The Food Ambush

So, maybe I've mentioned food on this blog before. Once, or twice. Maybe a few more times. Because, well, I love food. But after having not one but TWO of other sort of food incidents today, I've decided it's about time to share what we've come to define as the "food ambush."

It all starts like a normal family sharing time. You're sitting at the table, doing work or chatting with friends or the family. Or maybe you're resting in your room with the door shut, taking the first of the potentially 2-3 30 minute stretches you have to be alone during the day.

And then it happens. Bam. Food.

If you're in your room, it begins with a pounding on the door. Never mind if it's past 10 pm at night, you have work at 7am, and your light is shut off. If you're in a public area, it doesn't matter if you've JUST had a conversation relating your antipathy towards fried foods, nor does it matter if you've shared with your family (because such things are discussed frequently here) that you've gained weight in this country and what you super like to eat are vegetables, if only because you're concerned that you don't make near enough money as what it will cost to replace your wardrobe if said feeding trends continue much longer.

And then, there it is. Placed in front of you with a smile and a huge side of love. A plate of freshly homemade fried and/or sugar-laden food. Or maybe a napkin-full. Or a mug-full.

It might be freshly deep-fried arepitas. It could be a latenight ice cream treat. It might be just-blended juice, of the whole-milk-with-juice-milkshake-variety. Or regular fresh juice. It might even just be a brimming class of regular Coca Cola.

These things vary. What doesn't vary is the impossibility of refusing said food.

If you're feeling strong enough to resist the impregnable goodwill with which these offerings start, you might try to say no. You might say that you're full. That you just came from a different place that pressed a plethora of food upon you. You might point out that just hours before you were given the equivalent of three square meals packed into one.

And what is the rejoinder? "You don't eat ANYTHING! Eat! Eat!" And if you still resist, well, here comes the cavalry--a volley of disapproving looks, clucks, and phrases that build, until the whole family is cajoling you to finish the ice cream, eat the arepita, drink the coke....until, AHHH! OK OK I WILL, I SWEAR, I PROMISE I WILL!

And you do.

And your jeans get tight, and your dress clothes don't fit anymore, and your skin hates you...but we are flexible, willing, loving volunteers, and so we eat it with a smile.

And appreciate the fact that the families we stay with are amazing, wonderful people who really, really do want to do everything they can to make you part of the family. And there are much, much, much worse situations to be in...

And yet.

Enter the Students

During the first six days of work at the schools, we did teacher-ly things. We chose textbooks from the traveling textbook salesman (we went with Pearson’s PostCard series, for better or for worse), made goals, talked a lot in meetings, and spent a lot of time waiting around for said meetings.  On numerous occasions, we “Hacer-ed la vaca“ or “made the cow,” (aka collected money for group snacks), and I was told to take advantage of my “gringa” status to help inspire the other teachers to get things done.

Then, it was Tuesday: And on the seventh day, the students arrived.  

One would think that, once the students got there, it was time to start classes. One would think that, since the students are in school, we would have, at the least, a class schedule. One would think that, since the students are in school and we have two rooms of computers, someone would have found out why all the computer hard drives have gone missing and/or the computers don’t turn on. One would think that, since the students are coming every day, the school would have made the decision whether or not we have so many students that we will have to make Saturday classes mandatory, to fit them all.

One might make these assumptions; in Barranquillan public schools, things go a little differently.

Brief summaries of school responses to the above: 

*note, all entreaties made by me were said politely and with a great big smile. :D

On starting classes:

Emily: “So the students are here. Will we have classes this week?”

Co teachers: “No no, we don’t start classes yet this week. This time is for presentations and such.”

Emily: “Oh. So when do we start classes?”

Co teachers: “Oh you know. Later.” *shrug*

On having a class schedule:

Emily: “So do we know when we’ll receive a class schedule?”

Co teachers: “Well, these things are complicated.”

Emily: “Of course. Is there an estimate when we usually get schedules?”

Co teachers: “Oh you know. Later.” *shrug*

On why the computers don’t work:

Emily: “Can we talk about why the computers don’t work?"

Person in charge of computers: “Of course. I’ll take a look. We’ll have a meeting.”

*after several reminders, meeting time arrives”

Emily: “So, can you tell me more about the computer situation?”

Person in charge of computers: “Well, I haven’t walked into the room yet.”

Emily: “Can we look at them now?”

Person in charge of the computers: “Of course.” *Person in charge of computers walks into another room. PICOC starts talking to another person there. PICOC shuts door in Emily’s face*

On whether or not we will have classes on Saturday:

Emily: “Will we have classes on Saturday?”

Co teachers: “Probably.”

Emily: “When might we find out?”

Co teachers: “Oh you know. Later.”

Suffice it to say, my prediction about having no idea what’s going on for weeks is not simply a state of being that I, as a volunteer in a strange land, am going through—instead, it seems to be the commonly accepted state of reality here in Colombia. Or at least it is at my school. The biggest difference between what I know and what my co-teachers know is that they know not to mind that they don’t know. "It's okay," they say. "We understand you're not used to this. Things will pick up. In a few weeks."

In the meantime, I have visited the homeroom classes of all the students. There has been a wide mix of reactions to my presence, but the amazing thing is that in almost every class, at least one girl has shocked me by asking me questions in fairly fluent English. These girls are hungry for the language, love it, and want to know more. Their shy pride and surprising ability surfaces quietly in rooms full of excited, just-back-from-holidays schoolgirls. I try to make note—these are the girls for whom I will be starting conversation clubs, for whom I will be choosing extra-curricular songs and activities, the girls who may shape a huge part of my existence at the school and whom I will count on to lead the bilingual charge in the student population. 

As for the rest, well, I’m still in honeymoon phase with them. Their eyes light up at the “gringa” presence—I’m a novelty, an ornament, a diversion who they don’t realize plans to make them work hard! I will have to toughen up and make sure to foster that bridge from “gringa” to “teacher” and hope nothing sours too much along the way.

And in the meantime, I’m certainly working on that flexibility thing…

Presentation in my school--as you can see, our school is only one building. All but three classrooms are upstairs. They open into the courtyard, where things like marching band practice and gym take place, all during the academic school day:

Break time!:

Religion, part 2

After attending my first mass in Colombia, I thought I’d add just a bit in the religion vein.

It all started Thursday night, with a random entreaty by a friend of a friend to experience the word of God. Well, thought I, I’m down for nothing if not new experiences. We jumped into a car and drove off (a new experience in itself—driving in a car instead of a bus! In downtown streets of Barranquilla!)

We arrived just a few minutes after the hour. Unlike every other event in Barranquilla, however, this didn’t seem to constitute as early—instead, the church was packed. But I use the term church lightly here.

Since we were attending Catholic mass, I expected nothing less than vaulted ceilings, a fair amount of religious iconography, hard wooden benches, and a slightly stuffy atmosphere. Instead, after winding through the entranceway, I found myself at the door to an outdoor patio. The priest, in white robes over a colorful, pajama-like suit, raised his hands and spoke under a terracotta gazebo. The crowd listened enraptured, filling rows upon rows of the ever-present white plastic beach chairs.

There was no more room for us to sit, so we stood on the brick steps, listening to the sermon.

Gradually, I learned from my companions and from listening to the priest himself that this was no ordinary sacerdote. This was a priest “from Africa,” who was apparently well known on the traveling Catholic priest circuit. He is purported to have performed miracles, and related to us a few—giving a blind woman sight, healing another so they could walk.

I decided not to spend my time questioning the veracity of these stories, and instead enjoyed the smooth flow of his words, the call and response format of the service, the peace that filled the patio. Branches of a wide-leafed tree arched over the space and rustled in the night breeze. To the right, the city’s skyscrapers rose taller than the tallest palms into the sky, their lights blinking against the darkness.  A family down the block squabbled, their dog lending its voice to the argument. And every so often, the breeze sent a hint of marijuana wafting over the crowd.

The service itself concluded after an hour, but then the crowd was offered the chance to experience the power of the priest’s hands; immediately, a line formed. And for the next two and a half hours, we watched the priest bless the attendants. This wasn’t a blessing of the sort of a cross drawn over their heads—instead, the man laid one palm on their foreheads and wrapped the other around their necks. And then, eyes closed, he swayed them—with the women looking not a little like he was making love—or, in the case of the short ones, as though he were using them to stir a very large pot. 

Three men in the white polos of the church staff stood close to catch those who crumpled. And this was not a few. A few went down immediately after being touched, although with others it took a few rotations in the priest’s hands. Caught by the men they were borne to the ground, where they lay for a varying length of time with their eyes closed, some quivering, others with their hands folded over their chest and beatific smiles on their faces.

As the end neared, the flow of people moving to line slowing, my companions stood to take their turn. Come, they insisted, smiling. So I did. His palm was soft and his hand smelled like cloves. Perhaps sensing I would not be experiencing a rapture that night, the time he took with me was brief.

After the service, we made like good Colombians and went out for early-morning salchipapas, and then went to catch what little sleep we could before work the next day.

I write this post mainly because after attending that service I was re-thinking a little bit about how religion presents itself here. Since my own Catholic experiences have been limited to attending other weddings or visiting cathedrals (including cathedrals here in Colombia), or attending high holiday masses, I assumed that mass must be the same everywhere—said in a church with few variations overall. But after witnessing mass in that natural, lovely outdoor space, I’m beginning to think that Catholicism here is a bit like the US Christianity—that there are churches with plenty of variations to fit individual needs. Even if they are all Catholic, and all share the same general belief system and all hold mass.

(On a side note, the idea that there are different “brands” of Christianity in the US is a really hard concept to explain, here)

But even if Catholicism is Catholicism anywhere, the fact that it would vary at least in presentation and in formality makes lots of sense, if it’s going to be the most ubiquitous belief system in the country. Since I’ve still only been to one church, this is mostly just a postulation.  

Religion is Everywhere

We are, as a matter of course, teaching in public schools. Schools that are funded by the government. Schools that are open to everyone to attend. I stress this because with amount of religious paraphernalia found in EVERY single one of said schools, you would think we were at the state equivalent of a private Catholic school.

Here, for example, is the four foot Jesus picture that adorns the main stairway:

 

This is the shrine that we keep in our back staircase:

And of course, there is the smaller iconography found in each one of the classrooms. Oh, and then there’s the daily Catholic prayer that is said over the loudspeakers at school, Pledge-Of-Allegiance style. (As a side note, I also know that there was a sighting of the Mother Mary by someone on my birthday some year, because every time I tell the teachers when it is, which is May 13th, someone starts singing this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0Rk-EJ5nAk)

Overall, this is one of the more modest displays of religion found in our schools. One volunteer’s school had an entire DAY filled with religious “sharing time,” during which prayers and handholding commenced. At least two of our schools are run by nuns. 

There is a rule that states that no one is allowed to discriminate on the basis of religion in schools. In a country which, for much of its history after the Spaniards arrived, has been almost strictly Catholic, there are very few deviations of religion. And certainly no acknowledged distinction between Religion and Everyday Life.

Evangelical Christians have taken root here as well—and so those who aren’t Catholic are mostly Evangelicals. (They are an interesting breed, of the Evangelical sort those in the US may be accustomed to, but also have Israeli-derived music and dances. But they don’t believe in parties or much public sorts of fun. I’m not really sure how it all works). People here don’t really understand what it means to have different “brands” of Christianity. And don’t even try to explain Judaism…Jesus exists. That is a fact.

There are, of course, some Jews/Mormons/ Jehova’s Witnesses, though contextually scarce…but I’ve yet to run into any other religion, not to say it doesn’t exist here. But religion itself is a deeply rooted concept of being. It is often one of the first questions a person is asked, after name and origin. Sometimes it precludes “Are you single,” but that and “What religion are you” are basically the interchangeable third “who are you” mandatory question. Coming from people you met two seconds prior.

When I was telling my counterpart, who is not Catholic, how we don’t allow religion as a taught belief in American schools, the concept didn’t quite stick. “I wish we could have that,” she said. “I mean, we’re not all Catholic. We should stick to neutral things, like just saying that God created the earth.”

And yet, it’s interesting, in a way, to experience group prayer in the school. Not that there’s much discord between the teachers, but with fifty people who possess a wide spectrum of personalities, the majority of them female, there is certainly a lot of noise. It’s actually quite calming when the prayer that starts each teacher meeting begins, and everyone puts away their catalogs and magazines, stops trying to sell each other the things they bought at the market that morning or food they made the day before, and yearning-filled discussions about the plastic surgery they want to have/other teachers have gotten cease.   Although the out-of-tune hymns and fervent “Our Fathers” aren’t really my style, to hear prayers for strength to give the students wonderful educations is, even for the agnostic, somewhat comforting. 

I’m not sure what has kept this country so religious. I haven’t experienced life in enough Latin/South America countries to know if this is generally the norm. I’m also not sure what has kept other churches outside of Evangelicalism from gaining much ground on Catholocism.  But I do know that, for the next two years, I will be experiencing more religion in my life, at least via proxy, than I have for the past five years. For the moment, I’m treating the prayers (sometimes the only slowly-spoken statement made by the teachers in an entire day), as a useful Spanish learning opportunity! And if anyone asks, I’m a Christian…which they believe means Evangelical, which is, in the Catholic’s book, at least one step up from being a heathen…

Colombia: for the geographically impaired

One of my favorite moments this past week, upon late-night reflection, may have been the random conversation my fellow teachers had in regards to American street-labeling practices.

A constant luxury, for me, has been the fact that Barranquilla, as well as the other coastal cities, are built on grids where every single street has a number. There are calles and carreras, and each of these are numbered consecutively in a single direction. If you set out to walk somewhere, your biggest setback will probably be encountering some letters stuck in between the numbers, which extends your walk by an unexpected 3-6 blocks. However, it is nigh impossible to become irrevocably lost.

This is a huge deal for me. Walking and/or driving, I have an almost unlimited capacity to get lost. In any city. Including in neighborhoods in which I have lived for months. When my father gifted me with a GPS for my car last year, it was a total life-changer.

And since I rather detest the Barranquillan bus system, which is privatized and thus all buses are run on the principle of picking up as many people as can physically fit on a bus (as in, collecting farrr more people than you'd believe possible, which ramps up 100 degree heat to well, even more ridiculously hot heat--and then going incredibly fast in either their lane or the opposing traffics' to get where they want to be, while giving failing breaks uncomfortably constant tests whenever a would-be passenger on the street sticks out a hand and is willing to sprint their way onto the bus before it takes back off, as well as jolting back to a stop mid-acceleration when another passenger squeezes their way to the back door, then hits the button to be let off...)...well, suffice it to say that my natural inclination to walk to my destinations is even greater, now, whenever the streets are relatively free of car-destroying, people-munching arroyos.

All this to say, in short, is that this past week, Barranquillans were discussing the concept of having NOT-labeled streets. "How can you know where something is," they asked, "if it's on "Apple St with Flower Way? What does that even mean?" "I know!" I said. "It's quite hard to figure out how to get places." "And," added another teacher, "if you want to walk somewhere, how are you supposed to know how many blocks it will take to get there?" (Which, as Jessica pointed out when I related this story to her, is sort of a moot point considering that Colombians here don't really walk anywhere anyway...)

But whether they utilize the streets for walking or not, hearing hear my own beliefs about the numbered streets related back to me by incredulous Colombians was a little bit surreal...finally, something that, without discussion or question, they have wondered about in total parallel to my own observations!

Now if only they would pontificate upon the idea of punctuality...but perhaps we'll leave that for another year...

Fishbowl Preview

So, in case it wasn’t clear before, all those stories and warnings we were given about living in a fishbowl are absolutely true. Fortunately I haven’t done anything too ridiculous to illuminate this fact, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. However, in the past days at school I’ve realized how careful I will have to be. 

Now, I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing, but in Colombia the words you say often come back at you in a matter of minutes. Here is, for a small example, what happened this week regarding my lunch eating habits-

Here in Colombia, it’s customary to eat a ginormous lunch of soup filled with bone hocks, a meat, beans, rice, some fried starch that is usually patecones (twice-fried banana fritters), juice, and some iceburg lettuce topped with a pallid tomato slice and drizzled with vinegar-and-garlic-infused-mayo that passes for salad.

This I have a few issues with, for not a few reasons. Therefore, it hasn’t been a problem for me in this last week to skip lunch, and instead simply subsidize my fried empanadas or arepa breakfast with fruit and cereal during the day. In fact, this has been sort of glorious.

However, I made the mistake of telling the truth when someone asked me what I’d had for lunch when they realized I hadn’t had time to return home between morning and afternoon work for the daily lunch-feast. (My answer: An avocado, a pear, some cereal.) I also made the mistake of letting myself be seen by a few other teachers when I ate said lunch. 

And so, in the afternoon teacher meeting, someone overheard me responding to teacher #1 with my lunch menu of the day. Which upon hearing, she became highly concerned and promised to show me the cheapest place around where I could get a “heavy” lunch. And then she shared that she was going to do this with my counterpart. Who, which I’d already forgotten about telling her, shared loudly across the room that I didn’t like big lunches, I liked to snack all day. And then the teachers who had apparently seen me eating lunch chimed in and quoted exactly what I’d had for lunch. And then, while I sat cringing in my seat, I was looked upon with a significant amount of concern and disdain by the entire teaching contingent...and this is all in what was supposed to be an official meeting, headed by the coordinator and the principal themselves!

Either way, I’ve never had my day to day habits so publicly examined by people I hardly know, and especially not to my face! I hate to think of what they’re saying behind my back…although something reassuring about the culture is that eventually, most everything comes to light. I think.

BOOKS!

So, my new and favorite discovery of the week thus far is that my new family has books! We're not talking a few, religion-oriented books, as seems to be common here, but instead an entire bookshelf with lots and lots of books!

My host brother showing me the books, which reside on a shelf on the back patio:

With all the classics, ranging from 1000 Leagues Under the Sea to Lord Jim to Little Women (in Spanish of course)...oh, and some Latin American authors as well, naturally including several by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Colombia's most famous author...well, I'm happy as a clam. Or as they say here, feliz como un ombris (happy as a worm). Who are probably very happy here during the rainy season, although during the summer I couldn't say.

Since books make me happier than almost anything in the world apart from delicious homemade food, which I am also getting here...well, I'm just about skipping right now. Wooot for books!

First Day!

Wow. First day. I think I’ve already reached Spanish language saturation, which does not bode well for the future…my brain still hurts! Hopefully this will get easier...This first day/this week is all about teacher work--students don't enter until next week. It is like an abbreviated, much less organized version of the teacher prep period in the United States.

In other news, first day went something like this: 

I arrived at 1:00 en punto, which was the beginning of the 30 minute arrival window for all the teachers in the school. We crowded into a small teacher’s lounge and then waited for the next two hours, for the all-school teacher meeting. It was supposed to get started at two, but since we got started slightly before 3 that’s practically on time, in Colombian terms.

We filled the only room with air conditioning with about fifty teachers, catching up on all the latest gossip—what folks had done over Christmas, family news, etc. I think the full-body (breasts, stomach, AND ass) plastic surgery workover one of the teachers had done won the most sensational award…

The meeting was pleasantly structured, if occasionally ignored by the audience. We talked about love’s place in our lives, hopes for this coming school year, and then watched a Colombian-produced movie about theories as to why Colombia is poor when it has a variety of exploitable resources, like beautiful tourist attractions, coffee, minerals, etc.

The movie’s take on this was that Colombia wasn’t efficient enough. Gasp! It posited that the Colombian culture does not work hard enough, using examples such as the fact that Colombia has a 6 hour work day, while the Swiss, who have lots of money, work 8. 

My personal favorite part was the Japanese-Colombian man who was interviewed extensively, who explained that the reason Japan has a huge amount of products, exports, and money, is because of their dedication and efficiency as a culture overall. This lead to the entire school for the rest of the day, when something went a little slower or someone answered their phone in a meeting (which happens ALL the time), exclaiming that we were being too Colombian, we needed to be more Japanese!

After the all-school meeting, we broke into departments where the departments had to reflect on their past year, and what they’d do to make improvements this year. It included things such as wanting the afternoon teachers to meet with the morning teachers so there was more department cohesiveness, focus on pronunciation, and more. I had some trouble understanding everything because the meeting took place in typical Colombian style, which included discussions turning rapidly into shouting…not always shouting against, instead often shouting with…but still shouting. Many people at once. It’s quite hard to decipher top-speed-shouted Spanish, in case you were wondering.

***and as a highly tangential side note, I totally understand now why my friends were a little bit scared of my family growing up. As an Italian family, we’re quite accustomed to brief shouting spats, during which points are made, won, or lost, but life goes on quite happily right afterwards. Colombia, however, ramps this up about 100 times. I’ve witnessed a well-adjusted mother whip off her shoe to beat her young son with it when he told her he hadn’t bathed…and then two minutes later they were sharing food and perfectly content. What?! After experiencing my temporary fear followed by immediate bemusement in these situations, I am thankful for my somewhat volatile heritage upbringing, to at least come at this with some cushion…

Anyway, after this lively meeting, the day was over, at about 6:30pm. I walked the 20 odd minutes home back to my new home, changed clothes, and went straight to a family birthday party near the Soledad stadium. Where I proceeded to embarrass myself by falling asleep in my chair around 11:30…my brain just couldn’t process anything anymore!

Since apparently it’s not customary to set week-long schedules for these sorts of teacher weeks, I have no idea what the rest of my week will bring, except that there will probably be more meetings, and lots more Spanish. Should be fun!

(Incredibly) High Expectations

It is not often that one is told with complete and utter seriousness that they are the answer to someone’s prayers. And yet, in the last few days, during my pre-school-year meetings with my amazingly motivated and talented counterpart, Carlota, she has told me that she believes me to be, quite literally, God’s answer to her prayers.

I don’t mean this as something even close to a boast; it simply happens that my counterpart, Carlota, has been working on a project idea of how to teach English in an integrated fashion in a manner that includes increasing students’ self-esteem (something very important in a country that has been ravaged by violence) for say, ten years now. And it also happens that a few years ago, I interned with a wonderful non-profit in Boston, Girls’ LEAP, that teaches holistic self-defense to women and girls (as it applies to both the psyche and the body) for a summer. This means that Carlota and I have found that our combined experience complements in a rather serendipitous way Carlota’s amazing, ambitious goals to not only implement an English curriculum that addresses the emotional needs of her students, but also to accomplish what I’ve learned is our school’s goal to become bilingual in the space of three years. 

Counterparts, in case I haven’t run through that one, are the people with whom we work most closely—the mouthpiece for the Peace Corps program and our first point of contact within the schools. Each volunteer has one; Carlota is mine, and she is incredibly dedicated to spreading English knowledge to her students. She sees it as a conduit to not simply a job at a call center where regular money can be made, but more ambitiously as a vessel through which students can achieve self-realization as they learn a new way of thinking and expression. 

Carlota has an unerring faith in herself and an amazing dedication to her project. Last year she submitted her project plan to a city-wide competition and won first place. This is the year of implementation—the year when the plan is put into place and, with the proof and student projects we will collect throughout the year, will culminate in the making of a documentary and giant English Day performance event. And after this? We will enter the plan and results into a country wide contest that could potentially bring money and awareness to our school.

As a woman of great faith, Carlota has told me that she truly believes that there is a divine reason for my presence within the school, and that with the two of us working on this project, we can realize her decade long goals and dreams.

Lower my expectations on this one? Au contraire, I’m not sure how they could get any higher--at least, the expectations that are out there in regards to my own role in the coming years. While this is maybe the most daunting perception within which I have ever worked, it is perhaps also the most motivating.

In a life-situation over which, in terms of life-situations, I have never held less control (aka living with a family picked by Peace Corps, in a country and city and neighborhood picked by Peace Corps, working in a Peace Corps-chosen professional sphere and working for a school assigned to me by…yup, Peace Corps…), nothing has been more refreshing and encouraging than the few meetings I’ve held thus far with my counterpart. And so, on an incredibly high, albeit rather intimidating note, I begin work tomorrow, and all that comes with that…the good Lord willing and the arroyo don’t rise!