The many forks along the trail to the nearest primary school now confuse me less. After lunch, I follow the teachers-in-training as they rush over to give their lessons. I nestle into the sand and prop my back against a post in the back of the reed-walled classroom. As the funny pink one, I am adored by the kids. I'm a real novelty. After two weeks of sneaking stares, they now feel comfortable enough to swarm around me to show off. My job is to evaluate, but through watching I learn more about speaking Portuguese, life in Mozambique, techniques of teaching and group dynamics. Previously, I underestimated the quality of the education and just how fascinating this task would become. The education is designed for the children of Mozambique, which is reflected in the government-produced books that manage to boil down life's lessons into a few illustrated pages. Stimulated with little more than a blackboard, one of those textbooks and a story-teller teacher, the eager students remain seated and engaged. Let's go to class!
Unfamiliar with kindly, respectful children, I look for signs of trouble. They stand up to answer questions to the whole class and calmly sit back down for hours. The difficulty is learning. Showing patience, most of the teachers-in-training developed a good rapport with the students, but some still struggle to encourage the students to speak up in class. This avoidance of public speaking still appears in the teacher-training college since there is nothing to feel embarrassed about in comparison to some of the adults outside the school who read poorly. I watched intently as the teacher rewrote the text in cursive on the board in a Portuguese class. Their little raised faces and little bodies disguise the student's true age, but still their difficulty with reading surprised me. After repeating the story several times with a chorus, the teacher gently prompted individuals to lead the class at the blackboard, but none could point to the correct word. Yet with gusto they tried, and with the teacher's determination the class continued.
I daydreamed back to 1988, to an excited moment checking out armfuls of illustrated children's books from the public library. Happily my mother taught me how to read before I started school. Reading and breathing come naturally to me, and so I cannot imagine teaching multiple disciplines to forty illiterate students. Given that I'm not a professional teacher, what can my "evaluation" possibly contribute to these circumstances other than encourage these teachers to trust in their abilities to positively affect these children's lives. In a similar manner, I'm thrown into this teacher role, just like these primary school teachers. We all continue to learn through this process, for the learning method is experiential, or do-it-yourself. Not too long ago I interviewed a jolly old American lady who explained that, "the key to being a good teacher is to love and believe in the children." She made up songs up to suit any situation and could motivate the notoriously difficult inner-city youth. At the time I listened intently to her tips about discipline, but her key is simple to remember. Comparatively less poetic, my suggestions sound more like, "save your breath until they've shut up." Although children show respect, overly permissive teachers lose the students' attention by not setting clear expectations.
The veteran teachers at the primary school sit at the back to offer advice to the novice. Some are better than others, but all seemed competent from my observations. Only the PE teacher wielded a stick. In the unlikely even that some child-loathing dictator taught at the school, still the experience would be valuable. Using common sense, we all learn from what people say as well as what people do. Who knows, maybe the new energetic teachers would influence the old stagnant ones. In experiential learning we all learn more than is written on paper or spoken in theory.
It seems silly to fuss about such a trivial item, but since I can't donate all my belongings, I must deny another request for a pen. Old volunteers advise that denial is best for fairness. However, I notice that the kids often share their food and stationary with their snatching classmates. They share books among a circle of five. They throw pencils at each other to lend the tiny stub of an eraser at the end. I am definitely selfish and feel relief to work at a purposeful job. When I eventually deliver stationary, it will be in bulk form for the school to distribute. The challenge will be to locate quality stationary, for these cheap colored pencils simply don't work. Part of my job is to find colors to make visual aids for these empty classrooms.
At last physical education class breaks up the day, and the students are instructed to race in pairs under the hot sun. Two sets of whirling legs kick up sand as they propel the fluffy dresses back the cashew tree that shades the cheering auxiliaries. The runners enjoy themselves more that the older kids who are lead to stretch in unison by the stick-wielder. It is easy to imagine how one, single volleyball would be enough to transform physical education into games.
Another day at school ends for the children, but not the teachers-in-training. Back at the training school, they return to a simple dinner of rice and beans, possibly fish, and spend the evening working in their small groups to develop their lesson plans. The school is situated in the middle of a large field on the bend of the main road from the beach to Inhambane, a journey people cannot afford to make often. During the day the road is traveled by about one vehicle every 5-10 minutes, in terms of hitchhiking. At night the road is deserted and makes it an excellent stargazing spot. Too bad about the lights outside the classroom and dorm blocks. Despite the fact that these few building can't accommodate the existing 60 students and 8 teachers, the student population will double next year. The construction company is struggling to keep up. Fortunately the housing demand is alleviated by available rooms in the neighbor's houses, but this means that the 8 teachers are left living without electricity. Even the modern dorm blocks offer little more than electricity since the plumbing doesn't work. Every morning those who wish to wash or flush the toilet must fetch bucketloads of water from the wells. (The flush-free latrines prove themselves a more sanitary option.) The morning routine also involves hauling water to stock the kitchen and water the vegetables, a type labor that many hope to avoid with an educated employment. Work starts tomorrow at 4:30AM to repair the cyclone damage. These teachers-in-training participate in the chores of the school, such as cooking, like we did at the volunteer-training-school at IICD Massachusetts. The training to become a teacher is of course far more academic and exhausting than training to become a volunteer.
Feeling tired and reluctant to perform at 8PM, the teachers-in-training are prodded to write their plans in the preferred format: objective, time outline, activities. The chairs scrape the concrete classroom floors and echo against the high white walls and tin roof to make it impossible for me to hear sense. I could help in class preparations, but usually end up being more of a distraction. Instead I spend more time next door in the teacher's room pouring over books to guide me as to how to insert myself into the project well. I like books. I want to build a bookshelf to make the books more accessible, for they are stored in the accounting room with other miscellaneous items. Upon arrival I brought as many as I could carry, and fortunately the school just acquired more government-published books. But books do little to help teachers plan their time, for there is simply not enough time. One teacher shakes his head at a particularly dense planner who wrote the activity where the objective ought to lie. What's the problem here? Don't they see the importance of preparing ahead of time? Do I resist planning in the same way? However, once they get the hang of it, they use a ruler and perfect cursive to create a detailed plan. Don't judge too soon. This process cannot be hurried, for the Mozambicans value rest, as I learned in the construction period. Though the sooner they finish, the sooner they can sleep.
I'm required to plan my "development work" here in the same way, open to scrutiny. By working here as a volunteer, my job requires that I apply myself when presented with both responsibility and freedom. While Johnny and I will contribute to the learning process, our position goes beyond the classroom. The teachers are busy with the challenge of teaching the teachers-in-training, and our relative freedom allows us to focus on fundraising partnerships to ensure the success of school classes and community outreach activities. We are charged with developing the "Open Saturday" events, which give back to the generous community that bestows housing, gardening tools and primary children. On the other hand, in the early days perhaps the funding should address the grievance of the teachers' living conditions. By valuing their contribution the school can retain them. The administration should act wisely.
Last week the director decided to crack down on the rules. The students apparently can't control the alcohol intake, and this triggered a lecture. It makes sense to start strict so that the rules are abided by. The guards started to ban the neighborhood children from dancing at the disco, probably scared of losing their jobs. This unfortunately ruined the best night of the week. Usually this fun night begins with a dance competition where three odd couples are paired together and forced to slow dance in front of everybody, which they secretly relish. When the beat kicks in, people jump up to get down. Butts wiggle, legs stamp and arms float. The kids adore dancing and outshine the adults. But now they can't come. Some people worry that members of the community might see the TV and computer and attempt to steal them. Apparently the school now attracts the wrong sort of people, after the shop across the street was robbed. Luckily the district is so small the thieves were apprehended in the act and dragged to the police. True, it is difficult for three guards to protect a school in the middle of a big field, fort the hedges need years to grow big enough to prevent intruders or escapes. However, it is more likely for a thief to wait until after the party before hopping in the already-broken window. In the meantime, the kids only want to dance. For the past year they danced at the school without causing problems. How torturous for them to hear the thumping music throughout this sleepy neighborhood. This ban conflicts with the goal of leading community activities, especially since the older folks don't appreciate the midnight noise.
After the lecture, I asked the students in my English class why they drank so obviously when it jeopardized everybody's chances and forced the school to treat them like children. In response, an emphatic speaker listed the rules, "no alcohol, no drugs and no sex!" and lingered on the last one because it challenged their very life essence. These rules are designed to prevent parties in the dormitories, but the punishment for infidelity is suspension, possibly expulsion. Nobody wants to jeopardize their status. On the rare occasion that a person indulges in a beer off-campus, their tolerance level wasn't what it used to be and they return to school embarrassingly giddy. One imploring student asked me for advice on controlling what he called his instincts. Hmm, tough one. Instead I pointed out that the school feels like a prison when they're so childish. I insisted that adults should know how to compose themselves so that they can be treated like adults. I basically tell them there's a time and a place for everything, so don't get caught. Optimistically, if people are responsible then they earn their freedom. Perhaps transgressors could be rehabilitated rather than expelled by attending a similarly lively discussion. I look forward to a similar discussion about self-discipline with a focus on STDs.
"Who enjoys learning the most?" I speculated while monitoring the new recruits during the entrance exam. Only sixty of the four-hundred that pass can gain a place. By this logic, the difficulty of the geometry question signified that my thorough education was wasted me. At age six I felt the thrill of mathematics, of telling the time and counting in tens and units. Somewhere along the way to university I accepted that learning felt more a chore than a joy. Yet here many people strive for that university degree. People stand in awe of the certification that I take for granted. Perhaps my current practical experience teaches me more than my past education. Learning occurs easily through enjoyment.
forks along the trail to the nearest primary school now confuse me less. After lunch, I follow the teachers-in-training as they rush over to give their lessons. I nestle into the sand and prop my back against a post in the back of the reed-walled classroom. As the funny pink one, I am adored by the kids. I'm a real novelty. After two weeks of sneaking stares, they now feel comfortable enough to swarm around me to show off. My job is to evaluate, but through watching I learn more about speaking Portuguese, life in Mozambique, techniques of teaching and group dynamics. Previously, I underestimated the quality of the education and just how fascinating this task would become. The education is designed for the children of Mozambique, which is reflected in the government-produced books that manage to boil down life's lessons into a few illustrated pages. Stimulated with little more than a blackboard, one of those textbooks and a story-teller teacher, the eager students remain seated and engaged. Let's go to class!
Unfamiliar with kindly, respectful children, I look for signs of trouble. They stand up to answer questions to the whole class and calmly sit back down for hours. The difficulty is learning. Showing patience, most of the teachers-in-training developed a good rapport with the students, but some still struggle to encourage the students to speak up in class. This avoidance of public speaking still appears in the teacher-training college since there is nothing to feel embarrassed about in comparison to some of the adults outside the school who read poorly. I watched intently as the teacher rewrote the text in cursive on the board in a Portuguese class. Their little raised faces and little bodies disguise the student's true age, but still their difficulty with reading surprised me. After repeating the story several times with a chorus, the teacher gently prompted individuals to lead the class at the blackboard, but none could point to the correct word. Yet with gusto they tried, and with the teacher's determination the class continued.
I daydreamed back to 1988, to an excited moment checking out armfuls of illustrated children's books from the public library. Happily my mother taught me how to read before I started school. Reading and breathing come naturally to me, and so I cannot imagine teaching multiple disciplines to forty illiterate students. Given that I'm not a professional teacher, what can my "evaluation" possibly contribute to these circumstances other than encourage these teachers to trust in their abilities to positively affect these children's lives. In a similar manner, I'm thrown into this teacher role, just like these primary school teachers. We all continue to learn through this process, for the learning method is experiential, or do-it-yourself. Not too long ago I interviewed a jolly old American lady who explained that, "the key to being a good teacher is to love and believe in the children." She made up songs up to suit any situation and could motivate the notoriously difficult inner-city youth. At the time I listened intently to her tips about discipline, but her key is simple to remember. Comparatively less poetic, my suggestions sound more like, "save your breath until they've shut up." Although children show respect, overly permissive teachers lose the students' attention by not setting clear expectations.
The veteran teachers at the primary school sit at the back to offer advice to the novice. Some are better than others, but all seemed competent from my observations. Only the PE teacher wielded a stick. In the unlikely even that some child-loathing dictator taught at the school, still the experience would be valuable. Using common sense, we all learn from what people say as well as what people do. Who knows, maybe the new energetic teachers would influence the old stagnant ones. In experiential learning we all learn more than is written on paper or spoken in theory.
It seems silly to fuss about such a trivial item, but since I can't donate all my belongings, I must deny another request for a pen. Old volunteers advise that denial is best for fairness. However, I notice that the kids often share their food and stationary with their snatching classmates. They share books among a circle of five. They throw pencils at each other to lend the tiny stub of an eraser at the end. I am definitely selfish and feel relief to work at a purposeful job. When I eventually deliver stationary, it will be in bulk form for the school to distribute. The challenge will be to locate quality stationary, for these cheap colored pencils simply don't work. Part of my job is to find colors to make visual aids for these empty classrooms.
At last physical education class breaks up the day, and the students are instructed to race in pairs under the hot sun. Two sets of whirling legs kick up sand as they propel the fluffy dresses back the cashew tree that shades the cheering auxiliaries. The runners enjoy themselves more that the older kids who are lead to stretch in unison by the stick-wielder. It is easy to imagine how one, single volleyball would be enough to transform physical education into games.
Another day at school ends for the children, but not the teachers-in-training. Back at the training school, they return to a simple dinner of rice and beans, possibly fish, and spend the evening working in their small groups to develop their lesson plans. The school is situated in the middle of a large field on the bend of the main road from the beach to Inhambane, a journey people cannot afford to make often. During the day the road is traveled by about one vehicle every 5-10 minutes, in terms of hitchhiking. At night the road is deserted and makes it an excellent stargazing spot. Too bad about the lights outside the classroom and dorm blocks. Despite the fact that these few building can't accommodate the existing 60 students and 8 teachers, the student population will double next year. The construction company is struggling to keep up. Fortunately the housing demand is alleviated by available rooms in the neighbor's houses, but this means that the 8 teachers are left living without electricity. Even the modern dorm blocks offer little more than electricity since the plumbing doesn't work. Every morning those who wish to wash or flush the toilet must fetch bucketloads of water from the wells. (The flush-free latrines prove themselves a more sanitary option.) The morning routine also involves hauling water to stock the kitchen and water the vegetables, a type labor that many hope to avoid with an educated employment. Work starts tomorrow at 4:30AM to repair the cyclone damage. These teachers-in-training participate in the chores of the school, such as cooking, like we did at the volunteer-training-school at IICD Massachusetts. The training to become a teacher is of course far more academic and exhausting than training to become a volunteer.
Feeling tired and reluctant to perform at 8PM, the teachers-in-training are prodded to write their plans in the preferred format: objective, time outline, activities. The chairs scrape the concrete classroom floors and echo against the high white walls and tin roof to make it impossible for me to hear sense. I could help in class preparations, but usually end up being more of a distraction. Instead I spend more time next door in the teacher's room pouring over books to guide me as to how to insert myself into the project well. I like books. I want to build a bookshelf to make the books more accessible, for they are stored in the accounting room with other miscellaneous items. Upon arrival I brought as many as I could carry, and fortunately the school just acquired more government-published books. But books do little to help teachers plan their time, for there is simply not enough time. One teacher shakes his head at a particularly dense planner who wrote the activity where the objective ought to lie. What's the problem here? Don't they see the importance of preparing ahead of time? Do I resist planning in the same way? However, once they get the hang of it, they use a ruler and perfect cursive to create a detailed plan. Don't judge too soon. This process cannot be hurried, for the Mozambicans value rest, as I learned in the construction period. Though the sooner they finish, the sooner they can sleep.
I'm required to plan my "development work" here in the same way, open to scrutiny. By working here as a volunteer, my job requires that I apply myself when presented with both responsibility and freedom. While Johnny and I will contribute to the learning process, our position goes beyond the classroom. The teachers are busy with the challenge of teaching the teachers-in-training, and our relative freedom allows us to focus on fundraising partnerships to ensure the success of school classes and community outreach activities. We are charged with developing the "Open Saturday" events, which give back to the generous community that bestows housing, gardening tools and primary children. On the other hand, in the early days perhaps the funding should address the grievance of the teachers' living conditions. By valuing their contribution the school can retain them. The administration should act wisely.
Last week the director decided to crack down on the rules. The students apparently can't control the alcohol intake, and this triggered a lecture. It makes sense to start strict so that the rules are abided by. The guards started to ban the neighborhood children from dancing at the disco, probably scared of losing their jobs. This unfortunately ruined the best night of the week. Usually this fun night begins with a dance competition where three odd couples are paired together and forced to slow dance in front of everybody, which they secretly relish. When the beat kicks in, people jump up to get down. Butts wiggle, legs stamp and arms float. The kids adore dancing and outshine the adults. But now they can't come. Some people worry that members of the community might see the TV and computer and attempt to steal them. Apparently the school now attracts the wrong sort of people, after the shop across the street was robbed. Luckily the district is so small the thieves were apprehended in the act and dragged to the police. True, it is difficult for three guards to protect a school in the middle of a big field, fort the hedges need years to grow big enough to prevent intruders or escapes. However, it is more likely for a thief to wait until after the party before hopping in the already-broken window. In the meantime, the kids only want to dance. For the past year they danced at the school without causing problems. How torturous for them to hear the thumping music throughout this sleepy neighborhood. This ban conflicts with the goal of leading community activities, especially since the older folks don't appreciate the midnight noise.
After the lecture, I asked the students in my English class why they drank so obviously when it jeopardized everybody's chances and forced the school to treat them like children. In response, an emphatic speaker listed the rules, "no alcohol, no drugs and no sex!" and lingered on the last one because it challenged their very life essence. These rules are designed to prevent parties in the dormitories, but the punishment for infidelity is suspension, possibly expulsion. Nobody wants to jeopardize their status. On the rare occasion that a person indulges in a beer off-campus, their tolerance level wasn't what it used to be and they return to school embarrassingly giddy. One imploring student asked me for advice on controlling what he called his instincts. Hmm, tough one. Instead I pointed out that the school feels like a prison when they're so childish. I insisted that adults should know how to compose themselves so that they can be treated like adults. I basically tell them there's a time and a place for everything, so don't get caught. Optimistically, if people are responsible then they earn their freedom. Perhaps transgressors could be rehabilitated rather than expelled by attending a similarly lively discussion. I look forward to a similar discussion about self-discipline with a focus on STDs.
"Who enjoys learning the most?" I speculated while monitoring the new recruits during the entrance exam. Only sixty of the four-hundred that pass can gain a place. By this logic, the difficulty of the geometry question signified that my thorough education was wasted me. At age six I felt the thrill of mathematics, of telling the time and counting in tens and units. Somewhere along the way to university I accepted that learning felt more a chore than a joy. Yet here many pe
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