In a Funk

So I have had a bit of a weird week. I decided that I wanted to move out of the host family’s house after two weeks, mainly because I didn’t really feel like a part of the family and the food was making me a bit sick (unfortunately too much sugar and white carbs makes me sick…. And I have been eating a lot of white rice and sugary coffee).  The mom and the kids were super sweet, but I felt more like I was at a hotel than that I was part of the family. 

            I also started real volunteering this week! Basically I am a volunteer English teacher for fifth and sixth graders in rural schools in the area. I teach at four different schools – La cuchilla (the painful walk school) Llano de Pinal (the 45 minute bus ride on a pot holey country road school) Pacaja (the close school, but I am teaching sixteen year olds) and San Jose, which I missed this week because I spontaneously woke up with an ear ache on Thursday and spent all day wanting to pull a Van Gogh. Proving that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I also self-medicated with garlic oil, so not only was I in blinding pain, but I smelled. Double whammy.

            I actually like the teaching, and I have learnt that it is best to arrive with a bang and take control… or you have no control. Also in order to maintain confidence, I just pretend that I am not a bare year older than most of the students, and in some cases I suspect much younger ( lets just say most sixth graders don’t have full beards!) The educational system here, especially the public schools, is definitely lacking. A lot of kids start school very late, and not many make it past sixth grade – especially the girls. Hence the seventeen year olds in the sixth grade class. Less than one percent of Guatemalans have the chance to go to university, and less than half of those actually go. Who knows if me arriving at these schools and teaching kids the English word for maiz will make any difference, but at least I am learning something. If not about Guatemala, about how lucky we are in the US to have our dysfunctional underfunded educational system.

            Anyway, so I have had kind of an intense week. I was just thrown into teaching English to forty sixth graders at a time, I was house hunting, and I was super sick. Everyone kept telling me that there was a ton of housing available, but this was not true. Either the hostel didn’t rent per month, or the kitchen was nonexistent, or the place was super expensive and had weird rules (no guests, and if you do have guests, you have to pay) – so I ended up settling for this place that is kind of substandard. The pros are that I have the place to myself, and its slightly cheaper. The cons are that I have the pace to myself, it’s basically outside, the bed is rock-hard, and the light barely works.  I’m not sure how it’s going to go – I only paid for a week so if it ends up being miserable I will resume the househunt next week. Most likely I will go to the weird rules expensive place.

I moved in today and was in a bit of a funk all day because I had a traumatic experience getting to the place. I packed up all my stuff in the way people pack stuff when you know you’re about to unpack it again – ie half my clothes were in a garbage bag. I got a taxi to take me to the residence at the prescribed time. What I hadn’t though about  was that even though I knew the block the residence was on, I had literally no idea which door it was.

I stole this photo off the web, and its Antigua, but just imagine a bunch more doors,more trash, horrible traffic, and people staring at me and its pretty accurate. 

 There were twelve different identical doors on the block, and after the taxi driver dropped me off in all my gringa glory with my garbage bag, suitcase, purse, and backpacking pack – I realized that I was out of minutes on my cell phone. Dragging my suitcase to the three places within walking distance that sold minutes proved that no one had any available. At this point it had been thirty minutes, and I was almost to nervous breakdown. I had started knocking on doors, but after a drunk guy answered one and asked me how old I was ( while muttering rude comments I can unfortunately understand) I gave up on that. Finally I found a pay phone – which only took 25 cent coins. I didn’t have any 25 cent coins. Finally a grandma on the street took pity on me and gave me some, and I finally reached the landlord. When I got in I discovered that the bed was rock hard.

            Let’s just say it was the kind of day to put someone in a funk.

            

I'll leave you with another stolen and accurate photo. I went to the market today and got horribly ripped off, which means paying fifteen bucks for enough food for a week.