That’s an Eskimo Kiss!

Day 4:
    So, spending the majority of the preceding evening trying to decipher proxy server issues is not a thrilling way to waste one’s time. Neither is fighting a KML coding program to make a google map appear on your blog. This, alas, is how I spent the evening. Between bites of energy bars, swigs of grape kool-aid and the occasional muttered words incanting the degree of my frustration, the hours of five till one a.m. Passed quicker than anticipated. Yesterday night left me drained of my energy and I awoke a shabby husk with all the vigor of a toxified slug.

    This however is the lowest point of my day - the rest was all up hill (in the good way). Breakfast consisted of twenty cups of Folgers coffee. OK, more like five, but the intent was there. I wandered into the special education class and planned out my day. I would be teaching the kids how to cook Chicken Parmesan. The chicken that was pulled last night was still iced over and the bread I had baked in the oven remained in large chunks that required a rolling pin to turn into crumbs. I placed the chicken breasts into a large bowl and poured cold water over them. I let them sit for the next two hours in order that they may thaw.

    I made my way to the front of the school to sit and talk with the secretary and watch the kids come in. She say’s she sits there every day and waits and watches as her nieces and nephews come to school. Today, she is waiting for the baby. After a few minutes discussing the school, village life and the up-coming potluck; a small child bundled in a blue snowsuit, several sizes to large, waddles in the front door. The secretary gets up to greet him and the kindergarten teacher sweeps out of her room glowing with an impish smile.

    “I’m gun’a kiss you! I’m gun’a get’ch you!” Smirks the woman.

    The child turned to face his assailant, and at that moment she swoops in lovingly with both hands and plants several large, loud and wet kisses on the child’s cheeks. The little one recoils with an expression that is common between all cultures that have small children and loving mother figures. She looks up at me as I smile quizzically,

    “That’s what we call Eskimo Kisses!” She grins as a mischievous smile stretches ear to ear.

The White Beast (the truck not me).

    From here I gathered my things and readied myself for a quick trip into town to pick up mail and post flyers around for the school potluck on Monday. Three of us loaded into a small white Isuzu flat-bed. The kind that is basically a hopped up go-cart with a long bed and a fish bowl for a cabin. The small little truck (if you can call it that) sat two in the front and my companion sat on the back. We bounded down the bumpy road for about five miles to town.

  
     Our first stop with city hall. A small clap-board house that was washed gray by howling winds, frost and years of use. The stairs creaked like the bones of the long dead and more four-wheelers made use of the parking area than cars. A tattered flag flew faded and worn from exposure. The edges of the roof were peeled back to reveal the raven plundered insulation. The stop here was not long. Looking around one could see a good deal of the town. Sprawled out into a three road by three road grid. Most everyone had several snow machines parked in the front of their houses. More still were  four-wheelers.

    The village was littered with discarded pop cans and iced over vehicles that died somewhere back in the Eocene. With the drifting snow and the wind picking up pieces of loose detritus it was like walking into an old west town depicted in a spaghetti western. The town was not filthy, it was well worn. The sort of thing that one would expect to be found tucked away behind a mountain many miles from civilization. Old women and their daughters rode the backs of dusty ATVs to the post office and the shiniest part of the village were easily the snow-machines.

Going to the post-office Manokotak style.

    These beasts were of the highest order, gleaming in the morning sun like freshly procured brand name sneakers from Foot-locker. The snow-goes stood in stark contrast to the meager surroundings. A sledneck’s heaven. Every house had them and all appeared to be of the highest operating standard. Our next stop was the local store. A small building that offered pop at expense and housed copious amounts of canned spam, beans and beef-hash.

Price List

    This store too, was exactly what one expected to see in the wilds. Housing a vast array of amenities that were essential for survival but last on the shopping lists of the so called, upper-crust city-dwellers. No cushy tourist destination was this, with hyped up single serving organic toothpastes or turtle caviar. This, this was Alaska and I loved every minute of it.

     Next on our destination was the bus barn and then the post office. We collected packages for the school and made our way home, jostling down the weathered road. Arriving back at the school I had approximately thirty-minutes before I was slated to teach cooking. I head back to the special education room (not all in this class had difficulties) and readied my things. When the kids where ready, I set them to work rolling the bread into crumbs and showed them how to clean up a fatty chicken breast. I walked them through the steps, butterflying the chicken, making the egg wash and then coating it with bread crumbs. I showed them how to fry it and finger test it for doneness, make spaghetti and prepare the broiling pan for finishing. I then showed them how to set plates and garnish the dish so it looked as good as it would taste.

    I don’t think the kids had seen anything like this. They sat in wrapped attention and several of them kept commenting on how good it all looked. When It came time to eat it everyone was satisfied. One student in particular kept going on and on about how delicious the food was. At one point, he even broke out singing a small song about Chicken Parmesan. As it turned out many had never had, “Italian food” before. This has been one of my favorite moments as a teacher, as I never thought I’d get to go to the bush and cook. After that class I was surprised at how many students in the halls asked me if I would cook for them too. Apparently, word of mouth out here travels at ultra-sonic speeds.

Reading with the kids: John-Peter, Jaslin and Shelby

    The last part of the day I read stories to the kindergartners of the same lady who showed me what an Eskimo kisses was. These children melted my heart. The four of them sat on chairs next to me and asked me all kinds of questions. Where was I from? Did I know their last name? Did I know their native name? Did I have a native name? Why not? Was I to old to get one? Was I going to stay? Was I going to be their teacher some day? Where is Fairbanks? What is it like? Did I want to see their muscles? And plenty more questions that I can barely remember.

    We read Madeline, Starfish, I can’t take you anywhere, Were the Wild things Are, and at least three other books I don’t recall. It was a blast. The kids sat practically in my lap. Which to me was funny - personal space is a commodity that has no demand out here. Little kids are such a great refresher from the jaded middle and high school kids I sometimes see. They glow with energy and remind me why I got into this profession. Before school got out, I went to the gym to sit in on third grade free time. The kids flew around the gymnasium flinging balls, screaming, laughing and shooting baskets. There was enough loose energy in this room to power the school if one could prove ingenious enough to harness it.

    I played ball with the kids and one latched on to my arm as I went to shoot. He grinned an a roguish set of missing teeth at me. And I turned sharply to the left. He still refused to let go, so I spun a little and before I knew it the child was elevated from the ground while I pivoted. He held on, and on, and finally let go when I came to a stop, dizzy and highly amused. Then I realize I was surrounded. They sprung at my arms latching and squealing, “Spin me! Spin me!” It was here, that a game was invented and I spent the rest of the gym period spinning third-graders, two at a time, like a helicopter blade.

The Tipping Point

Day 3:

    Today was a little less confusing, in that, I was able to figure out exactly what it was that I needed to be doing. Further, the addition of actual breakfast this morning was nice indeed. It is so much easier to think straight when there is food in your gut. I went to school a little earlier than usual in order that I may speak with the different teachers and set up an exact time for me to do my observations. I found that yesterday was difficult as I wandered around the school like a stray dog. Today, I had a very interesting conversation with one of the middle school teachers concerning testing. Most of this week has been dedicated to preparations for the tests coming next week. He points out that test review is incredibly important out here as one student and one extra point can be the difference between the school making AYP or not.

    It makes sense, with a smaller student body every point counts all the more. I spent the first period in an seventh/eighth grade class preparing to give a media lesson. One that I had on hand for the concept of beauty. I use the Youtube video: Dove Evolution and discuss what it means to be “beautiful.” I wasn’t sure what to expect. As the class period approached, I got all the ends tied up. I decided to do away with the written portion for the ads after the short video in favor of an open air discussion. I started the class with the prompt, “What does it mean to be beautiful.” I was received with blank stares and a single comment. “It means to be pretty.”

    Right away I could tell I was wrangling a completely different animal. As I sat trying to decide the best way to approach it, the classroom teacher butted in. As I would find out, this would become a running trend through the rest of the lesson. I wasn’t concerned about the kids getting it, nor was I uncomfortable, I was trying to make use of wait time. Yet, I found that it continually got filled by the other teacher, often to the distraction of the students. I managed to get the lesson of the ground and got them to start putting concepts together. Then I showed them the video clip.

    They were shocked. I don’t think that any of them had seen anything like it. We again returned to the discussion about beauty. This time I could see that many of them were engaged, even if they were saying little. We started talking about what it means to manipulate an image or an idea. We talked about selling products and I asked them if they had ever had an experience where they bought something and it failed to live up to expectation. There were numerous responses.

    Interestingly, I found that many of my common analogies did not compute. “Does beautiful mean to be like Brad Pit?” was met with confusion and, “Who is Brad Pit?” Talking about makeup and clothing was a little bit different, so I quickly changed gear and began talking about hunting and fishing gear instead. Talking about tackle and the like, this seemed to get me a little further with the class. After I felt as though they had the idea, we returned to the video and began counting/listing the things that were modified on the model. From lights, to make up, to photoshop. They were very surprised and I asked them if any one could be beautiful with this in mind. They got it, "No!" was the resounding answer.

    I changed over to the print ads and began talking about them in turn, it was clear that one of the ad’s promises to turn, “frizzy hair into foxy momma hair” had no connection to the culture or the class. This was a bit awkward to explain. The Marlboro Man ad was a lot easier for them to dig into. As we came to the end of our ads and the place that I would have my other classes write responses, It became clear that I would not get that kind of involvement. So, I simply asked if we should continue, or if they were board. They wanted me to continue.

    So we used google to look up spoof ads for the remaining ten minutes and talk about those. I was happy to see how on task the class was and considerably more animated than when I had began. I concluded the class and thanked the instructor. After this I made my way down to a different class that caters to the special needs kids, which seems a bit of a misnomer out here. Everyone is intensive aid. Everyone needs a differentiated approach. These kids where in the middle of cooking class, and as it turns out, in need of some assistance with fried rice. Being that I have been a chef for a greater part of my life, I fit right in and the teacher capitalized on my experience. I have to admit this was the best lesson I have ever taught. I love cooking and I love teaching could it get any better? The answer is yes - I could be paid.

    I was invited back tomorrow to show the kids another dish. Looking through the meager food stores, I discovered that I could easily short hand - Chicken Parmesan. I'll write about that in tomorrows entry. I spent the rest of the day helping out around the school. Everything from moving boxes to rehanging doors that did not sit plumb. I spent the rest of the day observing the special education class along with stopping in to play with the little kids in fourth and fifth. I also played a few rounds of basketball against gangs of fourth graders - man I suck at that sport.

    The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful. I went for a walk after school out on to the tundra and circled back to the road, I then returned home and made dinner. After this I slunk back to the school to work on odds and ends until around 12:00 am. I managed to find some time to run around the gym and play basket ball during this time as well. Despite the rocky start, this trip is turing into be quite an experience.

The Nether

Day 2:

Today started in the windy dark of Manokotak at 6:00 am. I woke up shivering as my bag of clothing, gear and sleeping bag is still somewhere in the nether. Stumbling out to the kitchen I put some Folgers coffee into the small coffee maker and hit play. I ate an orange for breakfast. With some luck I will find out whether or not my supplies will make it out to the village today. I really hope this is the case. I was able to haggle for toothbrush and toothpaste yesterday with a few oranges. At least I am not completely out of gear. Clean teeth go a long way to making one feel civil.

I reported to the school at 7:30 and walked into a relatively empty building. Herman was keying away at his computer in the office and a few other teachers were making their rounds within the school. He quickly introduced us to the staff and lead me to the room of another language arts teacher, her name was Whitney. I am surprised to find that the demographic for this school (teachers) is primarily from the Great Lake states. So far I have met three from Michigan, two from Minnesota, and one from Idaho. I have yet to question other teachers concerning what brought them here and where they came from.

The first thing that struck me about the students was that no one here seems to have a proximity bubble. Many students come right up, put a hand on, or stand directly next to a teacher. Further, the teachers don’t seem to mind the behavior. I suspect that this is just one of the facts concerning village life. It appears as though the kids are really close with the staff, closer even than staff and students of “normalized” schools. Whitney’s class was seven students, one of which arrived nearly twenty minutes late. I was introduced, and for all intensive purposes, ceased to exist after that moment. In city schools it seems that the kids are much more interested in you. The class was self directed. One of the students had lessons ready to go on Ulysses (the poem not the book), and students read, wrote notes and a summary. After the lesson students played a game, hide and seek through the entire school.

The justification for the game was that this was incredibly popular back in the time period that these kids were studying. The facts surrounding this matter are debatable, yet the out come was the same - the students disappeared into the school for about thirty minutes. While this was going on, I decided to investigate the other happenings in the school. I stopped in on the seventh and eighth grade students and watched as they read a short text in class. They all had the material loaded onto a personal computer, which was a brilliant idea. The students read as a class and also in small groups. This age range seemed to be much more receptive to an outsider appearing in the class and I was able to talk with some of them about fishing and hunting. It was in this class that I noticed a specific trend for each classroom to have a jar of peanut butter and a bag of pilot bread in them. I eagerly snarked down two crackers as I had been running low on calories out here. It turns out that the pilot bread is for students as a sort-of breakfast program. They had incorporated jelly into the program but the kids ate it like candy and the supply has run itself out.

After this class period I decided to nose around the school a little more, I talked with a few of the students that I saw, although most were reluctant to speak with me. The school out here is split up into several different wings. A wing for elementary, a wing for secondary and a specific nook for tech, head start and a culture class. I watched a physical science class conduct a lab on constant velocity in the gym. It doesn’t appear that reading directions is a standard practice out here in the bush. Getting the kids to actually focus on a task and read the simple directions appears to be quite a formidable task. After the science lab, I sat in on the head-start’s gym class. It was something to see about ten little kids run like crazy around the gym floor.

Even here, the kids are much more self guided than in normal school setting. I think that this is an area I must explore more upon returning to Fairbanks. I discovered three frog bean bags within the treasure chest of toys for the toddler’s gym class. I picked them up and began juggling which, within seconds, cause all of the kids to stop what they were doing and group around me. I think I made quite a few friends in that class period and had several play catch with me and other games like. “look at me.” Speaking with the head start coordinator I was given a run down on the village and asked several questions about whether or not I planned on staying.

Fortune has shined on the expedition yet again, our bags have arrived today so we are no longer hungry. It is a marvelous day indeed. The rest of the day at school consisted of milling around and checking in with the other classes. Not to much exciting to report we have arrived smack dab in the middle of testing week. Everything seems to be geared to test prep. Lunch in the cafeteria was better than what we feed our kids back home. Chicken noodle soup with cheese bread, pilot bread cracker, milk and pineapple pieces. I have been directed toward acorn peek, a mountain I plan on climbing this weekend in my spare time. I hear that it takes approximately four hours, seeing that I haven’t really done this in a long time, Im going to give myself a liberal six. I have to collect the snow shoes and ski polls for the excursion later in the day.

We have also managed to set up our internet servers to accept the wireless routers. It seems to be working well enough. Scratch that - we can’t access the websites we need to so .... Yah..... more on this tomorrow.

The Salmon

    It isn’t an Alaskan adventure if everything goes according to plan. This is exactly what our Exchange to Manokotak is shaping up to be. First off, let’s start with some words for the wise: If someone buys you a plane ticket and tells you to get on, you best get on when and where you are supposed to. Otherwise they are <expletive> expensive to change. This is how the start of our rural exchange began. Due to car trouble and a miscalculation of time we arrive literally, five minutes after Alaska Airlines has stopped checking bags and persons. Four hours on the phone with: two different airlines, the education department, supervisors, Manokotak school and 423 dollars later - tickets are reconfigured for the next day’s departure.

    Tuesday’s arrival at the airport was reminiscent of the Bill Murry film Ground Hog’s Day, but aside from this bit of surrealism, the flights went more or less according to plan. We board, we fly, we hit turbulence, we fly, we land. Lather, rinse, repeat. Arriving in Dillingham we are crestfallen to discover that Pen Air has misplaced our luggage - all of it. Contained in these three bags are our gear and amenities but most importantly - our FOOD. The entire weeks worth of food has somehow disappeared over the skies between Fairbanks and Dillingham. Somewhere sits a red suitcase filled with all the tangible delicacies that a hungry stomach could want. After spending thirty minutes at the baggage claim and another fifteen filling out the required forms a bizarre and, frankly, obscene spectacle befalls me. An elderly native man comes into to the airport to check into his flight. With him, he carries a shabby cardboard box and a small leather bag. After placing the box onto the scale he is reproved by the clerk at the desk.

    “Sir, you cannot transport your fish like that!” scolds a small and weathered woman, “You simply cannot take that with you like this, it is against regulation, it needs to be in a cooler or something,” Her cadence reverberates through the drab Dillingham airport.

    Without so much as a reply the old man removes a scale covered white trash-bag from the inside of the cardboard box, hoists a four foot King by the tail and places it, unceremoniously into a near by receptacle. The frozen tail protrudes from the waste-bin like a ragged tombstone. I feel myself cringe as I watch several days worth of salmon steak and days more of: lochs, skirts, filets and chowder disappear into a trash can that is ten inches to shallow to hold such a feast. I stare at the rubbish bin and the tale wondering if I should go pull the fish from it’s shallow grave and do something with it - anything - even eat it raw. It is at this juncture that I am informed that the last of the bags have been placed on the claim and find that mine are not among them.

    The same weathered woman thrusts two bits of paper into the air in-front of my companion and I while we stare quizzically at one another. Midway through the forms I leer hungrily back at the tail protruding from the canister, debating if I should sacrifice one of my shirts within my carry on to smuggle some of the trashed King to Manokotak. After all - it will be likely a few days before this debacle is sorted out and I am most definitely hungry now.  As I finish my lost baggage form I resolve to hoist the forsaken salmon from the repository and sneak outside to carve off several concealable pieces. As I head for the trash can, an airline worker wearing an orange reflective vest, emblazoned with the airlines moniker heads me off and seizes the tail-fin plucking the salmon from its confines and heads outside. I stand, yet again, crestfallen as I watch dinner walk out the front door.

    In the passing hours, my stomach gurgles as I pass time in purgatory. Three hours I have killed, waiting for the small Cessna to collect me from this place and speed my companion and I to an uncertain town in the middle of Alaska’s back woods. Taking us, with no food and no connections to perhaps one of the hungriest nights I have yet experienced. Only time will tell.

    Good fortune has shined upon the expedition, a shop owner within the airport has generously given us a bag of sandwiches, jerky, and potato chips. All for the mere exchange of a couple oranges. The shop owner refused payment and thrust a bulging bag of groceries into my hands just moments before boarding our flight to Manokotak. I descend the stairs and, with great mirth, show the bulging sack of snacks to Anton. His face lights up as I tell him that they were completely free, a donation for starving students. He greedily eyes a piece of jerky, to which I toss his direction. I return to the bag and dig out my own piece of jerky, I pause a moment before opening the packet and discover that the jerky is expired, as of 2/13/07. Five years ago... I turn to warn Anton, but he has already inhaled the salty snack, I opt to say nothing and see if science will reveal whether the remaining sticks are edible or not.

    The plane ride to Manokotak is uneventful, the small aircraft bounds down the runway and gains altitude with ease, this is truly flying. I miss riding in small aircrafts, large jets are not nearly as much fun. The pilot makes a detour to Togiak first. We drop off several boxes of supplies and take on two new passengers. We circle back to twin hills to deliver some mail and fly on to Manokotak. We land, help load the last few boxes of supplies into the back of a ratty Cheve Van and meet the driver, Queemok, an elderly native man. Queemok drives us to the school, a few miles from the airport, but not before nearly cutting off an approaching plane.

    Queemok slams on the breaks, the rusty Cheve jolts to a halt and Anton bounces off the back of my seat. The elderly man smiles sheepishly and mutters something under his breath. Arriving at the school we meet Herman, the principal of the school who quickly shows us around and to our apartment. The apartment is nicer than anything I had expected. Furnished with: water, beds, shower, washer, dryer, chest freezer, three rooms, a couch, tables, chairs, stove, sink and coffee. This apartment is nearly better than my cabin, though not as rustic, but a far cry better than what I had anticipated. Herman also supplies us with some frozen pizza from the stores and tells us to report to the school at 7:30 in the morning.

    Settling in I go to make my bed. The sheets seem clean enough however there is a large blood spot on one of the corners. As I remove the sheet from my bed I notice a hand written scrawl along the bottom of the sheet. I freeze momentarily as the letters flap out into the air: Life Skills. Much less intimidating than what I had originally perceived written as “_______ Kills.”  Perhaps, this is karma from feeding my friend ancient dinosaur jerky? Either way, as of yet he hasn’t keeled over seized by botulism. After I conclude this entry I may brave the prehistoric jerky myself... Or perhaps, not. In all, today has shaped up to be quite the adventure. I am going to go into the school for open gym tonight and to snap a few pictures of the grounds. More to come later I am sure and God willing my bag of food and gear.