Gotta Wash Down Those Mud Pies with Water

Friday Morning Score:

Congo: 1
Teacher: 0

After a blissful week of reading and loving Kinderclassic, Mrs. Wishy-Washy, I decided that Friday morning we would make our own lovely mud to go along with our final reading of the week of this tale of animals romping in the mud and scrubbed in the tub by the illustrious Mrs. Wishy-Washy before-you guessed it-bolting straight back to the mud again. Why make mud? The initial reason was fun but I knew there had to be a sounder pedagogical reason other than my love of dirt and water.

Here's what I came up with:

1. Sensorimotor Experience
2. Scientific Inquiry (What the heck is mud? How is it different than wet sand? Why do the roads in Kinshasa wash away in the rainy season?)
3. Become more familiar with the Botanical Gardens (Our campus has gorgeous botanical gardens which we are obligated to incorporate into classroom curriculum. What better source for our mud dirt than the botanical garden? None I should say!)

But Congo beat us to the mud-making when the rainy season began 4 weeks earlier than normal but mere hours after many locals had been predicting for some time. What do you do when the dirt you wanted to make into mud has already turned to mud and the gardens are squishy and swampy? Put on your game face, lay down a parachute to sit on and break out your fancy bag of loam soil. The campus gardeners crowded around our mud-making with bewildered interest. If furrowed brows could talk: Does this Mundele not realize that we have plenty of mud already? If tilted nods could reply: "Mundeles do not think our mud is good enough. They like their mud made of imported loam."

I could have dumped our mud after our jolly experiments but I thought I might as well bring it back to the classroom as an option during Free Play. I carefully ladled the mud into trays, but it nonetheless ended up on every available human and classroom surface. No sweat, says I, mud washes away with water.

Armed with paper towels and soap, buckets and a mop, we slip-slided our way to the sink. No water. For the next 12 hours.

Friday Afternoon Score:

Congo: 2
Teacher: 0

When the Drill Becomes the Procedure

My school has an extensive set of drills, named after rainbow colors, and designed to keep students and staff safe in the event of political unrest. Their frequency has steadily occurred as the elections approach in the not unreasonable concern that things may take a troubled turn, if only briefly. After all, this is DR Congo where 5 years ago the city went on lockdown and students slept at their teacher's houses for 3 nights and cried when "all clear" was called and their parents came to collect them. This is the city where the local college down the hill from my home rioted in response to cities failure to provide them power and water. This occurred specifically on the night when a senior invited her teachers/coaches/mentors out to dinner to celebrate her graduation. Our boss called to tell us to keep celebrating rather than drive home. We turned this into one last teachable moment for the graduate: how to do a tequila shot.

Chaos happens. So when the receptionist flung open my door and shouted "Code Yellow Emergency Drill!" 10 minutes before the dismissal bell rang I figured, "It's probably not a drill." And it wasn't. Today was a demonstration geared toward the upcoming elections, ambiguously titled, "The Peaceful Protest of Rage." It took a slightly violent turn and although the streets were cleared and quieted, "Intelligence sources,"  not to be confused with intelligent sources (though I don't find the two to be necessarily mutually exclusive), decided this was the calm before the storm. In reality, it was the calm before the regularly scheduled hustle and bustle of Kinshasa. Nonetheless, for 25 minutes I entertained the Kinderfolk with songs and rhymes whilst their parents waited outside my door. (This particular drill called for students returning to class and not being released until the streets are deemed safe, no matter if their parent is there and wants to take them the hell home).

In the end it was a little blip in my day and in the daily happenings of the city, but I don't doubt there are more blips on the way. Fingers crossed for small blips all the way.