Requiem for a Choo

I awoke two weeks ago to this scene:



Yep, that's my choo (toilet). I heard my principal shout to another teacher, 'Bwana Nzembei, are you aware that we don't have a toilet?' It had been a long night of rain, and in an area that normally does not receive a lot of rain the buildings are not constructed with that possibility in mind. It's now like a choo recliner, which would be great if you were sitting down, but not so much when you squat. My neighbor's choo had gone down in the previous rain, and another neighbor's went down the day after mine. They're dropping like flies! Or maybe they dropped on flies... and cockroaches. So now I have to travel across the market to use the public choo, which is wonderful first thing in the morning, or when you have 'an emergency' in the middle of the night.

With the rains come the return of my old nemesis: the scorpion. Here's a picture of one pre-death:



I thought they had given up, but in reality they were just regrouping. They had been hibernating for the dry months, just biding their time until they thought I had relaxed and let my guard down. But they always attack like villains in kung fu movies: one at a time. If they want my house why don't they surround me and take me from all sides? But they can't have my house!

So the school year is over. My first full year as a teacher wrapped up last week. There was a lot of work to be done at the end of the year and it was intensely busy. We said goodbye to our Form 4 class and announced next years prefects and head boy and girl.

Immediately following the closing of school I made my way to Nairobi to celebrate Thanksgiving with some American families. The house we ate at had a piano. Let me repeat: the house we ate at had a piano! A grand piano. And a full size keyboard. And excellent jazz music. The man of the house is in a jazz band and he gave me a few informal lessons on improvisation. Before eating we all made pilgrim or indian hats and then ate some marvellous food. Wow.

The next day, of course, was the Moustache Party. There were many truck drivers, used car salesmen, and pedophiles. I'd like to think of mine as a cross between an old civil war general and a modern day truck driver. We were supposed to play 'Pin the Moustache on the Donkey' but the donkey turned up missing. Maybe it knew what was coming. Awards were handed out. I received toothpaste.

I leave you with a few random shots from around the village:




Picture No. 1: We have Ndaa (a name that means lice and one of my favorite guys in my village), Gordon (a guy who is a hard core Rastafarian which apparently affects his tongue. I can't understand his 'American' accent), and Stephen (a guy who washed my clothes for me once, because I truly dispise washing my clothes).

Picture No. 2: It's me and Nzembei celebrating my birthday a month late thanks to Catie Lenaway's 'Birthday in a Box'. She's a wonderful person, who is extremely thoughtful.

Picture No. 3: It's Mary (the doctor's wife), the Doctor, and Pastor (also known as Muthonzwa - a very talkative noisy bird. He doesn't like this name). Notice that Pastor has his Bible on the table in front of him.

Man, the weather is nice isn't it?

Let's call it a day.