Above: Students at a public high school in Tibas, Costa Rica
Sunday 2/24/08 Heredia, Costa Rica
The woman who welcomed me into the high school, one of the office secretaries, was covered from head to toe in shades of pink. Pink blouse. Pink lipstick. Pink eyeliner. Pink everything. Silver bracelets of varying thickness wrapped around her tiny wrists like backyard horseshoes, and a half dozen silver rings sparkled on her slender fingers. I, wearing no pink and nothing but a clunky plastic watch on my wrist, felt underdressed and out of place sitting in her office.
After making a call to one of the school’s English teachers to tell him I had arrived, the woman returned to her office and plopped down in her chair, sending her bracelets clanking and jangling.
Above: The roof of the school as seen from a second story balcony
“A teacher will be ready soon. You wait here, is it OK?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“I speak a little English. I’m from Russia, so…”
I wasn’t sure what her point was.
“Russia? Wow, what part of Russia?” I asked.
“Georgia. Russian Georgia. Not your U.S. Georgia.” She laughed and unveiled a big, toothy grin. Then, as quickly as her laugh surfaced, it retreated. Her lips relaxed and a seriousness grayed her eyes. “But I have not been there for 20 years. I live here for 20 years. I miss my country very much. My heart is from Russia, but I must live here in Costa Rica.”
“20 years? That’s a long time,” I said, stating the obvious and sounding like an idiot.
“I wish to go back, but I can’t afford it. I want to go, but I want to go with my children and husband. It cost $2,000 for one plane ticket, so…And, you know, I make only $500 a month here, so it is impossible for me to go back. Impossible.” The woman shook her head and stared down at the pen she was fidgeting with on her desk.
Still looking down, she said, “My mother, my brother and sisters, all live in Georgia. For 20 years I have not see them. We call on the telephone sometimes, but it’s not so good, not like to see each other. Maybe I will never see them again. Never.” Tears welled in her eyes. They came dangerously close to spilling over the painted eyelid levees that held them back.
I sat up in my seat and stopped slouching. How did we get here in a few short minutes, with this woman almost crying and telling me how much she makes each month? I wondered. I wanted to reach out and give her a hug, to say something funny and comforting, but instead I stared at the faded Japanese print on the wall in front of me and squirmed under the weight of my silence and inaction.
The woman took a deep breath and waited a few seconds for her tears to recede. When she had collected herself, she looked up at me and asked, “So, what about you? What is your objective?”
“My objective? Here, today?”
“No, on your trip. You must have an objective, right? You don’t ride so far without an objective, right?!”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I do. I have an objective.” I told her my objective. She nodded and smiled as she listened.
“Wow, so many experiences you will have! You must love experiences!” she exclaimed, feeling better.
“I do, I love experiences,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure what I meant, or what she meant, but she smiled and seemed to pull meaning from my words.
*****
When we approached Teacher Hector’s classroom, he was in the middle of teaching his lesson. Pink Secretary peeked her head into the doorway and told him that “his guest” was here. A short man with a loose-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy pants, Teacher Hector scurried over to us and left a wake of turned student heads behind him.
“Teacher Hector, this is Andrew. He wants to help you teach. He wants to meet our students. Andrew this is Teacher Hector. OK?” Pink Secretary spoke to Teacher Hector as if he was unaware of my visit.
“Nice to meet you,” I said as we shook. His hand was small but strong.
Above: Olga, an elementary school English teacher, and Teacher Hector
After going through a few introductory pleasantries, all of which were heard by the classroom of curious, silent students behind us, Teacher Hector invited me to help him teach his lessons for the day. Before I said good-bye to Pink Secretary and entered the class, she made a prediction.
“I think you will have good classes here. The girls will like you very much because you are very handsome. I know it,” she said. My face flushed to match the deep pink of her blouse. “Don’t you think the girls will enjoy him, Teacher Hector?” she asked as she turned to face Teacher Hector.
Teacher Hector nodded and laughed.
Some of the students behind us giggled.
I made my way into the class with Teacher Hector and gave a short introduction. Afterwards, Teacher Hector decided to re-hash the whole Handsome-Girls-Liking-Andrew thing, much to my chagrin.
Above: Teacher Hector teaching
“Does anyone have a question for Andrew?” he asked, only to be answered with silence and the stares of 34 sets of eyes. “Anyone? You must have questions for him. You must! Girls, I know you have questions for him, don’t you? Yes, sure you do.”
He stared at the three girls in the class, all huddled together in the back corner of the room. They looked confused, unsure of what he was implying because of their minimal command of the English language. Then, he turned to me, gave me a look that said, Get ready, watch this, and turned back to the girls. “You must have a question for Andrew, girls. For example, don’t you want to know if he has a girlfriend? You must!” He waited for them to respond. Seconds trudged through the thick mist of time like hunch-backed senior citizens with walkers fighting for progress on a steep hill under a midday sun.
I was shocked. At first, I dismissed the data my ears shot up through my brain as some sort of hunger-induced, physiological glitch. A misfiring of my synapses. No, he didn’t just say that. No, he’s not really waiting for them to respond to him, is he?
He waited. For seven or eight long seconds, he waited for a response. Finally, one of the girls asked if I had a girlfriend. I answered and, for the rest of the class, tried and fought to get the students to take me seriously, to think of me as a teacher instead of a schoolyard friend.
*****
Over lunch later in the day, over plates of rice, beans, fried plantains, and spaghetti, Teacher Hector told me what it was like teaching English at a public high school.
“My job is very difficult,” he said in-between mouthfuls of rice. “You know, I have 11 classes. Can you imagine? There are between 35 and 38 students per class. It’s so many students.” Pause. “I enjoy teaching English, and I have been here for a few years, but don’t you think 11 classes is so much?”
I told him I did.
Pause. We both scooped food from our plates.
“Like, today, for example, I have a very long day,” he continued. “I start teaching at 7:00 a.m. and I finish at 6:20 p.m. Can you imagine?!” He showed me his schedule—sure enough, he was scheduled to teach for 11 hours straight, with but a few 20 minute breaks throughout the day as his only respite.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“No preparation periods?” I asked, incredulous.
“On Fridays, no. And on Wednesdays, only one or two. My schedule is difficult. I’m always very tired,” he said, stabbing his pile of beans with his fork.
A few minutes later, I asked how much teachers get paid per month at the public school.
After converting colones to dollars, Teacher Hector answered “I guess about $500 U.S.”
For the amount of work he does, the time he spends at school, $500 U.S. per month seemed far from adequate, even considering how much $500 U.S. can buy you in Costa Rica (rent for a decent one-bedroom apartment in and around San Jose, for example, can run you $180—$200 per month.)
If the school simply hired more English teachers, even one more, it would alleviate some of Teacher Hector’s workload so he could provide higher quality education to his students. As it is, he barely has time to get his materials in order before the arrival of his classes, let alone teach with energy and passion. I felt bad for him. I remembered what it felt like to feel that uneasy feeling that all teachers experience at some point in their careers, the feeling of being swamped, being smothered by responsibility with no relief in sight.
*****
Staring out the window on the bus ride home that day, I wondered if Teacher Hector’s predicament was one facing other English teachers at public schools in Costa Rica. Do all English teachers at public schools have such overwhelming class rosters? Do all feel so pressed for time, stretched so thin? I hoped not but feared the worst.
Considering tourism is Costa Rica’s primary source of revenue, surpassing even coffee and fruit exports, teaching English, the language most often used by international travelers, should be high on the government’s list of priorities.
Above: Students in one of Teacher Hector’s 11 English classes
A young guy with a beard and a big backpack on his lap tapped my shoulder and brought me back to the present.
“Excuse me, you speak English?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh good!” Relief washed over his face. “My girlfriend and I were just starting to wonder if we were lost. Does this bus go to the main square in Heredia? Our hotel is near there.”
“Yep, this will take you right there. Just 15 or 20 minutes more.”
“Oh perfect. Awesome. Thanks.”
*****
Later that night I talked with Isidro, the father of the Gonzalez clan here in Heredia, about English education in Costa Rica.
In a mix of Spanish and English, he explained, “It’s a shame. Children who can’t afford to go to private school are the ones who need English the most. They need to learn English so they can get good tourism jobs and move up in Costa Rican society. Instead, the wealthy children at private schools get good English lessons while the public school students don’t learn enough. It forces poorer students to stay in a cycle of poverty, to not move up in the world, because English is so important now in Costa Rica. The students with good English get good tourism jobs. The ones without it don’t get the tourism jobs. It’s simple. And sad.”
Posted in Bike trip: Costa Rica, School visits
