll make my way down to plates of steaming rice and curried thakari (vegetables). I'll eat small balls of rice, lentils, vegetables, and salsa mixed together with milk poured on top to make the curry a creamy soup. Like my family, I've learned to each with my right hand, mashing bits of each dish together with care, feeling it's texture before each bite. It's a practice I might have to adhere to every now and again in America - as I agree with the idea that the food tastes better when experienced with all sense.

        By the time the students start filtering down the path in their matching blue button up shirts, by the time the school's noise weaves it's way through our walls, I know the morning is finished - and I step out into the sun-kissed, not-so-early morning to be greeted by approximately 26 Nepali teachers and 866 Nepali students.

         Falling asleep is short and sweet compared to my sizable mornings. After the school's chatter has finally fallen silents and the sun has sunk behind the hills, we will eat our last dahl baht together before retreating upstairs where I'll play cards with my Bauju by fluorescent lamp light. On some nights, I'll lay in the dark with my phone pressed to my ear - linking me all the way to the other side of the world. But after finally closing my eyes, it only takes five minutes before I easily drift into sleep. The so common sounds of Nepal will fall to a silent hum, that promises once again, to carry me forward into another Nepali morning.

I suspect waking up in the US, five months from now will feel "justai" - sometimes normal, sometimes out of place.