Next time, I'll dig the latrines

Just returned last night from the five-day vacation adventure with 17 students known fondly here as "mini-course," a misnomer if you're thinking anything along "school" lines. I read through the descriptions of all 23 courses offered last Spring, before I came here, and my first choice was "Hills of the Gahrwal" - a trekking and rafting trip in the Himalayan foothills. Images of the Von Trapp family climbing the Austrian mountains to safety while singing "The Hills are Alive" were swirling through my head. And rafting? Aren't people always smiling in the pictures? My second choice was "Rural Rajasthan," where the group would do yoga, learn about organic farming, and dig a new latrine for a village. Nah, too slow.

"Hills of the Gahrwal" was a bit different from The Sound of Music. It started with a midnight to 4 AM train ride. No, it's not ok if the boys are in the girls' sleeper cabin. No, I'm sorry, I don't trust you. What do you mean by "not doing anything?" By 1 AM we had that worked out. Then at 3 AM the tour company guide whose role was just to make sure we didn't jump off the train, apparently, woke me up to tell me that the train was delayed and that we wouldn't be in until 4:20 AM. Thanks, lady. I think she then stood by the curtain of my narrow and uncomfortable sleeping berth (on the aisle - this was not first class), sighing every two minutes, until she woke me up again at 3:30 to tell me that I should wake everyone up. She walked with me through the train car to make sure that I followed through. Everyone was up (including the folks in the car who weren't getting off at our stop and had no reason to get up) and waiting - then the train didn't arrive until close to 5, reducing my credibility from bad to none. The other chaperone? I plead the Fifth. Let's just say that some teachers put being "cool" first. I've never been cool, so this was not an issue for me. But for the first day or so, I took on the identity of "she." "She" said that we had to . . . ."She won't let us . . . ."

We arrived at the Himalayan River Runners camp after a harrowing ride on a mountainside road under construction. Fortunately most of us were so tired that we bounced ourselves to sleep on the bus to base camp. We got to camp at 6:30 AM and my colleague promptly asked if we could delay our first rafting trip so "the kids" could sleep. Guess who went to sleep. Hint: not the kids. This was an ongoing theme throughout the next five days. I was the junior chaperone, so I avoided causing waves, but it went like this.

Senior chaperone: "Ellen, we're going to be tough."
Ellen: "Ok"
Senior chaperone to kids: "Whatever"
Ellen "??"
Senior chaperone: "These kids never have any down time. I say, you either give them a bunch of rules or you let them relax and enjoy themselves for a few days."
Ellen: Um, ok.
Senior chaperone announces rules: (doesn't happen)
Kids: "Woo-hoo, let's go crazy!"
Senior Chaperone: "Zzzzzz"
Ellen: "Get out of the girls' tent, guys." "It's 11 PM. Turn the music down, please. TURN THE MUSIC DOWN or I'm going to throw your speakers over the edge of the mountain!" "I don't know why you're so hysterical, but you're way too loud, and unless you want me to wake Senior Chaperone up and find out what the story is, I'd better not hear another word from you!" "If you're going to bring marshmallows to the campfire, you can't just share them with your two best friends in front of everyone else."

The best/worst part (and teachers everywhere will recognize this ploy) was the last morning when I told Senior Chaperone about the loud and giggly boys the previous night who had definitely been high on something but I couldn't figure out what. So S.C. told me that they can buy a type of marijuana in the villages that is edible, so no smoking necessary. Then S.C. said, "Don't worry. We'll have a powwow about this behavior after breakfast."
Ellen naiively believes this.
After breakfast -S.C. says, "OK, everyone, before we get ready to go, let's have a talk."
(Ellen sits back and thinks "at last!")
S.C." I had a great time with all of you on this trip. There are 19 people who did this with you, and you need to thank the other 18 with a hug or a handshake. Then I'm collecting tip money for the guides, ok? (pause) And Ms. G. has something she would like to say."
Ms. G.(that's me): (Thought: WHA???) Words: "Um, yea, I liked being with, uh, all of you and, um, except for last night I thought some of you did some, um, stuff that wasn't supposed to happen and, uh, I'm disappointed in your violation of (thought: what the hell am I saying? Do they even have any idea what I'm talking about?) trust, well, because I'm a trusting person and (thought: no I'm not - I'm a naiive person, but trusting? ) anyway, um, I think you should have shared your snacks and yea, I had a good time getting to know all of you better."

Guess which chaperone wins the popularity prize?

The base camp we stayed in the first night was wonderful. Five-star camping. Even the pit toilets had western-style toilet seats built up over them. The site was on a lovely sand beach at the edge of the Ganges, tents facing the green and yet unpolluted upper river rapids.

This was the first morning, when we were waiting for S.C. to awaken. That's Anjali on the beach, who became my right-hand person on the trip. She could understand both Hindi and Nepali, and taught me some great sayings, like "No panga on the Ganga," or "Don't mess with me on the Ganges or I'll knock your raft over." Well, something like that.





The second morning we said goodbye to toilet seats until the last day and prepared for our trek. I was woefully unprepared for this multi-stage trip, bringing just two sets of clothes and thinking that I could just wash a few things out here and there. S.C. was the only one who had done this before and knew to leave a clean outfit at the base camp for our return. The rest of us ended up wet and shivering on the beach the last day, waiting for our packs to arrive from our last stop, while S.C. took a warm shower and changed. (Are you detecting any resentment here? If so, it's totally unintentional.)

The last step in preparing for our 3-day mountain trek departure - putting on my beloved hiking boots. I put on the right boot, then . . .wait . . .this one's for the right foot, too. (Denial begins) Maybe I could just put this second boot on the left foot anyway.
ARGHHH! I took Amy's right boot along with mine! This along with bringing a twin-sized mattress pad for my queen-sized Indian hard mattress! And deciding for some Godforsaken reason that I didn't need my Teva sandals, leaving me with a pair of converted Keen bike sandals to wear while rafting!
Then I realized that I would be wearing those very same sandals for the trek. You know how bike sandals sort of have the toe higher than the heel? Yup, just try hiking down slippery, mossy rocks on a skinny trail with mountain on one side and a sheer cliff on the other. Especially when you have a fear of heights so severe that during previous mountain trail hikes you've been known to crawl, hold hands with strangers, and ask for mercy from any known or unknown deities, promising yourself, "never again."

Thus began the 3-day trek that resulted in muscles so sore from trying not to slip and fall that I could hardly step down from the bus on the last day. Fortunately, one of us had to volunteer to go last, along with the guide, Ram, and I was willing to do that on the first day. Actually, no one asked me, but if they had, I would have volunteered. But I did it anyway, since S.C. took off with the "official" trekking guide, Vitu, in the front. While Vitu told the folks at the head of the pack local stories and pointed out interesting sites, I was at the back. Well, ok, that's fine . . . but as the day wore on, and the uphill wasn't turning into flat as had been . . . promised? suggested? - the quick pace began to separate the enthusiastic trekkers from the ones who were in back with me, saying things like:
"I hate this stupid trek. Why can't I just go home? This was my 10th choice. I hate AES. Where are the others? Why can't I see them? "
And Ram and I would coax the couple of students into continuing to walk, until, 50 yards later, "Crash" came the pack onto the ground, as the student collapsed once again into a heap.
I was beginning to lose my patience, as this was the first day and I was feeling pretty strong, bike sandals and all.
Then we started talking about books and why I didn't think that Twilight was the "best book EVER," and I asked the MFS (most frequent stopper) what the story was about. Not only was this good for the remaining three hours of Day 1, but it continued on the latter half of Day 2, after MFS got tired, and by Day 3 I was really eager to hear more about Victoria and her evil plots against Bella, a pathetic young woman who couldn't seem to function without a dependency on semi-human males with tragic flaws, as I was having a hard time walking downhill and wanted an excuse for being 50 yards behind everyone else.



Here are a couple of Twilight-loving students, happily willing to stop and pose in front of some marigolds.









The second morning was the low point of an otherwise amazing adventure. We woke up at 5 AM for the "30-minute hike" to a vantage point from which we would be able to see the much-touted "sunrise over the Himalayas." Bike sandals donned along with weak headlamp that allowed me to see about 6 inches ahead of my feet, I headed up the hill. Our guide, from the area, was obviously part mountain goat, as he sprang up the steep grassy hill with no apparent path and a lot of rocks waiting to trip unsuspecting chaperones. After about 15 minutes, I was having a hard time catching my breath, I was clutching onto thorny branches trying to keep my balance in the slippery grass, and I had no idea where the people in front of me had gone. So, setting the example that failure is always an option, I sat down in the grass and thought about crying, but half of the students were still behind me. Upon seeing me sitting down, they all decided that they should follow suit, despite my gestures telling them to pass me. Eventually, I got back up and made it to the top in time to see the sunrise, but the students behind me decided that the sunrise from halfway up was just fine with them.

It was worth it to get to the top. The quiet was REALLY quiet. No ipod speakers, even. And slowly, as the pink sky brightened and the sun came up, it lit up the snow-capped mountains and we could see the Gangotri range for the first time.
I took a picture of Vitu, who was looking over the mountains in the other direction, where his village is. He told me the story of the mountain and how it got it's name (but do I remember? It was something about sacrificing yaks). He was quiet, thin, and handsome.








Ram, the trekking and rafting guide who was from Nepal, kept me entertained when the Twilight storyteller was unavailable. He taught me a couple of Nepali folk songs (but do I remember them? something about love and/or sacrificing a yak) and told me about his family. He works for five months and then goes home for a month to see his wife and two young sons. Do the math - he sees his sons for two months a year. Wow - how can he seem so happy? Men working away from their families is pretty common here, if they want to make a decent living. But even so, it must be hard. Of course the students did not see a problem with this or with the fact that porters their own ages were carrying packs twice their size, using ropes around their foreheads and wearing flip-flops to run up and down the paths that our fancily-shoed feet were cautiously edging their way down. It's humbling to step aside as 8 porters run past you carrying 50-pound sacks of carrots and potatoes, or tents and chairs on one shoulder with an arm around the load.
"But, Ms. G., they're used to it."

Ram's been working for Himalayan River Runners for six years. He talks to his wife on his cell phone most days. I never saw Ram rest.Whereas the lady on the left did not wash any dishes, set up any tents, build any campfires, or cook her own meals for five days.

We passed a number of terraced farms. It looked like a lot of work for not a lot of food. But the terraces were lovely to look at from a distance, and the farms were neatly organized, not counting the trash that the residents threw on the path.

According to Ram, the farms grew millet, chili peppers, and some kind of plant that he said was made into flour, but I did not recognize the plant. But the colors of the mysterious plant, along with drying chili peppers, brightened the landscape.












Chili peppers dried in the sun on top of mud platforms that the villagers made by hand, rubbing fresh mud onto them and letting it dry. Most villagers were standing on these platforms and/or the path as we hiked past, and I realized that we were on parade. They greeted us in a friendly way. I noticed that a lot of the children looked like they had eye infections or vision impairments or both - vision looked cloudy, and/or their focus looked odd. And the adults, like most adults you see in rural India, were small and thin, about the size of healthy 11-year-olds in the US.
"But, Ms. G., they're used to it."

The campsite the second night was at a lower elevation but the view of the Gangotri was still with us. Unfortunately, the best picture I got of the mountains was with the toilet tents in the foreground. (Himalayan camping tip: Beware of toilet tents being moved without your knowledge, causing you to nearly step into the former waste pit filled over with dirt and lime.)

A number of people "happened" to wander through our campsite, including young boys and old men, to check us out. This was the night that the Nepalese and Gahrwali porters wanted to exchange folk songs by the campfire. They went first, singing two songs and showing us the dances that went with the songs (where did they get so much energy, after hauling stuff uphill all day?). Then it was our turn.
Folk songs? These are international students who have some connection with the US but have not heard of songs like "This Land is Your Land," or "500 Miles." They made some half-hearted attempts at a response, singing the beginning of "The Barbie Song" and "Hannah Montana." I was mortified and sad at the same time. Then one boy did an air guitar version of the Pokemon song, which impressed at least one Nepalese man. "Pretty nice," he said. I tried suggesting more songs: "Michael row the boat ashore?" "Blowing in the Wind?"
Huh? Never heard of those songs, Ms. G.
Finally I couldn't take it anymore, and I said, "OK, I'll sing a song." It's amazing what embarrassment can do. And I sang "If I Had a Hammer." Despite the giggles of a group of ninth graders, I made it through, and even though I didn't do a dance to accompany the song (anyone know the traditional "If I Had a Hammer" dance?), it seemed to satisfy the Nepalese men, who had been staring at the students as if they were from another planet (in many ways, they were).

The last couple of days we went rafting. It seemed incredibly easy - even "the Wall," the Class IV rapid that flipped our raft over and left me tumbling through what seemed like a black hole of water for about 20 interminable seconds, was a passive exercise. Who would've thought that a Class IV rapid would be relaxing? I did discover that I like rafting, and rapids seem to make me laugh and cheer, almost as if I were enthusiastic - I hardly recognized myself at those moments.
See me in the lower right-hand corner? Actually, I stole this picture from the web - it was interesting to note that NO river rafting company's websites show rafts flipping over. When we flipped, I didn't even notice - one minute we were paddling like hell to try to get over a wave, and I remember noticing that we were going backwards instead of forwards - but the next second I was swirling underwater. After we all recovered, it seemed that everyone else remembered the actual fall but me - but I was fortunate: "You hit me on the head with your paddle." "You fell into me and pushed me off the raft." "Something hit me on the back." Somehow I must've slipped into the water without much damage.

And now we're back, and I'm SOOO tired. But it's Divali weekend, yet another excuse for the constant fireworks around here. If there's ever a terrorist attack, no one will suspect for awhile, since there are multiple firework explosions daily.

Right now I'm wondering just how hard it could be to dig a latrine. Next year's trip - ?