Who knew rainboots would come in handy in Africa?  The rain today, I've been told, is a 'female' rain - gentle on the earth, soaking deep into the ground to nurture it.  The Africans rejoice, but the students who wished for their laundry to dry on the line may not have the same reaction.
We hit the books this week, taking in lectures on Africa's slave history, cultural context and it's implications for religion, history of the Swahili people, Ethology, and today, to our great excitement...ungulates!
Mornings here are early, as are our nights.  The electricity comes on around  7 pm and turns off around 10 pm, so late nights don't really tempt any of us.  I wake up to the birds and have found myself chanting the pneumonic devices Eli (our wildlife professor and avid birder) has taught us for different bird calls.  While I love how my ears are tuning in to this music of African mornings, hearing things I never would have caught on ton, EVERY TIME I hear a red-eyed dove, my mind starts chanting along with it's call 'I am a red-eyed dove'. 
On that note, I embarked on my first bird walk on Sunday morning, only to realize that I am distracted by the trees here and forget to focus on the birds.  The trunks of trees here seem to always be a twisting of several smaller trunks which then shoot up into incredible leaf shapes.  I should learn to appreciate birds more - which is why I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who are so passionate about them - but my eye is attracted more to color, and the colors of bark, leaves, and Tanzania's red dirt, trumps brown birds. 
Later on Sunday, we joined the ex-pat community for Iringa's Rugby Fest, hosted on a local farm.  With no rugby skills to offer, i joined the children and was quickly leading around British girls looking for their 'mummy' (it's a struggle no to talk back to them in an accent) and throwing my African buddy Akim around on the blow up slide.  But I soon noticed a group of village children gathering just out side of the festivities, watching the other children.  I attempted a Swahili conversation but realized my actions would communicate better than words.  I kicked a soccer ball to the oldest boy and soon we were off in the field for over an hour playing soccer.  The smallest boy, who looked to be 4 or 5 but must be more like 7, was enthralled with the game, even though his dirty sweater kept slipping off one shoulder and he had only one sandal to wear.  And he never broke a smile.  When we ended for lunch, my feet were dirtied beyond recognitions of ever having been white.
After our break, I wandered back to find more village children had gathered.  As they stood, arms around shoulders, a baby on the hip of a 7 year old, I couldn't help but take in the clothing.  Some literally had rags assembled as clothing.  The baby wore a sweater, young girls wore old 'sunday' dresses - one with a huge hole torn so that her swollen belly showed - and the smallest boy who loved to show me how he could slide down the slide, wore pajama pants that were split in the front and back.  Hardly would you call this clothing.
But I'm grateful that my time with these children didn't end with me feeling broken hearted because of their poverty.  That hour we spent in the field filled me with such joy - to see their excitement and their smiles was almost enough to make me forget the rags.
Perhaps the birds here haven't captured my heart because the children have.