We're Going on a Picnic!

Beautiful students, beautiful view!

I would never have considered going on a picnic at the beginning of December back in the states (a frost-covered Ballard Park in Ridgefield isn’t exactly conducive for lounging in the sun while sipping lemonade…) But yesterday I joined the primary school students and teachers for a field trip to the beautiful village of Prasimkali for a picnic.

Playing on the ping!

I also would not normally consider wearing high heels [especially with the hour-long walk to get there –but some of my students thought differently. When I arrived yesterday morning at the assigned meeting place, everyone was dressed to the nines (I almost didn't recognize one of them without her blue uniform and signature braids with ribbons!)

The students got a bit carried away giving tikka...

  

The front gate of the teacher’s house where we waited couldn’t contain their excitement and they scampered back and forth, practicing their singing and dancing. An hour and half after I was to arrive (another reminder of operating on “Nepali time”) we began the trek out to our picnic spot.

Instead of a simple basket and blanket, all 30 students marched like ants in a line carting heavy loads of rice, chickpeas, and onion above their heads. I swear we brought everything but the kitchen sink, although the cooking pots were bigger than the tap at home.

After visiting the local temples for puja and getting my face was splattered with tikka, it was time to eat. The advice to “come hungry” was appreciated as the teachers filled and refilled plates for seconds and thirds. One brave sixth grader even attempted fifths. Phew. 

Nepali dancing

And after all that eating, what better way to burn off energy than by dancing and play games? In between rounds of hot potato and duck, duck, goose, my fourth and fifth graders showed me how to shake my hips, roll my wrists and jump around in time to the song they dedicated to me (there’s nothing like a personalized song to stroke your ego…) This crazy jump ‘n’ jiving, rock ‘n’ rolling was a reminder of the simple joys that put a smile on my face –and really, how can you not smile when your students' smiles are contagious?  

Giving Thanks

I’m not gonna lie. Living and teaching in a foreign country is hard, especially during the holidays. This Thanksgiving, I left the 1,000+ turkey trotters in Ridgefield to enjoy their chilly 5K race, Al Roker’s always fashionable hats as he gives commentary on the giant Snoopy balloon in the Macy’s parade, and homemade brussell sprouts. For all you sprout haters out there, it’s because you haven’t tasted the ones my mom roasts, brushes with just a touch of olive oil and lemon juice, and sprinkles with salt and pepper. Oof. I’m drooling on my keyboard.

Daily life can be challenging.  Learning a new language can get frustrating. Living with eight other family members can be overwhelming. Well-planned lessons doesn’t always go…well, as planned.

But being in Nepal has also brought me immense joy. I can always count on my students to put a smile on my face. In an effort to spread the Thanksgiving spirit (I don’t know if there is such a thing, but if Christmas gets one, why should Thanksgiving get the short end of the drum stick?), I asked each of my seventh graders to say what they were thankful for during attendance this morning. Amid the repeated responses of “family,” “friends,” and “school,” I was surprised by one quiet 7^th grade girl who was squeezed on a crowded bench against the wall.

“I’m thankful for time,” she said.

Time. Hmm.

Time allows us to grow, to adjust, to create a new “normal” for ourselves. Things that I would consider unusual back in the states have now simply become a way of life. Three hour laundry sessions at the tap (these make me think twice before tossing that kurta into the laundry pile…). Frequent power outages due to Nepal’s loadshedding schedule. Eating with my hands. The sideways headshake to indicate “yes.” My time here has taught me to push past my comfort zone –sometimes wayyyy past –and realize oh, hey! I made it to the other side.

Time allows us to heal. I was devastated last week when I learned one of the grade nine students at my school committed suicide due to a failed love interest because of inter-caste social rules. The girl was 15. And this isn’t the first instance where this happened since I’ve been here. I know things like this happen in the states but it also makes me wonder how much could have been avoided if other social structures were in place (and I say this while trying to be mindful of having an egocentric “western” view). It’s not common in village life to address mental health or offer counseling programs but I’ve started to think about what types of culturally appropriate options could be made available. It’s instances like these that I think only having 4 months left is not nearly long enough.

Time also brings us surprises. While sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner a few nights ago, my aamaa asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. “Uh, sure?” I responded, followed by a muddled Nepali sentence to tell her that I wasn’t sick. No, she explained. My sister-in-law was due to have a baby! As I walked hand-in-hand with her into the delivery room of the only public hospital in town, I realized I just might be witnessing my first birth. I was a bit relieved when a few hours later I was no longer in the delivery room when she gave birth to a healthy baby boy! (He’s not yet been named –feel free to offer up your suggestions here!)

Reflecting on this past year and especially the past few months, I recognize I have much to be thankful for. I am grateful for an incredibly supportive family that has kept me inspired and grounded, even from halfway around the world. I am thankful for my friends who have made me laugh by sending me notes with glimpses of post-grad life, trading late nights and microwave mac’n’cheese for early bedtimes and busy work schedules. I am also fortunate for my new friends and family here in Nepal who have shared in my laugher, occasional frustrations, and have helped me create a sense of community. I recognize how incredibly fortunate I am to have an incredible education and the opportunity to continue to learn from my experiences. 

I, too, am thankful for time. 

What's in a Name?

Ever since kindergarten, the process of roll call has been the same. I wait for the teacher to reach the end of the alphabet and call out “Anne Wen-dell?” I then clarify that I prefer “Annie” –and really it’s Wen-duhl, but not worries –and after jotting down a few notes in the roster book, my name is set for the year. Other than a few nicknames from close friends and roommates, I’ve always been simply “Annie.”

Not so in Nepal.

In just three months here in Gorkha, I have acquired nearly a dozen new nicknames. I’ve learned that Nepali culture is highly relational and that family members have different names, depending on who is addressing them, a cultural practice that made the initial adjustment period very confusing!

At breakfast the morning after I moved in with my host family, my dai gave me my Nepali name “Amisha,” which is a combination of my didis’ (older sisters’) names. “Because you are my fourth sister,” he explained. It was certainly a warm welcome after arriving less than 24 hours before.

Then there is “bhahini,” or younger sister, the name Shanti Didi affectionately uses when she wants me to join her on the roof for morning tea. On the occasion that my aamaa needs help lugging bags of rice up or down the many flights of stairs, Aamaa calls out “Aau, Amisha Bhahadur!” meaning “Come, my strong Amisha!” Although my stomach may not be benefitting from eating all this rice, my arms are certainly getting a workout!

Sometimes I'm even "Amy"...

When I enter the classroom, I immediately become “MISSSS!!!” My students seem to think if they repeat my name louder than their neighbor, I will immediately rush to their assistance and unfortunately my classroom management skills to demonstrate otherwise are still a work in progress. But it doesn’t end there. There’s even nicknames in the staffroom. The senior female teacher uses a pet name to check in with me every morning, “Thik chha, kanchi churi?” referring to me as her little girl.

I arrive home from school every day to a small welcoming party in front of the shop. Bauju, my sister-in-law, pats the stool next to her, motioning for me to sit. “For Annie myaah,” “Annie my love,” she says. However I don’t usually remain sitting for long; Stutat will grab at my hands, hoping to pull me to a nearby shop for an afternoon chocolate fix. “Enu!” he calls out, a combination of “Nunu,” or “big sis” and Annie –I’m still not quite sure how that one evolved, but it has stuck!

In addition to learning to respond to all these new names, I’ve also made progress in learning more of the names of my (nearly) 150 students (although I still get mixed up with the Sanjita, Sunita, Sasita and three Saritas that are all in class seven!). It’s slow going but has lead to great results now that I’m able to personally engage students in the classroom!

How rice is harvested?

After eating mountains of rice for two meals a day since arriving in Gorkha (that’s over 150 platefuls), I figured it was time to figure out where, exactly, this rice was coming from.

Jeanie, Kelly, and I made the trek to the neighboring village of Swara to see the endless steps of rice paddies and to pick a few of the famous Swara oranges.

Our question was answered during our impromptu “tour” of the fields given to us by the husband of Jeanie’s co-teacher. He explained how rice is harvested between October and December, using only a sickle, and spread out to dry in the sun. It is then gathered into bundles and beaten against the ground to separate the grains from the stalks. Unfortunately, rice harvesting is also the reason many of our students won’t be showing up to school during these next few weeks. Families may require their children to stay at home, rather than going off to school, to help in the fields while the crops are ripe.

As our tour continued, I was a bit embarrassed to admit that my knowledge of fruit-bearing trees is mostly limited to the produce aisle in the grocery store. Our guide pointed out every tree we walked by, and asked, “Taha chha? Do you know?”

Each time we scanned the branches, looking for a plump, if somewhat unripe, answer to his question. The banana and orange trees were easy and the pineapple plant was unique enough to spot. But the root plants were a bit more challenging. I’ve never seen a ginger plant before but was promptly introduced. We even enjoyed fresh peanuts, straight from the field. He dug them right out of the ground, and after brushing off some of the dirt, dropped a few into our hands. They were the most delicious peanuts I’ve had. No roasting. No salt. Just a few grains of dirt to give them a little crunch. Mmm-mm!

Like every good tour guide, our friend saved the best surprise for last (and no, we never ended up in an overpriced gift shop). We rounded the corner and came across a giant wooden rotating ping swing, which resembles a Ferris wheel with swings for seats. Two men were busy operating it by quickly jumping on each of the spokes as it circled by, making the kids scream with delight as they flew precariously through the air. After some pushing and shoving by the crowd that had gathered, the three of us found ourselves clinging our small benches and hurdling around in circles –picture an old rickety rollercoaster without seatbelts!

Christmas, Continued

November 1

If Dashain felt like Christmas, then the five-day Tihar festival here in Gorkha bazaar was like being in the North Pole –and not because of the temperature (although it has started to get cold enough to see my breath during my morning walks).

Houses and shops were decked out with strings of lights, some which flashed and a few fancy ones even played music. On one occasion I swear I heard the tinkle of “Silent Night.” Instead of the reindeer statues and inflatable Frostys scattered across front lawns, families crafted rangalas on the cement steps in front of their houses. I watched my dai as he carefully drew the outline of a pointsetta-looking flower and fill it in with colored powder. And then it was my turn. Although the result wasn’t as elegant (I had “help” from my 3-year old brother), I got the seal of approval from some of the neighbors who had gathered around to watch.

Tihar is the annual Nepali festival of bread and light celebrated after Dashain, thus prolonging the holiday season (and an additional excuse for a school holiday!). Families once again gather for celebration, worshipping various animals, gift giving, and eating.

The plates of meat during Dashain were replaced with baskets of roti, a type of fried dough, made especially for Tihar. The preparation process reminded me of days spent in the kitchen decorating Christmas cookies…although we traded frosting and sprinkles for bags of frying oil. We filled an entire room with this sweet, greasy treat–even more than a week later, I’ve continued to feed off of the seemingly never-ending supply!

At home, my family often spends Christmas Eve peering out of frosty windows pointing out blinking airplane taillights to our youngest cousin, whispering, “Look! It’s Rudolph’s nose!” During Tihar, however, we were in search of a different four-legged friend. Cows are sacred here in Nepal (to kill a cow means an immediate jail sentence, which has made the concept of a hamburger a bit difficult to explain…). On the day of gia puja, “cow prayer,” Stutat and I walked hand-in-hand through the neighborhood to find a one of these holy animals. Breaking off our rachahbandhan bracelets we received two months ago, we fed the cow some freshly fried roti as a distraction while tying the bracelet threads to its tail. According to Hindu culture, this ensures your entrance into heaven.

But cows weren’t the only ones getting decorated for the holiday. On ‘brother/sister day,’ the males in my family received not one, not two, but seven different colored tikka in a line down their foreheads. My three other sisters and I carefully applied these powders after draping strings of popcorn and flower malas around their necks and handing them baskets of dried fruit and nuts. My dai explained how this holiday of gift-giving is meant to strengthen the bond between brothers and sisters (Bobby and Eliza, get ready for when I get home!). And in return, my dai presented me with a gift of two beautiful bronze Newari vases “to take home so I will always remember my Nepali family.”

And then ther's my 73-year old aamaa
playing on the "ping"!

And who can forget music and dancing? During the evenings for these five days (and “unofficially” for some days after!), a special dosirae song could be heard tinkling through various parts of the village. Like Christmas caroling, groups of children and adults alike dressed in their warmest attire and gathered in front of doorways and shops to sing, dance –and grab unsuspected foreigners who just wanted to watch. Yes, my fame from Teej earned me hours of dancing with my 10^th grade students in the middle of the streets. It’s tradition for dancers to show off their rehearsed moves until shop owners and residents bring out plates of rice, roti and rupees. The longer they dance, the more money they receive. Basically your Nepali dance marathon!

Tigers, Politicians, and Other Hairy Animals

When I last spoke to Mom on the phone, she asked me, “Have you seen any cool wildlife in Gorkha?”

Unfortunately the routine spotting of goats, cows, buffalo, pigs, chicken, spiders, lizards, dogs, and cats isn’t much to write home about. Even the occasional monkey sighting around school has become my new norm.

But there’s a rumor that a big, scary dumsi can be found wandering around the neighborhood. It’s a terrifying monster that has sharp claws, big eyes, and prickly “fur.” And it seems to make an appearance whenever Stutat starts acting up.

It’s English name: porcupine.

It took me about a month to understand that the dumsi that conveniently “lives” in the house behind ours is the fictional threat used the minute Stutat begins one of his temper tantrums. “Oh, you better stop, Stutat –the dumsi will hear you! Oh, Dumsi! Please come take Stutat away!” my Dai will call. Essentially it’s the Nepali boogyman for children.

Although the dumsi might be a fictional threat to keep Stutat in check, the tigers that have been spotted roaming in the neighborhood where Jeanie and I go for our morning walks are real! Lions and tigers and bears –oh my! Now I know we’re not in Kansas anymore, but I hadn’t exactly made a plan if I should happen upon a tiger in Gorkha. My knowledge of how to manage a wild tiger is pretty much limited to The Life of Pi and The Hangover, neither of which will be very helpful if a Nepalese tiger decides we would make a good morning meal. Needless to say, we’ve since altered our route for the time being…

However, tigers aren’t the only thing that have altered travel plans in Gorkha. Now that Dashain is over, election season is well underway. On November 19^th, citizens will vote for members of Congress to form the first Nepali Constitutional Assembly. After a history of political unrest and national conflict that ended a decade ago, there has been movement to make Nepal a democratic state and forming this Constitutional Assembly would be a big step in that direction. It is the second attempt at a national constitution after the first assembly four years ago failed to bring about a formal document.

With over 100 political parties (my teachers are amazed when I explain the bi-partisan politics of the U.S.), Nepali politicians have their own methods of campaigning. Last week Gorkha had a traffic bhund, where all traffic was stopped from leaving or entering Gorkha as one of the parties held a demonstration just up the street from my house. Posters were pasted to every available flat surface and houses and shops were decorated with flags.

Although it has been interesting to observe the campaign season of another country, it has made teaching challenging. There are two more weeks to go until election day, but already teachers have been warned that there will be school closures for political bhunds and election official trainings leading up to the big day. Fingers crossed we’ll be able to keep a regular schedule long enough to get through the lesson in passive voice for grade 6…

Some Days You're the Teacher...And Some Days You're the Student

I remember the shock I first received back in elementary school when I ran into one of my teachers outside of school. What? You mean they don’t live in that mysterious room down the hall called the “Staff Lounge”? They wear normal clothes like everyone else? They get their groceries at Stop & Shop? Is that even allowed??

However, in Nepal, if you happen to step outside onto the roof in your pajamas to catch a glimpse of the valley in the early morning light, you will get students raising their hands to ask about your choice of sleepwear during period 1 English class. Sometimes they show up in your living room with their older siblings for tea. And there’s nothing quite like having one of your 6^th graders help wash your socks and underwear at the local tap…

Before coming to Nepal, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of washing clothes by hand. I spent many mosquito-filled mornings in the Solomon Islands scrubbing away at my skirts, knowing that by the time I arrived at school, I’d inevitably be drenched in sweat. To save money, I used the sink in my South African apartment on more than one occasion. But I should’ve known by the disastrous red dye incident back in Kathmandu that washing clothes here in Nepal would be a bit more challenging than I anticipated. 

The problem seems to be that every person has a slightly different way they choose to wash their clothes. Some people rinse under the running water. Others first soak in suds. Then there’s the choice between scrubbing on the ground or on the raised concrete blocks around the tap. And this isn’t even taking into account the personal preference of the red or green bars of soap sold in the market.

I know that if I combine water, soap, and a little elbow grease, my clothes will (hopefully) be cleaner than when I arrive at the sunken stone tap. However, each person has a different opinion on how the confused American should wash her clothes. This morning it was one of my 6^th graders who came to my rescue, grabbing my bundle of kurtas and expertly going to work with the bar of soap. Despite my attempts at lending a hand, she insisted on doing each piece herself, giving me instructions (in Nepali, of course) of the ‘right’ way to do it.

After an hour of dunking and scrubbing, brushing and wringing, I had soaked clothes, pruney hands, and deflated ego. But most importantly, I had clean clothes. Although now looking back, perhaps I should have been taking notes…there might be a pop quiz at the tap next weekend…

Trick-or-Treat!

October 31

If you’ve never attempted to explain the concept of Halloween and trick-or-treating to someone who is unfamiliar with the holiday, you may not realize how absurd it sounds.

Kids seek out the scariest costume they can find –the more fake blood and guts, the better –and are sent out into the dark night to knock on strangers’ doors and return hyped up on an unhealthy amount of sugar with the high likelihood they will wake in the middle of the night with nightmares.

Hmm.

Although this wasn’t exactly the way we portrayed the holiday to our 10^th grade ACCESS students at our Halloween program, it made me think about the holidays and how we choose to celebrate them in the U.S. After many hours of planning with the other ETAs, our program was a hit. Our students enjoyed ghost stories, mask making and Halloween themed English grammar lesson (yes, yes, you role your eyes, but we first won them over with candy!).

My attempts to introduce a few Halloween “essentials” to my Nepali family were not quite as successful. At home, my family would spend a few hours huddled around the kitchen table, each person planning the perfect jack-o-lantern design. As we got older the designs got more and more intricate (sometimes to Dad’s chagrin, since he would be left with carving the itty bitty cutouts we insisted upon).

So, I thought, what better way to introduce Halloween than carving a jolly ol’ Jack for the kitchen table? However, after setting up the carving station and going to look for a knife (it seems like this is one thing our handy dandy chulessi isn’t suitable for), I returned to the kitchen to find that my soon to be jack-o-lantern was turned into dinner!

The way I see it, my family is simply getting into the Halloween spirit with the trick-or-treating! Perhaps we’ll have a bit more luck celebrating Thanksgiving…

I Have the Chicken Pox

 …or at least my fifth graders think so!

It all started the day Laxman-sir, my headmaster, walked into the staffroom and asked, “So, how do you feel about teaching science?”

Heck, as long as it’s not math, I’ll give it a go, I thought. The previous science teacher was recently reassigned to another school, leaving grades 4 and 5 without a science teacher. I gladly accepted the request, already picturing simple, but fun, experiments to try with the students. Baking soda volcanoes. Balloon rockets. 3-D solar system models. How difficult could it be?

Opening up to the lesson I was supposed to teach, I was given a rude awakening. Communicable and non-communicable diseases. Woof. Scanning the list, I realized the easiest way to explain things like whooping cough, mumps, and measles to my students would be through acting out symptoms. Which worked perfectly until we got to “chicken pox.”

“They’re spots on your skin that itch,” I explained, motioning to my arms and face. The students faces changed from mild interest to surprise to horror before they started whispering among themselves and looking nervously at me.

“Miss! Miss! You have chicken pox?!” brave Purnima asked for the rest of the class. She gestured wildly at my nose and cheeks. “Spots!”

And this is what happens, folks, when you don’t have enough Nepali to explain the difference between chicken pox and freckles…

Dashain: Mountains, Meat, and Mighty Ghars

18 October

Ladies and gentlemen, I can officially say I saw the famous Himalayas! The glimpses over the past few weeks pale in comparison to the stunning peaks that I saw as the clouds parted in Nargakot. They were so perfectly clear we could have been staring at a green screen. And yes, I am aware I just implied the Himalayas look “fake”…

We spent the first few days of Dashain re-visitng Kathmandu (it’s amazing how a few weeks of language practice can boost your confidence when bargaining for a hotel room!) before passing through to Nargakot, a town famous for its mountain views.  We fought off tarantula-sized spiders, rabid dogs, and crowded buses for the view–and it was all completely worth it!

Before I had the chance to unpack upon returning home, Didi swept me out the door with Stutat, Spandan, and my niece, Urmica, to watch the religious parade that kicks off the start of Dashain. I climbed to what felt to be the top of Gorkha with Stutat clinging to my back – essentially trading a full trekking pack for my 3-year-old brother– to watch the preparations for the parade. Instead of clearing the path, like I had anticipated, a small crowd gathered to coat the stone stairs with cow dung! “They’re cleaning the stairs,” Didi told me in Nepali. “A Nepali vacuum!”

One of the biggest aspects of Dashain is wearing tikka, which is made from a red rice paste and applied to the forehead. The elders in my family and around the village doled out this concoction which covered my entire forehead for three days, temporarily turning my skin pink and unfortunately giving everyone the impression I was constantly blushing! In addition to tikka, elders give paisa, or money, during Dashain and the amount varies according to your age. Unlike in the states where financial information is usually a private matter, it is not uncommon for Nepalis to ask, “How much did that cost?” or “How much do you make?” So I shouldn’t have been surprised when at the end of the day, the family gathered to compare how much everyone had collected. (Perhaps it’s because I have Halloween on my mind, but it reminded me of returning home from trick-or-treating and taking inventory of the night’s booty. Adults included!)

Dashain is the time of year when family returns home to celebrate with one another, so I joined my host family on a trip to Chitwan, where my bauyju’s mighty ghar, or material home, is located. The trip gave me the opportunity to try out all kinds of Nepali transportation: a bus packed so full there were people hanging out of the open door and perched precariously on the roof (believe it or not, we never lost anyone on the three hour pot hole-filled trip back from Chitwan…at least that I know of…), minibus, tuk tuk, rickshaw, a car that was dangerously close to being out of gas miles away from the nearest petrol pump, and motorbike. (I wish I had a picture of four people squeezed on the seat, bags dangling from the handlebars and a pink umbrella waving frantically overhead to shield us from the rain!) Had there been an elephant available, we may just have hopped on that too!

And eating. There. Was. So. Much. Meat. I think I may have eaten more in one meal than the PC Yuck Truck serves during an entire weekend. My usual strategy to eat faster than my brain can process what my stomach is doing backfired when even more meat was loaded onto my plate because my hosts assumed, “Gee! She must be hungry!” During Dashain there was plenty of meat to go around; at one temple in Kathmandu alone, worshippers watched as 14,721 goats were sacrificed over the course of the day. 14,721. In one day. I’m glad I was able to sit that one out.

And after 15 days of holiday, school will be back in full swing!

A is for Amala

October 4

Amalas. They’re weird little fruits that look a lot like grapes and get their name from “amilo” (sour), which describes their taste perfectly. The first time I was handed one by my teacher, I popped it into my mouth thinking it was its sweet, plump look-alike. I couldn’t be more wrong.

It was hard, like candy, and should be sucked, not chewed, which I learned the hard way after almost chipping a back molar. The teacher must have noticed my mouth pucker in surprise because she laughed and said (a little too late), “Amilo! Amilo! Dheri amilo!” As the sour juices hit the back of my throat, I was immediately reminded of the contests Bobby and I used to have with sour Cry Baby candies. On the scale of sour raspberry to black cherry, this one topped them all.

In Gorkha, amalas are as common as apples, and students present handfuls of them to their teachers as gifts. By the end of first period, the pocket of my uniform was bulging with these sour treats. “Amala mon parcha?” my students asked, excitedly. “Do you like amalas?” I replied yes, stretching the truth a bit, figuring that the taste would grow on me after I finished the pile stashed against my hip. However, this may not have been the best response –they brought even more the following day!

While the gifts of amala may have been an act of pure goodwill, I realized later they could also have been a means of softening me up for the chaos that was about to ensue in the classroom. Like in the states, my students’ attention span has been getting shorter and shorter as the holidays draw near. And let me assure you, it’s even more difficult when you don’t have the proper language skills for classroom management! By Thursday, it was all I could do to keep my 5^th graders from flying out the door. They could only be entertained by making play-dough replicas of their Dashain feats (other than being blue, their roti, chow mein, and momo sculptures were spot on!). And Friday, the teachers didn’t even attempt to teach and instead held a school clean-up day, which lasted half of first period. Before leaving, my students crowded around to shake my hand and offer a “Happy Bijaya Dasami, Miss!” The smile on my face was bigger and cheesier than usual as they danced me out the door and waved goodbye, their bookbags flapping behind them as they raced home. 

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

It may be the last day of Septmeber, but my socially unacceptable habits of breaking out the Christmas carols well before the last Thanksgiving turkey drumstick has been picked clean have made me acutely aware of the festive atmosphere that’s spreading through the bazaar.

This can only mean one thing –Dashain!

The shopkeepers have dusted off their finest wares and are displaying them from hanging wires, on front steps, and even on their heads! With it being such an important time in the year for business (Black Friday, anyone?), I was honored to be promoted to “head shopkeeper” in my family’s shop this morning before school while everyone ran errands. And when I say sole shopkeeper, I mean that if anyone lingered outside looking even remotely interested, I pitched them my rehearsed speech in Nepali: “Hello! How are you? What are you looking for?” More often than not they were shocked that a foreigner was 1.) keeping shop and 2.) speaking Nepali. However, they then proceeded to reply with a list of items I don’t know the names of and/or where to find them between the stacks of buckets, bowls, and bottles of cleaner and I had to scurry upstairs to find someone to take care of the business transaction.

But Dashain is more than just the “SALE!” advertisements in the local paper. Like Christmas, it’s a time for visiting family, relaxing, and of course eating. I will be traveling with my family to visit extended family in Chitwan, learning how to cook Nepali dishes, wearing a langi, and trying not to get in the way of all the animal sacrifices right outside my front door...

Stay tuned for festival updates!

…And some days you end up with goat’s head soup…

Forest Gump had it right when he said “ Life’s like a box of chocolates –you never know what you’re gonna get.”

Over the course of the last five weeks here in Gorkha, I recognize a number of my Western habits that have become apparent. One of the biggest realizations has been my dependence on a schedule, timetable, or some sort of fixed “norm” around which I can plan my daily activities. I’ve spent considerable time and energy trying to figure out who in my family does what and when to try and fit into their routine as seamlessly as possible. However, this has been near to impossible because life in Nepal has been full of surprises…

Sometimes its waking up to a parade outside your window –a parade of hundreds of men dressed in white, marching single file down the street, blowing horns, banging drums and leading a few dozen goats to their sacrificial demise.

Sometimes it’s arriving home from school to find that your three-year-old brother has fallen into your toilet. (Thank goodness the spider is gone –there wouldn’t be enough room for both of them!)

Sometimes it’s in the staffroom while you’re planning a lesson. Suddenly the bell rings, the students race from the school (despite there being two periods left) and voila! An unexpected half-day. The teachers then proceed to dress you up in traditional costume and have a heated discussion of finding you a suitable Nepali husband.

Sometimes it’s in the classroom when your back is turned. One of my grade 6 troublemakers took the opportunity to steal my blue sticky tack I was using for an activity, thinking it was chewing gum. (I found the culprit pretty easily –despite his vehement head shaking, there was a trail of blue string leading up to his mouth…) Other times you find yourself jumping off a desk in the front of the classroom trying to act out vocabulary in the story "The Greedy Fox." Never in my life did I think I'd be dressed in a hot pink kurta uniform, wearing a homemade fox mask, leaping from a wooden bench in front of 65 twelve year olds!

Thanks Lauren for these words of wisdom!

Co-teaching in action

Sometimes you don’t even make it to school. Although I’ve reached the five week mark, I’m still waiting to log in a full week of teaching. When I first found out that classes run from Sunday to Friday, I was initially surprised to only get one day off. However, between exams, festivals, and the bhundhs (political strikes that are a result of the upcoming November Congressional elections), there seems to be one reason after another why classes are cancelled. It’s kind of like getting snow days in the middle of summer!

...And sometimes, if you’re my friend Jeanie, it’s at the dinner table when you find yourself staring at a steaming bowl of goat’s head soup! 

Ukus Mukus Bhayo

Yes, it sounds a lot like a weird spell -throw in a little "bubble, bubble, toil and trouble" and you can pretty much picture Bette Midler from Hocus Pocus dressed in her crazy witch wardrobe. 

But in Nepali, it literally translates to "I was so full I was suffocating" and have used this phrase daily since learning it. Between Nepali lessons with my dai, language immersion at home and flipping through flashcards in the staff room during free periods, I've started to expand my conversational Nepali beyond introductions. I can understand basic conversations i overhear on the street AND can negotiate a better price in the shop up the street for photocopying my class lessons. I even fooled my older host brother, who lives in Australia, that I was fluent when he called this morning. (That is, until he went off in Nepali and I had to admit defeat.)

On Thursday, as I sat with a full plate of vegetable curry and beaten rice during tiffin break at school (it's really a wonder how in the world I'm ever hungry when I return home!), some of the staff wanted to know how much dhal bhaat I am served at meals. "Dheri, dheri khaana!" I replied, motioning with my hands to a pretend mountain of rice. "Ukus mukus bhayo!"

What I didn't expect was for the entire staff room to erupt in laughter, with everyone pointing, saying, "Did you hear her?! Ukus mukus bhayo!"
"Amisha-miss, you speak perfect Nepali. We are so proud of you," said Ananta-sir. 

While far from perfect, I appreciated the compliment and it has served as motivation to continue with my Nepali practice. That and the fact that I need some way to manage my 62 sixth graders on the days I teach alone...

Teej!

8 September 

…Otherwise known as the festival where I was pushed on stage to dance in front of the entire village of Gorkha and interviewed for the local radio station. In Nepali, of course!

It began with a 5am start Saturday morning when my baujyu ushered me out of bed to begin preparation for the Teej women’s festival. Wrapped, re-wrapped, and re-re-wrapped in a bright red sari, I had a firsthand account of how my Barbie dolls used to feel as I was primped, pinned, and prodded by every member of the family, who each had their own opinion of how the drape should fold and skirt should tuck. Just when I thought I was ready to go, my dai rushed in with a bag of hair supplies. An hour later, he had fixed me a beautiful prom-worthy hairstyle that required more bobby pins than I used for my junior and senior formals. Combined. I donned a bunch of borrowed gold jewelry (so much so that I was not allowed to walk around by myself in case I was mugged. Very subtle.) and was ready for the walk to the NELTA office, where the ETAs assist with extra English programs and cultural activities. And Teej was a cultural event we were told we didn’t want to miss.

Once a year, Nepali women return to their mighty garr (maternal homes) and celebrate with singing, dancing, and showing off their finest outfits. Oh, and fasting. It is customary for women to spend the day fasting for the long life of their husbands and after 3 weeks of mountains of rice, I was ready to welcome the short reprieve. I was informed that morning, however, my family does not practice that tradition when a bigger than usual rice peak arrived on the table in front of me. Apologies to my future husband –looks like you’re not off the hook for exercising and healthy eating…

We spent the day dancing with our students, feasting on Teej dar (rice pudding and vegetable curry) before returning home to rest and repeat the next day. Following the throngs of elegantly dressed women to the nearby temple, my didi and I passed some of my students along the way.

“Raamro nacchnu! Dheri dheri raamro nacchnu,” they all giggled, pointing at me. “Beautiful dancing.”

Why, thank you, I thought. This caused my didi to speak enthusiastically (read: so quickly it was beyond comprehension) although I was able to catch bits and pieces. Dancing. Stage. Camera. Photo. America.

Yes, I thought. I’m definitely going to take plenty of photos to show my family and friends at home.

Ten minutes later when I found myself being pulled onto the stage, I realized that my translation had been a bit off… I was the one that would be dancing on stage. When the split-second moment of panic wore off, I pretended I knew what I was doing and mimicked the dancers around me –then added in some moves of my own. (If you see any future Nepali music videos featuring moves that look suspiciously like the Macarana with a few wrist flicks and hip shakes, you can probably guess why…)

Smiling and sweating, I made my way to the stage steps once the music finally slowed. But before I could escape to freedom, the MC grabbed my arm and pushed a microphone at my face.

“Just a few questions,” her voice crackled over a dozen loudspeakers positioned around the grounds. “Can you tell us you’re name, where you’re from and how you like the Teej festival?”

I silently thanked Prava-ji for her month of language training and the ability to respond in Nepali.

“Mero naam Amisha Shrestha ho ra mero desh America ho. Yo dheri dheri raamilo chaa!”

Even hours later, Didi was still laughing and showing me off to everyone we passed. “FM radio! FM radio!” she called out, again pointing to me. Not only did all of Gorkha witness my dancing, but for anyone missing out at home, they could tune into my radio interview. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how one slightly confused and overwhelmed, yet excited American got her Nepali claim to fame!