The Case of the Painted Portals

Approaching our dorm this early afternoon, I casually noted that all of the windows were wide open. Then, that the front door was open. Then, that every single one of our once-locked bedroom doors stood ajar. Abby and I gaped in horror, our nostrils filling with the thick smell of fresh paint, as we frantically began checking our closets and bags for passports, laptops, and credit cards.

Thankfully, all but Abby’s back pack and camera appeared to be in place, and we slumped into our metal chairs, breathing thoughts of “this could have been terrible.” Thanks to our Sherlock Holmes-ian detective skills, we quickly deduced the likely unfolding of events: painters came unannounced, painted our doors, and left without closing them. Either the color-sloshing men themselves or a thief on the prowl, nabbed the strangely inexpensive items, leaving the much more coveted technology and identification materials behind.

As I munched crackers, Abby called our friend Security who came to take a look around. After sagely surveying the tidy, un-looted space, he pronounced that it was necessary for us to file a complaint at the office, Block 104, and perhaps to take matters to the police. Abby, in the steam of her hard-boiling eggs, sighed the sigh of this-will-take-a-while, and we agreed to make the trip.

Twenty minutes later we were standing within the manila-colored walls of UB’s Security “building,” face to face with the paint spattered men we were accusing of negligence. Abby sat down next to a man in a fume mask and began to write her personal account of events, while I stood fidgeting, surveying the situation and taking mental note of the awkward proximity between the suspicious and the suspect.

The deposition process took about an hour (thank you, Rushdie, for the invaluable company) and was followed by a circuitous argument over what should be done next. The painter’s manager had arrived (slow blinking and slow thinking? not to be cutty but this was ridiculous) and while he admitted responsibility every now and then, he mostly held the hard line of incomprehension. The four Security officials standing around us all needed to have their say, and we spent considerable time making it clear that since our three other roommates were still at work, we could not be sure what of theirs was missing. The Security officials presented the paint manager the options of offering compensation or surrendering his employees for detention, and that only added to our discomfort. Finally, with much patient-voiced prompting on my and Abby’s part, we agreed to reconvene at 5:30, with all residents of our suite present, to make a final assessment.

Shortly after returning from the first round of security arguments, our ears were greeted by the sound of clanking keys, and the turning of a sticky lock. Into the suite bustled a small woman in headscarf (the keeper of the keys) and the rotund head of contracted maintenance. “We have to paint your front door!” he said, as if nothing in the past two hours had transpired. The painter behind him (the same one sitting next to Abby in security, writing his statement) began to complain that the door had been closed earlier and the paint disturbed, and that it had to be redone.

“How long will the drying door have to remain open?” Abby queried. The perpetually smiling, sometimes conniving manager consulted his hands. “24 hours.”
This is when Abby and I donned our sternest teacher faces and exclaimed in near unison, “UNACCEPTABLE.” The next ten minutes were spent explaining why it was not okay to leave our front door open overnight. The woman in charge of all the keys could not seem to communicate in either Setswana or English, as she confused everything with vacillating support – enthusiastically in favor of our security concerns one moment, and aggressively advocating painting the next.

Finally, a large can of light-bulb-yellow paint seemed explode above the painter’s head, as he proclaimed that the door could be painted tomorrow morning. We nodded frustrated acquiescence and they all filed away once again. The master key to all dorms remained, unnoticed, dangling in our front lock. “Mma,” we called to the woman who stood, translucently, between us and theft/rape/disaster/etc. Spotting the forgotten keys she laughed, retrieved them, and walked back into the dusk.

Jen, Becca, and I have just now returned from the second round of talks, and Abby and Neo are off to the police station to make their claims. Neo’s laptop was stolen (a discovery that sent WHAT IF panic through my entire body) but nothing else.

Again, I find myself both frustrated and dazzled by the stunningly slow pace of procedures here, and the strange methods of communication (or lack there of). There are moments when I feel like no one is speaking the same language, and yet even in the midst of a mini crisis like this, everyone remains lighthearted and willing to engage in communal negotiation (however inappropriate that might seem.) Mainly, I am really disconcerted by the unreliable nature of Security here, and feel like my privacy has been greatly violated (if we have to fear even our locked rooms being opened, where can we keep passports?)


Regarding the other painters of the day, the kids in my class dabbed blotches of blue, green, and red onto the “Caring for Our Bodies” worksheet I drew them. Toothpaste, Soap, a Toothbrush, a Washcloth, and a Faucet have never looked so vibrantly amorphous. Time passed much more quickly when everyone was engaged in activity, and it was the first day that I really felt like I was really contributing to the structure of the class (I’m usually just a swing pusher and tear wiper).

The kids have also been responding a lot better to me since I’ve memorized most of their names and am starting to note their quirks and preferences. I also experimented with a Time Out Chair today, when the kids started flipping their eyelids. Apparently a novel innovation (a smack is the standard punishment), Time Out had a pleasantly sobering affect on the wee instigator. After five minutes of silent wall staring, I looked her in the eye and pantomimed the bad behavior, shaking my head and forcing a stern expression. She nodded with grim face and returned to the rug a changed girl.

What else is there to say? My day has shifted between small and big troubles, and on this creaky swingset of life, the back and forth is unavoidable. Regardless, I am resolved to enjoy the pleasant, high-flying breeze it creates.