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.