Thank God my clocking-in slip is only for show. If the SEP (Secretaria de Educacion Publica, the bigwigs that pay us our grant) actually checked this and paid us accordingly I would be dressed in rags and holding out a trembling hand for spare pesos under a bridge somewhere. As it is, we are still being paid our full amount despite only having completed one full week of work since getting here. This had mostly been down to classes being suspended because of flooding, and national celebrations (one of which is fun, the other not so much, I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself). On Monday I had one class: it’s a hard knock life. It happened to be in one of primary schools where I do a weekly lesson, so no more than literal fun and games. They even threw in breakfast and a chat afterwards as I had nowhere to get to in a rush. Tuesday and Wednesday school was called off. However much I love unplanned time off, when you’re stranded because of collapsed motorways and flooded towns, it becomes more of a bore than a fun break. At least I’ve got my regular private student, Carlos, who’s so keen on learning French he more than adequately gives me a vent for my teaching energy when there’s no other outlet.
This relative lack of teaching time was more than compensated for by Thursday. Alberto, the English teacher I usually work with (who is also my tutor), couldn’t get to the school form his family home in Xalapa, so ‘Clairrre’ became ‘Maestra’ for the day. I single-handedly delivered four improvised classes to the first years, and much to my surprise I loved it. Teresa scoffed at me when I confided that I used to be pretty shy, and I often have to fight these timid instincts in order to meet people and make the most of opportunities, but in front of these kids, all eyes on me, I delighted in the opportunity to act up, prance about like a clown and scout out my own individual teaching style, which at one point involved throwing a ball of paper at an incessant chatterbox; it worked, and I earned unbounded respect for the slightly daring move.
If I do happen to be given the boot from the school because of my teacing methods, I should now have no problem finding a Cosoleacaqueño to marry me and becoming a kept woman due to my newly acquired tortilla-making skills. The few restaurants which boast ‘tortillas hechas a mano’ (basically handmade tortillas, as opposed to machine- or tortilla-press –made) will always have the upper hand in the restaurant sector, and the same can be said for the marriage-able woman market. Teresa and I got down and dirty with the dough Saturday morning, and Enrique helped convert my surprisingly successful tortillas into tasty picadas, complete with cheese, onions, avocado and refried beans, for all the family. The men should be falling over each other to get to me any time soon.
very fuuny!
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