It’s hard. Not just for me, but for all the other volunteers. It’s hard to jump right into a foreign culture and be expected to teach a class of students whose grasp of the English language is minimal. It’s hard to keep up the act when you’ve been brought up as a Canadian or an American your entire life.

Does it get easier? Bit by bit, I suppose. But it’s hard to believe I’d ever feel at home here.

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”, a student asks.

“Sure, I have one sister. She’s a few years older,” I reply.

“Is she like you? Is she a pretty girl?”, another asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“I give you fifty cows for your sister,” he offers.

“WHAT?”

The whole class bursts out laughing.

Days later, I realized I should have taken the deal.

Fifty cows is a helluva lot of bovine.