On the other side of the window...

     In a quaint little medical compound on the edge of downtown Conakry, lies the Mercy Ships dental clinic.  Directly adjacent to this compound is a school for deaf children - about 200 of them.  Each morning at 10:00, my attention is drawn away from the mouths of the dental patients in our ground-floor dental clinic, to the other side of the window, where the wee ones come out to play.  Dozens of gingham-dressed little girls and khaki suited boys flood the courtyard between their school, and the medical compound.  Crumpled-up paper balls are furiously tossed at the newly restored basket-ball hoop, up-and-coming break-dance sensations practice in sync to an in-audible beat.  An older girl wearing a rainbow shirt under her blue-gingham gown and her shorter friend (whose skirt is too short to be Conakry-appropriate), ogle daily through the glass panes as we go about our work of drilling, filling and pulling.  They tap at the window and flirt shamelessly with the male dental staff.  Amidst the hoopla of juvenile energy, the friendships and the rivalries, barely a sound is muttered.  Instead, hands are waving furiously as conversations occur through sign-language.  Aside from enthusiastic hollers, this is the quietest playground I've ever seen.  "How odd," I muse "that a children's school would be built next to a medical compound where the wails of women in labour and currently the shrieks of nervous dental patients can be heard.  We don't want to traumatize the children."  And then the obvious hits me:  This school is brilliantly placed.  The children cannot hear!   No opportunity to be scarred for life from the noises next door.  

    On Friday mornings, an extra element of interest is added to the courtyard as a number of crew from the ship come to play with the children during their break.  My friend Papanie makes a regular habit of tapping on the glass and flashing a smile as he turns the jump rope with the kids.  I fondly muse back to my childhood - brightly coloured plastic nylon ropes flowing under my feet as I jump in time to the plastic's rhythm.  How I would like to venture out to the courtyard and play with the kids and the other Mercy-shippers; but alas this weekly play session only takes place on Friday mornings while I work.

    Good Friday has come and I have the day off of work.  I decide to take advantage of my only opportunity to visit the school next door.  I eagerly place my name on the sign-up list and await the jump-rope fun.  In order to maximize our patient treatment, a couple of the dentists and translators are working next door in the clinic regardless of the holiday.  Their extra effort is commendable; however, I will not feel guilty about playing while they work.

    I walk past the classrooms where little genius's battle with Jenga blocks and simple friendship bracelets flow from cardboard looms.  To the courtyard, jump ropes in hand we flock, familiar gingham and khaki bundles of energy escorting the way.

    I take in the surroundings on this side of the window.  Painted concrete walls of buildings reaching up to the sky on all sides, broken bits of pottery on ground.  Fearless girls have shed their flip flops in return for the control of bare feet.  They are ready to play.  Bring on the ropes!

    They argue over whose turns it is to jump.  Vigorously tapping each others shoulders for attention, they scold each other with hand motions.  One boy catches my eye, motions at his angry friend, makes the international gesture for "he's crazy" and shrugs with a smile.  Even I can understand this communication.  I chuckle with a grin but decide not to mimic this sign in case the meaning is actually offensive.

    One particularly keen little athlete (with a smile too big for his face), attempts to inconspicuously squeeze to the front of the group.  His all-observant peers will not stand for this breach in order, and the hands fly in reprimand as he is escorted to the back of the line.

    The expert jumpers of the courtyard now take the stage.  Two girls jump in unison, simultaneously circling each-other within the rope's spinning circumference.  Against this display of athleticism, my own lack of coordination sticks out like a sore thumb.  Who ever thought that it would be so difficult to follow the lead of a friend and turn a rope?  Around and around my arm turned, but alas, keeping a continuous rhythm was not coming easily.  The beat of feet constantly halted by eager junior jumpers getting caught up in the rope.  I watched my friend's facial expressions for a hint of when he would swing the rope, but I couldn't detect the prompt I was looking for.  I inevitably would either swing too early or too late.  After a bit of frustration in the matter, I had a brilliant thought - why not use my words to communicate?  My other crew mates and I  are completely capable of verbal communication, so why am I relying on facial gestures to stay in sync rather than using  words?  As I had been relating to the kids with only my hands, I had forgotten that speech is a method of communication available to me.

    Turning a jump rope is just like riding a bike.  You pick it back up very quickly, no matter how rusty your skills.  Soon enough, with the help of words, we were swinging the rope in unison.  As the rope soared upwards to the clear blue sky and then dove back downwards to an unwelcoming concrete, it reached out and grabbed a souvenir.  Jealous that it didn't get to learn in school, the rope has retrieved from the ground a tattered piece of paper, notes from yesterday's lesson scrawled across it.  Unmotivated by the lesson, the rope releases the paper, and it soars lightly back down to the ground, only to be trampled underfoot.

   The junior students have returned to their classes, and the older kids now emerge.  I see a familiar face. My rainbow shirted friend from the clinic window has come to join the jump rope frenzy.  Her smaller friend with the Conakry-inappropriate skirt isn't insight.  As I catch rainbow-girl's gaze, I motion towards the dental clinic window and then point to myself and mimic myself assisting the dentist.  Her eyes lit up in recognition we laughed.

    Now it is my turn to scurry up to the streaky window and surprise my work-mates.  I peer in and catch the gaze of a patient looking right back at me in surprise from her dental chair.  No longer distractedly looking passed the patient to the children outside, I now view her face to face.  My tap on the glass takes my coworker by surprise.  He gives a smile and waves.  I return to my rope-turning - just like one of the little girls, minus the gingham dress.