The Greats

The Great Biscuit Riot of '08: There was a riot. I wouldn't call it a quiet riot, but it wasn't quite an uprising or coup either. Maybe it was more of a skirmish, or even just mild disorder. Regardless of semantics, it was not business as usual. At the end of each day of practice teaching each student is given 3 biscuits (cookies), or a banana, or what-have-you. We had been directed to give out biscuits at the door as the students were leaving in order to avoid possible bedlam. Well, as the foreshadowing probably indicated, things went awry. There was rain, and lightning, and thunder. Nothing atypical for this students, which is why they were just socializing in the room waiting for biscuits and the rain to subside. A female volunteer decided that giving out the biscuits in class would help calm the restlessness and stop the hunger pangs, as students do not bring lunches. Pandamonium. I started off well enough. Students were eager bug remained in their seats as the three biscuits per were granted. There were extras. Students saw. And understood. Some of the students were large, as they were 18 year olds in the 9th grade (some boys must tend to the herds for a number of years before returning to school). The teacher tried to calm the mob that was forming, students pestering and poking. After some time she relented and asked a student to hand out the rest of the biscuits to those who were behaving well. One of the large students began circling. "SIT DOWN!", unphased he continued to "sneak" his way over to the other side of the room, while his slouched over 6'2" frame, now standing at 5' 7", squeeked and bumped his way over toward the bag of biscuits as he pushed desks and chairs out of the way in the overstuffed classroom. The actions of the unwaivering Frankensteinesque student prompted similar stalking by other students. A pack formed and surrounded the cookies like they were mana. They most assuredly were not (John may argue this point, he rather fancies them). I arrived on the seen just at the end of this, as the teacher was leaving and sounds not that different from haenas were making their way out of the classroom. Someone may have lost a hand.

Moral of the Story: Biscuits are Gold, do not hand them out in class.

Disclaimer: Parts of The Great Biscuit Riot of '08 may or may not be slightly dramatized.


The Great Oil Catastrophe of '08: Ugh. So I had a dinner party on Sunday as part of our celebration that marked our liberation from being totally dependant on our 'M'es. Don't get me wrong, it was great not having to think about what was going to be made for dinner, or having to buy food or any such activity. But, for a bunch of American 20-somethings who take their ability to do what they want when they want how they want, it is a difficult thing to grow accustomed to. So upon our freedom to cook what we wanted we had a dinner party. Seven of us squeezed into my humble abode and I worked on a delightful little red sauce to go with some whole wheat penne, Gwen made bruschetta, Elen apple sauce and Kelly devilled eggs. I borrowed plastic chairs from my 'M'e and people were having a good time speaking in English and being generally loud Americans, when the plastic chair that John was sitting in 'melted.' Now, we have a history of these chairs from the Peace Corps Training Center where the back legs of the chair have the inexplicable tendency to curtsy, leaving the occupent on a smooth yet rapid descent towards the ground. This is called 'melting.' This would have normally been another situation for pointing and friendly ridicule if it had not been for the fact that there was a brand new 1-litre bottle of sunflower oil directly beneath the freshly melted chair. The aptly named Valdezian spill spread everywhere, especially towards my clothes which lined the adjacent wall. Due to our altered state of jubilation, laughter and general vacuum of quick action the slick spread and touched most of my clothes. I decided we needed a binding agent and poured a kilogram of whole wheat flour on the floor. John and I rolled up our pants, freaking out a little bit, while most everybody turned back to their conversations and left John and me to kick around the flour. Surprisingly the flour actually worked well and soaked up most of the oil, creating a pleasant pedicure material. I threw all of my clothes into the giant, red, washing tub and began scrubbing furiously. My host sisters laughed quite hard and told me just to leave it for my 'M'e, because I clearly was not going to get the oil out. This was only mostly true. I had a go at it and after everything, decided that I had to leave one pair of pants out to dry while I would soak the rest overnight.

Needless to say, the pants I left out are ruined. My 'M'e generously agreed to scrub my clothes again and was able to save many of them. But, 3 shirts and a pair of khakis were lost in the ecological disaster that was, The Great Oil Catastrophe of '08.

So all-in-all things are going well. Practice teaching has been difficult as the language gap has made teaching more difficult. The younger kids have neither a solid grasp of English or fundamental exposure to scientific vocabulary or concepts. Trying to do both simultaneously while just trying to get a grasp on basic teaching skills is a somewhat daunting task. I think things will be okay though. When I have a class that I can spend enough time with to learn my accent and for me to get accustomed to what their needs and background are I think things will smooth out.