Go Ahead, Take A Whack At My Kid

It's warm again, really warm, and the butterflies are back, as well as nesting birds and chameleons. I had to escort one from my office the other day. Poor bugger had gotten in there somehow, and wanted out. We offered him a stick and he climbed aboard and out he went. Cheaper than that cat in the choo episode last year.

There's more and more of these poles. THEY HAVE BEGUN

DIGGING THE HOLES FOR THE POLES.

I was in the office the other day talking with Ruth when I heard a minor commotion outside. By now you understand that not much happens here, so any diversion is gold. I ran out and there was a small crowd gathered around two angry, fighting chameleons. I have no idea what there were fighting over, there were only two, and I think they were both boys, but then, what do I know?


Anyway, one was chasing the other up the big tree in the hospital courtyard. Chameleons have these weird hands, more like soft lobster claws, and can climb up anything they can grasp. The tree, however, is huge, and they couldn't find purchase so one by one they'd fall about five, six feet to the ground, get up, and try again.

Living room. I live very well here in the village. Hands4Africa 

sees to that. Thanks Blad.

I ran home to get my camera, and by the time I returned they were still fighting, but had switched to ground combat. Probably a better idea. They chased each other around for about twenty minutes, first one grabbing the other by a tail or leg, then the other returning the favor. So they dragged each other around for a while, to the delight of myself and a good portion of the hospital staff.

My kitchen

I like lizards, chameleons, critters in general. American city life doesn't offer many viewing opportunities, but I'm in wadudu heaven here. Wadudu is insects, plural, one insect is dudu, pronounced just the way it needs to be  to get American kids giggling behind their hands. Here's another one, the Kiswahili word for brother is kaka.

The ladies weave these for rugs. I have three in my house,

made by local women.

This is a true story, it happened to a friend of mine, and it's so good I wish it had happened to me. My friend Ingrid is a pastor's wife, and they had come to Tz to live. She had been taking lessons in Kiswahili, and was, by her own admission, proud of her progress and happy to show off her skills. Remember about pride going over the falls, or whatever.

My bedroom

So she went to the duka (store) to buy some mafuta (oil). Now here in Tz, like many countries, you can buy many things cheaper if you buy them loose. Soap powder is cheaper if you buy it out of a big sack, and oil is sold out of a large greasy container, according to how much you want to pay. So you need to bring your own chupa (bottle). Ingrid had, alas, forgotten her chupa, but thought she might be able to borrow one from the storekeeper, if he had a spare. In her excitement to display her linguistic talents she forgot that chupa is bottle and chupi is not. What she said was this..


Hello, how are you? I want to buy some oil but I have forgotten my underpants. I would like to use yours. I will return your underpants tomorrow, after washing.

Sitting very quietly while I watch the birds.

Poor Ingrid couldn't figure out what she had said to cause everyone in the store to hoot and guffaw lake a bunch of hyenas, until someone finally pulled her coat. I can't remember if she said she was mortified or laughing, probably both, but she got her oil and the locals got a dumb mzungu story they probably tell to this day. I know I tell it every chance I get.

St. Mary's English Medium Preschool and Standard One, minus

two kids sick with malaria.

The fundraiser is going well, we've gotten some donations, and so far have given out three partial scholarships. In a few weeks we should be able to give two full scholarships, maybe more. Some of the money will be used to buy desks and benches, as the kids are having to squeeze in right now, which necessitates lots of poking and all the rest of the stuff little kids do when they sit close together. What I don't hear is "Teacher, Mzee is looking at me." Staring at someone isn't considered bad manners here, I've gotten used to it, but then, if I was a kid here I'd stare at me too. Not too many almost six foot mzungu around. Besides, as I'm frequently on the ground taking pictures of wadudu, I guess I deserve it.

Note change of color. These things fascinate me.

I just got back from a walk, had to wait till 4pm, when it cooled a bit. I was trying for exercise, but it's slow going here when you stop and visit with everyone. Apparently my Kiswahili is greatly improved. Jeska is one of my adult students, and I pass by her house when I walk. She was sitting in the shade, with her Mama, Mama Mkubwa and Mama Mdogo. That's her mom, her big mother, and her small mother. They were weaving, and as we talked, they tried to teach me. 
This was tried in Idweli in 2005, with similar results. It looks easy when I watch, but when they put it in my hands, nothing happens, nothing good, that is.



There's many beautiful birds here, and I'm perfectly happy on my walks to sit quietly in the shade and wait. If you sit long enough, they come. The problem was that three kids were following me, which is about six less than usual. I tried to get them to go home, but my Kiswahili, while improving, doesn't allow for dire threats. I did manage to get them to sit relatively still, so I could take some pictures.

One chameleon biting another.

So now two parents have told me I need to start beating their kids. You know, school shouldn't be a place where kids need to fear for their lives. It's actually illegal here to beat a kid in school without following procedure. There are four steps to be taken before a child is caned, and the caning should be done only by the Headmaster. First a child is talked to, then a note is sent home, I forgot the third, but the fourth step is the actual caning.

The rains have stopped, so now the river is just another path 

up the village.

I have been caned, although voluntarily.I asked my friend Peter once to cane me, just to see what it was like. He held my hand palm up and gave it a whack with a thin stick. Tears just sprung to my eyes, so I know what it's like. Unfortunately the teachers here ignore the first three steps, and go right to the stick. They also rarely limit themselves to one whack, or one kid, for that matter. I've seen teachers let fly on anyone who just happens to get in the way.

So,while I have refused to cane the kids, I have told the two moms that I will be happy to send their misbehaving offspring home with a note and they can flail away at will. I have no problem with a parent disciplining their kids, but it's just too much power to give to a teacher, or anyone else not a parent. I realize that many of you in America feel parents shouldn't be able to hit a kid at any time, but I'm old school. Sometimes a good swat on the behind is ok.

My birthday party.

Today is my birthday, I'm 61. Pronounced sikisty one by the kids, despite all my efforts. We had a party today at school, we played math and English games, answered questions, and the kids got a point for each correct answer. I had a table set up with different prizes, cards, books, blocks, pencils and pencil sharpeners. Except for two girls who chose a jump rope, everyone went for the pencils. Go figure.




Am going to Morogoro on Saturday for some supplies, but mostly to go to Ricky's Cafe, where I will have cake and ice cream for my sikisty first birthday. Happy Birthday to Me.

Nakupenda