Guest Blogger: Zach from Pintando Caminos

My friend and former WorldTeacher, Zach Binsfeld asked if he could write a blog post to promote the non-profit organization he now works for, Pintando Caminos. His foundation helps underserved Bogota youth with after school programs, giving them the support they need to succeed in life.

Here it is...

Investing in the Future

By Zach Binsfeld

The other day when I was at the organization where I work (Pintando Caminos),Valeria, who is in 3rd grade, approached me to say thank you for helping her with a school project she had been working on so she wouldn't fail English. It turns out, she told me, that after spending a couple days working with us in our homework help program her project got the best score in the class - and she passed English. I felt warm in my chest and about as happy as can be, because I knew that she had done all the hard work of learning on her own.

All I had done was help her understand the instructions and focus a little, and encourage her. These are things that her teachers in her school – with limited resources, classes of 40 or more students, and sometimes just 2 hours of class per subject, per week – often are unable to do. So when she thanked me I told her I was proud of her. I really was.

Valeria wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. I know she’s perfectly capable, but when I look at her longing eleven-year-old eyes I can’t help but wonder if she’ll make it, if she’ll really be given access to the kinds of opportunities that allow her to break cycle of poverty that has trapped her family for generations.

I wonder the same for the other boys and girls. Years from now, will I learn that Valeria and her friends have grown into healthy young men and women, who are bettering themselves and working hard to realize their dreams and the dreams of their community?

Or will I find another succession of desperate adolescents who have replaced hope with the sad truth of our present reality, who spend their nights surviving and escaping their pain by any means necessary? I never try to answer this question because I know it’s purpose is to motivate me into action rather than get me to speculate about an uncertain future – and because I know that its answer depends on how we collectively respond as fellow humans.

The truth is that small initiatives like Pintando Caminos don’t have the power to change the whole world, or a whole country, or even one community. That depends on the people in those communities, and on the direction we take as a global society. But places like Pintando Caminos represent what we hope to achieve in the future. They show us that there are people willing to invest their time and energy in the most important sustainable resource we have – our children – and our children are eager to demonstrate that if we give them the opportunity they are ready to learn and share with the world the wisdom and simplicity of their youth.

I’m the first to admit that one more youth organization in one more oppressed neighborhood in one more difficult city in some other country is not going to solve the world’s problems, but I can also say with confidence that Pintando Caminos is eliciting the best out of children like Valeria. I am learning from them that such places serve as examples of a future that has the potential to become reality if we only work hard and long enough out of love.

The most profound gift that such organizations give – to all of us – is hope for a better tomorrow. But the most tangible gifts that Pintando Caminos gives to the kids its serves is the self-value and self-confidence that come from having full stomachs and the chance to thrive as learners, and, as kids who like to play and laugh and explore.

Zachary Binsfeld

For more information on Pintando Caminos, or to donate, visit our project page: https://www.globalgiving.org/projects/better-life-than-war-and-poverty-for-bogota-youth/

The Five Pedlers

Colectivo buses.

Sitting on the colectivo bus headed home from Nueva Esperanza, I peered out the window to see the majestic Andes rising up from the Sabana de Bogotá. My head jerked back and forth from the bumpy ride—the bus driver appeared to be making a conscience effort to hit every single pothole along the road.

After exiting the Juan Rey barrio, we turned onto one of Bogotá’s main thoroughfares, Primero de Mayo, and the ride became much smoother, much to my beleaguered body’s relief. When the bus stopped to let passengers off and on, a dark-skinned man missing a front tooth boarded and addressed the passengers, saying not to worry; he wasn’t here to rob us, but to sell chocolate bars to help support his family. The man walked down the cramped aisle, passing out chocolate bars and once everyone had one, returned to the front of the bus. Facing the passengers, he gave a lengthy spiel about the merits of his chocolate bars that would have given Willy Wonka a run for his money. His speech delivered, the man walked back down the aisle, collecting money from those who he had convinced and recovering the chocolate from those had not.

Inside a colectivo.

At the next stop, the man got off and a young woman got on, carrying a box of variegated pens. Just like her predecessor, she addressed the passengers, passed out the pens and began a lengthy oration as to why her pens were worth coughing up $1,000 pesos.

The same cycle was repeated two more times over the next ten minutes—one salesperson would get off and immediately be replaced by another. Although their goods varied from candy to pencils to notebooks, they all used the same sales strategy; pass their product out to each passenger, deliver an Obama-esque speech about the merits of their product then return to collect the money.

Finally, five minutes went by without someone boarding to sell us something and I thought we might be in the clear, but alas, I was proven wrong when a tall, gaunt man carrying a boom box boarded the bus. He begins blasting a familiar rap beat and breaks down into Spanish rap. I exchange wry looks with an 89-year old woman sitting next to me as we find ourselves being musically mugged by this would-be Colombian Jay-Z.

A contemplative homeless man in Bogota.

At this point, everyone on the bus, including myself, had become annoyed by the incessant flow of people trying to sell us stuff we didn’t want. When an older woman boarded the bus and began what I believed would be the same old thing, I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me?”

But this woman was different—she had nothing to sell. She told us about how difficult her life is—that she was there to ask us for anything we could spare to help feed her hungry grandchildren. In the face of such raw desperation, my initial annoyance melted into sympathy and I realized I was wrong to have felt resentment for her and the others. These were people strangled by penury who were only trying to scrape together enough pesos to feed their families.

Who was I, someone who had never known want, to judge?

It is easy for those who have a lot to grow to resent or worse—ignore those who have nothing. The complexities of poverty and economic inequality cause many of us to wrongly blame the poor for landing themselves in such a precarious condition. Rather than treat the poor as equals, we develop emotional calluses to stay sane in the face of such inexplicable socioeconomic imparity.

My reaction to the bus peddlers denuded my guilt of having developed such calluses.

But no more.

It is a gross error in judgment to blame the poor for poverty.

It’s time to rip open those calluses. Let it bleed. Feel the sting.

Because if I, or anyone, hope to make a lick of a difference in this world, the humanity of the poor must never be forgotten.

A Tale of Two Bogotás

Looking down on the streets near Nueva Esperanza.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…

As I stand on third floor balcony overlooking the dilapidated neighborhood surrounding Nueva Esperanza, I cannot help but think of these words, immortalized by Charles Dickens over 150 years previous. Abounding crumbling buildings stand in stark contrast to Nueva Esperanza’s modern, sound architecture. On the streets below, homeless dogs of every imaginable breed peruse piles of curbside refuse in search of sustenance—one of them squats to take a dump in the middle of the road while another patiently waits to lop it up. Young gang members dressed like the spawn of Snoop Dog wander the streets in search of their next victim—perhaps an unlucky student, teacher or the mother lode—the gringo they’ve heard to be working in the area.

The Juan Rey Barrio around Nueva Esperanza.

Later, I find myself making the rounds within a sea of sixth graders, answering their copious questions about the assigned task. I feel a pang of hunger and instinctively head to my backpack to down a handful of peanuts. My stomach satisfied, I turn to see a few students watching me with envious eyes and am immediately ashamed of my insensitivity.

Towards the end of the period, a pair of older students lug in a crate filled with pre-packaged meals. I reach inside to inspect today’s bounty—plátano muffins, milk and mangos. I grab as much as I can carry and begin to pass out the government-issued provisions to my students.

“Gracias, teacher,” each student says as I hand them what is likely to be the most significant meal they will have all day.

Zona Rosa.

When school ends, I see an aseador sweeping up shards of broken glass as I head out the front door—the night before one of the local gangs attacked the school with a barrage of rocks, shattering many of the building’s windows.

Headed home on a colectivo bus, I watch a woman carrying a bag of colored pens get on, her two daughters beside her. The woman asks for everyone’s attention and begins her sales pitch as she passes out a pen to each passenger. Once everyone has a pen, she returns to the front of the bus to collect the money. A few people pay, but most hand back the pens, uninterested. Although a cheap pen is the last thing I need, one of her daughters reminds me of my baby cousin Grace and I decide to buy three.

Bogotá Hard Rock Cafe.

That evening, I head north on TransMilenio to meet friends for dinner. Watching the cityscape pass by, I spot a horse cart racing a taxi for road supremacy and, surprisingly, giving the taxi a run for its money. Passing by a maximum security prison, I am shocked to see an elementary school built right next to its high barbed-wire-tipped walls.

As we cross the invisible border dividing north from south, I notice my fellow passengers’ cheap Nokias transform into BlackBerries and iPhones. Outside, modest homes and tiendas sprout into skyscrapers rivaling those of the San Francisco financial district.

Bogotá Hooters.

I get off at the Héroes stop, enter Zona Rosa and find myself in another world. Crossing the street, I see a red Lamborghini burn out as it turns the corner. I pass by posh restaurants with English names—there is a CitiBank, a Harley Davidson Store, the nicest Burger King I have ever seen and even a Hooters.

Continuing on, I see fashionably-dressed women and men sporting expensive suits and watches to boot. Designer clothing stores line the streets as far as the eye can see, with flashy casinos distributed here, there and in between. It could have been San Francisco or New York.

Crepes & Waffles.

After eating dinner at a popular restaurant called Crepes & Waffles, I return south on TransMilenio. I take out my Lonely Planet Colombia guide and read its description of the country:

Colombia’s back. After decades of civil conflict, Colombia is now safe to visit and travelers are discovering what they’ve been missing. The diversity of the country may astonish you. Modern cities with skyscrapers and nightclubs? Check. Gorgeous Caribbean beaches? Check. Jungle walks and Amazon safaris? Check. Colonial cities, archaeological ruins, high-mountain trekking, whalewatching, coffee plantations, scuba diving, surfing, the list goes on.

I close the book and consider what I have just read. Colombia is back—but for whom? For the impoverished masses who rush to Bogotá in search of opportunity, but find only desperation and a government that could care less if they live or die? Or is it for the wealthy Colombian minority and foreigners who come here in search of cheap drugs and a good time?

The two Bogotás.

As the bus speeds towards my adopted home in Bogotá’s darker half, the last part of Dickens' passage plays through my mind:   

...we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…

Why English is Everything

Carlos Cano discussing Colombian socioeconomics.

When I first signed up for this gig, I knew I was coming down here to do something important—but the more time I spend in Colombia, the more I am realizing just how important that something is.

To quote one of my Colombian friends: “In Colombia, English is everything.”

Wait just a darn minute… isn’t Colombia a Spanish-speaking country?

Well, duh—I’m reminded of this every time I attempt to order an empanada at the local tienda.

So if everyone speaks Spanish here, then why is learning English so important?

During my second week in Colombia, the other WorldTeach volunteers and I had the opportunity to listen to a presentation by Carlos Cano, one of Colombia’s top economic advisors—more or less, Colombia’s Alan Greenspan—at the Colombian Central Bank.

Countries where English is an official language.

Mr. Cano told us that English is still the language of knowledge—more books, scientific papers and other important research documents are written in English than in any other language. In other words, a lack of English roughly equates to a lack of knowledge.

English is also still the international language for business—without at least a working knowledge of English, conducting international business is nearly impossible. Naturally, those who know English get better jobs than those who don’t. In other words—if you know English, you will have money and if you don’t, you will be poor.

Do these kids deserve a life of poverty? I think not.

It is also virtually impossible to get into college in Colombia without at least a basic understanding of the English language. Every prospective Colombian college student must take the ICFES—essentially Colombia’s SAT—to even be considered for admission. As you may have already guessed, one of the most crucial sections of this test is English.

Therefore, in Colombia if you don’t know English, you aren’t going to college.

Colombia’s wealthy elite have the resources to send their children to expensive prep schools where they can learn English from fluent and sometimes native speakers, guaranteeing that by the time they take the ICFES, they will be prepared to do well. Meanwhile, although Colombia guarantees every child a public education (which is more than most countries in the developing world can say), most public schools lack quality English teachers. More often than not, the public school English teachers don’t even speak the language themselves—so how can they expect to effectively teach it?  

Me... coming in.

This is where I come in.

As a native speaker teaching at a public school in one of the poorest areas of Bogotá, I can help to level the playing field. For children who would likely otherwise never even meet a native English speaker, the chance to learn from one every day should create a huge impact in their lives. Although I will likely never see the fruits of my labor—most of my students will not take the ICFES for many years—I am doing my best to plant the seeds of knowledge today so that when my students grow up, they will have a shot at a better life.

Every day when I enter Nueva Esperanza’s gates and am greeted by packs of children way too excited to see me, I cannot help but feel a sense of anger towards the adults of this world who have created a system so disgustingly unfair that these children—these little human beings—are more often than not destined to fail before they even get a chance to shine.

They've got what it takes to shine if we would only let them.

I don’t profess to have the power to correct capitalism’s inherent inequalities nor to purge poverty from the face of the Earth—but in teaching these children English, maybe—just maybe— I can help them reclaim the chance for a better life they were denied.