Uncle B takes the long way round (Lake Guyon / Cow Stream)

Trotting cannot be considered wombling. For me, wombling is characterised by walking along at a reasonable pace, but one which allows sustained conversation, admiration of scenery, and plentiful photo opportunities. As I chased the two more senior members of our party across the aptly named Racecourse, trotting to try and catch up, I began to question how a definition of ‘wombling’ could be so different, and thought that perhaps this should be updated in the next edition of tramping grades.

Fowlers Hut

The said womble originated from a vague conversation at club night about a lovely three day trip from Lake Guyon in the St James conservation park area. Advertised as having ‘a bit of everything’ and probably being mostly hidden from the forecast bad weather, I was in. So a party of four left Christchurch on Saturday morning bound for Fowler hut. After a fuel stop (pies, muffins and sausage rolls the order of the day) in Culverdon, we continued on through Hanmer and over a slightly snowy Jacks pass. Dropping one car at our finish point we arrived at Fowlers hut and were ready to set off by half eleven. A light dusting of snow and some threatening looking clouds made for dramatic photos of the surrounding mountains, their fantastic scree runs obscured by the fluffy white.

Off up the track in the snow but only with need of ice axes for a bit of balance, we made good time to the top where the wind ensured that it was a quick photo stop before heading down the other side. Ice axes came in handy in a couple of slippery areas of the track but perhaps were not completely necessary. As promised Bernhard ordered up the sun in time for lunch next to the stream, where we practiced our tussock lizard technique even though there was still some patchy snow.

After crossing a couple of streams we came to the first real river crossing of the day. The two with gaiters managed to get across with dry boots, I sacrificed mine reasoning that it wouldn’t be the only river all weekend. Uncle B, determined to keep his boots dry, changed into his special safety shoes (orange crocs), ensuring not only that his boots stayed dry, but also that there was no hope of us losing him. Safety crocs are apparently a new acceptable form of tramping footwer, as they stayed firmly on his feet for the next few of kilometres as we crossed the river a couple more times. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t always stay firmly on the ground, as it seems traction is not one of the selling points of safety crocs. We were informed not to worry however, as the one thing he did learn (and excelled at) during his four months of judo classes as a boy was falling correctly. And indeed, he scored a 7 for his slow-mo banana skin fall and a high 8 for the move commonly known as ‘the canadian goose doing the splits’, although his recovery needed some work.

Uncle B in his safety crocs

The flat track made for good walking and soon we were in sight of and passing Stanley Vale hut in the distance. After a quick stop to contemplate the snowy looking storm clouds advancing towards us across the lake, we made it to the four bunk Lake Guyon hut around 3pm having only had the pleasure of a ‘wee gentle rain’. In residence were a couple of DOC guys who made excellent hut mates. The men gallantly said I could take a bunk, Chris opted out and David and Uncle B did paper scissors rock for the other bunk, which resulted in David taking the tent. Tea was eaten, stories were shared, and there were no mice in the hut resulting in a good night as the rain pattered away on the roof.

Next morning dawned crisp and clear, with the sun illuminating the new snow on the far away tops of the Spenser mountains. A perfect day for what promised to be a few kilometres. I had already booked in half an hour ‘horse time’ with the resident Stanley Vale horse that I had spied the previous day, and we had been promised that the owner, Sean, would be an interesting character to catch up with even if he could sometimes be a little reticent. Possibly because he had spent the previous night with only young foreigners, or possibly because it was such a lovely day, we found our back-country man in high spirits and ready to converse for as long as we wanted. Horse turned out to be a lovely fellow, who really just wanted a scratch, a cuddle and to come inside. I think he would quite happily have come along with us, and later that day I would have been appreciative of his pack carrying skills!

Horse at Stanley Vale Hut

We continued on, sadly without Horse, and began the long wander down the river. The track was a little difficult to see, and our leader didn’t seem interested in it anyway, resulting in a few close encounters of the prickly type. But the sun shone through and it was a perfect day for tramping. About this point the interesting motivational qualities of our leader became apparent. At lunch, in a lovely area of tussock by the river guarded by the majesty of snowy mountains, one of us commented on how it had been a while since we had carried a heavy pack. Uncle B told us we weren’t even half way yet. Secretly, I hoped it was some sort of sneaky reverse psychology.

After lunch we began to climb, and Uncle B apparently wishing to further the reverse psychology seemed to decide that off track (away from the lovely snow poles) might be more fun than on-track. The rest of the group perhaps worried by not yet being halfway, decided that snow poles were the way to go. Annoyingly, Uncle B continued to either pop out in front, or catch us up easily every time that we were briefly separated. He even had time to stop and fix his socks several times, and I still had to trot to keep up. I do not have an explanation for this except that I believe that Uncle B may have a sneaky rockets stashed somewhere in his kit (perhaps in the safety crocs) that he uses when no one is looking.

Racing across the Racecourse

The terrain evened out as we popped out of the scrub onto the tussock expanse of the aptly named racecourse, and indeed the senior members of our party seemed to take the name to heart. The wind picked up somewhat and we watched as the grey misty rain swept past us in the adjacent valley, providing spectacular lighting of the surrounding mountains, but leaving us thankfully dry. Across the racecourse we joined a recently cut but not benched high sidle around the end of the spur heading to Charlies Saddle, to drop down into the Edwards stream. Finding our own short-cut route avoiding a longer route to the saddle took us onto the super-highway cycle trail and into Scotties Hut around 4pm. But was it really Scotties hut? Apparently a hut with an identity crisis, as it was marked with a different name on Uncle B’s map (although this map also read in feet…)

View down Waiou river from high sidle

Three more kilometres to camping at the hot pools, navigating in the twilight, or guaranteed bunks for all in the hut? The bunks won out after a satisfying day chasing the senior members of the party. While this discussion was taking place, our leader’s motivational powers again surfaced, as while we were discussing the possibility of trying to find a campsite in the darkness he reassured us that it would be ok as the sun would definitely come up again the next morning. I was disturbed he thought it might require daybreak in order to find the campsite. David again lost the paper scissors rock competition to Uncle B and ended up on the top bunk – but with no ladders how to ascend to bed for the night? Karen confidently went to demonstrate her ‘bend and wriggle method’ of the night before, only to encounter a low beam and have to resort to the ungainly snake method, much to the amusement of the others. David didn’t laugh so hard when it was his turn to fold himself into the cosy bunk!

We assembled outside the hut just as the first rays of sun threatened the ridges above us. A quick group meeting agreed (or we thought we did) that today would be the day of the yellow brick road, following the 4WD track to the hot pools and then all the way back to the car. So we were surprised when our intrepid Uncle B made a 90 degree turn off the track and headed straight up the hill very shortly after embarking on the journey. Unfortunately he was already ahead of us mere mortals and we didn’t have much choice but to assume a shortcut and follow. During the climb and sidle the sun came up through the end of the valley, lighting up the tussocks in front of us indeed making it seem as if we were walking a yellow tussock road. After being faced with the prospect of some serious matagouri bashing and some map consultation, it was decided that perhaps the next valley would reveal the hot pools. Indeed upon cresting the ridge of the plateau it was clear from the smell of sulphur and appearance of mineral on the rocks that we were heading in a better direction (not to mention the tents perched on the hill opposite), and that the yellow brick road (4WD road that is) would have led us here without any climbing, sidling or matagouri. But it made us feel like we had earned a soak in the hot pools which we duly took advantage of.

Someone has put some work into these pools, with a series of slightly terraced pools giving the choice of temperatures from very hot to something suitable for summer. There was plenty of space and we all piled in to enjoy the warm water, while the sandflies enjoyed our warm flesh. Apparently the safety crocs also act as excellent flotation devices.

A happy party departed the hot pools, again forbidding our leader from straying from the track. Again this lasted about five minutes, though this time the short cut was successful and we soon found ourselves on a very well formed 4WD track heading for the end of the valley and Peter’s pass. About this time the wombling took a serious turn for the worse as our other senior member of the party decided it was time to stretch his legs, and for me at least, we covered some good ground on our way to lunch. It didn’t help that my lack of gaiters had led to a veritable symphony in my boots with water, mud and stones all vying for position with my feet, a symphony audible to anyone else who happened to be walking in my vicinity (obviously not the senior members of the party), and apparently quite amusing.

Lunch was just shy of Peters Pass, where it was again reiterated the desire to stick to the track. So we were not surprised when after 20 minutes of walking up towards the low pass our leader again lost his blinkers and headed off in a different direction. Upon gaining the low pass and the view up the valley we decided that perhaps this time it would be wise to follow the leader to shorten the circuitous route of the track, although I also wondered if this had something to do with my sweeping statement at lunch about my uncanny ability to fall on my face every time I was faced with bog – our new route had to cut across the tussock bog at some stage. It turned out that staying on the solid hillside to the left of the valley and sidling for a time leads to a not too boggy crossing of the flat area, and the track can be regained quite easily on the right hand side. More mud in my boots, but credit to our leader for sniffing out a short cut. The wander down the track in the sun was most pleasant, and probably the most relaxed walking of the weekend. We arrived back at the cars around 3pm to find a sign saying 45km for Lake Guyon Hut to the carpark (the last two days). Uncle B with his leader’s psychology assured us it was definitely not that far.

Overall this was a lovely trip characterised by golden tussocks, snowy sentinel mountains, and wonderful company. At the core, tramping is walking in a sustained and purposeful manner, surrendering to ourselves, and allowing connection and solace with nature. And with this in mind, this was tramping at its absolute best. 

The womblers were: Uncle B (lead wombling extraordinaire), Chris McG (senior wombler), David S (wombler in training) and Karen T (apprentice wombling reporter).

Confessions of a Beginner Tramper

I began tramping with the Christchurch Tramping Club (CTC) about a year ago. I had tramped a little at University, not having had the pleasure of coming from a tramping minded family, and since then had done a few trips in various places but never anything very constant. Upon my return to NZ after 7 years away I decided that it was time to see more of our beautiful country and meet some new people. Little did I know, in my naivety of the time, that this one decision would lead to an addiction that would quickly come to rule my life.

I got myself some boots, a decent jacket, and headed out on a day trip. Now the CTC is an excellent club, and they are very good at giving you information that you might need when starting out. I remember very well our first lesson of the day with Bruce as he asked the party of 12 what it is that kills you in the outdoors. We confidently came up with various explanations - accidents, hypothermia, bad weather, river crossings, rock falls. All wrong answers. But those were all the things I had prepared for! It turns out that it has something to do with the law of lemons, at which point I began worrying as I hadn’t packed one of those. If all the lemons line up, that is when you might end up with one of those outcomes, and so it is all the decisions leading up to that point which are the ones that really do the harm. The three biggest mistakes in tramping are: sticking to an inflexible schedule; trying to please others; and fear (especially fear of speaking up).

I learnt a lot on those first few tramps - but there were plenty of things that the club failed to tell me. So, here is a list of the perils of beginning tramping, so any newcomer can walk into the exercise completely informed.

I learnt after my first trip that if you are a normal level of fit, even if you go on an easy tramp, there is a very high possibility that you will not be able to walk for two days afterwards. What's more, the pain is not worst the day after the trip, rather two days after the trip, which means you are almost certainly at work. It can be difficult to explain why exactly it is that you are shuffling along the corridor or holding onto both walls as you try to descend the stairs, one at a time, hoping that your tired thighs do not give way underneath you. You may also end up having to wear sandals to work, even in the middle of winter, because you have skin falling off random parts of your feet. People will ask you why you subject yourself to this, and you may wonder why yourself. However, come the next weekend you have forgotten the pain and will happily put yourself through it all over again. Beware, this is the first stage of tramping addiction.

One of the wonderful aspects of tramping with a club is that they will take you places off track right from your first day. This is great fun for a baby tramper as it makes you feel like you are roughing it like the big boys. It comes with its own set of drawbacks though, as if you are like me, you may still be developing your coordination. I did not think much of this until one fateful night when I decided to go for a swim. The exchange went something like this:

Random stranger: Are you ok?

Me (puzzled): Yes, I’m fine thanks.

Random stranger, hand on my arm: No love, are you ok, really?

Me (puzzled and somewhat disturbed): Umm yep. I’m fine.

Random stranger: You can talk to me, I understand what you are going through. (Gestures to my bruises and scratches, accumulated over a couple of weekends of tramping and in various stages of purple / green healing)

Me (finally understanding): Oh these? I fell over, that’s all.

Random stranger (smiling and shaking her head): Ok, whatever you say. But if you need to talk to someone, you can talk to me.

That’s right, become a tramper and you may get mistaken as a victim of domestic abuse. I think it is amazing that someone would be brave enough to come up to a complete stranger and check they are ok, but I really am ok. Unless you can help me with my tramping addiction? At this point it is becoming difficult to turn back.

At around this time the relationships with your family and friends begin to change too. Your family and your flatmates suddenly become acquainted with the standard procedures for a search and rescue callout. Not that you should need them, but someone has to be left with your intentions. My mother was most upset with this to begin with, but now her prowess at knowing what to do is something else on her skite list for her knitting circle friends. Not so much the fact that her daughter is off galavanting around the hills every weekend instead of joining her own knitting circle.

Your normal friends suddenly can’t see you at the weekends. They do not understand why it is that you have to be in the hills every weekend or why they have to book you in for events at least a month in advance, and even then if it is a sunny weekend they probably still won’t see you. If the weather is terrible you may attend social functions in town, but you will spend most of your time either talking about the weather, checking the metservice / metvu / yr websites on your phone, or peering out the window to see if there is any break in the clouds. Don’t worry - you will make new friends who are as obsessed with the weather as you are and all the talk on Facebook from Wednesday to Friday will be about this topic. At the point where you start making these new friends you are perpetuating your addiction. There is still time to get out. It won’t be easy, will involve going cold turkey and through severe withdrawal, but I believe that at this point it is still possible. Beyond this point I have my doubts.

The browser history of your work computer begins to show the ill effects of your addiction from around this point onwards. Your favourite websites will include the weather websites aforementioned, and a range of sites containing trip reports, topo maps and mountain photography; collectively known as mountain porn. The lure of this mountain porn is especially strong on a Monday morning after a weekend out in the hills. Luckily on Mondays you not only have these wonderful mountain porn sites, but also Pat Barrett’s column in the Escape section of The Press. My workmates are all aware of the importance of this piece of literature on a Monday and save the section especially for me to drool over as I drink my morning coffee. Trying to remove this reading is like trying to pry food away from a polar bear after 6 months hibernation. If you are at this stage of addiction I hate to tell you, but you are beyond help. Accept and embrace the new you.

As you now have a fully ceded addiction it is time to know a few others truths about your transition from sometimes tramper to always tramper. 1) Long johns under shorts will become normal weekend wear. They are now acceptable at anytime during the weekend, any place, including in the city. You will have no problem walking into the supermarket, around Merivale or popping into town to pick something up in this attire. In fact, you will find that the shorts even become optional. 2) You wake up on a Saturday before your 7am alarm and spring out of bed to go tramping. Every other day of the week it is a struggle to climb out at 7.30am. 3) You have a total disregard for how bad the weather may have been - as far as you remember the wind and rain never even touched you, it was an amazing trip. 4) You begin to check weather websites more than you even check for Facebook updates, and become an expert weather forecaster just from the hours you spend looking out your office window.

And the strongest and scariest part of the addiction is the overwhelming need for more, to go higher, to go further. I remember my first real mountain, in Arthurs Pass National Park. It is not a named peak, rather the grandly named Pt 1844 directly across from Avalanche peak on the way to Mt Aickin. We had driven to the pass for a basecamp weekend, and a late start ‘wander up a hill’ was suggested. I confessed that I hadn’t done a lot of hill climbing but the leader gallantly took me along anyway. I remember about half an hour into it being ready to give up. The path was insanely steep (in my baby tramper opinion) and there had already been three signs warning of the dangers of the steep path ahead. After a strategically placed muesli bar stop and a lot of good natured cajoling from our amazing leader, we continued slowly (very slowly), upwards, and up and up and up. As we popped out of the bush all the hurt was forgotten. I was into the majesty of the mountains and they erased all of the pain to get there. From there it was ‘well maybe just to the next knob’, until it was ‘can we go to the top?’ The achievement of standing on Pt 1844 (now forever known to the three of us as Mt Karen), surveying the surrounding peaks, valleys and rivers on a bluebird day was the end of me. Elation, euphoria, grandeur, the words mean nothing. At that point I graduated from being a beginner tramper, a sometimes tramper, someone who tried tramping, to being a forever tramper. The need to go higher and further really began that day, and I hope that it never ends.

I have been informed by my ever patient teacher of that day that there is in fact a cure for tramping addiction. In his words: ‘The only proven cure for tramping addiction is to work a little and go tramping more often´. In his wisdom he has so far been totally correct, and I fear that this may be the truth.

So what is it that keeps me going back for more? It is like a drug, and it is difficult to quantify. For me, the backcountry contrasts from everything that we rely on in the city. The grand scale and basic premise of putting one foot in front of the other belittle the real benefits of something that seems so easy. The hard part is to let go of everything that goes out there with you and to allow yourself to just be there, a part of it all, neither dominating nor submitting to the surrounds. It is the art of being still of mind and allowing the invasion of this grand space into your body, your spirit, soul. And when this happens, you may just find yourself renouncing the clutter and heading for the hills, over and over and over again.

This is not a nice story

Yesterday I was called in at the very last minute to teach a first period year 9 English class. I walked in and hurriedly started trying to figure out what on earth I was going to teach, and not completely freak out, while looking completely nonchalant and calm. Not easy when you have 40 kids yelling at you and throwing paper across the room.

Class started with some basic English warm-up exercises and I finally had their attention after we revised how to say the numbers in English, something relatively difficult apparently. Transitioning into the real work of the day I asked everyone to get out their notebooks and pens. This generally requires going from desk to desk asking each student individually, which I diligently started to do. Reaching the end of the room I asked one student to take out his notebook, to which he flatly refused. Calmly and politely I repeated the request, to which he again refused, telling me he didn't have his English book. I replied that that was fine, no problem, but perhaps he could take out another book and later transfer the information to his English book. Again he refused. I took a big breath and asked him to please find some paper and a pen from somewhere as it was essential to the class and moved away, trying my best to ignore my rising frustration.

I continued with a basic revision of verbs and their translation, to which my stubborn student was quite vocal and knowledgeable. The idea was that when a student successfully guessed the translation, they then wrote it on the board. My stubborn student got one right, I made to hand him the marker, and he flatly refused to take it. I was now becoming frustrated because the other students were beginning to understand my lack of control and I was sure he was just being difficult. He was yelling loudly and distracting other classmates. After insisting a couple of times, I also let this slide. It was only 8am and I hadn’t even had time for a cup of coffee.

As the students began to copy the work from the board my difficult student still hadn't taken out paper or a pen, and was still disrupting those around him. Ok, action time, this cannot continue. I went to speak to him, and again asked him what the problem was, and to please take out a book, any book, just something to write on. He of course refused, and then told me that 'Maybe if you learn to speak proper Spanish then I might do something for you, but until then, no'. Taking a really big breath and trying not to lose my cool I told him I would have to call and inspector, the 'policemen' of the Chilean school.

When the inspector arrive the three of us had a conversation outside, at which time my student explained that if he used paper from another book his mother would get angry with him. I told him no problem, send his mother to me, and the inspector aggreed with me. Although reluctant and petulant, my student returned to the classroom and took out some paper.

Relieved, I smiled at the inspector and thanked him. He began to tell me that this is a very special student, to which I replied probably somewhat sarcastically, óbviously´. ´No Karen, he is very special, he has psycological problems´. Ok, I was kind of gathering as much. ´No Karen, real problems´. At this point I am thinking drugs, attention deficit or maybe a bit of Aspergers, nothing I haven't encountered before. And then he says it. 'He was abused and raped by his mother'. 

I have nothing to say. I feel sick, I want to cry, I hate myself for being frustrated with him. I feel useless, I don't have the tools to deal with this. And I have to go back to my class of 40 students and continue with my completely unplanned lesson as if nothing has happened. And I have to treat him as normally as I would any other kid, and try not to stare, and not ask him how he gets through his days. I have to try and relate to him, and build a connection of trust, although he must hate women, and we really have nothing in common.

When I do return to the classroom, he is actually trying to write something down, but his hands are shaking, and he proudly shows me how terrible his handwriting is and that is why he won't write on the board. He keeps making mistakes, and then ripping the paper from his book and tossing it from the back of the classroom to the front, in the general direction of the rubbish bin. I can’t tell him off for it. I circulate around the room, trying not to think about my problem student, and when he finally manages to write a few words from the board I praise him. Thankfully the class finishes quite quickly and I get to walk out of that reality, back into something more comfortable, just the normal problems of drugs and thieving. 

Every week I hear another story, and they are terrible. Every week I am frustrated in class by naughty students who are totally disrespectful and disruptive. And every week I wonder what is behind it. Now I know the story of just one boy, I am not sure if I can handle hearing the stories of the rest.

Onwards and Upwards...

I am in love with my new job. I feel like I am helping people who need it and appreciate it. 

I am starting a marketing campaign to spread the word about our programme and how people here in Santiago can be a part of it. I will be distributing this letter to all my foreign friends, so I thought I would share it here too (and hopefully an update of my progress with time too....!)

Dear friends...

As most of you will already know I assumed the position of English coordinator in 3 schools at the start of June. I want to tell you a little more about the project and how you might be able to help.

The schools are part of a network of 8 subvencionado schools under the ownership of Canadilla. This means they receive money from the government and a small amount in the way of fees. The schools are situated in low socio-economic areas (Puente Alto, San Joaquin and San Miguel) and the typical student does not receive a lot of support from home. Many of the students come from difficult circumstances and this is reflected in their behaviour in the classroom and general attitude towards education. The schools that I work in are all technical schools, which have education from basic to high school level with many of the students specializing in a technical area (mechanics, electronics, secretarial, gastronomy, tourism) in their secondary years. While these schools also have the traditional humanity / science secondary education too, it is very rare for the students to continue on to university.

The project is to improve the level of English and motivation of the students to learn English throughout not only the school but also the wider community. For this we need help. We are under-resourced and short on time. There are up to 45 students in a class, with tired teachers who have been fighting the same system and teaching the same thing for 30 years. It isn’t easy, but it isn’t impossible either. These kids are really interested in foreigners and every time I enter a class they are asking where I’m from and why I am there. I teach a workshop of 16 year olds. The first class they mostly just looked at me slightly amused at my antics and continued with their conversations in Spanish. Now they arrive early, attempt to speak English in class and I have to kick them out of the classroom at the end. They sing, they dance, they speak English and they know that my classroom is a safe place.

If you have ever wondered what the reality of the Chilean school system is like, or why they are marching in the streets, I invite you to come and see my schools. You can come anytime and accompany one of the English teachers or myself. If this sounds like too much commitment I ask for only one day. In October we are running an English day in each of the three schools, and we want to get a big contingent of foreigners there. Spread the word. There will be a karaoke competition, music presentations, typical food, information about scholarships and study options, but most importantly foreigners. People who can provide insight into other cultures around the world, people who can inspire. These kids don’t think they are important, and we want to show them that every kid is important, and that the way out of their present reality is education.

A little positively goes a long way and costs us only our time. Please get in touch if you are interested in helping out, and feel free to pass this message on to others that might be willing to gift us some of their time.

Kind regards,

Karen Tait

English Coordinator

New beginnings and big challenges

I began looking for some new challenges around the end of last year. Finally I decided to take the plunge and I have changed job. I loved my position with Grant's English, and institute I would recommend to anyone looking for work in Santiago, but in terms of professional development there were not too many avenues left to me. So I have changed positions, and quite frankly I feel like I have changed worlds.

I am now working as an English Coordinator in 3 semi-private schools in some of the lowest socio-economic neighbourhoods in Santiago. There have very few resources, enormous classes (up to 45 kids) and very little support from home. All three are technical highschools which include education from kindergarten to year 12, but with the senior years having the option of focussing on a technical profession (gastonomy, automotor, electrical, secretary, early childhood education or tourism). 

I am in charge of organising the English programmes in these schools, including teacher observations, teaching and promoting workshops with students and parents, and organising English events such as 'English day' which will take place in October. The level of English is so low in these schools that in the annual national examination which takes place in year 11 in one of the schools none of the students passed. Admittedly the ministry set an exam which was out of the league of most of the schools involved (there goal is an A2 level upon completing school), but to not even have one student able to achieve an A2 was astounding to me. In saying that, I have one or two teachers who may not yet be of an A2 level.

The event that more or less summed up my week happened on Thursday. I was going to teach a workshop to an unknown number of 15-18 year olds with a completely unknown level (though I was warned they would probably be low). I walked into the classroom which was a mess and looked around for a board marker, no board marker or eraser. I asked the kids and they laughed at me. I asked the teachers and they laughed at me. I asked the academic directors and they more or less laughed at me. So I went to the director who didn't laugh, but told me he could probably have a marker for me by next week. Teachers are issued one refillable board marker for the year, that's it. One board marker, 45 students per class, 10 classes per teacher. So I guess they are issued one board marker and 450 students for the year. Welcome to the reality of education in Chile Karen.

The good news, is that barring the students going on strike for most of the year as happened last year, I can't really see the situation getting any worse. I don't think that there is much room to do any damage, the only way is up! Wish me luck.....

Riding the metro

So many stories encapsulated in one space. Each is a walking book, some romance, some drama, some history. They are of differing lengths, quality and interests; some are dry and crisp, others have pages full of cross-outs and soggy from tears. Each of us carry this book with us, sometimes it weighs us down, other times it provides support, but it is always there. What is the form to tap into these stories, each valid in its own right.


Maybe to think of them as books is an old-fashioned concept, antiquidated and gathering dust. What if they were each movies and each of us had a screen implanted in our backs, like on a 747. Would you be brave enough to set it to play? Would I? Would you be brave enough to let others see your life laid out in full colour? Would you be proud? How interesting it would be just to glimpse a little of the story of these people riding this steel tube with across the city with me. Similarities, differences, all relevant. Would we learn from others or are we blind to mistakes until we make them ourselves? Is it a mistake for another person in the same circumstance, or an opportunity? Who knows, but it's an interesting paradigm. All these untapped stories, words, floating around waiting to be captured.

Learning from our Teachers

They say that a great teacher doesn’t teach you, they lead you to discover things yourself. I believe in this completely and have had luck to have had many great teachers in my life, not just in the classroom. They have each taught me something different, and the greatest lesson is not usually the one apparent on the page in front of me.

My first two teachers of influence were my primary school teachers. Mrs Dobbs and Mr Harding taught me to love learning, and to always be inquisitive about things. They taught me to find answers for myself and never be happy with mediocre. They demanded the best, and by setting standards high you can achieve high.

My Highland dancing teacher, Mrs Hawke, taught me that kindness is inspiring. Students want to please their teacher, and even more so when that teacher is someone that they admire and love. Likewise my second piano teacher taught me that praise, patience, and kindness motivate a love and passion for of an activity, whereas my first piano teacher taught me that negativity does not.

But one of the biggest influences in my life was my first swimming coach, Roly Crichton. He taught me to fight. At times I truly hated him. He used to set me impossible goals. We would do relays, but I didn’t have anyone else on my team and had to swim the whole thing myself, and the other team got a head start. He used to pit me against boys twice my size and tell me to beat them. He used to set me long sets on impossible times, used to tell me that even though that was the fastest I had ever swum it wasn’t fast enough. He used to make me race every event in a carnival just to toughen me up. He used to yell at me, and I used to yell back. It wasn’t polite, it was passion and frustration, and those things drove me to be better. And it worked. As long as I believed it was an impossible task I wanted to conquer it. Mostly because I knew that he believed I could do it, therefore it wasn’t impossible. And this has been a theme in my life ever since. Tell me something is impossible and I will try and find a way of doing it. He used to say that they might be bigger, stronger, more experienced, have trained for more years and hours in better conditions, but you are tougher. And when it comes down to it, there are two people, in the same pool of water, and the tougher person will win. And I didn’t think this was impossible, I believed it because he believed it. This strategy didn’t work with all the swimmers, but it did with me. Thanks to him I swam in competitions around the world, met amazing people, won medals in Europe and Australia, and discovered a love of other cultures and people that is still driving my movements now.

Somehow, today I am a teacher. I need to learn this lesson again, but in a different form. I need to find ways of inspiring this level of motivation in my students. This time around the pool of water is a bit bigger – I have every type of student imaginable, and all of them will be inspired through different forms. Somehow I have to tap into all these different forms and utilize these internal motivations to produce achievement and success. And this means learning all the lessons I learned before from a different perspective. Teaching really is about learning, and although some may say this is an impossible task, that just inspires me to find a way to overcome it.