Salted Tea

6:00pm. It is a time that I relish. The day's activities have reached a natural break, and I am relieved of duties, as I head to the dining hall for a wonderful meal. I like my job, but I dare not proclaim that I have the fortitude or stamina to engage work in my every waking hour. Not only am I trying to teach skills, give information, translating, and encouraging expression, but I am doing so with my hands. This is moderately exhausting (read: After sitting in a prayer meeting for an hour of continuous signing, with Mohammed continuously resting his hands on mine as I sign, one succumbs to some measure of fatigue.) So, when I go to dinner, I get to temporarily reclaim my appendages as instruments whose sole purpose is for the shoveling of nourishment into my eagerly awaiting mouth. My digits are set free, the shackles removed.

And I relax. I evaluate the day. I do not stress or think of the countless things that I will need to do in the coming weeks and coming months. Those things are swallowed, quite effortlessly, with my evening tea.

With my tea in hand, I notice a familiar figure has wandered over to the staff table. Mohammed is toting his empty cup, and I simply think, "Not my business." As he moves in, next to the institute's director, I am intrigued and wonder how this will play out. He wants tea, but is simultaneously showing that tea alone will not do. With much bravado, he is signing, "Sugar, sugar, sugar." After filling his cup, Mohammed again indicates that only sugar can sooth his craving...the director hands him the salt. Mohammed doesn't take the bait. Testing both his resolve and his patience, the salt is pushed back into Mohammed's hand. Either through curiosity or uncertainty, Mohammed feels willing to investigate the shaker. Could there be sugar in it?

Getting some residue from the top, he licks his fingers and issues a response of "WRONG!", that seems to carry finality. Still, a grin is plastered across his face, and his head dips down to indicate that thought processes are in motion. When you are blind, you have no need to look around for help...

At this point, quite of number of spectators have gathered, amused and also surprised by the extent of M's communication and the nature of his behavior. They watch as Mohammed just gives in to the joke, and starts shaking salt over his cup of tea. The joke has been turned around, as hands rush in to stop him from ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. All the faces around him, shocked and aghast, return to their previous orientations, as Mohammed has continued to hold his grin. The sugar is passed to him and he excavates the crystals from their container.

Eyes turn to me, questioningly. Why did Mohammed come over here for tea in the first place? He has tea at his table, or an adjacent table. Does Mohammed usually do these things on his own? Why didn't he insist that he would not take the salt, even after he was being prodded?

I just laugh. He's becoming more expressive, more enigmatic. But what really makes me laugh is the overarching joke that everyone else at the table has missed, excluding myself and Mohammed.

"Look at the time."

What? No one has caught on. "So what?", is the reply. It is Wednesday, and it is 6:30, and Mohammed is supposed to be in the kitchen helping with the dishes. Tea wasn't his goal at all. It was just the decoy. They thought he was the victim of the joke, but he knew to play his part, making everyone else complicit in his quest to get out of work. I can only wonder what was going on in his head....

"You think salted tea is funny? I just got the director to assist in delaying work...who's laughing now?"

He sits, sipping slowly, savoring his sweet tea. Victory is sweet, indeed.

I eventually find my way up to the boarding house, just to chill for part of the evening. As I am about to leave, one of the students stops me and ask me if I want to wrestle. "Just some grappling, no kicking or punching. Just try." I'm not exactly a fighter, but I usually humor the young men. Since I have about 30 lbs. on him, and a significant strength advantage, I reluctantly agree thinking it won't be hard to get him on the ground (the point of the match).

We start it up, and I am immediately surprised by his intensity. Tangled up, he tries to lift me off the ground. Not happening. I push him off and smile, suddenly more confident. I know my approach. Lock arms, and all that I have to do is wrap up his knee. For a second, it also hits me that I have no idea how to execute such a move. Mostly I just fumble about defensively, as I push him away.

I get his arm, and it seems all but over (for me, as I'd soon find out). As I twist him around, I am ready to lock his other arm. He seems all but immobilized...

Thud. Eehhmmmmmm. I smile through clenched teeth (happy that my deaf adversary can't hear me groaning as I realize something does not feel good), and let him help me up. I replay the last second in my mind. As we twisted, it left him with a lower center of gravity, and also a leg behind my legs. Not a good strategy on my part. In my defense, I hardly expected that he would sweep my legs out and throw his weight backwards to pull off a rather impressively elegant reverse body slam. I didn't expect it because it seems dangerous to execute this move on a tiled floor....which I suppose is softened by concrete.

In my limited experience of such situations, I have come to realize that fracturing a rib is a possible consequence. Not that I actually went to the hospital for an x-ray...but, when there is persistent pain for several days, sharp reminders of sensitivity that accompany just about any core movement, and breathing in deeply causes discomfort, it seems safe to assume that this isn't just a bruised ego. He asks about it later, seemingly puzzled that any injury could have resulted. I reminded him that I hit stone, with force, and an extra body's worth of weight on top of me. This answer seemed rational enough to register with him, but I assure him it's no problem. Next time, I'll probably ask for a code of conduct before we wrestle, just to make sure I know what I'm supposed to be prepared for.

Hopefully, a couple weeks of caution will have me back on my feet (or comfortably on my back). After all, the last thing I need is an injury lingering over my teaching career. Peace.

Tuesdays are for Cooking

Tuesday is for cooking. There was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour. Let's be transparent: Cake is about cake. Meaning that the ingredients are nice, and mixing them is essential, tossing the batter in the oven is necessary, but the culmination is in the finality of the process. Procurement of the tasty morsels as they're removed from the pan and escorted (by means of fingers, fork, spoon, long distance toss, or patience-building-snail-shuttle) to the mouth. This is where cake is less of a process and more of an experience, transcending time and space, spanning infinite complexity as the sensory system inadequately tries to convey its gratitude for such a pleasant and wholly invigorating encounter (Gratitude that we approach diminutively, scaling it down to chemoreceptors and merely a "pleasant taste"). How we've been deluded into thinking that a particle exceeding the speed of light is remotely important in the presence of cake, I'll never know.

Now, don't mistake me for some sort of cake connoisseur. I will issue no qualms when others offer to provide me with cake of sub-standard quality. In fact, I am entirely indifferent about my degree of participation in pastry production and preparation. Historically, I have not been involved beyond consumption and the ensuing euphoria. Which is why, when I say that there was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour, I am perhaps being disingenuous. There was only a time when I spent each day, wandering listlessly about in the hopes that I might stumble upon a rare, wild, unsuspecting cake that I might capture and devour.

But, the present and apparent parting of those past-times has been an adjustment. Naturally, it seemed only reasonable that I could simultaneously teach and learn how to bake a cake. And this is why Tuesdays are for cooking. The morning begins with a brief prayer time in the new chapel. While it isn't always explicitly engaged, I like to be reminded that God is the context of love and service. To have time in the morning to ponder this is a good way to be thankful for my job, and the capacity in which I serve with MCC.

On to school. Mohammed starts off by preparing his braille calender, which has become more routine than enjoyable. Rather than monotony of days and numbers, I try to breach the mundane, injecting questions along the lines of "So, what will the date be when you go home for the weekend?", or "You will have vacation in 4 weeks. How many days is that?". We're sitting on a porch swing while studying, looking out over Salt as the sunlight pours over us, cutting through the dust that obscures the rolling hills that seem to extend endlessly. I wonder if Mohammed appreciates the beauty of the setting more than me, despite his blindness. I push him towards the edge of the swing, a reprisal attack for his answer that one week and two weeks are the same number of days. Resilient, he bounces back, willing to look again.

Who cares? It is Tuesday. On to the kitchen to start mixing the cake. Braille recipes have been abolished for the time being, as they are apparently repulsive and make baking more of a fight than fun. Still, ingredients have braille labels, and after approaching me for the cabinet keys, Mohammed starts pulling out everything and arranging it. It is expected of him, and I hardly marvel at how easily he accomplishes these things now. I am doing so now rather than typi.....ng.

After the inception of what I like to call "The Experience", otherwise known as Mohammed's coconut cake, the measurements of each item have been memorized. I stand back and observe as my student lackadaisically tosses cups of flour into a bowl. Mental note: remind him that even though he doesn't see the flour spilling on the table, there is less speculation about this occurence than there is regarding sounds made by trees falling in forests when listeners are not present. Not on my game, I drift off. Mohammed moves on, only to be rudely interrupted.

"How many cups of flour did you put in?"
"3 spoons of baking powder," is his reply, thinking ahead and not really answering.
"No, right here. How many cups of flour?"
Realizing the subject..."3 cups flour."
"Oh. That's right." I'll pay more attention.

This is going swimmingly. Easy as cake. On to the eggs. He lets them fit into his fists, like he's ready for a fight. Note: I think this would be a superior street fighting technique, to always have an egg ready to bust skulls. I don't like this orientation for cracking. We do the first three, with significant co-active movement as I direct the breaking of the shell, the placement of the thumbs, and the pulling apart and discarding of the shell. Oops. Sidetracked again...I step away to sign with someone else. Turning around, Mohammed is traipsing lazily towards the trashcan, shells in hand.

My thought: I like my eggshells on the side, thank you. Let's go see the damage from the fourth egg, which Mohammed dispatched on his own. Using my CSI skills, I keenly examine the mixing bowl. No evidence of a struggle or foul play. The absence of eggshell proves we have a natural in our midst. I interrupt him to express my pride in the fact that he not only went ahead on his own, but that he has performed admirably. Since I have no medals on hand, a high-five will suffice. Mohammed adds his own, characteristically peculiar victory dance. I step back to do my own victory dance as he continues, unsuspecting of the pride emanating from his equally peculiar teacher. I realize that there are other people present, and promptly stop dancing.

When he's confident, Mohammed is much more proactive in communication. On this day, his confidence level was perhaps an inverse of a chart mapping the financial gains of recent investments...this means that it was high for those of you that haven't been paying attention. The previous weeks, we've been mixing by hand and dictating when we want the other person to take a turn. Not even acknowledging this tradition, Mohammed tells me that today he wants the electric mixer. I'm hurt that I won't get to participate...Mohammed still lets me have a turn with the mixer. How sweet.

Recently, lighting the oven by means of matches has been reminiscent of epic tales that feature gargantuan reptiles of incendiary nature. This has included loss of hair on the arms, and explosive sounds that breach the limitations of deafness. After all, allowing Mohammed to light the match, find the oven valve and open it, and then guiding his had to the proper location is not the quickest of methods. It is important to keep him involved.

Back to confidence. I assume he is emboldened by today's successes, but he remembers these recent, fiery encounters all too clearly. So, he requests to go see Issa (a carpenter and painter at the school that is one of Mohammed's friends). Perpelexed, in the court of my mind, the lawyer of rationality requests to approach the bench. The judge promptly overrules the motion strike this request from the record. Okay, I'll just go with it. As Mohammed keeps signing, I realize that he is signing "lighter", as he knows Issa is a smoker. Not a bad idea. Unfortunately, we don't find Issa, and go back to the match method, both of us wary of potential consequences. Arm hair is left intact for this week.

Wielding his braille timer, we toss the cake in and learn some Arabic words while we wait. Who cares if it takes an entire morning and part of the afternoon to put this together. I would rather see a meaningful expression of independence for Mohammed trump the experience of cake. After all, cake isn't really just about cake. Cake is for wonderful interaction, and Tuesdays are for cooking. Try it out, I think you'll agree. Peace.

P.S.- The cake was delicious. If you want the recipe, hit me up.