The Things I will do for a Dollar...

When I arrived back home from America, I had a grin on my face that spread ear to ear. I couldn’t wait to escape the airplane and all of the silly white tourists and get back to the bush to see my kids! Unlike the tourists, who were slightly scared by the imposing Tanzanian doctors standing next to the customs desk with white masks and plastic suits (like the silly plague was trying to enter instead of swine flu) handing out little surveys (do you have pig flu? Circle Yes or No) I breezed past them, not even having to fill out a survey or take a test (very perceptive of them to have a large mass of people and two doctors who are more impressed with their masks than the surveys they are holding) and swiped a taxi, whose driver was not happy that the white occupant spoke Kiswahili and was charging the normal fare.
When I arrived home at Makong’onda everyone was thrilled to see me, and I them. I showed everyone the pictures that I took as well as all of the fun things that I brought back with me (including taco powder and jump ropes). I also had with me 5 crisp American one dollar bills. This started a bit of a betting war with Mustafa, one of my favorite students, and Hussein, another student who stayed with me for a week after my arrival (he took care of my cat when I was gone, I felt sorry for him, Pepsi is a lot to put up with). One of my favorite American phrases is “I betcha a dollar you can’t do …”, after I said this to Mustafa one time his immediate reply was “like one of the dollars you have in your wallet right now?!” He then immediately placed a whole chili pepper in his mouth (the bet) and then tears streaming from his eyes and words I don’t think I want to know streaming out of his mouth, he accepted his prize on the way to the water barrel (which he nearly dunked his head into)
One of my chickens has become infatuated with the neighbors rooster, whom I hate, because he makes my rooster angry, causing a huge cockfight to go with my African sunset every night. Not wanting my courtyard to look like someone’s sleazy basement ring every night, I immediately decided to take action: I removed the ladder the cock was perching on each night, thinking he would move back to his home (and the chicken and chicklings he left behind I might add). The rooster took action of his own, he decided it would be much more efficient (and much farther out of that crazy white woman’s reach) to climb to the roof. I have a tin roof mind you, and a huge rooster with stupid claws struggling to keep his balance and then cawing each time he loses is LOUD. OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. After three hours of this I finally screamed from my bed “BOYS! I’ll give you a dollar if you get that d*&^ chicken OFF THE ROOF!). At first I did not hear the enthusiasm I was hoping for, only snickers. One of them called out “Mwalimu, there is no chicken on the roof, only that rooster!”. More snickers. “GET THE ROOSTER OFF THE ROOF OR SLEEP OUTSIDE!”. Long pause. “If we sleep outside, we won’t be able to hear the roosters”. At this point I started getting out of bed, a process that causes a small squeak, by the time I had one foot on the floor I heard my backdoor flung open and the boys rushing into the back yard.
At first I thought it was going well, then I realized that I had made a grave mistake. See, the boys first started pleading nicely (in Kiswahili) with the rooster to get down so that they could have a dollar. When that stubborn rooster didn’t listen, they decided to start throwing everything they could find that was not breakable in the backyard (did I mention the roof was tin? Did I also indicate that I wanted the rooster down so that I could get to sleep). Eventually I gave up, got out of bed and went outside, being showered by dirt from the mudclot that just cleared the roof but just missed the rooster. Sitting out of missile range, I watched as the rooster dodged, dipped, dove, ducked and dodged for an HOUR before a direct hit was made. At this point I think the poor thing was just giving up. It took three more direct hits for him to abandon his beloved chicken and move to a more secure location. The three of us went back into the house and fell asleep having conquered the enemy.
You know that saying you can win the battle and lose the war? The rooster did. When I stepped out onto the front porch an unfamiliar “squish” accompanied my normal footsteps. Ah yes, he had found a new perch, and pooped ALL OVER the front porch (leaving no gray spots, except his own).
I have a feeling we will be having rooster for supper real soon…