la ruta y el parque (the school bus and the park)

One of my favorite daily sights is the dog walkers. Every morning, going up on the Avenida Circumvalar (which circles (circumvents?) the eastern part of the city, up on the edge of the mountain), we pass through a nice area of apartment buildings and private parks and such, and there are usually a few folks along the way who are out walking armfuls of dogs.

This week in the park where the school is I saw a small, scruffy dog in a dingy dress playing with a kickball. It put its front paws on the ball and walked backwards, moving in circles with the red rubber ball. I imagined it to be the practice time of a washed-up circus act, no one but me paying any attention, let alone pesos.

Friday afternoon the kids had P.E. class, so I went outside with them and Profe Lucas to the ball court. At first we had the whole court to ourselves, which is rare in that park, but soon a group came up to use half of it. This group was a little different than normal, though. Instead of the elementary kids in their matching uniforms or occasional teenagers in street clothes, this time about fifteen women all dressed very modestly in dark gray and many wearing large cross necklaces had come out to play basketball. That’s right: nuns! As I mused over the monastic life and their choice of exercise, one of our students strayed onto their side of the court with the ball, almost getting run over by the enthusiastic b-ballers. Luke yelled, “Cuidado con las monjas!” (Careful with the nuns!), to which he and I both died laughing. I mean, really, how often do you get to use that phrase?

Every afternoon on the ruta taking the kids home, we play “I spy.” Yo veo algo… verde! And then begins the guessing (and my asking kids to not shout). Today we played until we got tired, then Ingrid suggested the game where you search for the letters of the alphabet, in order, on signs that you pass along the road. Thank the Lord, going through that game twice lasted until we dropped them off. Today was way better than yesterday’s ride, during which they wouldn’t stay seated and insisted on yelling most of the way – at each other, at us, out the window at the president’s palace “Hola, Presidente Uribe!” (I actually encouraged that one; and had to correct one kid when he first shouted, “Hola, Presidente Chávez!” Wrong country, friend.) They continued shouting, and got louder the closer we got to their barrio, which is called “PARAÍSO ALTO! PARAÍSO ALTO! PARAÍSO ALTO!”
Somehow, most of the way 6 or 7-year-old E. slept on my lap, in spite of his friends’ attempts to wake him with shouting. Before zonking out in my arms, he babbled on about the cars and motos and policías we passed along the way. Most of the time I couldn’t hear or understand him, but once I caught the word cárcel: jail. I looked down at him and asked what he was talking about. “¿Cierto que a los marijuaneros se los van a llevar a la cárcel?” (Isn’t it true that the potheads are going to be taken to jail?) I agreed, we talked about it a bit, and I managed to keep my laughter in until later when I told Ingrid about his conversation.