2/15/06

It's test day at the girls' school.

Bumping along the narrow dirt track leading to the college, I think of how alien I must look on my silver-and-blue (although dusty) 21-speed Trek, wearing reflective sunglasses and a white bike helmet- Peace Corps rules. As always, anything I do seems to be worth watching- as I pass, a group of women standing by the pump stare in shock- the woman jerking the handle up-and- down freezes. I raise my hand to say hello, and get a few mute waves in return- as I pass, I hear the chatter begin, undoubtedly about the weird white guy on the bike.

The ever-present kids don't hold back though. "Nah-tahn-yel, Bonne Annèe!" they shout. Happy New Year! I check my watch- it's still February 15th. They do say that life goes slowly here, after all...

Turning down another side path, I pass through the 'Arab Quarter-' as I go by, light(er)-skinned children on either side scream "Nasarra! Nasarra!", one of my least favorite words in any language. I turn again, half-coasting through the sand- I'm almost at the Catholic Mission now. Riding alongside the fenced compound, the shout changes- it's no longer "Nasarra!", but "Père! Père!" Father. I guess any white man with a beard passing within 500 meters of the mission is automatically a Catholic priest, if you're a small Chadian child.

I pull up to the school's gate, and jump off my bike. A girl who looks to be maybe seven years old gapes at me, slack-jawed.

"Bonjour," I say. She doesn't respond, just continues to stare.

I walk my bike through the shady courtyard passing through a mob of girls in matching forest-green blouses and skirts- these are the college kids, junior high. The younger girls, like Tanga and Ka-Idi, who I can see in the other building, simply wear dresses. Stopping to greet the Directeur, I park my bike on the small porch outside his office- I've learned from experience not to leave anything you don't want messed with the reach of Chadian kids. On his shortwave radio propped against the wall, Africa #1 is blaring, and I wince as a squawk of feedback squeals while I'm bent down by the speaker locking my bike.

One of the girls in the Cinquieme class (8th grade) bursts out of the door carrying a whistle, and blows three ear-splitting blasts on it. I look at my watch- 9:15, time for class. Grabbing my bag, I walk towards the Sixieme class' hangar- a few of the girls are milling around outside the entrance, but quickly scurry inside when they see me coming. I duck inside, avoiding a low-hung branch- the sudden shift from the light of the ever-fierce Sahelian sun to the near-darkness leaves me momentarily blind.

"Good morning," I prompt.

"Goooood Mahw-ning, Teechuh," they answer.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

Blank stares. Guess I haven't taught that one yet.

"Vous-êtes prêt?" I ask, saying the same thing in French.

"Oui!" they answer in chorus.

"Good," I say, making my way over to the table in the corner, trying again not to smack my head on one of the large wooden poles making up the ceiling support, infested with termites. "OK," I say, "I want all of your English notebooks up here on the table. You know the rule," I continue. "If I find you using one afterwards, it's an automatic –10." When the highest possible score is a 20, that means something.

I grab my notebook and begin copying the test on the board:

"Write the number in words- 235."

"Answer the question- What day is today?"

"Write in English- Grandpère" (Grandfather).

And so on. The board is precariously balanced between two forked tree limbs, so I have to steady it with one hand as I write with the other. I finish writing.

"Now," I say, "do the questions is order- that means start with number one, and finish with number 16." One of the most annoying habits Chadian students have is to mix up the order of test questions, doing the ones they consider difficult last. In a class of 30 students like this, it's not a huge issue, but in a class four times that size, you can imagine the hassle it creates for a teacher. In any case, I want the questions in order, and I tell them so.

"But we always do the easy ones first," protests one girl.

"Maybe so," I reply brusquely. "Maybe all the other teachers do it like this, but in case you haven't realized yet, I'm not like the other teachers. In my class, you're going to do it my way."

The girl puts on a pouty expression, and looks down at her paper. I start walking around the 'room,' ducking more tree limbs as I search for cheaters, fluorescent green marker at the ready. I know I'll find them –it wouldn't be a test in Chad otherwise. Just to wax philosophical for a moment, the connection between Chad being the world's most corrupt country and the fact that students are unofficially taught from day one that cheating goes unpunished seems obvious to me, if nobody else. I go table by table, picking up the girls' notebooks and flipping through them, searching for English. On my first pass through the room, I find three notebooks and a cheat sheet concealed in a pocket- the second time I find two more, plus a girl sitting on her notebook. Most Chadian teachers don't even bother checking, but as I said, I'm not like the other teachers.

Finally, it's 11:30, and the test is over. I'm amazed that 16 questions can take more than two hours, but somehow, they manage to drag it out to the end. I collect the papers, stuff them in my bag, and bike home as quickly as possible- it's regularly 45ºC + (110ºF) during the day now, and the less time spent in the sun, the better. Arriving back at the house, I get to the tests right away- my English Club students will be arriving in 90 minutes, and I'd like to get the papers graded before my class with the girls tomorrow morning. I look through the papers of the students I caught cheating first, making sure to mark a big, green "-10 TRICHERIE-" I figure I may as well get the discouraging part out of the way. Of the girls who did cheat and lost 10 points, only two of them would've passed, had they been honest. One girl, who I'm convinced doesn't know how to read, and simply bribed her way into the class didn't even bother with the answers- it looks like she simply copied the questions, then sat for two hours. To add insult to injury, I caught her with a cheat sheet.

After correcting the cheaters' papers, I move on to the other girls. Unfortunately, they're just as discouraging- 3.5, 4, 6 out of 20- what the hell? I know that I taught everything on the test, and reviewed it, several times. The bottom line is simply that they didn't study. When I'm finished, I have a grand total of two students with passing grades, and 11.5, and a 16.5. If nobody had passed, I might feel like I was doing something wrong, but the fact that a few did means that it wasn't impossible. That realization doesn't make it any less frustrating though. Feeling annoyed, I pack the papers up with a few minutes to spare, and set out the plastic mat and chalkboard for English Club.

Heading back to school the next day, I know it isn't going to be a fun day- nobody likes to fail, and telling the vast majority of my class they did exactly that isn't something I relish. On the other hand, students here are accustomed to getting bad grades in English, not only because of the ridiculously poor quality of most of the teachers, but also just that they don't study. So as much as it may bother me, it's not really anything new for them. I walk in.

"Goooood Mahw-ning, Teechuh."

"Well, I have your tests," I begin.

"Hai! Vite comme ça?" I hear. Wow! That fast?

"The grades," I continue, "weren't good. I don't know if you didn't study, or what." I hand back the papers; some of the girls see their grade and simply crumple up the papers, tossing them on the ground- others tuck it silently into a notebook. Finally, I get to Honoratta, the top scorer- I hand her a notebook, my standard prize for the best grade. She eagerly takes it with both hands, and goes back to her bench.

I decide it might be time for a pep talk, for them, but maybe to encourage myself as well.

"I know English is difficult," I say, "but if you're going to do well, you need to study. I know that you are smarter than this, and I hope you don't think I enjoy giving bad grades, because I hate it. If you study, I'm sure you'll do better next time."

My words don't seem to have any effect- my next test is coming up in about a month- here's hoping...

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