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.

Happy Holidays

       Desain, Nepal's greatest holiday, has finally arrived. We've had plenty of other holidays mixed in with our school days, but Desain brings new traditions with our families and a fifteen day break in which our students will be treated to new clothing and sweets. My days leading up to Desain have been filled with lovely walks with my four year old sister and my Bauju and lots of evening splitting open peas and peeling garlic for our dinner. I've been learning to make nearly all of the Nepali dishes that we set our table with, and have been completely inspired to make all of more of my food by hand when I return to the United States (why in the world do we make everything from jars and boxes when it tastes so much better handmade?).

       The coming of Desain also means the climate changing from "garmi" (hot) to "sital" (cool). We've had lots of rain storms and the clouds are slowly clearing to give me the beautiful view of the mountains that the teachers have been promising.

A glimpse of the mountains from my rooftop

            The last day of school before the holiday was filled with lots of singing and dancing. I never find out about these things until the last minute, but we even had a dance competition instead of class for the last half the the day. It started to pour down rain, but many of the students didn't mind, continuing to dance as the drops fell, smiles still plastered on their faces. 

       

        Emily and Ellen, the other two ETAs in Gorkha, and I hopped on a microbus the next morning for a smooth, easy ride to Kathmandu. We came in to spend a few days of the holiday with the other ETAs in Lalitipur and to say goodbye to Caitlin, an ETA who will be returning home early in a few days. She had the misfortune to contract some unknown Nepali disease that kept her in the hospital for fourteen days. Though she is feeling much better, she will continue fully recovering back in the United States. We'll miss her a bunch and are happy to get one last weekend with her. 

        The weekend has been a mix of shopping, errand running, American food eating, and birthday celebrating. Though we were about a week late of the actual date, we surprised Alanna with a chocolate birthday cake and enjoyed a nice lunch on a balcony in Patan. The best thing about the weekend has been enjoying each other's company again, after a month at our individual placements, and having a little bit of freedom - something we often lack living with our protective Nepali families. That, and indulging on American breakfasts - muffins, yogurt, omelettes, coffee, waffles - It's become our new rule that when you return to Kathmandu you eat anything but Dahl Baht (though I am still a huge fan of my families cooking). 

            Here is our last picture with us altogether. I feel extremely grateful for all of these girls. For their understanding, and for the fact that we take care of one another, sing together, joke together, and make hilarious attempts at cooking together. Though the experience at times is a very individual one, I've also made some of the closest friends of my life. Can't wait to continue sharing the journey with them. Here's to some more American food (pasta anyone?) before returning back to my wonderful Nepali home. 

Mixtures of Gray

 
     Teaching in Nepal has officially become one of those experiences in life that makes me think everything from here on out will be a piece of cake. One of those experiences I think I'll refer back to with appreciation saying - well as least it's not Nepal.

First Grade

The challenges of teaching in Nepal are messy and complicated, like yards of rope all tangled together into a million knots - with me tied up in the center. It's a sticky mess of good and bad, things that you can change and can't change, and mixtures of frustration with joy. But if you learn anything from traveling, viewing other cultures, and from teaching children day after day, it's that the world is not black and white.



               Let's start with the good: my students are slowly, very slowly, learning to do simple addition. They all failed it on the first exam, so I consider this progress a great accomplishment. Two or three have subtraction down as well - though I'm almost positive they don't understand the actual concept of it. My first graders are also picking up vocabulary fast, they are truly little sponges at this age.

My 2nd Grade Class

 More good: My second graders love me. They have started giving me little handmade paper flowers and boats, and always smile when I pass by their room. I've also had fun days with the older students - playing games and explaining material much farther than most teachers do here. I've learning almost all of my first grader's names by now (though I found out there are actually 41 of them, not 34 - they just don't always all come to school). And I've had the joy of seeing an extremely reckless classroom of children fall silent and content to the act of drawing when I gave them each just one crayon (I can't begin to name the things we take for granted in the US).


    The Bad: This list could get long. First of all, the discipline has gotten out of hand. Well, it's always been out of hand, but it's gotten worse... if that's possible. I've seen first grade classrooms in the US before, I know how six-year-olds are capable of acting, but here the bad discipline (aka kids running around everywhere, hitting each other, rubbing their hands on the chalkboard, ect) is seen as normal "baby" behavior and all the teachers do is comment that their head hurts after class and write off the children as naughty. When the teachers do orient the class, they do it by hitting students, sometimes very hard, and pulling on their ears. No wonder the students think it's okay to push and hit each other.

First Grade

    All of my challenges here - uncontrollable classes, lack of materials, extremely diverse abilities in each class -  are connected to everything and everything is connected to them - connected to the poverty, the culture, and the practices at the school.  The bad discipline is connected back to Nepali culture and parenting - where literally every kid whines to get what they want. I see this with my own younger sister and with children in the community. It shows through to the classroom, where I've had one kid repetitively ask me for a pink crayon for literally five minutes straight despite the fact that I very clearly told her that she wasn't getting one.

          The discipline that works in the US doesn't work here well for so many reasons - sending a note home to parents isn't a practice that is done (most of the parents are illiterate), the principal doesn't ever deal with misbehavior, and the huge class sizes make reward systems difficult (not to mention I don't have the language to fully explain them - my star chart only lasted one day before it was ripped down and erased). Because of the discipline, my teaching is falling short. I can't play nearly any classrooms games anymore because of the bad behavior, let alone hand out crayons (literally, they can barely handle one crayon, though I'd like to give them buckets). With my energy taken up herding Samitra back to her seat and grabbing Sushil's arm to keep him from hitting the boy next to him, lessons are cut short and made unsuccessful. After trying star charts, prizes, call and responses, and resorting to lots of yelling over the loud screams and cries of the classroom, I am exhausted. I'm especially exhausted during those times when I feel like I've exhausted all of my options.

          I've sworn a few times in class - the benefit of no one knowing English - and have left a few classes on the edge of tears. But I love my students and teachers too much to give up. And the truth is - my options will never be exhausted. There's always something else to try, something else to do, something else to pull out of my tool box, even when it feels like I'm groping against its empty bottom. And sometimes I may have to let the class go up in flames and just sit in the back teaching one student to count on their fingers, but it's progress none the less. As much as I hate the system I'm stuck in, I know I'm still strong enough to swim through it, no matter how fiercely it's current throws me back.

       I visited one of my favorite student's home today as I have before. Despite the fact that I speak to her in Nepali, she answers all my questions with a "yes" or "no" in a cute Nepali accent. Even though she is only six, she has such strong motivation to learn English, and a loving mother who taught her "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Their one room house only speaks a little to their poverty. With the husband in Dubai, the mother brings water from a well everyday and tends to the vegetables growing near as well as taking care of her children. As I braided Reeya's hair I could tell she had lice and realized there was also no bathroom near the house. I've promised them I would print the pictures I have taken of their family for them, as they have very few pictures in the house and Reeya's mother has no way of documenting her young children's growth. They treated me to what little food they had and asked me to dance to the Nepali music they played. As I walked away from their house encompassed by the mountains, I was reminded that it's students like Reeya that fuel my fire for teaching, no matter what obstacles I may be fighting in the classroom. There are so many people in this world that have been given so little - and if I, who has been given so much, can be a part of giving them at the very least an education, then I will continue to push past challenges in order to do that.


It is frustrating to feel like you are fighting the ones you are trying to help - especially in my class of fifty-four where I can already see that the students in the back of the class have lost their motivation for learning. But when you know they deserve someone to keep fighting for them, that's exactly what you do.

Everyday is different. Some bad, some good... but all are a mixture of gray. It's far from simple.

Beautiful Nepal

 When the internet is strong enough to post pictures in Nepal, that is exactly what you do. Here are some visuals of the beautiful place in which I live.

A River Near Our House

5 day old goats!

Walking with my Ama

Homework with Sachina

Just a walk away

The River

With some students who live nearby

I'm in love with the Mountains


All my love to those back home!! :)