SCHOOL DAZE

FEBRUARY 26, 2007
Finally, we get to our first school, where we will provide de-worming medication to every student, and supply each student with pencil, eraser, ruler, pencil box, coloring crayons and coloring book, and a writing pad/memo book. The school principals are also presented with globes, wall maps, plastic playground toys (soccer balls and baseball balls and bats), a game table, and a large woven blanket for kids to sit on instead of the dirt. Each school we visit is different, but several have no desks, electricity, or much of anything. The cinderblock rooms appear not to be classrooms, but storage. Lessons, outside in the shadeless, hot, dirt lot, are mostly oral since pencils and paper are scarce, if existent at all.

We arrive by jeep at this first school (we become old pros by the end of the trip, but at this first school, we have to pretty much invent the wheel). Maybe 250 kids ranging from 4-15 years old, are patiently waiting for us, assembled and sitting on the ground in rows on large kilim rugs. Our large, damp, bursting-at-the-seams cardboard boxes are unloaded, and part of our group begins setting up supply stations so the kids will run a gauntlet, down the line and stopping at each person to get a pencil box here, a coloring book there, etc. The pencil boxes each need to be filled with smaller items, books stacked up, etc. The other members of our group set up a small table that will serve as a double-sided drug dispensary. Before the kids get the supplies, they pass on one side or the other of this table to get a de-worming medication dose: liquid for the tiny kids, a pill for the older ones. The table is set with water jugs and pitchers and boxes and boxes of single-dose pharmaceuticals.
Once we are finally ready, we sit in folding chairs in a row before the children. Alexander introduces each of us in turn, and we each say a little something, from “Stay in school” to “It is a great honor to be here and meet you” to “It is hot here and snowing where I live.” It feels like it goes on for hours, and if I’m this bored, the kids must be comatose. Each time we speak, Sunayna has to translate.

Finally the students are sent through our system, one row at a time. They don’t know what they are swallowing, but most do so without protest. I am handing out pencil boxes, and kneel down on the ground to look each one in the eyes. It is profound. They are confused and grateful, a bit scared and fascinated and excited. Honestly…so are we. It is a tremendously gratifying exchange, and the children are the most beautiful beings I’ve ever seen.

After the long process, they sing for us, and a few shy girls get up to do a dance. We belch out a sad, lurching version of “You Are My Sunshine” to try and give back something (Lynn has a beautiful voice, but the rest of us…uhhh…not so much). Once all is done, it takes a long time for us to leave—none of us wants to get back in the jeeps, and every child wants to wave, shake hands, and pose for pictures—especially once we start showing them their images in the LED screens of our digital cameras. I truly love this element of the trip and we will visit many schools, eventually treating 1,150 children.