Pictures From Kuber's House

Pictures from that 3 hour trek into the hills to Kuber's house. A trek full of leeches, mud rivers, prickle bushes, and alot of falls. But, it was all worth it in the end!
A few of Kuber's family members. This is inside Kuber's house. About 8 people live in this mud hut. Notice the masses of potatoes in the background. The entire house was literally filled with potatoes. This was only about one fifth of the potatoes that were in the house.
Kuber's mother cooking us a much needed feast after our trek. I have to say that she cooks the best roti in Nepal, as far as I have found. In the plate on the right is potatoe curry, in the pot is dal, and she is cooking roti over the fire. You can see that the "stove" is simply a pit to put logs in.
Kuber's whole family, and a few of the people from his village who came to have a look at us. Kuber is on the right in the white shirt. His father is the one wearing the brown shirt in the middle, crouching. His mother is the one standing wearing the bright red sari. The others include brothers, sisters, cousins, and village people.

In Class

My students working hard. This is a picture of my first class of the day, beginning English. The boy standing up is little Nima, the youngest monk at the monastery at 7 years old. He has lighter skin then everyone else, so they all call him "Richard" and say he is half American.

Sadhus

Some sadhus hanging out at Pashupatinath, the largest Hindu temple in Nepal.

I could have sworn I said "One, two, three, smile!"....

The W.W.F.

Where in the World you Find globalization?
The World Wrestling Federation. Super-sized, extra greasy, chearing, thronging stadium packed to the brim to see over-muscled, over-tanned, over-bleached men wearing over-tight spandex one pieces wrestle and to consume with hungry eyes the over-busty, over-blonde women sexily circle the ring in their overly-small sequined bikinis. The W.W.F. The name seems synonymous with ridiculous American consumerism. Why millions of people vie to watch this falseto wrestling? A dose of masculinity? A fix of violence? Maybe Hulk Hogan is your hero? Whatever it is, this sweating, spandexy, patent leather, iron-belt, fake-blood, folding chair smashing "sport" seems American to the core. Now go order yourself up a supersize processed nacho covered in blinding orange sauce, pull on your "The Rock" t-shirt, park your car outside the stadium, and have a hootin', howlin', knee-slappin', chair smashin', lung screamin' good time! Aren't you proud to be an American?
The W.W.F. stands for the World Wrestling Federation. I wonder if the CEO, or ownder, the wrestlers, the screaming audience really know how far and wide the World Wrestling Federation actually goes. Do they know that the WWF, really does span the world over?
Personally, I never would have guessed it. Despite it's name, its American to the core, I thought. This delusion of mine was righted on an exploration walk I took recently.
I was done teaching at the monastery for the day. The monks and I were piling out of the dining hall after tea time, a delicious afternoon snack of sweet milk tea and buscuits. The youngest monks, as usual after tea, bustled over to a 4 foot ledge near by where they enjoy doing all sorts of acrobatic stunts off of.
I packed my backpack and headed down the mossy, crumbling hill to Sankhu, the village nestled below. The monsoon rains had finally stopped for a brief period, so I was ready to do some exploring. I headed out of the village into the lush green country side. A blanket of terraced rice paddies covered the expanse in every direction. Here and there, out of the green was a tiny mud hut with a thatched straw roof. Naked babies with silver bangles around their ankles ran about, amusing themselves with different sized rocks. In front of most huts a few goats were tied to a tree with fraying pieces of twine. Probably waiting slaughter. Wallowing in the blissful ignorance, unknowing that they may become stew for dinner tonight. At one hut a woman bent over in the traditional Nepalese crouch, scrubbed the dal pot with a mixture of ashes and mud, the dishwashing detergent of choice around here. Deeper and deeper into the rice fields I went, walking on the narrow, rocky footpaths that snake through the oceans of green. Speckled throughout the rice fields were tiny spots of red: the hardened behinds of the sari-clad women, bent over in the grasses, harvesting the rice. Only the red bumps dotted in the green sea betray their presence. Old women walked by me, maybe not that old, but with wrinkles on their face that looked like road maps of Kathmandu's crazy congested streets. Woven baskets on their backs, held by a strap over their forehead, filled with rice, cucumbers, potatoes, and other miscellaneous vegetables. A group of old women with baskets pass me. All have the Hindu trident tattooed on their chins, a red tikka on their forehead, and a decorative golden nosering through the center of their nose hanging down as it does on a bull. They eyed my hiking boots curiously. I eyed their bare, cracked, brown feet curiously as well. We passed, exchanging "namaste"s. Now this is Nepal, I thought to myself. After a few hours of exploring the luxurious, velvety looking fields I headed back to the village.
Sankhu is a wonderful village to explore. Endless mossy alley ways, crumbling buildings, tiny Hindu shrines tucked in all corners of the place. Morbidly obese and comic goats lazed about at the rest-platforms alongside old bent over men wearing the traditional stark white linen kurta. They sipped tiny cups of milk tea and smoked cigarettes. Bands of roveing dogs roamed about sniffing at the chickens bobbing about. A saried woman sat on an old tarp behind her piles of brighly colored vegetables. She looked bored, and was stacking the tomatoes into tiny pyramids of red. A line of ducks came quacking along, altering everyone of their presence. Two young girls in punjabs walked by with a plate of rice and marigolds: and offering to be placed at one of the many Hindu temples. I spotted some sort of strange animal walking through the mossy brick street. It looked part yak, part goat, part donkey. It was most hilarious looking and was jerking around on it's knobby knees like it had had one too many whiskeys that day. I sat at one of the old carved rest platforms to watch it. Subsequently the group of old men across the way were observing me with the same idea that I was most hilarious looking. After a while I got a tad incensed by their strained curiosity and left. Then I felt bad for having a laugh at that poor yak-donkey-goat. So off I went, jumping the monsoon mud puddles, dodging flappy roosters, and hopping over napping dogs. What a wonderful village! Yes, this is really Nepal!, I thought to myself. Up ahead I saw a sizeable crowd gathered around a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop. I crossed the brick road, and hopped over and especially deep looking puddle to see what was going on. I peered through the congregation of men to see the attraction. They were huddled around the one electronics "shop", and by shop I mean more like stall, in the village of Sankhu. I had passed this shop before. It's inventory consisted of about 8 TVs, maybe less. A few radios. Maybe a discman. One of the TVs was blarring at full volume. Before I weedled my way through the crowd, I knew what they were watching. Two husky, macho voices. One proclaiming he was so and so, and he was going to pumel the other's face until it was unrecognizeable. Oh no... The W.W.F. I finally got a glimpse of the TV. And there they were. One guy... some body Kennedy, wearing a shiny black spandex one piece, so tight you could see things you really didn't want to see. This guy, poking another steroided beef chunk with his polish sausage finger. The other guy, a snarl on his face, a tan the color of orange-nacho cheese, a mullety hair cut bleached the color of margarine. The first proceeded to pick up a folding chair and smash it over nacho-cheese-tan-man's head inciting a riotous effect on the crowd. "Kill him!" "Yeah! Yeah!!" "Get him!" could be heard through the tube... The W.W.F. The crowd of Nepali men looked at me with faces of awe, as if to say, "Don't you feel right at home in America! You are so lucky, you can watch this all the time, maybe even meet the wrestlers! Ah, America!" I eeked out a grimacy smile. Yes, I'm so lucky... This is America... The W.W.F. The men went back to watch the choreographed fight, quite proud that an American was watching this right along side them. I tried to slip away without notice. I wanted to tell them, that isn't really America. Or is it? Choreographed, steroided men, wrestling? As I slipped away, I hoped that wasn't America. I hoped that those big lycra bound muscles with sausage fingers arn't what these villagers think America is all about. But who knows, maybe they do. All I know is that the last place I ever thought I would see a W.W.F. fight was on a tiny TV in a rural Nepali village called Sankhu. But I suppose, this really does prove that this is a new, connected world. The WWF, with all it's American glory, really does span the world, every little corner of it. Now people all over the world can see what sorts of silly, sparkling things Americans do for entertainment. Does this make you proud to be an American?
In this new era of connectedness, you can only guess Where in the World you will Find globalization next...

Books

I have recently finished The City of Joy by Dominique Lappier. It is a non-fiction about the largest slum in Calcutta called Anand Nagar (traslates to "city of joy.") It focuses what life is like in the slum for the local Indians and also for a preacher that moves into the slum because he feels that it is his calling to live like the poorest of the poor. The writing was not the best I have read, but it was interesting never the less to understand a bit more what life is like in the slum. The author really wants to make the point that although these people live in the most horrible and destitute conditions in the world, they still are full of happiness, joy, and light. The book was written over 20 years ago, so I think some of the information is a bit out of date.

I am currently almost done with The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kinsolver. This is an amazing book. Very intense. It makes me want to write my own book. She is a wonderful writer.

Monkey Monks

Besides just being able to do all varities of breakdancing and gymnastic moves, these boys are the most monkeyish lot I've ever seen. Monkeys infest the surrounding forest of the monastery. Sometimes I wonder if in their sleep, these monkeys come, and inject these little ones with some of their monkey genes. Well, I was taking a stroll on the grounds talking with some of the monks when I hear "Miss!! Miss!! Monkey! Monkey-man!" I looked around. No one to be see, except for the monks I was talking to at that moment. "Meees! Monkey, monkey, monkey man!" I looked up into the trees. There, high up in the branches of the tallest trees, I could make out little spects of maroon cloth hanging through the leaves. "Monkey!" There they were, about 10 of my students, high up on the most ridiculously high trees, which grow off the most ridiculously steep cliff on the side of the monastery. Oh dear... boys, boys, boys. They had climbed up almost uncomprehendably high and were bouncing around the branches, swaying the trees, and making screeching sounds at the real monkeys that live up there. It was a wild sight. "Miss! Miss! Jump?" they all screamed down at me, satisfied that they had got my attention. "No! No! No!" I assured them, "You just stay up there!" Although it was much too far to jump anyway. I was watching them all high up in the trees, curious how in the world they were ever going to get down. Many of the trees are simply tall, thin, tree trunks with few branches to hold on to, but once the bell for tea rang, down cinched them selves down those trees in a matter of seconds. These boys really are monkeys.

"Miss, Miss, Hip-Hop!"

The minute my young students walk out of the confines of the classroom they turn into your average 7-13 year old boys. Yes, they are ascetics, yes their lives revolve around an ancient religion, yes they spend hours a day chanting in Tibetan, yes they are Buddhist monks. But take away their plum and gold robes, and these boys would fit right in on any playground at elementary school recess. Surrounding the monstery is a wonderful spread of soft green grass, perfect for playing on and running around on. There are forests surrounding the monastery which are literally infested with hundreds, even thousands or monkeys. After lunch I like to stroll around the monastery grounds, watching the monkeys in the trees, enjoy the view of the Kathmandu valley, and watch the little monks playing. The other day I was walking by the area where the younger ones all congregate to play.
"Meeeees! Meeees! Heeep-hup!!" one of my students, Pasang, a most boisterous 12 year old boy yelled to me. Upon his cue, the entire lot of about 30 little monks, all on the grass, broke out in an extensive collection of hip-hop and breakdance moves. "Hip-hop, hip hop!" Karma was doing the worm on the grass, Pasang doing rap moves which you might see in a Jay-Z video, Kasang on the ground twirling around on his hands swinging his legs in circles under him, Aashish doing back flips, Nima doing front flips, Sang running and jumping over the two rusty barrels on the lawn, all the little ones who are too small to do any flips were doing cartwheels, Rinchen running of a ledge and flipping through the air, his robes bellowing behind him. Everyone else clapping wildly and jumping around the grass, almost dying of laughter. It was quite a spectacle, to say the least. I told told they should all joy a breakdancing troop... although I don't think they really understood what I was saying. "Circus! Circus!" I told them.. Circus is not in their vocabulary yet though, so this didn't register either. These boys are really the most flexible, agile, monkeyish lot I have ever set eyes on. I suppose, if monkhood doesn't work out for them, they can travel around as a troop of breakdancing monks... What an attraction that would be! "Heeeep-houp! Heeep-houp!"

Mr. Botibol

"He resembled to an extraordinary degree an asparagus. His long narrow stalk did not appear to have any shoulders at all; it merely tapered upwards, growing gradually narrower and narrower until it came to a kind of a point at the top of the small bald head. He was tightly encased in a shiny blue double-breasted shirt, and this, for some curious reason, accentuated the illusion of a vegetable to a preposterous degree."
-Mr. Botibol
Roald Dahl Stories p. 667


I finished the collection of Roald Dahl short stories I was reading. They are great! I highly recommend them. They are not like his children's books at all.... some of the most darkly twited, satirical black humor I have read. Fabulous.

I also just finished The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai. An interesting book, the writing style I thought was a bit strange, a bit choppy. But the book conveys a feeling very well. It is set Kalimpong which is on the Nepali-Indian border. It covers so many different issues, sometimes it is hard to keep straight. Some include the issue of race, immigration, affects of immigration on the home country and country of work, affects of a globalized world on cultures and traditions, and much more... It was really an interesting read, because the author makes many references to things that I would not have understood had I not been living in Nepal.

I am currently reading The City of Joy by Dominique Lappier. It is about a large slum in Calcutta.

Impressions

I keep wondering what my monks think of me? I know they must have some impression about me. I wish I could know, just out of curiosity. This whole experience has really made me appreciate my teachers in the past. I have had a sudden urge to write a long letter to Mr. Siegel, my 8th grade teacher. I also, have had the urge, to write long, heartfelt letters to all the teachers I have ever been a brat to, and apologize. Maybe I will. It is hard to explain this new found appreciation, it is also a tinge sad that I had to be stationed on a hill side monastery above a tiny Nepalese village to realize what heroes my teachers have been. Its not even that I remember anything, or most things, I have learned through my 15 years of school. To be quite honest, I couldn't tell you too much about European History, economic policy, or polynomials. But now, I am starting to realize that my teachers have been something more than just facts and books. They are long lasting impressions, they are role models, heroes really. I can't remember too many facts about the great wars in European history from Mr. Lickey's class, but what I remember much clearer is Mr. Lickey himself. I remember wanted to be just like him, so someday have just a little of his poise, quirky character, and intelligence. What did I learn in eighth grade English? I faintly remember reading a snatch of "Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka and watching the Lonesome Dove. A whole year of my life. But what I really remember was Mr. Siegel, looking forward to his class, how engaged he got his students, me. He expected alot of us and I always strived to do my best in his class, because it would be a horrible thing to let him down. He was a teacher, a friend, a hero, a role model. Its not what I learned along the way, it was my teachers who I now recognize as the most miraculous people. I stand in fron of my classroom, in front of my monks, I try to teach them and try to keep the impression that I know what I'm doing. This can't be too hard, I thought before I started. I mean, come on, I have been in school since I was 5, speaking English my whole life. It's not like I can't figure it out. I rack my brain before class to try and remember how I learned Japanese, how did the teacher teach it so we all managed to learn a second language? Hmm... I am still trying to figure this one out. I find it a wonder that I actually know Japanese. Thank you, teachers, thank you! Yes, teaching is not as easy as it seems to be when you are the student, absolutely not. As a student, you have the impression that the teacher just waltzes in, spouts off some of their knowledge to you, and waltzes off. But, this is not the case as I have found. Also, mind you, I have been teaching for, lets see here, 9 days... (sheepish laughing...) By the time I get into bed at night I am out like a light. Teaching is exhausting. All my monks constantly looking at me with bright eager eyes. Rows of plum robes with round faces, excited eyes. Rows of buzzed black heads on the floor. I repeat, repeat, repeat, and repeat some more. Also, mind you, it must be acknowledged that I am teaching monks, probably the most well behaved and attentive lot of young fellows you have ever laid eyes on. If 9 days of teaching well mannered (usually....) monks, I can only wonder how tired my teachers were after teaching us! What horrors! Oh dear! What horrors we were sometimes, the whole lot of us, especially when all the students felt the urge to rally against the teacher! Oh dear! An apology really is in order. But besides the exhaustion, which is also contributed to by my long afternoon hikes, teaching is an amazing experience. It's sort of difficult to comprehend my position though, for myself to think about. As I think through on all the heroic teachers in my past, and the lasting impressions they have made on my entire life, it is difficult to comprehend that I am now in this position. Is it possible that I could have a life long impression on some of my students? Could it truly be possible that even on of my monks may some day look back on his childhood, and remember that one American teacher who taught him some English? Well, if that did happen, which I can only hope it will, then that would be an amazing thing. Even if one monk remembers me, that would be fantastic.
I know how to teach... I try to embody this idea to my boys. But really... how do you teach English? I came to this monstery, was given two dry erase markers, and was told I would be teaching English to all the monks. So I teach myself how to teach, as I teach them. Everyday, hour, and minute I teach myself a bit more about teaching. I suppose thats the way to do it. I wonder if Mr. Lickey and Mr. Siegel were ever like this? I suppose one day they must have been. But despite my teaching inexperience, this opportunity is so wonderful. To be put in this position, in charge of teaching all the little (and some big) monks. Sometimes I don't know if I am getting through to them. But when one student, or a few students finally understand the difference between singular and plural, what an adjective is, or which pronoun to put where, I feel like jumping for joy!
Another thing about teachers that I have realized... they have lives. Well, I sort of vaguely recognized this in school. But now that I am a teacher, I know that I have a life, a very great one at that. In elementary school, middle school, even high school.. I may have been vaguely aware that a teacher had a family, but hardly. Now that I am a teacher, it has made me realize that my teachers have all been much more three dimensional people then I ever thought before.

Journey to Town

Today is Sunday, which is my holiday from teaching at the monastery so I came into Kathmandu to get some errands done. I woke up early to get ready and to figure out how to get a bus into the city. I was met by my monk friend who was going into Kathmandu as well with 3 other monks. They were invited to one of the relatives of the rimpoche's to come to their house and pray. So I was happy to go into town with them because they could show me which bus to take. So we descended from the hill, me in my t-shirt and hiking boots, escorted by a group of 10 monks wearing maroon robes. It was quite funny walking through the town early in the morning. It must have been funny to see me, surrounded by 10 monks walking through this tiny village. The monks and I got on the bus in Sankhu and departed on our journey to Kathmandu. I was sitting by my monk friend and he asked if I wanted to listen to music. I said sure, and he got out his cell phone and started playing MP3s on his cell phone. I thought the whole thing was almost hilarious. 10 monks and I sitting on a rickety old bus, bellowing through the rolling green hills and rice fields of the Nepalese countryside, a most medieval sight, listening to dancy technoish MP3's on a monk's very high tech cell phone. The whole thing was comical. I loved it! Once we got into town the monks got off the bus to go to the house they were invited to pray in. It was a wonderful early morning journey.

PS. Sunday is my day off, so I will use Sundays to come into the city to catch up on correspondence. There is no internet, to my knowledge, in the town of Sankhu or anywhere near it, so I will have to be limited to responding to emails on Sundays as this will be the only time I will have internet access while I am teaching. So I'm sorry if it takes a while!
Namaste!
-Leah

An Unexpected Change of Plans

The deep vibrating sounds of a gong drifts over me. Quiet chanting floats through the air mingled with the tinkling of wind chimes all around. The air is crisp and clean. Outside monkies sqeak playfully with one another enjoying the morning air. I open my eyes and look out my window to see brillilant strands of red, blue, green, yellow and white prayer flags whipping through the air. This all seems like a dream, and then I remember where I am and what I am doing. Oh yes, I am living in a monastery perched atop a staggering hill that overlooks the entire Kathmandu valley. Oh yes, I am now the sole English teacher to an entire monastery of monks. Am I sure this is not a dream? No this is real, as fantastical as it all sounds, I woke up this morning to find myself nestled in my bed inside a monastery above the small Newari village of Sankhu. I have been put in charge of teaching English to the entire monastery, including some of the teachers themselves and senior monks.
Here is how it all started:
My time at the hospital had almost come to a close, as well as my time with my host family. I was trying to decide what to do with myself for the next few months. More travelling around Nepal? Trekking? I was talking to my Nepali friend Bijay about my possible plans. Bijay is a social worker and has started an organization with a former ELI volunteer (how we all met) called Children for A Green New Nepal which is concerned with cleaning and creating awareness of the environment here with children. Anyway, one of Bijay's "sisters" (I later come to find out she is not really his sister, more in a figurative way a sister) is a monk at Bouddhanath Stupa in Kathmandu. They needed an English teacher, and I quickly volunteered myself. He said I would be moving in the next few days! I was so excited, and it was all rather abrupt and swift so I had little time to even think about what I was doing. In the next few days Bijay told me, actually I would not be working at Bouddhanath but at a monastery outside of Kathmandu in a small village. This was fine I said! The day before I was set to leave I had no idea what was going to happen, but thats the way I like it. So I packed my bags all of us volunteers for ELI had a last good bye dinner at Bijay's apartment where we cooked a big Korean food feast. The next day I woke up early, did some last minute errands, said goodbye to Anuj and the family. Amie, Christine and Bijay all decided to come with me to the monastery to see me off and they wanted to check it out themselves. So we all piled in a taxi and off we went to Sankhu, the small village town close to the monastery. During the whole taxi ride I was basking in the glory of being able to pack up and leave at the drop of a hat. Travelling is wonderful in that way! Farther and farther out of the city we went. Soon rickshaws had transformed into goats, trash heaps had transformed into rice fields, and the hazy polluted air had become delightfully crisp. There was so much green all around us it almost hurt our eyes. You get used to a certain grayish dirty quality in Kathmandu, and when you finally see green again it's almost hard for the eyes to adjust. We continued on and the road become more and more rough. About an hour or so later we were in Sankhu at the road at the bottom of the hill. The taxi driver could not go any farther due to the muddy conditions so we all got out and decided to hike up to the monastery. I buckled on my pack and up we went climbing what seemed like endless moss covered stone steps, hopping over trickling streams, and gazing at the tiny red clad women in the distance bent over the rice fields with the woven baskets on their backs. After a 20 minute walk we arrived at the monastery, my new home! It was a gorgeous sight! The main building is painted a crimson red color and decorated with gold detailing. Stands or prayer flags fill the air when you look up, sort of covering the sky above you like some sort of sacred spiders web made of bright colors. The view is magnificent. The monastery is perched very high up on a hill so you get an astounding view of the surrounding hills, the Kathmandu valley, and you can see the village of Sankhu below; a cluster of ancient looking brick houses in the middle of a great expanse of green rice paddies and terraces. We were met by one of the senior monks who welcomed us and brought us to the dinning hall area. On the lawn all around the monastery little monks clad in marroon and gold were running around, laughing, playing tag, and generally being little boys. We went to the dinning hall where we relaxed for a while after the long walk. Two little monks brought us all glasses of juice, and the cook made us a delicious lunch. We sat around enjoying our Tibetan lunch and soaking up the sights and sounds. After lunch we decided to walk up to the temple that is near by called Vajra Yogini temple. I left my bags at the monastery and Bijay, Christine, Amie and I hiked up the stone steps to the temple. The whole setting is quite ancient. Along the walk up to the temple are small crumbling temples to the sides. After ascending all of the steps we reached the temple. It is a beautiful sight. Hidden in the jungle, the temple is a wonderful, and infested with hoardes of monkeys who made it even more wonderful. We explored the temple grounds for a while. There is one ornate, but rusty looking, main temple with a beautiful shinning trinangular roof. There are some interesting caves up there where some monks apparently sit and meditate. After we were done exploring the temple we went back town to the monastery and I said goodbye to everyone. After they left I settled into my room. I have a very nice room above the place where the monks pray and beat gongs, and chant. There are rows of raised benches and low tables where the monks sit cross legged and reach the pages of Tibetan chant script. There are two large gongs in the back of the room, and there is an immense golden Buddha statue in the front and center of the room. Beautiful and bright painting covers the walls, and on the back of the room there are hundreds of golden buddhas painted on the walls. So my room is above the actual, I guess you would say temple. I have a very comfortable bed. Next to my bed is a huge idol of what I think is Shiva. I have two large windows which overlook the grass yard and the dorm house for the little monks. The younger monks don't live in the same building as I do. There are 2 dorm-style buildings (very nice dorm style buildings) where the monks live. One farther down the hill is where the older monks live, and the one which I can see slightly up the hill is where the little monks live. I share the second floor of the temple with several of the senior monks and lamas. My next door neighbor is one of the senior monks who spent 6 years meditating in caves. Down the hall from me is where a nice old Tibetan woman lives with a few of the other senior monks. She doesn't speak any English, but I think she really likes taking care of me as she is constantly bringing me tea and apples. There is a balcony on our floor overlooking the entire valley. It is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.
So, I was informed that we were going to have a short introductory session where I would meet all the monks and I would split them accordingly into 3 groups, this would be at 6:30. I was exhausted, so I decided to take a little nap. Around 5:00 I was roused by gongs and chants below me. I decided to get up and investigate. So I went down stairs and peer through the windows to the prayer room. Little monks, none more than 10 years old, were sitting on their raised seats, chanting and reading their Tibetan scripture (is that what you call it?) Two of the young monks were stationed by the gongs and beat the gongs in a wonderful rhythm with the chanting. It was all quite magical. I was amazed at these young boys, and trying to understand what their life was like. At such a young age they become completely devoted to this sort of life. Anyway, I went back up to my room to read a bit of my book. It was about 5:45 and I suddenly looked up from my book with a jolt... Hold on, I thought to myself. How do you teach English? Oh dear, 45 minutes until my first class and I just realized that I have no idea. I racked my brain for a while jotting down some ideas of what I was going to say to these monks on our first meeting. At 6:30 a loud bell was rung which meant time for class. So I went to a room which was specially cleared out to be my class room. It is next door to the monastery library. In this room the little monks sit and glue together yellow paper printed with Tibetan scripture which will be put into prayer wheels.
I walked into my classroom to find it full of mostly young boys with shinning round faces, all clad in maroon and gold, smiling up at me. It was a bit intimidating at first. All the monks were sitting on pillows on the ground waiting for me to begin. I began with introductions, etc, etc... Then I passed out paper and had them all write their names on it. I wanted to see how much English each one of them actually knew. So after talking about myself for a bit I asked them some questions like 'what is your name,' 'how old are you,' 'have you studied English before,' 'how long have you lived at the monastery,' and things of that nature. After this introductory class I collected all the papers and sent the monks on their way. Some of the monks know quite alot of English and some know none. This is going to be interesting, I thought.
I was reading the monk's assignments in my room when the senior monk came to see me. I told me that one of the teachers at the monastery wanted very much to learn English. He is one of the older monks, probably somewhere in his 30's and from Tibet. He is the Buddhist philosophy teacher at the monastery and has just finished further studies on Buddhist philosophy in India. So, since he is the oldest of my students and the teacher to all the other boys, we decided it would be better for him to have private tutoring. So we decided I would be teaching this Buddhist philosphy lama at 8 am every day. This was a bit overwhelming at first that I was to be teaching one of the leading experts on Buddhist philosophy in Nepal, and that he himself was a teacher... Oh dear, I thought, I hope he doesn't think I am a fraud! Then the senior monk and I decided that I would also have class from 9-10 and 10-11 and then from 2-3. This all sounded great to me.
So the next day at 5 in the morning I was woken up by gongs and bells ringing and chants. I looked out my window to see that the little monks where scurrying around the grass ready for the day! I opened my door and a little monk was waiting with a tray of breakfast for me which consisted of yak butter tea, a bowl of thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup), and a stack of sliced buttered bread. I thanked him, and he shyly slided away to find his friends. I at breakfast and prepared for the day. My first class, as I told you, was private tutoring with the Buddhist philosphy teacher. He is very excited to learn English, but truly doesn't know much right now. So we started with the alphabet, capitals and lower case letters and what you use them for. During our tutoring session he kept having to scold the younger monks who were stationed outside the door of my classroom eagerly peaking inside. After class with the lama, I had my second and third classes. These two classes are for the younger monks. They are ages 8-13. These monks are quite eager but also don't know too much. A few can read, so we practiced reading aloud sentences on the board. I also tried to teach them a few question and answer types of things. After these two classes I retired to my room for a bit to rest. Teaching in exhausting! Soon another little monk brought me some lunch. At 1:30 I was fetched by one of my students for my fourth class. My fourth class has about 8 -10 boys in it. This class is alot of fun because all these boys are quite good at English already. Most of these boys are about 13 or so years old and very smart. They are incredibly fast learners. We have already covered nouns, singular and plural nouns, adjectives, vowels, consonants, verbs, and helping verbs just in the first day. The monks are very focused students and very eager to learn, I suppose because they are trained to do this from a very young age. In class they are well behaved and attentive, probably a bit different from your average 10 year old boy. But once they get out of class, they are your typical young boys. I was watching them last night and it was quite hilarious. Still clad in their monks robes they were doing your typical boy stuff: jumping off the roof of their dorms, doing back flips, and playing in the dirt.
So this whole thing is quite amazing. I work 6 days a week, with Sundays off. I am still trying to figure out how to go about all of this. My 4th class is alot of fun because they already known a good deal of English and pick things up so fast. But I know what I really need to figure out is how to teach the ones who don't know anything yet. I am not exactly sure where to start. This had definetally given me a new respect for all my Japanese teachers along the way! This is hard! Another problem is that some of my monks are very eager to answer questions, and some are quite shy. I have found that the monks are typically much more shy than your average Nepali kid. I think they were all a bit confused by me at first, but now they are all just excited to have a foreign English teacher. Some of the monks I have even noticed come to two classes in a row! I suppose I will just continue to learn how to teach as I go. This endeavor I think will be really good for me because I can't help but be patient with it. One thing I am not is patient. After my first class I found myself a bit frustrated that all my young monks weren't already literary scholars. I had to remind myself that I had only been teaching them for one day, and I had to be patient with it.
Life at the monastery is the most peaceful experience I have ever had. Lots of time for reading, writing, and reflection. It is a beautiful place. I really adore all my monks, they are sooooo cute!! They are such hilarious little ones, they are monks, but they are still little boys too. They all were delighted to show me their dog who lives next to the little monks dorm. The dog's name is Sonam Toshi which they all think is thoroughly hilarious because Sonam Toshi is also the name of one of their teachers. Sonam Toshi is a gigantic St. Bernard looking dog.
The only problem, which is not really a problem at all, is that these monks feed me soo much!! I think they assume that teaching these boys is the equivalent to running a marathon (which sometimes it feels close.) But everytime I go back to my room the old Tibetan lady or one of the young monks brings me a tray of food or a bowl of noodle soup! Everyone has breakfast together at 7:30, lunch is at 12:00, tea is at 3:00 and dinner is at 6:30. We have a cook at the monastery who makes delicious Tibetan food. My favorite so far is the Thukpa, which as I said is Tibetan noodle soup. I had had "thukpa" before at Kathmandu restaurants, but it is definetally not the same as this real thukpa. It is a brothy soup, with thick egg noodles and vegetable in it. So delicious! The yak butter tea, as usual, is interesing... Sort of like a buttery chicken broth. The milk tea is delicious at the monastery. One of my students usually brings me a whole thermos full in the morning, which I cannot ever drink all of!
I spend my free time enjoying the views of the valley, reading, exploring the countryside, and talking to the monks who know some English. I have made good friends with one of the older monks who has happily agreed to tutor me on the subject of Tibetan Buddhism. I am excited for this, he brought me 3 interesting books last night for me to look over. All the teachers are very nice, and eager to talk to me in English. The young monks are very shyly curious about me, but seem to be much more comfortable with me in just a day. The village of Sankhu which is below the monastery is great for exploring. It is full of ancient looking Newari stone architecture. Goats, pigs, ducks, and dogs roam the street. On the stone path to the town I usually pass more goats than people.
So, that is the story of how I become the English teacher to this wonderful little Tibetan Buddhist monastery perched in the hills. I now wake up to chanting and gongs instead of honking horns and dogs barking (with the exception of Sonam Toshi when he gets mad.) The clean air sparkles with wind chimes, and the lawn is always full of smiling little figures wearing billowing maroon and gold robes. That is the story of how I came to be living at the monastery.

The Forgotten

Kathmandu is Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The city completely transforms at night. The city is everyone's city during the day. We all share it equally. It belongs to the locals, the young the old, the sadhus, the saints, the rich in their cars, the poor on the sidewalk. It belongs to the street peddlers, the vegetable sellers, the rickshaw drivers, the tourists (sort of). At night this all changes. At night the city isn't shared by everyone. The city is owned by a few. At night, the dogs rule. The dogs take over. They rule the street, Kathmandu is their territory at night, so watch out. At night only the forgotten remain. The city turns from a cheery hustle to a sinister darkness. Only the forgotten are left when the darkness takes over. The forgotten only have each other. The forgotten children staggering with heads full of glue. The forgotten dogs, snarling and guarding their territory with their worthless lives. The forgotten rubish. Wrappers for once delicious food. Vegetable scraps that were in the recent past used to make a delicious curry, now rot in maggot filled heaps. The dogs scavage the garbage heaps along with the grimy street boys. Who gets what? How do the forgotten divide up the forgotten waste? Dogs and boys split the loot... who gets the best food scraps? The rabid terrior or the 8 year old high on paint? Just who ever gets their first. Yes, at night the city transforms. It becomes dark and sinister. Not quite evil though. It won't swallow you up, but you had better be careful. Because at night Kathmandu is ruled by the forgotten ones. At night the forgotten emerge and are all thats left. So you had better watch out, because at night the forgotten rule. They own the city at night. It is theirs, and not yours anymore. No, at night the city is not evil, but sinister. It transforms. In the dark. When it is dark and you can't see, but you start to see more than in the day. When there is no light, you see more. Although you can hardly see, you know things. You can see things clearly in the dark if you try. The only thing you need to know though, is that you are not forgotten, and the forgotten rule. So be careful. The forgotten know their own kind, and that is not you.

Pashupatinath

Yesterday we did a bit of sight seeing around Kathmandu. A small group of us including me, Matt, Christine, Amie and our Nepali friend Bijay decided to go to Pashupatinath and Bouddhanath. I had been to Bouddhanath one time already, but have not been to Pashupatinath, so I was very excited to go. Pashupatinath and Bouddha (for short) are a bit out of the center of Kathmandu, about 6 or 7 kilometers, so we taxied it out there. Our first stop was Pashupatinath (Pashupati for short.)
I would have to say Pashupati is my favorite thing in this city I have seen so far. It is a sprawling layout of temples, shrines, statues, and ghats all based around the sacred Bagmati river. A little background: Pashupati is Nepal's most sacred Hindu shrine. It is where pilgrims end their journey from all over Nepal and India. Pashupati is where the funerals of high class (I believe) Hindus take place. Lining the Bagmati are stone steps that lead into the mucky waters. There are small stone platforms on the river side where the funerals take place.
The walk into Pashupatinath is a street lined with carts selling magnificently bright strands of beads and other adornments. Also there are piles of eye blinding tikka powder in every color imagineable: red, magenta, gold, turquoise. (Tikkas are the red dot on the forhead which means you are a Hindu.) Monkeys play around the statues of Shiva and eat scraps of crackers thrown to them. We made our way onto the main ground where the main temple sits. A magnificently large temple dedicated to shiva with a glinting gold roof. Most of the temples, actually all of them, have "HINDU ONLY" signs propped out front. But this is okay, because the grounds are magnificent anyway. Near by the ghats a crowd of people were gathered around somewhat large hole in the ground that a man with a shovel was filling with dirt. We went over to investigate. It looked like a grave, and this confused me because I was under the impressiion that Pashupati was where the dead are burned, then their ashes are pushed into the Bagmati to make their way to the Ganges. We went to investigate. Bijay told us that it was a baby who was being buried. Apparently when babies die (Hindu) they are buried and not burned. (The good thing about touring places with a Nepali friend is that you learn alot more about what is going on.) After paying our respects we made our way down the medieval river banks to the ghats. There were a few large fires going on and a crowds around them. The ashes were pushed into the swirling muddy Bagmati once they had burned down quite a bit. It was strange to thing that a human body was in there. I was taking a few pictures and got separated from the rest of my group, which was actually fine with me because I really like to take my time and observe things and they were walking too fast for my tastes. At places like this, and other religious places I have been in Nepal, there are an incredible amount of tiny details to look at, and when you put all the tiny details together they make a wonderful picture of the whole place. So I strolled along, looking at the tiny shrines, the monkeys playing with each other, the centuries old inscriptions on massive stones, stone temples covered with a thick green moss. It is all quite magnificent and wonderful. I felt like I was transported back to ancient times. One of the most interesting things about Pashupati is that this is the place where a huge number of the sadhus hang out. These are the most interesting people. You may have seen pictures of them before: they men who have renounced all family, caste, and pleasure in search of spiritual insight. Some wear hardly any clothes at all, some wear bright orange robes. Some wear sandals, but most don't wear shoes. Alot of them, especially around Pashupati, are covered with white ash and have yellow and red paint on their faces and bodies. They have long scraggly beards, and incredibly long dreadlocks tied into huge knots on their heads. The dreadlocks, I have read, to them symbolize the matted chaos of the world. Some apparently refuse to sit down for years, which you can tell by looking at their feet. Some put themselves through incredible pain, doing things like ripping holes through their ears or piercing their genitals with their trident staffs which are a hall mark of the sadhus. They carry around metal pails which are used to collect money. Pretty much, they are supported by whoever wants to give to them and contribute to their path of enlightenment. They travel around, pretty much as nomads. Anyway, they sit around Pashupati in groups chatting with one another and smoking pipes full of ganja, which is one of the 16 essential things of Shiva worship. Also, smoking all that ganja helps them with expanding their consciousness and finding the path to enlightenment. They are quite interesting fellows, to say the least. So I sat around and watched the sadhus and wandered around the grounds through the sleepy little stone temples which sit under the shade of banyan trees where dogs and people sleep under. I walked along a good section of the river where there were huge groups of Hindu pilgrims in their underwear (men only) taking a ritual dip in the waters. I walked back to the ghats (funeral platforms by the side of the river). There was a pretty big crowd gathered around one platform. I looked over, and there was a dead body lying there!! It was a bit of a shock. So I stayed and watched the funeral. I was about 10 feet from the dead man. The rituals performed before they burned him were very interesting. Another man, maybe a brother or something, circled him a certain number of times, then sprinkled some sort of powder or rice on the dead man, who was laying ontop of a pile of fire wood and covered up to his neck with a bright orange cloth. He also had brilliant yellow, orange, and pink flowers sprinkled on him. Then a man, maybe the priest, went down the steps to the Bagmati and got some water from the river in his hands and brought it back up to the dead man and sprinkled the water on his face and in his mouth. Then the priest spread straw all over the man's body in a thick layer and then set the whole pile of firewood, body, and straw on fire. It was a quite bizarre and amazing thing to watch. After watching to the funeral I went and sat outside one of the Hindu only temples and listened to the music from inside. Around the main temple there is a large number of diseased dogs, who all looked ferocious so I moved a little bit away. A group of young children who live in Pashupatinath (well, they are what you would call "homeless", but they sleep probably on the stone shelters around the grounds) came up to me and of course, asked me to take some pictures of them. "Miss! Miss! Single photo! One single photo!" All these poor children are amazed (I would be too) at the idea of a digital camera. They like you to take pictures of them, and then have you show them a preview of the picture. It's sort of like seeing yourself on TV. After a while there were a crowd of about 15 kids pretty much all sitting on me, looking at the inside of my arms (white!!), and looking at my watch ("What is it?") After a while, I was being suffocated by little heads, although they were quite delightful, I could see lice jumping around in their hair so I decided to move on. I finally found my friends again and we stopped at one of the jewellery stands where Christine and I each bought strands of beads (me yellow and her blue) for 50 rupees. Later, we found out that the beads are what you wear if you are a married Hindu woman. Bijay neglected to tell us this, and we found out when on the walk to Bouddhanath people kept giving us strange looks and finally one young guy said "You married?" with a smile on his face. Woops! Haha, well I guess I will have to save my marriage beads for when I leave Nepal.
Overall Pashupati is fantastic. It is an interesting mix of the sacred and bizarre.