31 January 2009
28 January 2009
26 January 2009
los días
I have no concept of time.
That's a half truth.
I get up around 6 A.M. Sometimes I purge myself of dust using a stream of ice-cold water that pours unsteadily from a dirty white PVC pipe onto my shivering naked body. I watch the sun begin to illuminate the hazy mountains through the cross-hatched, wire mesh square that serves as the bathroom window.
I arrive at school just before 7 A.M. my kids loud and bright-faced.
7 to 7.40 A.M : Social Studies. I find it a bit ridiculous that my Honduraños students should learn about the 13 colonies or the Boston Tea Party from a norteamericano social studies book. So I choose to teach them current events and world geography.
7.40 to 8.20 A.M : Matematica. Perimeter = l + l + w + w, so why does the book find it necessary to break something that already works so perfectly and simply. But no, here comes the distributive property of multiplication saying P = (2 x l) + 2 x w). Area is measure in square units. And a unit is a yard or an inch or a kilometer. An area cannot be 64 square units. This is a problem.
8.20 to 9 A.M : Science. Experiments and labs can be very difficult with no supplies. How do I explain this? Illustrate that? Creatively.
9 to 9.20 A.M. : Recreo. If my kids have behaved well, they will receive the whole 20 minutes. Hopefully Saida (Zai-duh) or Mr. Marco will not ring the bell on time.
Clang.
9.20 to 10 A.M. : Reading. Comprehension is pretty good if I can get them to sit still long enough to read a story. Pronunciation is okay. Writing is more difficult. Ask them to express an opinion or finish the story with an imaginative ending... they'll often straight-forwardly answer the posed questions meant to stimulate thought and shout after 2 minutes of scribbling, "Mister, Mister! I'm finished."
"Let me see." They never use punctuation. No capitalization. No quotation marks. "Have you learned about punctuation? You know, periods, commas, question marks."
"Yes, yes. I know Mister."
"Can you use them please?"
The second round of corrections is marginally better. The next two periods are a break for me.
10 to 10.40 A.M. : 8th Grade Science. Atomic bonds, chemical equations. I'm relearning alongside them, but at least I pick up it up quicker. Plus I have the luxury of the teacher's edition. Something I don't have 10.40 to 11.20 A.M. : 7th Grade Science. It's not so bad though. How difficult can teaching evolution be, especially when several students are wary that dinosaurs even existed because the bible says the world is not old enough. They'll tell me this but could care less about having a discussion surrounding it.
11.20 to 12 P.M. : Language. J101 - Grammar for Journalists might be coming into practical use during this period. Still it's quite simple for any native English speaker even with the explicit terminology thrown into your lap.
12 to 12.30 P.M. : Almuerzo. Kids get to eat on time if they were good and have finished their work. Let's hope that bell rings late again so I can enjoy the sun outside of my dim classroom lit only by a single florescent bulb.
Clang. Clang.
This part of the day varies.
12.30 to 1.10 P.M. : Can often be art. Trying to do projects related to science or social studies can be like pulling teeth. Some kids eat it up. Others refuse, drawing motorcycles, cars or skateboards. I don't think there is a single skateboard in San Marcos let alone a patch of ground able to sustain one. A word about projects. Some kids dawdle and won't finish for days while others are done in a blink. Make them do more.
1.10 to 1.50 P.M. : Can be Health or Spelling. But Spelling often blends in with Reading or Language, so we do more Health. Pathogens, noninfectious diseases, diabetes, and heredity are impossible to pronounce.
Some days we go to the library, a small building down the road containing a jumbled array of books and magazines. It's next to the campo, a field where we sometimes play or do fisica.
1.50 to 2.30 P.M. : Can be study time or extra word like vocabulary lists for upcoming tests. It can be games about South American capitals or the spelling words. As long as they're competitive. No one cares who wins. The only requirement is competition.
Here's where timelessness begins.
You realize in Honduras that there is absolutely no way you could accomplish everything you'd like to do in a day. You cannot set an agenda for yourself as you would in the United States. Instead, you set a few goals for yourself and try to achieve those. Such as: We have nothing to sit on. Buy two sillas.
Or: Buy cleaning products and scrub everything in sight.
Then as soon as you think you've got the machine up and working, something goes wrong.
Example: Lock on front door no longer works so side door is taped open with a cinderblock behind it holding it shut. Get lock fixed.
Or: Electricity stopped working 24 hours ago while all the neighbors have it. It's a problem with our house. Get electricity fixed.
Or difficulties arise in what seem like simple tasks: Buy boards to build shelves with the cinderblocks you bought 10 days ago. Still unaccomplished at this point as finding someone who actually has decent sized boards is harder than expected. Or el dueño is NEVER in his ramshackle shop and his workers tell you to return at 6 P.M. Which is tough because time means nothing once you're outside of school. You don't wear a watch. Don't have a mobile phone.
The days meander lazily. Planning for school. Jogging dusty mountain roads. Buying fruit from Jorge's stand where his mother gives us a good price on the best bananas around. Searching for veggies in the mercado as dirty-faced children badger, "¿Que busca?" Wash laundry in a bucket. Try to use the internet once a week. Continue the never-ending search for the things you need in your house. Discover San Marcos and the hills around it. It's mostly uphill in every direction.
Today you could smell the fermenting coffee waste on the wind. This mix of decaying mulch and sewage runs through most of the waterways around here. Repulsive.
Aim to get to bed early and read a book. Relax. It's usually the only time all day.
That's a half truth.
I get up around 6 A.M. Sometimes I purge myself of dust using a stream of ice-cold water that pours unsteadily from a dirty white PVC pipe onto my shivering naked body. I watch the sun begin to illuminate the hazy mountains through the cross-hatched, wire mesh square that serves as the bathroom window.
I arrive at school just before 7 A.M. my kids loud and bright-faced.
7 to 7.40 A.M : Social Studies. I find it a bit ridiculous that my Honduraños students should learn about the 13 colonies or the Boston Tea Party from a norteamericano social studies book. So I choose to teach them current events and world geography.
7.40 to 8.20 A.M : Matematica. Perimeter = l + l + w + w, so why does the book find it necessary to break something that already works so perfectly and simply. But no, here comes the distributive property of multiplication saying P = (2 x l) + 2 x w). Area is measure in square units. And a unit is a yard or an inch or a kilometer. An area cannot be 64 square units. This is a problem.
8.20 to 9 A.M : Science. Experiments and labs can be very difficult with no supplies. How do I explain this? Illustrate that? Creatively.
9 to 9.20 A.M. : Recreo. If my kids have behaved well, they will receive the whole 20 minutes. Hopefully Saida (Zai-duh) or Mr. Marco will not ring the bell on time.
Clang.
9.20 to 10 A.M. : Reading. Comprehension is pretty good if I can get them to sit still long enough to read a story. Pronunciation is okay. Writing is more difficult. Ask them to express an opinion or finish the story with an imaginative ending... they'll often straight-forwardly answer the posed questions meant to stimulate thought and shout after 2 minutes of scribbling, "Mister, Mister! I'm finished."
"Let me see." They never use punctuation. No capitalization. No quotation marks. "Have you learned about punctuation? You know, periods, commas, question marks."
"Yes, yes. I know Mister."
"Can you use them please?"
The second round of corrections is marginally better. The next two periods are a break for me.
10 to 10.40 A.M. : 8th Grade Science. Atomic bonds, chemical equations. I'm relearning alongside them, but at least I pick up it up quicker. Plus I have the luxury of the teacher's edition. Something I don't have 10.40 to 11.20 A.M. : 7th Grade Science. It's not so bad though. How difficult can teaching evolution be, especially when several students are wary that dinosaurs even existed because the bible says the world is not old enough. They'll tell me this but could care less about having a discussion surrounding it.
11.20 to 12 P.M. : Language. J101 - Grammar for Journalists might be coming into practical use during this period. Still it's quite simple for any native English speaker even with the explicit terminology thrown into your lap.
12 to 12.30 P.M. : Almuerzo. Kids get to eat on time if they were good and have finished their work. Let's hope that bell rings late again so I can enjoy the sun outside of my dim classroom lit only by a single florescent bulb.
Clang. Clang.
This part of the day varies.
12.30 to 1.10 P.M. : Can often be art. Trying to do projects related to science or social studies can be like pulling teeth. Some kids eat it up. Others refuse, drawing motorcycles, cars or skateboards. I don't think there is a single skateboard in San Marcos let alone a patch of ground able to sustain one. A word about projects. Some kids dawdle and won't finish for days while others are done in a blink. Make them do more.
1.10 to 1.50 P.M. : Can be Health or Spelling. But Spelling often blends in with Reading or Language, so we do more Health. Pathogens, noninfectious diseases, diabetes, and heredity are impossible to pronounce.
Some days we go to the library, a small building down the road containing a jumbled array of books and magazines. It's next to the campo, a field where we sometimes play or do fisica.
1.50 to 2.30 P.M. : Can be study time or extra word like vocabulary lists for upcoming tests. It can be games about South American capitals or the spelling words. As long as they're competitive. No one cares who wins. The only requirement is competition.
Here's where timelessness begins.
You realize in Honduras that there is absolutely no way you could accomplish everything you'd like to do in a day. You cannot set an agenda for yourself as you would in the United States. Instead, you set a few goals for yourself and try to achieve those. Such as: We have nothing to sit on. Buy two sillas.
Or: Buy cleaning products and scrub everything in sight.
Then as soon as you think you've got the machine up and working, something goes wrong.
Example: Lock on front door no longer works so side door is taped open with a cinderblock behind it holding it shut. Get lock fixed.
Or: Electricity stopped working 24 hours ago while all the neighbors have it. It's a problem with our house. Get electricity fixed.
Or difficulties arise in what seem like simple tasks: Buy boards to build shelves with the cinderblocks you bought 10 days ago. Still unaccomplished at this point as finding someone who actually has decent sized boards is harder than expected. Or el dueño is NEVER in his ramshackle shop and his workers tell you to return at 6 P.M. Which is tough because time means nothing once you're outside of school. You don't wear a watch. Don't have a mobile phone.
The days meander lazily. Planning for school. Jogging dusty mountain roads. Buying fruit from Jorge's stand where his mother gives us a good price on the best bananas around. Searching for veggies in the mercado as dirty-faced children badger, "¿Que busca?" Wash laundry in a bucket. Try to use the internet once a week. Continue the never-ending search for the things you need in your house. Discover San Marcos and the hills around it. It's mostly uphill in every direction.
Today you could smell the fermenting coffee waste on the wind. This mix of decaying mulch and sewage runs through most of the waterways around here. Repulsive.
Aim to get to bed early and read a book. Relax. It's usually the only time all day.
23 January 2009
¡hasta ver adiós!
On Sundays, don't play fútbol with Jorge.
You'll leaving your house around 10 A.M. wearing a t-shirt, shorts, running shoes, and a light-weight, long-sleeved REI shirt with a quarter zip. You'll bring your house keys and a Nalgene full of agua.
You'll cram into the cab of a camión normally used to transport piñas or melónes but today it will be hauling players. You'll cruise around the bumpy, potholed, dirt streets of San Marcos for 45 minutes, meandering lazily, picking people up, stopping by the market.
You'll drive up the windy mountain road to Transito. Go all the way through town to the end of the road. A dusty, rocky football pitch will unfold along with players kitted in Barça and Argentina uniforms. Lingering beyond will be highland coffee fields on green slopes while smokey gray and fluffy white clouds will mix above, casting ever-changing shadows across the hills and pitch. Bright azul sky will peek through now and again. The sun will appear as often as the sporadic drops of rain.
You'll wish you had your camera.
You'll knock the ball around and be informed that you can't play because it is a tournament and there are reglas. The pelota will bounce awkwardly over the uneven ground and constantly roll down the hillside. A sloppy but entertaining first half will end 1–nil for Jorge's team.
You'll eat some sketchy pollo y papas fritas with some strange ensalada at medio tiempo. You didn't bring any money but Nelson will cover you. He will ask if you want a cerveza. You'll say, "Claro, por supeusto." He will introduce you to his daughter Alondra. The wind will blow really hard now and you'll be freezing. The ice-cold Tecate won't help either.
You'll run into a guy named Angel. You met him at the liquor store in San Marcos two days prior. He spent eight years in Sacramento and loves Americans.* He will persistently offer you cervezas. You'll accept his generosity but damn that whipping wind will make you shiver.
They'll win 5–nil. Then comes the sixers of Tecate, a bottle of Bacardi, some citrus ron. You'll drink in the grass, hitch a ride in the back of a pickup, stop at a pulpería. You'll leave your Nalgene in the bed of the truck because you think you're just making a pit stop, probably to buy más cervezas.
They'll call you inside. You'll go behind the counter and around into a side room containing a table and some chairs. Sit. Drink. When the cervezas run out, there will always be more. You're drinking inside the store. You'll teach them how to shotgun, they'll love it.
It'll get dark outside and you'll still be sitting at that table surrounded by empty, crushed Tecate cans. You'll play with the kids dressed in tattered, stained costumes.
You're glad you didn't bring your camera. You would've lost it.
You'll get a ride back home around 8 P.M. but 6 A.M. will come much, much too early the next morning. Monday morning will be miserable.
---
*You cannot say American to refer to people from the USA in Latin America. Everyone is an American. I am norteamericano but I believe that technically includes Canadians as well, and I don't wanna be grouped with them. So I don't know what to call us.
You'll leaving your house around 10 A.M. wearing a t-shirt, shorts, running shoes, and a light-weight, long-sleeved REI shirt with a quarter zip. You'll bring your house keys and a Nalgene full of agua.
You'll cram into the cab of a camión normally used to transport piñas or melónes but today it will be hauling players. You'll cruise around the bumpy, potholed, dirt streets of San Marcos for 45 minutes, meandering lazily, picking people up, stopping by the market.
You'll drive up the windy mountain road to Transito. Go all the way through town to the end of the road. A dusty, rocky football pitch will unfold along with players kitted in Barça and Argentina uniforms. Lingering beyond will be highland coffee fields on green slopes while smokey gray and fluffy white clouds will mix above, casting ever-changing shadows across the hills and pitch. Bright azul sky will peek through now and again. The sun will appear as often as the sporadic drops of rain.
You'll wish you had your camera.
You'll knock the ball around and be informed that you can't play because it is a tournament and there are reglas. The pelota will bounce awkwardly over the uneven ground and constantly roll down the hillside. A sloppy but entertaining first half will end 1–nil for Jorge's team.
You'll eat some sketchy pollo y papas fritas with some strange ensalada at medio tiempo. You didn't bring any money but Nelson will cover you. He will ask if you want a cerveza. You'll say, "Claro, por supeusto." He will introduce you to his daughter Alondra. The wind will blow really hard now and you'll be freezing. The ice-cold Tecate won't help either.
You'll run into a guy named Angel. You met him at the liquor store in San Marcos two days prior. He spent eight years in Sacramento and loves Americans.* He will persistently offer you cervezas. You'll accept his generosity but damn that whipping wind will make you shiver.
They'll win 5–nil. Then comes the sixers of Tecate, a bottle of Bacardi, some citrus ron. You'll drink in the grass, hitch a ride in the back of a pickup, stop at a pulpería. You'll leave your Nalgene in the bed of the truck because you think you're just making a pit stop, probably to buy más cervezas.
They'll call you inside. You'll go behind the counter and around into a side room containing a table and some chairs. Sit. Drink. When the cervezas run out, there will always be more. You're drinking inside the store. You'll teach them how to shotgun, they'll love it.
It'll get dark outside and you'll still be sitting at that table surrounded by empty, crushed Tecate cans. You'll play with the kids dressed in tattered, stained costumes.
You're glad you didn't bring your camera. You would've lost it.
You'll get a ride back home around 8 P.M. but 6 A.M. will come much, much too early the next morning. Monday morning will be miserable.
---
*You cannot say American to refer to people from the USA in Latin America. Everyone is an American. I am norteamericano but I believe that technically includes Canadians as well, and I don't wanna be grouped with them. So I don't know what to call us.
19 January 2009
15 January 2009
beginnings
My name is Mister Chris. Often just Mister, Mister! I teach eight attention-hungry, rambunctious fifth graders math, science, social studies, art, health, and physical education. We read stories. I explain action verbs, direct objects, and proper nouns. I also teach evolution to seventh graders and atomic bonds to eighth graders.
My life revolves around the pila, my source of water.
I shower from a bucket, sometimes in the backyard. I wash dishes outside. Clothes outside. I am constantly dirty. I don't look in a mirror for days. I flush the toilet from the same bucket I use to shower. I splash water on my hands, my arms, my face. Always from the pila. The pila tries to keep me clean. I return the effort.
Dust is everywhere. It's impossible to avoid it. Grubby feet, greasy hair, sticky skin.
Clicking geckoes in my room at night sound like a key tapping on the door. Tonight they chirp like reptilian parakeets. Cockroaches scamper through the cracks beneath the doors. Step on them, shrug it off. No big deal. Sometimes I sleep in the floor.
Horses, cows, chickens ramble the potholed dirt roads. Scrawny, filthy dogs bark, answering another's bawl all day, all night. The racket stops as they claw open a black sack of rubbish and stick their muzzles into the fresh pile.
Tonight it's storming and raining, a rarity during the dry season. There are only two seasons in San Marcos de Ocotepeque: a dusty season and a muddy season.
My address contains no numbers:
Chris Young
Green Valley School
San Marcos de Ocotepeque, Honduras
Central America
This job, this life, this country will surely try me. And I love it.
My life revolves around the pila, my source of water.
I shower from a bucket, sometimes in the backyard. I wash dishes outside. Clothes outside. I am constantly dirty. I don't look in a mirror for days. I flush the toilet from the same bucket I use to shower. I splash water on my hands, my arms, my face. Always from the pila. The pila tries to keep me clean. I return the effort.
Dust is everywhere. It's impossible to avoid it. Grubby feet, greasy hair, sticky skin.Clicking geckoes in my room at night sound like a key tapping on the door. Tonight they chirp like reptilian parakeets. Cockroaches scamper through the cracks beneath the doors. Step on them, shrug it off. No big deal. Sometimes I sleep in the floor.
Horses, cows, chickens ramble the potholed dirt roads. Scrawny, filthy dogs bark, answering another's bawl all day, all night. The racket stops as they claw open a black sack of rubbish and stick their muzzles into the fresh pile.
Tonight it's storming and raining, a rarity during the dry season. There are only two seasons in San Marcos de Ocotepeque: a dusty season and a muddy season.
My address contains no numbers:
Chris Young
Green Valley School
San Marcos de Ocotepeque, Honduras
Central America
This job, this life, this country will surely try me. And I love it.
13 January 2009
04 January 2009
cómete el mundo
I leave for my new home in Western Honduras on Tuesday. San Marcos de Ocotepeque, a destination that will never be listed in any guidebooks and is difficult to find on maps considering there are numerous cities christened San Marcos throughout Honduras alone.I have malaria pills. I have been vaccinated for typhoid and tetanus. I have a new sleeping bag and a backpack full of old clothes.
Western Honduras offers El Cerro de las Minas, the highest mountain in Honduras, and Santa Bárbara, the second tallest. National parks and lakes, bordering Guatemala and El Salvador. An impressive complex of Mayan ruins at Copán and on the Caribbean shores, the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, the second-longest coral reef in the world.
I am excited. I am learning español.
I am eating the world.
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