Photo Tour of School

The School Bell sits on the grade 6 teacher's desk, with the stage behind it. 

An overview of the main school building, taken from the stage. This is its standard layout, with Ben's grade 5 classroom on the near right, and the grade 6 classroom to the left of that. At the back of the room grades 3 and 4 are taught.

Inside the nursery building now, looking at my blackboard, which, having no legs of its own, leans precariously against a wooden post. Once a grade one child pushed it from the other side and it came over, thankfully not injuring any small children on this side.

The teacher's are supplied with a few large sheets of paper to make teaching resources and posters with. Here is one I drew to help us in maths.

Even for those children who can't read any of the rules, a physical reminder is better than nothing. Notice the cardboard box to the left of the desk, this is the classroom bin. Every now and again the waste is taken to a pit to be burned.

The front row in my classroom. The kids have to sit on the benches on the right, and write on the ever-so-slightly higher benches on the left. In practice this is impossible and when writing, they need to kneel down on the floor. There are usually 3 children to each of these benches, crushed shoulder to shoulder.

There are about 5 of these padded chairs in the school, and they are the only furniture in the entire village not made from wood. The bucket underneath my desk has some water and a sponge in it for wiping the blackboard.

The blackboard after an afternoon of drawing shapes in their art books.

Another home-made poster, backed with cardboard. I spent the whole term working on capital letters and punctuation marks.

A view of all the desks and benches- here we need to sit 22 children. When they are all packed in it is practically impossible for somebody in the middle to get out without climbing over the top or crawling under the desks. No wonder the ones at the back would prefer to jump out the window when break time comes.

A hanging number line I drew to help the pupils who still struggle to recognise or write any numerals. Many put them back to front and some simply haven't learnt them.

Going Fishing

An eventful morning, paddling upstream to go fishing. Actually happened on 20th October.

By the light of the full moon, we step carefully down the steep muddy bank, to the river’s edge where our canoe lies waiting. We load her up with rods, a cutlass, longboots, food and water. Then we pick up our wooden paddles and we are off, gliding through the night across the glassy water, in which the stars are reflected. The river is lined by the black silhouettes of towering trees. Behind us Chenapou village is sleeping, but all around us the forest is alive with the sounds of insects and frogs.

As we paddle deeper into the mountains, the sky turns slowly but surely from night to day, accompanied by the chirping of the ‘sun beetle’ and the cries of the village cockerels, which echo for miles along the river in the cool, early morning air. Not that we have really left the village behind- still we spot more landings, more dugout canoes lurking in the shallows, and realise yet again that the boundaries of Chenapou are far beyond where we imagined them to be, and we understand more fully what it means to live in isolation.  

“Left! Left! No, right!” cries Ben from the bow as we collide into trees, branches and rocks that jump out from the gloom. The boat rocks each time we crash, threatening to turn over and spill us into the Potaro. After a short break I take a turn of paddling at the bow, whilst Ben takes my place in the middle and Miss Bev, the grade 6 teacher at school, continues steering from behind.

We reach a set of rapids, and find we need to cross over from one bank to the other in order to get to a creek where we can dig for worms to use as bait. As we approach the creek mouth, however, the current, pushing against the long side of the canoe, jams us against a rock just below the surface. No matter how hard we paddle, the flow of water is too strong and always swings us back around. The upstream side of the boat is dangerously close to being flooded, the edge just sticking millimetres above the water level. Bev gets out onto the rock to try pushing the boat around, but still the current prevails.

I decide I’m going to have to get out too and help. I stand up and swiftly strip off my trousers, pull my shirt over my head. It is at this precise moment of imbalance, with my shirt over my face and my arms raised up, that the canoe wobbles. The next thing I know, the torrent of cool water is surrounding me, I’ve come up to breathe, and see the distance between myself and the canoe increasing rapidly. I can’t stop laughing at the ridiculous leap into the river I just made, but manage to battle against the rapids, swimming clumsily with my sodden shirt still in my hand until I reach the rock where our canoe is still jammed. After throwing my shirt to the bank I’m able to help bring the canoe into the shallows.

Above us the sunrise is starting to burn the mist off the steep mountainside. I check my watch. 6 am. About time for my morning bathe anyway.

When the Tarantula Came to Tea

Written on 21st October.

We were having a quiet day last Saturday, washing, playing guitar and reading. Ben and I had just settled down for a lunch of lentil and rice cook-up. Thud. Ben noticed a dark shape fall through the air, just inches away from his face. I’m not one to be scared of spiders, but the sight alone of this monster, with its fat body, hairy legs and bulging fangs was enough to send a shot of adrenaline through my veins. The first, wild attempt to obliterate it with a slipper, caused the beast to rear up, pointing two long, sharp looking legs straight up in the air and baring its fangs as prominently as possible. You should have seen how fast Ben and I ran; he scuttled into his room whilst I darted right out the door of the house. For all we knew one bite could be the end of us.

Several Baygon attacks (insect-killing spray) did nothing to penetrate the spider’s bristling armour, and another failed attempt with a slipper left us puzzled as to how we should go about eradicating our unwelcome visitor. Eventually Ben came up with a plan. We took our last remaining ammunition (another slipper) and duct taped it securely on the end of a long broomstick. I stepped cautiously into the battle-zone with my rubber long boots on for protection, crouched down and carefully lined up the weapon. Gently so as not to frighten the enemy, I raised the broomstick until it was vertical, where it hung for a long second, swaying indecisively as the weight of this cold blooded murder started to bear down on my conscience. It had to be done. I clenches my teeth and channelled all my fear through the broom, letting gravity help me splat the slipper down to the floor in one swift, unstoppable motion. The poor creature beneath could not even be saved by its lightening-fast reactions, its fate had been sealed the moment I began to swing.

 

Tarantula blood and organs oozed onto the floor spectacularly, not a single twitch came from those hairy legs. At least it was a quick, painless death. After disposing of the dead body and cleaning the floor a little, we settled back down to finish our lunch in peace, feeling a little shaken, but victorious.

It turned out that the spider was pretty much harmless, its bite is nothing worse than a wasp sting. At least we were on the safe side, we told ourselves...

A Word About Water

After just over a month in Chenapou, I am starting to see water in a very different way.

I had always imagined that in the rainforest it would rain every single day. I was very wrong- when they talk about the 'dry' season they really mean it. Although when it does rain it rains heavily, these downpours are now few and far between. Most  days we watch the clouds drift by overhead, taking their moisture away over the hills, whilst our water tank gradually drains away its supplies.

Never before have I really considered the value of fresh water, in a country like Scotland where the precious liquid simply appears like magic from the taps. Never before have I had to filter the water I drink, or manually flush the toilet by filling up a bucket, or consider how I can use the same water twice. I certainly haven't ever needed to go down to the river to fetch water, feel the weight of it on my shoulder as I walk back up the steep banks.

Although the rain hasn't been falling, Chenapou is still blessed with water from the river. The level has indeed dropped dramatically, exposing muddy banks, rocks and old fallen trees, but there is still a plentiful supply of fresh, cooling water coming straight from the Pakaraima Mountains. As I have settled into Chenapou life, this river has become more and more a part of it.

On arrival, the Potaro seemed only to be a place to go for leisure- to swim and refresh yourself when feeling hot, or to float on your back, admiring the sky and contemplating. The river is like the vein of the forest, and I found going there was the best way to truly understand that I was in the middle of a jungle, when it all still didn't feel quite real. It soon also became a highway- at the weekends Ben and I would explore the village by swimming down the river with dry bags until we came across new landings to explore.

The river became a bath too. Rather than awkwardly washing in a little bathroom with a bucket, it is much easier and nicer to take your soap down to the landing and take a bath. After a while we realised it also made sense to take down our washing with us when we went to bathe, saving us a lot of water and making it much easier to rinse them out.

A river may sound incredibly basic compared to the fancy sinks and showers we are used to in the UK, but I have come to realise that in Chenapou it is perfect. The river is free, a gift for every person in Chenapou to use whenever they want. It is their tap, their bath, their main road, their fishing grounds, their washing machine, their life.

Things You Wouldn't Hear in a British Classroom...

"You can have your hunting knife back at the end of the day, but it is too big for sharpening your pencil."


"I'm tired of sweeping up bat faeces from the floor every morning."


"Thank you for the chicken, but please take it out of the classroom now."


"Stop eating fruit in class!"


"Put your blowpipes away in your bags."


"Children please carry your cutlass to school tomorrow."


"Tomorrow is sports day, please do not forget to bring your canoes and paddles."

"Sir, me pencil fall down through the crack in the floor."


"Rain again, please move your desks to avoid the leaks in the roof."


"Please leave the classroom by the door and not the window."


"We are having a celebration tomorrow children; tell your parents to bring at least half a pale of cassiri."

"Lunch will be late today because the kitchen has ran out of water."


"How did your books get all wet, boy?"
"We capsized on the way to school sir."


"Children, stay well clear of the blackboard in case the wind blows it over again."

A Day in the Life of...

Written on 5th October. Think I'll have to do another one of these sometime- the routine looks very different now!

5 am - The first hints of dawn are appearing in the sky, and filtering through my window. My watch beeps but the morning chorus of cockerels has already half-woken me. I stretch out in my hammock and wriggle out of my sleeping bag.

5.15 am - Start the day with a few exercises- it's the only time when it is cool enough to exercise without sweat pouring down your face.

5.30 am - It is now light enough to walk easily outside. I take a couple of buckets with me down to a large flat rock by the river. In one bucket is my dirty washing, soaking in soapy water, in the other is my towel, some shampoo, soap and a nailbrush. As I wash and bathe the forest becomes alive with the sound of insects. Sometimes I can also hear the haunting calls of baboons echoing through the hills. The water is cool but not cold, perfect, refreshing way to set myself up for the day.

6 am - On my way back the glow of sunrise begins to redden the sky. I say good morning to a few people who are getting up and busying themselves- fetching water or lighting up fires to bake their cassava bread over. I leave my flip flops- caked in orange mud from the river bank- outside and begin hanging out the washing.

6.15 am - Time to start preparing breakfast. During the week it is usually rice. The first step is to stoop down at the low tap to filter some water, then see how long it takes me to light the fiddly kerosene stove. My current record is 28 seconds but on average it's more like 2 minutes. Condensation on the match boxes makes it extra tricky in the morning. Whilst the rice boils I get a broom and sweep out the kitchen.

7 am - Breakfast. Ben is up now and we sit ouside to eat and wave good morning to passers by.

7.30 am - Get ready for work. Shave, change into a shirt and trousers, look over the plan for today's lessons. Stoop back at the tap to filter more water into my bottle.

8.15 am - Strap on my sandals and make the arduous, ten second journey next door to the school to sign in and set up the classroom. Not only am I a teacher, I am also the janitor and the cleaner. A family of bats live up in the roof of my classroom, and every morning I have to sweep out the scattering of bat faeces that litters the floor, along with pencil sharpenings, scraps of paper and sweetie wrappers that never made it as far as the cardboard box we use as a bin.

9 am - About half of my class are sitting in their seats, another quarter will turn up over the next ten minutes, but it is unheard of to see the full 22 in one go. Those that are here, with good uniforms and clean nails are awarded one gold star. The person with the most stars at the end of the week will recieve a small prize. "Stand up please grade  2" I say, and maybe four people stand up. After a few more attempts I have their attention. We say a morning prayer and sing a nursery rhyme.

9.15 am - Every day we start with English- it is the most important subject, and the one they furthest behind in because their creole is so far from standard English. It doesn't help that there are barely any books I can give them to read, and I have no textbook or guide to teaching English.

10.25 am - Those children that have finished their work, and haven't been misbehaving, go outside for a break. There is no boundary to the school compound so they always wander too far and don't make it back to school on time.

10.45 am - We leave our spot in the nursery building and take our books up to the grade 3 classroom in the 'big' school. Grade 3 have about 10 pupils compared to my 22, and even though I always carry a couple of benches up with me, there is a barely enough space for us. We are here to listen to an Interactive maths lesson on CD, as there is electricity in the big school. If it is raining or noise is coming from another class, it is very difficult to hear the CD player. Although it ought to take just 27 minutes, the amount of pausing required to keep the class focussed and give them time to answer questions means that we don't even finish on lesson before lunch at 11.35.

12 noon - After marking some books, I go up to the school kitchen with Ben for a plate of rice or chow mein. I much prefer the school lunches here to what were given in Britain, although perhaps they lack vegetables. I miss vegetables more than any other kind of food.

1 pm - "Grade two inside!" I get somebody to call out to the field, at the pavillion and under my house. Usually there are a few children who have simply disappeared, decided they would take a half day. The heat makes it difficult to concentrate as we go through some social studies of science. Lost and broken pencils always cause lessons to take twice as long as they should.

2.30 pm - Home time for grade 2. I usually hold back a couple, either to talk sternly about their behavior or to let them finish their work that they have not done because they were to busy climbing out the window  and crawling under the desk.

3.30 pm - I finish off marking the pupil's work and carry my things back home. Anything left in the school will be fiddled with or stolen as the nursery building has no lock. Ben and I change into swimming trunks and dive into the river to cool off and rinse away the day's sweat.

4 pm - Find some time to visit a friend for a chat, play my penny whistle for a while, or read from my kindle in the afternoon heat.

5 pm - Start work on dinner. We have the option of pulling some edoes from the ground outside our house to make a soup, or attempting to make roti. Usually though it's lentils or beans with more rice. If we are lucky somebody will have gifted us some vegetables from their farm, or a kid might have climbed a tree to pick a few ripe fruits for us.

6 pm - Sit at my little desk to plan lessons for tomorrow. Thte light begins to fade from the sky and we switch on our solar powered lights on to work by. The mosquitos also come out to irritate us, and the cockroaches start to invade the house. We slap them with our flip flops and keep a tally of how many we kill. In about a month so far we have squished 66 of them.

7 pm - Continue working with a cup of tea of some sort. Lemongrass grows locally and makes a delicious hot drink, or if we feel indulgent we use some cocoa powder to make hot  chocolate.


8 pm - After brushing my teeth outside to see the endlessly starry sky or watch distant lightening storms light up the horizon, I climb into my hammock, in the safety of my mosquito net, and listen to some music as I drift of to sleep.

Kurungwai

Written on the 15th of September, this is an account of a weekend which was spent, like many others, simply exploring the boundaries of Chenapou, and finding that in almost every direction, those boundaries were much further away than we had imagined.

It's hard to know where to go in Chenapou. There are no signposts, no markers, to obvious paths. The trails through the forest are narrow and muddy, all very similar to each other, regardless of whether they lead to a big landing or just somebody's backyard. Ben and I followed a particularly muddy path yesterday afternoon, full of puddles following the morning's rain. It took us under towering trees with vines looping from their canopies, over trails of ants, past dense shrubs,  exotic looking flowers and alien looking insects. Only now and again did we pass any sign of human life; an abandoned farm, a small wooden house in a clearing, a man walking the trail with an axe in his hand. Most people we met were quiet, just giving a shy nod. But the odd one or two would stop for a chat, introduce themselves and crack a couple of jokes.

One such man was John. He had been working on his farm and was heading the opposite way to us, but he gave us directions a little further to the landing where we could cross to the other side of the Potaro. At the landing the river took a wide bend. We stood on the inside of that bend, looking across to the sandy beach and confluence with 'Chenapou Creek' on the other side. A few kids were playing at the beach. The sand on these beaches can be deadly soft, sucking your feet under and trying to steal your slippers (flip-flops).

After about five minutes the sounds of a motor began to grow louder, then all of a sudden a speedboat veered around the corner and collided into the bank. It was a 16 year boy we had met earlier in the day. He barely said a word as he ferried us across the river. It felt bizarre going so fast after a couple of weeks at walking pace.

Looking across to the creek mouth.

By the creek we explored the scattering of houses, waving hello to a few families who watched on curiously as we discovered the steep trails through the forest. Back at the beach an old man told us that we could cross the creek and walk along the trail- the same trail that eventually leads to Paramakatoi where two other volunteers live- and find some rapids. By the time we had ungracefully paddled across the creek and walked for ten minutes, we had acquired a young man named Joseph as our guide. He took us for an exciting round trip to the top of the rapids and back along the river bank, pointing out various plants and animals on the way.

Waiting for a boat.

At the top of the rapids the creek rejoined itself at the back of an island and ran over a series of smooth shapes of rock. Some protruded from the water, or were shallow enough for us to walk on without being swept away, so long as we stepped carefully in Joseph's footsteps to avoid the deep potholes in the rock. I was reminded of 'The Punch Bowl' at the Linn of Quoich in Scotland.


We scrambled, waded, fought our way through thick vegetation. Joseph explained that the rapids were named Kurungwai, after a boulder in the middle of the white water with white marks down the side of it. It is said that the marks came from the faeces of the Kurung, an eagle that sat atop the rock.