Every Thursday afternoon I go to Creepy Ditch. No easy task. The van bumps and seesaws over 10 cm deep canyons in the road, jostling the packed occupants. (China has officially cured me of car sickness -- I can now read anywhere.) The traffic is thick and chaotic. After almost two months of this, I've become numb to daily near-collisions and my heat-rate barely rises. It's when the entire car goes berserk -- screaming a torrent of Mandarin two octaves above normal -- that I get afraid. That's only happened once. After rough highways and the maze of downtown Taiyuan, we move to the outskirts of the city. The alleys become narrower, there are fewer shops and more garbage. Heaps of wrappers and plastic bags marinate in sewage. Feral cats and dogs grub through the mess, hopeful for a snack. Then we turn left here, make a right, another left, and at last we're there. Creepy Ditch.
It is anything but creepy. I'm greeted by a pack of kids dangling on the gate bars. They are happy and loud. I can't tell if they're excited because we're there or because it is recesses, and suspect it's a little of both. About four of them give us an official welcome as we enter the gate. Usually they wear red handkerchiefs tied around their arms, heads or necks.
Suddenly, Jingle Bells blasts from the loudspeaker and the students stampede to their classrooms. That means it's time to start. I find my room, take a breathe, and go in. They all greet me. The timid ones steal a glance and then turn to giggle with friends; the bold ones shout a hearty "Hallo!" and wave furiously. I'm glad I have a Chinese-speaking helper to keep order. By myself, it'd be like trying to pick up oily marbles with chopsticks. After calming them down I begin the lesson. It's important to exaggerate everything (which I'm good at): it makes them laugh and understand you more. By the end I'm smeared in chalk dust.
I love Creepy Ditch. I will really miss these kids.
[Picture: four of my 4th graders]
