Nicaraguan Teachings

The young boy shakes his head at the suggestion of snow. He has never heard of it. The fragile flakes of winter have never touched Elmo’s dusty schoolyard and he shows no interest in the concept. Elmo isn’t his real name; it’s a face on a shirt, an identity he’s chosen to go by when confronted with foreigners.
The thought of this is baffling, but this is a village that does not know cold. Lying near the equator in a seasonal vacuum, Nicaragua bakes in endless sun. Even the nights we have spent here are warm, comfortably spent on the floor of an open-air classroom. The days are a whirlwind of heat, dust and exhaustion. Today we are here to teach English to kids like Elmo but the gulf is so wide that I barely know where to begin. I try again, using a jumble of broken language:
“Por agua, but cold? Frío?”
I fail. Like any child, Elmo hates being forced to learn. He sidetracks me onto the local running of the bulls. He wasn’t allowed to attend by his mother (“peligro más”) and he craves information from me. The Tope de Toros is an annual festival held here which we’d witnessed first-hand. The beasts chased lean, sinewy young men led through the town square and a vast crowd of people. I’d climbed a tree to escape the charge, and sat nestled with local teenagers to avoid the panic as horsemen made vain attempts to corral the herd.
I tell Elmo none of this. “Si, peligro más.” I try to turn his attention back to snow, but he’s still not interested. A moth the size of my hand has just landed on a wall nearby, beneath which a proper teacher urges some children to stop poking a hornet’s nest. Across the yard, a rabble of schoolboys are playing football, barefoot on gravel and concrete. Behind us, two girls are howling with laughter at pictures on my friend’s camera. Besides their reflection in the backs of spoons, they rarely get to see their own faces. The schoolyard is abuzz, sweat pours off my brow and I lose motivation too. Elmo points at the swing, his face a picture of joy. I relent and we go over to it. His excitement is infectious as he tugs at my hand. He hoots with delight as I start pushing. “Más!” he shouts, “más!”
Around us, the chaotic choreography of the playground goes on. Beyond lies the town’s dormant volcano, an ominous shadow behind endless patchwork slums. An unforgettable kaleidoscope world of noise and colour. And at the centre, laughing on a rusty swing, a boy who won’t learn, pushed by a teacher who can’t explain snow. We make a fine pair.