To Jump or Not to Jump?

A boy with his dog getting a lift in on weight lifting equipment,
              popular in all public parks throughout South America.

Near the beginning of The Lion King, Simba and Nala go searching for the elephant graveyard, a place they’re not supposed to be since it is outside their territory where the light doesn’t touch. They ignore all the warning signs, from verbal ones like Mufasa telling them not to go, Zazu saying hell no to the point where the two lion cubs need a whole song just to get rid of him, to the visual signs like elephant corpses, skulls, and the whole lack of natural lighting in this unknown region known to be inhabited by hyenas, the lion’s nemesis. In the end, after Zazu’s failed rescue and their abduction of the aforementioned hyenas, the trio is luckily saved by Simba’s jacked and badass lion king daddy, Mufasa. 

But what if he hadn’t, and the movie drifted into nothing as Mufasa lost his only heir? The point is that signs – like darkness and corpses – are usually a good thing to keep an eye out for. Being somewhat of a realist myself, I normally like to weigh the risks against the rewards of most big decisions I make. I’d like to think this trait doesn’t make me a worrywart, nincompoop, or whichever other colorful name you want to pull out of your parents’ vocabulary. But it does mean taking time, usually no more than a few seconds, to think about whether the awesomeness of activity x outweighs the chances of death resulting from that activity x. So if I were to, let’s say, decide to go bungee jumping one weekend, a rational person might keep an eye out for all the warnings, unlike a young, eager to please, Simba. And if I were half as smart as I think I look, I would know where I was going with this sentence. Also, I would have taken better stock of all the warnings telling me not to jump off a bridge with a rope around me.

Much like this bamboo forest we found,
what looked scary
turned out to be awesome.

First of all, how did I wind up voluntarily hurling my sad excuse of a body off a bridge with nothing but a glorified rubber band as the difference between 5 seconds of adrenaline and 5 seconds of life remaining? Well, it turns out, my friend Alex (math teacher, for those who’ve forgotten or are just picking up from here) invited me. His sister-in-law had gifted bungee jumping coupons to his wife for her birthday a few weeks ago. And like any rational person, Alex’s wife said, thanks, but I like my life. So, there were four tickets, but only three people willing to jump (Alex, his wife’s sister, and wife’s sister’s boyfriend). Apparently, the only logical next step was to ask the crazy gringo who teaches English if he wanted to test out the Fates' string and scissors. Naturally, crazy gringo said yes.

Let’s not be like Simba. Let’s examine the signs. First of all, we have the day before the jump when we grab a snack at the mall and everyone decides to talk about all the YouTube videos they’ve seen about bungee jumping gone wrong or all the pranks the workers might pull (like yelling at you right as you’re falling that they didn’t actually connect the cords yet, don’t jump!). JJ laughs on the outside, cringes in fear on the inside, planning which pair of pants he will bring as an undoubtedly necessary dry extra.

The four jumpers: Me, Diana Marcela, Anderson, Alex.

Then, we have the drive to the actual precipice. We had to get up and out of the bowl that Bogota lies in and up into the mountainous Andean rim of said bowl, thus guaranteeing maximum altitude necessary for bungee jumping. This meant driving through early morning clouds and fog, not being able to see more than ten feet ahead. Nearing our arrival, we passed through a couple small towns, the bungee jumping place being on the outside of one of them. What was also on the outside of the last town was the cemetery. And as we passed, I couldn’t help but question the proximity of the cemetery to the leaping point. It must expedite the process of cleaning up after a failed jump.

We pull up the rendezvous point, complete with locals out on their porches ready to witness the fresh victims tourists readying to jump. One older lady in particular walked past us and asked if we were indeed going bungee jumping. We said of course! with all the excitement we could muster. What was her reaction? She gave a forced smile before shuffling after her cane in front of her, shaking her head as if to say, Well, it was nice knowing you! 

By this time, it had started to rain, always a welcome sign when your life depends on a harness. So we piled into the truck bed that was supposed to take us far from emergency assistance and slipped, slid, and skated our way down the muddy mountain road. After rounding our fair share of hairpin turns and questioning whether our gravity experience of the day would indeed be by rope or by truck falling off mountainside, the road conditions got so bad they said we had to walk the rest of the way. Another great sign!

Before signing our life away we were given a makeshift waiver, complete with recognizing that our deaths would not be their fault and any medical costs our own. They then wrote a number on our hands. They claimed it signified our jump order, we claimed it helped them identify the bodies at the bottom of the canyon. 

Like a flying squirrel.

We also had to write down the name of our jumping off point and the company’s name, which is where things got more interesting. The name of the bridge we were to jump off was called Los Dolores, which aptly translates to “the pains”. Reassuring, to say the least. And what was the company’s name? Jr. Bungee. But wait, what happened to Bungee Senior?? Was he the latest victim, leaving his business to his son?! Or is it like junior monk, where you haven’t quite reached veteran status, and our round of tourists is your final test? The answer to my fervent questioning came when the guide was explaining how they would pull us up. “Simply find a way to grab this loose rope we’ll lower down to your swinging body and hook it onto yourself like this so we can pull you up.” He motioned where we should hook it, only to be told by his assistant that that was actually the wrong place. Our guide jokingly responded with “Sorry guys, it’s my first day, haha...” Even if he was joking, his nervous laugh did nothing to reassure me, as it was the kind of laugh you’d get if you told a divorce joke as a wedding toast.  

So our guide is joking about screwing up an eight-dollar bungee jump we’re doing in the rain from a bridge called “the pains” near a graveyard far away from medical access? Sounds fantastic!

Math and English teachers...

And, well, it was! Now, obviously, this was probably the shortest bungee jump that exists. But, you know, eight dollars. I was admittedly nervous until I saw the slippery, shaking, wet, wooden bridge. Like most, my strongest fears are of the unknown, and upon seeing where I would jump from, I wasn’t as anxious as maybe all the signs were telling me I should be. But I would strongly recommend bungee jumping to anyone that asked, and as we left we were already discussing the bigger jumps that surround the Bogota area. 

We made the most of our day from there, as we found a small pond with some falls nearby and decided to take a dip. And no sooner had we stripped to our boxers than a tour group showed up to swim as well. We kind of felt like Mulan bathing, waiting until the men left before we scurried out and got changed. We investigated other activities in the area if we wanted to return, and I even made it back in time to go to evening prayer. Commando that is.

Spanish word of the day: Ripping through the phrase book, we'll bring the expressions back to PG status from last post. Menos mal (literally, less bad) means something like "thank goodness". It can also mean "at least" like after a list of things that might be shitty, like, oh I dunno, a list of reasons to not go bungee jumping. So, yeah, it's raining and our guide's new, but at least we only paid 8 dollars! 

Song in my head lately: Seeing as I now wake up before the birds start their song, I've been playing a few songs in the morning to get me going. I blame my parents for this behavior, as they would blast some James Taylor or John McCutcheon in the mornings growing up to get us out of bed and downstairs to breakfast. So these days, I've been putting them both on shuffle in the mornings. The song that's been getting me lately is McCutcheon's Waiting for Snow, since it reminds me of how well the Roske's took advantage of the winter season, whether it was skiing or playing hockey up on the hill with friends and family, or even those times when the sun would shine through the huge bay windows and warm the living room, Mom and Dad would spread out a blanket and we'd pretend we were having a picnic. 

Exhausted But Elated

Don Wilmer, groundskeeper and
veritable San Benito Hagrid, welcomes you
to school with weedwhip in tow.

This Thursday was full of reasons why most people, including myself until a few months ago, are so turned off by teaching. We started the day off with one of our sixth graders wetting himself during class. Luckily, I don’t think anyone around him noticed, since he was sufficiently inconspicuous with his leaving the classroom. Then, before my English lesson a new boy was ushered into the classroom who had changed schools because of a fight he’d gotten into at the previous one, and he had the black eye from getting kicked in the face while he was down to prove it. Also returning to class this week was Esteban who broke his arm last week. To add to the chaos, at the end of the day we found out someone had entered the room and dug around in Sebastian’s backpack, and his things (including his phone) were strewn about the room, and we had to investigate and practically interrogate some suspects. Needless to say, I returned to the monastery needing some me time. But after playing guitar for a bit, I decided I should probably start planning classes for the next day. I open my computer to find an email from the mother of one of my students, Juan Andres, saying that he had told her that someone at school had punched him in the face. So let’s take stock: I began the day with a tired but genuine smile and hop to my step, and ended up with a broken arm, two black eyes, attempted robbery, and a wet pair of drawers.

 *          *          *

We recently began our new academic year here at Colegio San Benito, and I am tasked with teaching English to sixth and seventh grades. The grades biblically come in twos, and I have five hours each week with each half of each grade, twenty hours total. Mix in some chaperoning of recess and homeroom, and we’ve got ourselves a pretty full schedule.

 

First day of school picture, for Mom.

In a few words, all of the clichés about teaching are true. Unfortunately, few words would make for an even more boring post than it assuredly will already be. But it’s true, and an exhausted sigh has already been heard escaping my lungs up the stairs to the teachers’ office floor upon my return from class. Coming as a surprise to no one, some kids can be a lot to handle, or a whole class inattentive. Heck, an entire day can be draining, and often is. I’m finding I’m terrible at discipline. This is most likely because I was one of those who needed it most growing up. So some days, the kids can get real chatty, and it’s hard to quiet down forty twelve year olds by yourself. One of the first days was especially trying, and one of the kids in the front told me, “Teacher, make them switch places.” I thought, shit, even the kid knows how to do this better than I do. Sure, I may be at the front of the classroom, but I’m also learning everyday. A big part of it is learning names, and I’ve found quieting down a group is easier when I know the names and can single them out. “Angel, Juan Esteban, and Caterin, be quiet” works better than a big, general “Be quiet, everyone” since you single them out with a little public shaming.

How I feel calling someone out in class.

I’m also finding I spend a lot of time working on different ways to teach the same damn things. Math teachers can usually plow through new material every few classes, social studies can go through a little more history or learn a bit more geography. Even with literature, you can fruit ninja your way through a few books in no time. When teaching English as a second language, for many kids, it’s their first time seeing the letters rearranged in these ways. This normally wouldn’t bother me, and I would love the opportunity to take my time and go through the verb to be in a couple weeks. The problem is that I can’t do that with forty kids in each class, many of whom are much more advanced. So I have to hold the hands of those who are still too shy to say simple sentences in English as well as reign in those who have English in their lives already, be it through music they listen to or cousins who live in Miami. So there are some times I leave a class feeling terrible, either for proceeding too quickly through a lesson for some, or for telling someone, “thank you for knowing the present progressive tense, but we are working on the simple present right now” and possibly discouraging their drive to pursue English if they’re not challenged enough in a school that doesn’t allow you to go up a level in just one subject.

Those few words a while back really seemed to turn into a whole lot of bitching, but the point is I’m sill learning. And, like I said, the clichés are true, so while it’s challenging, a lot of work, and often exhausting, it’s also one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. I also freely admit that some of the reasons it’s so great are pretty arrogant and self-serving: I get to wear the fancy white lab coat that indicates being a teacher, in classic Uncle Jim fashion (For those of you who don’t know him, my Uncle Jim, now retired from teaching high school physics for nigh on forty years,  was known for wearing a white lab coat every day). On the first day, when one of my sixth graders found out he was in my homeroom, he approached me and said he was glad I was his homeroom director. Two other kids hugged me after the first day of class. These all make me feel good. But they’re only part of why I’ve enjoyed my short stint so far.

My friend, Sergio, thoroughly enjoys staff meetings. It reads:
"When classes are over, and they tell you there's a meeting"

Last semester, I was the gringo volunteer. My responsibility list was about as short as it had ever been, and I was mostly just a presence in the room, joking around with the kids and helping out where I could. But I felt more like a drifter than a necessary part of the community. Now, with all the responsibilities of any other teacher, I still wouldn’t say I’m necessary, but I feel at the very least like an equal part. Sure, I can’t shoot the shit with my students like I used to. But I still chat with my old students during recess, and am more privy to the goings on at school since I’m in more staff meetings (Hooray!...) So for now I think the smiles and high fives are a decent tradeoff.

And while I may have less free time during the week, here in our fair city of Bogota, efforts are continually made to have a blast on the weekends, whether that’s grabbing what started as one beer with a friend met while traveling, going to a free concert of a Grammy award winning Colombian singer in the monastery parking lot, to winning a bet placed on a terribly played Superbowl (because if the Vikings aren’t in it, is it really a football game?).

It’s this balance I’ve found between enjoying work and weekends that allows me to come to school every day with a hop in my step. Even if I’m tired, even if the smile is forced, and especially even if I have to deal with broken bones, black eyes, and a wet pair of drawers.

J.

Spanish word of the day: We'll breach some gentle swearing with this one (gasp!). The verb mamar literally means to suck, so when someone - usually a teacher who's just found out they have another meeting with parents or more paperwork to do - says, "Ay, que mamera!" it means something along the lines of "This sucks!"

Song in my head lately: I made myself prepare for our backyard concert, especially since Andres Cepeda is the pride of Colombia, second only to Shakira. He won a Grammy in 2013, and everyone knows his songs. So, thanks to my preparation, I've had Desesperado in my head for a solid week now. Even if you don't know what he's saying, he's still got a great voice and the refrain's melody will be in your head.  

Classic.

Andres Cepeda, Latin Grammy award winner, doing a show
at San Carlos, the rich school where I live but don't teach.
Cepeda dropped out of San Carlos to pursue his music career
after eighth grade, but came back for the anniversary of the
school's founding. Since he played in the school/monastery's
parking lot, we didn't even need tickets.