Put me in coach, I'm ready to teach

Last week, we had our "field practicum," which involved us going to one of several schools in the Barranquilla area. Once there, we were to spend a day observing classes and two days actually teaching lessons. The purpose of this was to give us some hands-on experience teaching local kids. This was particularly helpful for me because I don't really have any formal experience teaching a class.

My group visited a school called Maria Cano Institucion Educativa Para el Desarollo Humano (The Fightin' Canos). Lots of schools have long, convoluted names like that. Like at all the schools I've visited, we drew quite a bit of attention from the students. Many of these kids have never seen white people in person, so it makes sense that we would be "show stoppers." We went to an empty classroom to meet the English teachers, in this school, there were only four, and to discuss the plans for the next few days. In this class, I was surprised to find a Smart Board, which uses some touch technology in unison with a projector. Most schools in the US don't even have these. I thought it was ironic that they had a Smart Board, which apparently no teacher knew how to use, but many classes didn't have air conditioning or even fans that worked well. We found out that it was a gift from the mayor to each school. Great Idea, Mr. Mayor.

In one English class we observed, I couldn't really tell what the topic was. The class consisted of the teacher playing the song "We Are the World" about five or six times and students had to identify words that were in the song. Then she went over some vocabulary words that didn't seem to relate to each other at all. In this class, there was a moderate level of noise at all times and kids would occasionally get up and just walk around the class. This actually was a somewhat well-behaved class in comparison to a class I would teach later that week. Later, we visited a third grade class that was incredibly well-behaved. The teacher is very talented at classroom management. Later that day, we were told which classes we were to give a one hour lesson and in which topic. Naturally, I, the one with the least experience, ended up introducing technical grammar lessons to students who haven't learned those respective subjects yet. Great.

That night, I spent a good deal of time planning my lessons. Per usual, I was worried I would be eaten alive. However, both of my lessons went well. My first was teaching the conditional tense to tenth graders. I played one game where they would stand up if they liked something I call out. At one point, I called out "stand up if you like sopa de mondongo," which is a soup made with cow stomach, and the kids went nuts. Apparently they love it. Who would have known?

The third and final day, I had some more simple themes that focused on vocabulary. I actually felt confident about the lessons I had planned. The first class went well, and as I was heading back to the teachers lounge I was asked if I could do a quick lesson to a class before lunch. I agreed and started regretting that decision about five minutes into class. I was told it was an eighth grade class, but it seemed like the ages ranged from about eleven to kids in their early twenties. The entire class, kids were yelling and walking around all over the place. Basically not paying any attention to me. I mean, it wasn't so bad. At least I didn't get robbed by any of them. But what made it worse was that I was drenched in sweat because the fans in the class didn't work. I was as moist as a rotisserie chicken by the end of class. It was gross. The last class I taught went exceptionally well. I actually made up a song about fruits and vegetables and I brought my guitar and played it to first graders and preschoolers. They seemed to like it. Take that, Wiggles.

Just me and some of my Maria Cano homies

Normal classroom. Notice the lack of windows, only wall holes.

A fat kid and Simon Bolivar. But which is which?

And a thumbs up to you too

Former students?

Here at Maria Cano, you too can be a fake child scientist, if you work hard enough

Santa Marta and Salsa. Que Caliente!

On Monday, we were assigned to visit current Peace Corps volunteers living in Cartagena, Barranquilla, or Santa Marta. The way we found out where we would be visiting was actually quite fun. The staff put post it notes face down on a white board. Each of us would come up, pick up a note, and read one of our names and where we are going. I was excited to hear that I was going to Santa Marta. Most of all, I just didn't want to stay in Barranquilla because I was looking for a change of pace.

So Monday afternoon, four other volunteers and I left for Santa Marta, which is about two hours north from Barranquilla up the Colombian coast. Santa Marta is mainly known for its natural beauty and scenic beaches. During the drive from Barranquilla, I look out the window of the van and I see things that remind me how close we are to the Amazon. Simply gorgeous. We drop off one volunteer who is staying with a current volunteer and her host family. Because it had been raining earlier and because, like Barranquilla, Santa Marta has serious water drainage issues, we had to drive through some serious puddles that stretched a few hundred feet down the street. After dropping off two more volunteers, we came to the hotel that Nolan, my Peace Corps Pal (PCP) and partner for this trip, and I are going to be staying in for the next two days. The part of Santa Marta we stayed was called Rodadero, which is the tourist sector of Santa Marta. The hotel was nice, but not anything to write home about. The great thing was that it was only three blocks from the beach.

Shortly after arriving at the hotel, we met up with the volunteer that we would be following around the next couple days, Eric. It turns out that he was the volunteer that I had skyped with a couple months before leaving for the Peace Corps. Eric's a great guy and he's really nice; however, the first thing I noticed when we met him was that he had a bit of a "micro-mullet" going on. Here in Colombia, a very popular haircut is a mohawk that is wide and short with a very short mullet in the back. I guess Eric is really immersing himself in the culture. We went out for dinner and I ordered a dish called choripapas. This consists of a bed of shredded lettuce, french fries, chorizo slices, lots of cheese, and one tomato slice. The "piece de resistance" is this sauce that is simply know as salsa rosada, which just means pink sauce. I've been told it's just mayo and ketchup, but it's so much more. It really makes the food sing.

The next day, we went with Eric to visit an elementary school where he volunteers. In each of the classrooms, a pile of broken chair and twisted iron sits it the back corner. There is graffiti on all the desks and walls. During the first two hour-long classes, Eric did the same English lesson, teaching four different emotions: scared, hot, cold, and hurt. Ideally, according to the Peace Corps, each volunteer would plan lessons with the teachers and would have limited roles in actually teaching. However, many teachers view this help as time they can just sit back and hang out while someone else teaches their class for them. During recess, Eric was telling us about the problems the school has, many of which are pretty commonplace around Colombia. At this school, there are many displaced children who have been forced from their homes due to natural disaster, re-zoning, or one of a variety of reasons. Actually, he said that in one class we viewed, 20 of the 25 students were displaced. If a student is displaced, they are eligible for free lunch. Unfortunately, the school hasn't received any food for their lunch in over 20 days. It's a sad state of affairs.

"So what, should I just like stand here or something?

"

We returned from the school and spent some time walking up and down the beach with the other volunteers and trainees in Santa Marta. One thing I'll never forget is how warm the water is. Walking into the water is like walking into a lukewarm bath. It was amazing. That night, after we bid Eric and the other volunteers adieu, Nolan and I each got a beer and drank it as we walked down to the beach at about 10 pm. You have to love no open container laws. We hopped into the water and, as expected, it was a marvelous temperature, especially for this late at night. There were people on the beach playing soccer and playing music in the distance. A bat was swooping in circles around us, seemingly trying to catch something in the water. I didn't even know they did that. But overall, it was a great, relaxing time. I don't know if I would want to be stationed in Santa Marta for two years because Eric and the other volunteers said that it is a bit difficult to make local friends there because most of the people there are tourists, so you see new people every day.


Friday night, several of us went to a renown salsa club called La Troja. Before we got there, we had a few beers outside a corner store. Each bottle cost 1500 pesos, which is less than one American dollar. Pretty good deal, eh? La Troja is composed of a large outdoor patio area with a lot of plastic furniture and some of the loudest music I've heard. People would dance in gaps between the furniture and wherever they could find space. We danced for a while we all got pretty how and sweaty. There was a small oscillating fan on the ceiling that we all congregated around. Later, we made our way up to the second floor, which had more plastic furniture and a small dance floor. To my surprise, there were some white-"er" people dancing up there. We were dancing for a while up there when this giant man, I don't think he was Colombian, approached me and was kind enough to tell me that I was a terrible dancer. Now, I'm not the best salsa dancer, far from it, but I didn't think I was bad enough to warrant being singled out. He tried to show me a few moves, very basic ones that I already knew. Then he made me dance with his girlfriend, which only added to the embarrassment that was being heaped on me. I danced for a couple minutes, she told me I'm not that bad a dancer, which at that point was little reassurance, and then I went and sat down in a flimsy plastic chair to wallow in my own pity. Now, I know I shouldn't get too down on myself, but anyone that knows me well knows that I tend to be pretty hard on myself. So it'll be a little bit before I get the courage to go salsa dancing again, and when I do, "Andrés" the giant better not be there to shoot me down.