Classrooms Without Walls
I swat an ant off the side of my paper as I finish the assignment and place my pencil down. Beads of sweat form across my forehead as the Guatemalan sun beats down on me. Behind a crumbling tower of limestone blocks, Montezuma Oropendulas bellow and Howler monkeys moan; suddenly I realize how far away I am from my bland local high school.
When my junior year at Shepaug Valley High School began, I felt bored and dreaded the long months ahead. School can be great but the years just seem to drag on. I knew I needed a change.
After searching for months online through educational exchange lists and databases, I found The Traveling School; a high school semester abroad program for girls based out of Bozeman, Montana. I immediately joined the program and on February 1st, 2009, flew to Houston, Texas to meet my new classmates. After shoveling one last American meal into our gaping mouths at Fuddruckers Restaurant, we discussed our inspiration for wanting to leave our comfortable lives for three and a half months of travel. Luckily, the other girls felt the same as I did. Robin, 17, of Albuquerque, New Mexico said,
Greta, 16, of Bozeman, Montana felt similarly. She said, “A lot of people complain about how they feel stuck in life. I do not want to be one of those people.”
We would all be spending the next fifteen weeks together exploring and studying while traveling through Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras. This unique program offers countless experiences but what makes it so special for me is the ever-changing classroom. Here, there are no walls, no limits to what we can learn.
Every class links directly to our surroundings which makes the content come alive. Instead of flipping through pages of textbooks and scanning photos of exotic places, we get to feel the humid climate, smell the tropical flora, hear the indigenous Mayan languages, see the ancient ruins, and even taste the local, spicy cuisine. Evelina, 17, of Florence, Italy stated,
As a student in Advanced Spanish, I am given many opportunities to interact with locals. Elvis, our attractive cave guide at Semuc Champey, Guatemala flashed his pearly whites while commenting that most girls our age who live nearby usually have two kids by now. Na´kin, an elderly traditional Lacanja woman who makes a living creating alluring seed jewelry, squealed with excitement as she proudly boasted about her granddaughter learning the same arduous craft from her. Our burly guest speaker, Luis, from El Hato, Guatemala laughed heartily at our surprised reaction to learning that he taught English at the local elementary school, yet he did not know much of our language. I suppose I could read information like this in books but to actually hear about life in Central America from the people who live here exemplifies how I am able to get the most from my education.
From Spanish to Natural Science, I found my class nestled on a grassy knoll deep in the lush landscape of Antigua, Guatemala. We learned about different types of volcanoes while overlooking Fuego, one of three active volcanoes in Guatemala, as it launched its smoke into the air across the bustling valley below. We silently examined avocado trees as a large ash-gray mushroom cloud emerged from the cone.
The following day, we hiked up the side of the volcano Picaya. The heat emanating from the spewing lava helped warm us against the frosty winds thrashing our ponytails about. Would you get to munch on strawberry-flavored marshmallows roasted by the heat of molten lava with a high viscosity if you were back in your hometown? I think not.
My fellow classmate Merritt, 17, of Fairview, North Carolina loves how,
One of the best examples so far of how we surround ourselves with learning includes having history class while trekking through ancient, unearthed Mayan city states. There were no desks or inspirational posters taped onto walls. I contemplated different theories of the collapse of the Mayan Empire while seated inside one of the famous ball courts in Tikal, Guatemala. Temple II towered above us which contained the tomb of King Chocolate (translated). According to recovered stone markers that documented Tikal’s history, called Stellaes, King Chocolate served as a mighty ruler for years during the height of Tikal’s Golden Age – and we were having class there! As groups of elderly tourists walked by with bulky cameras around their necks and souvenir T-shirts from a nearby tienda, their eyes gleamed with curious interest.
I am currently writing this article against an eroded piece of limestone, surrounded by sheep poop, in the rocky mountain tops of Chautuj. We backpacked thirteen miles today through rebuilt indigenous villages once destroyed during the recent civil war. The Traveling School is offering me the best learning environment I have been privileged enough to enjoy.
Anna, 15, of York, Maine says, “I love The Traveling School and I am so glad I put in the work to get here!” Traditional secondary education seems so spare and basic when compared to actually living amongst the cultures and within the environments covered in the curriculum. What we learn here is applicable to real life. Although at times it may sound like it, we are not here on vacation. We are hard-working, determined young women growing and learning much more than we ever have before.
Giovanni Smiled
He appeared as a patch of black hair and slits of curious eyes peering around the rough yellow-painted cement wall of the hut into our learning space. Two more pairs of eyes followed though his had a gleam that held my attention.
Our next encounter allowed me to see his mouth. His lips starkly stood out against his tanned Guatemalan skin. They only let short, quiet breathes through as he spoke.
¨¿Qué usted está haciendo?¨ His lips curled into a smile as I told him how we were reading as part of our science homework. I could have sworn they even opened a little to exhale a timid laugh.
That night, I was presenting the future tense to my Traveling School peers in Spanish class. We were playing a game in which we practiced the tense through moving and dancing. As we shimmied around, he viewed us from a distant. Hesitantly, he shuffled his barefeet through the sand closer and closer until he was less than five feet away. I am not certain how, but suddenly we were all entangled in a karate fight with him as our teacher. He showed us his moves, all in good fun, as he quickly, and smoothly, tackled my classmate, Clarissa, to the ground. He caught her before she touched the ground and helped her regain balance. The weathered sole of his right foot shot up into the air as he modeled his high kicks. The soles were dirty, blackened from the dark beaches that surrounded us. His father called him and he returned home, now with a little kick in his step.
From his home, he noticed me scribbling out the next day´s schedule on our foam whiteboards and he approached me. I pushed my spare marker in his direction and asked if he was interested in drawing. His petite fingers caressed the white plastic tube of ink as he directed it across the board. His nails were trimmed and clean, unlike the navy-blue Converse shirt he had been wearing. Slowly, his fingers glided across his art, rapidly erasing the bed he had drawn. I thought it was a sailboat. When it was time for me to depart, his fingers swiftly clicked the cap on the pen as he placed it in my lap.
When I next saw him, the sun had already fallen and risen. under the melting heat, we crossed paths on the outskirts of town; he stopped.
¨¿Tú sabes donde está la tienda?¨ I asked him. He did not have much time to respond before he ran off to help his mother. He pointed down the street and said,
¨Allí, hay una tienda buena.¨
Unfortunately, the recommended store did not satisfy my Fanta craving, so I scurried off to another one two blocks away. Minutes later, he appeared next to me, panting. His chest undulated gracefully as he explained how he had run to find me. Giovanni smiled.
Though only acquaintances for three days, our bond flowered. Maybe my fondness for the eight year old son of Carlos, the beach-house caretaker, in Chiquistepeque, Guatemala was because of his curiousity and kindness. We now have matching yellow and green bracelets. What I do know is that little Giovanni will always have claim to a little chunk of my heart.
Alfombras
With a stick of chalk in their right hand and a string pulled taut in their left, an excited groups of teenagers work diligently on their masterpieces. Numbers are scribbled meticulously at every angle and dimension. The working hands of five little boys and girls, their palms dyed an array of bright colors as they press and shape raw, organic materials into intricate designs in the center of a blocked off city street. Soft wads of paper, wood chips, coffee shells, and corn kernels ooze up from between the kid's chubby fingers. Women glisten with sweat while sitting on the sidewalk curbs with large plastic tubs clenched between their thighs. Their biceps flex as their arms mix salt with powdered dye. Men hover on a thin, wooden plank above a slab of this dyed salt. From this unique vantage point, they smooth the surface as if it were drying cement. Beyond the balancing men lies long strips of paper with swirly cutouts covering each piece entirely.
"Shhh." Paint particles spray out of a pair of airbrush guns splattering electric colors on a scratch piece of cardboard.
I am watching the difficult assemblence of hundreds of the infamous Alfombras in the Central Plaza of Juayua, El Salvador. Translated literally, an alfombra is a rug. Yet on Good Friday during Semana Santa (Holy Week), an alfombra refers to the carpets made of natural materials in the middle of city streets. Everyone from church groups, to boy scouts, and young friends and families spend hours on these large rugs depicting religious symblols and scenes. Angels can be seen drifting amid fluffy clouds while Mother Mary is on her knees praying.
There are numerous ways that these Alfombras are created. The most common tecnique is to spread materials like salt, wood chips, leaves and other organic matter into neat pieces of art. The materials are arranged into images or phrases can be written. People get very creative. Some even bring in large statues and flags, and trees and candles to adorn their Alfombra with.
All of their hardwork does not go to waste. A sacred procession departs from the tall, white cathedral at 7 PM and marches until 6 AM when Mass starts the next morning. The determined people cruise through the tired streets of the neighboring pueblos dressed in black robes and veils. They take turns carrying the platforms holding up 5 lifesize replicas of holy figures on their shoulders. Up to 24 men share the burden of marching Jesus's coffin alone through the streets for the entire 11 hour procession. They tread over the beautiful Alfombras that are strewn across the cement beneath their aching feet. Spiritually, it is very rewarding for the creators to see the procession shuffle from side to side on top of all of this art; slowing destroying the product of their time and sweat.
Every year during Semana Santa, beautiful Alfombras are created across Mexico and Central America. I recommend checking out the incredible rugs if you have any interest in witnessing an unparalleled cultural tradition!
Chicken Bus
Charlotte McConaghy, 17, a Junior from Shepaug Valley High School in Washington, CT is currently studying abroad with The Traveling School in Central America. Her fifteen week journey has taken her through Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras with eleven other high school girls from different parts of the country. You can find more articles by Charlotte and her peers on their Travel Journalism blog: http://www.tts13tj.blogspot.com/
A feeling of loneliness trembled through my body as I stood on a crowded street in Panajachel, Guatemala with my teacher Rhea. We had just waved adios to our fourteen other Traveling School sisters. The two of us hoped to catch a chicken bus to the hectic city of Xela, in the center of the country. Rhea`s previous experiences on this type of transportation taught her to arrive a bit early so I was relieved when we saw El Paisaje del Flor roaring closer twenty minutes ahead of schedule. We rolled away from the bus stop, lounging in the second row, accompanied by only three other passengers; two women and a young girl. However, as our journey continued, more and more lively locals joined us.
The bus driver was a slim man, different from the pot-bellied drivers we had before. His hair was gelled and styled into a neat comb over. Not once during the chaotic drive did he seem to get flustered, even though we were swerving through narrow city streets packed with pedestrians at top speed. While an easy task for him, my face held a look of sheer terror.The bus driver had two bus buddies riding with him who helped run the route. One was dressed in a blue patterned button-up shirt and worn cowboy boots. He slid easily up and down the aisle collecting everyone`s fare. The other gentleman was older and the smallest of the trio. His lips moved at lightning speed as he shouted the destination of our bus to those we passed.
"¡Centro! ¡Centro! ¡Centro!" He bellowed, his body hanging out of the open door, into the strong wind. His rapid-fire shouts could beat out an auctioneer any day.
While still within the city limits, twenty more passengers joined us. Amidst the men in dark jeans and women in colorful blouses, there were also many teenagers in school uniforms. Four girls stepped up the stairs in evergreen pleated skirts and black, polished flats. Their Polo's were bright white with a large emblem stitched above their hearts. They took the seats behind us and whipped make-up out of their backpacks. By the time they departed, they sported Converse shoes, heavy eyeshadow, and pinned-up hair.
One by one, more passengers climbed on; it did not take long before a woman sat beside me. She wordlessly fit herself into our two-person seat, not ashamed to use her wide hips to nudge my willowy frame over a bit. The smiling woman must have had at least sixty years under her traditional gold and blue hand-crafted belt. It held up bolts of dark wool fabric wrapped tightly around her waist. Tucked into this belt was her intricately-embroidered huipil. Every square inch of her shirt was sewn with red, yellow, brown, green, and orange thread to form a collage of flowers. She appeared delighted when I said, "Què vaya bien," as she stood to leave.
At this same stop, a large group of high school boys entered through the rear emergency exit. All I could see over the heads of the other passengers were their crazy hairstyles. They looked like moving versions of the posters one sees in a beauty salon as they are waiting for the stylist. Center parts, Mohawks, and slicked back ponytails bopped up and down as they took their seats. Most of them wore vividly colored T-shirts with Hollister written down their sides in white. Thin cords shot from their ears trailing down to handheld MP3 players. I wondered how many miles I would have to travel before I could finally escape U.S. consumerism.
A man carrying a briefcase suddenly skipped aboard and broke my train of thought. He stood at the front of the bus waiting for everyone to get settled into the crammed seats. I soon realized that his briefcase did not contain papers and files, rather it was filled with his trademark, one-of-a-kind cocoa cream.
"It can solve all of your daily ailments from cracked hands to tired feet," he announced in a booming Spanish voice across the moving bus. After making a few sales, he stepped off into the heat where I pictured him waiting for the next bus full of potential clients to pitch his magic product to. I contemplated how he ever knows where he is going or how to get home.
The bus groaned as we slowly climbed higher into the mountains. The door opened and a cool gust of wind rustled my hair. A mother and a daughter clambered up the steps and took the available seat in front of us. The daughter`s long, dark braid fell over the back cushion as she sat. The braid whipped back as she twisted around to peek at me. Her almond-shaped eyes were small on her perfectly oval face. When she realized I had caught her spying on me, she pretended to be examining her rough hands instead of the only two gringas on the rickety chicken bus. The top of her hands were dry and scaly. Again, her eyes darted in my direction under a set of large eyebrows that neatly blended into her hairline. Our eyes met and I took the opportunity to smile at her. Behind her chapped lips peeped a set of small, uneven teeth. She turned away again.
Glancing out the window, cloudy with grime, I changed my focus to the mountainous terrain we passed. Deep ravines cut through high plateaus trailing into a village low in the valley. Amongst small boulders was a sign covered in stickers that read,
"Xela 1 Kilometer."
The larger bus buddy made a scramble to collect the last of the fares before passengers had a chance to leave. Instead of scattered huts, creme-colored brick buildings now flashed across the window over Rhea`s lap. At the noisy terminal, the bus squealed to a stop. Once the door opened, everyone slowly and patiently filed out the door, transforming the untamed beast into an empty metal lunch box. Rhea and I took our packs off of our sweaty laps and slung them across our shoulders. We stepped onto the hot city pavement and strode through endless rows of vibrantly colored chicken buses, ready to face our next adventure.
