The orphanage

 Nandumaya Self-sustaining Orphanage is located in the village of Phutung, about 10km outside central Kathmandu. There are currently 21 children in residence, and the home is run by Ramesh and Sarala Lamichhane, with the help of another couple, Nedra and Gonga. The home is located on rented land with two main buildings, an ablutions block and outhouses for chickens, goats and buffalo, and is surrounded by corn fields and gardens producing a variety of veges. The two hundred laying hens produce eggs that are sold in the village and the buffalo provides enough milk to keep us in chiya (milk tea), curd and butter. Rice is grown in several nearby fields.

 

The two main buildings and ablution block of the orphanage.

  The orphanage was set up six years ago and has evolved from very modest beginnings. Sarala describes living with no transport, running water, phone or electricity and having to carry water up from a holding tank half-way down the hill every day. The children, then numbering eight and aged between 1 and 6, were frequently ill and Ramesh has described unfortunate trips to the hospital - a 4-hour round trip by foot - at 2 or 3am carrying a couple of diarrhoea-stricken tots. Hearing this makes the current walk to the bus-stop, frequent power cuts and occasional lack of water seem minor inconveniences. 

 Nandumaya was started with the help of a group called the Royal Nepali Friendship Society (just thinking about it… I wonder if they have changed their name? The king got kicked out recently.  Perhaps not – he needs all the Friends he can get). The philosophy behind the home is that every attempt is made to achieve self-sufficiency; rice and veges are grown, goats, buffalo and chickens kept and eggs sold. Longer term plans include the establishment of a stall in the village to sell produce. This approach differs from a number of orphanages in the city – and there seems to be a plethora of them – where begging forms the main source of income. I have been approached several times by kids in town with a printed page outlining their plight and a request for money. Now I’m not so high-handed as to suggest that these urban orphans – who don’t receive any support from the state – shouldn’t be asking for help. There is no social welfare system and an orphan’s gotta do what an orphan’s gotta do. But it certainly seems a worthy aspiration for places like Nandumaya to seek self reliance, and an important value to instil in the children, too. The home also has a number of ‘friends’ who contribute what they can, by donating clothing or gifts of food. As little as these children have, they are, I think, fortunate in comparison to other abandoned or orphaned kids. Most important of all they are loved, treated with genuine affection and concern and are all considered part of one big family.    

 The children all attend one of two local private schools and a big emphasis is placed on education. Homework is done before and after school, which is attended six days a week, with a half-day on Fridays and Saturdays off. Most of the learning seems to be done by rote, with the kids chanting to themselves in a sing-song rhythm that reminds one of little monks  repeating a mantra. It’s quite a sight to see twenty children scattered around the room, seated on the floor and gently rocking as they chant to themselves – at the top of their lungs – the life cycle of the butterfly, or the eight times table, or the definition of a mammal. I don’t actually regard the resulting cacophony, with each child striving to hear themselves think – literally – as being very conducive to learning, but they do the same thing at school, so who am I to interfere? I limit myself to helping them individually – with their English work, or taking them out of earshot with a whiteboard and markers to do maths. 

 Every night before the evening meal the children perform their prayers. This involves them sitting in a large circle, adopting the lotus position and, with eyes tightly closed and hands pressed together, chanting a lengthy prayer. I have no idea what they are saying, but there are several verses and a couple of interactive moments wherein a child performs a brief solo with hand gestures, is answered by the group, and off they go again. To conclude, hands are changed to a meditative pose, like that seen in statues of Buddha, and a lengthy chant of the mantra ‘om’ is performed. It’s quite a spectacle and in addition to this, on my first evening at the home, I was treated to an impromptu concert of song and dance. After several charming  traditional folk songs I was surprised to hear the children suddenly burst into a football chant of, “Everywhere we go-OH / people want to know-OH… We are from NePAL! / Lovely lovely NePAL!”. Next was a protest song from the 60s – We Shall Overcome, followed by the Hokey Tokey. Brilliant.

 For my part, I offered to teach them a game, so we all sat in a circle and I taught them how to play Whizz. (Obviously I adapted the rules slightly – no alcohol, for a start. Instead of being forced to drink you just got eliminated). The kids loved it and caught on quickly and I laughed myself silly watching them play whizz for 20 minutes. (I’ve since seen them play whizz on several occasions when foreign visitors were present. I have a chuckle to myself when I see people watching something they obviously vaguely recognise, a puzzled look on their faces, until the penny drops and they start laughing). 

 Our day begins when the children – and therefore everybody else – arise at about 5:30am.  Chiya and crackers or biscuits are served between 6:30 and seven, and homework is done until the first main meal of daal bhaat – lentils and rice – at about 8:30. Then the children dress for school and depart for a 9:30 start. Those who attend the closer of the two schools come home at midday for a snack of beaten rice or similar, while those at the farther school take something with them. After school it’s another round of tea and a snack to tide everybody over until the second meal of daal bhaat at 8pm or so. 

 We have a meat dish less than once a week, consisting of goat or chicken curry to accompany the daal bhaat, with other variations including an egg omelette, fried potatoes, or a vegetable curry. The one constant, however, is the rice and lentils, twice a day. It is very nutritious, I imagine, and the children never seem to tire of it – not that they have much choice. Any offer of seconds are quickly taken up by arms being shot into the air, and plates are normally licked clean – a sight that I never seem to get used to. It’s hard to imagine many New Zealand kids being so easily satisfied, but I guess such things are relative. 

 The children wash face, hands and feet every morning but ’shower’ according to a roster that I haven’t quite worked out yet. There seems to be a complicated algorithm in play, involving weather, school timetables and whoever has the grubbiest neck. Bed-wetting upsets this intricate schedule and results in a glum kiddie standing outside the bathhouse resolutely dousing himself in cold water from a barrel.

 I take a shower every morning, securing the door as best I can before stripping off to tackle the cold tap. (Nepali villagers have perfected the art of bathing at public taps while remaining clothed. For me, used to the luxury of private bathrooms, bathing is one of those activities – like streaking or playing lawn darts – which only makes sense when done naked).

 The door of the washroom is precariously secured from inside by a single screw wedged through a loose bracket, and I am continually making a soapy grab for my nether-regions as the door is violently rattled by kids with a mouthful of toothpaste. 

 Each time I enter I conduct a quick survey for wildlife. The spiders aren’t big or, to my knowledge, dangerous, but I have to acknowledge a slight phobia about them crawling into my towel (and underwear); the lizards are small and retiring; the slugs are harmless and… well… sluggish… but the leeches really put the wind up me. I know they are not dangerous, but they strike a primitive chord on some atavistic and purely emotional level – inch-worming their way down the wet wall, blindly groping in a ceaseless quest for blood. Ugh.

 

A leech in the shower, searching for an unguarded willy.

 One of the entrepreneurial schemes undertaken by Ramesh and Sarala involved the renting of 2 rooms in a neighbouring building to raise 500 or so chickens, for sale. I visited the ‘chicken room’, as we came to call it, during my initial tour and helped cart water and feed up to the loft where the birds were housed. On a subsequent visit a couple of days later, Ramesh confided to me that some of the chickens were sick and had died. I was suffering from a heavy head-cold when he told me this – which had suddenly appeared on my second day here – and, standing feverish amidst a flock of infected chickens, I instantly foresaw the headlines: New Zealander First To Die In Bird-Flu Pandemic. Ramesh informed me he was going to get some ‘medicine’ and, sure enough, the next morning he produced a bottle labelled ‘Magic Vinegar’. I inspected the label and saw it contained ‘acitic acid and permitted colours’. Crikey, it was magic vinegar! Now, I’m no vet, but I was pretty sure those dying chickens were going to need something with a little more kick than just vinegar, magic or not. Of course, I should’ve had more faith in Ramesh – he later produced a packet of antibiotic powder for adding to the water.

 

Sarala in the chicken room. Not exactly battery-farming, but life as a chicken still sucks.

  While we’re discussing the local fauna… we were sitting in the library trying to get some reception on the tv one evening when I noticed a large shadow climbing down the wall in the corner of the room. Ramesh clapped his hands and hissed and the rodent – for I now saw that was what it was – turned and scurried back up. Ramesh turned to me and chuckled, “mouse”.

Bullshit – if that’s a mouse, I’m a bloody giraffe. That was a rat, and a big one. (As an aside: the Nepali words for mouse (musaa), and rat (muso), are both very similar to the word for meat: ‘masu’ – an example of poor linguistic planning if ever I’ve seen one. I imagine this causing a number of unfortunate incidents for foreigners in Nepali restaurants, with rat-momos proving a popular request). Rats running along the top of the walls in the kitchen are a common sight and they have caused strife by chewing through power cords and rice bags in the store room, and keeping us awake by fighting on the roof. I have yet to have a personal encounter with one, though. Which suits me fine – rats are even higher than leeches on my list of Things That Give Me The Willies.