Hi Everyone,
To keep things organized, I decided to start a new blog for Iraq. Here's the link...
betsyhall-iraq.blogspot.com
Happy reading :)
Friday, April 3, 2009
Sunday, March 2, 2008
AFRICA Part II -- Adventures After the Windmill!
Look mom! I'm in two places at once! Tanzania and Kenya!
Nile River, Grade 5 out of 5 Rapids
mmmm tastes like chicken!
Mombasa!!!Stay tuned everyone!
Granted, the windmill is up and the work is done. But as Khanjan always said," work hard, play hard."
It's now time to play, and we got 3 weeks to do it in....
Our Agenda:
1. Jinja, Uganda -- white water rafting and bungi jumping
2. Safari
3. Mombasa - the most beautiful beach on earth (supposedly, we'll see)
Let's go!!!!!!
FEEDBACK, 2 Mar 08 -- 7 months later
Before we left Margaret and her family for good, we took Gori (her son) into the village and to the internet café. We chose him because he was the most educated and was the only one who had ever used a computer before. We wanted to set up an email account for him and show him how it worked. That way, we could keep in contact with him and his family, and know in the future how the windmill was doing. Today is March 2nd, 2008. It’s been about 7 months since I’ve left Kenya, and have about a dozen emails from both Gori and Davies. Some of them rather interesting (for a lack of a better term). The questions posed by my Kenyan friends reiterated a Kenyan’s lack of shame in asking for ANYTHING, after all, what have they got to lose? Unfortunately for you, I will not discuss all the conversations on a public blog, out of respect for my friends. However, I will say they are all safe and well. Especially with all the violence over there at the moment, I have become concerned. Below is the most recent email from Gori. It appears the windmill is not only up and running still, but has been a great blessing to the community:
Hello Betsy!!
How are you doing over there?How is your work?It is since long did I hear from you!This must have been due to post election violence in Kenya.We are fine over here:thank God.Receive greetings from other members of the family.
The machine is doing well and came on a serious demand when all other electric power stations were disconected following the political crisis that erupted soon after the General Elections.Everyone goes at praising the work of your hands:What an acheivement!
I am back to school though lectures are still weak.
Kindly pass my greetings to your family.
Bye ,
Gori.
Hello Betsy!!
How are you doing over there?How is your work?It is since long did I hear from you!This must have been due to post election violence in Kenya.We are fine over here:thank God.Receive greetings from other members of the family.
The machine is doing well and came on a serious demand when all other electric power stations were disconected following the political crisis that erupted soon after the General Elections.Everyone goes at praising the work of your hands:What an acheivement!
I am back to school though lectures are still weak.
Kindly pass my greetings to your family.
Bye ,
Gori.
Reflecting Back on the experience...
Reflecting back, there were up’s and downs, and things that could have been done better.
First off, the construction plan was not organized, which was mainly my fault, and so the time in the shop was more of a headache and took longer than we had hoped for. There were frustrations with cultural differences that I did not really go into in this blog. The adaptation to the lower standard of living, and the frustrations as to why Kenyans would do things a certain way—for example, there are so many habits that just seem to make life more difficult rather than better, but it’s their way and they don’t know any better.
Gori, Sweety and Susan (Margaret's children) all approached me at some point during the visits and wanted to know what they need to do to visit me in America. You try looking someone in the eye and telling them, "There is no way in your life time you will ever be able to afford the trip to visit me. " (They can't even afford a bus ticket to Nairobi! Which means they have never seen a city in their life.) "And even if you did somehow find the money, America probably wouldn't let you in." How do you look a hopeful 15 yr old in the eye and tell them something like that? It made realize how different of a world I really live in from them. And it was a realization that wasn't easy to take in.
Africa is full of corruption on every level. Everyone is out for themselves; it is a day to day means of survival. They have no shame in asking AND demanding anything and everything from you; they all know they have nothing to lose. It was made clear to the volunteers at the beginning of the project that nothing will be free. If they want a discount on the battery, we will reduce the price for everyday they helped. Otherwise, they would pay full price, just as if they went to the village to get it. Even still, at the end,one man demanded he get a free battery. Another wanted the full discount even though he only showed up one day to volunteer. He said that he carried 14 bags of cement to site. Sorry budd, there were only 10 to begin with...and the children carried them up on bikes and mules.
That is only one example of the corruption and demands we experienced. Some of it is much worse, but, again, not appropriate to spell out on a public blog.
Furthermore, we take for granted how much education we really have. And I’m not just talking about reading, writing and arithmetic. I’m talking about education on life. Education on basic hygiene, for example, or when I saw the welder using nothing but a pair of sunglasses. In the US we know that’s asking to be blind. But that man doesn’t know any different. There was also the acceptance that our breakfast and dinner would be the same food everyday (and not particularly good either), and that our bowel movements would never would be, well, different, as long as we were in Kenya. The frustration of not being able to walk anywhere without people following you and trying to sell you something never went away— this trip has confirmed my decision to not become famous.
But there were good things too. First and for most—TUSKERRRRR!!! For it always made my day a little better.
There was the friendship and acquaintances made, and stronger respect for other cultures and for what I have back home. In the shop, I learned how to saw and drill using tools that went extinct 40 yrs ago, how many of you can say that?? I was able to get the satisfaction of designing, fabricating and constructing a project from start to finish. And of course, there were the adventures: bungi jumping, white water rafting the Nile river, and the safari (stay tuned and I’ll have entries on the post-windmill African experience).
The messages I want to pass on to others after this trip is
1. No matter how broke you think you are, you’re not. You can afford to take even $1 or $2 out of their paychecks to give to a charity—you wouldn’t even notice that. There are in America who are struggling and would notice a $1 difference, I don’t deny that. But if you’re sitting at your computer reading this, you’re probably not one of them.
2. If you do decide to give to a charity –research it! The Kenyan Gov’t, like the rest of Africa, is very corrupt, and the corruptness bleeds down to the poor—it’s survivial over there, and you really need to see where your money goes before you donate. (For example, you can find out what percent of profits go to the actually charity and what goes to overhead, if the overhead is over 15-20%, chances are it’s not a good organization to send your money.)
Also, giving to organizations that don’t just give, but improve is better. For example, the purpose of this project was to help the village help themselves. There are other groups that go and teach new irrigation methods and stay with them for months; long enough to see results and until they are confident the village is competent enough on the new method to let them on their own.
Our actions effect others, lets effect them positively.
First off, the construction plan was not organized, which was mainly my fault, and so the time in the shop was more of a headache and took longer than we had hoped for. There were frustrations with cultural differences that I did not really go into in this blog. The adaptation to the lower standard of living, and the frustrations as to why Kenyans would do things a certain way—for example, there are so many habits that just seem to make life more difficult rather than better, but it’s their way and they don’t know any better.
Gori, Sweety and Susan (Margaret's children) all approached me at some point during the visits and wanted to know what they need to do to visit me in America. You try looking someone in the eye and telling them, "There is no way in your life time you will ever be able to afford the trip to visit me. " (They can't even afford a bus ticket to Nairobi! Which means they have never seen a city in their life.) "And even if you did somehow find the money, America probably wouldn't let you in." How do you look a hopeful 15 yr old in the eye and tell them something like that? It made realize how different of a world I really live in from them. And it was a realization that wasn't easy to take in.
Africa is full of corruption on every level. Everyone is out for themselves; it is a day to day means of survival. They have no shame in asking AND demanding anything and everything from you; they all know they have nothing to lose. It was made clear to the volunteers at the beginning of the project that nothing will be free. If they want a discount on the battery, we will reduce the price for everyday they helped. Otherwise, they would pay full price, just as if they went to the village to get it. Even still, at the end,one man demanded he get a free battery. Another wanted the full discount even though he only showed up one day to volunteer. He said that he carried 14 bags of cement to site. Sorry budd, there were only 10 to begin with...and the children carried them up on bikes and mules.
That is only one example of the corruption and demands we experienced. Some of it is much worse, but, again, not appropriate to spell out on a public blog.
Furthermore, we take for granted how much education we really have. And I’m not just talking about reading, writing and arithmetic. I’m talking about education on life. Education on basic hygiene, for example, or when I saw the welder using nothing but a pair of sunglasses. In the US we know that’s asking to be blind. But that man doesn’t know any different. There was also the acceptance that our breakfast and dinner would be the same food everyday (and not particularly good either), and that our bowel movements would never would be, well, different, as long as we were in Kenya. The frustration of not being able to walk anywhere without people following you and trying to sell you something never went away— this trip has confirmed my decision to not become famous.
But there were good things too. First and for most—TUSKERRRRR!!! For it always made my day a little better.
There was the friendship and acquaintances made, and stronger respect for other cultures and for what I have back home. In the shop, I learned how to saw and drill using tools that went extinct 40 yrs ago, how many of you can say that?? I was able to get the satisfaction of designing, fabricating and constructing a project from start to finish. And of course, there were the adventures: bungi jumping, white water rafting the Nile river, and the safari (stay tuned and I’ll have entries on the post-windmill African experience).
The messages I want to pass on to others after this trip is
1. No matter how broke you think you are, you’re not. You can afford to take even $1 or $2 out of their paychecks to give to a charity—you wouldn’t even notice that. There are in America who are struggling and would notice a $1 difference, I don’t deny that. But if you’re sitting at your computer reading this, you’re probably not one of them.
2. If you do decide to give to a charity –research it! The Kenyan Gov’t, like the rest of Africa, is very corrupt, and the corruptness bleeds down to the poor—it’s survivial over there, and you really need to see where your money goes before you donate. (For example, you can find out what percent of profits go to the actually charity and what goes to overhead, if the overhead is over 15-20%, chances are it’s not a good organization to send your money.)
Also, giving to organizations that don’t just give, but improve is better. For example, the purpose of this project was to help the village help themselves. There are other groups that go and teach new irrigation methods and stay with them for months; long enough to see results and until they are confident the village is competent enough on the new method to let them on their own.
Our actions effect others, lets effect them positively.
Part III of the Final Day - 2 June 2007
Eventually we continued on our daily journey to Margaret’s, and surprisingly didn’t even get stuck in the mud from yesterday’s rain.
On arrival at Margaret’s there was we were introduced to a newcomer. A ram. A ram that knew exactly why he was there and was fighting with all his might to release himself from the rope tying him to the tree. After the reverend led us in the daily prayer, Mr. Johnson took his mashetti, untied the ram from the tree, and took the unwilling Ram into the trees. Mark, Alex, Duan and Jason followed suit. They all wanted to see the sacrifice. Myself and Khanjan were not so keen and so we headed up to the windmill to begin work. .
Once the ram was taken care of, the women took it into the kitchen hut to begin preparing it. The ram would be cooked and eaten for dinner that night--and when I say the are going to cook the ram, I mean they are going to cook the ENTIRE ram. I’m in Kenya, they can’t afford to waste parts, and they didn’t, trust me.
Meanwhile, everyone else headed to the top of the hill to finish up. The windmill would be complete in a few hours and we were all anxious to see the finished product. The remaining construction went off without a hitch. The inner tower was erected, the generator, blades and tail hoisted up by rope to Davis and Morgan (the Craftskills guys) and assembled at the top.
About mid afternoon, while Davis and Morgan were tweeking the windmill, I snuck away with Sweety, one of Margaret’s daughters. Sweety wanted to show me what she does about two or three days a week as soon as she gets home from school. We walked about a mile to the mill, which in reality was just another person’s home with a mill on the side, to get cornflower for the Ugali. We stopped at the water pump, but it was a Sunday, and the pump is locked on Sundays. I assume because Sunday is God’s day and should be a day of rest, but I can’t tell you for sure. I’ve come to learn that asking “why” in Africa is pointless. Rules and guidelines are made up with no apparent reasoning here, and they change without a moments notice. Asking questions will not bring answers so I’ve learned to just accept things as they are. During our trip, Sweety stopped to chat with some of her neighbors. I could see the woman’s children in the background, staring at me from a safe distance. I smiled and waved. They had been caught in the act, and blushed expressions showed it. Then they slowly approached Sweety and asked her in Luo if I could take a picture of them. I did, and showed it to them on my digital camera. Polaroid cameras may be an item of the past, but at that moment, I really regretted not having one. What good would my digital do? I couldn’t even print digital photos anywhere except the major cities (Nairobi, Mombasa or Kisumu). Nevertheless, showing them the picture on my camera seemed good enough for them. They all bravely put their hand out and I shook each one before Sweety and I continued on back to her family’s home.
By the time we got back to Margaret’s Mr. Masango had begun his “success” speech. I quietly sat down next Duan and we both tried to get some shade off of the 3 foot next to us. Mr. Masango spoke in English for our benefit and the reverend/secretary/translator translated for the locals.
I had imagined this magnificent scene that comprised of a windmill going full force in the background as Mr. Masango gave his motivational speech on how everyone must work together and will work together for the better of the community. I envisioned a great energy would surge through the audience and all the villagers would band together and cheer.
Never imagine such things ahead of time. To everyone’s dismay, the wind hadn’t picked up yet so the windmill was sitting on the top of the hill, idle. And as far as the speech, it was too hot to even pay attention. And looking around at the expressions on the face of his audience, they clearly felt the same way. About 40 minutes in, I realized Mr. Masango wasn’t even going to repeat the JFK speech again. The heat was getting the better of me, so I snuck back down the hill to the house and relief in the shade. Mark and Alex were already down there. We all decided that we knew what Mr. Masango was telling him—we’re the ones that had explained the mission to him after all, so our absence wouldn’t be seen as rude.
Finally, Mr Masango ran out of things to say (somehow), and people started to trickle back down the hill.
Then, the gust of wind we needed came and the windmill picked up and didn’t stop. Everyone stopped and just stared quietly. It was a beautiful site; the last few weeks of frustrations and hardships had finally paid off.
Well, almost. Later that evening, the men were testing the cut-off speed—which means that once the wind reaches a certain speed, it trips a circuit and slows the windmill back down (or something like that, I’m not an electrical engineer)—and they burnt something out permanently. So, the entire generator, blades and tail went were disassembled and packed to returned to Nairobi to get fixed. Dave and Morgan would return the following week with the fixed pieces. And they did, and the windmill is still up and running today.
On arrival at Margaret’s there was we were introduced to a newcomer. A ram. A ram that knew exactly why he was there and was fighting with all his might to release himself from the rope tying him to the tree. After the reverend led us in the daily prayer, Mr. Johnson took his mashetti, untied the ram from the tree, and took the unwilling Ram into the trees. Mark, Alex, Duan and Jason followed suit. They all wanted to see the sacrifice. Myself and Khanjan were not so keen and so we headed up to the windmill to begin work. .
Once the ram was taken care of, the women took it into the kitchen hut to begin preparing it. The ram would be cooked and eaten for dinner that night--and when I say the are going to cook the ram, I mean they are going to cook the ENTIRE ram. I’m in Kenya, they can’t afford to waste parts, and they didn’t, trust me.
Meanwhile, everyone else headed to the top of the hill to finish up. The windmill would be complete in a few hours and we were all anxious to see the finished product. The remaining construction went off without a hitch. The inner tower was erected, the generator, blades and tail hoisted up by rope to Davis and Morgan (the Craftskills guys) and assembled at the top.
About mid afternoon, while Davis and Morgan were tweeking the windmill, I snuck away with Sweety, one of Margaret’s daughters. Sweety wanted to show me what she does about two or three days a week as soon as she gets home from school. We walked about a mile to the mill, which in reality was just another person’s home with a mill on the side, to get cornflower for the Ugali. We stopped at the water pump, but it was a Sunday, and the pump is locked on Sundays. I assume because Sunday is God’s day and should be a day of rest, but I can’t tell you for sure. I’ve come to learn that asking “why” in Africa is pointless. Rules and guidelines are made up with no apparent reasoning here, and they change without a moments notice. Asking questions will not bring answers so I’ve learned to just accept things as they are. During our trip, Sweety stopped to chat with some of her neighbors. I could see the woman’s children in the background, staring at me from a safe distance. I smiled and waved. They had been caught in the act, and blushed expressions showed it. Then they slowly approached Sweety and asked her in Luo if I could take a picture of them. I did, and showed it to them on my digital camera. Polaroid cameras may be an item of the past, but at that moment, I really regretted not having one. What good would my digital do? I couldn’t even print digital photos anywhere except the major cities (Nairobi, Mombasa or Kisumu). Nevertheless, showing them the picture on my camera seemed good enough for them. They all bravely put their hand out and I shook each one before Sweety and I continued on back to her family’s home.
By the time we got back to Margaret’s Mr. Masango had begun his “success” speech. I quietly sat down next Duan and we both tried to get some shade off of the 3 foot next to us. Mr. Masango spoke in English for our benefit and the reverend/secretary/translator translated for the locals.
I had imagined this magnificent scene that comprised of a windmill going full force in the background as Mr. Masango gave his motivational speech on how everyone must work together and will work together for the better of the community. I envisioned a great energy would surge through the audience and all the villagers would band together and cheer.
Never imagine such things ahead of time. To everyone’s dismay, the wind hadn’t picked up yet so the windmill was sitting on the top of the hill, idle. And as far as the speech, it was too hot to even pay attention. And looking around at the expressions on the face of his audience, they clearly felt the same way. About 40 minutes in, I realized Mr. Masango wasn’t even going to repeat the JFK speech again. The heat was getting the better of me, so I snuck back down the hill to the house and relief in the shade. Mark and Alex were already down there. We all decided that we knew what Mr. Masango was telling him—we’re the ones that had explained the mission to him after all, so our absence wouldn’t be seen as rude.
Finally, Mr Masango ran out of things to say (somehow), and people started to trickle back down the hill.
Then, the gust of wind we needed came and the windmill picked up and didn’t stop. Everyone stopped and just stared quietly. It was a beautiful site; the last few weeks of frustrations and hardships had finally paid off.
Well, almost. Later that evening, the men were testing the cut-off speed—which means that once the wind reaches a certain speed, it trips a circuit and slows the windmill back down (or something like that, I’m not an electrical engineer)—and they burnt something out permanently. So, the entire generator, blades and tail went were disassembled and packed to returned to Nairobi to get fixed. Dave and Morgan would return the following week with the fixed pieces. And they did, and the windmill is still up and running today.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Part II of the Final Day - 2 June 2007
Stop two – 9:55 am
There have been many bumps, potholes, even craters along the way. There have been doubts and plain misbelieve. Yet, my friends, the tower is up! Well, almost. The 3ft by 3ft structure and the columns to the inner tower that protrude out an extra 5 feet are erected. We’re on our last stretch, the air is light and the built up stress from the project seems to have lifted on our final trip to Margaret’s.
Of course, we make our routine stop at Olary to pick up some of the volunteers. But today is different. Today we aren’t just picking up Elizabeth and Gori and whomever else, instead, there is a heartfelt purpose. I don’t remember the orphan’s name, but I remember his story and I remember what happened on this particular day. And the story needs to be told:
Jason and the boy:
No one knows the exact age of when this boy came to be an orphan, but it was somewhere around the age of 3 or 4. He’s about 9 or 10 now. The people of the village, who also have next to nothing, have taken it upon themselves to help him out. Even Margaret, who is not from this village, gives the boy some change or food on her visits.
On this particular day, Jason got off the bus with a new t-shirt for the boy. As Jason approached, the boy retreated behind one of the nearby woman. Jason tried to give him the new shirt, but the boy didn’t know how to react to this strange mzungo giving something specifically to him. So the woman took the shirt and said she would give it to the boy. Jason returned to the bus and waited. Once Jason was clearly away from the scene, the boy placed his hands at the bottom corners of his own shirt to examine it. The worn in, mud stained shirt may have been white – once upon a time. This was probably the only shirt the boy owned-it certainly looked about 100 years old and clearly had never been washed. The woman stepped forward and helped him take off the rag and replaced it with his new, bleach white shirt. Ok, it was a little big, but the boy didn’t even notice. Any anticipation he might have felt instantly melted away and was replaced with the most magnificent smile I’ve ever seen. The look of pride on his face would bring a knot to anyone’s throat that was witnessing, and it did. Jason’s face lit up as well and he carefully got back off the bus and approached the boy again. This time, he did not run away, instead he shyly walked up to Jason and put out his hand. Jason shook it firmly and smiled. Only a smile and a nod came from the boy, but that was all that was needed. His gratitude was written from ear to ear.
As this point I lifted my eyes off the two for the first time to see that everyone in the immediate area had stopped what they were doing and were smiling just as wide at the boy. In turn, everyone approached the boy to congratulate him with a high-five, a pat on the back, and genuine praise. The boy then took off around the square, tugging at his new shirt so that everyone could see. His feet never touch the ground as he glided through the village. I can not say enough to describe the beauty of this scene, and I doubt a single person reading this blog has, no matter how excited you have ever been over a gift, has ever felt the way that boy did at the moment – over a t-shirt. This boy re-defined gratitude, and I can only pray that one day I can feel that happy about something.
There have been many bumps, potholes, even craters along the way. There have been doubts and plain misbelieve. Yet, my friends, the tower is up! Well, almost. The 3ft by 3ft structure and the columns to the inner tower that protrude out an extra 5 feet are erected. We’re on our last stretch, the air is light and the built up stress from the project seems to have lifted on our final trip to Margaret’s.
Of course, we make our routine stop at Olary to pick up some of the volunteers. But today is different. Today we aren’t just picking up Elizabeth and Gori and whomever else, instead, there is a heartfelt purpose. I don’t remember the orphan’s name, but I remember his story and I remember what happened on this particular day. And the story needs to be told:
Jason and the boy:
No one knows the exact age of when this boy came to be an orphan, but it was somewhere around the age of 3 or 4. He’s about 9 or 10 now. The people of the village, who also have next to nothing, have taken it upon themselves to help him out. Even Margaret, who is not from this village, gives the boy some change or food on her visits.
On this particular day, Jason got off the bus with a new t-shirt for the boy. As Jason approached, the boy retreated behind one of the nearby woman. Jason tried to give him the new shirt, but the boy didn’t know how to react to this strange mzungo giving something specifically to him. So the woman took the shirt and said she would give it to the boy. Jason returned to the bus and waited. Once Jason was clearly away from the scene, the boy placed his hands at the bottom corners of his own shirt to examine it. The worn in, mud stained shirt may have been white – once upon a time. This was probably the only shirt the boy owned-it certainly looked about 100 years old and clearly had never been washed. The woman stepped forward and helped him take off the rag and replaced it with his new, bleach white shirt. Ok, it was a little big, but the boy didn’t even notice. Any anticipation he might have felt instantly melted away and was replaced with the most magnificent smile I’ve ever seen. The look of pride on his face would bring a knot to anyone’s throat that was witnessing, and it did. Jason’s face lit up as well and he carefully got back off the bus and approached the boy again. This time, he did not run away, instead he shyly walked up to Jason and put out his hand. Jason shook it firmly and smiled. Only a smile and a nod came from the boy, but that was all that was needed. His gratitude was written from ear to ear.
As this point I lifted my eyes off the two for the first time to see that everyone in the immediate area had stopped what they were doing and were smiling just as wide at the boy. In turn, everyone approached the boy to congratulate him with a high-five, a pat on the back, and genuine praise. The boy then took off around the square, tugging at his new shirt so that everyone could see. His feet never touch the ground as he glided through the village. I can not say enough to describe the beauty of this scene, and I doubt a single person reading this blog has, no matter how excited you have ever been over a gift, has ever felt the way that boy did at the moment – over a t-shirt. This boy re-defined gratitude, and I can only pray that one day I can feel that happy about something.
2 June 2007
View from the top of the tower-- amazing, eh?
Morgan and Davies putting the windmill on the tower
Part I of the Final Day
At promptly 7am we all met for breakfast, as usual. Just toast and a bit of pineapple today—best not risk filling my system with too much this early on, this is too big of a day to gamble with my digestive tract.
We told Linos to pick us up at 7:30; which is why we planned for 8:00, so you can imagine our surprise when the bus pulled in at 7:30 on the nose.
Jason busted out the football he had brought over for the local kids, and so Alex, Jason and I tossed it around the front lawn while waiting for the others to finish getting ready. Not that I am any good at tossing a football, but it was nice feeling to just be a bunch of 20 some year old folks again rather than 20 some year old folks that are 1000’s of miles from home, in an impoverished country, building a windmill by hand merely to charge 12V batteries.
Finally, we all pack on the bus and head to Homabay for some very last minute hole drilling before we go to site for the last time. Prior to reaching the welding shop, the bus stops early to drop Khanjan, Alex and Mark off so they can do electrical/wiring stuff. Mr. Masango hops off to get his daily paper. Mr. Masango opens the door, and begins to step onto the bus but before he can even put his foot on the step, the bus lurches forward. Linos takes off, leaving Mr. Masango, in his suit and tie, wide eyed and jaw dropped to the dirt road. No one on the bus could control their laughter while Linos has absolutely no idea what he just did. (You may not be lauging and can’t figure out why this was so funny. I guess it’s more of an inside joke. You need to understand how “proper” Mr. Masango presented himself, and the fact that it was him Linos left in the dust, made the entire scene an absolute delight!) It was going to be a good day…
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