Basketball Jones

So, there are many hidden meanings in the title, and I'm sorry I have not put up the cobra pictures yet (its a great story, I promise). So, a couple of days back, courtesy of Christina's sister Ann, we got ourselves a basketball! We went to the secondary school that's about 2 blocks away. First of, its probably the nicest school in Mozambique because it was built by the World Bank within the last decade. Which means that parts of it are air conditioned and its not decaying on itself. It is also the place where we get our water, because they have their own well (we're still working on ours). Second off, anytime time I go anywhere is bound to attract attention. See Pictures about when I drive the truck.

Now imagine that the hype is now doubled. Christina's brother in law Mike accompanied us to the outdoor basketball court at the school. Now imagine that Mike is even taller and stands out more in public than me. I conservatively put myself at 6'3", and he's got 2 inches over me easy. So after the usual song-and-dance of arguing with security over whether or I am a threat to their existence before they let me enter their campus, we start walking through the school to get to the gym. It felt like all 200 students that were there came out to watch us, and for all I know they thought Mike and I were pro NBA players. Its was also cool then for the kids from the orphanage that attend the school because we could say hello to them and then they could tell everybody "Yah, they're NBA players. Yah, They know Michael Jackson. Yah, they're my friends."

The basketball was a blast for the kids to get to scrimmage with us. We just played a little 3-on-3 for a while. There were definitely some kids there want wanted to strut their stuff, so it was fun to steal the ball or block them every now and then just to let then know who's the boss (bonus points if you get the picture reference).
After Mike and I stopped playing it quickly devolved into what appeared to be an intra-squad scrimmage between the Washington Generals (more bonus points if you get THIS one).

The second meaning of the story is just something you can't experience until you're either here in Africa or at a Dave Matthews concert. Every morning, myself and the rest of the neighborhood have a few simple chores: get our water before it gets too hot, start on breakfast (if there is food) and rake the yard. Raking the yard consists of getting all the leaves that have fallen off of the tree, gathering them with all the huge clumps of pollen that have fallen off the tree, putting into a big pile, and burning it (potentially using it to roast peanuts, too).

The problem is that every day, everybody decides that the best place to burn the pollen is right next to the fence behind my bungalow. The other problem is that everyday the pollen has about the same aroma as Marijuana.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. Let me assuage your fears by assuring you that I am a good responsible kid, but I did go the University of Washington and would visit Fremont on occasion (by necessity, I assure you) so the aroma of wacky tobacky is not unfamiliar to me. I should also tell you that I am certain that the amount of burning foliage I'm exposed to is having no effect on me. I have, however, developed large lapses in my attention span and rather insatiable urge to snack on cheetos all the time. More on that news as it develops, if I remember...