Gamru: Take Two

After another week at Gamru, I feel like I finally understand my kids, like I finally know how to get through to them, to keep them engaged, to teach them something.
Of course, I only have one day left.
This week was equally as crazy as the first. On Monday, the power was out all day and the schedule was confused by a visit from the local rotary, so I ended up trying to teach first graders outside on the playground for an hour. The whole teaching thing failed miserably, of course, so we ended up playing some sort of game in which we all hold hands and spin in a circle, then let go and run around screaming. But I think I've gotten some sort of hang of the chaos. Teaching is no less hard. But I actually left the school a few days this week feeling energized rather than exhausted. There were more moments of total engagement, more instants where I could see both joy and understanding in their eyes. And I appreciated the love of the kids more. Though the chorus of "ma'am"s  is headache inducing, I'm touched by their eagerness to participate. We taught them to high five and pound, and I'm starting to think it's adorable rather than obnoxious when they always want to give me both plus a handshake at the end of the day. Salin, a small first grader who refuses to participate in any sort of writing, sprinted away from his friends to walk home with me the other day, not saying a word but beaming incessantly.
It's hard to know if they remember much of what I've taught in the past few weeks- my review with second grade was extremely successful, but the first and third graders seem to only know one of the emotions I taught- "I am mad!"- which is accompanied by an angry face and the hands on the hips. They find it hysterical and love to stand up in the middle of class, yelling "I am mad!". I think I've moved past my frustration at being unable to impart knowledge, though, and seen the importance of just being an interested, persistent, energized figure in their classrooms. Gamru is crowded and dirty, the teachers are overworked, there aren't enough supplies, the kids are poor. Today we visited a private Indian school and the contrast was flooring. Gamru looks like a chaotic closet in comparison. But to be able to give my time and my smiling face to such a place- even if the students forget all their new vocab words- feels important. The students have at least learned that people, even white people, care about them and are willing to spend time with them. Perhaps, in the end, that really is more important than their English skills.

Zomkiy

Each morning, we attend a lecture given by a local Tibetan- usually working for an NGO or similar organization- and hear about the historical and current situation of Tibet and her refugees. But at night, we go to Gu Chu Sum, and program that provides housing and education for ex political prisoners, and have "conversation class" for an hour. I've spent an hour each night of the trip with Zomkiy, who is a Buddhist nun. She is wonderful. She's small, aging, and I have fallen in love with her.
Like all escaped Tibetans, she has had some harrowing experiences. Zomkiy absolutely loves to talk (I spend most of our conversations just listening) and has told me the story of her life.
One day, she asked me to tell my story. At 20 (newly!), I was totally stumped. I told her about my brother, about growing up in the mountains, about how much I love college. It took me maybe five minutes. But over the course of two weeks, I've pieced hers together- for Tibetans, it is not unique. But for me, it is stunning.
Zomkiy's parents were farmers in a small village. As the oldest of nine children, she quit school after 7th grade to help on the farm and take care of her youngest siblings. The work was hard, and she had to carry a baby brother around on her back as she worked. At 18  (I think), she joined a nunnery. I'm unsure of the year she joined, but in 1989, she participated in a massive political protest with some other nuns. She was arrested. She shudders when she talks about Chinese police, remembering "many many beat". The first two words I teach her are "bruise" and "swollen". She spent three years in prison, surviving on one piece of bread a day for much of the time and living in a concrete cell with a bucket for a bathroom. Her family was allowed to visit, but not very often and only for five minutes at a time. After being released, she, like all other escaped Tibetans, walked (or rather climbed, through the snow) across the Himalayas to Nepal. It seems that this experience was worse than prison for her. "Very very difficult", she always says as she remembers 20 days of non-stop walking, carrying heavy bags of tsampa and sleeping little in bitter cold conditions. Though reluctant, she took the two young nephews of a brother's friend across with her. The boys hardly made it it seems, there was "many many crying" and the occasional need to carry their bags or even the boys themselves. After reaching Tibet, her group was stopped and robbed by Nepali police. Eventually, though, she made it to a reception center in Kathmandu, which sent her to India, where she has been in a nunnery for the last 17 years. She spent time at Gu Chu Sum last year learning English, and is back to keep improving upon it. Currently, she's waiting on a doctor's approval to move to Australia, where she wants to work and keep studying Buddhist philosophy- but she worries a lot about the move. I honestly don't know if she will be approved- she has some recurring pain and lasting injuries from being beaten by the police, and seems a bit frail to me.
Her story is horribly sad. She often shakes her head, looking at the ground, as she talks. The best way she knows how to convey her struggles is by saying "very very difficult" over and over. But the best thing about Zomkiy is her spirit. Her sense of humor shines through every terrible tale. She laughs about the challenge of carrying babies as such a small person, and tells me I must have good karma for being born so tall. She laughs about how she used to try to save one half of her piece of bread in prison for eating later, but would always forget and gobble it up too early. She laughs about being horrified by the bucket bathroom situation in prison. Her stories are incredibly endearing- accidentally ordering beer on her first airplane flight, trying to convince her brother that the used and cleaned-up shoes she bought him were in fact new, complaining about her wrinkles but being thrilled when I told her we call them laugh lines. Despite the magnitude of her tragedy, I find myself overwhelmed by her spunk, not her sadness. Every night I leave her room energized and alive, blabbing to friends about everything she told me. It is easy to see an ex-political prisoner from Tibet as just a tragic story- but Zomkiy's personality- her squinty smile, her long laugh, the way she slaps my knee as we giggle together- is what sticks with me.

Friday is Friday is Friday

I spend my afternoons here teaching English at Gamru village school, a charity school for Indian children. It is free- the uniforms, food, and books are covered- so the children are predominantly poor. The building is unimaginably small, as are their pencils, but these students are getting a chance they otherwise wouldn't. Here's a link to their website: http://gamruschool.com/gamru/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=12&Itemid=27
McLeod Ganj is full of NGOs and other organizations that serve Tibetans, and all of the other students in my group work primarily in this realm. So I'm finding it satisfying to work with Indians- not because Tibetans don't need help, but because around here, they get a lot of attention and school-less Indian children are easy not to see.
I've never done anything so hard, though.
Sitting down in front of the twelve or so trustees and board members of the Boettcher Foundation for my scholarship interview is usually the experience that comes to mind when I think of being scared shitless. But there's nothing like standing in front of a room of expectant seven year olds whose language you don't speak. I have no idea how to teach first graders, teach English, or teach English to first graders. Or second graders. Or third graders. While the principal and a few of the teachers at Gamru are wonderfully supportive, we have zero direction. All my questions are answered with a head wiggle (somewhere between yes and no) and a yes, yes, do whatever you like. The students, as we have discovered, know a lot of simple vocab words- things like colors, shapes, days of the week, animals, etc. But they can't form sentences, and they have no idea what I'm saying to them.  It's hard to do engaging games and activities because I can't explain the rules or give directions. Everything turns into actions and repeat after me. The first few days are the worst. I feel sort of helpless, like I'm not really teaching them anything. And some of the teachers seem to agree. I feel that they don't really want me there, that I'm wasting time and letting them color all too often.(They LOVE coloring. And it keeps them quiet and busy. Win.)
The first few days were really tough. I dreaded going. I hate being unable to make them understand- and hate even more running out of things to do and watching them get bored. But on Thursday, after a sort of shaky lesson in times of the day, a second grader raises his hand. The day  before I had taught emotions, complete with silly faces that the kids eat up. I call on the student, and he stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and says, "I am mad"- squinty eyebrows and everything. It is exactly as I taught him. And I almost want to cry. He remembers! The second graders prove themselves again on Friday, remembering the times of day. Friday is the first day I feel a little good about teaching- I'm getting the hang of this, at least a few of them are retaining knowledge, I'm less intimidated by the blank stares of first graders.
But Friday is Friday, and will always be Friday. The end of the week has a mystical effect on student energy and emotion, and I have two crying third graders at the end of the day. But it is almost comforting, in a grounding sort of way, to be reminded that these are just kids after all- the same as kids anywhere.

An Introduction

To be here, in Mcleod Ganj (which lies just above Dharamsala, on the mountainside- this is where we are actually staying), is like escaping. All the craziness, the noise and the dirt and the crowds of Delhi and Agra, is gone. The beauty here is the beauty of mountain views and of peaceful energy. It's like a haven from the India we arrived in.
The trip to Dharamsala was, unfortunately, miserable. The majority of the group became violently ill during our 3pm-3am journey in 3-tiered sleeper cars on a shaky train, and continued to be ill for the three hour taxi ride here and the first days in town. I spent my first day in bed, but proved one of the lucky ones, who recovered quickly, and my time here has been magical. Mcleod Ganj is small and made for tourists- small shops, cafes, yoga studios, healing centers, book stores, and vendors line the streets. There are many travelers, more westerners than I expected, but the local community is also quite international, made up of Indians, Kashmiris, and many, many Tibetans. The Dalai Lama's home is in Dharamsala and he has a temple up here on the mountainside. There is a prayer and meditation walk, called the kora, that surrounds the temple. The flags, the prayer wheels, and the ancient Tibetans always lining the walk, chanting and clicking their prayer beads, make it a mystical sort of experience to do the walk. It is nice to be in a place where simply walking is possible (though the streets are terribly steep), where I can breathe and feel real sunshine and think my own thoughts. After the crowded streets of Delhi, it just seems that there is room here. There is time and there is room to experience and also to process, to make sense of the things around me.
Today we had a lecture from Dr. Gotam, who is apparently known as the "encyclopedia" of folk culture in Himachal Pradesh (the state we are in). He catches my heart when he says:

"Himachal Pradesh is not having only it's scenic beauty... the temples speak something. The people speak something. The places speak something."

He encourages us, during our stay here, to listen.

Delhi, the street in front of our hotel.

Our tour guide, Mister Raj, smiling in the bottom left, surrounded by school boys at Ghandi's cremation site. This is moments before our group was surrounded by 100+ yelling, excited boys. Kids and adults alike are fascinated by white people.

 

"If you are carrying wonder in your eyes, you are alive."

I am here, finally, in Dharamsala. What will be my home for the next few weeks. But I want to jump back, write about Delhi and Agra, about the touring and adventures we had there before getting here (since there was no time to write in Delhi).

We finally step outside the airport, the first air we've breathed in 26+ hours, and I can't see across the street. It is night and the air is thick- fog? Smoke? It is smog, a dirty, thick, humid haze that covers the city, that never leaves. Delhi is dirty. Dirty everywhere. And crowded. I have never seen so many people in my life. You always hear this about India, but it's hard to imagine until you're actually here. We spend two days touring Delhi, New and Old, jumping in and out of taxis at temples, mosques, towers, shrines. We then spend a day in Agra, of course see the Taj Mahal, which is magnificent and somehow even more unreal than in pictures. These few days are a whirlwind. They seem to last weeks. And we are all exhausted, coated in grime, blowing black snot from our noses. We're tired of crowds, of being stared at, of being approached by beggars and merchants and pushy vendors. It's easy to fall into a sort of spiral in Delhi, to stop enjoying it.
And I am tired, and I am dirty.
But I love it.
The thing that strikes me about Delhi, about halfway through our first day, as I'm riding a rickshaw through a street barely wide enough, is that everything works. I tell my friend, Travis, that I feel as if everything is as it should be here. Why wouldn't there be millions of people? It works here- because they are aware of each other. They make space, they work together, they talk, they accommodate. The each move towards their own destination, but I feel as if they remain not necessarily in harmony, but in a working sort of chaos. Riding in taxis and rickshaws is perhaps my favorite thing. Because it is crazy, wild, terrifying at times- but I'm amazed at how it works. People drive close and fast and they don't use lanes and they honk for everything- "hey I'm coming!" "Get out of my way!" "I'm about to cut you off!" "Speed up, dammit!" "I'm about to make this turn into oncoming traffic look out!"- and they all get where they're going, in one piece. It just works. It is as it should be. We visit fabulous, impressive temples and mosques, in tact or in ruins, and even though my lungs are black, I find there is no better way to see the arches and pillars and towers of Asian architecture than in the glow of a dirty dusk, the sun bright red from pollution. It just works. It is as it should be.
It is a beautiful, chaotic sort of triumph. Delhi is.
The title of this post comes from a Bollywood movie I watched on the plane from the US to Delhi. Since I landed, my eyes have been wide, and always full of wonder. There is so much to see, everywhere. I feel as if I am on sensory overload and my mind and heart are brimming, overflowing. Travelling here, in India- it is an experiene to be had. I feel alive.

There are hundreds of pictures on my camera, but not enough time to upload them yet- I promise some will come soon. Hope all is well on your end and you're enjoying these first few days of December.