Turn your bike off the main road onto the dirt path that's engrained in the field. Riding towards the big tree ahead you see the teacher's table, and hundreds of children sprawled across the schoolyard for free period. You park your bike, inform the teachers why you are here, and follow an older student to the Director's office.
Every few feet there are children swinging makeshift ropes while their peers skip to the beat: thwack, hop, thwack, hop is the sound of the thick green vine ropes while the broken pieces of twine twisted together make a quieter, slapping sound. From the corner of your eye you think you see a few children jumping with a rope made of tied together plastic bags, but you aren't sure, and you're distracted by a child calling your name before you can decide.
"Smalle, smalle." Says a small voice from somewhere behind a block of classrooms. You smile and wave, and soon find yourself behind the classes and in front of the offices. The director isn't in, but when you call he promises he'll arrive shortly. As you pocket your cellphone you notice the commotion around you.
"Smalle, smalle." say many small, approaching, voices. You are completely surrounded by first graders. There must be 40 or 50 of them, all approaching in a uniform mob. They are bent forward, hands behind their backs, slowly hop-stepping towards you, whispering "smalle, smalle" tauntingly with every step. Once they are within a couple feet of you the group stops, and the voices quiet. A few brave children continue to call "smalle, smalle." but most stare up at you expectingly.
You look to your colleague, and she mouths "What do we do?" You have no idea what to do under such surveillance. The children continue to stare; you make a face at one. He smiles. You imitate another's facial expression; she quietly giggles and makes a new face at you. The rest of the students stare with saucer eyes.
You catch your colleague's eye and turn again to the students. Raising your right hand in the air you wave to the crowd, saying "Greetings, Earthlings." quietly enough that only she can hear. You both laugh. There's no other way to describe what is happening right now other than to say you feel like an alien who has just landed on earth.
There's more silence broken by brave voices shouting 'Smalle, smalle." You stand still, not looking at the children, pretending they aren't there. And then, all of a sudden, you rush towards them, shouting and flailing your arms. The children shriek and run away. It's official, you don't feel like an alien, just an ogre. You've scared them away.
And then the giggling starts. When the giggling ceases they all bend forward, arms behind their backs, bouncing towards you in a uniform step. The crowd buzzes with the words "smalle, smalle." Your ogre imitation appears to have been a hit, so you do it a few more times until the children don't react at all. When this happens you turn around to see what's caused their sudden disinterest, and see the director is standing behind you. There's a long moment of silence. He speaks some rapid fire Buli and the children run away.
And life in Sandema proves even 23 year olds can get in trouble on the playground.
Every few feet there are children swinging makeshift ropes while their peers skip to the beat: thwack, hop, thwack, hop is the sound of the thick green vine ropes while the broken pieces of twine twisted together make a quieter, slapping sound. From the corner of your eye you think you see a few children jumping with a rope made of tied together plastic bags, but you aren't sure, and you're distracted by a child calling your name before you can decide.
"Smalle, smalle." Says a small voice from somewhere behind a block of classrooms. You smile and wave, and soon find yourself behind the classes and in front of the offices. The director isn't in, but when you call he promises he'll arrive shortly. As you pocket your cellphone you notice the commotion around you.
"Smalle, smalle." say many small, approaching, voices. You are completely surrounded by first graders. There must be 40 or 50 of them, all approaching in a uniform mob. They are bent forward, hands behind their backs, slowly hop-stepping towards you, whispering "smalle, smalle" tauntingly with every step. Once they are within a couple feet of you the group stops, and the voices quiet. A few brave children continue to call "smalle, smalle." but most stare up at you expectingly.
You look to your colleague, and she mouths "What do we do?" You have no idea what to do under such surveillance. The children continue to stare; you make a face at one. He smiles. You imitate another's facial expression; she quietly giggles and makes a new face at you. The rest of the students stare with saucer eyes.
You catch your colleague's eye and turn again to the students. Raising your right hand in the air you wave to the crowd, saying "Greetings, Earthlings." quietly enough that only she can hear. You both laugh. There's no other way to describe what is happening right now other than to say you feel like an alien who has just landed on earth.
There's more silence broken by brave voices shouting 'Smalle, smalle." You stand still, not looking at the children, pretending they aren't there. And then, all of a sudden, you rush towards them, shouting and flailing your arms. The children shriek and run away. It's official, you don't feel like an alien, just an ogre. You've scared them away.
And then the giggling starts. When the giggling ceases they all bend forward, arms behind their backs, bouncing towards you in a uniform step. The crowd buzzes with the words "smalle, smalle." Your ogre imitation appears to have been a hit, so you do it a few more times until the children don't react at all. When this happens you turn around to see what's caused their sudden disinterest, and see the director is standing behind you. There's a long moment of silence. He speaks some rapid fire Buli and the children run away.
And life in Sandema proves even 23 year olds can get in trouble on the playground.
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