With 3 hours of electricity per day from around 6 to 9 pm, most of our evening activities are limited to those times.

While in the village, Chloe, our teacher trainee, and I adapted into a general daily routine or at least as much as we could.

On Tuesday night, there was the death of a monk. He was older and suffering from lung cancer. I am not clear if everyone in the village really comprehends the effects of such a disease. I think that some might simply believe it to be some form of voodoo or black magic that rots away at the core of the soul.

“Did you sleep well? Were there any creatures?” asked a student as we meet on our way home from market on our first morning back in the village.

The grade 9 English textbook is a slender volume of 90 pages or so. With a white cover and green writing, it mimics the uniforms that both students and teachers wear each day to school.

Let’s look at the reading section. “ Yes, Teacher. I read it twice. I looked up words I didn’t know the second time!” Again. Communication is plagued with misunderstandings. I take things to be obvious. They aren’t.

I love storms. The crashing thunder booming around the sky and the blinding white of the lightening descending from heaven is better to me than going to the cinema or listening to the radio. In Myanmar storms are to be feared.

The volunteer teachers for the most part do not want to teach. They often follow the government textbook, stand dead centre, and brandish a stick. There is no engagement; from them or their students.