When the levee breaks

It's been a rough week. It started out OK with a trip to the beach. Forty Ticos and I piled into a big bus and bounced our way to Playa Luna on the central Pacific coast. We left at 5:30 a.m. Easter Sunday and got to the beach by 8 a.m. We swam in the ocean and in the river, which flowed into the ocean, and made sand castles and ate a picnic lunch of, you guessed it, rice and beans.

Monday and Tuesday flew by flawlessly, but Wednesday I woke up with a runny nose and sore throat, which is what I believe led to my first big embarrassing breakdown. What happened was that my sixth graders told me on Tuesday there would be no classes Wednesday afternoon because of a schoolwide soccer match against a neighboring town. I asked the sixth-grade teacher, who confirmed that, no, there would be no classes Wednesday afternoon.

Thus, Wednesday morning started out fantastically. I had not yet identified my stuffy head as a cold. Instead I thought the slight headache and scratchy throat were caused by higher-than-usual amounts of toxic materials in the air because of the massive burn pile my host mom had going Tuesday night.

I enjoyed an exceptionally delicious breakfast of sweet bread, cream cheese and black coffee, then arrived at school to discover kindergarten classes were canceled for the morning because the teacher was out of town. Woo-hoo! I hadn't prepared for kinder at all, so this was a nice surprise. Also, the day before, I had canceled the class after kinder – fourth grade – because the students were so bad I stormed out of the classroom vowing not to return until Thursday. With no kinder or fourth, I had an hour and a half to get some other work done, and then I would only have to teach first and second grades before the school day was over.

I managed to get through first grade fine by singing them a lullaby (Hush Little Baby) and letting them sleep on their desks. I tried to work in "goodnight" in hopes of salvaging some sort of English lesson, but really I was just thankful for the few minutes of silence. My head was getting stuffier and stuffier. Second grade was a little wild, but we had fun with a March Madness counting tournament, and does it really matter if the kids pronounce 15 "five-teen"? I don't think so.

After second grade, I passed by the school director and asked, just to be sure, if afternoon classes were indeed canceled. I could see the kids gathering on the soccer field in the midday heat to put on their Potrero Grande reds and blues for the big game. To my surprise, the director replied with, "Yes, there are classes, why wouldn't there be?"

Why wouldn't there be? Because 90 percent of my students are in the plaza? How am I supposed to have class with no students? But, I didn't know how to say all that in Spanish, so I just sat in the empty classroom waiting. A couple of students trickled in and asked me if were having classes. I told them I wasn't sure, that I didn't really understand what was going on. So they ran across the yard to ask their teacher, then came back and said she had said class would be at 11:45. 11:45?? That's when I have lunch! And I was already starving. Now I was starving and utterly confused.

As I walked around the school yard pondering what to do, three or four little girls came running up to me,” Teacher, asldkfhlsakjdhfak;sdfkahsdfahsjdfl;sadlfj (something very fast in Spanish)." I took a deep breath and calmly explained for the 7,000th time that they must speak more slowly because I don't understand much Spanish. It didn't work. All four repeated the sentence together, just as rapidly as before. It was at that moment that the breakdown began, and the girls must have seen it in my face. As they turned to leave, one muttered, "Pobre teacher." Poor teacher.

I walked home, not really caring if I was supposed to be teaching or not. I was hungry and frustrated. I walked into the kitchen half hoping to find the house empty so I could begin my breakdown alone, half hoping there would be someone around to pat me on the back and tell me it was be OK.

My host sister walked in immediately with a big smile on her face. As I heated my cold rice and beans (that I had gotten that morning from the school cafeteria) in the microwave, she told me with much excitement that she has borrowed a CD with my latest favorite Reggaeton song on it. Any other time, I would have squealed with excitement because I've been searching everywhere for that song and haven't been able to find it. But with my eyelids barely able to hold back the impending river of tears, I just nodded and mumbled "gracias."

Then the sobbing began. I sat at the table, which is unproportionately taller than the chair and always makes me feel like a little kid when I eat. Crying made it even worse. There I sat, my chin nearly touching the table, shoveling lukewarm rice and beans until my mouth as I heaved a series of breathtaking sobs. "Que pasa, Jennifer?" my host sister asked, her eyes wide with concern.

When I didn't answer coherently, she ran to get her mom, who returned and patted me on the back (just as I had half-hoped) and fixed me a special fresco, the kind I like with powdered milk in it. Then she asked me over and over again what happened to make me cry, and I tried to explain to her that nothing happened except that I moved to Costa Rica where everything is different and I never understand what anybody is saying and that really I was just very hungry. I was crying so hard I couldn't eat, but I was so hungry I couldn't stop eating. I ended up sucking a piece of rice down the wrong tube, which set me into a coughing/crying fit that lasted a good five minutes.

My host mom sat down beside me and began telling me how much they enjoyed having me in their house, how I am a wonderful teacher and how the kids are learning a lot of English. Uh-huh, keep going. I nodded my head and kept on crying. I couldn't stop. Finally she told me that crying is good for the soul and to just keep at it as long as I wanted. She walked over to the school to alert the fifth-grade teacher that I was too sad to teach.

I have now recovered from my breakdown and am carrying on splendidly. There are moments when things are very difficult, but I never regret coming here. After all, where else can you call in sad to work?

Vacation getaway

Vacation is over. I'm suntanned and relaxed but I think I forgot all of the Spanish I've learned so far this year. Thirteen of my fellow volunteers and I met in Montezuma, a beach town in northern Costa Rica.

Last night we took the rental car back and checked into the fourth hostel of the week. This place is actually a hotel, so we get bath towels, television and hot water in private bathrooms. Heavenly.

Night before last, in Montezuma, we had no running water. Here there's even wireless Internet, so I am able to type this in real time from the comfort of this wonderful, breezy room.

In about an hour, though, I have to begin my six-hour bus rided back to the dirty south. I'll spend two days preparing for school, then on Sunday, I plan to go to the beach with my host family. Afterwards, I'll give a full report on how Ticos rest. I've yet to see that happen in my home and am looking forward to it. I half expect to see my host mom sweeping sand off the beach.

My stomach hurths most of the time, which I assume is because of the parasite my doctor thinks I have. But really it's not as bad as it seems to have a parasite. I am taking medicine and am sure to be rid of the little guy in no time.

Vacation was fantastic. It was nice to hear the stories of the other volunteers, unless they were stories about having classes of only four or five students. Those stories made me jealous.

Everyday we all woke up at 6 a.m. and went for walks and to breakfast. One day we hiked straight up a mountain to a gorgeous waterfall, where some of my friends made the 50-foot plunge. I did not.

Other than that, we ate food that wasn't rice and beans, watched MTV and sat on the beach in the shade. It was a much needed rest, considering these are the first few sentence of the blog post I had typed up before vacation:

I hate Potrero Grande. It's so hot, and I don't think I'll ever understand the language. The kids at the school are wild. My family doesn't have time to do more than put a plate of food down for me three times a day, and sometimes not even that. This morning I had stale hot dog buns for breakfast. I am homesick, sick and hungry.

I wasn't very happy then, but now it all seems fine. I actually sort of miss all of that stuff now, even my hot room and the lizards. I'm ready to get back to Potrero Grande, even if it means I eat a few stale hot dogs buns every now and then.

Muchas gracias

Thanks for all of the comments on the blog. I love to hear a little something from everyone. If you want to send a message or photo or news clipping or anything else the old-fashioned way, my address is


Escuela Potrero Grande
Buenos Aires, Puntarenas
Zona Sur, Costa Rica

No, there are no numbers or codes or anything. And if I told you in the past that it is necessary to write maestra de ingles on the envelope, disregard those instructions. The post office knows me.

Goodness

My parents sent me a care package last week, which included a little thermometer. According to the thermometer, it is a stuffy 89 degrees in my bedroom during the day. By morning it's down to 75 or 80, depending on the day.

So, to escape the oven of my room, I take long walks every afternoon. I explore every road I can find, going up hills, down hills, across rivers and through cattle farms. Yesterday I was walking down a particular rocky road for the first time and saw two women, one of them very elderly, struggling to carry a bucket of pig slop, plus three big bags, down the hill. I offered to help, and the younger woman and I walked, each with a hand on the bucket handle, to her house. In the first 30 seconds she told that her husband is dead, that she works on a pineapple farm and that she knows some gringos like me at the pineapple factory.

She wore the black rubber boots of a farmer and was strong and tough-looking. She told me the names of her four children, none of which I recognized. She told me how difficult it is for her to raise her family, expecially with the added expense of buying glasses for her youngest son. Ah, the darling little first-grader with glasses, now I remember!

She invited me into her home, where I was met with "Hello, teacher!" from all of the kids. One little boy, who was not hers, had stitches above and below his swollen eye from where the huge barking dog chained up outside had bitten him.

Speaking of sick eyes, mine is doing much better, thank you.

The long walks are my favorite times, especially when I get to visit with people and see the kids in their homes. Besides that, the exercise is good for me. My diet isn't exactly healthy these days. Yesterday I had for the first time arroz con leche. It's a hot mixture of rice, sugar, milk and nutmeg. So delicious.

School is tough. I find myself getting very angry and losing my temper with some classes. It seems impossible to keep the kids in their seats and quiet for more than 30 seconds. My goal for next week is to have more patience, although I'm really not sure how patience is going to help.

One problem is that the kids just don't know as much as I thought. When I ask them to put their seats in a circle, it's a disaster. It seems they just don't know how to do it. Or when I write the answers to questions on the board, then ask the questions, they still don't know the answers, even though they are looking right at them. I get so frustrated. Maybe I need to lower my expectations.

But overall things are still going well, and I am very happy to be here. I have talked to some of my fellow volunteers in other towns, and not all are so content. One friends is almost ready to pack up and head back to the U.S. I feel lucky to have been placed in this mostly well-run school and with this wonderful family. I wouldn't change a thing.

Except maybe a few of my second graders.

I have a very sick eye

One person has suggested I put sugar water in it. Another says salt. I think I'll try to consult a doctor this week.

My students

The first photo is of the sixth grader who mocked me. The second is of part of my sixth-grade class with their teacher, Felix. The third is of a cute little boy who is always well-behaved and attentive.

My students

I made the girl in the first picture cry Thursday. I made three girls in three different classes cry Thursday. It's not that they misbehave, it's that they so want to please me that they are constantly at my feet squealing, "Teacher, teacher." When I tell them very sternly to sit down, they cry. Oh well.

In the second picture, you may notice the boy on the right, Brayon, seems to have a very conniving look on his face. He's very sweet and loves to give me tight hugs, but he never stays in his seat. I wish I could make him cry, but it will never happen.

In the third picture, you can see Maicol in the back giving a cheery thumbs up. Oh, Maicol. These are all second graders, who seem in the photos to be very well behaved. In real life, they are anything but.

Part of the reason, I think, is because, as you can see in the last photo, the students can buy all the sugaring treats they want from the pulperia during recess. Look at all that food Alizon has!

My room, from all angles

Notice in the last photo, I am waving to you in the mirror. Hola!

Also, the window you see goes to the living room. The door to the left of the window goes to my bathroom.