The Intensive

I am tired. I have just finished day 8 (2 to go) of an English intensive course. In my case, my twenty kiddies (uni students actually) take part in the 10 day course and then, do an exam at the end of it. It's not easy on them either, nevertheless, when I finally walk through the door after a long day it's only me I feel sorry for. Last week was a shocker for my thighs. I usually sit when I am with small groups but a group of twenty requires a different kind of energy. Pacing the aisles and standing for the full five hours type of energy. At the end of the day, I cannot be asked to speak a full sentence. One may hear these utterances from me, 'Day? Good?' or 'Dinner? Kebab?' But I have to add, they are a very motivated bunch. I could hold up a pair of socks and they would be off, talking mile a minute, discussing the wider impact of socks on society and debating the advantages and disadvantages. There is nothing better than a group of non-native speakers who are not afraid to speak. We haven't discussed socks, I have been a little better organised. What have we talked about? Hmmm... The Stolen Generation. The movie Australia, however dismal, seems to have brought this into awareness. I was surprised that 80% of them (it would have been 100% if it wasn't for the film) hadn't heard or didn't have a clue what I was talking about. I guess Australia is too far away or Aussie history doesn't rate that highly on the scale of world history. One student did comment that they are so busy learning and relearning their own history that it leaves little time for others. Good point. One earnest lad stopped after class and asked me if I was Aboriginal. He was concerned. Was this my shocking history? Um... no. I had to laugh because I think my Indianess is so obvious. I forget that for some of my students, who perhaps haven't yet earned the dosh to do much travelling outside Europe, one brown skinned person looks just like the next. It's great. I wouldn't be mistaken for anything else in Australia. Here, I am mysterious. I guess I am not making it sound too bad, sounds like a day of chatting and joking with some bright young people. It is fun, but after a day of, 'what means...?' (You mean 'what does... mean?'), 'Can you say me...' (You mean can you tell me ...) and 'This car is only allowed to drive the doctor' (What do you mean?), the alertness required to hear and correct these common errors are enough to drain my batteries completely. After three years of life here, it isn't difficult for me to start to accept this Genglish (or as my sister likes to call it, Ingles) as normal speak. Most invasive and must be stamped out of my speak are, 'Have you hunger?' and 'Have you cooked the water?'
Today was the last day for presentations, I love doing this with the kiddies. They usually present on a hobby or interest. Unless somebody gets up and is all monotone or all we manage to learn about them is um and er (we did have a couple of those) they are pretty interesting. We had a bagpipe player today. A big guy, with a big instrument. I have heard and enjoyed the bagpipes many times but didn't really register how alarmingly loud they can be. Especially in an enclosed area, say... a classroom. Procedure in my presentations requires that them to have an interactive part, the bagpipe player decided that he would play a tune so the the class would know how it went and then he would play it again and we would all have to sing a little Scottish ditty that he had projected onto the board. Here it is :

O flower of Scotland

When will we see
Your like again
That fought and died for
Your wee bit hill and glen
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

So off he went with the first round, the windows were vibrating, the class was laughing, and after those initial notes knocked the wind out of me, getting my breath back, I too couldn't help but laugh. Until he stopped and looked up at us innocently. He was all set for us to sing along. A visual: A class full of German students and one Chilli Walter, launching together into a very uncertain rendition of 'The Flower of Scotland'. There was no singalong. I am, after all, there to maintain some order (party pooper!) and I really was scared a fire engine would turn up wondering who set off the alarm. The kiddies were disappointed, they were all set to give it a go. He played well, I like the bagpipes, but within the confines of a classroom I think the sound can best be described with the adjective 'violent.'