Today was a heavy day. Exhausting physically. Exhausting emotionally. I woke up early to organize a program for the kids at a nearby preschool that Mihiri created a few years ago. I decided to keep it simple: paint little wooden elephant cutouts, decorate them with googly eyes or whatever else, then glue a popsicle stick to the back and call it a puppet. We had about an hour and a half with the fifteen tots, however, so I thought it would be fun to start off with “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I even did the accompanying hand movements. Before I could “wonder what you are,” two kids were crying and the rest looked as if they’d seen a ghost. Strike 2 on the children’s songs. “Kyle, the elephants. Quick.” I whispered with an attempt at subtlety, as we ditched the Little Star and rushed to pass out paints and brushes and make the elephant example I had made dance around the desks. The great thing about kids is that they can change moods like the flip of a switch. A big white boy singing a foreign song makes them scared; a spotted red elephant attached to a yellow popsicle stick makes them happy. We were back on track within a few minutes, and the project went just as planned. After the elephants, we handed out crayons and pages from coloring books. Then stickers (that were used more on skin than on paper). Then cookies and chocolate milk. One school down, one to go. We packed up our box of tools, drove directly to the next school, and walked into a class of 30 eleven-year olds. We had no time to plan a project, but by this time we were pros. Kyle wrote the letters of the alphabet on the chalkboard while I circulated the classroom, making sure the students were copying them correctly. After that we handed out flashcards and spelled out words on the board, calling on the student with the “P” card to contribute the letter to “apple,” for example. So far, so good. No crying. No blank stares. We moved on to the make-your-own flashcard project, and then ended with “Hokey Pokey.” Finally, a successful song! There were arms and legs and tushies shaking all about for the last ten minutes of the class. That’s what it’s all about. After a feast from Tharanga (who had to operate with one eye after a nasty hornet attack), MB drove us in his tuktuk to the gypsy camp, passing peacocks along the way. Kyle and I weren’t told what the place was exactly or what gypsy even meant in this situation. We soon discovered that it meant people in extreme poverty. When we first walked the path into the site, men, women, and children slowly gathered as they poured out of their meager shacks. Just as ears can hurt due to loud noise, my eyes hurt as I looked around. The patch of dirt screamed with poverty. Just off the main road. We distributed 3 boxes of clothes and some crackers, but that barely made a dent. What was more appreciated was the energy we brought. There was a boy singing as he played a tambourine. Kyle and I started dancing with some of the younger girls and, within five minutes, we were all doing the hora (or something like it). Then a congo line. Red rover. Piggyback rides. The kids were going crazy, and the parents were loving it. Everything filled with life. Our tuktuk had a string of children trailing it as we left the site, like cans behind a “Just Married” car. On our way back to the house, MB spotted an elephant burial taking place in a field on the side of the road. He told us it’s tradition to properly bury dead elephants and to throw a chunk of dirt into the grave. We went to check it out and drove in just as the massive animal was rolled into the hole. Kyle and I joined the circle of people. I haven’t been to that many funerals before, and, elephant or human, it’s still death. Stripped of its ivory (of course), and stripped of its dignity as children threw rocks at its head – the gaping mouth the basket. Today was a heavy day.

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