It's raining, drenchingly, steadily, and ever so wetly. Actually, the character of this particular rain reminds me of September in the Pacific Northwest. But it is mid-July, and I am in Tibet. Hmmm.
Things have been going wonderfully for me, the children, and the mountains. Teaching is becoming somewhat easier--I can actually see some measure of improvement in their English skills ("they" being the children, and not the mountains). Ever since the little ones learned how to say "I'm happy" in response to the question "How are you?" they have been running around shouting "AMMM HAPPPYYY!!!" at the top of their lungs, beaming with wide, tooth-less smiles and two thumbs up.
It's only slightly complicated because Miles and I never know when to teach. We are gestured into roomfuls of random students at apparently random intervals, and then ad-lib a class on the spot depending on the age of the kids. A few days ago we couldn't figure out why all the small children were sitting in teacher-less classrooms looking bored, so we jumped in and taught a couple covert English classes. As it turns out, they were in the middle of exams. Oops.
And yesterday! Oh yesterday. Miles, myself, and two other Americans that are currently volunteering at the Home of Hope climbed up and up to the top of the ridge on the Northern side of the valley in which we reside. Below is an entry in my journal that I wrote upon summiting this mountain range:
"We have seen the other side. We started in the morning (post fry-scramble and tea), when the clouds were raked over like a zen garden. We climbed up and up, over Tibetan crop circles and forgotten wells and death canyons where the jabberwock surely is lurking. The ground smelled like sage--my face was so close to it as I clambered and I saw multifarious butterflies and spider beetles and nightmare bugs and crickets that click and flash crimson capes when they fly. I panted and heaved and then we were here. Steep slopes are freckled with goats and other, steeper slopes are mighty cathedrals carved out by rain. The yellow river winds by, muted by fog, placid and flat. There are prayer flags, battered by wind and rain, full of color and whispering. There are some black beasts a ways down the slope. I cannot tell if they are cows or yaks. I hope they are yaks. And I think I could fly if I tried."
Once we reached the top of the ridge we followed it for a few miles (at a height of 13,000 feet), hopping from prayer flag cluster to prayer flag cluster. By the time we were ready to descend it was three o'clock and we were parched and ravenous.
And then a random Tibetan family invited us into their home for tea. An old Aiee (grandmother) gestured emphatically for us to come over whilst a young boy chased away a heard of cows and (legitimate!) yaks with a silver harmonica. We were seated on a blanket beneath what looked like plum trees and served YOGURT which was surely a product of one of the creatures that had just been chased away with a harmonica. There were also clay-baked potatoes that we ate like apples, and, of course, tea.
And then, to our consternation, we were presented with a fancy red bag emblazoned with an image of the Potala Palace. Cued by gestures, we opened it, and it contained... liquor. Very fancy liquor, with gold flakes floating in it. And thus a rural Tibetan family that appeared to earn its living with cows and yaks and tomatoes and plums gifted us gold-laced alcohol (surely their most expensive possesion). We couldn't refuse, so we set of down the mountain bearing the gift bag, a gold-toothed grin and harmonica music at our backs.
Ok friends, it's time for me to trek back out into the rain. We have to buy eggs and tomatoes for dinner, I am told. I just have four more days here, which blows my mind. And then on to Lhasa.
Things have been going wonderfully for me, the children, and the mountains. Teaching is becoming somewhat easier--I can actually see some measure of improvement in their English skills ("they" being the children, and not the mountains). Ever since the little ones learned how to say "I'm happy" in response to the question "How are you?" they have been running around shouting "AMMM HAPPPYYY!!!" at the top of their lungs, beaming with wide, tooth-less smiles and two thumbs up.
It's only slightly complicated because Miles and I never know when to teach. We are gestured into roomfuls of random students at apparently random intervals, and then ad-lib a class on the spot depending on the age of the kids. A few days ago we couldn't figure out why all the small children were sitting in teacher-less classrooms looking bored, so we jumped in and taught a couple covert English classes. As it turns out, they were in the middle of exams. Oops.
And yesterday! Oh yesterday. Miles, myself, and two other Americans that are currently volunteering at the Home of Hope climbed up and up to the top of the ridge on the Northern side of the valley in which we reside. Below is an entry in my journal that I wrote upon summiting this mountain range:
"We have seen the other side. We started in the morning (post fry-scramble and tea), when the clouds were raked over like a zen garden. We climbed up and up, over Tibetan crop circles and forgotten wells and death canyons where the jabberwock surely is lurking. The ground smelled like sage--my face was so close to it as I clambered and I saw multifarious butterflies and spider beetles and nightmare bugs and crickets that click and flash crimson capes when they fly. I panted and heaved and then we were here. Steep slopes are freckled with goats and other, steeper slopes are mighty cathedrals carved out by rain. The yellow river winds by, muted by fog, placid and flat. There are prayer flags, battered by wind and rain, full of color and whispering. There are some black beasts a ways down the slope. I cannot tell if they are cows or yaks. I hope they are yaks. And I think I could fly if I tried."
Once we reached the top of the ridge we followed it for a few miles (at a height of 13,000 feet), hopping from prayer flag cluster to prayer flag cluster. By the time we were ready to descend it was three o'clock and we were parched and ravenous.
And then a random Tibetan family invited us into their home for tea. An old Aiee (grandmother) gestured emphatically for us to come over whilst a young boy chased away a heard of cows and (legitimate!) yaks with a silver harmonica. We were seated on a blanket beneath what looked like plum trees and served YOGURT which was surely a product of one of the creatures that had just been chased away with a harmonica. There were also clay-baked potatoes that we ate like apples, and, of course, tea.
And then, to our consternation, we were presented with a fancy red bag emblazoned with an image of the Potala Palace. Cued by gestures, we opened it, and it contained... liquor. Very fancy liquor, with gold flakes floating in it. And thus a rural Tibetan family that appeared to earn its living with cows and yaks and tomatoes and plums gifted us gold-laced alcohol (surely their most expensive possesion). We couldn't refuse, so we set of down the mountain bearing the gift bag, a gold-toothed grin and harmonica music at our backs.
Ok friends, it's time for me to trek back out into the rain. We have to buy eggs and tomatoes for dinner, I am told. I just have four more days here, which blows my mind. And then on to Lhasa.
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