Since we were gone to training for a week and came back to 2nd marking period exam week, neither Heather nor myself have had time to do a big restocking trip for far too long. So this morning we strapped on our backpacks, faced the nemesis hill right outside our front door, and headed to the market to fill our empty shelves.
Wednesday morning in Kakata is a bustling, bizarre, beautiful thing. It hasn't rained in a week, so the streets are a dusty brown instead of a muddy red. The row of shoeshine boys who set up camp at the side of the coal tar greeted us cheerfully as we wended our way past them, fighting upstream against a tide of wheelbarrows and bundle-laden teens. The money-changer we stopped at to convert US dollars into Liberian dollars had a chess game set up and asked if we wanted to play. And everyone said good morning. Our usual shopkeepers missed us and gave us a gently chiding hard time for not stopping by to say hello. We ran into at least half a dozen of our students (most of whom sell in the market or do other work in the morning before going to school in the afternoon since they are self-supported and/or have families and children of their own). And we covered a lot of ground, walking around half of Kakata. All told, the adventure took about two hours. We returned with enough time to rinse off the sweat and stash our haul of rice, canned goods, oil, vegetables, and cleaning supplies before heading to campus for school. Pantry: stocked.
This week is the first week of 3rd marking period (a marking period is four weeks of instruction, one week of review, one week of exams repeated six times in a school year) and I made the executive decision that I would teach my tenth-graders actual algebra for this period after months of arithmetic review. So today I introduced the concept of translating English sentences into algebraic expressions. We kept things simple, making a list of words for addition and practicing math sentences using just that operation. I felt like an amazing teacher, too. I had students raising their hands to ask thoughtful questions and coming to the board to give (mostly correct) answers. They even took a mini-quiz and mostly managed to do their own work.
Part of the reason class went so well is that more than half my students were absent, and twenty bodies are easier to manage than fifty-five. Many students and teachers have decided, apparently, to take their Christmas vacation two weeks early, and campus is like a ghost town after recess except for those dedicated/unlucky few who have Peace Corps teachers and decide to stay. After I finished teaching today, the empty schedule meant that I got some time to 'lecture small', or chat, with my kids and engage in a little Goal Two exchange, sharing American culture with Liberians. They had some great questions, like "do people in America have hard time like Liberians we do?" (I told David and Abraham about homeless people living on the streets, of which I've seen none here- "Don't their families help them, Ms. L? Why don't they get jobs?") and "is there special state for vampires to live in? (No, Martin. Vampires aren't real, we just have plenty stories about them) and "why your father teach literature and you love to teach mathematics?" (Some people are strong at different things, Eva). I loved having the chance to talk and listen to my kids in an informal way. And they're so curious and open to asking anything- sometimes to a ridiculous or uncomfortable degree- which is refreshing. Students: taught.
Amos the carpenter came by yesterday to finish grouting the tile floor in our living room and reinstall the baseboards, and today when I got home from teaching my one class, I got out a bucket and a brush and, Cindarella-style, took to hands and knees to remove the spots of grout and cement marring our gorgeous new floor. (Tile: cleaned)
I naturally tackled this task with the front door open and music playing loudly, which the neighborhood took as an invitation to drop by and thank me for the work and jealously ogle our beautiful floor. I had been worried that they would see us as selfish, wasting money on something so superfluous, but everyone's reaction has been overwhelming support and admiration of our investment in our home and the community. They all want to tell us "Thank you for the work," which I find strange since all I did was sit on the porch while three Liberians took less than a day to lay a floor, but since we supplied the materials and had the idea, we get the thanks. And the visitors. First was Ma Mary from up the hill who dropped in to appreciate us and ask if we had any extra cement dust she could have. Then Muistafa, a student, visited to say hello and caught me singing along (loudly) to "Hey, Jude," which probably made his day. And Peace, Ben and Fatu's dog, came by to spread out on the coolest surface in town. But my favorite visitor was Ben himself. I was just putting the bucket away and dancing on clean tile in my bare feet (para bailar la bamba, se necesita una poca de gracias) when his quiet voice interrupted from the porch, "what country is this music?"
I told him the language was Spanish, and asked him if he liked it.
"I hear this before, when I were refugee in 2003, it make me think on that time."
"What place were you a refugee?"
"Oh, near to Freetown, in Sierra Leone. It a nice song..." and he smiled and went back to hooking the grass in his yard. Thank you for the work, Ben.
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