Nepal: Befriending Budhathum (cont.)

In winning over the children, I had also gained an adult fan.  He was a young English teacher named Suman who taught in the village’s primary school.  Aside from Amir, the teachers in the village were almost the only people who could speak English.  Suman was thrilled to practice English with a native speaker, and I was just as thrilled to talk with somebody aside from Amir (or myself) for the first time in several days.  We quickly befriend each other, and Suman invited me to visit his school the following day. 

After a lazy morning of doing laundry and bathing in a waterfall at the edge of the village, the time came to go to school.  The school-grounds were in a beautiful location, at the top of a hill, sitting on the edge of a plateau that overlooked a deep valley.  The valley was painted green by maturing rice paddies.  Dilapidated stone buildings served as classrooms.  As soon as the children spotted us walking up the hill through the classrooms’ windows, everybody rushed outside to get a better view of their visitor.  I felt like a rock-star as two teachers quickly ushered me into the safety of the office.  Inside, Suman handed me a lesson plan and informed me I would be teaching English to “grade-five” in two minutes.  Before I could gather my thoughts or protest, I was escorted outside.  Hundreds of students, dressed in dusty, blue uniforms, gathered to watch me walk towards the classroom.  Part of me wanted to blush, part of me wanted to hide, and another part wanted to drop to my knees and rock out on air-guitar.

As I stepped into the overcrowded classroom, fifty ten-year-olds stood up in unison and shouted, “Good afternoon Instructor!”  The children remained standing for a couple of minutes while I tried to decipher the lesson-plan.  Their real teacher finally motioned for the students to sit down.  Wooden chairs shuffled, and little feet scooted across the dried-mud ground, as the students settled into their seats behind rows of long, warn desks.  Anxiously they all looked towards the front of the classroom in silence.

To buy time I decided to write my name on the blackboard, but even this was a challenge because I managed to break the chalk three times. With only a nub left between my fingers to write the final letter, I examined my work and noticed the name, “Mr. Kalvis,” was written so crooked that it was almost illegible.  Then, I looked down across the sea of smiling faces and saw one of the kids I had waged a funny-face-war against the night before.  He laughed as soon as I noticed him; and instantly I was set at ease, knowing I had at least one fan. 

The rest of the fifty-minute period flew by.  I followed the lesson plan, drawing pictures on the blackboard and asking the children to identify the objects in English.  At the time, I was amazed at how the children knew the horned-dog on the blackboard was supposed to be a deer; but later, after being told I had mistakenly repeated yesterday’s lesson plan, everything made sense. 

I was Just as unprepared when thrown into the “grade-six” classroom the following period, but I managed to navigate this obstacle-course a little better.  I’m not saying that the kids learned anything or understood much of what I said, but at least everyone involved had fun.  After two periods I was completely exhausted, and had gained a new respect for teachers.

During lunchtime the children insisted I play ball with them, but after a while, the principal called me into his office to tell me that ; if I didn’t leave, none of the kids would go home to eat.

That evening, back in the courtyard, I was still a major attraction for the local children.  Some of the elder family members had also warmed up to me; and when Amir left to visit some friends at the other end of the village, about ten people–spanning a wide range of ages–stayed to keep me company.  I wanted to learn Nepali phrases, and they wanted to hear songs in English.  For the rest of the evening I switched between writing phrases in my notepad, and singing The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, which for some reason was the only song whose lyrics I remembered.  Every time I belted out the chorus, the kids would dance in circles and the adults would clap their hands.  Nobody understood a word I sang, but everyone had a ball.  By the end of the night, the most complex thing that I could say was “No more food.”

I woke up sick the following morning.  Instead of leaving like we had planned, we stayed another day in hopes of a speeding my recovery.  It was amazing how fast the news spread in the village.  After crawling out of my tent around mid-morning, villagers began to stop by to offer me what I can only imagine were, consoling words.  I was beginning to feel comfortable; and by the time that night fell, I realized that the strange village I had entered a few days back, now felt genuinely homely. 

The next morning after our bags were finally packed, the courtyard began to again fill with family.  This time I knew that part of their purpose was to bid me farewell.  As we put the bags on our shoulders, Amir’s two daughters came over and put red flowered wreaths around each of our necks.  His mother proceeded to dab red paint onto our foreheads.  She created upside-down triangles for luck, and took special care in shaping them.  Looking back a final time before following Amir down a stone path leading to the bridge at the bottom of the deep valley, I saw the entire family standing together, watching us leave—my final glimpse of Budhathum.  I waved goodbye to my new friends that I would never see again.

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