Class Warfare

We have now arrived in Cuzco and begun our volunteer placement at a preschool for 3- 5 year olds. Upon arrival Chris and I were separated and he was turned over to the five year olds. I was ushered into a roomful of three year olds. 'Muñeca!' they all shouted while launching a full scale assault on my legs. I later looked this up. Muñeca means 'doll'. Apparently this is complimentary but also a little weird- are Peruvian toddlers supposed to use the terminology of 1940s gangsters? Later several kids ripped the head of a doll during playtime. I tried not to think of this as an omen.

We have quickly settled into a routine that is part open warfare and part diplomatic counteroffensive. God, children are artful and sly. My role as a classrom assistant is as yet murkily defined and has incorporated a range of activities. Toothbrushing en masse has proved challenging, as the kids, while perfectly capable of performing this task themselves, either use the brushes to perform a number of quite serious physical assaults on each other, play dumb, spit water at you or, most worryingly, decide to scour the inside of the urinals with their brushes. Snack time has also been a revelation. I remember distinctly from my own childhood that snack used to be either malt loaf or chopped up apple- foods that have a minimal destructive potential. Here in Peru all snacks are designed for maximum havoc. Knucklebone soup, granola with throwing yoghurt, and t-bone steaks have all made an appearance. They may as well ask the three year olds to roll their own sushi. The basic aim of snack from my perspective is to avoid the pinpoint airstrikes of Orlando, who is highly adept at flicking gunge with a spoon, while simultaneously trying to force feed Hayley, who refuses to eat a mouthful unless you pinch her nose shut first (I'm exagerrating. Probably.) After an hour of this you hose yourself down and herd the little monsters into the playground where they try to kill each other. Fortunately they have only 15 minutes to accomplish this. Playtime is actually the worst bit of the day because you are compelled to take sides in any number of tiny-people wars. And occassionally something serious happens. Playtime makes me feel old. When I was a kid people smashed each other up and some whiny child would invariably fetch the teacher. The teacher would ask who started the fight and then would offer a banal platitude and walk away. Normally you would recommence fighting at once. Now I am the teacher but I have no moral authority to stop fights at all. I catch myself repeating all the phrases I hated most from my own teachers- 'go and play with someone else', 'it doesn't matter' and (what a derelinction of duty) 'thank you for the information'. I'd just uttered this last one with a sense of profound weariness and self loathing when a child arrived with a new and vexing problem.

'Teacher, Oscar Fernando has just done a poo.'

Now this threw me. I looked over at Oscar Fernando who was squatting over by the bins with a look of concentration on his face. What exactly had I been informed of? Has Oscar Fernando shat his pants? Has he done a poo in a quiet corner of the playground (he looked the type). Or was I merely being invited to share the news that a child had perfectly properly conducted his business in the correct location at an indeterminate time prior to this revelation and to give my approval on the matter? I mulled this over for a few seconds and then took the coward's way out 'Thank you for the information', I said- 'but I think you need to tell the REAL teacher'.

You have to draw the line somewhere.

I never found out the outcome. Oscar Fernando was taken away and quizzed but he returned later for 'listening hour' in which we listened to an oboe concerto by Tellemann and played invisible instruments. This is designed to be soothing, along with some calisthenics we do afterwards, but by the time it comes to drawing time the kids are whacking each other with chairs or eating crayons regardless.

Exhausted after work we hang out in our house, which has twenty volunteers in it and where, through the delights of beer and shots, we behave at least as badly as the three year olds. Life is full of difficult decisions these days. 'Shall we go and dance on a bar and neck rum'? someone asks. Thank you for the information, but I think you need to ask a REAL grown up.