the bath-house terrorist

After spending two fun days with friends, exploring a beautiful new city and finding unbelievable deals at the market (psychedelic leggings, authentic Vans sneakers in my size, and a pair of purple/black checkered skinny legs jeans that fit like a glove), I endured 6 rather excruciating hours on a matatu (2 of which were spent waiting, with the engine off, packed like a can of sardines, where I also incidentally lost my camera) back to the village. After being dumped at Nina, my wobbly, sore, bruised legs slowly led me towards my house, where I hoped to continue sitting, lifeless, for the remainder of my afternoon. However, I happened to arrive just in time (only 1 hour late for a meeting which averages 3) to attend one of our delightfully dull staff meetings, always designed to encourage/reprimand our laziest teacher, which we all must attend and assume some responsibility for the faults he has created which inevitably leads to these meetings.

I dropped my things in my house and rushed over, where I immediately realized no one was interpreting for our deaf staff member, Vincent, who is also required to sit through these lengthy agony festivals. I definitely don’t mind interpreting, but the frustrating part is that I’m not the best signer in the school, and once I begin to interpret, those who are supposed to interpret (and admittedly do a much better job) watch me, which is always a little stressful. Anyways, at least he got some of the information, since it was kind important, once we reached the actual point of the ramblings.

Eventually, the meeting was adjourned with a word of prayer from Dorine, which I was unable to interpret, and most teachers bolted for the door to go home. Not wanting to seem rude, since I did just return from my journey and would be expected to linger and story for a while, I mosied to the door and began sneaking towards my house when I overheard the housemother, Anjeline, shouting “poo poo! Poo poo!” repeatedly. Now this had my attention – rest and relaxation could wait! To make sure I was hearing correctly, I looked at one of the older students, Christabel, and asked what was going on. She explained that someone pooped in the bathing room. I started laughing, while Angeline emerged from the bathing room, still shouting “poo poo! Who!”

Christabel rounded up the little girls and began the interrogation, “poop, bathing room, there, who?” and all of the little girls just smiled and nodded at her, much to my enjoyment. Christable continued trying to explain by squatting and pretending to poop, where all the girls just giggled and pointed at her. Finally she resorted to taking them on a field trip, where she led them to the scene of the crime – the bathing room – where the smelly evidence remained, neatly piled by the door. As soon as she opened the door, the girls peeked in and all shrieked. Ashley, little baby girl, came running over to me as though she had seen a ghost, frantically yanking her dress up and squatting right in front of me, pointing wildly to the bathing room. Unfortunately (or possibly fortunately, for the perpetrator, since it likely would have resulted in corporal punishment) we were unable to determine exactly who vandalized the bathing room with their bowel movement, but after about an hour of explaining to adorable little devils, I think they got the idea: poop here (bathing room), and you will pay.

Bath-house

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