Of Goats and Thieves

The goat tied up outside of my room, destined to be somebody’s lunch, is terrified of me. She jumps up and trips over her rope each time I emerge. I want to tell her, “If you think I’m scary, you’ve got another think coming”, but instead I just feed her moldy bread.

Spent a long but satisfying week in the campo with my four youth groups, all of which now have several plots prepared for corn, peanuts, and pigeon peas. It’s exhausting keeping them entertained, but this week I found a stalwart ally in the form of cookies. As they kneel down and reach up their dirty little hands to receive a meager treat, I wish I had 10 pounds of cookies for each of them, and can’t shake the feeling of a priest at communion.

In anticipation of my trip to the city this weekend, a much needed couple days of socializing with people who don’t require that I sing them silly songs, I went to the salon to have my fingers and toes painted. (Some Peace Corps girl customs are the same everywhere I suppose…) Salons are always a good place to sit and listen, to absorb the culture as a passive observer, and as I was watching my nails go from grungy to shiny chocolate brown, a large group of kids stormed by the salon, urging forward a single young boy. The woman painting my nails gave a one word explanation: thief. Apparently he was being escorted to a central location where onlookers could observe a public beating. I had read about this custom of civilians enforcing order with violence in other African countries, but this was the first time I had seen it in action, and guiltily, couldn’t help but feel a bit safer for it. Then again, maybe stealing from a white woman is an honorable deed. Hopefully I’ll never know for sure.