Wow.

“This is why I believe in the discipline of travel. It does something to the soul that no other activity can touch. It stretches your mind and perspective in new and extraordinary ways. I travel to remember that I'm not complete. That's why I travel. I travel to grow.” 

- Jeff Goins

For the past few years, Eliza and I have been in fierce competition for the title of “the tallest Wendel sister.” At 5’4” I’m not exactly towering above friends and family members, and I was warned that I’d be surpassed by the time I returned home from Nepal. (This turned out to be trash talk, since the latest “official” measurement proved that I do, in fact, still have the upper hand…but who’s keeping track, anyway?)

Although traveling hasn’t granted me any sort of height advantage, it has forced me to grow in other ways. Besides learning patience, flexibility and courage, I’ve spent the past 9 months practicing saying, “wow.”

One syllable. Three letters.

Anne Lamott writes how “wow” can be used as a simple, one word prayer. “Wow” means we are not dulled to wonder. “Wow” means we lack the words or even understanding of what it all means and how it fits into our worldview. “Wow” means we are truly experiencing the beauty of the present moment.

I like to think of these moments as “wow moments.”

Mandip, Class 4

Class 4 after painting my
face with tikka

During this last month, my heart has been filled with joy and wonder during daily wow moments. Some were big, like witnessing the entire neighborhood come out to wish me farewell as my bags were loaded into our van to travel back to Kathmandu. Some were small, like having a grade five student grab my hand to tie a homemade bracelet around my wrist on my last day. There were quiet wow moments overlooking Gorkha bazaar from the roof of my house, laundry fluttering on the lines and the growl of motorbikes distant on the street below. And some were alive with energy and laughter when my sixth graders pulled out portable speakers (never mind that they would often forget to bring their books!) and transformed our classroom into a jumping, shimmying, twirling dance floor.

My class 5 clowns!

These wow moments evoke emotion because of active surrender. It requires you to leave behind expectations and be open to unthinkable possibilities, the beauty of surprise, the gift of a new day. Before leaving Nepal, I read an article written by Eric Weiner about the wonder of travel and stumbling upon what he calls “thin places.” These are places that inspire wow moments; they can be challenging, confusing, and force us to confront things within ourselves. Thin places, in their uniqueness, reveal to us our inner self.

After finishing the school year in Gorkha, the other ETAs and I went exploring for our own thin places.

 

I found my thin place at the top of Kyanjin Ri in Langtang, Nepal. Our trekking group had followed the Langtang River for two days in and out of bamboo forests and rhododendron trees, reaching our base camp of Kyanjin Gompa. Struggling with altitude sickness, I summitted on my own, stopping often to catch my breath and fight off waves of dizziness. Yet, the prayer flags waving above spurred me on and finally reaching the peak at 4,779 meters, I saw Langtang valley open out before me:

Sand Dunes
Mui Ne, Vietnam

From the mountains to the beaches, we headed into the heat and chaos of Vietnam and Cambodia. Feeling the warm salt water of the Pacific Ocean kiss my toes. Wow. Leaping from rolling red sand dunes. Wow. Balancing precariously on bamboo ‘monkey bridges.’ Wow. Weaving through the bustle of activity in the early morning floating market. Wow.

Floating Market
Can Tho, Vietnam

Monkey Bridge
Can Tho, Vietnam

Angkor Wat
Siem Reap, Cambodia

I picked my way through 900-year old ruins in Angkor Wat and leaned over the sheer drop at the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. But what I’ve come to appreciate is that wow moments can be found anywhere. It was the moment of "ahhh" as I stepped through my familiar front door. It was the feeling of crawling beneath the sheets, my head finally hitting the pillow in my own bed. It's sitting in the sun on the deck with a cup of tea and my dog. It’s a mentality, not a plane ticket, which creates a sense of wonder and adoration for the beautiful moments in life. And being in Nepal has taught me to daily open up to these transformative moments.

Wow. 

 

Cliffs of Moher
Ireland

Under Construction

On one particular trip back from Kathmandu, I arrived home to a pile of rubble on the front steps and concrete brick pieces plummeting from the roof of my house. The sky is falling! I thought, living my own “Chicken Little” reality. Neighbors shouted warnings from a huddled group across the street where they sat with cups of afternoon chiya and watched the construction process.

And what a process it has been.

Since my arrival, our house has undergone a dramatic facelift –inside and out. Metal stair railings have been installed, which has significantly lowered the risk of falling down six flights during the dark load shedding hours. Walls have been knocked down, ceilings temporarily removed (not without the unfortunate downpour of rain) and coats of fresh paint applied to walls, doors, insides of cabinets –pretty much anything that is smooth enough for paint to stick to. The rickety bamboo scaffolding attached to the front of the house has become an important directional landmark when describing where I live to inquisitive community members.

Despite the dramatic renovations, however, I hardly notice these changes any more. Although it’s initially surprising to find the kitchen temporarily moved upstairs for a weekend, I’ve come to expect change. It may be the result of living in another country with a new language, culture, and traditions to learn and understand. Arriving in Nepal was a little like shaking the foundation of a house to check for stability, shedding light on my previous assumptions and making room for new understanding.

I’d like to think my mentality is like the newly finished living room that was recently completed. The smell of new paint tickles your nose. Dirty feet have not yet stained the carpet. Full-length curtains create a muted, peaceful glow. Instead, my mindset more closely resembles the first floor entranceway; dark, musty, and loaded with metal luggage trunks, it’s an unfinished storeroom for things that don’t yet have a place. I’m still making sense of many of my experiences, which are jumbled in my head like the boxes of rice cookers among the other shop merchandise. Making meaning is a messy, ongoing learning process, and like the house construction, one that won’t be completed by the time I leave.

This week I begin my transition. It is a week of “lasts.” The last “Tuesday Tea” reflection with the ETAs. My last time doing laundry at the tap (perhaps this is one I may not miss quite so much). My last morning run to watch the sun rise from Children’s Park. The last morning assembly at school.

It’s a transition that my family members, students, staff and I have a difficult time facing. “Don’t forget about us,” say they all say. With limited Nepali I try to explain that there is no way I could; they have been a part of my life for the past seven months and have directly impacted how I’ve chosen to act and react to things around me. And while transitions are hard – even when they promise to bring the joy of seeing family and friends back home – they are a necessary part of life. I return to a quote that I read when I first arrived in Nepal and ironically is once again applicable as I prepare to leave:

“Let go of the ways you thought life would unfold; the holding of plans or dreams or expectations –let it all go. Save your strength to swim with the tide. The choice to fight what is here before you now will only result in struggle, fear, and desperate attempts to flee from the energy you long for. Let go.

Let it all go and flow with the grace that washes through your days, whether you receive it gently or with all your quills raised to defend against invaders.

Take this on faith: the mind may never find the explanations that it seeks, but you will move forward nonetheless. Let go, and the wave’s crest will carry you to unknown shores, beyond your wildest dreams or destinations. Let it all go and find the place of rest and peace and certain transformation.” 

Shave and a Haircut

I walk past a barbershop on my way to school every day. Even at 9am, it is bustling with activity and groups of men gather around the two simple stools with steaming cups of Nepali chiya from the teashop next door. Peter, another ETA, swears by the 30-cent shaves and praises the invigorating head massages (which, as a bystander, actually look quite painful, so we just take his word for it!).

Yet, last week I discovered that some of my students prefer to skip out on trips to the barbershop in favor of more “original” hairstyles.

Walking into class 6 (yes, the same students who will be hiding away in my duffle bags), my eye immediately landed on Rishi, who was sitting in the front row. What IS that on his chin? I thought.

“Cheers, Miss!” he said mischievously, extending his hand for our daily high-five greeting. As I neared the bench, I could see it was an inch-long lock of hair attached below his lower lip by a piece of Scotch tape.

“Rishi? What…Why…Whose hair is that?” I asked. He grinned up at me, causing half of his makeshift beard to detach from his chin, and shrugged. The sudden commotion from the back of the room, however, immediately revealed the culprits.  

It turns out I had walked into the “Grade Six Shree Mahendra Jyoti Barbershop,” which in the short gap between classes had been full of interested customers. The remnants of this business endeavor were not limited to homemade goatees; a group of boys now sported rather patchy haircuts from a pair of old, rusty sewing scissors.

Needless to say, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I introduced the adjective unit a few weeks back. We started by going around the room, talking about hair –color, length and texture – and they enjoyed making up motions to the following chant:

“People, people, many people

All shapes and sizes

Some are short

And some are tall

Some have long curly hair

And some have none all.”

While I admire my students’ entrepreneurial spirit, I’m a bit relieved I got to class before my barbershop boys had a chance to test out the last line!

Dear Mom and Dad,

I may be coming home with more than just the typical yak wool mittens and prayer flag souvenirs. There are a lot of them –sixty-four to be exact –and can’t be easily stuffed into my luggage along with my hiking boots and sleeping bag.

You see, my sixth grade class may or may not believe that they’ll be coming home with me…

It started out as a casual lesson on future tense. We were working on a writing exercise using “I will” sentences to talk about future holiday plans. To get them started, I posted prompts on the board: Where will you go? With whom will you go? Where will you stay? How long will you be visiting?

As I walked around the classroom, a group of chatty girls were unusually quiet, scribbling away in their notebook, whispering and giggling with one another. I asked what they were planning to do for their holiday.

In her typical, dramatic fashion, Diya proudly stood up and read, “I will go to U.S.A. with Annie Miss and I will travel in her bag. I will stay in Annie Miss’s house for two years. I will find a job and live there.”

Before she could sit down, hands shot up around the classroom. “Me too, Annie Miss! I’m coming too!” they started shouting.

Jokingly, I told them I didn’t think the airline would let me on with that many bags.

But my sixth graders are quick problem solvers and without missing a beat, they started choosing partners to share a piece of luggage with. “See Annie Miss? We can all fit on the plane!”

This is just a warning in case I’m stalled for a while at the baggage claim making sure I didn’t lose Rishi, Sourmaya, Kailash, Anousha, Sasita, Dammer, Umesh and the rest of the grade six stowaways…

Why Are You Smiling?

Returning home from my morning run, I was a few shops away from a cold bucket bath and a hot glass of tea when I was approached by a group of students.

“Why are you smiling?” one of the oldest ones asked in perfect English.

Quite honestly, I didn’t even realize that I had a cheesy grin spread across my face. I was so surprised by the unexpected question in a language I could understand that I didn’t think about the answer until much later.

Why am I smiling?

Smiling is an expression of appreciation and wonder –including the everyday things. At the point, I’ve passed the honeymoon stage we ETAs experienced upon arrival, our heads swiveling back and forth as we exclaimed “Look at that!” and “Did you see that?!” (Ok, I’ll admit I was still shocked to find a goat’s head on our front step last week…) Growing accustomed to life in Nepal, I’ve been able to notice the more subtle things that are just as, if not more, beautiful and inspiring as the giant stupas and waving prayer flags.

Things like watching little Supreme take his first wobbly steps outside the shop next door. Getting air high-fives across the soccer field from my biggest troublemaker in sixth grade. Having Spandan climb into bed with me, showing off the homemade picture book she made in school. Hearing cheers coming from the grade nine classroom when they found out I would be teaching their free period. Seeing the look on my headmaster’s face as he walked by my classroom as I had a student’s leg elevated on a desk and “bandaged” with my scarf in an attempt to demonstrate a first aid science lesson. Being unable to walk out the door without Stutat chasing after me, grabbing for my hand.

Why am I smiling?

I now realize that all of these moments have one thing in common –they involve my relationships with family and community members. I’m smiling because I’ve finally reached the point where I feel I belong. I feel grounded by this sense of community.

Buddist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, writes, “If we really know how to live, what better way to start the day than with a smile? Our smile affirms our awareness and determination to live in peace and joy. The source of a true smile is an awakened mind.”

This morning, the students asked me why I’m smiling. But a better question would be, why not?  

How to Outrun a Rhino

3 February

Answer: you don’t.

The thing to do when faced with a charging rhino is to “climb the nearest tree,” according to our guide in Chitwan National Park. If you are unfortunate enough to find yourself without easy access to low-hanging branches, hiding behind the tree can be effective. And,  if all else fails, running zig-zag is the best way to avoid a rhino’s poor eyesight.

Standing on the riverbank before embarking into the jungle, I looked around at the tangled mess of vines and branches that lined the path.

Sure. Easier said than done, I thought.

Our guide continued with his safety instructions. In case of a vicious sloth bear encounter, huddle together in a group while I bang this on the ground to scare it away, motioning to the walking stick in his hand. Tigers are a different story; don’t run, keep eye contact, and back away slowly. But elephants, he said, peddling his feet as if performing a football conditioning drill, if we see a wild elephant –RUN!

And with that we set off into the jungle with our fearless leader and the rest of us staking claims on the closest climbing tree.

With just over a month before the end of our grant, the Gorkha ETAs decided it was time to visit one of Nepal’s landmark destinations, Chitwan National Park, known for its jungle walks, wildlife sightings, and most importantly, elephant rides!

What we lacked in comfort (who knew jamming four people in a small wooden box on top of lumbering elephant could be so painful!), our elephant handler made up for with character. Midway through our ride he took the liberty of being our personal photographer. This involved him waving our cameras behind him at an attempt at a group “selfie,” resulting in a number of empty frames except for miscellaneous foreheads, shoulders, and feet.

Although we didn’t spot one of the rare Bengal tigers, a surprise was waiting for us later that evening. Seated around the campfire (thinking about how great it would be to have some s’mores), an employee approached us and casually asked if we would like to see a rhino.

We followed his directions through the wall of bushes to the neighboring hotel, which I hald-expected to reveal a statue or mural of one of these horned creatures. Instead, it opened to a field and less than twenty yards away stood a real. Live. Nepali. Rhino. Chewing grass, unfazed by the camera flashes and flashlight beams. It was like staring at a modern day dinosaur. 

Ready, Set, Go!

My favorite storybook growing up was Ten in the Bed. My mom tells me I would never get tired of reading about the elephant, zebra, rabbit and other animals that rolled out of the crowded bed and onto the floor. She likes to remind me how she would read me this story before bed over, and over, and over…and over. It still sits on the bookshelf and the worn paperback cover is visible proof.

Last night I was reminded how young kids thrive on repetition. Stutat and I sat facing each other across the kitchen table and an impromptu game of “roll-the-tube-of-Vicks-vapor-rub” began. I felt a bit like Hobbes, the stuffed tiger, trying to understand the ever-changing rules of “Calvinball.”

The tube was rolled (and sometimes thrown, kicked, or flicked like a shuffleboard puck) back and forth between us. Inspired by Stutat’s tireless concentration, I took advantage of the teaching moment.

“Ready, set, go,” I repeated as the tube changed hands, encouraging him to use simple English commands. Stutat quickly picked up on the chant, playfully mimicking my intonations. Occasionally he would jumble the words and yell, “EEE-SOOOO!” displaying his excitement with a vigorous launch of the tube across the room.

Repetition isn’t reserved just for bedtime stories and kitchen table games, though. In nearly every Nepali conversation, I’ve had to stop and ask, “pheri bhannus?” which means, “please repeat.” This act of repetition clarifies the conversation (which would have helped the time when I brought back mushrooms, instead of apples, from the market. In my defense, the words sound very similar!) Not only this, but repetition also reinforces active listening as our brains strain to catch the missed information. And while my Nepali is far from perfect, asking “pheri?” has helped me with Nepali vocabulary.

Whether it’s rolling a tube of Vick’s vapor rub or learning the difference between apples and mushrooms, repetition is a great learning tool –at any age. 

S'more

It recently occurred to me that in every blog post there’s almost always a mention of food. It’s not to make my readers drool (although if you tasted the homemade momos in our favorite Kathmandu restaurant, you’d understand). Rather it’s because food is such an essential part of Nepali culture.

Instead of “How are you?” most conversations start with “Have you eaten?” I’ve found that regardless of your response, more often than not, you will be invited in for tea.

Forcing food upon guests is polite, and in fact expected, behavior; it’s a way to show care and concern. This can quickly become overwhelming as my family found out during their visit to Gorkha. Not only did my Nepali family get to manifest their excitement for guests in massive amounts of food, but also forced the Wendels to find creative places to hide their food once their stomachs couldn’t fit any more. (Let’s just say there are some houseplants that have benefitted from “roti fertilizer.” But shhh, Mama Wendel says I’m not supposed to mention that.)

After learning how to cook of daal bhaat, I decided to return the favor and introduce some good ol’ American food to my host family. Recognizing the Nepali affinity for sugar (the diabetes-inducing chiya that kick starts my mornings gives ‘sweet tea’ a whole new meaning), I thought the crowd-friendly campfire s’mores would be right up their alley. Apparently force-feeding doesn’t just apply to Nepali daal bhaat, as I found out after my fourth roasted marshmallow in the span of five minutes.

And let me tell you –you’ve never been force fed until you’ve been force fed marshmallows by a three-year old on a sugar high!

The video speaks for itself:

Lost in Translation

15 January 

My fifth graders never cease to amuse me.

According to them, not only do I have the chickenpox but I’m also preparing for a trip to the moon.

It’s inevitable that teaching science in a foreign language will lead to some confusion –despite my efforts using miming, drawings, and (attempts at) Nepali to explain the more difficult concepts in the book. At the end of class yesterday, I bounced back and forth between two discussions: one describing the plane ride back to America and the other assuring two boys that there is not, in fact, a tree growing on the moon.

To a passerby, it sounded a bit like this:

“Nope, I’m going on a plane because it’s bigger than a helicopter and can hold more people and all their bags…”

“…nothing can grow on the moon because there is no water or gases for it to live. But people have visited the moon. They travel in a very big spaceship and it takes a long time to get there…”

“…it’s a long flight –almost a whole day –to get to my home. The plane flies very high above the clouds, so it’s hard to see the ground…”

“…no, the men on the moon didn’t cook daal bhaat in their spaceship. They had bags of food that were ready to eat…”

“…you don’t get hungry because you get boxes of food and things to drink on the plane…”

Purnima apparently had been piecing together bits of these two conversations and came up with her own explanation. Her head, which had been buried in her notebook, jolted up in surprise. “Annie Miss! You’re going to the MOON?!”

And with that, the bell rang, marking the beginning of recess and the students rushed from the room like a rocket blasting off from its base.

Hmm. This is one of those lessons that may require further explanation…

A New Year, A New Perspective

January 4

Headstands are an interesting yoga pose.

As you measure out the proper distance to place your forearms on the mat, bracing your head in a cup made with your hands, you mentally prepare yourself for the inversion. Lift one leg. Breathe in. Kick up with the other. For a moment you linger in limbo, your body working against the laws of gravity that push downward. With proper focus, you straighten out, long, strong, and in control. You breathe out.

Things look different upside down. Your brain tries to make sense of this changed perspective. Time seems to slow. Instead of letting your gaze wander around the room, you choose a point to concentrate on while working to block out distractions.

I think it was at the moment I was standing in a headstand watching the sunrise over the Himalayas on my family’s Poon Hill trek that I realized how my perspective has changed since living in Nepal (not to mention that Machhapuchhare looks equally stunning upside down!). The opportunity to show my new home and school to my family during their recent visit forced me to look at everything through new eyes; I was surprised by how much I now take as “normal.” The windy mountain roads paired with aggressive drivers. The constant curious stares on the street. The ringing bells and small handfuls of tikka rice scattered through the house as remnants of daily prayer. The seemingly endless plates of rice (ok, sometimes that last one still overwhelms me…)

This changed perspective especially extends to the classroom.

Arriving in Gorkha bright-eyed and armed with newly-purchased school supplies five months ago, I imagined a classroom where my co-teacher and I would work in perfect unison to improve student vocabulary, grammar, speaking and writing skills. Although I recognized this expectation was more ideal than completely attainable, I now realize just how much my experience has modified this initial picture. In reality, my day starts with the uncertainty if my co-teacher will show up to school. In reality, I teach two science classes without the support of a Nepali speaker to answer the questions that the puzzled looks indicate. In reality, I often times find myself fighting to manage bigger classes and teach over the shouts of “Miss! Miss! Missssss!”

This week, however, I’ve been enjoying the view from the school balcony during the short recess break. Standing up there watching the various games of tag, chungi, and hopscotch across the dirt field, I am reminded of a reading from a community organizing class at PC. Heifetz writes how as social organizers, it is both helpful and necessary to remove ourselves from the action of the dance floor and occasionally move up to the balcony for a better view, a new perspective. We have to alternate between acting and reflecting, participating and observing.  We have to ask ourselves what’s working? What isn’t? What needs to be changed? How?

My family’s visit and the brief break from teaching allowed me to reexamine my initial expectations and create new goals for the last two months of teaching. It was a helpful reminder to take a break from the dance floor, dust the chalk from my hands (and face, and neck, and sweater…how does it manage to get everywhere anyway?), and breathe. Re-center.

Throwing yourself into something new, like teaching and living in a different culture, can sometimes feel like you’re fumbling to get into a headstand. You’re head over heels, unable to tell up from down. It is easy to get caught up in the challenges of absent teachers and students, lack of resources and large class sizes. But by getting caught up in these distractions, it is easier to lose your center of focus, your balancing point. Instead, through reflection and concentration, you adjust to this new perspective and gain a new view of yourself, of others, of the world you live in.

Mornings

December 16

I’ve always been a morning person. It’s not that I don’t enjoy an occasional late night movie marathon curled up on the couch with friends and a good portion of the CVS candy aisle. But there’s something magical about the early part of the day.

Maybe it’s the dewy smell of a fresh start or the warming light of the sunrise that’s both relaxing and energizing…but I’ll leave those poetic descriptions to my friend Thoreou. Either way, my mornings here in Nepal are easily my favorite part of the day.

It starts when I hear Aamaa shuffling up and down the stairs in her worn, plastic flip flops as she washes, dresses and unlocks the front door before leaving for prayer at Om Shanti. And this is all before 5:00 am. Next comes Shanti Didi who does morning puja by lighting candles and painting the house icons with red tikka.

She carries a copper plate with small compartments, which makes it look almost like a painter’s palate and it contains flower petals, rice, yoghurt, fruit and sweets as an offering to the gods. Each of the items is sprinkled onto a deity and the bell that is rung to signal the offering serves as my morning alarm clock. As she passes my room she calls out, “Amisha Bhahini? Utnu bhayo?” which means “Amisha sis, are you awake?” By that time I’ve dressed in the dark room (and now relatively cold –winter is officially here!) and am ready for my morning run.

I leave the house with the stars still out and on clear days can watch the moon set and the sun rise over the Himalayas. Either it’s the breathtaking run (you would think the 4 flights in Feinstein would have prepared me for this!) or the breathtaking view that remind me this is exactly what I had hoped for before coming to Nepal. I meet up with Jeanie every morning and what initially began as a way to counter the mountains of rice we’re fed twice a day has since turned into an hour of much-needed reflection.

Although I was initially called crazy by all the locals as I huffed and puffed past their houses and shops (outside of being in the army, it’s unusual to run “for enjoyment” and for a female it’s almost unheard of), I enjoy looking out for familiar faces that expect me to pass them as they go about their morning routine.

There’s the Gorkha police force on their Friday morning run I must admit it’s not a bad way to end the week with two dozen attractive uniformed officers greeting you, “Good morning, miss!” There’s the old tailor who sits in a cloud of smoke behind his sewing machine and gives me a grin with a thick cigar clamped in between his teeth. There’s the morning crowd at the tap that hurries to take advantage of the heated water; the sounds of gossip and water splashing into the large metal jugs that are carried on shoulders reach me before I round the corner. There’s a family of chickens that scampers around haphazardly, sometimes coming within inches of my sneakers, as they peck at the corn sprinkled along the road. There’s the small group of students that gathers to play chungi, the Nepali version of hackysack that uses a bundle of rubber bands tied together (I’ve tried to learn how they can get 30 bounces in a row…and failed miserably). And then there’s a magical shack that emits the most delicious smells – Pizza Hut pepperoni pizza, Grand’s hot cinnamon buns and Kraft macaroni and cheese (they’re paying me extra for product placement here…) I can’t tell you the last time I’ve tasted any of these foods but as I turn the corner for the old bazaar, the same house gives me the strangest food cravings.

Either that or low oxygen from running at high altitudes is starting to mess with my head…