Never Smile at a Crocodile

(Arrifa. sweet and usually silent)

(Laone: stellar at coloring and quick as lightning. also rather mischevious. her voice sounds like sticky candy)

(Mogomotsi: the other teachers call him the "bully," but I think he has been unfairly labeled. True, he kicks and punches as much as the rest of them, but the only reason this hurts kids is because he happens to be, by far, the biggest boy at school. Often, he uses his strong arm to get everyone to follow my directions. I think he's really smart, and sweet at heart.)

(Atang: SUCH a little charmer. He speaks English really well and loves to joke around with me. He also has some killer dance moves that he whips out when the teacher's gone)

For those of you who don’t know the song from Peter Pan, I suggest a good listen before reading any farther: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVWuAyWWuAU

According to my head teacher, this week’s “lesson plan” (a chart filled with words that doesn’t exactly fit my definition of a detailed outline of structured activity) is all about Wild Animals. Last week we covered farm animals (over, and over, and over), so it only makes sense to move onto the lions and hippos and such.

Since I quickly concluded this morning that endless hours were once again going to be spent in “free play,” I hung back during breakfast assembly to make a crocodile stencil, and then spent the next two hours cutting green paper and tracing 27 crocodilian outlines. Yesterday, I was thrilled to find some brass fasteners at a store in Game City, and they came in handy today as they make excellent jaw hinges.

The kids were fascinated by my mouth-chomping sample, and they colored furiously when I gave them a variety of green crayons. The range of motor skills is kind of mind boggling, as kids like Laone and Chris methodically cover all paper territory, while Francinah (who Sisca insists needs to go to a “special” teacher) scribbles chaotically without regard to lined boundaries.

Overall, I was really pleased to see them take such pride in their work, and they were much more focused and calm than usual. Perhaps because these kids really don’t have any personal possessions (aside from the clothes on their backs), they seem especially delighted by their own hand made novelties.

I couldn’t finish cutting everything out by the time they left for home, but I plan on returning Monday with the completed masterpieces. Crocodiles at the ready, we’ll learn the afore-mentioned song and most likely smile, despite the warning.



I am relieved that the day turned out so well, considering that it followed a slightly horrific night. I drifted off, exhausted, at around 10 pm, only to awake, panic-stricken and sweating around 2:30 am. I had been tossing and turning over a terrifying nightmare that can only be described as a twisted fusion of all the thoughts, articles, conversations, and news that has been running around in my head this past week. Mugabe, scenes from “El Orphanato” and my neighborhood at home were involved – a dark combination. Breathing deeply and trying to re-orient myself in the dark, I slowly realized that something was thrumming loudly next to my bed. I panicked all over again. The cricket had returned.

About ¾ of an inch long, the resident cricket is louder than my alarm clock and does not have a snooze button. While his kind might chorus sweetly on a summer’s night, they are the most absurdly disturbing things to have in your bedroom. Gathering courage (I was afraid to lift my back off the bed – you know, in case some monster crept up behind me) I stumbled through the dark and threw on the light switch, causing dozens of baby cockroaches to promptly scatter into corners. I then frantically began rummaging around my bed and through my closet, searching for the little bugger. I located it in the crack between the wall and my door, and captured it in a Tupperware container. As men were shouting outside my room and I was too paranoid to open a window, I slid a piece of paper under the Tupperware and taped the entire package shut, scribbling “CAUTION: Cricket Inside” and locking it out in the common room. While the cricket still chirped the whole night long, at least its prison walls muted the noise. This morning, between breakfast and teeth-brushing, I set the rabble-rouser free outside.


A variety of thoughts that have been accumulating in my brain:

A Most Unusual Thing: There is a very very small child in my class, named Bofelo. For a full two weeks I was under the impression that she was a boy (due to her shaved head, blue jump suit, and unisex name) but was informed recently that she is not. Aside from being wild, obstinate, and slightly sneaky, Bofelo didn’t seem too different from the rest of the crowd. It wasn’t until yesterday, when she lifted up her three layers of shirts, that I noticed anything strange. You see, protruding from Bofelo’s tiny stomach is what appears to be a rather long remnant of her umbilical cord. It is maybe two or three inches in length, and curves downwards. Perhaps this is not as rare as it seems to me (I’ve only ever seen innys and outies) but regardless, I was taken aback.

“They don’t all know.”: Just before lunch time, as the kids amassed outside around a blue tub of hand washing water, I sat in the classroom cutting out crocodiles. Snipping away at claws and tails, I was interrupted by the entrance of Mogomotsi (pictured above) who was pretending to hit his face, and who kept repeating what sounded like “BEATING!” Since the kids are always hitting each other, I didn’t pay much attention at first. However, after about 30 seconds, I realized that he was saying “BLEEDING” and I dashed outside. Standing with his head tipped back, amidst a pile of blood stained tissues, was gentle Karabo. Standing next to him, patting at his dripping nose, was Teacher Perpetua, who to my horror wore no gloves and was absent mindedly swatting at the crowding children with her stained hands.

I swooped down amongst the kids and shooed them away, and Sisca began to yell at Perpetua about keeping her hands clean. My panic was only exacerbated by Perpetua’s blank look and continued blood blotting, using the same unwashed hands to pick up the kids’ washing/drinking mug and slosh some dirty water over her fingers. She then put on a glove (what was the point now?) and threw the dirty tissues into the cardboard trash box – something the kids routinely rummage through. Almost ready to scream, I ran back into the classroom and grabbed an old Ziploc from my purse, insisting that Perpetua place them in the bag instead. I then brought the potentially bio-hazardous material into Sister Margaret’s office (she, thankfully, was appropriately alarmed) and she had me flush it down the toilet.

As I scrubbed my hands with soap, I asked the Sister if all of the teachers knew about first aid care and how to prevent transmission of HIV. “Eh, no” she said, “they don't all know.”

Abby and I had already been planning to put together first aid kits [a task she’s been stellar at fundraising for] and after this mess today, I requested that Sister Margaret allow us to give a first aid workshop for the teachers. I am so shaken up by what happened because some of these grown women – responsible for the health of children who are not being cared for to the full extent otherwise - don’t seem to be taking the appropriate measures to protect themselves OR the children. Especially because the day care is not certain about the status of all of the kids, I think it essential that everyone treat cuts and bloody noses with the utmost precaution.

The Do: A strange fact of appearances here is that the hair on everyone’s heads is usually not their own. Weaves, braids, curls, etc. are beautifully styled in a million and one different ways (really, it’s hard describe the intricacy of some of these top of head creations), and swapped out every few weeks when things get messy or someone gets bored. This high frequency of drastic change can be confusing for me in the classroom, as when Sylvia’s long braids morphed overnight into tiny one-inch knots, or when mini-fro-ed Sethunya (a girl) suddenly had a close army shave. For those who don’t add anything to their hair, the usual styling is a unisex short or shorter.

Each morning on our combie ride to work, we pass countless “hair salons” – shacks propped up on the side of the road – outside of which one can sometimes observe ladies in plastic lawn chairs with their braids in a medusa-like, work-in-progress state. We also pass a large factory that advertises its wears as “braids and curls,” and it makes me giggle to think of the nation’s hair just boxed up inside. Recently, as a result of all this fascinated observation, I have felt my fingers twitching and itching to braid, and I have started spending my afternoons unearthing my forgotten, girl-hood skills. So far I’ve re-mastered the French and the Standard, but it will take a lot of time and practice for me to get anywhere near the art of what I see daily.

On the Duo: Considering that we spend just about 24/7 together, and that we are both white, female, 20-something, and American, I guess it is not totally unreasonable for people to assume that Abby and I are “sisters” (disregarding, of course, all of our respective distinguishing features.) However, it is the other assumptions that have started to become frustrating.

Each day, Abby and I must take a total of four separate combies in order to get to work. We pay separately on each one (since we are different people and have different purses). However, more often than not, when I hand the driver my fare he will look at me expectantly, or make some odd remark suggesting that I pay for Abby or that she pay for me. This may sound trivial, but it gets to be annoying when it happens four times a day. Why must everyone assume that we function TOTALLY together? Abby and I have discussed this phenomenon (which extends beyond the combies) at length, and it has prompted a lot of thoughts on categorization and assumptions.

To begin with: the female thing. This is not America, or at least not the liberal, feminism empowered East Coast America that I have been lucky enough to know. There are moments here that border on chauvinistic, and we recently had an educated Motswana law student tell us that poor women shouldn’t get handouts because they are genetically inferior and that is their fault. The language of many local news stories on convicted rapists and wife abusers tends to sympathize with the man, and even personal ads seem oddly vulgar and sexist. Is our status as females the main determinant of the way people behave towards us?

Next: the minority. It is strange to title with this word, because what I experience as a white/Caucasian here is not what I have ever before associated with the “minority” category. In America, I feel like the term “minority” is usually attached to ideas such as “disadvantaged” or “discriminated” (broad generalization). Here, the “white minority” seems to come with a completely flipped series of associations. I find that people assume because of my skin (and possible other factors of course, such as my American accent) that I have a lot of money to throw around. Adults are constantly trying to sell me things, and children often ask for pula, and I wish I knew exactly why. Do the proposition rich Motswana in the same way? and if they don’t, does it have anything to do with my skin color? Is it JUST that I’m a foreigner with nice clothes? I don’t really know how or why, but I came her hoping that race wouldn’t be any sort of “issue.” Is it really not, or does it play into daily circumstances? How can it not? I feel my mind throwing brakes on writing any more – it is hard to sort out these thoughts and feelings while being extremely sensitive to sensitivities and PC territory. It is difficult to question when the questions feel kind of taboo.

Finally: Americans. Okay, so our reputation probably precedes us, although I don’t know how I’m possibly supposed to figure out what that is. Our country is so enormous and it exports so many tourists, I’m afraid to think of the impressions they have left behind. What am I expected to be?

Of course, these three factors are the most cliché and obvious, and there are other things to consider as well. However, they are the three that most frequently buzz questions in my head and its good to discharge some of the mental discourse.

The Stadium at Dusk: indescribably beautiful. As the sun sets behind the trees, a huge range of runners, walkers, stair climbers, and onlookers congregate to enjoy some exercise. The variety of people is really incredible, as I often see Botswana’s top national runners lapping small boys in bare feet – both pounding the track with equal determination. Aside from the usual catcalls and friendly taunts, the atmosphere is really pleasant, and everyone tends to encourage each other in their panting efforts. It is also really remarkable to watch the top athletes do their thing – I have rarely ever seen bodies so perfectly fast, tuned, and controlled, and it makes me want to pick up figure drawing again.

To seal this package: Abby just screamed “CAT!” and we all burst out of our bedrooms to see the feline break-in. Luckily, it jumped out the window again.