We plod on

Almost at the end of our second week and I’ve really dragged my way through this one. We missed Monday because Daniel was sick and today I’m home with Thomas because he has diarrhoea and my back is really sore from lifting children—something that is not allowed at home for the very reason that there were too many back injuries. One of the other women I work with is also complaining about her back. They need to be taught how to lift safely, but it would be almost impossible to lift safely there anyway. They need equipment and they need to be forced to use it. Some of the most disabled kids are late teens and they’re big, solid kids and they need to be helped to the toilet. I’ve also been lifting some of the smaller kids just to comfort them; that’s probably done the most damage.


Bidhya, always thoughtful, put a chair and a piece of carpet down on the rooftop terrace for us before she went to work this morning, so Tom and I could sit in the sun. So here we are: me with my hot water bottle on my back and Tom reading Harry Potter and making regular trips to the toilet.


Since they suggested I work in a different room each week, I started out this week in Class B. I lasted about an hour. These kids are mobile and destructive towards each other and anything else they can get their hands on. I was trying to do some drawing with some of them and they were enjoying it, but then the others would come up and snatch the paper and tear it up. Others were snatching away blocks from other kids and pegging them over the balcony. The teacher I was working with did absolutely nothing. She didn’t even speak to me, or attempt to intervene. I had no idea how I was supposed to deal with these kids and since I wasn’t achieving anything and knew that I could help downstairs I just took my bag and left. The ladies in Class A looked very pleased to see me when I walked in, so I felt I’d done the right thing. The teacher from Class B came to me that afternoon and thanked me for my help! The stupid thing was that she probably speaks the best English of any of the Nepalese there, but she never said a word to me that morning. I apologised for leaving but explained that I just couldn’t cope with her children (particularly unsupported). She was very understanding. I felt bad that I couldn’t help her because I know she needs the support, but I simply don’t have the skills or training. Next week I’ll give Class C a go. There are kids with things like Downe’s Syndrome in that class and they can be taught basic English and Maths. Their teacher is the Japanese guy who is the only person who can sit in the kitchen at lunch time and speak with relative fluency to everyone.


The other Projects Abroad volunteer at CBR at the moment is Svenya from Germany. (I apologise to all the Germans if I’ve spelt that wrong). She’s the one person I can have a real conversation with and it’s a relief to sit and chat with her at lunch. One of the teachers there is a Nepalese guy who looks like he’s been watching way too many Bollywood films. He has a bit of a Don Johnson hairstyle going on and wears pointy leather shoes, dress pants and a leather jacket and swaggers around the place with attitude—at a school for disabled kids! I christened him Mr. Bollywood and Svenya agreed that it was a very appropriate name. She’s been working with him this week while the Japanese teacher is away trekking and she said he spends a lot of time on his phone. The other somewhat dodgy character at CBR is the so-called physio whose name, if I ever knew it, has happily escaped me. I have my doubts as to his qualifications but he has none. He loves to call me in to "help" him work on the children and he loves to use lots of technical terms. He set me up with one of the kids and had her throwing balls to me, and he went and lay down on the physio bed and started doing push-ups right in front of me. I’ve also caught him checking himself out in the full-length mirror on more than one occasion. He’s invited both me and Svenya to his house on separate occasions; neither of us was keen to take up that offer. I don’t think he has any intentions and I think some of it is cultural but a creep is a creep in any culture. He asked me whether if he went to Australia people would be able to understand his English. I said ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ (which is true) and ‘No you wouldn’t get a job,’ and told him he’d have to learn English properly first. What I wanted to say was, ‘But you could probably get a job driving a taxi you dickhead.’ It wouldn’t have mattered if I did; he wouldn’t have understood me.


So Svenya and I sit and eat our rice and beans (or sometimes delicious doughnuts) and drink our glasses of sweet, black tea, stare at the mountains when they’re visible and debrief and look forward to the weekends.


Neville and I have taken to stopping at the Dhokaima café (the sanctuary that we discovered) for coffee in the mornings before I go to work and get spat on, and meeting there in the afternoons for a drink. Their bar is heated, dimly lit and very cosy and with the cold weather coming on, it’s bliss to sit and drink a Hot Toddy (whisky, lemon, honey and hot water) or three before going home to cold water and dhal baht for dinner.


Thus we survive.