The alarm on my phone goes off at 6:30 AM, which feels absurdly early until I remember I’m not in my comfortable bed back home. I’m in Urubamba, Peru, in the Sacred Valley, about to teach English to kids who wake up way earlier than this to help their families before school. The roosters outside my homestay window have been announcing dawn for the past hour anyway, so I’m not exactly catching anyone by surprise when I shuffle into the kitchen.
My host mother, Señora Rosa, already has breakfast ready. She’s been up since five, probably longer. There’s fresh bread from the panadería down the street, homemade mermelada de sauco (elderberry jam that’s somehow both sweet and tart), scrambled eggs, and mate de coca steaming in a clay mug. The morning light coming through the kitchen window illuminates the mountains surrounding Urubamba, and honestly, this view never gets old even after three weeks of volunteering in Peru.
“¿Dormiste bien?” Rosa asks, and I manage a decent response in Spanish about sleeping well despite the dogs barking at some point during the night. My Spanish has improved dramatically since I started combining teaching with Spanish classes. Three weeks ago, I would have just nodded and smiled. Now I can actually have basic conversations, which makes everything about volunteering in Urubamba so much richer.
I eat quickly because the combi (shared van) to the school doesn’t wait for anyone, and I learned that lesson the hard way during my first week teaching English in Peru. Rosa packs me a small lunch, chicha morada and a sandwich, even though I’ve told her multiple times that the school sometimes provides lunch. She insists. Peruvian mothers, I’ve learned, show love through food and it’s not up for debate.
By 7:15, I’m walking to the main road to catch the combi to the school. Urubamba in the morning is a completely different place than the sleepy town you see at midday. Street vendors are setting up stalls selling fresh bread, fruit, and breakfast items. Workers heading to hotels and restaurants in the Sacred Valley crowd the sidewalks. School kids in uniform walk in groups, some looking half asleep, others incredibly energetic for this hour.
The combi system is organized chaos. These are small vans that follow set routes, and you just flag one down when you see it heading your direction. “Colegio!” I yell to the driver when I see one approaching, and he nods, slowing down just enough for me to climb in the side door. There are already about twelve people in a van designed for maybe eight, but somehow everyone makes room. This is normal transport in Peru.
The ride takes about fifteen minutes through Urubamba and into the more rural area where the school is located. We pass fields where locals are already working, mountains rising dramatically on all sides, and the Vilcanota River flowing alongside the road. The lower altitude of Urubamba compared to Cusco means mornings here are warmer, less harsh, and the vegetation is greener. By the end of my first week volunteering in the Sacred Valley, I understood why so many travelers prefer Urubamba to Cusco for the easier adjustment and more comfortable climate.
“Colegio,” the driver announces, and I squeeze past other passengers to the door, handing him two soles for the ride. The school sits at the edge of the rural community, a simple concrete building painted cheerful yellow and blue with a small courtyard in the center. Kids are already arriving, some walking from nearby houses, others dropped off by parents on motorcycles or in combis like mine.
I arrive at school around 7:45 for an 8:00 start, which makes me early by Peruvian standards. My supervisor, Profesora Elena, is already in the small teachers’ room that doubles as an office, storage closet, and lunch room. She’s preparing materials for her math class while simultaneously dealing with a parent who’s explaining why their child missed yesterday. This multitasking is standard for teachers at this school in Urubamba, where resources are limited and everyone wears multiple hats.
“Buenos días, Teacher!” Elena greets me with the title the kids use for me. I tried to get them to call me by my name initially, but “Teacher” stuck and honestly, there’s something endearing about it.
We review the day’s plan. I’ll have three classes today: fourth grade at 8:00, fifth grade at 10:00, and sixth grade after lunch at 1:00. Each class is about 90 minutes, which sounds manageable until you factor in that these kids have wildly different English levels within the same class, limited resources, and attention spans that require creative lesson planning to maintain engagement.
The classroom where I teach English isn’t fancy. There are about thirty wooden desks crammed into a space meant for maybe twenty, a whiteboard that’s seen better days and doesn’t erase cleanly, posters about English vocabulary that are fading from sun exposure through the windows, and a bookshelf with a handful of outdated English textbooks. There’s no projector, no computer, no interactive technology. This is real education in rural Peru, miles away from the well-funded schools many international volunteers might be used to back home.
But the kids make up for any lack of fancy resources with enthusiasm that’s honestly humbling.
The fourth graders burst into the classroom at eight with energy that should be illegal before 9 AM. There are 28 students ranging from ages nine to twelve because grade levels in rural Peruvian schools don’t always align perfectly with age. Some kids started school late, some repeated years, some are exactly where you’d expect them to be.
“Good morning, Teacher!” they chorus, which is the first phrase I taught them and the one they’ve mastered most enthusiastically.
“Good morning! How are you?” I respond, which is where things get dicey because we’re still working on appropriate responses. I get a mix of “I’m fine, thank you!”, “Good!”, enthusiastic thumbs up, and from Luis in the back row, “Yes!” because Luis is still figuring out questions versus statements.
Today’s lesson is supposed to focus on family vocabulary: mother, father, sister, brother, grandparents. I’ve brought pictures I drew (because printer access in rural Urubamba is limited) showing different family members. The goal is for students to be able to introduce their family members in English by the end of class.
“My mother,” I say clearly, pointing to the drawing. “Repeat: My mother.”
“My mother,” they chorus back, and this is going great for about three repetitions until I get to “brother” and Juan Carlos insists it’s pronounced “broder” like they’ve heard in reggaeton music, and suddenly half the class is having a passionate debate in Spanish about English pronunciation based on song lyrics they’ve heard.
This is teaching English in Peru: constant pivoting between your planned lesson and the unexpected tangents that kids take you on. I’ve learned to roll with it because fighting these tangents is exhausting and honestly, they’re often learning opportunities. We end up having a five-minute discussion about English in music versus classroom English, and somehow I’m explaining why song lyrics don’t always follow grammar rules, which requires me to use more Spanish than I’d planned but also creates genuine engagement.
We practice family vocabulary through a game where I call out a family member in English and students have to run to a corner of the room labeled with that word. It’s loud, chaotic, and probably not what professional language teachers would recommend, but it works. The kids are moving, laughing, repeating English words naturally without it feeling like memorization, and by the end, most of them can correctly identify and say at least four family member words.
The last twenty minutes of class, I have them draw their own families and label each person in English. This is when things get real because I see that Miguel draws just himself and his grandmother. No parents, no siblings. Maria draws eight people and explains in rapid Spanish that she has four siblings and lives with her aunt’s family too because her mother works in Cusco during the week.
Teaching English to children in rural Peru means you’re not just teaching language. You’re getting glimpses into their lives, their family situations, their realities. Some of these kids come from stable, loving homes. Others have complicated family situations involving migration, poverty, parents working in cities, or family members who’ve left for other countries. The simple act of drawing family members for English practice reveals so much.
“Very good work!” I tell each student as I walk around, genuinely meaning it. They’ve stayed engaged for 90 minutes, they’ve learned new vocabulary, and they’ve connected English learning to their actual lives. That’s a successful morning of volunteering in Urubamba.
At 9:30, the bell rings for recess and the fourth graders explode out of the classroom like they’ve been held captive. I head to the teachers’ room where Elena has made instant coffee using an electric kettle. This is the sacred teacher break time, and I’ve learned it’s when the real information exchange happens.
“How was fourth grade?” Elena asks in Spanish, and I give her the honest version: mostly good, some students are really progressing, Luis still mixes up yes/no responses but he’s trying, and Miguel seems more withdrawn than usual.
Elena nods knowingly about Miguel. She tells me his situation, which I won’t detail here because privacy matters, but it explains a lot about why he sometimes seems disconnected in class. This is another thing I’ve learned about teaching in Peru: the other teachers know these kids’ stories intimately because they’re from this community. They’ve taught their older siblings, they know their families, they understand the context in a way an international volunteer never fully can in a few weeks or months.
The other teachers pepper me with questions about the United States (or wherever I’m from). They want to know about schools there, teacher salaries, classroom sizes, technology. I try to answer honestly without making it sound like I’m bragging about resources. The gap between educational resources in rural Peru versus wealthy countries is stark, and these teachers work incredibly hard with what they have. The last thing I want is to sound like I’m complaining about their school when they’ve welcomed me so warmly to volunteer here.
During break, kids swarm around me wanting to practice English or just talk. “Teacher, how do you say…” followed by a random object they want to know in English. I’ve become a walking dictionary. Some kids just want to hang out with the international volunteer because I’m a novelty in their small rural town. Others genuinely want to learn. I try to give everyone some attention while also drinking my coffee before it gets cold.
Fifth grade is my most challenging class for reasons that have nothing to do with behavior and everything to do with English level disparity. I have students in this class who can barely introduce themselves in English sitting next to students who can have basic conversations because they’ve been watching YouTube videos in English for years. Rural Peru has internet access now, and it’s created this wild range of English exposure among kids the same age.
Today’s lesson is present continuous tense: I am walking, you are eating, he is reading. This is theoretically appropriate for their level according to the curriculum Elena gave me, but implementing it is another story entirely.
I start with Total Physical Response activities where I demonstrate actions while saying the English phrase. “I am walking,” I say while walking dramatically around the classroom. “I am jumping,” while jumping. The kids love this because it’s silly and participatory.
“You try! I am…” I pause and do a hopping motion.
“I am hopping!” shouts Lucia, who definitely already knew this.
“I am… hooping?” tries Javier, which is close enough that I give him credit.
We practice verbs with actions for twenty minutes, and it’s going surprisingly well. Then I try to transition to having them create their own sentences using present continuous, and this is where the wheels come off the bus.
The advanced students immediately start creating complex sentences: “My mother is cooking dinner in the kitchen.” The struggling students stare at their papers blankly. The middle group is trying but making mistakes like “I am cook dinner” without the -ing ending.
This is the daily challenge of teaching English in Urubamba schools: differentiating instruction with no teaching assistant, no separate resources for different levels, and thirty kids who need different things from you simultaneously. I end up doing laps around the classroom, helping students individually while trying to keep everyone engaged.
Paola, one of the more advanced students, becomes my unofficial teaching assistant. She helps translate instructions for students who are lost, which is both incredibly helpful and makes me slightly uncomfortable because shouldn’t I be the teacher? But this is collaborative learning, and honestly, Paola explaining concepts in Spanish is sometimes more effective than me explaining in simple English.
By the end of class, everyone has written at least three sentences using present continuous tense. They’re not all grammatically perfect, but they’re attempts, and that’s what matters. Progress, not perfection, is the goal when volunteering as an English teacher in rural Peru.
At 12:00, the school breaks for lunch. Some students go home if they live close enough. Others eat lunch brought from home in small containers. The school provides a basic lunch of rice, beans, and sometimes a small piece of chicken for students whose families can’t afford to send food. I eat the sandwich Rosa packed while sitting on a bench in the courtyard, watching kids play fútbol.
Within minutes, I’m invited to join the game. “Teacher, play football!” This happens almost daily, and I’ve learned that participating in these informal moments builds rapport with students more effectively than any classroom activity. I’m terrible at football, especially at Urubamba’s altitude where even light exercise leaves me slightly winded, but the kids find my attempts hilarious and that seems to be the point.
We play for maybe twenty minutes, and I learn more about these kids in this unstructured time than I sometimes do in formal class. I learn that Roberto dreams of being a professional footballer. That Carmen wants to be a teacher. That Diego’s family might move to Cusco next year for work. These conversations happen in a mix of Spanish and English, kids switching between languages naturally, which is honestly how bilingualism works in real life.
Teaching English in Peru isn’t just about classroom instruction. It’s about building relationships, showing up consistently, demonstrating that learning can happen anywhere, and being a positive adult presence in these kids’ lives. The actual English vocabulary they learn is important, but the confidence, curiosity, and willingness to try speaking another language matters just as much.
The sixth graders are my most mature class, and also the most critical. They’re 11 to 13 years old, right at that age where they’re testing boundaries and deciding whether education matters. Some sixth graders at this school will continue to secondary school. Others will need to start working to help their families and may not have the opportunity for further education.
Today’s lesson is about future tense and career vocabulary. I want to teach them how to say “I want to be a…” and discuss different professions in English. This seems straightforward until I realize that career vocabulary in English textbooks assumes a certain economic context. Doctor, lawyer, engineer, scientist – these are all fine, but what about farmer, market vendor, artisan, tour guide, cook, builder? These are the careers many of their family members actually have.
I pivot the lesson to include both professional careers and practical jobs available in Urubamba and the Sacred Valley. We make a list together on the whiteboard: tourist guide (huge industry here), chef/cook, hotel worker, farmer, weaver (traditional Andean textiles), construction worker, teacher, nurse, shop owner, bus driver, artist.
“What do you want to be?” I ask in English, modeling the question.
Answers come in a mix of Spanish and English: “I want to be teacher of English!” “I want to work in hotel in Cusco.” “I want to be…” long pause while checking with a classmate, “…tour guide for Machu Picchu.” “I want to be football player!” (every class has at least one) “I want to study in Lima.”
What strikes me every time I do this exercise is how practical and thoughtful these kids are about their futures. They’re not dreaming about being famous musicians or movie stars. They’re thinking about careers that exist in their actual community or realistic paths to opportunity. Some want to stay in Urubamba. Others want to migrate to cities. All of them understand that English opens doors in Peru’s tourism economy.
“Why do you want to learn English?” I ask them, curious about their motivation.
The answers are revealing: “To talk with tourists and earn more money.” “To understand music and movies.” “To get good job in Cusco.” “Because is important for future.” “Because you teach us, Teacher, and I want to learn what you know.”
That last answer from Valeria absolutely destroys me emotionally. The responsibility of being an English teacher in Peru hits me hard sometimes. These kids are giving me their attention, their time, their trust that I can teach them something valuable. The weight of trying to do right by them, trying to actually help rather than just playing volunteer for a few weeks before going home, is real.
We spend the rest of class practicing career vocabulary and future tense phrases. I have them interview each other in pairs: “What do you want to be?” and “Why?” The classroom fills with enthusiastic, slightly chaotic conversations mixing Spanish and English. Some pairs are fully engaged. Others are goofing off. One pair is having a passionate argument about whether being a YouTuber counts as a real career (this debate apparently transcends cultures).
I circulate, helping with pronunciation, correcting grammar gently, encouraging everyone to try speaking English even if they make mistakes. This is the heart of language teaching: creating a safe environment where students are willing to risk sounding silly or getting things wrong because they trust you won’t embarrass them.
As class ends at 2:30, students pack up their notebooks (many shared between multiple subjects because new notebooks are expensive) and prepare to head home or to afternoon jobs helping their families. Several students stop by my desk to ask questions or just say goodbye.
“Goodbye, Teacher! See you tomorrow!” “Chao, Teacher! Thank you!” “Teacher, tomorrow we learn more English?”
Yes, I tell them. Tomorrow we’ll learn more English. Tomorrow I’ll be back in this classroom, trying my best to teach vocabulary and grammar and pronunciation, but really teaching confidence, possibility, and the belief that they can learn anything they put their minds to.
Once students leave, I stay at the school for another hour or so. Profesora Elena and I debrief about the day, discussing which students are struggling and might need extra attention, which activities worked well, and what to plan for tomorrow.
Elena has been teaching at this school for fifteen years. She knows these families, understands the community challenges, and provides me with invaluable context for how to teach effectively here in Urubamba. I might have teaching ideas from my background, but she knows what actually works in this specific environment with these specific students.
We plan tomorrow’s lessons together. Elena helps me adapt activities to work with limited resources. She suggests songs that students know to incorporate into English teaching. She warns me that half the sixth grade class might be absent tomorrow because it’s market day and some students help their families sell goods. This kind of practical information makes the difference between frustrated planning and realistic expectations.
I spend time grading the family drawings from fourth grade and the future tense exercises from sixth grade. I write encouraging comments in English on their work, knowing many won’t be able to read my comments fully but hoping they understand the intention. Positive reinforcement matters in language learning.
Around 4:00, I catch a combi back toward Urubamba town center. The afternoon ride is less crowded than the morning. I’m exhausted in that specific way that teaching creates – it’s not physical exhaustion exactly, but mental and emotional depletion from being “on” and giving energy to 80+ students over the course of one day.
By 5:00 PM, I’m back at Rosa’s house, where she already has dinner preparations underway. I retreat to my room for a quick rest before dinner. My room is simple: a bed, a small desk, some hooks for hanging clothes, and a window overlooking the neighbors’ quinoa field with mountains beyond. It’s not luxurious, but it’s comfortable and safe, which is everything I need while volunteering in Peru.
Dinner is at 7:00, and tonight it’s a traditional Andean dish: cuy (guinea pig). This was shocking during my first week – guinea pigs are pets where I’m from, not food – but I’ve learned to appreciate it as an important traditional protein source in Peruvian highlands cuisine. Rosa prepares it fried with potatoes and Andean corn. I eat respectfully, understanding this is culturally significant even if it still feels weird sometimes.
Over dinner, Rosa asks about my day teaching English in Urubamba. I tell her about the fourth graders learning family vocabulary, the sixth graders discussing career dreams, the football game at lunch. She asks if students are respectful, if they’re learning, if I feel okay teaching at the school. There’s genuine interest in how the community school is doing and whether I’m being treated well there.
I ask about her day too. Rosa works as a weaver, creating traditional textiles that she sells at markets and to tourist shops in the Sacred Valley. She shows me the piece she’s working on, pointing out patterns that have specific meanings in Andean culture. We talk about her family, about Urubamba, about differences between our countries. These dinner conversations are Spanish practice for me and English practice for her teenage son who joins us. Everyone’s learning from everyone.
After dinner, I have homework for my Spanish classes the next morning, so I study vocabulary and grammar while Rosa watches Peruvian telenovelas in the living room. The TV is on constantly in Peruvian homes, I’ve learned. It’s background noise to daily life.
Around 9:00, I retreat to my room to prepare tomorrow’s English lessons. I’ve learned to keep materials simple because I can’t rely on technology or printouts. Everything needs to be achievable with a whiteboard, some handmade flashcards, and creative use of whatever physical space and objects are available. Teaching English in rural Peru is like language teaching on hard mode – you can’t lean on PowerPoints or videos or fancy apps. You need to actually teach.
I fall asleep around 10:00 to the sounds of Urubamba at night: dogs barking, occasional vehicles passing, the river in the distance, and roosters who apparently never learned they’re only supposed to crow at dawn. Tomorrow will bring another day of teaching English, another chance to connect with students, another opportunity to be helpful during my time volunteering in the Sacred Valley.
There are aspects of volunteering as an English teacher in Urubamba that nobody really explains until you’re living it.
The emotional weight of seeing educational inequality up close is real. These kids are smart, motivated, and capable, but they have a fraction of the resources that students in wealthy countries take for granted. You’ll feel frustrated by what you can’t change and motivated to maximize what you can offer during your limited time here.
You’ll mess up lessons regularly. Your perfect activity plan will flop because you misjudged the class’s English level or because half the students are absent that day or because you explained instructions in English that nobody understood. Flexibility and humor about your failures as a teacher are essential survival skills.
Students will remember you way longer than you expect. This isn’t a temporary gig for them – you’re potentially one of the only international people they’ve ever met, one of very few native English speakers they’ve interacted with, and a symbol of a larger world beyond their rural community. That’s a lot of responsibility.
You can’t save anyone. You’re not rescuing these kids from anything. They have families, culture, community, and lives that existed before you arrived and will continue after you leave. Your role is to be helpful during your time here, not to be anyone’s savior. Check your ego and your savior complex at the door.
The language barrier cuts both ways. You’re learning Spanish while teaching English, which means you’re often explaining concepts in a language you don’t fully command to students whose native language you’re still learning. It’s humbling and frequently hilarious.
You’ll fall in love with these kids. Not all of them – some will drive you absolutely crazy – but many of them will steal your heart with their resilience, their humor, their kindness, and their determination to learn despite challenging circumstances. Leaving at the end of your volunteer program is going to hurt more than you anticipated.
Physical resources matter less than you think. Yes, this school lacks technology and fancy materials. But great teaching happens with or without SmartBoards. Your creativity, enthusiasm, and genuine care for students matter infinitely more than having the latest educational technology.
You’re learning as much as you’re teaching. Every day volunteering in Urubamba teaches you about Peruvian culture, about education, about resilience, about what actually matters in life. The kids teach you Spanish phrases. The other teachers teach you classroom management in challenging circumstances. Your host family teaches you about Andean culture and traditions. Everyone’s your teacher here.
On difficult days – and there will be difficult days – you’ll question whether you’re making any real difference. You’re here for weeks or months, not years. You’re not a trained teacher, or maybe you are but not in ESL specifically. You’re constantly wondering if you’re doing more harm than good, taking up a position that a qualified Peruvian English teacher should have, or just playing at volunteering while adding “taught in Peru” to your resume.
These doubts are healthy. They mean you’re thinking critically about international volunteering rather than blindly assuming your presence is helpful. But here’s what I’ve learned from teachers like Elena and from the students themselves: your contribution, however imperfect, has value.
You provide authentic English exposure in a community where native speakers are rare. Students hear pronunciation directly from someone whose first language is English. This matters for accent acquisition and listening comprehension.
You bring international perspective to a small rural town. Students learn about other countries, other cultures, other possibilities for their lives. You’re a living example that the world extends beyond Urubamba, and that people from that world care enough to volunteer here.
You supplement overworked local teachers who are managing massive class sizes with minimal resources. Every activity you run, every small group you work with, every student you help individually is lifting some burden off teachers who are already doing remarkable work under challenging conditions.
You model that making mistakes in language learning is okay. As you stumble through Spanish, students see that learning languages is difficult for everyone, not just them. Your vulnerability as a language learner makes you a more relatable English teacher.
You invest in individual relationships with students who might not get much individual attention elsewhere. In classes of 30, personal connections are rare. Your attention, encouragement, and belief in specific students can genuinely impact their confidence and motivation.
Most importantly, you show up. Day after day, you’re in that classroom, trying your best, learning from failures, celebrating small victories, and demonstrating that teaching and learning are about persistence and care rather than perfection.
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