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…