Hanging out with little people

It is that time of year again; the leaves are off the trees, there is dirty snow on the ground, the students are tired and eager for the coming break, the teachers more so, the classroom is littered with part finished winter decorations and I am permanently covered in glitter. For two weeks at the end of every year I am driven to distraction by sparkles catching my eyes and stuck on the end of my nose. Regardless of the mess, the glitter annoyance, and the fact that everyone is tired, as I am wrapping up 2012 I have come to the realisation that I love what I do. It's taken nearly nine years, but better late than never I say.

This may seem like a strange observation to make, not many people can say they truly love what they do, but in teaching you often meet a large number of those who do. Teaching is not a job people usually find themselves in unless they love spending time with children. I am ashamed to say that is not the case for me.

I started teaching in Thailand in 2001. I had never really liked children and it was purely a means to an end; I was living there and needed to do something to earn enough money to survive. I found myself doing what about 80% of western people did at the time... standing in front of a class of people who barely understood a word I said, trying desperately to look like I knew what I was doing, and fighting the impulse to run screaming out the building. That first year was a baptism of fire and I’m not sure how I ever ended up doing a second year. I was obviously lacking in sense in my early twenties.

While I have always loved the perks of being a teacher; free periods, travel opportunities, unrivalled holidays and no two days the same, I never really liked the contact hours. To be honest, initially for the most part I didn't even like the children. During the first few years my fondness of the students thankfully did increase; I realised that on the whole they were quite harmless, and that the classroom actually wouldn't burn down when I ran out of ways to keep them busy. In fact, at times, it was almost fun. I still didn't really like teaching and preparing lessons, and still liked the classroom best when there was no-one in it, but as far as jobs go it definitely wasn't the worst thing I have ever done.

Finding myself still teaching six years later, having limited career alternatives available, and being unable to face the thought of losing the three months of paid holiday a year, I decided that if I was going to keep teaching then I might as well do it properly. Confident that with six years of experience I would find a training course a breeze, Nick and I set off to Australia for a high speed teaching qualification. When we started the course it quickly became apparent that apart from classroom management (teaching a class of up to 34 six year old boys has got to be good for something), we didn't know much at all. We had been doing the best possible job we could as untrained teachers, but there was so much we had missed. It was a tough year with some tough teaching experiences. Definitely not a breeze.

Last year was our first year as qualified teachers, and for those who follow the blog you'll know that for all the training and experience we had had, nothing could prepare us for the work and stress that was to come. We spent the entire year fighting hard to keep our heads above water. There were tears, tantrums and full on nervous breakdowns from me as I questioned whether it was the easy career choice I had thought.

Eight years on, my second year as a qualified teacher, and all the pieces of the puzzle are finally coming together. Now that I can do it properly, or thereabouts, the contact hours have become more of a pleasure than a chore and even planning lessons can be enjoyable. I always used to question the boundless energy and motivation displayed by some of the supremely dedicated teachers I have met. Now I find that instead of being desperate to down tools at the end of the day and get as far away from school as possible on the weekends, I find myself reading and thinking about school stuff a lot of the time, and while I wouldn't go as far to say that I look forward to Monday mornings, there are times after a weekend in sleepy Ifrane that I’m not far off.

Now... if only someone could enlighten me with a fun way to do report writing and life would be perfect.

Let it snow...

I am frequently one to rave about the amazing weather we are blessed with in Ifrane; not too hot, not too cold, and usually with a crystal clear sky. With the occasional arrival of bad weather, the old-timers would laugh and say 'you haven't seen anything yet' as we sat in the clouds and the rain whizzed horizontally passed. We heard tales of tremendous blizzards, with roads closed, temperatures as low as -27 degrees C, and snow higher than the windows. Hearing all this we were somewhat disappointed when, having brought a snowboard out with us, there was barely enough snow for one week of sledding last year. It was with this in mind that when the temperature dropped last week I urged the snow to come. Each night the clouds rolled in and it started to snow, but each morning there was barely a dusting.

Friday morning we woke up and looked out of the window into solid clouds. On the way to school there was already a light covering of snow on the ground. We were due to leave for the Spanish enclave Melilla straight after school and it was supposed to snow all morning. Saying that, we weren't too concerned as the snow that was falling was fine and powdery, looking almost like spray snow out of a bottle. We figured something that fine wouldn't really stick.

The snow continued silently. Busy in the classroom with fogged up windows, it wasn't until morning recess that I noticed the gathering piles. By lunch, which I was hosting in the classroom for our only student/parent lunch of the year, to celebrate the end of International Week, it was so thick that some parents were stranded at the university and couldn't get through down-town due to the accidents. 

With an hour of school to go we made the decision that we would at least try to get to Spain. The old-timers said, 'this is the real Ifrane!', and 'if you can just get down the mountain to Imouzer it'll all be clear”. Nick set off to pick up Nate from the Best Western 500m down the hill. On the way back Nate had to walk behind the car and push it up the hill, getting covered in snow and taking the occasional face plant along with it. The journey took just under an hour. With the heavy weight of the week long expectation of Friday night beer and pork in Casa Marta, we decided to press on. A snow plough had gone down towards Fes at 3.00, and leaving school at 3.30 we thought we'd be long down the mountain before a snow plough led a convoy down at 4.30.

Within 500 metres of setting off we had to push two cars out of snow drifts. We figured that maybe having done good deeds that Allah might choose to ignore the fact that we were doing all this in the name of alcohol and keep us out of a snow drift. Our progress soon got halted however, when we reached the lowered snow barrier on the outskirts of town. It was 4.40 by this point and somewhat foolishly we were surprised that the snow plough hadn't been through. An hour later and we were still sitting there, by this point with little way of getting back up the hill into town and with a long line of cars behind us The thought of setting off down the hill in the dark wasn't appealing, but by that point it was too late to turn back.

The snow plough arrived at 6.00. Lights flashing and third in line in a long convoy we set off down the hill. Progress was good and the snowfall lessened. Spirits in the car rose. The snow plough pulled out from the convoy a couple of kilometres before Imouzer, and although it seemed that the snow was actually thicker we thought that as the snow plough had left us we must be through the worst. We were wrong. Imouzer was in chaos. On the other side of the closed snow barrier cars were parked haphazardly and people were blocking the thickly covered slippy road. Waving you through they stand in the way of the moving cars, which are likely to skid into them at any point. It is as if they have never driven on snow and have no idea that you need to get out of the way. Instead they stand and walk in the middle of the road and expect you to jam on the breaks, forgetting that this will just induce a slide. 

Once through the chaos of Imouzer the sight that faced us was not a positive one. Imouzer sits on the edge of a valley and the road winds down out of it with a steep drop on one side. The cars coming up the hill were sliding all over the road and into our lane at times. People were helping push them up the hill with little thought for getting out of the way of oncoming traffic. If no one went off the mountain that day then it's a small miracle.

To cut an already too long story short, the 45 minute journey from school to the highway took us four hours. The snow line was far lower than anyone expected. We crossed the border into Spain at midnight, 1.00 local time, were in the bar by quarter past, and still didn't make it to closing. By the time that we had panic drank ourselves silly on empty stomachs, we had to go home just as the real party was starting.

Our trip to Melilla followed its usual routine, and we set off on Sunday on our return journey with every nook and cranny of car loaded up with pork and booze, telling ourselves that the extra weight would act as traction to get us up the hill into Ifrane. The drive back was uneventful. That is until we reached the snowline. As soon as we hit snow there were cars parked at every angle along the side of the road, people taking photos of each other and their cars in the snow. If this wasn't annoying enough, we started to see cars making their way down the mountain with mounds of snow on the roof and bonnet, blocking the windscreen and limiting the drivers view of the chaos on the road. It took us a while to realize that this wasn't just due to the drivers being lazy and not clearing their windscreens, but it was in fact placed there on purpose. Locals drive up from the city, pull over at the first patch of snow they can find, take all the pictures they can, and maybe get out a stove and make mint tea. Then, before departing, they make enormous snowballs and pile them on their car and take it back down the mountain with them. We even saw a snowman, complete with eyes, mouth and twigs for arms on someone’s bonnet. What they expect to do with the snow I have no idea, but judging by the mounds of it that we kept encountering on the road at the roundabouts, they didn't really think the plan through. 

How long this current batch of snow will last I don't know; it is still up over my classroom windowsill a week later. I know one thing for sure, we are avoiding all travel on roads that we can. Drivers here are accident prone in the best of conditions. With the added hindrance of slippy roads and snow tourists it's like a Demolition Derby. We'll just stay up here and enjoy the spectacular views.

This weekend

Been away and have had some unreal Morocco experiences this weekend... post to come soon,

thanks for checking for updates.

Imlil to Setti Fatma

It's nearly the end of November and I’m not quite sure where the year has gone. I am however mighty impressed that this time in a month we will be making our way home for Christmas. The joys of teaching... never a dull day, time really flies. What with Portugal and all the exciting stuff we've been doing in school it seems like quite a long time since we were up in Imlil and setting off for our three day hike across the mountains.

Advertised as easy, the 40 kilometre walk would lead us through connecting valleys and over a 3180 metre pass, with two overnight stops in Berber gites, before finishing in Ourika Valley where we had left our car.

 

The morning of our departure we were met by our guide Mustapha, chef and muleteer Hamide, and our mule Bob at our Aubegre Dar Adrar. We really didn't feel that we needed all three to take us on an 'easy walk' over the mountains, but travel experiences have led us to believe in, where possible, providing opportunities for locals to earn an income. Setting off it did feel like a bit of an entourage, and I was a little concerned for our mule. We only had a small bag each but he seemed really overladen, thankfully I soon realised that a lot of the stuff was lightweight bedding for Mustapha and Hamide.

Day 1 – Imlil to Tacheddirt

The first day we set off slowly climbing up the Tamatert Valley heading east from Imlil. Initially frustrated with Mustapha's somewhat plodding pace, I soon realized that it enabled us to walk a lot further without stopping, and we could actually enjoy the view while we progressed. It was with this slow and increasingly enjoyable pace that we wound our way up through a pine plantation before crossing the 2362 metre saddle and descending slightly into Imenane Valley. Here we traveled down a long and windy mountain road. Strung out along the green valley floor were lots of little villages. Linking these villages there are are pretty gardens taking up every available space. Moroccans have to come be experts at water use, working in whole communities to build complex irrigation channels that are controlled with little drop doors, or planks of wood. At the lift of a door, water can be directed from one side of the valley to another so that everyone can water their crops. At the head of this valley, nestled against a ring of high mountains lies the small village of Tacheddirt, our stop for the night.

Mustapha looking back down towards Imlil

 

Villages along Imenane Valley

The village of Tacheddirt at the end of the valley

Part way along the Imenane Valley we stopped for lunch. Our mule was unloaded and the kitchen was set up. This was a very impressive sight and way more than we needed for the four of us. They brought everything. Everything that is apart from something to light the gas stove with. Unburdened and grazing happily Bob the mule bucked and protested greatly at being loaded up again so soon, so we could continue in search of a lighter. Thankfully this worked in our favour. Bob was soon unloaded again and we got to lunch on an enormous pasta salad with sardines, fresh lentil tajine and sweet mint tea, in a beautiful spot next to a stream with views of the snow-capped peaks behind us. 

 

 

 

It was something of a surprise to discover that our mule Bob was actually a girl. I’m not even sure she had a proper name, I think it was just a name they decide to give the guests to keep them happy. She is a working animal and not a pet, we've yet to meet a working animal that gets a name here. Interesting fact from our guide about mules... females are used in the mountains, they are stronger and have greater stamina. 

We reached Tacheddirt at around two in the afternoon. Although we climbed 1070 metres the day's 12.5 kilometres did indeed feel easy, but it was nice to arrive at our gite early to enjoy a hot shower and relax on the terrace with the incredible views. Ten years ago accommodation in Tachedddirt was limited to a Club Alpine Francais Refuge, now there are a couple of guesthouses. Our gite was the newest and was far grander than we expected, we had a clean, warm and dry room with six thick mattresses on the floor all to ourselves. 

Views from the terrace...

Day 2 – Tacheddirt to Timichchi

We had been warned that day two was to be the toughest day, but the day with the most rewarding views. We set off from Tacheddirt at 7.30 while the valley was still quite dark. Not long after we left we began to climb. This was the hard part, a continuous climb up to a 3187m pass into the next valley. Bob and Hamide set off long after us and we were determined to beat them to the top. We stopped a few times for a five minute water break but basically climbed over 1000 metres without a proper break. 

On the way up we encountered a little old man resting with his donkey. We exchanged greetings with him before he continued on ahead of us, pushing his donkey from behind. He went all the way up the hillside, winding along the narrow paths, all the while pushing his donkey hard. When we reached the top he had secured his donkey and was sheltering from the wind behind a large rock. He had unloaded his donkey and had a handful of Mars bars, five soft drinks and a kettle for mint tea to sell to passing hikers. Impressed with his effort we bought a Coke off him. It was only then that we found out he was completely blind. He makes the climb every day in the hope of earning what can't add up to more than $5.

Having taken a couple of hours to reach the top we then had to start going down. I am quite content with up. I am not a down person. Never too sure-footed at the best of times I tend to hesitate and lack commitment in my stride, often leading to uncontrolled skids. To compound the issue our route down was much trickier than the way up. Loose footing and steep drops made it quite an exhausting descent. Narrow and slippery in places it was challenging for us with our hiking boots on let alone the overweighted mules with skiddy metal shoes that usually use the route. By the time we reached our lunch spot we had climbed a 1000 metres, and descended 1100. Not sure about this 'easy' walk classification. 

Our lunch stop was in a small town clinging to the side of the valley. There were roughly twenty houses clustered together around a mud-hut style mosque. While waiting for food we observed that the village only stretched as far as shouting distance. Every so often women would climb onto their roofs and shout up and down the village at each other. Who needs a telephone when voice projection and mountain valley acoustics will do just fine. This was one of the most rustic villages we have come across. Not a satellite dish in sight. This village can only be accessed on foot or by mule so much of the modern trimmings of the outside world has been kept at bay.

We were sitting just outside the village, close to a large sand pile. The whole time we were there children of all sizes were going back and forth to collect sand. Using any kind of container they could find, some as young as two or three, these children would walk, bent double under the weight of the sand, shuffling in sandals, flip flops or over-sized wellies, carrying the sand to a growing pile by one of the houses. It pulled at the heart strings to see one little boy help an even smaller boy try and carry his load back. This tiny little boy just couldn't get a grip on his container and kept stopping and crying. Each time, the slightly bigger boy would stop, put down his own load and try and help the smaller child, before picking up his own and continuing. They would make it about five metres before the process was repeated.

The children didn't ask for anything; help, food or money. Some were curious about us, but they were still very timid towards us. It seemed they had little other to do than move sand, throw stones at each other, or, as many bored and unoccupied children have a tendency to do, make noise. One boy on a nearby roof decided he was going to try and serenade us with Berber songs, and wailed at the top of his voice while banging a pan lid. It became strangely acceptable after a while and he was joined by a few friends. This is something they do every time tourists pass through. As we left the village we did feel when passing one group of children, that they were going to turn away from their stone throwing at each other at start throwing them at us, but Mustapha prevented this by speaking to them quietly.

Day 3 – Timichchi to Setti Fatma

Day three was supposed to be the easy day, and we were looking forward to it being so. The night before had not been quite as comfortable as we had hoped. We stayed in Auberge de Timichchi. This simple auberge was run by a friendly man who had set it up many years ago with only one room. Every year or so he tries to add on another room and now he has eight or nine he can use for guests. This is impressive progress, but the rooms are basic and the mattresses of the thinnest variety. With no sheets to lie on and a sleeping bag zip that decided to choose this occasion to die on, the night was quite cold and uncomfortable. Little sleep was had and I arose in the morning hurting all over and ready for our 'easy' day.

The map showed us that we were simply following the road that wound along the side of the valley before descending down into Ourika Valley and our final destination Setti Fatma. While the terrain was easy what we hadn't counted on was the fact that we had 14.5 kilometres, with 420 metre ascent and 900 metre descent to do all before lunch. The walk was beautiful and dramatic, but with the end in sight and the thought of the hot shower and soft sofa awaiting us in Ourika Garden Resort, we just wanted to get to the end. Our first sighting of Setti Fatma was a welcome one. The view from the top of the valley was amazing, and as the crow flies the journey there would be short, but following the dirt track that zig-zags back and forth down the hillside makes it a few kilometres further than you think. So close but yet so far.

Ourika Valley, Setti Fatma is at the far end.

Arriving to the hustle and bustle of touristy Setti Fatma was a relief to the by now descent-hammered knees. For an easy three day walk it felt like we had gone a lot further. The views we got on route were well worth it though. Combine it as we did with a few days of post hike luxury in and around Marrakesh and it's a great option for an unusual week break. Experiencing a little bit of the rough makes that soft bed in the kasbah or riad all the more rewarding, especially with the thought of the 8300 calories we had just burned.

Update coming....

Thanks for all who have been taking the time to check for the continued Imlil update, life of an elementary teacher can be hectic to say the least, I will try and get the post up by Saturday afternoon at the latest....

Thanks

Back to the mountains

I always used to think of myself as more of a beach person than a mountain person. It is only when we head up into the hills that I appreciate just how at home I feel there. It's refreshing and invigorating in a completely unique way. And while I don't have that drive to climb the highest peaks and scale all I encounter, I love the feeling of being nestled in valleys and protected by the massive peaks. Around this time two years ago we were in Nepal, and while nothing will match the grandeur of the Himalayas, the feeling of increased energy you get is the same.

Arriving in Imlil our taxi was met by a boy with a mule. Without a word he loaded our bags onto the mule pack and headed uphill out of the town. Ten minutes on having passed through a damp walnut grove we found ourselves at Dar Adrar. Here we were welcomed with spectacular views from our window, a roaring fire and hot mint tea.

http://www.daradrar.com/

The view from Dar Adrar

Imlil is a small town perched on a hillside at the joining point of three valleys, and ringed with tall rocky mountains. The Atlas Mountains are very dramatic. At the highest point they are only about 4170m, but driving across the Marrakesh plane towards them they appear to rise straight up out of the otherwise flat and featureless ground. Once up in the mountains you are struck by the rich red colour of them. These are rough and ragged peaks at their best. 

Once a small Berber village, Imlil has become a hub for tourists keen to experience Moroccan mountain life. Imlil is the starting point for nearly all summit attempts of Morocco's highest mountain, Jebel Toubkal. Toubkal can be summitted in two days, with an overnight stop in a refuge near the top.

 

While many guidebooks describe Imlil as an ugly and characterless town, I think it would be hard for any town to be described as ugly when it sits in a location like Imlil. As well as incredible mountain views stretching out along three valleys, the valley floors are lined with apple and walnut groves that are criss-crossed by babbling irrigation channels. Exploring on foot it's possible to wander round villages such as Armend, and see a way of life that has remained relatively unchanged for centuries. That is apart from satellite TV, there are more satellites here than in any other country I’ve ever been to. Life is not easy for people here and is often subsistence based; growing and trading to get what you need. Outside the houses you see weather-worn women cooking over home-made clay ovens. Walking along the dirt tracks you pass women carrying heavy loads around on their backs, taking the shopping home from the weekly souq a few kilometres away. It is quite humbling to be overtaken by an eighty year old carrying two enormous sacks up a steep hill. 

Although life in the High Atlas has many parallels with that of what we saw of Nepal, while exploring Imlil that first day we noticed one distinct difference. In Nepal the villages we walked through have a long history of interaction and dependence on tourists. Big smiles and warm welcomes came from everyone you encountered. Walking around Imlil and other small villages, while many people were friendly, you got the sneaky feeling that some people would just rather you weren't there. The occasional stare and frown could be a little unsettling.

We stayed two nights in Imlil, where we were lucky enough to have great fireside company with an American couple who travel the world looking for adventure. A love of speed flying had brought them to the area. For those unfamiliar with the extreme sport of speed flying (as I was), it is the slightly questionable activity of throwing yourself off mountains with a mini and seemingly fragile para-glide that weighs a no more than a couple of kilos. Usually done over snow with a pair of skis on it seems that the idea is to slow your fall down the mountain only enough not to injure yourself while still making occasional contact with the ground before propelling yourself into the air again. 

   

Our time in Imlil was just the start of our adventure, the stay there was just the relaxing precursor to a three day hike across the mountains and into a neighbouring valley. I’ll post more about the journey with our guide, cook and a female mule called Bob very soon.

Dancing Days

This isn't the blog I had intended; the long review of our latest adventure. That has been temporarily postponed as life has caught up with me instead. This blog is instead to share with you one of my depressing moments of realisation of the undeniable fact of getting old.

Fast approaching my mid thirties and lucky enough to have had a full and varied social life, it has been easy for me to stick my head in the sand and whisper sweet words of denial about the ever increasing gap between how I see myself and how others see me. It feels like only last year that I spent six hours dancing on top of a wheely bin with some random stranger in Cream, or last week that I spent the countdown at New Year on podium at Ministry of Sound Bangkok. Sadly, or not, depending on who's looking at this, many years have past, and in all likelihood if I did these things now there would be unprecedented levels of embarrassment experienced on all sides. This weekend while away at a professional development conference in Lisbon, this depressing realisation slowly dawned on me while watching people dance at the last night gala dinner.

Throughout the night the dance floor could usually be separated into three parts...

The first group is those between roughly 20-30 who dance to every song, no matter how bad it is, and who truly believe they are Michael Jackson reincarnate. If you belong to this group then good on you, doesn't it feel great, enjoy it while it lasts, because believe it or not it doesn't. I should know, I clung onto this group for as long as I could. I shall refer to this group as the 'Jacksonites'. 

The next group who I’ll I call the 'Handbaggers' are a big group made up of two smaller parts; those who may never have had that love of dancing and have been unwillingly dragged into that great place of embarrassment they know as the dance floor; and those who used to belong to the Jacksonites until they hit 30 and suddenly found themselves strangely self conscious when they spun across the floor and felt like everybody turned to look at them. The Handbaggers are busy on the dance floor in many ways. Unlike the Jacksonites, who are just busy thinking 'this feels great' and letting their body do the work, the Handbaggers are busy either trying to maintain that even rhythmic side stepping move that blends right in with everyone else, or they're trying to relive their youth by throwing a few moves out there, which they then busily analyse in their heads as to whether they actually pulled it off without looking stupid. Finally this group is busy with occasional furtive glances at the Jacksonites with something akin to horror, “do they know what they look like?”, “look at all that sweat”. 

And then there is the last group, the Christopher Walken's amongst us. These are those brave people who manage to break the boundaries and effortlessly move between the other two groups. Often slightly older, they have managed to overcome any feeling of self-consciousness and as a result have found their mojo again. They whip it up on the dance floor and really don't care what they look like. Instead, not unlike the Jacksonites, they simply dance and enjoy the music.

So, where am I at...? Well I’ve sadly left the Jacksonites, but I’m not ready to join the Walken groovers; there is still way to much self analysis going on for that and I run when the music isn't in my favour. I have to sadly admit that the days of mindlessly dancing to anything and everything have passed. Soon I will give up any attempts of fancy footwork and become a master of the side to side step.

For those of you out there, you know who you are...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZM1fkHQP_Pw

Off Again...

Thank you for checking for updates....

We are off on our travels again so there may not be an update for a week or so. Right now I am sitting in a small cosy gite on the steep side of a valley under Morocco's highest mountain; Jebel Toubkal. When we arrived last night we were met and escorted to our gite by a boy and a mule.

Tomorrow we set off on a 3 day hike to an adjoining valley staying in Berber villages on route. Accompanied by mule and guide. We have little idea of what to expect or where we will be sleeping...

Stories and pics to follow soon.

And, for those who were concerned, Snowy is doing fine in his very very grand temporary home in Meknes, with a student who didn't talk about anything other than his impending visit for the last 3 days of school.

Our First Pet...

Many people express great surprise at our lack of desire for children. Many try and convince us we will, 'one day'... A kind mother of one of my students said we should 'at least try', we might like it. This made me laugh, there is no 'try' with children, there is do or don't. You can't say 'well, I tried, I don't like it, can you take it back?'

Those who know us well know that all we really want is a dog. Sadly dogs can be even trickier than children to look after, and before I cause uproar with this statement I need to point out that we travel. A lot. A dog is not quite as easy to take on a plane or find a bed for. What makes it worse is that in Morocco dogs are seen as dirty; many people don't even want to touch them, let alone have them in their house. A dog in a house is said to invite in evil spirits. We're not going to find too many volunteers to dog sit for us here.

It is for this reason that we have never had a pet. Apart from the odd gecko that is. In school this semester my class is doing the living environment. We went through two weeks of having birds, reptiles, fish, insects and molluscs brought into the class by one young boy who is a definite David Attenborough in the making and who happens to have very understanding parents that open their house to an incredible range of animals. What he lacked though was a mammal that was calm enough for class handling; his dog wees on the floor when stressed, something I didn't really fancy, not even for the noble purpose of science education. It was this dilemma that got me thinking about getting a class pet.

After much deliberation about animals kept in cages and the need for two for company, we got a white male Syrian Hamster. Thankfully they are territorial and need to be kept alone. I had visions of, hamster novice that I am, mistakenly putting a boy and a girl together and then ending up with a much bigger science education lesson than planned. We had bought a cage for him from Spain the weekend before he arrived, and when he was brought into school by my budding David Attenborough in a water jug I was rather perturbed. Not only was he far bigger than I expected, far too big for the cage, he was long and ratty looking; white with red eyes, and he stank of wee. This was not the cute addition to the class I had anticipated. 

With a few adaptations to the cage (I had to make a ladder out of BBQ skewers as he was too big for the hole to get on the slide), our hamster soon settled into his small but cosy cage. I asked the students to think of a name and write on papers to be picked out of a hat. When I pulled out 'Snowy' three kids simultaneously shouted “Yay, that's mine!”. They then continued to bicker about who actually got to name him all the way to computer class, but Snowy it was.

To my surprise hamsters sleep all day and party all night. Our new class pet likes to bury himself so deep in a bed of white tissue that you don't even know he is in the cage. He wakes up about 8.00 in the evening and then is well and truly partied out by the time the kids get in to school in the morning. If he is seen during the day it is only to sleepwalk to his water or fall asleep in a corner with food in his hands. When woken by overexcited children, or more likely their teacher, he opens one sleepy eye and then the other to peer at you, unamused, before going back to sleep.

I have to admit I was a little bit disappointed with our acquisition. This was not the educational interaction that I had intended. Saying that he gave himself a good bath and we all quickly got attached to our sleepy little friend. So attached that when the first weekend came I found I couldn't bear to leave him all alone in school. I carried him home in his cage wrapped in a jacket through blisteringly cold wind, talking to him all the way to keep him calm. If anyone one else was brave enough to face the weather they would have thought I was nuts.

 It was only during this first weekend, when I went to a friend's and came home at 1.00 in the morning, I saw that our boring little mammal had morphed into a frantic overeager gymnast. I now know that hamsters sleep most of the day and spend most of the night hanging upside down on the bars at the top of their cage, well at least that's what ours does. This frenetic energy made us go out and get him a cage twice the size, where he can now spend hours running in his wheel or doing cliff-hanger impressions of the top of the cage. Our boring little hamster is actually full of character and is more addictive to watch than the TV. You find yourself having to rewind things you have missed while watching him clown around, chatter for your attention or walk around bumping into things with a cheek bulging at odd angles, stuffed with an over sized piece of carrot. After that first weekend trip home we have found that we can't leave him in school on his own each night to perform his tricks to an empty room. He gets carried back and forth in his second home each morning and afternoon. At home the three of us have a sofa each to watch TV from. He is becoming a very spoilt little hamster.

Being a pet owner for the first time has not been stress-free. It was only after a week of having him and then doing some internet checking that I found out that we had been caring for him all wrong. This distressed me greatly, 'had I scarred him for life?', would he ever recover from our over exuberant handling? When he woke up after one particularly deep sleep his eyes were all wonky... Thinking I best be pro-active, I did the stupid thing of Googling it and found our hamster was probably dying. Obviously the same applies for hamsters and self internet diagnosis as does for humans. Why had I never appreciated how difficult animal care was? It seems that at every turn there was a chance I could kill our precious little man. When Nick came to me during a party we were having at ours and said quietly 'I have just thrown the hamster across the room", explaining that it had clamped its teeth into his finger which he quickly yanked away, inadvertently sending Snowy flying. Like any blinkered parent I found myself making excuses for his out of character behaviour... he was stressed by the noise, all the people unnerved him. The worst thing was that as well as being shocked by the fact that there was blood everywhere, I was somewhat relieved that it was Nick's. It is so much easier to patch up a finger than a hamster.

As for keeping animals in cages... I’m still not sure. But I know that if we didn't have him some kid in town would have him in a small and probably dirty cage judging on how the majority of people care for animals out here. With us he is clean, safe and entertained. Surely that's got to count for something? If we were to just let him go he would either freeze or get eaten by a kestrel.

But now we are back to that old concern....the holidays... who gets the class pet? One parent has suggested we put him in the freezer to see if he hibernates.

I wonder how easy it would be to pack him in a suitcase.