As I draft this, I am surrounded by a hoard of smiling children. One is fanning me with a notebook, and another is offering my peaches. Several are sounding out these words as I pen them, or just yelling out any English phrases that strike them:
"Da... dat. DATDATDATDAT."
"Pin! Pincil. Pin. Pincil. Pin. Piiiiin."
"Sank yooo! Jour welcom! Am fine!"
Alas. I will plow forth with my dusty notebook here on the patio of the Home of Hope, chaos and all.
It's the beginning of my third week here. The fourth of July passed with nothing more than a backfiring engine and a festive twirl of incense, and I'm still here, learning a ton and struggling to impart some knowledge of the English language upon this magnificent, if somewhat rambunctious, young people.
One thing about teaching English: it is DIFFICULT. The first day we visited the orphanage Miles and I were thrust jet-lagged and plan-less into a classroom full of beaming faces, and since then we've been improvising a syllabus with limited supplies and absolutely no knowledge of the native language. Races to look up words in the dictionary have been popular, along with animal sounds among the littlest ones (imagine 10 small children screaming MOOOO at ear-shattering volumes). However, it has been endlessly frustrating that I am almost completely incapable of communicating verbally with my students. This would be so much easier if I could say things like "Please stop standing on the desk," "This is how you say 'yesterday' in Tibetan/Chinese," and, "Why are you crying?"
So I'm not going to produce and fluent English speakers in a month. If, when I leave, however, I have simply taught these kids that English can be fun and worth learning, than that will be enough. (I also wouldn't complain if some of them learn to pronounce "th").
In other news, my host mother, Kumbutsu, is insane. At first she seemed to be a simple, reserved (and beautiful) Tibetan lady, but something about us has unleashed her inner-demon-child. Just the other day she nonchalantly spooned yogurt onto Steve's head, and she finds it incredibly amusing to chase us holding hissing beetles the size of yaks. Despite this, and the fact that she often laughs at our attempts at Tibetan until tears streak down her face, she is a wonderfully welcoming hostess. And she cooks some damn fine niochhh.
Also, I took my first shower yesterday.
Just one textual postcard to end this installment from your faithful correspondent in Tibet:
Motorcycle Monk
He's wearing flat, reflective sunglasses, and he grins widely as he dopplersby on this rural road. His burgundy robes billow in the wind, and then he's gone. Just the wheat fields remain.
"Da... dat. DATDATDATDAT."
"Pin! Pincil. Pin. Pincil. Pin. Piiiiin."
"Sank yooo! Jour welcom! Am fine!"
Alas. I will plow forth with my dusty notebook here on the patio of the Home of Hope, chaos and all.
It's the beginning of my third week here. The fourth of July passed with nothing more than a backfiring engine and a festive twirl of incense, and I'm still here, learning a ton and struggling to impart some knowledge of the English language upon this magnificent, if somewhat rambunctious, young people.
One thing about teaching English: it is DIFFICULT. The first day we visited the orphanage Miles and I were thrust jet-lagged and plan-less into a classroom full of beaming faces, and since then we've been improvising a syllabus with limited supplies and absolutely no knowledge of the native language. Races to look up words in the dictionary have been popular, along with animal sounds among the littlest ones (imagine 10 small children screaming MOOOO at ear-shattering volumes). However, it has been endlessly frustrating that I am almost completely incapable of communicating verbally with my students. This would be so much easier if I could say things like "Please stop standing on the desk," "This is how you say 'yesterday' in Tibetan/Chinese," and, "Why are you crying?"
So I'm not going to produce and fluent English speakers in a month. If, when I leave, however, I have simply taught these kids that English can be fun and worth learning, than that will be enough. (I also wouldn't complain if some of them learn to pronounce "th").
In other news, my host mother, Kumbutsu, is insane. At first she seemed to be a simple, reserved (and beautiful) Tibetan lady, but something about us has unleashed her inner-demon-child. Just the other day she nonchalantly spooned yogurt onto Steve's head, and she finds it incredibly amusing to chase us holding hissing beetles the size of yaks. Despite this, and the fact that she often laughs at our attempts at Tibetan until tears streak down her face, she is a wonderfully welcoming hostess. And she cooks some damn fine niochhh.
Also, I took my first shower yesterday.
Just one textual postcard to end this installment from your faithful correspondent in Tibet:
Motorcycle Monk
He's wearing flat, reflective sunglasses, and he grins widely as he dopplersby on this rural road. His burgundy robes billow in the wind, and then he's gone. Just the wheat fields remain.
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