Shillong Bus Trip Picnic with St Peter’s School: A Journey of Feeling and Belonging

(Mai White, Australia)

The first thing that meets you at the gate is a soft chorus of intention. Words crowd the entrance as declarations: no harming wild birds, no weapons, no smoking. They read less like rules and more like a promise the school has made with the world. There is something tender in that, an institution choosing gentleness before discipline. “Bird & Butterfly Haven”, the phrase remains. You almost expect a flutter of wings to answer it. Even before stepping inside, the place feels alive, as if learning here begins in the way one is asked to notice and protect life. Then the other voices emerge, science seminars, DNA extraction, achievements in arts, commerce, and academics. The language shifts from care to ambition, from sanctuary to striving. It does not feel contradictory. Instead, it feels balanced, like a place that teaches both how to grow and how to remain kind while doing so. There is pride here, too. You can feel it in the announcements of results, in the names of toppers, in the simple celebration of rising again “after long years.” It is something steadier, earned, patient, almost grateful. Standing at the gate, you get the sense that this is a threshold between worlds: one where butterflies are protected, and one where futures are built. And somehow, they are the same place.

I visited the school.

As I entered, I was met by a beautiful smile, the kind that is simple, unadorned, and immediately disarming. A gentle lady stood at the entrance and asked, “Are you the Vietnamese lady?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I texted.”

Just beside her, a man with a beard like Santa Claus smiled warmly. “Yes,” he said, “it was me who texted.”

In that moment, something settled in me. I felt at home.

We sat down under the shade. The sun was already bright, pressing softly against the morning, but here it was cool, held back by trees and care. The air felt open, friendly, something deeply present.

They asked if I had eaten breakfast.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Then you must have something with us.”

The lady, Madam Dancy Syiem, his wife and also the principal of the school, moved gently through the space, already busy with the rhythms of the day. There was a soft and determined efficiency in her presence, something both attentive and practiced.

He sat with me and spoke slowly, asking me to raise my voice because his hearing was not what it once was. There was no self-pity in the way he said it, only a kind of acceptance.

“I am half the man I used to be,” he told me. “I have lived the life of ten people. How could you ever put that into a book?”

He showed me a record book, what remained. The rest, he said, had been lost. Burned.

“April, 2016. Everything. The whole history of the school.”

His words clinging in the air, soft but heavy.

And yet, when I looked up, I saw the new building rising into the sky, blue, steady, almost luminous in the sunlight. It stood there with a simple pride, not loud or boastful, but resilient. Something rebuilt, something that refused to disappear.

In the yard, a large bus waited. Old, bulky, a little worn by time but present, ready.

Girls began to appear one by one. They embraced with them a lightness, soft smiles, gentle voices, an ease in the way they greeted one another. Their politeness was striking, almost English in its restraint, but warmer, more alive. They gathered in small clusters, talking quietly, laughter rising and falling like something shared but contained. Some carried instruments, carefully placing them onto the bus for the journey ahead.

I remembered his message:

“Hello Mai, where are you? Have you found a place to stay? Drop in tomorrow if you like. St Peter’s—we are taking the girls up to Cherrapunji for a picnic, for environmental study lessons. You can join us if you like.”

And there I was, the next day, with a backpack and a quiet eagerness.

Breakfast was served. I sat with him, Peter Sir, sharing toast thick with peanut butter, a warm omelette, simple food that felt unexpectedly generous. We talked as we ate, not in a rush, but in that unhurried way that makes space for stories to unfold.

Then it was time.

Before stepping onto the bus, Peter Sir gathered the girls. He stood before them, steady, attentive. The morning seemed to pause around him.

And he began his lesson.

Before stepping onto the bus, Peter Sir gathered the girls. He stood before them, steady, unhurried, as if the morning itself had made space for him to speak.

“All right,” he began, his voice calm but carrying. “Now, you all know there’s a big ridge of mountains behind us, over here. Isn’t that so?”

The girls quieted, their attention settling.

“That is the central Meghalaya ridge,” he continued. “The highest one. It rises to about 6,400 feet. You have Laikov Peak… around 6,431 feet, and Shillong Peak… about 6,441.”

He gestured gently, not with urgency, but with familiarity—as if he had spoken these words many times, and still found meaning in them.

“From this side, if you look at it this way, you’ll notice the land slopes gently to the left—where we are going today.”

I found myself following the invisible line of his hand, imagining the road before we had even begun.

“As we go around that ridge, we’ll be moving at around 6,000 feet… then gradually coming down to about 5,000… then 4,500 feet—where Cherrapunji, or Sohra, is.”

He paused, letting the geography settle into their minds.

“And once we get there,” he said, his voice dipping slightly, “there is a dramatic drop. About 4,000 feet. It falls away sharply toward Bangladesh, on that side.”

A quiet murmur moved through the group, just a soft shift of awareness.

“I won’t talk about the other side now,” he added lightly. “We are going this way, so we’ll focus on what we will see.”

There was something deeply respectful in that, teaching not everything at once, but only what the moment required.

“We’ll come to a place,” he continued, “where you will begin to notice a change. Right now, from Shillong onward, much of what you see is plateau, fairly level land, with gentle hills.”

He looked at them, making sure they were still with him.

“But then,” he said, a small pause before the turn, “you will suddenly begin to see something different.”

His hand opened slightly, as if revealing it.

“Deep gorges.”

The words hung there, not dramatic, not exaggerated, but enough.

“You must observe,” he added. “Not just look, observe the changes. That is why we are going.”

We finally started from St Peter’s School at around 10am, the bus slowly rolling down the winding roads as laughter filled the air. On both sides of the street, I saw small houses perched on hills, their tin roofs shining under the soft morning light. Women in colourful shawls stood by roadside stalls selling fruits, betel nuts, and freshly cut pineapples. It felt so different from both Vietnam and Australia, more raw, more alive. The mist drifted in and out like a quiet companion, wrapping the trees and hills in something almost magical. The school girls sang, their voices rising and falling with the curves of the road, and I found myself smiling without even realising it.

As we went further, the landscape opened into vast green valleys. Waterfalls appeared suddenly, slipping down cliffs like silver threads. I pressed my face closer to the window, not wanting to miss anything. There were children waving as the bus passed, and men carrying baskets along narrow paths. Cows wandered lazily near the roadside, completely unbothered by the passing vehicles. It reminded me a little of the countryside in Vietnam, but the scale here was grander, wilder. The staff pointed out places along the way, sharing stories, and I listened like a student again, learning through the journey itself.

Being on this trip for the first time, surrounded by school girls and teachers, I felt a quiet sense of belonging. There was something beautiful about being included in their world, sharing snacks, laughter, and small conversations that needed no perfect language. As we approached Cherrapunji, the air grew cooler, fresher, almost sacred. I realised this was more than just a sightseeing trip. It was a crossing between cultures, between places I have lived, and the person I am still becoming.

We arrived after several unhurried stops along the way, each pause like a small gift, moments to take in the hills, the mist, the quiet rhythm of the land. When we gathered again, Peter Sir stood before the girls and spoke about the environment, not as a distant concept but as something living, something that required care, awareness, and responsibility. His words were simple, yet they carried weight. On the bus and throughout the journey, Madame Dancy was always present, moving gently among the girls, checking if they had eaten, if they were comfortable, teasing them with light jokes, listening with patience. There was something deeply touching in the way she cared, embodying at once a mother’s warmth, a grandmother’s tenderness, and the steady attentiveness of a dedicated educator. The head teacher shared this same spirit, quiet, constant, and sincere. It was not something announced, but something felt in every interaction.

The place we arrived at revealed its beauty slowly. From the rocks of the mountain, thin streams of water slipped down like delicate threads, clear and soft. I was told that in the rainy season, these gentle lines transform into magnificent waterfalls, powerful and full, but even now, in their quieter form, they held a quiet magic. If you looked closely, you could catch small rainbows shimmering in the water, fragile and fleeting. Around me, the girls were alive with joy, laughing, taking selfies, calling out to each other, their happiness echoing through the space. We shared a meal together, simple but satisfying, and lingered longer than expected. Conversations deepened, becoming more meaningful, more personal, as if time itself had slowed to allow connection to grow.

When it was time to leave, the journey back carried a different mood, softer, more reflective. The bus grew quieter, the earlier excitement settling into a gentle calm. I found myself dozing off at times, but each time I drifted, I would wake again, not wanting to miss the passing scenes, the hills fading into distance, the changing light. Back on campus, Madame Nancy generously took me around the school. She showed me every corner: the classrooms, the laboratories, spaces for DNA study, computers, the library, sports areas, research and technology rooms. Nothing was extravagant, yet everything was thoughtfully arranged, simple, functional, and full of purpose. It was clear that the students had what they needed to learn, to explore, to grow.

When we came back to the campus, the atmosphere gently lifted again into something light and joyful. Music played, and the girls, no longer tired but somehow re-energised, began to dance—freely, happily, without hesitation. Their laughter returned in waves, filling the space as naturally as before, but now softer, warmer, touched by the fullness of the day. Some clapped along, others joined in, while a few simply watched with bright smiles. We had tea together, simple and comforting, and allowed ourselves to relax into the moment. It was one of those in-between times, not as lively as the journey out, not as reflective as the quiet ride back, but something balanced and complete, where joy, rest, and togetherness met in a gentle, memorable pause.

I had heard, before coming, small whispers, rumours of challenges in past years, something about management, nothing very clear. But standing there, seeing the reality with my own eyes, those rumours felt distant and incomplete. What I saw instead was a school grounded in care: care in the way teachers spoke, in the way students carried themselves, with politeness, humility, and quiet confidence. There was a strong emphasis on the environment, not just in lessons, but in values, in daily behaviour. It reminded me that every place, like every person, goes through ups and downs. What matters is how it stands again. And here, it stood, steady, dignified, and quietly proud.

There was also something deeply moving in the presence of the past. While we were there, an old student came to visit, someone who had studied at the school more than thirty years ago. He spoke with such warmth, such genuine affection about his teachers, about the school, about the love he still carried. That kind of lasting connection cannot be forced; it can only grow from something real, something deeply human.

The care for the students extended far beyond the classroom, and it was deeply felt in the presence of the head teacher, who watched over the children with quiet attentiveness throughout the journey. Nothing escaped notice—whether it was a small need, a moment of tiredness, or simply making sure everyone was safe and included. The driver, steady and patient on the winding roads, was just as much a part of this circle of care, along with the two male assistants who supported calmly in the background, always ready to help. Among the group, there was only one schoolboy, the sole boarder among the boys, moving comfortably within this warm, protective environment, while among the girls, eight were boarders, forming their own close-knit little family. Altogether, it felt less like a formal school trip and more like a shared responsibility, where each adult carried a part of the care, creating a space that was simple, safe, and deeply reassuring.

I returned home with a full heart, thinking, reflecting, holding onto the feeling of the day. It was more than a trip, more than a visit. It was an experience of care, of connection, of seeing education not just as knowledge, but as character, as kindness, as presence. And even as I write this, I know there is still more to say. Especially about Peter Sir, not just within the school, but beyond it, as an environmentalist, a storyteller, a man with humour and depth. I can still hear his voice, half serious, half playful: “In your book, you should include The Man–Elephant Confrontation.” That, I feel, is a story waiting to be told.

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