lessons in learning

I am in Arusha. Where you can get your roots done. Where you can drink capuccino. Where you can speak to people other than your husband in English. But where, apparently, the sun has quite forgotten how to shine.

I drove up yesterday. I might just as well have flown in from another hempisphere: I left the glorious blue skies of the outpost behind (as well as all my warm clothes and an umbrella). Its not cool to arrive in civilisation looking like an unforunate hybrid of drowned rat/bag lady. Primarily because other people (women who never have tell tale roots and who know what a capuccino tastes like) will say ”gosh, she’s really gone bush hasn’t she?”. 

I am here because my eldest daughter is on work experience for the week. Teaching. She wants to be an actress or a psychologist. Teaching is her third choice. Or even her fourth of fifth. But seeing as neither Keira Knightly nor Freud operate workshops here, it’s teaching primary kids. She invited me to join her for lunch today. At the coffee lodge. If I could pay and pick her up, of course. I reminded her that teachers were more inclined to grab hasty sandwiches in the staff room than languish over linguine. She was most disappointed, she wanted to lunch out at said lunching joint as some of her peers are waiters there this week and she wanted to click her fingers at them and ask for a menu.

Hat is back in real school for the week (the one where she’s related to the young teacher who fancies lunch out). She told me on leaving outpost that she is not ready for real school yet.  I was elated.

Even I’m at school: alliance francais for two hours of french lessons every day.  The grey matter is being tested - certainly - but phrases and words and verb conjugations from twenty years ago are bubbling to the forefront of my mind in an encouraging way.

I’ve got a commission to file . And roots to tend to. And capuccino to drink. And french to speak.

But for the time being its rather fun practising my English.