"This is why you have to be a good teacher"

There's a photo I took on Saturday that wasn't included in the post. The picture shows the landscape of a rocky and grassy hill. There's a bright pink spot on the hill. It's a girl, a student of mine, making her way up and over the hill to where her home lies hidden from view of the camera.

You won't see that photo on this blog. I took the picture for me, to remind me why I have to be a good teacher. But I'll tell you the story of the picture. I don't tell you this story so that you can feel bad for my student. I don't tell you this story so that you'll be impressed with me. I tell you this story because it's true.

Along the road to Pacchanta we saw a number of our students who live in rural communities outside of Ocongate. These students stay in Ocongate Sunday night through Saturday morning and go home on the weekends. Somewhere along the way we overtook Delia, one of the few female students at the camp.

“Where are you going to, Delia?” Iban asked her.

“I'm walking to Pacchanta.” She replied.

“Well climb in!” we all chorused happily.

One of the great aspects of Andean culture is that there's always space in the car for another person going to same direction as you are. We offered her a space in the backseat with Rachel, Lauren and I (it was a big Toyota pick up with enough room for 4 adults to squeeze in back) but she elected to sit in the truck bed with Saldívar who was out there taking pictures as the countryside whizzed by.

We bounced along the dirt road for another half hour. It was like driving in a truck commercial. There were some bumps big enough to toss us all out of our seats. After bumping my head on the ceiling a few times, I turned to check on Delia and Saldívar; both wore grins.

After another half hour of driving we arrived at Pacchanta and climbed out of the truck. Delia thanked us for the ride and said her goodbyes.

“Where are you going?” we asked.

“My community is behind that ridge.” She pointed. There was no community in sight. There wasn't even a road.

“How long will it take you to walk?”

“Another hour.”

We told her to have a good weekend and that we'd see her Monday. Then she started off up the slope. That's when I took the picture.

It's amazing to think how long her normal walk home from school is. It's amazing to think of the sacrifices she and her parents make for her education. For the entire month of February they didn't have a single full day together. She would arrive at lunchtime on Saturday and leave at lunchtime on Sunday.  It's amazing to think that we gave her a ride for half an hour, and that we didn't even save her half the time of her walk. It's sobering.

Saldívar and Karen were reflecting on this as we strolled to the thermal baths. Karen, a wise teacher with years of experience working with students in rural Cusco said something to Saldívar, the idealistic and inexperienced education student, that I'll never forget.

“This is why you have to be a good teacher, Saldí. Your students come so far to learn.”

*An upcoming post will explain more about how this semi-boarding school arrangement works.