she'll be comin' round the mountian

 My time in Peshok, in the West Bengal Hills, came to an end and I've barely shared a word about my days tucked into the Himalayan foothills. As I walked back down that steep Darjeeling hill to catch the jeep that would carry me back onto the plains, the backpack of my heart was overflowing with experiences from the past month. Although, the weight was far heavier descending than it was on the travel up, a full heart is my favorite kind of baggage to carry.  

darling dancers

It started with field day in the village. Right before the classes closed for Diwali Holidays, all the schools in Peshok met at the High School for marching, sports, games, and dancing. Then there was Diwali with my new family - cow offerings, grinding rice flour for sweets, stringing marigold garlands, and a night filled with young girls singing for rupees. While the school was on break, I headed up to Sikkim for a short monastic trek from village to village through stripped rice fields and primary colored, long prayer flags. Back from the long walk, I started teaching in the tiny shotgun style school, one long building of old wood planks, divided into classrooms by thin pieces of plywood. Little Paradise Academy (ozguidinghands.org) is an English primary school, with about 60 students from nursery to class IV. I taught math, science, conversation, computer out of book, and any other non-Nepali subjects in dark classrooms to eager students with torn uniforms lined up on old benches. Time in the schools was cut and pasted by political tensions in the area, a family trip to Kalimpong, and celebrating Sai Baba's birthday (83 this year).  

diwali decorations

Life in the village (outside of political troubles) is as simple and sweet as one would imagine. Days start with early morning chanting, then there are chores, school, eating lots of rice with variations of vegetables grown in the yard, caring for pigs and chickens, drinking tea with friends, singing, playing with kids that wonder into the house, making cheese and butter to sell in town. The people are happy, really happy. They laugh from the gut, never from the top of the lungs. They go about their daily routines with whispers of songs in their breaths. They know about the outside world, and know their life is simple. They like that they wash their clothes with a wooden club, no need for a silly machine. They haven't forgotten the ability to rejoice in the little moments, to smile at the chicks running through the yard, catch the scent of golden mums, and gather in the kitchen for hours to slowly, deliberately cook a basic meal.  

School closing for winter vacation, the region preparing to vote on the 6th settlement, and the cold eagerly jumping into the wind was a the sign that my time in Peshok, in the West Bengal Hills, was coming to close, at least this time around.  

Peshok view

Step after step, down the paved Darjeeling road, my heart smiled on the month past, smiled on the school that opened its doors, the family who sheltered and cared for me, the rolling fields carpeted in tea bushes, the children who listened to my words in the classroom, the teachers that invited me to their house for tea, the grandmother who squeezed my cheeks with one hand and held a rooster in the other, the young girl who taught me to make real popcorn in a dark shack, the baby boy who danced with me on strike days, the weeds I pulled from gardens of meter high mustard greens, the chants that still play in my head at 5:30 in the morning, the hard cultural lessons I learned, the clothes I pounded clean, the Nepali words I'd learned, amazing meal after amazing meal...it goes on into eternity. How much we can pack into one little month, into one little heart taking the long walk down the hill.