Meet my neighbors: part II

4 November 2013

“Peaceful Fruit”

With a name like “Peaceful Fruit” one would find it hard to believe that Freissalaam is so much trouble. At 3 years old he’s asserted his dominance between the 30 meters of street in front of his house. Few cows, sheep, goats, horses, donkeys or children go unattended to. From sun up until sun down my little friend runs wild. Mostly it’s his mom that suffers from his poor behavior and antics. Fortunately for Freissalaam, he’s cute...

REALLY cute!

Along with the mosque and the Orthodox Church, Freissalaam is one of the main reasons I wear ear plugs at night. Without them I would probably average only 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep per night. I don’t know when Peaceful Fruit sleeps because whenever I’m awake, I hear him. I hear him harassing the livestock. I hear him bossing around his friends. I hear him pretending to cry when he’s disciplined. And most of the time I hear his mother:

“SALAAM, quarta mei!!” (SALAAM! Come to me)

This is repeated about 6 times before she just hauls off on him and starts yelling and screaming high pitch noises and chasing him down the street; shortly thereafter I hear him crying and hitting things to vent his frustration. From the comfort (but no peace) inside my home, I can identify all the neighbor children by the sound of their crying and tantrums. I know each of them for their unique build-up, their chorus, I know when it’s fake and when it’s real and I know their mother’s response. It is like musical theater, one that would never sell tickets or gather a gratifying audience.

Looking cool in Amanda's sunglasses

My favorite part of having all these noisy, needy children as my neighbors is not their cacophony of cries, or that they’re always sticky, snotty and pooping in the middle of the road, my favorite part of all these kiddos is how sweet they are to me. As soon as I leave my compound, no matter how discrete I try to be, I am quickly spotted.

“B!!”   Shouts the first witness, then like a stampede of clumsy puppies they come running towards my kneecaps. In a remarkably short amount of time I am surrounded, as if trapped in quicksand, I lose mobility, I feel trapped. The more I resist the tighter they squeeze. At least once a week they share fleas with me, but as a lonely foreigner who doesn’t receive much affection, I dismiss any concerns about flea bites and hug them back, rubbing their small backs, tickling their necks and scratching their rough and untidy hair. Their giggles and lingering embrace lets me know that they appreciate the extra affection too. We finish our group huddle with some fist-bombs, bumping our knuckles together when I command them with “gitch!” which means fist. Many of the children will kiss their knuckles after they pull them away from mine and tap their chest. This is a version of street slang and hoodlums that I can hang with.