My heart was pumping feverishly, and my head was light and giddy as I stepped off the plane in Tripoli, Libya on the 10th September 1980 just two days short of my 21st Birthday. I was met with a draft of hot dessert heat, the unfamiliar smells of dust, eucalyptus trees and stale urine that I later came to recognise as the scent of Africa. Only weeks before I had been self-effacingly responding to interview questions in a small bedroom in the Regents Palace Hotel, Piccadilly London.
“No, I do not have any previous teaching experience”.
“Yes. I am only twenty years old. I just graduated from University this year”.
“Well, I did teach my sister how to ride a bicycle and friends at university how to play contract whist”.
“Yes, of course I understand you are looking for someone who is older and with more teaching experience”. I smiled shyly at the polite demure figure of the Libyan Director of the Institute and avoided the cool gaze of the flamboyant Irish Director of Studies who tossed back his blonde hair letting out a sigh of dismissal. Charles Patrick I soon discovered had a veracious penchant for young Arab boys who seemed to permanently populate his flat in various stages of undress. I know this because he invited me to his flat the evening after my arrival, supposedly to celebrate my 21st birthday, but I suspect he had more salacious intentions.
Why had my father responded to this job advertisement? Surely he must know that to be an English Language Teacher you need qualifications and experience? I left the interview chastened and deflated, yet a few weeks later I was embarking from the plane in Libya to start my new career as an English language teacher.
I was up all night tossing and turning before my first day of teaching. Basically I was in a blind panic, a rabbit frozen in a car’s headlights, every nightmarish scenario flashed through my thoughts and I had no strategies to combat them. I entered the classroom petrified and I have blocked out all memories of that first disastrous lesson except the recollection of my hands shaking so violently that I could not write on the blackboard. I slumped into the staff room trembling and exhausted, determined that I had made a terrible error in accepting this job and resolute that I had to escape this bedlam. I believed my career was over before it had really begun! I was liberated from my dilemma in the most bizarre manner.
Charles Patrick, stormed into the staff room with a look of horror on his face and proceeded to strut around the coffee table smoking furiously and loudly murmuring: “He’s mad! Completely mad! He’s going eyeball to eye ball with the learners and ranting yes / no questions at them. They are scared witless”.
Suddenly Charles twirled around in dramatic fashion as if he had been struck with inspiration and rounding on me screeching: “You saw him. You observed him yesterday. What did you think?” I knew he was referring to David. He had just been observing David’s lesson because students had complained yesterday. I had pleaded with Charles not to teach on the first day and he had arranged for me to observe David who was only marginally older than me and claimed to have had some teaching experience.
The staff room fell silent. Everyone was waiting for my answer.
“I thought he was…”
I was being asked to evaluate a teacher and a lesson having only just taught one undoubtedly awful lesson myself. All eyes were on me, everyone was waiting for me to provide judgement. I felt like the Emperor in the amphitheatre deciding the fate of a gladiator.
“I thought the lesson was…. Fine”. I eventually stammered.
And that was my introduction to the world of ELT. The only training I received was a one hour lesson observation conducted by a paranoid schizophrenic and then after only one hour’s teaching experience I was being asked my professional opinion on the same colleague’s competence as a teacher. I had gone from incompetent novice to a teacher whose opinion counted in an instant.
David suddenly became the focus of everyone’s attention. He walked into the staff room and stood on the coffee table with his arms stretched out as if crucified. “I am the Messiah. You cannot hurt me. I have come to save you all.” He was clearly barmy. How could I not have realised!
We managed to get David to a psychiatrist. He kept his arms outstretched as he stood on his chair answering the bemused Pakistani doctor’s questions. He was admitted to the notorious Psychiatric wing of the prison hospital in Tripoli and I never saw my mentor again.
My introduction to teaching was harrowing. I have since dedicated my career to helping others so that they do not enter the profession unprepared and untrained. No one should be thrown into the deep end. Teaching is physically, mentally and emotionally demanding and training and development is essential to avoid excessive stress and burnout.
A career in “TEFL” has traditionally been frowned upon. Now in my 60s people no longer ask: “When are you going to get a proper job?” but the view that TEFL is something you do for travel, adventure and to gain life experience before settling down to a more established career persists. I have now determined to make a documentary film to put the record straight and portray the life of a TEFL teacher for the demanding and strenuous job that it is. The documentary is dedicated to all the ELT teachers and trainers and the incredible work they do. This documentary is our story. It must be told.
If you would like to help with this project, please contact me. (tom@iti-istanbul.com)
Tom Godfrey 
Honestly I wish there were a novel about the whole story. It was fascinating to read about that tiny little part of the experience…