A Day in the Life...

I’ve had numerous people ask me what a typical day in my life is like.  For anyone who has ever been to any third world country, you can easily understand why I have a hard time answering that question.  You never really know just how your day will turn out.  You can plan it out to your heart’s content, but really…you just never know.  However, now that school has started, I can give an outline in general terms.

Off to school by 7:45, school starts by 8:30, done by 12:00. All those are, of course, on the “-ish” side of things. Walk home, greet everyone on the way, hug all the kids along the way, tell everyone that yes, I’m off to school, or coming home from school – just like yesterday, eat lunch, maybe take a nap, get ready for school the next day, have a language lesson, teach the primary school kids some English (“No, you don’t ask someone, “What is my name?” you ask “What is YOUR name?”), meet with my teaching assistant, make glue, make finger paint, make a somewhat properly translated-into-Swahili kid’s book.  You get the point.  Those are the typical things that make up my days.

It’s the things that don’t necessarily happen all the time that make life a lot more interesting.  Like the time (actually, I should make that plural, because it has happened more than once) I got mistaken for Pauline.  Pauline is the lady who lived in my house before I moved here.  Yes, we’re both Americans and speak English.  However, she is an African American from LA.  I’m sorry – do I really look like her? Really?  Or when people mix up my teammates, Emily and Monica.  Monica is 6 ft tall, brown curly hair.  Emily is maybe 5’1, 5’2, with blonde straight hair.  Seriously, people? 

Our village has a big market once a week.  I went the first couple of weeks after I moved here – just to scope it out, see what was available, you know the drill.  I think it took me all of two weeks to realize that going to the market wasn’t necessarily a highlight for a white girl, so nowadays I only go if I absolutely HAVE to buy some ant poison. Or a basin for the kids to drum on.  The other week was one of those weeks, so I took a deep breath and resolved to spend as little time as possible there. In and out. As my sister would say, “Mara moja chop chop!”  I get there and am scoping out the best display of basins when the guy I once bought ant poison from last year saw me. He dropped whatever was keeping him busy at the moment and came sprinting over – “Oh my friend! Where have you BEEN?!?  I’ve missed you SOOO much?”

Wait. What did you say your name was again?

Than there are always the village festivities.  Last week we had the official opening of the new government offices here in the village.  The offices are hard to miss when you’re taking the really complicated and intricate tour of our village (have I mentioned that sarcasm is one of the lesser known spiritual gifts? Just thought I’d throw that out there) – the offices are painted the brightest shade of tangerine ever invented.  Anyway, great fun of course.  DJ rented, six huge speakers set up, music playing, let the dancing begin! And keep dancing while we wait for all the big-wigs from Dar to arrive.  I wish I could explain the dancing that occurs when my neighbors have a good song playing. It’s just hard to describe.  I tried desperately to get video footage of it with my phone, but somehow, it doesn’t do it justice.  But here’s a picture of me trying to get the dancers – you’ll notice the bright tangerine in the background.  At any rate, at these events, Monica and I tend to stand out. I don’t know, something about ours being the only white skin… This particular event we were discussing the dear diary entries that would occur later that night if we decided to bust a move and pull out some MC Hammer moves.  Or maybe do the sprinkler.  I was pushing for some 70’s disco moves. Or maybe some line-dancing.  I’m sorry to say that our talk was just that. Talk. Neither of us felt like we absolutely had to provide those dear diary moments for our neighbors. Maybe next time.

Working with kids is always great fun. Well, ok maybe not always, but a lot of the time it sure is.  So picture this: morning circle time, talking about the weather.  Me, the teacher, sitting in front of 25 kids dripping, and I DO mean dripping, sweat. Ready to wilt at 9 in the morning.  I ask the kids, “so, what do you guys think the weather is this morning? Hot? Humid?”  Kids: “No way! It’s so cold!”

Hmmm…I’m not seeing any jackets. Just sayin’…

But, the one that takes the cake hands down for the most unusual thing happening to me – so much so that I sincerely hope it never happens again – was Mr. Old-Guy stopping Monica and I on the path the other week.  He was pushing his bicycle and limping. It was quite obvious he was in pain.  It’s quite usual for us to be stopped and bombarded with medical questions since everyone knows Monica is a nurse (the questions she gets asked as a nurse could be another entry. Maybe later.).  Anyway, back to Mr. Old-Guy.  He calls out, so we stop and wait for him to catch up.  He proceeds to tell us he’s swollen and would Monica mind taking a look.  The next thing I know is he’s unzipping his pants!  Well, you can imagine what sort of things were going through my mind.  “Um. Sir, there are some things I’d rather not see until I get married.” “Sir, do you REALLY think I would like to see that right now?” “Oh fat, how do I get out of this one?” “It takes a man with a lot of confidence to whip that out in the middle of the busiest path in the village.” Those were just some of the thoughts that went whipping through my brain.  Come to find out, he had a hernia. Yeah, that’s all. Monica told him he needed surgery and off we went.

Monica laughing at me, because apparently, the expression on my face when his hands went to his zipper was priceless.

My response? “Yeah, that would be reason #1 why I did not touch the nursing profession with a ten foot pole.”