Friday, February 29, 2008
Where I live
The first picture is of baby Andreina, the daughter of my host sister, lounging in a hammock in the living room. Hiding behind the hammock is my youngest host sister, Johanna. Notice the telenovella on the TV. I don't even understand Spanish and I've been sucked into the story.
The second is my living room and the door that goes outside. You can see the back of the washing machine right outside the door. There is a sink next to it where I brush my teeth, wash my face and hand-rinse my clothes between the wash cycle and spin cycle on the machine. The building in the background is the dance hall I wrote about earlier. You can also see the burn pile and lots of other piles.
The second is my living room and the door that goes outside. You can see the back of the washing machine right outside the door. There is a sink next to it where I brush my teeth, wash my face and hand-rinse my clothes between the wash cycle and spin cycle on the machine. The building in the background is the dance hall I wrote about earlier. You can also see the burn pile and lots of other piles.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Keeping on
Today I was sitting in my little room, happily working away at preparing for my second week of teaching when I heard my host mom coming from the front of the house. "Jennifer, venga. Venga, venga," she said passing by my door with a slightly mischievous smile on her face.
"Por que?" I asked as I followed her outside and through the junk-filled carport and around the corner to the front of the pulperia. There in the dust and sun stood my fellow volunteer Mikki-Jean with a confused look on her face.
"Mikki!"
"Jennifer!"
And for the first time in two weeks, I talked freely, without strain or thought, face-to-face to someone I know. Our host mothers beamed at us, likely relieved to know that we aren't complete idiots after all, that we can indeed communicate fluently.
Gloriously, Mikki finished my sentences, laughed at my jokes and conceded that she doesn't understand her family either.
I showed Mikki my room, bragging a little that I have my own shower and toilet. I introduced her to my host sisters and the family's pet parrot, Pablo, who lives in a small space at the corner of two walls in the living room. But that's all there was time for. In less than five minutes after she arrived, Mikki-Jean was back in her host family's pickup and gone in a cloud of dust toward the mountain.
And I was back to my lonely world of español.
Que triste.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today I decided to try out the food in el comedor at school. From what I'd seen so far, the food looked okay. After all, it's hard to mess up rice and beans. Right?
The cook handed me a plate, and I glanced over the various simmering pots -- rice, beans and something I didn't recognize.
"What is this," I asked in Spanish. Whatever was in the pot was yellow-greenish and cooked with a little tomato sauce and peppers and onions.
"Mondongo," the woman replied.
"Mondongo? What's mondongo?"
"It's meat. From a cow."
"This doesn't look like any meat I've ever seen before," I thought to myself as I hesitantly scooped up a few small pieces of the mystery lunch. I sat down at a table across from a couple of girls.
"What's this?" I asked, looking for a second opinion.
"Mondongo," one girl replied. "It's meat from a pig."
Hmm. Clearly, it was some strange section of animal, be it cow or pig. The texture was slick on one side and rough on the other, sort of like a strip of Velcro, only much thicker and with several layers, like a model of skin one might find in a science class. The rough side was made of lots of tiny little tentacle-like things.
"What part of the pig?" I ventured.
"Oh, teacher," the girl said with a shy chuckle as she gulped down a bite of mondongo. "Usted no quiere saber."
You don't want to know.
That was all I needed to hear. Rice and beans is sufficient for me, thank you very much.
Later I relayed this whole story to the other teachers, who informed me that mondongo is of the intestines. The intestines of what animal, cow or pig, I never determined, but does it really matter?
Intestinos.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the incident with the mondongo, I was too thoroughly grossed out to do much teaching. So, as I had promised them the day before, I took my sixth-graders to the soccer field (also the school's playground) to play an English game. When we got there, one girl, Reinal, nonchalantly said she was going to the pulperia to buy a snack. I calmly reminded her that we weren't at recreo, that this was English class and to get her butt back to the group. Now.
"This is English class," she mocked back. At least she was speaking English. Still, I was so instantly enraged that I chewed her up and down in English right in front of the whole class and told her to go back to the classroom to wait until the rest of us were finished playing the game. She had no idea what I had said (thank goodness), but according to the look on her face, she got my point.
The rest of us played, and the kids had fun, running and laughing and speaking English. There was a lot of chatter, but chatter doesn't really bother me because it's in Spanish and goes in one ear and out the other. Then suddenly everyone starting pointing to the fence line, and one boy ran off as fast as he could toward the other end of the plaza. I mentally weighed my options: go after one kid and leave 25 alone or stay with the 25 and let the one go. I chose to let the one go.
He came back soon enough -- carrying a five-foot-long dinosaur-like creature by the tail.
This wasn't a situation we went over at orientation -- what to do when a student catches a huge, living, scaly thing and is coming toward you with it.
"Put it down," I yelled instinctively when he got within earshot. And amazingly, he did.
After class, I apologized to the student I shamed. She smiled and shook my hand but I don't know if it was a sincere smile or just a smirk at my awful Spanish. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. I hope it was a sincere smile; she´s bigger than me.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today we only had classes for half a day. Of course, no one bothered to tell me that, but whatever. No one bothered to tell me that we would be going to a neighboring town to meet with other teachers either. No one ever bothers to tell me anything. But, I always figure it out, so today I was waiting at the school when the truck arrived to carry us teachers up the mountain.
"En el cajon," the school's director instructed me with a motion of her hand towards the back of the pickup.
I climbed in, wondering just what this ride up the mountain would have in store. It wasn't so bad. I was a little dusty, windblown and sunburned thirty minutes later when we reached the tiny one-room school, but I was all in one piece. A couple of teachers whipped us up a quick lunch of arroz con pollo and a salad of cabbage, tomatoes and, oddly enough, canned corn.
Then some people talked in Spanish for the next three hours while I daydreamed in English. At one point, I noticed everyone was looking at me. I smiled and tried to look pleasant and interested. The main speaker said something directed at me, so I took a guess and said "Si," with a nod of my head. Everyone wrote something in their calendars, and I kept hearing the word "Ingles".
The teacher sitting next to me, who speaks a little English, explained that I had just signed myself up to teach a lesson of English to the teachers in April. That's when it occurred to me that it is very likely someone did tell me we weren't having school today; I just never understand what anyone is saying.
The meeting continued and I mentally planned my lesson for April while the other teachers talked on and on about god knows what. The rain hitting the tin roof of the school began to lull me to sleep. "Rain!?!?!" I thought suddenly, looking at the pickup truck parked in the road.
Rain.
All the way home, I huddled between the two male teachers who shared my plight. We clung to the bars on the back window of the truck and closed our eyes to the stinging drops. The men scowled miserably but I just laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed because I am a teacher in Costa Rica riding in the back of a pickup truck in the rain.
Pura vida!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I made two knew friends this week, a chicken puppet I named Roxanna and a mini tape recorder with a microphone. My two new friends have helped turn my classes from 40 minutes of hitting and running and screaming and chatter to 40 minutes of actual English class.
Before when I would ask a student a question such as "What as your name," the response was disasterous. You can just imagine the exchange.
"What is your name?"
"What is your name?"
"No, what is your name?"
"What is your name?"
But with my friend Roxanna, I am able to demonstrate how to give the correct response. And with the promise of a kiss on the cheek from Roxanna, the students sit quietly and eagerly await their turns to say, "My name is ...." They want to say it over and over and over again, and I let them. For 40 minutes straight today, my second graders took turns saying "My name is...."
Yesterday, if I had asked a student to come to the front of the room to sing a solo in English, he or she would have run from the classroom. Today, with the help of a microphone and tape recorder, three students asked if they could sing solos in English in front of the class. I couldn't believe it, but I loved it.
I just hope I haven't used up all my tricks in the first two weeks.
And about my old friend Oscar. He is so bad.
"Por que?" I asked as I followed her outside and through the junk-filled carport and around the corner to the front of the pulperia. There in the dust and sun stood my fellow volunteer Mikki-Jean with a confused look on her face.
"Mikki!"
"Jennifer!"
And for the first time in two weeks, I talked freely, without strain or thought, face-to-face to someone I know. Our host mothers beamed at us, likely relieved to know that we aren't complete idiots after all, that we can indeed communicate fluently.
Gloriously, Mikki finished my sentences, laughed at my jokes and conceded that she doesn't understand her family either.
I showed Mikki my room, bragging a little that I have my own shower and toilet. I introduced her to my host sisters and the family's pet parrot, Pablo, who lives in a small space at the corner of two walls in the living room. But that's all there was time for. In less than five minutes after she arrived, Mikki-Jean was back in her host family's pickup and gone in a cloud of dust toward the mountain.
And I was back to my lonely world of español.
Que triste.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today I decided to try out the food in el comedor at school. From what I'd seen so far, the food looked okay. After all, it's hard to mess up rice and beans. Right?
The cook handed me a plate, and I glanced over the various simmering pots -- rice, beans and something I didn't recognize.
"What is this," I asked in Spanish. Whatever was in the pot was yellow-greenish and cooked with a little tomato sauce and peppers and onions.
"Mondongo," the woman replied.
"Mondongo? What's mondongo?"
"It's meat. From a cow."
"This doesn't look like any meat I've ever seen before," I thought to myself as I hesitantly scooped up a few small pieces of the mystery lunch. I sat down at a table across from a couple of girls.
"What's this?" I asked, looking for a second opinion.
"Mondongo," one girl replied. "It's meat from a pig."
Hmm. Clearly, it was some strange section of animal, be it cow or pig. The texture was slick on one side and rough on the other, sort of like a strip of Velcro, only much thicker and with several layers, like a model of skin one might find in a science class. The rough side was made of lots of tiny little tentacle-like things.
"What part of the pig?" I ventured.
"Oh, teacher," the girl said with a shy chuckle as she gulped down a bite of mondongo. "Usted no quiere saber."
You don't want to know.
That was all I needed to hear. Rice and beans is sufficient for me, thank you very much.
Later I relayed this whole story to the other teachers, who informed me that mondongo is of the intestines. The intestines of what animal, cow or pig, I never determined, but does it really matter?
Intestinos.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the incident with the mondongo, I was too thoroughly grossed out to do much teaching. So, as I had promised them the day before, I took my sixth-graders to the soccer field (also the school's playground) to play an English game. When we got there, one girl, Reinal, nonchalantly said she was going to the pulperia to buy a snack. I calmly reminded her that we weren't at recreo, that this was English class and to get her butt back to the group. Now.
"This is English class," she mocked back. At least she was speaking English. Still, I was so instantly enraged that I chewed her up and down in English right in front of the whole class and told her to go back to the classroom to wait until the rest of us were finished playing the game. She had no idea what I had said (thank goodness), but according to the look on her face, she got my point.
The rest of us played, and the kids had fun, running and laughing and speaking English. There was a lot of chatter, but chatter doesn't really bother me because it's in Spanish and goes in one ear and out the other. Then suddenly everyone starting pointing to the fence line, and one boy ran off as fast as he could toward the other end of the plaza. I mentally weighed my options: go after one kid and leave 25 alone or stay with the 25 and let the one go. I chose to let the one go.
He came back soon enough -- carrying a five-foot-long dinosaur-like creature by the tail.
This wasn't a situation we went over at orientation -- what to do when a student catches a huge, living, scaly thing and is coming toward you with it.
"Put it down," I yelled instinctively when he got within earshot. And amazingly, he did.
After class, I apologized to the student I shamed. She smiled and shook my hand but I don't know if it was a sincere smile or just a smirk at my awful Spanish. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. I hope it was a sincere smile; she´s bigger than me.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today we only had classes for half a day. Of course, no one bothered to tell me that, but whatever. No one bothered to tell me that we would be going to a neighboring town to meet with other teachers either. No one ever bothers to tell me anything. But, I always figure it out, so today I was waiting at the school when the truck arrived to carry us teachers up the mountain."En el cajon," the school's director instructed me with a motion of her hand towards the back of the pickup.
I climbed in, wondering just what this ride up the mountain would have in store. It wasn't so bad. I was a little dusty, windblown and sunburned thirty minutes later when we reached the tiny one-room school, but I was all in one piece. A couple of teachers whipped us up a quick lunch of arroz con pollo and a salad of cabbage, tomatoes and, oddly enough, canned corn.
Then some people talked in Spanish for the next three hours while I daydreamed in English. At one point, I noticed everyone was looking at me. I smiled and tried to look pleasant and interested. The main speaker said something directed at me, so I took a guess and said "Si," with a nod of my head. Everyone wrote something in their calendars, and I kept hearing the word "Ingles".
The teacher sitting next to me, who speaks a little English, explained that I had just signed myself up to teach a lesson of English to the teachers in April. That's when it occurred to me that it is very likely someone did tell me we weren't having school today; I just never understand what anyone is saying.
The meeting continued and I mentally planned my lesson for April while the other teachers talked on and on about god knows what. The rain hitting the tin roof of the school began to lull me to sleep. "Rain!?!?!" I thought suddenly, looking at the pickup truck parked in the road.
Rain.
All the way home, I huddled between the two male teachers who shared my plight. We clung to the bars on the back window of the truck and closed our eyes to the stinging drops. The men scowled miserably but I just laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed because I am a teacher in Costa Rica riding in the back of a pickup truck in the rain.
Pura vida!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I made two knew friends this week, a chicken puppet I named Roxanna and a mini tape recorder with a microphone. My two new friends have helped turn my classes from 40 minutes of hitting and running and screaming and chatter to 40 minutes of actual English class.
Before when I would ask a student a question such as "What as your name," the response was disasterous. You can just imagine the exchange.
"What is your name?"
"What is your name?"
"No, what is your name?"
"What is your name?"
But with my friend Roxanna, I am able to demonstrate how to give the correct response. And with the promise of a kiss on the cheek from Roxanna, the students sit quietly and eagerly await their turns to say, "My name is ...." They want to say it over and over and over again, and I let them. For 40 minutes straight today, my second graders took turns saying "My name is...."
Yesterday, if I had asked a student to come to the front of the room to sing a solo in English, he or she would have run from the classroom. Today, with the help of a microphone and tape recorder, three students asked if they could sing solos in English in front of the class. I couldn't believe it, but I loved it.
I just hope I haven't used up all my tricks in the first two weeks.
And about my old friend Oscar. He is so bad.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Down in the valley
I arrived in Potrero Grande Monday, Feb. 4. The next day I went to a nearby town called San Vito to go school-shopping with my host family. On Wednesday, I went swimming in a river with my host sisters, and on Thursday I washed my clothes and scrubbed my room. On Friday, I finally got around to writing about all that's going on here in my new town. Now it's the following Friday and I've found an Internet connection in Buenos Aires, an hour away by bus.
Friday, Feb. 8
Today I awoke at 5 a.m. to the booming sound of fireworks exploding nearby. It took a minute for reality to set in. What is that noise? Where am I? Why do I smell smoke? Soon I remembered. I live in Costa Rica now, and today is the first day of a festival in my town. For Ticos, apparently, it is never too early in the day to announce the start of a festival, and it's certainly never too early for las bombas.
Every morning I awake to the smell of smoke. There's no trash service in Potrero Grande, so the garbage is burned in the yard. The smoke wafts through the open, barred walls of the living room and is pulled into my room by my box fan. I am left with a difficult decision: toxic breeze or oppressive heat? Most days I choose the heat.
The heat is inescapable anyway. We might have hot summers in Arkansas, but we also have air conditioning. And winter. Here there is the beautiful Rio Coto Brus nearby that offers a nice respite from the heat, but on the half-mile walk back home, the burning sun erases any memory of relief. Today soccer games began at noon in the plaza. How the men play in this heat, I don't know.
In the mornings and evenings, because classes haven't started yet, I spend my time studying Spanish and sitting with my host family. I also like to take long walks down the rocky roads, exploring the town, looking at the green, green mountains and sitting in the shade by the river.
I am hungry a lot, not because I need more to eat but because I am accustomed to eating more. The food my host mother cooks is good, but I can't pig out the way I would at home. I usually feel guilty at mealtime because while I sit around doing nothing, my host mom has to take a break from her many tasks to cook for me. I've lived alone for so long, it is strange to have someone place a heaping plate of food in front of me three times a day. I always eat alone at the table, usually either rice or black beans and one other dish, plus a fresca, fresh fruit juice and water over ice.
Every afternoon, my host mom fixes a cafesito (cup of coffee) for me and always marvels that I don't take sugar or cream. With the cafesito, I get a little snack, maybe a fruit empanada or sweet bread or whatever my host mom chooses from the pulperia. At night, I hang out in the pulperia, listening and watching, trying to get the hang of how things work here. I usually feel like I'm in the way, but I'd rather be in the way than hiding in my room. My room is so hot.
Tonight the girls were allowed to leave the pulperia to play on the carnival rides at the festival. It was only my host mom and dad in the house, and they were busy. Finally, after a line began to form at the pulperia, I mustered some courage and spoke: "Que quiere?"
It took the whole line of people pointing and shouting directions for me to figure out the person wanted plaintain chips, but eventually I got it. Then I had to yell to my host dad to ask how much the plantain chips cost, then figure out the correct amount of change, which seems easy in English, but with colones it takes more than a quick glance at the coins for me. Thankfully, the people were patient with me. In Costa Rica, no one is ever in a hurry. That's good for me when I'm working at the pulperia, not so much when I'm waiting three hours in line at the bank.
Saturday, Feb. 9
I have befriended one little boy, Oscar, who has a chipped front tooth and an accent I fear I'll never understand. I remember Oscar's name from the letter I received from the previous volunteer. She said he was one of the slower students. This morning as I returned from the river, I saw a boy walking far behind me on the road up a hill. Soon I heard the sound of feet pounding the gravel and turned around to see Oscar running toward me with a big grin.
"Oscar!" I said. He asked (I think) if I'd been to the river and how high the river was. Because I've only been to the river twice, I guessed and told him the river was low. "Yeah, it's dry," he said in Spanish, talking to me casually about the weather as if we make this walk together everyday.
As we continued into town, he pointed to my shirt and said, "Red." So I quizzed him on other colors. What color are my shorts? What color are those trees? What color is that house? What color is that butterfly? He knew them all. As a truck approached, he quickly instructed me in Spanish to cover my mouth. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just kept smiling at him. After the truck passed, he explained (a little too late) that I should cover my mouth so my teeth don't get dirty.
And the former volunteer said he was slow.
Sunday, Feb. 10
I thought that with today being Sunday, things might calm down a bit. I was wrong. The festival is finally in full swing. The road in front of my house is lined with palm-covered booths and is teeming with men and boys on horses and women in cowboy hats and boots. Apparently, it's rodeo day. Music and dancing and beer drinking began before 10 a.m., and a soccer game is underway at the plaza.
The day would be a lot of fun if I had friends here and could speak Spanish. Instead, I feel especially lonely and isolated. I have made two acquaintances, a Tico carny who keeps asking me (unsuccessfully) for un beso and another guy named, about whom I was warned before I ever got here. He's harmless, I was told, but very annoying. So I can tell. Luckily, school starts tomorrow, and I will have a whole day of new challenges to keep me busy.
Tuesday, Feb. 12
Two days ago I spotted a lizard scurrying across my wall. But it wasn't just a lizard, it was a lizard with a huge cockroach in its mouth. Gross.
Yesterday at the school, the 14-year-old son of one my fellow teachers was showing off his English with me. We talked about all kinds of stuff, me in broken Spanish, him in broken English. Turns out we share the same birthday, only I have 16 more years. Anyway, we got to talking about lizards, and he told me they make a certain noise at night. So that's what that noise is! Last night I woke up twice to the awful sound of lizard lips and could barely go back to sleep. I don't like the thought of lizards near my bed. But what can I do?
School has been really great, but as I mentioned earlier, Ticos are never in a hurry for anything, even school. Maybe one-tenth of the students showed up yesterday for the first day, and maybe half were there today. First, second and fourth grades have classes in the mornings, staring at 7 a.m. Third, fifth and sixth grades have classes in the afternoon, starting at 11:30 a.m., but this week the director let them go early everyday. Fine by me.
Thursday, Feb. 14
I am learning that my name here is just teacher, or in a Spanish accent, ticher. Everybody, even the school's director calls me ticher. I hear it everywhere I go. If I'm on a walk, kids playing in their yards or in the street or on the soccer field yell, "Ticher! Hello, ticher! Goodbye, ticher!" I must hear it a thousand times during class. I've got the students raising their hands, but as soon as their hands go up, "Ticher!" comes out of their mouths.
The kids love English class. One day, some sixth grade students begged me to stay after school because I didn't get to teach their class that day. They had their notebooks out, ready to write something down in English. It occurred to me today that there is really no way for anyone to know what I am teaching them. I could be teaching them crazy slang or something.
The students always huddle around me during recess, and the little girls all want to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, the standard greeting in Costa Rica. The older kids are starting to figure out that I don't speak must Spanish, and they've started helping me out by talking slower or writing things down.
The younger kids don't get it at all. They just ask me questions over and over, never comprehending that I can't understand what they are saying. It's frusting for them and for me, but I can tell my Spanish is getting better. Everyday, I understand a little more. I've been studying like crazy with workbooks and flash cards, but just talking to people helps the most.
It's very strange to be the minority. And when I say the minority, I mean the minority. When I walk around the dirt roads of town, the people stare at me and say "There goes the teacher. She must be going to the river," or something similar. But all in all, Potrero Grande is alright. It's hot and dirty and kind of a dump, but for now, it's home. I'm hanging in and figuring things out poco a poco.
Also, as usual, I have lots of photos, but as usual, I can't get them off my camera. One of these days...
Friday, Feb. 8
Today I awoke at 5 a.m. to the booming sound of fireworks exploding nearby. It took a minute for reality to set in. What is that noise? Where am I? Why do I smell smoke? Soon I remembered. I live in Costa Rica now, and today is the first day of a festival in my town. For Ticos, apparently, it is never too early in the day to announce the start of a festival, and it's certainly never too early for las bombas.
Every morning I awake to the smell of smoke. There's no trash service in Potrero Grande, so the garbage is burned in the yard. The smoke wafts through the open, barred walls of the living room and is pulled into my room by my box fan. I am left with a difficult decision: toxic breeze or oppressive heat? Most days I choose the heat.
The heat is inescapable anyway. We might have hot summers in Arkansas, but we also have air conditioning. And winter. Here there is the beautiful Rio Coto Brus nearby that offers a nice respite from the heat, but on the half-mile walk back home, the burning sun erases any memory of relief. Today soccer games began at noon in the plaza. How the men play in this heat, I don't know.
In the mornings and evenings, because classes haven't started yet, I spend my time studying Spanish and sitting with my host family. I also like to take long walks down the rocky roads, exploring the town, looking at the green, green mountains and sitting in the shade by the river.
I am hungry a lot, not because I need more to eat but because I am accustomed to eating more. The food my host mother cooks is good, but I can't pig out the way I would at home. I usually feel guilty at mealtime because while I sit around doing nothing, my host mom has to take a break from her many tasks to cook for me. I've lived alone for so long, it is strange to have someone place a heaping plate of food in front of me three times a day. I always eat alone at the table, usually either rice or black beans and one other dish, plus a fresca, fresh fruit juice and water over ice.
Every afternoon, my host mom fixes a cafesito (cup of coffee) for me and always marvels that I don't take sugar or cream. With the cafesito, I get a little snack, maybe a fruit empanada or sweet bread or whatever my host mom chooses from the pulperia. At night, I hang out in the pulperia, listening and watching, trying to get the hang of how things work here. I usually feel like I'm in the way, but I'd rather be in the way than hiding in my room. My room is so hot.
Tonight the girls were allowed to leave the pulperia to play on the carnival rides at the festival. It was only my host mom and dad in the house, and they were busy. Finally, after a line began to form at the pulperia, I mustered some courage and spoke: "Que quiere?"
It took the whole line of people pointing and shouting directions for me to figure out the person wanted plaintain chips, but eventually I got it. Then I had to yell to my host dad to ask how much the plantain chips cost, then figure out the correct amount of change, which seems easy in English, but with colones it takes more than a quick glance at the coins for me. Thankfully, the people were patient with me. In Costa Rica, no one is ever in a hurry. That's good for me when I'm working at the pulperia, not so much when I'm waiting three hours in line at the bank.
Saturday, Feb. 9
I have befriended one little boy, Oscar, who has a chipped front tooth and an accent I fear I'll never understand. I remember Oscar's name from the letter I received from the previous volunteer. She said he was one of the slower students. This morning as I returned from the river, I saw a boy walking far behind me on the road up a hill. Soon I heard the sound of feet pounding the gravel and turned around to see Oscar running toward me with a big grin.
"Oscar!" I said. He asked (I think) if I'd been to the river and how high the river was. Because I've only been to the river twice, I guessed and told him the river was low. "Yeah, it's dry," he said in Spanish, talking to me casually about the weather as if we make this walk together everyday.
As we continued into town, he pointed to my shirt and said, "Red." So I quizzed him on other colors. What color are my shorts? What color are those trees? What color is that house? What color is that butterfly? He knew them all. As a truck approached, he quickly instructed me in Spanish to cover my mouth. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just kept smiling at him. After the truck passed, he explained (a little too late) that I should cover my mouth so my teeth don't get dirty.
And the former volunteer said he was slow.
Sunday, Feb. 10
I thought that with today being Sunday, things might calm down a bit. I was wrong. The festival is finally in full swing. The road in front of my house is lined with palm-covered booths and is teeming with men and boys on horses and women in cowboy hats and boots. Apparently, it's rodeo day. Music and dancing and beer drinking began before 10 a.m., and a soccer game is underway at the plaza.
The day would be a lot of fun if I had friends here and could speak Spanish. Instead, I feel especially lonely and isolated. I have made two acquaintances, a Tico carny who keeps asking me (unsuccessfully) for un beso and another guy named, about whom I was warned before I ever got here. He's harmless, I was told, but very annoying. So I can tell. Luckily, school starts tomorrow, and I will have a whole day of new challenges to keep me busy.
Tuesday, Feb. 12
Two days ago I spotted a lizard scurrying across my wall. But it wasn't just a lizard, it was a lizard with a huge cockroach in its mouth. Gross.
Yesterday at the school, the 14-year-old son of one my fellow teachers was showing off his English with me. We talked about all kinds of stuff, me in broken Spanish, him in broken English. Turns out we share the same birthday, only I have 16 more years. Anyway, we got to talking about lizards, and he told me they make a certain noise at night. So that's what that noise is! Last night I woke up twice to the awful sound of lizard lips and could barely go back to sleep. I don't like the thought of lizards near my bed. But what can I do?
School has been really great, but as I mentioned earlier, Ticos are never in a hurry for anything, even school. Maybe one-tenth of the students showed up yesterday for the first day, and maybe half were there today. First, second and fourth grades have classes in the mornings, staring at 7 a.m. Third, fifth and sixth grades have classes in the afternoon, starting at 11:30 a.m., but this week the director let them go early everyday. Fine by me.Thursday, Feb. 14
I am learning that my name here is just teacher, or in a Spanish accent, ticher. Everybody, even the school's director calls me ticher. I hear it everywhere I go. If I'm on a walk, kids playing in their yards or in the street or on the soccer field yell, "Ticher! Hello, ticher! Goodbye, ticher!" I must hear it a thousand times during class. I've got the students raising their hands, but as soon as their hands go up, "Ticher!" comes out of their mouths.
The kids love English class. One day, some sixth grade students begged me to stay after school because I didn't get to teach their class that day. They had their notebooks out, ready to write something down in English. It occurred to me today that there is really no way for anyone to know what I am teaching them. I could be teaching them crazy slang or something.
The students always huddle around me during recess, and the little girls all want to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, the standard greeting in Costa Rica. The older kids are starting to figure out that I don't speak must Spanish, and they've started helping me out by talking slower or writing things down.
The younger kids don't get it at all. They just ask me questions over and over, never comprehending that I can't understand what they are saying. It's frusting for them and for me, but I can tell my Spanish is getting better. Everyday, I understand a little more. I've been studying like crazy with workbooks and flash cards, but just talking to people helps the most.
It's very strange to be the minority. And when I say the minority, I mean the minority. When I walk around the dirt roads of town, the people stare at me and say "There goes the teacher. She must be going to the river," or something similar. But all in all, Potrero Grande is alright. It's hot and dirty and kind of a dump, but for now, it's home. I'm hanging in and figuring things out poco a poco.
Also, as usual, I have lots of photos, but as usual, I can't get them off my camera. One of these days...
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