Maya Universe Academy, NepalMUA on Kantipur TV
Manjil Rana and Suvas Rana on Kantipur Television in the Call Kantipur show.
Day 37: Human Ecology Essay
My path to becoming a human ecologist is coming to an end. Through it, I have realized the disempowering consequences of extreme specialization and globalization. I have thus examined the underlying reasons for these phenomena, and what can be done to change them. I believe by sharing information, rather than restricting its flow, we can empower humanity. Human Ecology as an educational philosophy aims at despecialization by enabling the acquisition of all types of knowledge and skills. Through my senior project, I hope to contribute to local, despecialized economies by creating knowledge on building plans for simple technologies that can be accessed by anyone.
Continue reading “Day 37: Human Ecology Essay” »
Day 30 (of 90): Damauli and MUA and Kathmandu
After the site assessment I have moved forward scouting for materials and ordering parts.
Steam engines with biomass heater
I have ordered a closed-loop system from TinyTech India consisting of a biomass heater producing steam, a 3.5 hp steam engine, and a 1kW generator. This system will allow me to experiment with the steam prior to the construction of the solar concentrator.
The biomass heater, fueled by wood (4kg/h), can then be used at times when power is needed but the sun isn’t shining.
Yesterday I also met again with Muni Raj, who is involved in many projects around the country. I will install one of his low-tech solar trackers at the school. For a start, it will consist of two high-quality 75W panels, a large 12 V battery, charge controller and a 500W inverter. The system can later be upgraded to up to 300W. Using tracking increases the efficiency up to 30%.
Still I have to scout for parts such as pressure gauges and bendable mirrors (32 square meters of that) for the boiler and the solar concentrator.
Right now I am staying with a UWC person in Lazimpat, Kathmandu. Trough her I have met many international social workers, especially from the Netherlands. She works for the official ministry of education, through VSO. I got her contact through a couchsurfing site for UWC people that I designed a year ago! On my way home I pass the Maoist leader’s house, following the completion of a security tower across the gate protected by security. He’s got his reasons I guess.
Solar Tracker developed by Muni Raj
Many of these volunteers have told me about a project in Sankhu (“Humro Gaun” meaning Our Village), an hour south of Kathmandu. Coincidentally Muni Raj also works with them, and has installed his technology in that project, too. They also run a 3.5kW generator on biogas, have a 16 square feet Scheffler cooker, and many projects aiming at fostering the local economy. I will join Muni this week on a visit, looking forward to exchange ideas.
Today I will have some spiritual off-time. It is Shivaratri, a spiritual festival celebrated in Kathamndu’s Shiva temple.
Though I am not chasing the beauties of this country, I have already experienced a many. Stay tuned!
Bishnu’s Wedding
The day started with a rumor. Bishnu was getting married. He smiled under the sun. He would be married before the end of the day. Around 5 o’clock that night, quiet with a determined but apprehensive look on his face, Bishnu left to bring his wife home to the village. A couple hours later, he returned with Mahsi. The girl stood quietly, nervous in her silence. Bishnu smiled wide-eyed and introduced her to everyone at the school with joy. We celebrated the first toast of the night to Bishnu and Mahsi before heading to Bishnu’s parents home for the wedding.
As the sun set, an orange blaze low on the horizon, we walked down a narrow footpath that meandered through unplowed fields, cow pies, and stooped barns. We reached the house as dusk settled. Bishnu’s father stood outside casting a long shadow, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Inside, a water buffalo calf stood placidly, tied to the wooden rungs of the stairs leading upside. A fire simmered and a hectic conversation blazed. Bishnu had stolen his future wife from her family. The two lovers had decided to elope before an arranged marriage could take place. A village meeting had commenced to discuss the merits of the marriage. The stolen bride at the center of attention, the village required a group consensus before the marriage could take place. Bishnu’s father accompanied more villagers to the house next door to continue the dialogue. There were two controversial matters to handle before the wedding could proceed: the age of the bride and the unpaid dowry.
Manjil, Bishnu, Suvas, and I stoked the fire back to life as Bishnu’s mother served dishes of curried goat and poured all a glass of rak-si. The mood settled as we joked with Bishnu and his mother teased him. After the curried meat came another round of rak-si accompanied by a plate of appetizers that included fried dough, candied nuts, and pickled radishes. As we ate we talked about the marriage tradition in Nepal. It is common for young women to marry older men. At age 21, Bishnu is 5 years older than his bride. Such a marriage is commonplace. When asked to think of the age of the oldest unmarried woman in the village, Suvas answered 25. Bishnu’s younger sister, Bohini, was arranged to marry a young man in a couple of weeks. She is 17. To marry in Nepal, both persons must be at least 16 years old. Some in the village disputed the girl’s age, arguing she was only 15. Bishnu’s mother was excited about the marriage, his father realistic. Unless the village agreed to the marriage soon, it would not take place tonight.
The fire warmed the stone and mud floor and filled the room with acrid smoke. The drinks and food gone again, we rested for a moment before dishes of rice, curried vegetables, and goat were ladled from woks on the fire and placed onto stainless steel plates garnished with pickles. The steaming food was set at my feet as I finished my drink and passed the empty glass to Bishnu for him to refill. Suvas exited to seek word about the marriage from next door. He returned dancing; swinging through the door was with his arms flung above his head; exclaiming excitedly that the villagers sanctioned the marriage.
After hours of deliberation, the decision had been made. No one could deny, the moon was right for a blessed marriage. Already late in the night, madals were brought out and the neighbors congregated outside Bishnu’s home began to dance and sing. I wandered around the party asking the partygoers “Yota photo ma linu sachsu?” (Would you like to take a photo?). The party in full swing, I wandered from group to group, sharing what little words I could and smiling when I could not. Each flash from the camera sent a strobe of light across the twirling dancers. The singing intensified as the women and men sung together and another drum was brought out. As the melodious voices grew, so did the steady beating of the drums.
By the time the music ended, the sun hung low on to the horizon, its orange and crimson crest slowly rising over the tops of the Himalayan foothills. Most of the partygoers had retreated back to there homes. Manjil and I sat on the porch dozing. As the drumming faded and the dancers gave in to sleep, Manjil and I awoke just long enough to walk back to Maya school.
Bishnu’s Wedding
The day started with a rumor. Bishnu was getting married. He smiled under the sun. He would be married before the end of the day. Around 5 o’clock that night, quiet with a determined but apprehensive look on his face, Bishnu left to bring his wife home to the village. A couple hours later, he returned with Mahsi. The girl stood quietly, nervous in her silence. Bishnu smiled wide-eyed and introduced her to everyone at the school with joy. We celebrated the first toast of the night to Bishnu and Mahsi before heading to Bishnu’s parents home for the wedding.
As the sun set, an orange blaze low on the horizon, we walked down a narrow footpath that meandered through unplowed fields, cow pies, and stooped barns. We reached the house as dusk settled. Bishnu’s father stood outside casting a long shadow, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Inside, a water buffalo calf stood placidly, tied to the wooden rungs of the stairs leading upside. A fire simmered and a hectic conversation blazed. Bishnu had stolen his future wife from her family. The two lovers had decided to elope before an arranged marriage could take place. A village meeting had commenced to discuss the merits of the marriage. The stolen bride at the center of attention, the village required a group consensus before the marriage could take place. Bishnu’s father accompanied more villagers to the house next door to continue the dialogue. There were two controversial matters to handle before the wedding could proceed: the age of the bride and the unpaid dowry.
Manjil, Bishnu, Suvas, and I stoked the fire back to life as Bishnu’s mother served dishes of curried goat and poured all a glass of rak-si. The mood settled as we joked with Bishnu and his mother teased him. After the curried meat came another round of rak-si accompanied by a plate of appetizers that included fried dough, candied nuts, and pickled radishes. As we ate we talked about the marriage tradition in Nepal. It is common for young women to marry older men. At age 21, Bishnu is 5 years older than his bride. Such a marriage is commonplace. When asked to think of the age of the oldest unmarried woman in the village, Suvas answered 25. Bishnu’s younger sister, Bohini, was arranged to marry a young man in a couple of weeks. She is 17. To marry in Nepal, both persons must be at least 16 years old. Some in the village disputed the girl’s age, arguing she was only 15. Bishnu’s mother was excited about the marriage, his father realistic. Unless the village agreed to the marriage soon, it would not take place tonight.
The fire warmed the stone and mud floor and filled the room with acrid smoke. The drinks and food gone again, we rested for a moment before dishes of rice, curried vegetables, and goat were ladled from woks on the fire and placed onto stainless steel plates garnished with pickles. The steaming food was set at my feet as I finished my drink and passed the empty glass to Bishnu for him to refill. Suvas exited to seek word about the marriage from next door. He returned dancing; swinging through the door was with his arms flung above his head; exclaiming excitedly that the villagers sanctioned the marriage.
After hours of deliberation, the decision had been made. No one could deny, the moon was right for a blessed marriage. Already late in the night, madals were brought out and the neighbors congregated outside Bishnu’s home began to dance and sing. I wandered around the party asking the partygoers “Yota photo ma linu sachsu?” (Would you like to take a photo?). The party in full swing, I wandered from group to group, sharing what little words I could and smiling when I could not. Each flash from the camera sent a strobe of light across the twirling dancers. The singing intensified as the women and men sung together and another drum was brought out. As the melodious voices grew, so did the steady beating of the drums.
By the time the music ended, the sun hung low on to the horizon, its orange and crimson crest slowly rising over the tops of the Himalayan foothills. Most of the partygoers had retreated back to there homes. Manjil and I sat on the porch dozing. As the drumming faded and the dancers gave in to sleep, Manjil and I awoke just long enough to walk back to Maya school.
Muscan and Krishna
Of all the children at the school, I spend the most amount of time with Muscan and Krishna Rana. The two cousins live far up on the hill past Tanahu-sur, the highest point in the district of Tanahu and the top of the hill Maya school is built upon. Muscan was adopted by her aunt and uncle after her mother died and father left. But the children live at the school during the week to avoid the almost two hour walk they would need to trudge to the school and back each day.
Krishna is ten years old and very perceptive. He likes to draw. He often finishes his homework early and spends his free time sketching things he saw that day, doodling from his imagination, or overlapping shapes into abstract patterns. Muscan on the other hand, spends all day in class drawing. Usually silly pictures of me. She is a free-spirit with a lot of spunk. Yesterday, when asked to write a sentence using "but" as a conjunction, she wrote, "Manjil sir hit Joseph sir he cry like white boy and he Snotty Face." Needless to say, Muscan is a rebel. But her charm, especially when she makes silly faces, overcomes. At age 7, she has perfected the use of her cuteness to belay her stubborn, independent personality. Despite her teasing me all the time about my big nose, I still have a soft spot for her.
My last card to play is showing them a movie. Pronounced "move" by Muscan, tempting the kids with a film always ensures they focus on their homework enough to finish before dinner. They know that only if they finish all their schoolwork and correct it after I check it, will they be allowed to watch cartoons in the evening. Their favorite is Finding Nemo.
The two love to play pranks on the volunteers and workers. At night they will hide below the tables or creep up over the walls wearing scary masks they made out of loose leaf and spook those passing by before erupting with laughter and giggles.
In the mornings they wake early and their giggles are my alarm. Muscan sweeps the porch and kitchen while I make a fire. When the wood is too wet, I call in Krishna. He can start a fire in pouring rain in minutes. Even when it's dry and it takes me a little to long, Krishna will be their to stoke the fire and it will be blazing in seconds.
The children speak English well, and they love to teach me new words in Nepali. On my first pronunciation of a new word, Muscan holds her belly, choking back a belly full of giggles, and Krishna says, "No, no" before they tell me the word again. On the second pronunciation they smile and begin talking to me in Nepali, excitedly ushering me to practice what they just taught me.
Children are wonderful teachers: Patient and kind, pure in their quickly dissipating innocence. It is a great pleasure to watch them learn and interact with them. They are full of beauty and wisdom and sometimes it seems ostentatious to teach them knowledge when they already know so much in their hearts. If only life were lived through love instead of power, our children would be the gurus of the world.
Krishna is ten years old and very perceptive. He likes to draw. He often finishes his homework early and spends his free time sketching things he saw that day, doodling from his imagination, or overlapping shapes into abstract patterns. Muscan on the other hand, spends all day in class drawing. Usually silly pictures of me. She is a free-spirit with a lot of spunk. Yesterday, when asked to write a sentence using "but" as a conjunction, she wrote, "Manjil sir hit Joseph sir he cry like white boy and he Snotty Face." Needless to say, Muscan is a rebel. But her charm, especially when she makes silly faces, overcomes. At age 7, she has perfected the use of her cuteness to belay her stubborn, independent personality. Despite her teasing me all the time about my big nose, I still have a soft spot for her.
My last card to play is showing them a movie. Pronounced "move" by Muscan, tempting the kids with a film always ensures they focus on their homework enough to finish before dinner. They know that only if they finish all their schoolwork and correct it after I check it, will they be allowed to watch cartoons in the evening. Their favorite is Finding Nemo.
The two love to play pranks on the volunteers and workers. At night they will hide below the tables or creep up over the walls wearing scary masks they made out of loose leaf and spook those passing by before erupting with laughter and giggles.
In the mornings they wake early and their giggles are my alarm. Muscan sweeps the porch and kitchen while I make a fire. When the wood is too wet, I call in Krishna. He can start a fire in pouring rain in minutes. Even when it's dry and it takes me a little to long, Krishna will be their to stoke the fire and it will be blazing in seconds.
The children speak English well, and they love to teach me new words in Nepali. On my first pronunciation of a new word, Muscan holds her belly, choking back a belly full of giggles, and Krishna says, "No, no" before they tell me the word again. On the second pronunciation they smile and begin talking to me in Nepali, excitedly ushering me to practice what they just taught me.
Children are wonderful teachers: Patient and kind, pure in their quickly dissipating innocence. It is a great pleasure to watch them learn and interact with them. They are full of beauty and wisdom and sometimes it seems ostentatious to teach them knowledge when they already know so much in their hearts. If only life were lived through love instead of power, our children would be the gurus of the world.
Muscan and Krishna
Of all the children at the school, I spend the most amount of time with Muscan and Krishna Rana. The two cousins live far up on the hill past Tanahu-sur, the highest point in the district of Tanahu and the top of the hill Maya school is built upon. Muscan was adopted by her aunt and uncle after her mother died and father left. But the children live at the school during the week to avoid the almost two hour walk they would need to trudge to the school and back each day.
Krishna is ten years old and very perceptive. He likes to draw. He often finishes his homework early and spends his free time sketching things he saw that day, doodling from his imagination, or overlapping shapes into abstract patterns. Muscan on the other hand, spends all day in class drawing. Usually silly pictures of me. She is a free-spirit with a lot of spunk. Yesterday, when asked to write a sentence using "but" as a conjunction, she wrote, "Manjil sir hit Joseph sir he cry like white boy and he Snotty Face." Needless to say, Muscan is a rebel. But her charm, especially when she makes silly faces, overcomes. At age 7, she has perfected the use of her cuteness to belay her stubborn, independent personality. Despite her teasing me all the time about my big nose, I still have a soft spot for her.
My last card to play is showing them a movie. Pronounced "move" by Muscan, tempting the kids with a film always ensures they focus on their homework enough to finish before dinner. They know that only if they finish all their schoolwork and correct it after I check it, will they be allowed to watch cartoons in the evening. Their favorite is Finding Nemo.
The two love to play pranks on the volunteers and workers. At night they will hide below the tables or creep up over the walls wearing scary masks they made out of loose leaf and spook those passing by before erupting with laughter and giggles.
In the mornings they wake early and their giggles are my alarm. Muscan sweeps the porch and kitchen while I make a fire. When the wood is too wet, I call in Krishna. He can start a fire in pouring rain in minutes. Even when it's dry and it takes me a little to long, Krishna will be their to stoke the fire and it will be blazing in seconds.
The children speak English well, and they love to teach me new words in Nepali. On my first pronunciation of a new word, Muscan holds her belly, choking back a belly full of giggles, and Krishna says, "No, no" before they tell me the word again. On the second pronunciation they smile and begin talking to me in Nepali, excitedly ushering me to practice what they just taught me.
Children are wonderful teachers: Patient and kind, pure in their quickly dissipating innocence. It is a great pleasure to watch them learn and interact with them. They are full of beauty and wisdom and sometimes it seems ostentatious to teach them knowledge when they already know so much in their hearts. If only life were lived through love instead of power, our children would be the gurus of the world.
Krishna is ten years old and very perceptive. He likes to draw. He often finishes his homework early and spends his free time sketching things he saw that day, doodling from his imagination, or overlapping shapes into abstract patterns. Muscan on the other hand, spends all day in class drawing. Usually silly pictures of me. She is a free-spirit with a lot of spunk. Yesterday, when asked to write a sentence using "but" as a conjunction, she wrote, "Manjil sir hit Joseph sir he cry like white boy and he Snotty Face." Needless to say, Muscan is a rebel. But her charm, especially when she makes silly faces, overcomes. At age 7, she has perfected the use of her cuteness to belay her stubborn, independent personality. Despite her teasing me all the time about my big nose, I still have a soft spot for her.
My last card to play is showing them a movie. Pronounced "move" by Muscan, tempting the kids with a film always ensures they focus on their homework enough to finish before dinner. They know that only if they finish all their schoolwork and correct it after I check it, will they be allowed to watch cartoons in the evening. Their favorite is Finding Nemo.
The two love to play pranks on the volunteers and workers. At night they will hide below the tables or creep up over the walls wearing scary masks they made out of loose leaf and spook those passing by before erupting with laughter and giggles.
In the mornings they wake early and their giggles are my alarm. Muscan sweeps the porch and kitchen while I make a fire. When the wood is too wet, I call in Krishna. He can start a fire in pouring rain in minutes. Even when it's dry and it takes me a little to long, Krishna will be their to stoke the fire and it will be blazing in seconds.
The children speak English well, and they love to teach me new words in Nepali. On my first pronunciation of a new word, Muscan holds her belly, choking back a belly full of giggles, and Krishna says, "No, no" before they tell me the word again. On the second pronunciation they smile and begin talking to me in Nepali, excitedly ushering me to practice what they just taught me.
Children are wonderful teachers: Patient and kind, pure in their quickly dissipating innocence. It is a great pleasure to watch them learn and interact with them. They are full of beauty and wisdom and sometimes it seems ostentatious to teach them knowledge when they already know so much in their hearts. If only life were lived through love instead of power, our children would be the gurus of the world.
Rice Eating Ceremony
20 January 2012
On the night of my arrival in Udhin Dhunga, the whole village gathered at the home of Miss Nicki, Maya Universe Academy’s local science teacher. About ten families live in Udhin Dhunga, translated as sharp knife, and they had come together to mark the life of Miss Nicki’s first-born child. When we arrived Ms. Nicki was holding her son proudly, rocking him back and forth. The boy, wrapped snuggly in a Tigger the Pooh winter snowsuit, stared unblinkingly at his visitors with wide, brown eyes. At the age of 6 months, a child is officially welcomed into the community in Nepali tradition. And having survived the fragile first stage of their life, the child is fed their first rice. Rice being a vital part of any person’s life in Nepal, the feeding ceremony symbolizes the child’s emergence and permanence in the community.
After Miss Nicki welcomed Sharon, Manjil, and I into her home, we each blessed the child and anointed him upon his forehead with a red paste made from sugar, rice, and an unknown colorant called tika. By the time he received our blessing, the boy’s forehead was thickly smeared with the sticky red dye. The ceremony had been going on all day and we were one of the last guests to arrive. The child anointed, we offered Miss Nicki a gift of cash from Maya Universe Academy. After I placed the money at her feet, Miss Nicki implored everyone with a gracious smile and emphatic arm waving to sit, eat, and drink. No sooner had we sat down then drinks and platters of food were being passed around to each of us. Glasses full and plates heaping with an assortment of curried meats, vegetables, sel roti, and candy, I struggled to imagine how this could only be an appetizer. The local brew, Rak-si, is made from fermented millet and tastes similar to sake when watered down. Fortunately, they water it down, usually. When not diluted, the firewater blinds the senses and burns to touch.
A couple glasses of raksi and three overflowing plates of food later, we all went outside to enjoy the party. The villagers sat divided by the fire: women to one side, men on the other. The women outnumbered the men two to one. Manjil, Sharon, and I sat down by the side of the fire between the two groups. The men and women were singing the dohori, a traditional call and response ballad about love. Two men sat at the group’s core keeping time with hand drums known as madals. Each exchange of call and response become more raucous as the women heckled the men louder and louder each round, jeering at the singer. Manjil translated the more passionate responses, describing the dohori as a platform for village romances to be voiced covertly in public. Secret lovers crooned one another, wives berated their cheating husbands, and mistresses fantasized about the men they could never openly love. Soon the thwarting cries of the women grew more and more infuriating to the men, and the lurkers on the edge of the circle were pulled reluctantly towards the center to strengthen the men’s voice and partake in the poetry.
As the music intensified, some of the women deserted the singers and began dancing by the fire, the flames’ light wildly projecting the dancing figures shadows onto the earth and up the walls of the house. After a quick lesson from Manjil in Nepali, I stood and asked an older woman to dance. She accepted begrudgingly as I pulled her onto her feet. We mixed the traditional Nepali steps with my own groovy jam/rock moves confusedly before setting into a mellow flow of swinging arms and legs. More women joined in the dancing. Sharon pulled Manjil to his feet. We all danced heartily, laughing at our inconsistencies and lack of rhythm; the only form of communication tying us together was the slap of hands on wooden drums holding a steady beat among the slowly twisting bodies.
After a few hours, we walked home down a path tangled with roots and stones. Towering trees lined the way, each draped with spiraling vines. As we walked, Manjil joked about the jungle nights, teasing us with stories of tigers and leopards stalking the village at night.
Rice Eating Ceremony
20 January 2012
On the night of my arrival in Udhin Dhunga, the whole village gathered at the home of Miss Nicki, Maya Universe Academy’s local science teacher. About ten families live in Udhin Dhunga, translated as sharp knife, and they had come together to mark the life of Miss Nicki’s first-born child. When we arrived Ms. Nicki was holding her son proudly, rocking him back and forth. The boy, wrapped snuggly in a Tigger the Pooh winter snowsuit, stared unblinkingly at his visitors with wide, brown eyes. At the age of 6 months, a child is officially welcomed into the community in Nepali tradition. And having survived the fragile first stage of their life, the child is fed their first rice. Rice being a vital part of any person’s life in Nepal, the feeding ceremony symbolizes the child’s emergence and permanence in the community.
After Miss Nicki welcomed Sharon, Manjil, and I into her home, we each blessed the child and anointed him upon his forehead with a red paste made from sugar, rice, and an unknown colorant called tika. By the time he received our blessing, the boy’s forehead was thickly smeared with the sticky red dye. The ceremony had been going on all day and we were one of the last guests to arrive. The child anointed, we offered Miss Nicki a gift of cash from Maya Universe Academy. After I placed the money at her feet, Miss Nicki implored everyone with a gracious smile and emphatic arm waving to sit, eat, and drink. No sooner had we sat down then drinks and platters of food were being passed around to each of us. Glasses full and plates heaping with an assortment of curried meats, vegetables, sel roti, and candy, I struggled to imagine how this could only be an appetizer. The local brew, Rak-si, is made from fermented millet and tastes similar to sake when watered down. Fortunately, they water it down, usually. When not diluted, the firewater blinds the senses and burns to touch.
A couple glasses of raksi and three overflowing plates of food later, we all went outside to enjoy the party. The villagers sat divided by the fire: women to one side, men on the other. The women outnumbered the men two to one. Manjil, Sharon, and I sat down by the side of the fire between the two groups. The men and women were singing the dohori, a traditional call and response ballad about love. Two men sat at the group’s core keeping time with hand drums known as madals. Each exchange of call and response become more raucous as the women heckled the men louder and louder each round, jeering at the singer. Manjil translated the more passionate responses, describing the dohori as a platform for village romances to be voiced covertly in public. Secret lovers crooned one another, wives berated their cheating husbands, and mistresses fantasized about the men they could never openly love. Soon the thwarting cries of the women grew more and more infuriating to the men, and the lurkers on the edge of the circle were pulled reluctantly towards the center to strengthen the men’s voice and partake in the poetry.
As the music intensified, some of the women deserted the singers and began dancing by the fire, the flames’ light wildly projecting the dancing figures shadows onto the earth and up the walls of the house. After a quick lesson from Manjil in Nepali, I stood and asked an older woman to dance. She accepted begrudgingly as I pulled her onto her feet. We mixed the traditional Nepali steps with my own groovy jam/rock moves confusedly before setting into a mellow flow of swinging arms and legs. More women joined in the dancing. Sharon pulled Manjil to his feet. We all danced heartily, laughing at our inconsistencies and lack of rhythm; the only form of communication tying us together was the slap of hands on wooden drums holding a steady beat among the slowly twisting bodies.
After a few hours, we walked home down a path tangled with roots and stones. Towering trees lined the way, each draped with spiraling vines. As we walked, Manjil joked about the jungle nights, teasing us with stories of tigers and leopards stalking the village at night.
Fundraising: Project Funded!
I am delighted that the fundraising goal of $4100 was surpassed as of yesterday. I am writing out of an internet cafe in Damauli, Nepal, a town close by the Maya Universe Academy. For the last two days I have been taking in life at MUA. Many activities are happening. The school already has established its own livestock consisting of a few chickens, pigs and cows. Gardens surround the campus. Preparations for a biogas digester have already happened.
The school is tightly integrated with the surrounding community. Yesterday all the staff were invited to join a wedding up in the mountains. The little Nepali I learned in the early-day lesson was immediately put to use. It is clear that everybody is learning here, not just our students.
Now is the time for the site assessment. It is already clear that in the immediate area of the campus water and wood are scarce. There is a piece of land that belongs to the school that I have not visited that is said to bear potential for a small hydroelectric system. Going solar seems most promising and will enable the school to support many industrial processes for which the villages have to leave to nearby Damauli each time, especially for milling of oil seeds and grains.
Thanks to all of you for supporting my project! I will keep you updated on its progress.
