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THE HIGHWAYMAN COMES RIDING, RIDING, RIDING . . . BODHI volunteer Kim Birley submitted the following report: "The first part of the trip to Dhonden Ling (Tibet) was through rather flat and featureless paddy fields, with the occasional stony hill vague and indistinct in the haze. After we changed buses in Kollegal, however, the landscape became more interesting, the bus winding its way gradually higher, the hills becoming larger and closer and their rocks giving way to scrubby forest. Several times the bus had to ford large streams, and near-fatal collisions with bullock carts and flocks of goats became more common. "At last we arrived and were met with a jeep by Dawa Dhondup, the founder of Tibetan Educational and Children's Home (T.E.A.C.H.), and Cheung, the settlement secretary, with the traditional Tibetan giving of white silk scarves. As the jeep hurtled toward the settlement center, the road passed through fields of ripening maize, with neat Tibetan villages set in blocks of eucalyptus trees and fluttering with faded prayer flags. I wondered just what lay ahead, and how well I was going to live up to expectations. "After a few days I began to help in the construction of the new dormitory, which I was to do until the December exams were over, when I would start teaching. BODHI's donation enabled Dawa was able to hire five or six coolies (they really do call them that!) and a mason, and work began. My role was that of mortar man. I simply had to clear a small area of land, dig a bloody great 'ole and mix with water the resulting earth to a nice consistency of mud, which was then taken away by another lad in a thing shaped like an outsized hubcap. "One benefit of wallowing in mud in this fashion was that it turned out to be a great way to meet the children. Dawa warned me that it would probably take weeks for them to get used to me. Walking around the villages it was a common sight to see a row of little golden faces peering from over a wall with a mixture of awe, fascination and horror. As soon as I smiled or waved, they would vanish and one would hear the sound of little feet pelting in the opposite direction! SINGING IN THE MUD "One Sunday shortly after starting work, about nine or ten of the children gathered at the edge of the mud pit and discussed my every move as if I were from Mars. Feeling rather self-conscious, I continued working. I can't have looked too scary in T-shirt and muddy shorts with my spindly, lily-white legs covered in mud, because after an agitated conference one little girl (Tenzin Khando, I now know) shouted 'Pliz sing a song!' and then leapt for cover behind two of her friends, who promptly collapsed in giggles. "Thinking this a good opportunity to make friends, I stood upright and, brandishing a mumpti in one hand, gave them "Jamaica Farewell" in my best West Indian accent, and was greeted by rapturous applause! Then I sang 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' which made a great impression. I had to sing it again after lunch! From that time on I always had a number of interested spectators around my pit. "The coolies were obviously religious, or thought I was. In the course of digging I would often turn up grubs and other creepy-crawlies; when this happened there would be a chorus of 'Sir! Sir!' and anxiously pointing fingers, until I had removed the creature to safety. "We finished the walls, and at the time of writing are still waiting for a carpenter so we can do the roof. There is one in Odeyarpalya, the nearest Indian village, but he can't cut anything except right angles! BUMPING INTO GIGGLES "The dreadful moment came when it was time for me to start teaching. I would read stories to the juniors from 9- 10am, teach students in Year IX from 10am-12 noon and those in Year 10s from 2-4pm. Tremblingly I went into the T.E.A.C.H. classroom and began a very simple poem by Rabindranath Tagore. I then bumped into a big problem which has only started to be solved recently. The children had always been taught by the 'chalk and talk' method, with questions actively discouraged. This meant that, for a long time, I felt as if I were teaching a brick wall: complete silence and respectful attention, but absolutely no reaction at all. I stressed again and again that, if I spoke too fast or used unfamiliar words, they were to tell me but, of course, no takers. If I asked a general question then received no reply, I knew they knew the answer; if I asked someone specifically, he would put his head on his desk and cover it with his hands! If I persisted, the student would go giggly and quite hopeless. "Not to be deterred, I got them into circles of chairs for group discussions, so that they would be less intimidated, but no use! I did all the discussing! On the third lesson, I said that they should stop sitting there like a lot of guavas, and ask questions. They liked that. I found that telling jokes, even very simple ones, made them open out a bit. The situtation has improved greatly over the last week or two, although I still am not sure just how much they are learning. CHILDREN ALMOST WEEP AT POEM "My teaching style has turned out to be rather physical. Lessons are enlivened by me bouncing around the room to demonstrate the meaning of the words 'leap' and 'stalk', and by getting them to beat time on their desks while I recite 'The Highwayman' (one of the set texts) in order to help them understand the concept of rhythm in poetry and how it can emphasize a poem's meaning. "They are lovely children, with none of the cynicism of Western children. 'The Highwayman' reduced them almost to tears, as did a story about a boy whose brother had been killed in a car crash. "Dhonden Ling is a lovely place, with little gompas [shrines] and wonderful birds--and squirrels and lizards-- everywhere. The fields are surrounded by neat rows of thick- growing lantana bushes, which in the cool November weather made the landscape look startlingly like an English one with hedgerows, except for wonderful showers of tropically-coloured butterflies and the great jungle-covered hills nearby. These hills, we discovered, are currently full of leeches, leopards, bear, snakes, marauding wild elephants, and the depleted remains of a band of elephant poachers, sandalwood smugglers and the Indian Army who were chasing them--all a bit like the Wild West. The only problem here is the complete lack of anything to do in the evenings. When the teachers were here, I used to play badminton with them, but that's about it. Of course there is walking, but even this can pall, and the mountains are out of bounds due to the danger of randy wild elephants. These provide the main excitement, though the Tibetans could well do without it, having driven off two recent harvest raids with yells, drums, and firecrackers.