Glen Lyon, Scotland
On the Second night of my teaching adventure I try to write and ignore the fact that my eyes are tired, my hands callused and a thin stream of mucus hangs from my nose and fights constantly with some grubby tissues. The dusky valley reaching up around the farmhouse where I sit is wet and uninviting. Closer to us, puddles form in the muddy road that reaches across the rivers icy grip to crawl up grassy mounds and arrive gracefully at the fluttering union jack keeping watch over this house. Now though I’m inside, protected from the thin sheets of drizzle and letting the staccato beat of Immortal Techniques “Peruvian Cocaine” fill my ears as I try to sum up this day with some accuracy.
I was awoken early by the noise of camp. For those who have never slept in a tent camp noises ungulate hour to hour, from the “zzzziiiip” of someone sneaking dubiously from their bed late at night to the “oh god” of a camper discovering a lack of poles/sleeping bag/ socks in their backpack. This time though, it was the raucous and happy shouts of what sounded like the entire camp, people who I gathered must enjoy waking up early. Groggily I climbed from my disgustingly orange hued tent and stumbled gratefully into breakfast where a mug of thick tea and a sea of brown toast awaited. After eating, Alex (the deputy head) drove myself and a small pack of rowdy kids along the beautiful valley to a wooded park, gentle oaks and stocky pines all reaching towards a sky that was for once devoid of cloud.
It was in that park I was introduced to “Biscuit” a rock climbing guide who would attempt the daunting task of teaching outdoor activities to children for whom the business of everyday living is a scary and daunting experience. I spoke a lot to this Biscuit, a man who had the fortune of having both a grin and a perpetual look of merry amazement on his impish face. We talked of climbing, he taught me to fix thick nylon rope to trees, clip carabineers into harnesses and help the kids learn to belay. ‘Why are you called Biscuit’ one of the students asked him, the question we were all wondering but too tactful to ask (not that I minded him having a interesting name of course, in my time I’ve met a child called Hope, a computer geek by the name of Max Powers and the smoked ham curer Chip Conquest.)
“Well” he cleared his throat and we were dealt a flood of ridiculous stories, my favorite being “Well, you see I was in Africa as a child, and my parents left me and my sister with a tribe when I was only three.” We stand looking skeptical “So, one day I was running through the camp” he empathized this with a mad scientist-esq waving of arms “and I fell flat on my face and got a massive bruise, here on my forehead. Then the chief walked up, and he stands looking at me like this” he stood on one leg and crooked the other strangely, one arm outright as if holding a spear “and he says ‘biscotti’ which is of course Swahili for ‘egg head’ so from then on I was known simply as biscuit.” Everyone stared, eyes narrowing as the kids tried to sum him up. before they could come to a successful conclusion we were off, running down steep paths and jumping from rocks in our own interpretations of free style walking.
It was with biscuit that I really got to see how determined the kids I was minding were. Sure, some of them refused to climb the rock walls and caused trouble on a deathtrap of a rope swing and one even disappeared, but several of the girls really pushed through their fear of heights and made a go of the activities. I found myself hooked into the rope at the foot of a crag, shouting upwards with all my breath to encourage whoever was pulling themselves up the cracks and weathered ledges.
So, apart from an embarrassing show of my appalling archery skills, the nagging specter of jetlag, forgetting to take a shower and being mauled by midges it was a great day of adventure.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Butterstone, Scotland
After the revelry of Boston I needed to be out of my depth again. I’d had too much fun, partied too hard and was in danger of becoming bothersome with my manically cheery attitude. America had been a whirl of new faces, most instantly forgotten and replaced by the next in a way that left me feeling quite shallow. True, I was more popular that ever before, but the sudden recognition by my peer group was in danger of going to my head and forcing me to change into something different. I’d become arrogant with the attention of so many and Simon would have cut me down to size. What I needed to do was step outside my comfort zone and try something that scared me a little bit, experience things that showed me I still had need to grow and develop.
The chance to try something was waiting for me the minute I got off the plane in Aberdeen the day after orientation, though I’d been planning it far longer than that. Months before I’d been bored and out of work, ringing anyone I could think of to ask if they needed paid help, a volunteer even, and finding that no, they didn’t. Eventually I was saved from the monotony and offered a week of employment after orientation. I’d be working at a school for learning difficulties in Scotland that I’d once attended, a tiny Hogwarts perched on a hill, the odd tower springing from its limestone walls. The kids there struggled with learning disabilities as I once did, their stories at once both tragic and thought provoking. Protected from the outside world, I’d be entering an environment that was at once innocent and frightening, a society no bigger than fifty people.
The newly appointed headmaster was an old friend of mine and had got me the job. Once a teacher there, he’d been one of my most powerful mentors and propelled me through my first few years of boarding school. It was Andrew who had introduced me to the wonders of the English language and the powers of creative thought, who had taught me the meaning of antidisestablishmentarianism, simply “because it sounded good.” A few brief phone conversations and my employment was finalized. Id be working as a “care assistant” at a rural summer camp the school held for a week in a long green valley north of Perth. I was thrilled at the chance to pay back an institution that had been my home for four years and glad to be working with Andrew again. Overall though, I felt nervy to walk through the limestone and paneled wood of a school as a member of staff rather than a student.
So, weeks later I arrived in Butterstone with my eyes full of sleep and backpack leaking hiking boots. I hadn’t really gone back there in my six years since leaving and memories cascaded back to smother me. I felt like the ten year old who had first entered through the blue door, taking baby steps with my head lowered. I remembered running up the dingy stairs to my dorm in the old servants quarter, the dead flies on the window and the sense of happiness that seemed to override the smell of socks and B.O. For me it was a time of innocence, I was protected from the world and didn’t have to worry about a thing.
Andrew met me at the door and we saw how much we’d both changed, a boy who’d become a man and a teacher who’s once short hair now fell graying to his shoulders and who’s beard made him look like some ancient prophet. I didn’t see it then but I laugh now at the thought of my mentor being a man who could pass himself off as Jesus. Soon after our initial reintroduction he was off, running away on some errand while I was heaping my camping equipment into the back of a truck to be taken to the camp a hours ride away. At this time I still didn’t know exactly where I was going.
After the revelry of Boston I needed to be out of my depth again. I’d had too much fun, partied too hard and was in danger of becoming bothersome with my manically cheery attitude. America had been a whirl of new faces, most instantly forgotten and replaced by the next in a way that left me feeling quite shallow. True, I was more popular that ever before, but the sudden recognition by my peer group was in danger of going to my head and forcing me to change into something different. I’d become arrogant with the attention of so many and Simon would have cut me down to size. What I needed to do was step outside my comfort zone and try something that scared me a little bit, experience things that showed me I still had need to grow and develop.
The chance to try something was waiting for me the minute I got off the plane in Aberdeen the day after orientation, though I’d been planning it far longer than that. Months before I’d been bored and out of work, ringing anyone I could think of to ask if they needed paid help, a volunteer even, and finding that no, they didn’t. Eventually I was saved from the monotony and offered a week of employment after orientation. I’d be working at a school for learning difficulties in Scotland that I’d once attended, a tiny Hogwarts perched on a hill, the odd tower springing from its limestone walls. The kids there struggled with learning disabilities as I once did, their stories at once both tragic and thought provoking. Protected from the outside world, I’d be entering an environment that was at once innocent and frightening, a society no bigger than fifty people.
The newly appointed headmaster was an old friend of mine and had got me the job. Once a teacher there, he’d been one of my most powerful mentors and propelled me through my first few years of boarding school. It was Andrew who had introduced me to the wonders of the English language and the powers of creative thought, who had taught me the meaning of antidisestablishmentarianism, simply “because it sounded good.” A few brief phone conversations and my employment was finalized. Id be working as a “care assistant” at a rural summer camp the school held for a week in a long green valley north of Perth. I was thrilled at the chance to pay back an institution that had been my home for four years and glad to be working with Andrew again. Overall though, I felt nervy to walk through the limestone and paneled wood of a school as a member of staff rather than a student.
So, weeks later I arrived in Butterstone with my eyes full of sleep and backpack leaking hiking boots. I hadn’t really gone back there in my six years since leaving and memories cascaded back to smother me. I felt like the ten year old who had first entered through the blue door, taking baby steps with my head lowered. I remembered running up the dingy stairs to my dorm in the old servants quarter, the dead flies on the window and the sense of happiness that seemed to override the smell of socks and B.O. For me it was a time of innocence, I was protected from the world and didn’t have to worry about a thing.
Andrew met me at the door and we saw how much we’d both changed, a boy who’d become a man and a teacher who’s once short hair now fell graying to his shoulders and who’s beard made him look like some ancient prophet. I didn’t see it then but I laugh now at the thought of my mentor being a man who could pass himself off as Jesus. Soon after our initial reintroduction he was off, running away on some errand while I was heaping my camping equipment into the back of a truck to be taken to the camp a hours ride away. At this time I still didn’t know exactly where I was going.
Boston, U.S.A
I returned to the United States of America at eleven on a cloudless summer night. Cloudless that is in Boston, in the U.K my planes were chased by bad weather and consequently delayed, the end result being me sitting sweaty and gross on a hulking 747 that refused to move until we were all ready to crucify the air traffic controllers in their air conditioned office. When I eventually landed in America the door hissed open and the passengers emerged white and clammy, gasping at the clean air in a similar state to rescued submariners. As I pushed past the mass of humanity trying to escape our aluminum prison and walked down the labyrinthine corridors common place in all airports, I felt my stomach twist itself into knots. This was (A) due to British Airways food (an oxymoron I’m sure you’ll agree) and (B) to the prospect of the dreaded customs officials that I rightly suspected were skulking around every corner.
What is it about American customs officials that make me feel like I’ve entered a totalitarian dictatorship whenever I pass through their officious grasp? According to my mother “guns and snappy uniforms” turn these mild mannered people into lecturing megalomaniacs who delight at the discomfort one shows as they read and reread your passport as if it were the bible. I half expected the customs team to begin speaking German and end each transaction with a precise “Heil.” This time however I offer customs no quarter and, as it’s nearly midnight, the poor man at his little kiosk lets me through at double time once I’ve explained my failure to fill out entry forms stems from my status as both resident and visitor.
I grabbed my bag in record time, hoisted it over my shoulder and walked slowly into the echoing arrivals hall with its glass walls and shiny metal surfaces. There I met Alexis, swaying slightly she was so tired, and was gratefully bundled into the back of her boyfriend Bobbies retro Mercedes (the sort everyone drives is Russian spy films), resisting the temptation to look behind for secret police in unmarked cars. Through Boston we were quite, the easy silence of good friends traveling together. Bobby steered us away from Logan, over the concrete spine of the big dig and down into Back Bay, a town sleepy now the students have left for the summer. We parked outside his frat, a red-bricked building with a small plaque by the front doors discreetly displaying the fraternity’s letters.
Later that night I lay slumped on a leather sofa in the wood paneled Charter Room, the lamps turned low. On the staircase outside are lined the portraits of young men who’d once lived here, the overall style waxing and waning through the decades. In one the boys are in black and white, their hair cowlicked and clothes smart, in another someone posses in 80s blues brother glasses. I laugh now and imagine the frat with a little bit of Harry Potter mixed in, the pictures talking to each other and swapping frames.
I returned to the United States of America at eleven on a cloudless summer night. Cloudless that is in Boston, in the U.K my planes were chased by bad weather and consequently delayed, the end result being me sitting sweaty and gross on a hulking 747 that refused to move until we were all ready to crucify the air traffic controllers in their air conditioned office. When I eventually landed in America the door hissed open and the passengers emerged white and clammy, gasping at the clean air in a similar state to rescued submariners. As I pushed past the mass of humanity trying to escape our aluminum prison and walked down the labyrinthine corridors common place in all airports, I felt my stomach twist itself into knots. This was (A) due to British Airways food (an oxymoron I’m sure you’ll agree) and (B) to the prospect of the dreaded customs officials that I rightly suspected were skulking around every corner.
What is it about American customs officials that make me feel like I’ve entered a totalitarian dictatorship whenever I pass through their officious grasp? According to my mother “guns and snappy uniforms” turn these mild mannered people into lecturing megalomaniacs who delight at the discomfort one shows as they read and reread your passport as if it were the bible. I half expected the customs team to begin speaking German and end each transaction with a precise “Heil.” This time however I offer customs no quarter and, as it’s nearly midnight, the poor man at his little kiosk lets me through at double time once I’ve explained my failure to fill out entry forms stems from my status as both resident and visitor.
I grabbed my bag in record time, hoisted it over my shoulder and walked slowly into the echoing arrivals hall with its glass walls and shiny metal surfaces. There I met Alexis, swaying slightly she was so tired, and was gratefully bundled into the back of her boyfriend Bobbies retro Mercedes (the sort everyone drives is Russian spy films), resisting the temptation to look behind for secret police in unmarked cars. Through Boston we were quite, the easy silence of good friends traveling together. Bobby steered us away from Logan, over the concrete spine of the big dig and down into Back Bay, a town sleepy now the students have left for the summer. We parked outside his frat, a red-bricked building with a small plaque by the front doors discreetly displaying the fraternity’s letters.
Later that night I lay slumped on a leather sofa in the wood paneled Charter Room, the lamps turned low. On the staircase outside are lined the portraits of young men who’d once lived here, the overall style waxing and waning through the decades. In one the boys are in black and white, their hair cowlicked and clothes smart, in another someone posses in 80s blues brother glasses. I laugh now and imagine the frat with a little bit of Harry Potter mixed in, the pictures talking to each other and swapping frames.
