Two days ago a boy was staring at me as I lay reading on the beach. This is nothing unusual. I ignore him. Eventually he greets me. I respond and we make small talk, with me slipping in English, under my breath and directed towards answering myself, in the manner I always do whenever I am slightly annoyed. Astoundingly he understands all that I am saying in English. His name is George and he speaks the best English of anyone I've met in Tukombo. He is nine years old. I gave him a book, some magazines and a snorkel.
Today was an absolutely beautiful day. Kuwirwi was crystal clear. The trees looked like mold or algae on a rock, begging me to smoosh it down with my thumb. I could not take my eyes off the mountain today.
Reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed. I actually think that the dated socialist jargon and concepts (Praxis! Liberation! And that most dreaded sentiment in serious hoity-toity social science: love.) are what make it sing to me.