Urgh. Last night was awful. Freya was feeling fragile yesterday for the first time in this whole trip. She'd burnt herself on her face and shoulders from being in the sea so much. And then she had an unpleasant run in with a flying fish that had caught, in a horribly flappy panic, in her bikini top, when they'd collided in a big wave.
Funny that my hardcore little traveller should have her wobble at the beach. Absolutely nothing has phased her till now, but she's struggling with the whole mozzy thing. The thought of a bug landing on her when she's asleep and sucking her blood, has really got to her. And it's not like she's never seen them before.
As a consequence of her fragility she slept with Martha and me, leaving Hamish to sleep with Gus. Fine. Until sometime in the darkness when I was woken by the sound of a creature in the hut, rustling through our stuff. I willed it to be on of the skinny cats from the restaurant next door, but I knew in my heart it was far more sinister.
The squeaking gave it away, confirming my worst suspicions.
Rats! In my hut, right next to me, knocking things onto the floor, stealing our sweets (what were we thinking having food in here?!) and frightening me half to death. Spiders I can handle, even snakes aren't so bad, but rats... My mind was racing, full of all the rat horror stories I'd ever heard (James Herbert has a big part in this phobia). Then I remembered the night one fell through the roof of our Mexican hut, candying on me as I slept in a hammock. I thought about my friend Peter getting bitten by one on the nose as he slept on a boat last summer.
Hideous. And no Hamish to protect me. Instead, I was the protector of my two girls, especially my eldest who'd had such a tricky day. Somehow I had to find the courage, with a thudding heart, to get out of bed, turn o the lights and shoo them away.
I had visions of the night my friend Fay and I returned to our hut in Ko Samui. We had turned on the light and a crowd of cockroaches, who'd been hanging out on our bed, scattered in all directions.
Would it be like that? How many rats had gatecrashed my party? Had the squeaking been a mother saying,"Hey kids, I've got some snacks," as she'd scrambled down the rush matting.
Or was it a more terrifying call, "Oi! Over here everyone! Come and check out this place!"
Thankfully my footsteps were enough and how ever many there were (I think really it was just one, she says optimistically) had disappeared before I hit the light switch.
It didn't end there. It went on all night. I could clearly hear when the squeaking went down below (our hut is on stilts) and when, horribly, it returned. I left the bathroom light on, casting patterns through the woven rush, so at least I could see if they came close.
For ammunition, I had some face cream, deodorant and a bottle of moisturiser to lob at them if they came into sight.
Just before Dawn I heard the sounds of a neighbour sweeping the sand with a reed brush, signalling the imminent tart of the day. I breathed a sigh of relief that my nightmare in Paradise was almost over. Until tonight at least!
Monday 28 February 2011
The Beach
I am so completely peaceful and happy and utterly blissed out just being here.
It's all I dreamed of. My whole body is relaxed. My mind is still and my heart is smiling.
It's all I dreamed of. My whole body is relaxed. My mind is still and my heart is smiling.
The Train to Delhi
We're back in India! I feel like we've been somewhere else for a month!
As the pink ball of sun broke through the dawn sky, we lay in bed on our sleeper train watching the world go by. We've seen buffalo for the first time in weeks, bullock carts and peacocks, piles of poo drying in the sun and women carrying water on their heads in metals matkas.
We've just done another overnight train ride. Everyone was gorgeous and mellow after waking up. Now the kids are monkeying around, making us SO glad we didn't get on that 30 hour train to Goa! Fergus is like a caged animal.
I was sad to say goodbye to McLeod, but of course, I was ready to go. In hindsight, I'd have left a week earlier, but then we wouldn't have achieved so much at school. If I'd been there without the kids, I could have done in it in a much shorter time. It was a fascinating experience for all of us and I did feel quite emotional saying farewell to them all, but for me, it put the adventure of travelling on hold. I'm so much happier now we're on the move again.
One thing is certain, there's no way we can wait another decade to do this again.
The kids keep talking about their gap year. For them, it's as expected a part of life as losing your milk teeth. Before we set off, I worried that they'd react against this experience and only ever want to go on a package holiday. But no. It's had the opposite effect. We have successfully introduced them to the joys of living in another culture.
Staying in McLeod for so long gave them the opportunity to form relationships with people; although on a very basic level, it gave them a very powerful insight. Both Freya and Fergus had a strong desire to go off, independently, and explore or buy things. They felt incredibly safe and secure there. Rightly so. It's probably one of the safest places on Earth.
We're passing through a village as I write. Children are playing on their way to school. Herons are picking their way through the litter in a waterlogged patch of ground. Buffalo and cows are tethered outside almost every square, concrete block that is home to two or three generations of family. Huge fat pigs are snuffling through the garbage piled on the edge of the settlement. Always there's rubbish. India must have looked so different before plastic raised its convenient, ugly head.
Between them, the cows, monkeys, dogs and pigs can dispose of all paper, card and other degradable waste. But the plastic, and the foil wrappers of crisps and snack packets, well they defeat even the hungriest scavenger. And then there's the water bottles. In any place where tourists pass through, we leave this indelible curse.
McLeod was brilliant for having all the water filters, but even so there were the usual piles of discarded bottles. The Clean Up Dharamsala Project is making great efforts to educate people about recycling and disposing of waste properly, but it's tough. They don't have refuse collections like we do. There's no council workers coming to sort the recycling, just volunteers and the odd skip funded by donations. Crazy really. Yet another thing we take for granted at home.
As the pink ball of sun broke through the dawn sky, we lay in bed on our sleeper train watching the world go by. We've seen buffalo for the first time in weeks, bullock carts and peacocks, piles of poo drying in the sun and women carrying water on their heads in metals matkas.
We've just done another overnight train ride. Everyone was gorgeous and mellow after waking up. Now the kids are monkeying around, making us SO glad we didn't get on that 30 hour train to Goa! Fergus is like a caged animal.
I was sad to say goodbye to McLeod, but of course, I was ready to go. In hindsight, I'd have left a week earlier, but then we wouldn't have achieved so much at school. If I'd been there without the kids, I could have done in it in a much shorter time. It was a fascinating experience for all of us and I did feel quite emotional saying farewell to them all, but for me, it put the adventure of travelling on hold. I'm so much happier now we're on the move again.
One thing is certain, there's no way we can wait another decade to do this again.
The kids keep talking about their gap year. For them, it's as expected a part of life as losing your milk teeth. Before we set off, I worried that they'd react against this experience and only ever want to go on a package holiday. But no. It's had the opposite effect. We have successfully introduced them to the joys of living in another culture.
Staying in McLeod for so long gave them the opportunity to form relationships with people; although on a very basic level, it gave them a very powerful insight. Both Freya and Fergus had a strong desire to go off, independently, and explore or buy things. They felt incredibly safe and secure there. Rightly so. It's probably one of the safest places on Earth.
We're passing through a village as I write. Children are playing on their way to school. Herons are picking their way through the litter in a waterlogged patch of ground. Buffalo and cows are tethered outside almost every square, concrete block that is home to two or three generations of family. Huge fat pigs are snuffling through the garbage piled on the edge of the settlement. Always there's rubbish. India must have looked so different before plastic raised its convenient, ugly head.
Between them, the cows, monkeys, dogs and pigs can dispose of all paper, card and other degradable waste. But the plastic, and the foil wrappers of crisps and snack packets, well they defeat even the hungriest scavenger. And then there's the water bottles. In any place where tourists pass through, we leave this indelible curse.
McLeod was brilliant for having all the water filters, but even so there were the usual piles of discarded bottles. The Clean Up Dharamsala Project is making great efforts to educate people about recycling and disposing of waste properly, but it's tough. They don't have refuse collections like we do. There's no council workers coming to sort the recycling, just volunteers and the odd skip funded by donations. Crazy really. Yet another thing we take for granted at home.
Monday 21 February 2011
The end's in sight...
The end is so close I can almost reach out and touch it. When I close my eyes, I can feel the sand between my toes and hear the the waves lapping the shore.
Yesterday was lovely. We didn't have to go to school in the morning because it was a holiday, so I dashed into town with Freya and Fergus. It was brilliant to be out and about without Martha slowing us down! We bought lots of lovely stuff, making sure we chose each thing from a a different seller to spread our rewards around.
We came back home to collect Hamish and Martha then we jumped in a taxi and went to school. Even though it was a holiday, the year 8 and 10 classes were there doing revision classes. They have their board exams coming up next month so they are working really hard. We arrived just as their classes were finishing. Hamish set up cricket matches for the boys and Freya and I painted with some of the girls.
As our time comes to a close, I am pleased with the progress I have made. I've got an Eco project well under way. Monika, the science teacher has spent a lot of time with me and I think she understands the importance of environmental education. She will be a good leader and has taken it all on board. Teachers here aren't snowed under with loads of paperwork. They have been following the same curriculum for years, teaching the same lessons year after year. They don't know what it is to plan, assess and evaluate. During their free periods, they sit in the staff room and read the newspaper!
We have painted a fantastic mural on one of the outside walls that was really grotty when we arrived. This means we've left a big visual impact on the place. I've done some great teaching - the kids are like sponges, so keen to learn, though all so spoon fed they have very little creativity. I've shared lots of ideas for good practice with the staff that I have worked with and Sister Jancy. How far she can change this antiquated system is down to her.
Later in the afternoon, she came to collect us and take us to the convent, where we met the Mother Superior and several other nuns. It was pretty crazy. I felt like we were in the 'Sound of Music' except nobody was singing. Martha charmed them all and gave us respite in what was quite a strange, intense yet lovely experience. We all sat very still and very upright as Mother Superior asked us many questions about our lives.
They gave us a very warm welcome and though it felt somewhat awkward to be in such an old fashioned institution, there was an abundance of encouraging smiles from the sisters who all sat listening to us. They explained how their numbers are dwindling as no young blood is joining the sisterhood.
"Perhaps Freya will!" laughed Mother Superior, "That would be very good!"
Freya later told me how weird that moment had been and said, "It's no wonder no young girls want to be nuns. We live in a modern world and they don't,"
They are good people, with good hearts and I'm sure throughout the world they do wonderful, selfless work. But Freya's right in that thought. Their lives are so radically different to anything she has ever known. It's not part of our society. I guess the closest my kids get to this kind of charity is the concept of volunteering.
Freya has completely got the idea that we are lucky and we've come here to make the lives of these children a bit better. Gus can tell you that, but I'm not sure how much he really understands it. To him, the kids are just kids. Same as him.
We had tea at the convent which was delicious! We sat at a long refectory table, with me at the head. We were served by Sister Jancy, which felt a little strange. We had the most scrumptious coconut and lemon pancakes, followed by pakora and sweet coffee.
After we had eaten and the kids had broken the quiet, calm atmosphere with their laughter as they ran through the corridors and played Hide n Seek, we were taken to see the new auditorium they're building at the Sacred Heart School. It's immense, just like you would expect to see in a large secondary school in the UK, but the way it's being built is totally different.
The entire thing has been built by hand. Everything has been carried in on the shoulders of men, or, more likely, on the head of women. It has taken years, but is now near completion.
There is sound proofing on the walls and ceiling, huge arched windows, jagged scaffold poles dotted around precariously and a team of builders - whole families complete with kids - is living in a room under the stage! Their washing was strung on a line that stretched the length of the stage and they pee in the far corner of the hall - that was quite apparent.
A health and safety officer in the UK would have a heart attack. We entered via a concrete staircase with no sides, leading us up to the second floor. There were rocks, holes and rusty scaffold pipes strewn everywhere. The sisters just stepped gracefully over in their floor length robes. You had to see it to believe it.
As we finally shook hands and hugged Mother Superior and Sister Jancy farewell, I was struck by the brilliant opportunities we face almost daily. So much we all now take for granted, like letting the monks in the Internet cafe entertain / be entertained by Martha, as we get on with things.
We came home tired and happy. Hamish went down to town and brought us pizzas which we ate on the bed! We spend so much time talking, eating together, playing games, and watching films together.
Today we're taking a rickshaw to Dharamcot, our neighbouring village, to go to Rajesh's house. We're going to meet the cow whose provided our milk all these weeks.
Whilst I can't wait to get to the beach, I don't want to be so close to the end. We could have easily done this for six months...
Yesterday was lovely. We didn't have to go to school in the morning because it was a holiday, so I dashed into town with Freya and Fergus. It was brilliant to be out and about without Martha slowing us down! We bought lots of lovely stuff, making sure we chose each thing from a a different seller to spread our rewards around.
We came back home to collect Hamish and Martha then we jumped in a taxi and went to school. Even though it was a holiday, the year 8 and 10 classes were there doing revision classes. They have their board exams coming up next month so they are working really hard. We arrived just as their classes were finishing. Hamish set up cricket matches for the boys and Freya and I painted with some of the girls.
As our time comes to a close, I am pleased with the progress I have made. I've got an Eco project well under way. Monika, the science teacher has spent a lot of time with me and I think she understands the importance of environmental education. She will be a good leader and has taken it all on board. Teachers here aren't snowed under with loads of paperwork. They have been following the same curriculum for years, teaching the same lessons year after year. They don't know what it is to plan, assess and evaluate. During their free periods, they sit in the staff room and read the newspaper!
We have painted a fantastic mural on one of the outside walls that was really grotty when we arrived. This means we've left a big visual impact on the place. I've done some great teaching - the kids are like sponges, so keen to learn, though all so spoon fed they have very little creativity. I've shared lots of ideas for good practice with the staff that I have worked with and Sister Jancy. How far she can change this antiquated system is down to her.
Later in the afternoon, she came to collect us and take us to the convent, where we met the Mother Superior and several other nuns. It was pretty crazy. I felt like we were in the 'Sound of Music' except nobody was singing. Martha charmed them all and gave us respite in what was quite a strange, intense yet lovely experience. We all sat very still and very upright as Mother Superior asked us many questions about our lives.
They gave us a very warm welcome and though it felt somewhat awkward to be in such an old fashioned institution, there was an abundance of encouraging smiles from the sisters who all sat listening to us. They explained how their numbers are dwindling as no young blood is joining the sisterhood.
"Perhaps Freya will!" laughed Mother Superior, "That would be very good!"
Freya later told me how weird that moment had been and said, "It's no wonder no young girls want to be nuns. We live in a modern world and they don't,"
They are good people, with good hearts and I'm sure throughout the world they do wonderful, selfless work. But Freya's right in that thought. Their lives are so radically different to anything she has ever known. It's not part of our society. I guess the closest my kids get to this kind of charity is the concept of volunteering.
Freya has completely got the idea that we are lucky and we've come here to make the lives of these children a bit better. Gus can tell you that, but I'm not sure how much he really understands it. To him, the kids are just kids. Same as him.
We had tea at the convent which was delicious! We sat at a long refectory table, with me at the head. We were served by Sister Jancy, which felt a little strange. We had the most scrumptious coconut and lemon pancakes, followed by pakora and sweet coffee.
After we had eaten and the kids had broken the quiet, calm atmosphere with their laughter as they ran through the corridors and played Hide n Seek, we were taken to see the new auditorium they're building at the Sacred Heart School. It's immense, just like you would expect to see in a large secondary school in the UK, but the way it's being built is totally different.
The entire thing has been built by hand. Everything has been carried in on the shoulders of men, or, more likely, on the head of women. It has taken years, but is now near completion.
There is sound proofing on the walls and ceiling, huge arched windows, jagged scaffold poles dotted around precariously and a team of builders - whole families complete with kids - is living in a room under the stage! Their washing was strung on a line that stretched the length of the stage and they pee in the far corner of the hall - that was quite apparent.
A health and safety officer in the UK would have a heart attack. We entered via a concrete staircase with no sides, leading us up to the second floor. There were rocks, holes and rusty scaffold pipes strewn everywhere. The sisters just stepped gracefully over in their floor length robes. You had to see it to believe it.
As we finally shook hands and hugged Mother Superior and Sister Jancy farewell, I was struck by the brilliant opportunities we face almost daily. So much we all now take for granted, like letting the monks in the Internet cafe entertain / be entertained by Martha, as we get on with things.
We came home tired and happy. Hamish went down to town and brought us pizzas which we ate on the bed! We spend so much time talking, eating together, playing games, and watching films together.
Today we're taking a rickshaw to Dharamcot, our neighbouring village, to go to Rajesh's house. We're going to meet the cow whose provided our milk all these weeks.
Whilst I can't wait to get to the beach, I don't want to be so close to the end. We could have easily done this for six months...
Sunday 13 February 2011
The kids' blog
For those of you with kids, you might find it interesting to show them the blog that Freya and Fergus are writing. Here's the link:
Http://freyaandfergus.blogspot.com/
Http://freyaandfergus.blogspot.com/
Another rainy Sunday
It's raining. Again.just like last Sunday. It's cold, wet and windy. Amazingly, I don't feel as depressed by it as you might expect. I've been out shopping with Martha, carried her and the provisions up 142 steps in the driving rain, then done the washing on the blustery balcony. Martha, who never has accidents, wet the bed last night. Brilliant timing.
We're cooped up in this tiny apartment, with three kids and a mattress propped up in front of our little radiator. Oh and Martha's just posted something into one of the ventilation slots on said heater, so part of me is waiting for the smoke and flames.
Poor old Freya is now full of cold and feeling grotty. Throughout everything, she is the one whose always stayed upbeat and cheerful, consistently skipping her way to school when Gus has been positively dragging his heels.
But in spite of all that, it's OK. Yesterday was not a great day. Hamish and I had simultaneously lost our joy and enthusiasm for the whole thing. We'd had a disaster with booking our trains for the next leg of our journey. Last Sunday, we'd checked the times and had decided which routes to take. Hamish was going to book it on Monday, but the storm left us with no electricity. The modem played up for the rest of the week and we didn't feel the urgency to book online in an Internet cafe - we didn't want to put our credit card details into a computer there.
When we finally got back on line on Thursday, it was too late. All the trains were full. This sent us both into a spin, but for very different reasons. Hamish decided that if he couldn't look after his own family, then he shouldn't be working in the travel business anymore. Dramatic, I know, but things can get a bit intense when you're travelling. I meanwhile felt, irrationally I admit, that I was trapped, never to leave these cold, harsh mountains, never to sink my toes into the warm sands of a Goan beach.
All sounds a bit silly now, but at the time, it made us both miserable. This compounded my gloom - we hadn't come all this way to waste a single second feeling rubbish. We were meant to be savouring every moment. I didn't want to be willing the days to pass, but that's exactly what I was doing. At least for 24 hours.
I also found myself questioning my own part in all of this. I came here to try and make life a bit better for the kids at St Mary's, especially those who live in the hostel run by a mean minded Buddhist monk, and who only get to see their far away families in the summer holidays. And all I could think about was how I was going to get to the beach.
McLeod is full of well intentioned westerners doing volunteer work. I was comparing myself to them, resenting their earnest selflessness as they willingly gave up their time for the benefit of others. I was wishing I was surrounded by the colourful wasters with their sparkly bindis who line the streets of Pushkar, instead of these sincere, drably dressed do-gooders, with better hearts than mine.
In addition to all this negative thinking, I was also sad to be missing a close friend's 40th birthday. I should have been dancing the night away with some of my oldest and most treasured mates, instead of being stuck here in the cold.
I'm happy to say that, a day later, and despite the dreary weather, a poorly Freya and a soggy mattress, our spirits are restored. The kids, picking up on our darkness, were brilliant. I am so filled with respect for them, for their responses to every situation we have exposed them to. They have their moments of bickering and getting frustrated with each other, but that's it. Nothing else has phased them. Not going to school where the kids speak a different language and the teachers pull your hair, nor the long journeys, nothing has been a problem for them.
So much so that we actually planned to do a 30 hour train journey. I'd never in a million years have thought we'd have considered it. This was the train that we couldn't book and we were all disappointed to miss out on the adventure.
The alternative is to take a flight to cover such a huge distance. Before we set off, this was always our plan. But since we've been away, our perspectives have changed. We were all excited at the prospect of cosying up in our carriage, reading books, playing chess and Pooface (our child's version of a favourite adult card game!), watching films on the iPad and seeing the world go by as we passed through a large part of India.
Ah well. We'll know for next time. It's still pouring down with rain. We can't go out and explore our surroundings. Instead we have to continue the exploration into our relationships, working out how to be that 'Happy family', even in the rain.
We're cooped up in this tiny apartment, with three kids and a mattress propped up in front of our little radiator. Oh and Martha's just posted something into one of the ventilation slots on said heater, so part of me is waiting for the smoke and flames.
Poor old Freya is now full of cold and feeling grotty. Throughout everything, she is the one whose always stayed upbeat and cheerful, consistently skipping her way to school when Gus has been positively dragging his heels.
But in spite of all that, it's OK. Yesterday was not a great day. Hamish and I had simultaneously lost our joy and enthusiasm for the whole thing. We'd had a disaster with booking our trains for the next leg of our journey. Last Sunday, we'd checked the times and had decided which routes to take. Hamish was going to book it on Monday, but the storm left us with no electricity. The modem played up for the rest of the week and we didn't feel the urgency to book online in an Internet cafe - we didn't want to put our credit card details into a computer there.
When we finally got back on line on Thursday, it was too late. All the trains were full. This sent us both into a spin, but for very different reasons. Hamish decided that if he couldn't look after his own family, then he shouldn't be working in the travel business anymore. Dramatic, I know, but things can get a bit intense when you're travelling. I meanwhile felt, irrationally I admit, that I was trapped, never to leave these cold, harsh mountains, never to sink my toes into the warm sands of a Goan beach.
All sounds a bit silly now, but at the time, it made us both miserable. This compounded my gloom - we hadn't come all this way to waste a single second feeling rubbish. We were meant to be savouring every moment. I didn't want to be willing the days to pass, but that's exactly what I was doing. At least for 24 hours.
I also found myself questioning my own part in all of this. I came here to try and make life a bit better for the kids at St Mary's, especially those who live in the hostel run by a mean minded Buddhist monk, and who only get to see their far away families in the summer holidays. And all I could think about was how I was going to get to the beach.
McLeod is full of well intentioned westerners doing volunteer work. I was comparing myself to them, resenting their earnest selflessness as they willingly gave up their time for the benefit of others. I was wishing I was surrounded by the colourful wasters with their sparkly bindis who line the streets of Pushkar, instead of these sincere, drably dressed do-gooders, with better hearts than mine.
In addition to all this negative thinking, I was also sad to be missing a close friend's 40th birthday. I should have been dancing the night away with some of my oldest and most treasured mates, instead of being stuck here in the cold.
I'm happy to say that, a day later, and despite the dreary weather, a poorly Freya and a soggy mattress, our spirits are restored. The kids, picking up on our darkness, were brilliant. I am so filled with respect for them, for their responses to every situation we have exposed them to. They have their moments of bickering and getting frustrated with each other, but that's it. Nothing else has phased them. Not going to school where the kids speak a different language and the teachers pull your hair, nor the long journeys, nothing has been a problem for them.
So much so that we actually planned to do a 30 hour train journey. I'd never in a million years have thought we'd have considered it. This was the train that we couldn't book and we were all disappointed to miss out on the adventure.
The alternative is to take a flight to cover such a huge distance. Before we set off, this was always our plan. But since we've been away, our perspectives have changed. We were all excited at the prospect of cosying up in our carriage, reading books, playing chess and Pooface (our child's version of a favourite adult card game!), watching films on the iPad and seeing the world go by as we passed through a large part of India.
Ah well. We'll know for next time. It's still pouring down with rain. We can't go out and explore our surroundings. Instead we have to continue the exploration into our relationships, working out how to be that 'Happy family', even in the rain.
Friday 11 February 2011
21st century India
Things have changed here so much since my first trip to India. My initial impressions of Delhi were dominated by the young women who wore western clothes with attitudes to match. Even those who still wear traditional clothes are carrying around babies dressed in jeans. Change, of course is inevitable, but in a country whose culture is so very strong, I wasn't expecting it to be so rapid.
Life has changed at a fast moving pace the world over. As a teacher, I am educating kids for jobs that might not yet exist. So why is it so surprising here? It's because technology has made such advances and in spite of that, so many of the old ways remain. In Britain, society moves on, developments ripple through all aspects of our lives. For us, technology reaches all of the populous.
Martha is not yet three, and she has already received and sent her first emails (with help, obviously -she's not quite that bright!) For us, mobile phones, games consoles and the Internet are available and used by every generation. I saw the other day that Facebook's oldest member is 103 and uses the site to communicate with her 13 grandchildren.
And similarly here in India, I see mobile phones everywhere. So is the Internet. When I first travelled, the only means of communication was handwritten, on airmail paper (my kids wouldn't even know what that was) and a visit to the local Poste Restante. Then came the fax machine, but you had to know someone back home who had one. It wasn't until I went to Brazil in 1997 that I received my first proper email communication.
But now, every cafe in town has free wi-fi. Travellers are tapping away at their laptops, notepads, Blackberrys and iPhones. And so are the locals. There is one Internet cafe which I pass every day. It's got a funky interior and a wall of windows. It would be at home in any city in the world, except sitting at the row of computers, or relaxing on the multicoloured chairs, there is always a handful of Tibetan monks, fully robed and highly IT literate.
Gets me every time - a monk with a laptop! But the really crazy thing about it all, is that right next door is a building site, where Indian women are hard at work, mixing sand and lime with heavy spades, loading it into large bowls which they carry on their heads to where the men are laying bricks. It's always the women who have the worst jobs. They look so thin and delicate, but their petit frames belie their great strength. Some of them have babies strapped to their backs. No amount of technology is ever going to change their lives.
Nor will it reach the life of the ancient man who crouches opposite, wrapped in a blanket that hides all but his face, as he waits for someone to buy his small collection of vegetables.
We sit outside the cafe, the epitomy of 21st century life, run by uber cool Tibetans, total dudes, sipping machiatos and eating chocolate brownies, as a cow wonders by and stops to munch a piece of newspaper from the side of the road. It's soon followed by a small herd of goats on their way to somewhere, clearly known to them.
Smart Toyotas drive through the dusty streets, frustrated by the speed of a man pushing a hand cart that is his mobile sticker shop. Iconic Royal Enfields roar past wrinkled Tibetan ladies as they spin the prayer wheels outside the temple in the high street.
It's such a cliche to talk about the contrasts in India. We've heard them all a million times before: the difference between rich and poor; the colours and the darkness. But I wonder if anything is as crazy as seeing past and present moving so comfortably into the future. Everyone accepts everything as normal. Nothing is remarkable enough to turn heads. Like the camel carts walking the wrong way up the fast lane on our drive back to Delhi. And the fact that in our apartment we have a squat toilet and a modem. For the people who live here, it's just not extraordinary. Which I guess, just adds to the fascination of the visitors. And maybe it's a big part of the reason that India is so magic.
Life has changed at a fast moving pace the world over. As a teacher, I am educating kids for jobs that might not yet exist. So why is it so surprising here? It's because technology has made such advances and in spite of that, so many of the old ways remain. In Britain, society moves on, developments ripple through all aspects of our lives. For us, technology reaches all of the populous.
Martha is not yet three, and she has already received and sent her first emails (with help, obviously -she's not quite that bright!) For us, mobile phones, games consoles and the Internet are available and used by every generation. I saw the other day that Facebook's oldest member is 103 and uses the site to communicate with her 13 grandchildren.
And similarly here in India, I see mobile phones everywhere. So is the Internet. When I first travelled, the only means of communication was handwritten, on airmail paper (my kids wouldn't even know what that was) and a visit to the local Poste Restante. Then came the fax machine, but you had to know someone back home who had one. It wasn't until I went to Brazil in 1997 that I received my first proper email communication.
But now, every cafe in town has free wi-fi. Travellers are tapping away at their laptops, notepads, Blackberrys and iPhones. And so are the locals. There is one Internet cafe which I pass every day. It's got a funky interior and a wall of windows. It would be at home in any city in the world, except sitting at the row of computers, or relaxing on the multicoloured chairs, there is always a handful of Tibetan monks, fully robed and highly IT literate.
Gets me every time - a monk with a laptop! But the really crazy thing about it all, is that right next door is a building site, where Indian women are hard at work, mixing sand and lime with heavy spades, loading it into large bowls which they carry on their heads to where the men are laying bricks. It's always the women who have the worst jobs. They look so thin and delicate, but their petit frames belie their great strength. Some of them have babies strapped to their backs. No amount of technology is ever going to change their lives.
Nor will it reach the life of the ancient man who crouches opposite, wrapped in a blanket that hides all but his face, as he waits for someone to buy his small collection of vegetables.
We sit outside the cafe, the epitomy of 21st century life, run by uber cool Tibetans, total dudes, sipping machiatos and eating chocolate brownies, as a cow wonders by and stops to munch a piece of newspaper from the side of the road. It's soon followed by a small herd of goats on their way to somewhere, clearly known to them.
Smart Toyotas drive through the dusty streets, frustrated by the speed of a man pushing a hand cart that is his mobile sticker shop. Iconic Royal Enfields roar past wrinkled Tibetan ladies as they spin the prayer wheels outside the temple in the high street.
It's such a cliche to talk about the contrasts in India. We've heard them all a million times before: the difference between rich and poor; the colours and the darkness. But I wonder if anything is as crazy as seeing past and present moving so comfortably into the future. Everyone accepts everything as normal. Nothing is remarkable enough to turn heads. Like the camel carts walking the wrong way up the fast lane on our drive back to Delhi. And the fact that in our apartment we have a squat toilet and a modem. For the people who live here, it's just not extraordinary. Which I guess, just adds to the fascination of the visitors. And maybe it's a big part of the reason that India is so magic.
Thursday 10 February 2011
Feeling the fear
At what point does optimism give way to sadness or fear? I am ever the optimist, and when I lose that sense of hope, I am far from comfortable.
Last night I lay in bed listening to a raging storm. The wind battered the buildings so relentlessly that the night was one very long series of clatters, bangs and crashes.
Unable to sleep, my initial thoughts that, "This is alright, I'm sure it's perfectly normal for this time of year, Kunsang (our host) hadn't seemed unduly worried as he bade us goodnight," eventually gave way to more panicked imaginings: the door is going to burst open; the windows might shatter; the roof might fly off.
Which is when, in that long, dark night, with no electricity or heat, I found myself wondering, when does optimism get up and leave you? When do you discover you've gone from bad weather to a news report?
For the earthquake victims of Haiti, there was no warning, no time to panic. But there must have been people in Australia earlier this year and Pakistan last year, who watched the rain fall and fall, people who felt the optimism ("This rain will stop soon,") give way to fear, to blind panic, as their homes were washed away in torrent of muddy water.
So, as I lay in bed, fearing for the safety of my children, unsettled that Freya and Fergus were locked in another room, not under my protective wing, memories of a previous fear revisited me. The adrenalin shot through my veins, pounding into my heart, as I remembered 1993, Hurricane Gert, whose ferocious winds had ripped down the coast of Central America. At the time, Hamish and were residing in Tulum, in the shabbiest beach hut in all of Mexico. The storm had frightened us half to death as we had taken shelter in the corner of our hut, the corner where they crabs scuttled in every day. We had huddled together for warmth, not a dry piece of clothing between us as the horizontal wind and rain burst through the inadequate walls. That night we had wondered at point do we run, and where exactly do we run to?
In the end, for us, the hurricane caused minimal damage, though it gathered speed as it raged down the coast, killing people in Honduras. And similarly the storm that battered McLeod Ganj brought no lasting harm to us other than a sleepless night, though it did rip the roof off the local hash dealer's house! But it did make me think, how lucky I am that I've never quite reached that point of flight or fight because my life depends upon it. And my heart goes out to those who have.
When I went into the kids in the morning, I asked them gently, "Were you frightened last night?"
"No!" they both replied, "It was so exciting! It was really dark and we thought we'd gone blind, and then we realised there was no electricity. It was wicked!"
Oh.
Last night I lay in bed listening to a raging storm. The wind battered the buildings so relentlessly that the night was one very long series of clatters, bangs and crashes.
Unable to sleep, my initial thoughts that, "This is alright, I'm sure it's perfectly normal for this time of year, Kunsang (our host) hadn't seemed unduly worried as he bade us goodnight," eventually gave way to more panicked imaginings: the door is going to burst open; the windows might shatter; the roof might fly off.
Which is when, in that long, dark night, with no electricity or heat, I found myself wondering, when does optimism get up and leave you? When do you discover you've gone from bad weather to a news report?
For the earthquake victims of Haiti, there was no warning, no time to panic. But there must have been people in Australia earlier this year and Pakistan last year, who watched the rain fall and fall, people who felt the optimism ("This rain will stop soon,") give way to fear, to blind panic, as their homes were washed away in torrent of muddy water.
So, as I lay in bed, fearing for the safety of my children, unsettled that Freya and Fergus were locked in another room, not under my protective wing, memories of a previous fear revisited me. The adrenalin shot through my veins, pounding into my heart, as I remembered 1993, Hurricane Gert, whose ferocious winds had ripped down the coast of Central America. At the time, Hamish and were residing in Tulum, in the shabbiest beach hut in all of Mexico. The storm had frightened us half to death as we had taken shelter in the corner of our hut, the corner where they crabs scuttled in every day. We had huddled together for warmth, not a dry piece of clothing between us as the horizontal wind and rain burst through the inadequate walls. That night we had wondered at point do we run, and where exactly do we run to?
In the end, for us, the hurricane caused minimal damage, though it gathered speed as it raged down the coast, killing people in Honduras. And similarly the storm that battered McLeod Ganj brought no lasting harm to us other than a sleepless night, though it did rip the roof off the local hash dealer's house! But it did make me think, how lucky I am that I've never quite reached that point of flight or fight because my life depends upon it. And my heart goes out to those who have.
When I went into the kids in the morning, I asked them gently, "Were you frightened last night?"
"No!" they both replied, "It was so exciting! It was really dark and we thought we'd gone blind, and then we realised there was no electricity. It was wicked!"
Oh.
Saturday 5 February 2011
Life in McLeod
We've been in McLeod for a week and I can say without hesitation that we are loving it. I still can't quite believe this is India. A few kilometres down the hill, and you in Dharamsala. There's no question that that's India. It strikes me as a fairly uninteresting town that I have no desire to explore. We have stopped there to pick up some shopping, assuming that it's cheaper than McLeod due to the lack of tourists, but it's not. The few people I have encountered there did nothing to endear themselves to me.
Then you drive ten minutes back up the hill and you are surrounded by Tibetans and a very real sense of peace. You can't help but feel completely chilled out here. No one hassles you to buy anything, or even look at stuff. They seem content to earn nothing more than a greeting and a smile, as you walk on buy.
Martha charms everyone, even today when she had her first public tantrum (-I wouldn't buy her a Kitkat because she didn't eat her breakfast.) People were coming out of their shops to smile and say,"Arh! Baby, don't cry," as she stamped her way up the road. In the end, two gorgeous Tibetan grandmothers sat down with her on the steps of a cafe and talked in such soothing tones, that even though she couldn't understand what they were saying, she grasped their intention, and stopped crying. Throughout the encounter, the older of the two women never stopped spinning her prayer wheel.
We have now sussed out our favourite eateries and know the best dishes in each. We're all feeling very at home here. The kids can now come and go on their own. Freya walked home today alone and I am quite happy to let them go to the shops by themselves (obviously without Martha in tow!)
We've all settled into our roles at school. For me, teaching at St Mary's is an absolute dream, no planning, no paperwork, no assessment, no targets, just the simple pleasure of imparting knowledge. I've also established with Sister Jancy how I can introduce the concept of environmental education and set out a programme of training with the staff. They have absolutely no idea about Climate Change and its implications. I tried to talk to the children about the melting ice caps but they have no knowledge of the Arctic. No one knew what a polar bear was. So often I want to reach for the computer to show them something on the internet, but of course, there isn't one.
None of the pupils have ever seen the sea. Such a lot of ground to cover! I have also noticed that they are not the independent learners I am so used to working with. They are completely reliant on the teacher directing all that they do. When you write something on the board they all say it out loud then they copy down exactly what they see. I was teaching a class to use connectives. I wrote some sentences on the board that the children had to finish. Out of a class of 45, I think three were confident enough to do what I asked. The rest of them simply wrote out a page of half finished sentences! There's no risk taking going on here.
But then when I hear about Fergus' first Hindi lesson, I can understand why. Apparently, the teacher walked around the room checking what they were doing. If a boy made a mistake, she would pull their ear and slap their face. The girls got off more lightly with a sharp yank of their plaits. Unbelievable!
The kids have settled in amazingly well. Fergus is so keen to improve his handwriting, to be like the kids here, that he has been practising at home...UNHEARD OF! They are surrounded by friends at playtime and are both really happy to go school each day.
Last night, as we walked home after dinner, two men were squatting on the side of the road, watching the world go by, laughing and joking. "Hey, Happy Family!" they shouted, "Good night. Sweet dreams!"
And you know what, you do have sweet dreams. Several times I am woken in the night by one of the kids, and I never have one of those desperately annoying thoughts about something I need to do, or some stress at work, that so often keeps me awake. I am utterly peaceful. How lucky I am. But how long can this last?
Then you drive ten minutes back up the hill and you are surrounded by Tibetans and a very real sense of peace. You can't help but feel completely chilled out here. No one hassles you to buy anything, or even look at stuff. They seem content to earn nothing more than a greeting and a smile, as you walk on buy.
Martha charms everyone, even today when she had her first public tantrum (-I wouldn't buy her a Kitkat because she didn't eat her breakfast.) People were coming out of their shops to smile and say,"Arh! Baby, don't cry," as she stamped her way up the road. In the end, two gorgeous Tibetan grandmothers sat down with her on the steps of a cafe and talked in such soothing tones, that even though she couldn't understand what they were saying, she grasped their intention, and stopped crying. Throughout the encounter, the older of the two women never stopped spinning her prayer wheel.
We have now sussed out our favourite eateries and know the best dishes in each. We're all feeling very at home here. The kids can now come and go on their own. Freya walked home today alone and I am quite happy to let them go to the shops by themselves (obviously without Martha in tow!)
We've all settled into our roles at school. For me, teaching at St Mary's is an absolute dream, no planning, no paperwork, no assessment, no targets, just the simple pleasure of imparting knowledge. I've also established with Sister Jancy how I can introduce the concept of environmental education and set out a programme of training with the staff. They have absolutely no idea about Climate Change and its implications. I tried to talk to the children about the melting ice caps but they have no knowledge of the Arctic. No one knew what a polar bear was. So often I want to reach for the computer to show them something on the internet, but of course, there isn't one.
None of the pupils have ever seen the sea. Such a lot of ground to cover! I have also noticed that they are not the independent learners I am so used to working with. They are completely reliant on the teacher directing all that they do. When you write something on the board they all say it out loud then they copy down exactly what they see. I was teaching a class to use connectives. I wrote some sentences on the board that the children had to finish. Out of a class of 45, I think three were confident enough to do what I asked. The rest of them simply wrote out a page of half finished sentences! There's no risk taking going on here.
But then when I hear about Fergus' first Hindi lesson, I can understand why. Apparently, the teacher walked around the room checking what they were doing. If a boy made a mistake, she would pull their ear and slap their face. The girls got off more lightly with a sharp yank of their plaits. Unbelievable!
The kids have settled in amazingly well. Fergus is so keen to improve his handwriting, to be like the kids here, that he has been practising at home...UNHEARD OF! They are surrounded by friends at playtime and are both really happy to go school each day.
Last night, as we walked home after dinner, two men were squatting on the side of the road, watching the world go by, laughing and joking. "Hey, Happy Family!" they shouted, "Good night. Sweet dreams!"
And you know what, you do have sweet dreams. Several times I am woken in the night by one of the kids, and I never have one of those desperately annoying thoughts about something I need to do, or some stress at work, that so often keeps me awake. I am utterly peaceful. How lucky I am. But how long can this last?
Friday 4 February 2011
Photos and thoughts...
Check out my facebook page to see some pics.
I can categorically confirm that some of the loveliest human beings in the world live in McLeod Ganj. Even the dogs here are fat and chilled out. When did you ever see overweight dogs in India?!
I can categorically confirm that some of the loveliest human beings in the world live in McLeod Ganj. Even the dogs here are fat and chilled out. When did you ever see overweight dogs in India?!
Wednesday 2 February 2011
Two weeks in and this is where we're at.
We're back at Bhagsu waterfall, the now favourite haunt of our kids. For Gus and Freya it's about climbing over the mighty rocks that litter the river bed, looking for the perfect stone to skim. For Martha, it's "the place where the crisps live," (in the tiny No Name Cafe perched on the path above).
I'm sitting on a large rock, undisturbed by busy kids, considering how far we have come. And I'm not thinking geographically.
We are all so at home here. This morning, Martha came out onto the balcony, clutching her bowl of cornflakes and said, "Where are the monkeys? Monkeys! Monkeys! Where are you?"
It is totally normal for her to expect to watch monkeys playing as she eats her breakfast.
Freya continues to take everything in her stride and is now beginning to define her role within our little unit. Each night she puts a pan of milk on the stove and makes them all hot chocolate. She also has a total handle on where to find the restaurants recommended by her big cousin Milly and what foods should be eaten there. I struggle to find the man who makes the best samosas in town but Freya knows exactly which is his stall.
Fergus speaks to everyone and anyone. Out on the street if someone speaks to him and he doesn't understand, he holds out his hand and says, "Fergus," assuming, probably quite rightly, that they have asked him his name.
No one looks twice at the remarkable things we see. On our way here today we passed a goat standing in wheelbarrow on the steps of a temple. Totally normal.
Before we set off, I worried about how they would feel seeing beggars. But you know what, they see it through kids' eyes, which doesn't provoke deep thought as to how some of these desperate souls survive, they simply see someone they want to help. We give money or food to some of them (if he has money in his pocket, Gus is the first one to reach for it), but we can't stop for everyone. And whilst it feels to us a very temporary and unsatisfactory solution to their plight, for the kids, that's enough. We move on, the beggar doesn't leave a lasting impression on them. They feel sad for them, when they stand before them, but out of sight and the encounter is over. That's not to say it's forgotten. The kids just accept their existence without question.
Our apartment where we're staying is really quite grotty. But strangely, none of us mind. Not even me. The beds are hard, the walls need a lick of paint, there is no hot water in the kitchen, the shower is an embarrassment to itself as it dribbles down on us. It's really cold at night and we have no fluffy duvets. And if we take the short cut home from town, we have to climb 142 steps.
But when we wake up, warm sunshine floods our balcony. We can sit on our little wooden bench and watch the monkeys, we can look up and see the start of the mighty mountains standing over us. No one phones or knocks on our door to take our attention away. We are absolutely living in the moment, and we are living it together.
I'm sitting on a large rock, undisturbed by busy kids, considering how far we have come. And I'm not thinking geographically.
We are all so at home here. This morning, Martha came out onto the balcony, clutching her bowl of cornflakes and said, "Where are the monkeys? Monkeys! Monkeys! Where are you?"
It is totally normal for her to expect to watch monkeys playing as she eats her breakfast.
Freya continues to take everything in her stride and is now beginning to define her role within our little unit. Each night she puts a pan of milk on the stove and makes them all hot chocolate. She also has a total handle on where to find the restaurants recommended by her big cousin Milly and what foods should be eaten there. I struggle to find the man who makes the best samosas in town but Freya knows exactly which is his stall.
Fergus speaks to everyone and anyone. Out on the street if someone speaks to him and he doesn't understand, he holds out his hand and says, "Fergus," assuming, probably quite rightly, that they have asked him his name.
No one looks twice at the remarkable things we see. On our way here today we passed a goat standing in wheelbarrow on the steps of a temple. Totally normal.
Before we set off, I worried about how they would feel seeing beggars. But you know what, they see it through kids' eyes, which doesn't provoke deep thought as to how some of these desperate souls survive, they simply see someone they want to help. We give money or food to some of them (if he has money in his pocket, Gus is the first one to reach for it), but we can't stop for everyone. And whilst it feels to us a very temporary and unsatisfactory solution to their plight, for the kids, that's enough. We move on, the beggar doesn't leave a lasting impression on them. They feel sad for them, when they stand before them, but out of sight and the encounter is over. That's not to say it's forgotten. The kids just accept their existence without question.
Our apartment where we're staying is really quite grotty. But strangely, none of us mind. Not even me. The beds are hard, the walls need a lick of paint, there is no hot water in the kitchen, the shower is an embarrassment to itself as it dribbles down on us. It's really cold at night and we have no fluffy duvets. And if we take the short cut home from town, we have to climb 142 steps.
But when we wake up, warm sunshine floods our balcony. We can sit on our little wooden bench and watch the monkeys, we can look up and see the start of the mighty mountains standing over us. No one phones or knocks on our door to take our attention away. We are absolutely living in the moment, and we are living it together.
Tuesday 1 February 2011
Crazy coincidence
Sitting out on our balcony flicking through an old edition of the Lonely Planet guide to India. We spotted one of the writers, Anthony Ham, who we met years ago in Jaipur. In his little note from the author at the beginning of the book, he writes a special thank you to the travellers, Hamish and Anna! What a mad one! We're in the Lonely Planet!
The reason we're here
I'm watching the setting sun turn the snow capped mountains rosy pink. Below me the town is quiet, but for the odd high pitched honk from a car or rickshaw navigating the bends and the sound of dogs barking. Lots of people here have them as pets.
We went to St Mary's School today for the first time. It is about a half an hour drive down the hill in a small village called Sidhpur. As we pulled up outside the school gates, I think we all felt a little nervous. Except Martha that is. She couldn't get there quick enough, skipping down the school path singing.
We were greeted by the principal Sister Jancy Joseph. She is from the nearby convent where they run another school The Sacred Heart High School. This one is private and it gives the convent the means to fund St Mary's. The children there do not pay to come to school, unless, in a few cases, they can afford to. In India, no schooling is free. They have both private and public schools, though I am not certain of the difference between the two. My understanding is that public is the more expensive. Either way, if you can't afford to pay the fees, your kids don't get an education here. There is no state funding. It makes you appreciate how very lucky we are.
Anyway, St Mary's was set up about fifteen years ago, by Sister Celia (who sadly I will not meet as she has been seconded to somewhere in Goa) and a group of locals who believed that everyone had the right to an education, regardless of their finical situation.
Sister Jancy gave us a tour of the school. It's unbelievably Victorian, children sitting silently in rows, even four year olds are behind a desk all morning. They all stand to attention when a visitor enters the room, with their arms by their sides, bowing their heads slightly as they say "Good Morning," in perfect unison. They are smartly dressed in a uniform of maroon jumpers, White shirts and ties, with white trousers for the boys and skirts for the girls. Some girls wear tartan skirts and they all have their long hair tied in very neat plaits with red ribbons.
As we walked from class to class I couldn't help feeling some sense of nostalgia as the books they used reminded me of my own days at primary school. (I went to a very old fashioned school!) There were lots of similarities to the subjects they were covering. In class three they were learning about the life cycle of a plant, not unlike their counterparts in England. In class two, however, they were doing moral studies which was teaching them how to be a good person. Our equivalent is PSHE (personal, social, health education) but this seemed a lot less sophisticated. They were learning about three magical words to use at home, "please, thank you and sorry"! It will be really interesting to find out more. These kids are uber polite. Maybe kids at home should have lessons in using these magic words!
Some of the classrooms were very overcrowded, with maybe 50 pupils or more. The teachers all stand in front of blackboards and I heard chanting going on as they learnt by rote. Working in an education system that is so very different, it will be really interesting to make comparisons.
At lunchtime we went out onto the yard and got completely mobbed. How DO the Beckhams cope? We were surrounded by so many kids that at one point, I saw Martha crying and I just couldn't get to her! I made the mistake of getting my camera out and that sent them all into a spin as they pushed and shoved to get in front of the lens.
After a little while some of the older girls starting playing the drums, signalling the start of assembly. The classes lined up in regimental order and the PE teacher stood up on the stage and shouted for everyone to stand "At ease!". They all stood identically with their hands neatly behind their backs. We we then invited onto the stage by Sister Jancy and we stood there with the 580 pupils of St Mary's clapping to welcome us to their school, full of hope for the great things we will do with them. Let's hope we don't disappoint them!
After assembly, we left the school, all feeling excited about coming back. We walked up the hill to the Norbulingka Institute. This is a centre of Tibetan culture, where they hope to preserve the Tibetan way of life. The temple is the place where the Dalai Lama does his writings. There is a cafe where we lunched, a guest house, museum and arts centre, and the whole thing is set in Japanese style gardens, with streams, waterfalls, bridges and shady paths. It was all very mellow, a stark contrast to being mobbed.
We chilled out here for a while before returning back McLeod. It feels good to be back here. When we first set off this morning, I had mixed feelings. I knew that going to St Mary's was one of the key features of this adventure, that was the reason I was released from my job, and the kids were so freely granted permission to leave school for two months. After the freedom of the last two weeks though, I didn't want to go back into a classroom. But it is so very very different. I can't compare it to being at work. I remind myself of some the words of His Holiness the XIVth Dalai Lama....
The True Meaning of Life:
"We are visitors on this planet. We are here for ninety or one hundred years at the very most. During that period, we must try to do something good, something useful, with our lives.
If you contribute to other people's happiness, you will find the true goal, the true meaning of life."
We went to St Mary's School today for the first time. It is about a half an hour drive down the hill in a small village called Sidhpur. As we pulled up outside the school gates, I think we all felt a little nervous. Except Martha that is. She couldn't get there quick enough, skipping down the school path singing.
We were greeted by the principal Sister Jancy Joseph. She is from the nearby convent where they run another school The Sacred Heart High School. This one is private and it gives the convent the means to fund St Mary's. The children there do not pay to come to school, unless, in a few cases, they can afford to. In India, no schooling is free. They have both private and public schools, though I am not certain of the difference between the two. My understanding is that public is the more expensive. Either way, if you can't afford to pay the fees, your kids don't get an education here. There is no state funding. It makes you appreciate how very lucky we are.
Anyway, St Mary's was set up about fifteen years ago, by Sister Celia (who sadly I will not meet as she has been seconded to somewhere in Goa) and a group of locals who believed that everyone had the right to an education, regardless of their finical situation.
Sister Jancy gave us a tour of the school. It's unbelievably Victorian, children sitting silently in rows, even four year olds are behind a desk all morning. They all stand to attention when a visitor enters the room, with their arms by their sides, bowing their heads slightly as they say "Good Morning," in perfect unison. They are smartly dressed in a uniform of maroon jumpers, White shirts and ties, with white trousers for the boys and skirts for the girls. Some girls wear tartan skirts and they all have their long hair tied in very neat plaits with red ribbons.
As we walked from class to class I couldn't help feeling some sense of nostalgia as the books they used reminded me of my own days at primary school. (I went to a very old fashioned school!) There were lots of similarities to the subjects they were covering. In class three they were learning about the life cycle of a plant, not unlike their counterparts in England. In class two, however, they were doing moral studies which was teaching them how to be a good person. Our equivalent is PSHE (personal, social, health education) but this seemed a lot less sophisticated. They were learning about three magical words to use at home, "please, thank you and sorry"! It will be really interesting to find out more. These kids are uber polite. Maybe kids at home should have lessons in using these magic words!
Some of the classrooms were very overcrowded, with maybe 50 pupils or more. The teachers all stand in front of blackboards and I heard chanting going on as they learnt by rote. Working in an education system that is so very different, it will be really interesting to make comparisons.
At lunchtime we went out onto the yard and got completely mobbed. How DO the Beckhams cope? We were surrounded by so many kids that at one point, I saw Martha crying and I just couldn't get to her! I made the mistake of getting my camera out and that sent them all into a spin as they pushed and shoved to get in front of the lens.
After a little while some of the older girls starting playing the drums, signalling the start of assembly. The classes lined up in regimental order and the PE teacher stood up on the stage and shouted for everyone to stand "At ease!". They all stood identically with their hands neatly behind their backs. We we then invited onto the stage by Sister Jancy and we stood there with the 580 pupils of St Mary's clapping to welcome us to their school, full of hope for the great things we will do with them. Let's hope we don't disappoint them!
After assembly, we left the school, all feeling excited about coming back. We walked up the hill to the Norbulingka Institute. This is a centre of Tibetan culture, where they hope to preserve the Tibetan way of life. The temple is the place where the Dalai Lama does his writings. There is a cafe where we lunched, a guest house, museum and arts centre, and the whole thing is set in Japanese style gardens, with streams, waterfalls, bridges and shady paths. It was all very mellow, a stark contrast to being mobbed.
We chilled out here for a while before returning back McLeod. It feels good to be back here. When we first set off this morning, I had mixed feelings. I knew that going to St Mary's was one of the key features of this adventure, that was the reason I was released from my job, and the kids were so freely granted permission to leave school for two months. After the freedom of the last two weeks though, I didn't want to go back into a classroom. But it is so very very different. I can't compare it to being at work. I remind myself of some the words of His Holiness the XIVth Dalai Lama....
The True Meaning of Life:
"We are visitors on this planet. We are here for ninety or one hundred years at the very most. During that period, we must try to do something good, something useful, with our lives.
If you contribute to other people's happiness, you will find the true goal, the true meaning of life."
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