Walking To Class
(Photo: Road in Moussoro)
On Mondays and Wednesdays I teach a "pickup" English class at 4:00 in a borrowed classroom at the main primary (elementary) school in Moussoro. The students are kind of an "eclectic" sort of crew, different every time; a couple of guys I've met at the market and told to come around, a woman who teaches at a lycee (when the teachers aren't striking), a bunch of lycee students who aren't going to pass up the opportunity to take a shot at a real life English teacher (and from America to boot! - They haven't had an English teacher for the last 4 years), a couple of younger kids who saw me walking into the classroom and followed me curiously. They're about 20 in all. The class lasts an hour, everybody seems to have a pretty good time, they'll probably never look at the notes they've taken, they might come back the next time.
But really, I'm not into writing about my class, not right now. I think you'd be better off reading about how I get to class, that 15 to 40 minute walk.
The walk is a straight shot. I take a right out the door of the concession and I just walk tout droit down a wide, dusty, "2-way" road (I don't think I've ever seen 2 motorized vehicles on the road at one time). It should take 15 minutes to reach Ecole Centre, but sometimes it takes longer; a lot longer. 3:00 (when I leave the house) is a popular time to be hanging out in the street. The sun is not quite as hot, work has slowed down, night time activities can wait....let me tell you about who I might meet.
Waiting for me when I step out the door (and then lining the roads of Moussoro) are the kids, the "petits" as they call them here. But of course not all petits are the same. Some petits know my name, either because they live with me, have been to my hangar, or were told by another petit. They're proud of this knowledge and will yell my name at me repeatedly (sometimes Jack, Sack, or Yack) until I acknowledge them. Some petits will see me and will immediately take up a chant of "nasara chewy" ("hey white guy") and will stick by their chant for an impressive length of time, well after I've passed them. Other petits prefer the chant of "chef cadeau" ("hey buddy, give me a present") and will keep it up for just as long, even more impressive because they'll be chanting to one another well after they have any chance of actually getting a present from me. Some petits are playing and shouting loudly and then catch sight of me and instantly become silent, eyes huge, until I pass and they shout to one another again. Some petits run away as fast as they can. Some petits are squatting on the side of the road, shitting, and silently follow me with their heads as I walk by. Some petits are all riled up and energetic, covered in dust head to toe, and come running straight toward and around me. Often I'll stare straight ahead and then suddenly yell "boo" and for all their boldness they scream, all terrified and excited by the crazy nasara.
There are slightly older kids too, maybe 11 or 12, who are a bit more mature, know more French, and are a bit cooler. They'll walk alongside me for a few paces, exchange greetings with me, and then throw in (almost under their breath), "chef cadeau". A young teen rides up to me on a bike way too big for him and asks me for a present. I tell him I don't have any (mafi cadeau), and he suggests I give him the plastic water bottle on the outside of my pack. I suggest that he gives me his bike; he rides away. There are 5 or 6 teenage boys sitting on the corner, in the shade, listening to a radio. Some are wearing bubus, others are wearing "western clothes" pants and a shirt, all have dark sunglasses on. They all follow me with their heads, doing their best to keep their straightest and most serious face. I yell over "salut" ("how are you") and their facade falls apart. All at once they're yelling over each other, "I fine fank you!, Manam is Abakar!, Hey hi!, Where go you?....anything English they can think of (since they know I'm "the English teacher").
There's a group of old, weathered men lounging on a mat in the shade. I call over "salam alekum" (peace be with you) and they all mumble something in response, half to themselves, and watch me pass. There are three women sitting on the side of the road with a little stand of goods that they are selling (matches, soap, crackers...). I greet them in Arabic or in Goran and they all start cracking up in unison, repeating what I said as if they had never heard it before; one of them greets me in response once she has caught her breath.
There's a man, 20 something, who walks straight up to me, shakes my hand and wants to be my friend. He wants to know everything about me, he wants to learn English, he even suggests that when I return to the states he comes with me; I nod and say "peut-etre" ("maybe") and try to break away.
And then there's a man of about 40, a patron, in a grand bubu, and he cuts right to it; "Do you have a wife?". I tell him no, I'm too young, I don't want one, the Corps de la Paix won't allow it (that sometimes works), but usually he tells me that he has two and he can find me one no problem. I nod and say "peut-etre" and try to break away. And then once, (on a really tough day) I wasn't paying attention and stepped (squish) into a pile of cow (or was it camel) shit. And then three women were calling me over with a plastic kettle of water for me to wash off with.
And then, 15 to 40 minutes later, I'm ready to start class.
(Your) Nasara chewy,
Zach
posted by Zach @ 4:57 PM
