So I own a Peace Corps-distributed water filter...It's the one they give even to volunteers in the heart of Africa who have to turn mud into potable water, so it's a good one. You basically fill up the tank of it, plug it in, and then all night it evaporates the water, sends the mist through a charcoal other-substance-removing-filter, and then re-condenses in a pitcher. After four-or-so hours, you have a gallon of super good water.
Today it was time for Becca to clean said filter. The sides of the tank were white with calcium deposits, and the bottom had crusted over with other non-water minerals. Yeah, it was gross.
Becca probably should have done this a month ago...But she didn't, so let's move on.
I heated up some water to mix with this yellow cleaner powder given to me by the PC. As soon as I poured the hot water over the powder, this steam rose that made me cough when I got too near it. I could just about feel it burning my nose and throat and lungs. (Tomorrow I will send an email to the office to see if that is normal...)
As soon as I put the toxic solution in the tank I opened the window and ran out onto my balcony for a breather. When I felt healthy again, I went back in and went about my business.
After several hours, I poured out the solution and wiped off the sides of the tank. The calcium came off beautifully, but the incredibly caustic formula had not so much as loosened the crust on the bottom. I had had no idea what I was up against there...I managed to chip a few pieces off and let me tell you, it is the same strength and consistancy as slate. I mean to say they could repave the roads in town with this stuff. And this, I would have you know, would end up in my system if I didn't filter my water!
Anyway, I am still working on ridding myself of this mineral deposit. I'll keep you posted.
Oh, and by the by, they have confirmed bird flu in the area of Burgas...All over town there are signs up to keep your poultry in enclosed places. Becca will be very careful about her contact with the crazy crows who like to flutter around her balcony.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
the day that would just not END
Today was the longest day of teaching I have had in Bulgaria, and consequently in the whole of my life.
This semester I have 4 classes right in a row, from first period to fourth. I start with 5b, which is okay because if I have to teach them, I like it being in the morning when they are still tired.
Then I have my 8b class, which has gotten better this week since I segregated the bulk of the boys to the back of the room where they do not disturb the girls and 2 boys who want to study. For the record, I hate to teach 8th grade boys.
After them is 6b, which I am thankful for because it means I am not teaching 6a, which is the class that makes me want to scream and throw them out of the windows. I think my counterpart and director have finally understood this, and I have not taught them yet this semester. I guess breaking down in tears in the teacher's room after a class with them gets the message across...
Finally, in my usual schedule, I teach my 9th graders. They are kind of the stars of my week...They might not know a lot of English, but they generally don't listen to music on their GSMs or run out of the classroom or throw things at one another or pretend like I am not in the room. Today I had them working in their Activity Books so it was a pretty relaxed lesson.
After that class I got ready to leave. I was just about packed up when Rosie walked by looking terrible. She had been sick in the morning, but she looked really really miserable by the end of fourth period. Being the nice person I am (and the karma-superstitious person I am) I offered to take her last two lessons...8a and 12th grade. She was very thankful, and I moved my work to her classroom (which is way nicer than mine thanks to a previous volunteer).
As usual, 8a didn't want to do anything. I got out the "American Cultural Readers" and had them do a unit on Superman. Three of the kids actually worked, the rest stared into space getting dumber (but they were relatively quiet, which is all I ask. By the way, all but one kid in that class are boys, and the sole girl was doing work.)
After them, as I entered my sixth hour of straight teaching, the 12 graders came. They have no textbook and I had no plan, so I whipped out some Newsweeks I have stashed there and had them peruse the contents. I spoke to them, asked them personal questions about what they plan to do next year...Some of the girls speak really well, but most of those kids have just passed through the system. Therefore, most of their replies were in Bulgarian, which I promptly explained in English.
Finally, they were done and I thought I would be able to run home for a quick bite to eat before my teacher's course at 2. As I was writing in the Materialna Kniga, the only loyal members of the class came up and said they wanted an earlier lesson, so I agreed. We went back upstairs, and I taught for my seventh straight hour. They are fun to teach though...And we got through a lot of new verbs.
I decided to wait until 2 in case someone came at the designated time...I was SURE no one would (the only loyal members had already been there). But sure enough, I heard the thud of footsteps coming down the hall. They were slow, so I knew they were the footsteps of my assistant director, a woman feared by almost everyone but who likes me because I tutor her privately (she is too advanced for the regular teacher course). So, I slowly talked to her and listened to her for an hour. It's not hard to work one-on-one, but it is still tiring to be essentially "teaching English" for 8 hours straight.
Once her hour was up I rushed out of the building and hightailed it home to hide...I have decided not to answer the door or the phone (though generally no one comes or calls). I need to detox from this never-ending day.
This semester I have 4 classes right in a row, from first period to fourth. I start with 5b, which is okay because if I have to teach them, I like it being in the morning when they are still tired.
Then I have my 8b class, which has gotten better this week since I segregated the bulk of the boys to the back of the room where they do not disturb the girls and 2 boys who want to study. For the record, I hate to teach 8th grade boys.
After them is 6b, which I am thankful for because it means I am not teaching 6a, which is the class that makes me want to scream and throw them out of the windows. I think my counterpart and director have finally understood this, and I have not taught them yet this semester. I guess breaking down in tears in the teacher's room after a class with them gets the message across...
Finally, in my usual schedule, I teach my 9th graders. They are kind of the stars of my week...They might not know a lot of English, but they generally don't listen to music on their GSMs or run out of the classroom or throw things at one another or pretend like I am not in the room. Today I had them working in their Activity Books so it was a pretty relaxed lesson.
After that class I got ready to leave. I was just about packed up when Rosie walked by looking terrible. She had been sick in the morning, but she looked really really miserable by the end of fourth period. Being the nice person I am (and the karma-superstitious person I am) I offered to take her last two lessons...8a and 12th grade. She was very thankful, and I moved my work to her classroom (which is way nicer than mine thanks to a previous volunteer).
As usual, 8a didn't want to do anything. I got out the "American Cultural Readers" and had them do a unit on Superman. Three of the kids actually worked, the rest stared into space getting dumber (but they were relatively quiet, which is all I ask. By the way, all but one kid in that class are boys, and the sole girl was doing work.)
After them, as I entered my sixth hour of straight teaching, the 12 graders came. They have no textbook and I had no plan, so I whipped out some Newsweeks I have stashed there and had them peruse the contents. I spoke to them, asked them personal questions about what they plan to do next year...Some of the girls speak really well, but most of those kids have just passed through the system. Therefore, most of their replies were in Bulgarian, which I promptly explained in English.
Finally, they were done and I thought I would be able to run home for a quick bite to eat before my teacher's course at 2. As I was writing in the Materialna Kniga, the only loyal members of the class came up and said they wanted an earlier lesson, so I agreed. We went back upstairs, and I taught for my seventh straight hour. They are fun to teach though...And we got through a lot of new verbs.
I decided to wait until 2 in case someone came at the designated time...I was SURE no one would (the only loyal members had already been there). But sure enough, I heard the thud of footsteps coming down the hall. They were slow, so I knew they were the footsteps of my assistant director, a woman feared by almost everyone but who likes me because I tutor her privately (she is too advanced for the regular teacher course). So, I slowly talked to her and listened to her for an hour. It's not hard to work one-on-one, but it is still tiring to be essentially "teaching English" for 8 hours straight.
Once her hour was up I rushed out of the building and hightailed it home to hide...I have decided not to answer the door or the phone (though generally no one comes or calls). I need to detox from this never-ending day.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Ripped from real life...
Things to keep in mind:
1. Evenings in my town are reserved for the returning of farm animals to their homes.
2. Many of these returning herds are not lead by a herder...They are lead to pasture in a big group with one herder, and then are released in town to find their own way home.
3. There are no perfect, clean 4-way intersections in my town...They are all just "paved" cowpaths that tend to meet and cross sometimes.
I took a walk yesterday. Weather was beautiful. Warm. Sunny. It was good to be out in nature after this horrible cold we've had.
On my walk, I came to an "intersection." It is a five-point jobby about a 10-minute walk outside of the center.
A herd of sheep was just reaching the end of the intersection across from me. A herd of cows came up next to me. A heard of goats came up on the road to my left.
There were stood...Me, a herd of goats, a herd of sheep and a herd of cows, facing eachother, waiting to see who would cross the street first.
One of the front-most goats neighed. A few sheep bahhed in response. Then and even bigger group of cows mooed. I suppose the cows won because they began to cross the intersection. Once they were across a bunch of goats neighed and walked into the street. They turned and went the way the cows had come, and I jumped onto a "yard" to keep out of their way. Finally the sheep crossed the street and added themselves to the back of the herd of goats. Then, at last, it was my turn.
Surely, I must be making this up...This type of thing only happens in clean jokes. But no, I assure you. This is just how we roll in Straldja.
1. Evenings in my town are reserved for the returning of farm animals to their homes.
2. Many of these returning herds are not lead by a herder...They are lead to pasture in a big group with one herder, and then are released in town to find their own way home.
3. There are no perfect, clean 4-way intersections in my town...They are all just "paved" cowpaths that tend to meet and cross sometimes.
I took a walk yesterday. Weather was beautiful. Warm. Sunny. It was good to be out in nature after this horrible cold we've had.
On my walk, I came to an "intersection." It is a five-point jobby about a 10-minute walk outside of the center.
A herd of sheep was just reaching the end of the intersection across from me. A herd of cows came up next to me. A heard of goats came up on the road to my left.
There were stood...Me, a herd of goats, a herd of sheep and a herd of cows, facing eachother, waiting to see who would cross the street first.
One of the front-most goats neighed. A few sheep bahhed in response. Then and even bigger group of cows mooed. I suppose the cows won because they began to cross the intersection. Once they were across a bunch of goats neighed and walked into the street. They turned and went the way the cows had come, and I jumped onto a "yard" to keep out of their way. Finally the sheep crossed the street and added themselves to the back of the herd of goats. Then, at last, it was my turn.
Surely, I must be making this up...This type of thing only happens in clean jokes. But no, I assure you. This is just how we roll in Straldja.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
From the Pennsylvania Files
I spent four very wonderful and strange years in college in the heart of central Pennsylvania, land of Amish commercialism and Hershey's chocolate. For my own amusement, but also for the sake of posterity, I will post the following account of a junior-year adventure which originally appeared on a group blog, "Group Therapy," maintained by my fellow Buttresses and myself.
The Great Whitewater Rafting Adventure
So there we were, at the butt-crack of dawn, me driving up to bumble-f*** northern PA in the Ghetto Cruiser [editor's note: this was the name of the maroon 1994 Buick Skylark I drove my final two years of college]. Lauren was to my right, Pete was to my rear, and Angie and Jude were beside him respectively. We were following cars that were going 90 mph and instulting old women on the walkie-talkies we had to keep coordinated, which made the ride imminently ammusing. However, there was one retarded female who somehow managed to kill EVERY SINGLE joke that anyone said. Jesus Mary and Joseph I wanted to rearend the car she was in and make her fall into the ravine by Wilkes-Barre (sorry to unleash that kind of stupidity by you, Alison.)
Anyway, homicidal feelings aside, the ride up was fun. We found it [the river], bought wet suits, and we got into our rafts. Actually we drove on a bus for 15 minutes to get to the river. Then we got into the rafts. Our raft consisted of Slappy [previously-mentioned Lauren], Jude, Angie, myself, and Matt, this kid from two of my classes.
So then we set for the open Lehigh River. Our raft immediatley hit shore and stopped, but then we didn't have another debacle for the longest time.
We floated down. We floated and floated and floated. The scenery was amazing. The water was manageable (slightly too manageble if you ask me) and we had fun. We ate lunch in some nice little grove, then continued back.
The second leg of the trip was the most adventerous for us. About 20 minutes after lunch, the biggest debacle our raft faced occured. There was an entire spance of open river with two rocks about 3 feet apart from eachother. The two groups before us went through the rocks, got stuck, and set themselves free. We therefore assumed that that was the path we were supposed to take. So we edirected our raft to float towards the rocks and plowed into them, only to get horribly and intrinsically stuck. These were tall ass rocks too--Sarah size, and that's pretty big for rocks!
So I stuck my foot out of the raft to kick the rock to shake us free, and I got my foot stuck. We aren't talking wedged slightly between rock and raft, we're talking up to my ankle, unmoveable. This made the raft get even MORE stuck, and my foot started to go numb. Somehow, by the grace of our father in heaven, we were set free and my foot returned to my body. Halleluijah.
We continued to float. When the sun came out we stripped a bit and splashed cold water on our heads (well, I did anyway. I think the others just sort of pointed at laughed at my truly hideous hair situation.) Then we hit debacle #2. I only call this the second worse debacle because the first one wreaked physical pain on my person, and this one did not.
We got bigtime stuck again, only this time on TOP of a rock. While Slappy and I argued who would get out to set us free, Matt, evidently knowing that 2 women fighting over something neither wants to do is a neverending process, hopped out and dislodged us from or stoney prison. FREEDOM.
Then it was over and we went home. Sorry I ended so abruptly. Maybe I'll finish it sometime...maybe I'll pull a Coleridge and leave you to fill in the blanks.
The Great Whitewater Rafting Adventure
So there we were, at the butt-crack of dawn, me driving up to bumble-f*** northern PA in the Ghetto Cruiser [editor's note: this was the name of the maroon 1994 Buick Skylark I drove my final two years of college]. Lauren was to my right, Pete was to my rear, and Angie and Jude were beside him respectively. We were following cars that were going 90 mph and instulting old women on the walkie-talkies we had to keep coordinated, which made the ride imminently ammusing. However, there was one retarded female who somehow managed to kill EVERY SINGLE joke that anyone said. Jesus Mary and Joseph I wanted to rearend the car she was in and make her fall into the ravine by Wilkes-Barre (sorry to unleash that kind of stupidity by you, Alison.)
Anyway, homicidal feelings aside, the ride up was fun. We found it [the river], bought wet suits, and we got into our rafts. Actually we drove on a bus for 15 minutes to get to the river. Then we got into the rafts. Our raft consisted of Slappy [previously-mentioned Lauren], Jude, Angie, myself, and Matt, this kid from two of my classes.
So then we set for the open Lehigh River. Our raft immediatley hit shore and stopped, but then we didn't have another debacle for the longest time.
We floated down. We floated and floated and floated. The scenery was amazing. The water was manageable (slightly too manageble if you ask me) and we had fun. We ate lunch in some nice little grove, then continued back.
The second leg of the trip was the most adventerous for us. About 20 minutes after lunch, the biggest debacle our raft faced occured. There was an entire spance of open river with two rocks about 3 feet apart from eachother. The two groups before us went through the rocks, got stuck, and set themselves free. We therefore assumed that that was the path we were supposed to take. So we edirected our raft to float towards the rocks and plowed into them, only to get horribly and intrinsically stuck. These were tall ass rocks too--Sarah size, and that's pretty big for rocks!
So I stuck my foot out of the raft to kick the rock to shake us free, and I got my foot stuck. We aren't talking wedged slightly between rock and raft, we're talking up to my ankle, unmoveable. This made the raft get even MORE stuck, and my foot started to go numb. Somehow, by the grace of our father in heaven, we were set free and my foot returned to my body. Halleluijah.
We continued to float. When the sun came out we stripped a bit and splashed cold water on our heads (well, I did anyway. I think the others just sort of pointed at laughed at my truly hideous hair situation.) Then we hit debacle #2. I only call this the second worse debacle because the first one wreaked physical pain on my person, and this one did not.
We got bigtime stuck again, only this time on TOP of a rock. While Slappy and I argued who would get out to set us free, Matt, evidently knowing that 2 women fighting over something neither wants to do is a neverending process, hopped out and dislodged us from or stoney prison. FREEDOM.
Then it was over and we went home. Sorry I ended so abruptly. Maybe I'll finish it sometime...maybe I'll pull a Coleridge and leave you to fill in the blanks.
I am, apparently, a Muslim terrorist...
In a follow-up to yesterday's non-story, I will relate todays events, which left me rather amused.
The faster 10:20 a.m. bus came today (my weekly day off) so I was able to make it in time to get my package, which has been waiting for me in Yambol since the middle of January.
I gave my little slip to the woman in the post office, then headed to the dock in the back where the packages come out on a conveyor belt. I was slightly unnerved by the fact that there was no one else waiting (there is usually a depression-era breadline of old folks waiting for gifts from their kids who have escaped to Chicago). My package finally came on the belt, I went into the office to sign for it, and met Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian.
First, he asked me when the package had arrived (even though HE had the slip with the date in his hand...) I said several weeks ago.
"Why didn't you come earlier for it?" he snapped. He looked mad.
I explained that I don't live in town and it takes a few days for the notification slip to reach me, I work on two of the three mornings when the office is open (Monday and Friday...big shocker!), and that I had been in Stara Zagora for a week-long seminar and that made me miss my chance last week.
So he just grumbled. Then he did something no one else has done thus-far...He opened my package. (I was the only customer...he was probably bored.)
Inside there were 2 bottles of contact solution, a tin of Victoria Secret band aids, some foot scrub and a copy of Book Twelve of A Series of Unfortunate Events.
Mr. Gumpy Bulgarian grabbed the VS tin and opened it, dumping the band aids all over. "What are these?" he demanded. I don't know the word for band aid, so I just explained it's what you put on cuts. He left the tin on his desk.
Then he found the contact solution. "What's this?" he snapped again. I pointed to my contacts and told him it was cleaning solution. He looked at me very suspiciously, and put the bottles back in the box.
Then he found the book. This really irritated him. "What's this? Some kind of Koran?!" he ordered.
It was not something I was expecting to hear, so it took me a minute to process the question. Then I said, "No sir. It's just a book."
"What book? Is it some kind of Koran?!"
"No sir, it's a child's book."
He took it out of the box and flipped through it. (For those who have not seen the book, it is a small hardback with a bright orange spine and a cartoon on the front with three kids dressed like hotel consierges with sunglasses. But you know, I could see where he'd think it was the Koran.) After he had seen all the pages, he put it on the desk and dug out the little tube of foot scrub.
This was clearly too much. Between the tin (which was for sure going to be the casing of the bomb), the contact solution (obviously some kind of flammable, explosive liquid), the tube of foot scrub (some sort of cohesion material?) and a children's copy of the Koran, this Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian decided I was a threat to national security. However, since all of the objects were described as innocent, legal materials, he had no grounds on which to hold me, and let me sign for the package.
Once I had initialled his book and put all of my things back in the box, he rudely gestured for me to leave the room, and I did so gladly.
So in the end, I and all of my American treasures have made it home safely. I am going back to reading and enjoying my mid-week breather. Next week I hope to start my English Club, but we'll see if the Bulgarians dig the idea...It's still cold, after all. And Bulgaria's favorite pastime in the cold is sitting around heaters watching game shows.
The faster 10:20 a.m. bus came today (my weekly day off) so I was able to make it in time to get my package, which has been waiting for me in Yambol since the middle of January.
I gave my little slip to the woman in the post office, then headed to the dock in the back where the packages come out on a conveyor belt. I was slightly unnerved by the fact that there was no one else waiting (there is usually a depression-era breadline of old folks waiting for gifts from their kids who have escaped to Chicago). My package finally came on the belt, I went into the office to sign for it, and met Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian.
First, he asked me when the package had arrived (even though HE had the slip with the date in his hand...) I said several weeks ago.
"Why didn't you come earlier for it?" he snapped. He looked mad.
I explained that I don't live in town and it takes a few days for the notification slip to reach me, I work on two of the three mornings when the office is open (Monday and Friday...big shocker!), and that I had been in Stara Zagora for a week-long seminar and that made me miss my chance last week.
So he just grumbled. Then he did something no one else has done thus-far...He opened my package. (I was the only customer...he was probably bored.)
Inside there were 2 bottles of contact solution, a tin of Victoria Secret band aids, some foot scrub and a copy of Book Twelve of A Series of Unfortunate Events.
Mr. Gumpy Bulgarian grabbed the VS tin and opened it, dumping the band aids all over. "What are these?" he demanded. I don't know the word for band aid, so I just explained it's what you put on cuts. He left the tin on his desk.
Then he found the contact solution. "What's this?" he snapped again. I pointed to my contacts and told him it was cleaning solution. He looked at me very suspiciously, and put the bottles back in the box.
Then he found the book. This really irritated him. "What's this? Some kind of Koran?!" he ordered.
It was not something I was expecting to hear, so it took me a minute to process the question. Then I said, "No sir. It's just a book."
"What book? Is it some kind of Koran?!"
"No sir, it's a child's book."
He took it out of the box and flipped through it. (For those who have not seen the book, it is a small hardback with a bright orange spine and a cartoon on the front with three kids dressed like hotel consierges with sunglasses. But you know, I could see where he'd think it was the Koran.) After he had seen all the pages, he put it on the desk and dug out the little tube of foot scrub.
This was clearly too much. Between the tin (which was for sure going to be the casing of the bomb), the contact solution (obviously some kind of flammable, explosive liquid), the tube of foot scrub (some sort of cohesion material?) and a children's copy of the Koran, this Mr. Grumpy Bulgarian decided I was a threat to national security. However, since all of the objects were described as innocent, legal materials, he had no grounds on which to hold me, and let me sign for the package.
Once I had initialled his book and put all of my things back in the box, he rudely gestured for me to leave the room, and I did so gladly.
So in the end, I and all of my American treasures have made it home safely. I am going back to reading and enjoying my mid-week breather. Next week I hope to start my English Club, but we'll see if the Bulgarians dig the idea...It's still cold, after all. And Bulgaria's favorite pastime in the cold is sitting around heaters watching game shows.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
One Wild Ride
This story takes place over a week ago, but I was unispired to write, then away, then plum lazy. So here it is:
I had a package in Yambol. I have to go to Yambol to get all packages over 2 kilograms, and the office is only open Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 10:30 to 11:30 a.m.
I work Monday and Friday, so usually my only option is Wednesday.
There is a bus from Straldja to Yambol at 10:20, which normally gets me in town by 10:40. There is a second bus that leaves at the same time but stops in a number of small villages on the way and doesn't usually arrive in town until 11:15.
The second bus is about 200 years old, but that only adds to the adventure.
This, of course, is all exposition.
On Monday of last week we had a mini-break to commemorate the end of the first semester, and on Tuesday I was scheduled to leave Straldja for a week-long seminar in a nearby city. Monday, therefore, was my only option.
I awoke to find a solid six inches of snow on the ground, which came as a HUGE suprise to me (maybe I ought to watch more news...) No problem, I say. This is a major road...The only major road in the area. Of course it will be cleaned and I will be able to get to Yambol.
The plan started to go awry when the fast bus never showed. I suppose the driver decided not to drive that day, which happens from time to time, and that was cool...The slow bus was there. I figured I'd be cutting it close, but it'd be okay.
After paying my two leva and taking my usual seat in the back by the window, I turned on my MP3 player and prepared for a fun, scenic ride.
As soon as we reached town limits it became apparent that Bulgarians DON'T shovel...Or plow...Or in any way remove snow. The wind was whipping the powder all over, covering the road, and the bus traveled at a crawl (for this I was thankful as I do not want my life to end in a Bulgarian bus...) We bounced and swerved and stopped when we hit big bumps. It was like off roading, only it was on a "road" in a red, communist-built minibus with a bunch of elderly women on their way back to the village with huge jugs of fresh milk.
We arrived in Yambol a little before noon, thus missing my window of opportunity for this week, but it was a fun ride. I only wish I had had a video camera.
Eh, I am suddenly overcome with a desire to do something not at my computer. I will write again when I am in story-teller mode...
I had a package in Yambol. I have to go to Yambol to get all packages over 2 kilograms, and the office is only open Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 10:30 to 11:30 a.m.
I work Monday and Friday, so usually my only option is Wednesday.
There is a bus from Straldja to Yambol at 10:20, which normally gets me in town by 10:40. There is a second bus that leaves at the same time but stops in a number of small villages on the way and doesn't usually arrive in town until 11:15.
The second bus is about 200 years old, but that only adds to the adventure.
This, of course, is all exposition.
On Monday of last week we had a mini-break to commemorate the end of the first semester, and on Tuesday I was scheduled to leave Straldja for a week-long seminar in a nearby city. Monday, therefore, was my only option.
I awoke to find a solid six inches of snow on the ground, which came as a HUGE suprise to me (maybe I ought to watch more news...) No problem, I say. This is a major road...The only major road in the area. Of course it will be cleaned and I will be able to get to Yambol.
The plan started to go awry when the fast bus never showed. I suppose the driver decided not to drive that day, which happens from time to time, and that was cool...The slow bus was there. I figured I'd be cutting it close, but it'd be okay.
After paying my two leva and taking my usual seat in the back by the window, I turned on my MP3 player and prepared for a fun, scenic ride.
As soon as we reached town limits it became apparent that Bulgarians DON'T shovel...Or plow...Or in any way remove snow. The wind was whipping the powder all over, covering the road, and the bus traveled at a crawl (for this I was thankful as I do not want my life to end in a Bulgarian bus...) We bounced and swerved and stopped when we hit big bumps. It was like off roading, only it was on a "road" in a red, communist-built minibus with a bunch of elderly women on their way back to the village with huge jugs of fresh milk.
We arrived in Yambol a little before noon, thus missing my window of opportunity for this week, but it was a fun ride. I only wish I had had a video camera.
Eh, I am suddenly overcome with a desire to do something not at my computer. I will write again when I am in story-teller mode...
Sunday, February 05, 2006
You know, it's sad...
when it starts to snow lightly and you just can't figure out if it is snow, or ash falling from the sky that has been carried on the breeze from some huge trash fire somewhere...
Just an observation on the environment of my current home. Have a good evening all...
Just an observation on the environment of my current home. Have a good evening all...
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Kalcho understands...
The Bulgarian "children" I teach are getting more and more inventive with their schemes for lying, cheating, stealing and general rabble-rousing.
Yesterday I gave a fifth grade class a test. Vladislav cheated, so I ordered him to give me his paper (I had told them that if I caught them cheating, I would take their paper and mark it with a dvoika -- a 2, like an F). He brought the sheet up to me, and I happened to glance at the name. He had written Georgi, the name of one of his classmates, on his test. Clever, very very clever. I simply took out my pen and wrote HIS name on the paper, and he scoffed away.
Then, later in the day yesterday, I decided to give out some pencils from my huge supply to those who actually DID the work I asked them to do in my sixth grade class. All they had to do was answer 3 questions...Three simple, 4-word-maximum answers. But this is the class that I routinely leave feeling like I want to smack them...What do these kids do? Two of them (the two who can actually put together a noun, a verb and maybe an adjective to form a mildy-coherent English sentence) wrote their answers down, showed them to me to check, then HANDED OFF THE ENTIRE NOTEBOOK TO ANOTHER KID. It's not even like the other copied the answers into their own notebooks...They simply bought me the SAME NOTEBOOK to grade.
I laughed at them, literally. They kept insisting, "Miiiiss, Miiiiss, this is my notebook!" And I just kept laughing, and lead them back to their chairs. (It makes me wonder what they get away with in their other classes...) As I lead them back to their chairs, however, children towards the front of the room began pilfering pencils from the bag on my desk...Stuffing them in their pockets and trying to dash away before I caught them. But I caught them, and when I asked them about the pencils they had sticking out of their pockets, I got a lot of, "Oh no, miiiiiss. I brought this from home."
Jerks.
Then today, in the same horrendous fifth grade class, I was at my wits end. They were complaining that it was hot (when last week you could see your breath inside and the school's windows were covered with ice from WITHIN) and the little boy who is obsessed with me and writes my name over and over again on his desk tried to jump out of a window. They were playing music on their crappy GSMs and dancing kuchek and when I tried to comfascate them they ran around the room screaming. THEN, to add to the chaos, the random hallway kids who always seem to be there during the last few periods of the day found some sticks to beat the doors and floors and walls and windows with, creating a near-unbearable racket. What is a Peace Corps Volunteer to do?
I gave up, is what. I took Gosho and Kalcho, the two kids who I can tell want to learn, and talked with them in a corner, hoping the others wouldn't take money out of my purse or draw various private parts on my chalkboard (the true problem there is that yesterday someone stole my eraser, so the drawings would be sticking around...) Finally the class was over, the demons were set free, and I began my trudge home.
Kalcho and Gosho and some of the crazier kids somehow ended up walking with me. Kalcho, who is maybe 3'6 and has the high-pitched, delicate voice of a little angel, said, "Sorry we are so bad Miss. You came all this way, so far, and we are just so bad. You just want to help us, right? Poor Miss."
I almost wanted to cry. This kid, this one solitary kid in this class of complete jerks, who has probably been hindered somewhat in his education by having to deal with them, understands why I am here, and understands my frustration. I love that kid. He, and Gosho (who has a severe speech impediment and can't write his way out of paper bag in English or in Bulgarian, but who can pick up English phrases from movies and always answer my questions when it seems like he has spaced out) and a handful of the other kids I come in daily contact with, are making my time here worth it.
I never set out to save the world. I know I alone can not do that. I didn't set out to change any foreign policy or work out the kinks in any culture. I came to help who I could, and if that means 5 kids go though life knowing one teacher cared enough about them to take them aside in class to teach, then I will have succeeded here. If one single life is benefited from my work, then I will have succeeded. Because you know what, one person will be benefited by life I helped...And one person from that life. I don't mean to get all sentimental and wishy-washy, but I think it is time for all of us in Bulgar-land, and in Peace Corps in general, to revaluate the work we are doing, as well as the reasons why we are doing it. I know my objectives are keeping me much saner and more satisfied than I have been in a long, long time.
Yesterday I gave a fifth grade class a test. Vladislav cheated, so I ordered him to give me his paper (I had told them that if I caught them cheating, I would take their paper and mark it with a dvoika -- a 2, like an F). He brought the sheet up to me, and I happened to glance at the name. He had written Georgi, the name of one of his classmates, on his test. Clever, very very clever. I simply took out my pen and wrote HIS name on the paper, and he scoffed away.
Then, later in the day yesterday, I decided to give out some pencils from my huge supply to those who actually DID the work I asked them to do in my sixth grade class. All they had to do was answer 3 questions...Three simple, 4-word-maximum answers. But this is the class that I routinely leave feeling like I want to smack them...What do these kids do? Two of them (the two who can actually put together a noun, a verb and maybe an adjective to form a mildy-coherent English sentence) wrote their answers down, showed them to me to check, then HANDED OFF THE ENTIRE NOTEBOOK TO ANOTHER KID. It's not even like the other copied the answers into their own notebooks...They simply bought me the SAME NOTEBOOK to grade.
I laughed at them, literally. They kept insisting, "Miiiiss, Miiiiss, this is my notebook!" And I just kept laughing, and lead them back to their chairs. (It makes me wonder what they get away with in their other classes...) As I lead them back to their chairs, however, children towards the front of the room began pilfering pencils from the bag on my desk...Stuffing them in their pockets and trying to dash away before I caught them. But I caught them, and when I asked them about the pencils they had sticking out of their pockets, I got a lot of, "Oh no, miiiiiss. I brought this from home."
Jerks.
Then today, in the same horrendous fifth grade class, I was at my wits end. They were complaining that it was hot (when last week you could see your breath inside and the school's windows were covered with ice from WITHIN) and the little boy who is obsessed with me and writes my name over and over again on his desk tried to jump out of a window. They were playing music on their crappy GSMs and dancing kuchek and when I tried to comfascate them they ran around the room screaming. THEN, to add to the chaos, the random hallway kids who always seem to be there during the last few periods of the day found some sticks to beat the doors and floors and walls and windows with, creating a near-unbearable racket. What is a Peace Corps Volunteer to do?
I gave up, is what. I took Gosho and Kalcho, the two kids who I can tell want to learn, and talked with them in a corner, hoping the others wouldn't take money out of my purse or draw various private parts on my chalkboard (the true problem there is that yesterday someone stole my eraser, so the drawings would be sticking around...) Finally the class was over, the demons were set free, and I began my trudge home.
Kalcho and Gosho and some of the crazier kids somehow ended up walking with me. Kalcho, who is maybe 3'6 and has the high-pitched, delicate voice of a little angel, said, "Sorry we are so bad Miss. You came all this way, so far, and we are just so bad. You just want to help us, right? Poor Miss."
I almost wanted to cry. This kid, this one solitary kid in this class of complete jerks, who has probably been hindered somewhat in his education by having to deal with them, understands why I am here, and understands my frustration. I love that kid. He, and Gosho (who has a severe speech impediment and can't write his way out of paper bag in English or in Bulgarian, but who can pick up English phrases from movies and always answer my questions when it seems like he has spaced out) and a handful of the other kids I come in daily contact with, are making my time here worth it.
I never set out to save the world. I know I alone can not do that. I didn't set out to change any foreign policy or work out the kinks in any culture. I came to help who I could, and if that means 5 kids go though life knowing one teacher cared enough about them to take them aside in class to teach, then I will have succeeded here. If one single life is benefited from my work, then I will have succeeded. Because you know what, one person will be benefited by life I helped...And one person from that life. I don't mean to get all sentimental and wishy-washy, but I think it is time for all of us in Bulgar-land, and in Peace Corps in general, to revaluate the work we are doing, as well as the reasons why we are doing it. I know my objectives are keeping me much saner and more satisfied than I have been in a long, long time.
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