Mario Kart

(dedicated to Axel)

Well by now its no secret that Im an excellent bike rider. Part of the thrill is riding by those mere pedestrians and noticing their eyes widen while getting a full view of my kneecaps. Because I wear long shorts and not a long skirt. Dont call me a rebel, Im a freebird!
Anyways, after successfully maneuvering the main roads I decided it was time to take it to the bush. And now I dominate every footpath cutting between fields and trees. The great thing about riding in fields is the raised ground that make the rows. Its like a bunch of speed bumps lined up for me to race over.
And that is exactly what I do.
I race over the bumps just like in Mario Kart and Ive even started throwing stuff behind me. Which turned into a bad idea rather quickly.
You see, sometimes kids chase bikes. Its like the third world's version of kids and the ice cream truck. Except I wasnt playing an annoying and enticing song...and the kids were in for more of a trick rather than a treat.
Well you can imagine what was coming when I started chucking the hollowed shells of fruits over my shoulder while declaring in a high-pitched voice "Im the best" just like Toad passing that bastard Wario.
And just like the Princess (sporting a smirk just because she is the only girl) on of the kids whipped out their slingshot. At this point Im extrememly grateful for two things. 1. Peace Corps makes us wear helmets. 2. Big sunglasses were back in so I had substantial eye protection.
I knew just how important this protection was because my sister had once been hit in the eye by a punk kid and I knew they would actually shoot at me because of an incident back during training a few months prior.
(thats right, this situation was in no way a rookie mistake)
I was hanging out outside the local bar with my friend. While we sipped Castles (the cheaper but surprisingly tastier Zambian beer) I practiced my new slingshot. The slingshot was made by my buddy Philip, the only fat kid in Africa.
A group of young boys peaked their heads around the corner of the bar and flashed the up-to-no-good grins that only young boys and foreign kids have perfected. Then the tallest led the group out to walk in front of me like those ducks you shoot at the fair. They each carried a slingshot. It started innocently enough. I was laughing and they were laughing. We were hiding behind trees. But then I guess our aim just got better or the Castle soaked in enough to sufficiently warn me:
This was no longer a playground.
This was a battleground.
My friend had decided we should head back. She is the sane one while slightly buzzed. I, on the other hand, and The Punisher.
So as we turn to leave and my bitterness is rising because I wanted to stay and play, I got hit square in the back of the neck.
And I lost control. Knowing my throwing arm was much more reliable, I ditched my slingshot and started throwing rocks.
I was throwing rocks at children. African children, which is worse because everyone grows up feeling guilty for them. "Dont waste your food! African children are starving." "Hang up your clothes! African children are naked."
Well, African children have good aim!
My friend had already considered the method of buying our freedom from being stoned. She held up salad cookies and as the kids enjoyed their treat we ran away. literally, ran.
If I was ashamed back then, I was mortified I found myself in the same situation. And this time without a friend.
I needed a boost. One of those freaky mushrooms that give you extra speed so I could ZoomZoom out of the danger zone. So I thought of something that ignites just as much fire. The Brazilian-Argentinian futbol feud. My legs pumped for Ronaldinho.
And I sped through the rows, jumping over half broken maize stalks (wondering why they couldnt watch Barney like 'normal' kids) and cursing the fact that these kids know where I live.
And thats when I thought it was my skin to blame. They knew me, I stuck out. They didnt chase all the other bikes, only mine. It must be my revealing kneecaps!
Maybe next time I'll ride in white skinny jeans.
_______________________________________________

Not everyday is a funny day. But I guess I just find the funny stories easier to explain. Humor makes sense to me. Things like poverty, sickness, grief, starvation do not make sense. The swollen bellies of babies. The patches of raw skin scabbed with disease lurking underneath.
Missing hair, missing teeth, missing nails.
A father's request for lotion to soothe his child's aching sores. A mother desperately selling the rooster for money to take her daughter to the hospital for medicine.
Im surprised when I see a child with shoes.
Im surprised when a man declares his job and by the look of his cleanly pressed trousers he really takes his responsibility seriously.
The old and the young. A whole generation missing between.
And they come to me
Asking
Pleading
Laughing
Giving
Dying
And I teach. I give what I have but not always cheerfully. How can you smile when your feeding a group of kids grilled cheese sandwiches and they stare, confused, trying to figure out 'what is cheese.'
How can you smile when your explaining oral rehydration salts to a mother so her son wont literally waste away?
How can I ever think that its just a job?