In October, we had a Halloween party on our roof.  The young lady who lives in the other side of our duplex invited a mess of people over for the party.  This is where you meet people at their core.  They danced on our roof terrace until the wee hours of the morning and you get to watch and enjoy their love of life.  One pretty young lady wore a beautiful headdress and when I asked her where she got it, she told me her native Afghanistan.  Her parents left during the Russo-Afghan war and lived in California.  She told me she speaks Dari (Persian) and her Afghan boyfriend speaks Pashto, both languages are spoken in Afghanistan, but the only language the two have in common is English.There were several friends of our neighbor’s boyfriend, who came from several different countries in Africa.  One particular heavy-set individual from Côte d’ Ivoire (Ivory Coast) fell in love with me because I gave him cigars throughout the night.  I don’t know what he did with them, because it would have taken  him all night to smoke one, which is why I take only cheap cigars to parties.  He even stopped to give me a kiss on the cheek before leaving for the night.  These are incredible people and I am saddened because next Summer we will have to leave Africa.

In mid-November, I flew to Juba for a few days and returned right before Thanksgiving.  Juba is one of the sewer pits we travel to every few months.  It is the capitol of the new country that split off from Sudan a year ago, last July.  It is now South Sudan.  Mostly Christian, whereas Sudan itself is mostly Muslim.

We work at two different compounds in Juba, each one about 400 paces apart.  While there, I walk the distance about a dozen times a day.  Most of the roads resemble alleys in many poorer parts of an American city, except wider.  In that 400 pace walk, I estimated there are about 1000 empty water bottles strewn everywhere on that one street.  Juba is just getting into its hot months with temps consistently above 100 everyday, and will top out in the 120’s in a few months.  But during the rainy season, it rains hard almost every day.  So there are deep ruts on all the dirt roads in the city.  Some are actually 2 feet deep and all vehicles trudge around them while avoiding all the pedestrians and motorbikes.  Below is a typical street.

Friends of ours invited us to Thanksgiving dinner.  She is an incredible cook, whose meal fed many people.  A lot of it was not something I was familiar with, but everything was delicious.

Unfortunately, we didn’t stay late due to me feeling like crap.  Friday was the same with headache and chills.  That evening, in the mirror I happen to notice a strange red circle about the size of a dime on my forearm.  The next day, Saturday, it was darker and increased to the size of a nickel.  Turned out to be a spider bite acquired in Juba.  I cleaned it well, and rubbed some salt into it until I had a chance to cover it with antiseptic.  From then, it slowly healed over a period of a week. Sorry, no pictures.

Following that, I went to Djibouti City, Djibouti for about a week.  Djibouti is another sewer pit but the roads are better and the hotel is excellent.  My lovely wife joined me for a few days and was coddled by the hotel staff.  She needed it.  Below is a pic of the local inhabitants and then one of the sunset with the cranes at the shipyard.

We have four RSTs, (Regional Security Techs)  who are local men who work with us.  When I set up travel arrangements for them, I notice each of them seem to have multiple names, so the other day I asked them about that.  It turns out they retain their father’s given name.  Not his last name, but first.  And they may include a grandfather’s name as well.  So, my name would be Dwaine Quenton Theodore.  They have no last name like we do.  Ayten uses five names, so I guess it goes back to his great-great-grandfather.

We went to the little pizza place on the hill the other night and visited with Hywät.  Since she is attending medical school, Terese decided to give her a stethoscope she didn’t need any more.  It was a very noble and compassionate gesture.  Hywät reciprocated by giving Terese a pair of shoes.  They look ugly to me, but Terese loves them.My brother flew to Addis last week and set foot on African soil for the first time.  It was good to have him as we sat for hours discussing the problems of the world with fine cigars and cheap whiskey, plus it got me and Terese out of the city.  We took two trips through the countryside and saw some incredible sites.  I’ll sort through some later and post soon.  But I will post a pic now that was taken while he was here.  No, it’s not him, but a monkey that came to visit him.  Until later.  D.

As I start writing this, I’m currently in Kampala, Uganda.

I have been sent to Kampala to help out with some issues at the Embassy and to train some of the local guards on using a new piece of equipment.  After going through the usual screw-up at the airport (to remind me I am still in Africa),  I arrived in Entebbe.  In 1976, Idi Amin gave refuge to a hijacked Air France plane at the Entebbe airport.  After it landed and released only the non-Israeli passengers, the Israeli Special Forces, in a heroic move flew in and freed the passengers.  The operation was a success considering the time frame used to plan and execute the rescue.  Several movies were made about it.  In the past decades, the Government has changed several times.

One of the reasons I was sent here, is to train about 30 local guards on a special piece of equipment used at Embassies.  I love watching these people up close.  The ones I taught are some of the senior guards who has been working at the Embassy for several years.  I have learned to speak to them in ways they understand, which requires many hand gestures and noises.  I’m normally not a noisy person (unless you ask my wife), so making sucking and blowing noises to illustrate the function of this machine tends to make me feel a bit foolish.  But I prevailed.

I taught the same class last year in Kigali, and it was then I became amused by the way the guards interacted with each other.  No way would that work in the States, as both males and females stood around in a group as I explained the machine, with arms on each other’s shoulders, some holding hands, and others with their heads actually resting on the shoulders of the one in front.  I found it amazing and beautiful to view this innocent behavior toward each other.  I have seen this interaction between Africans so many times in several countries, but only in Central Africa.  Go up to the Northern part, where the African is more likely to be Muslim, or down in the South where they are more westernized, and you will not see this.

They are actually a quiet people who will provide a service with a subservient smile and nod.  Very polite and always smiling, and apologetic when someone mistreats them, like the way the Europeans and Asians do at times.  That itself will be another posting – how people from other countries are so arrogant.  People in the United States will tell you that Americans are the worst, as if they want to find another fault with our Country, and yet they really have no idea.

Because they are quiet, many Africans view noisy people as a sign of ignorance.  At least until they celebrate with music at a time to dance and show their love of life.  While in Kampala, several of us went to a nearby bar that specializes in Mongolian BBQ.  After a delicious and very inexpensive dinner, we headed back to the hotel.  Passing through the bar, I see one of our Ethiopian Techs dancing with a hooker.  We walked past and then we all stopped and said, was that Ayten?  One of us walked back and stood next to him to look, since it was fairly dark there, and realized it was indeed Ayten.  He is a short round man who does his best to keep up with his mind as it runs ahead of him, like a child chasing a balloon in the wind.  Ayten had his eyes closed with his arms in the air, rotating his body back and forth like a witch doctor.  He was totally unaware of us walking by and if he knew the hooker was dancing with him, he couldn’t care less.  He just loves to dance.  Below is a picture I took of Ayten with Solomon last year in Kigali.  They asked me to take their picture and just as I pressed the shutter, Solomon said, “Ayten is my father”.  Hence the look on Ayten’s face.  I’ll let you determine who is Solomon and who is Ayten.

I have to be careful what I say to these guys, because many times a casual comment will be construed as a command.  On our way to Kampala I stood in line in the terminal wondering aloud what was taking so long.  Ayten took off to the counter to get to the bottom of it and I had to catch him and drag him back.  “Ayten, no!”

The traffic here is not like Addis, which is both bad and bad.  Motorcycles dominate the roads, all of them carrying people and goods.  At an intersection they will swarm the vehicles like flies on watermelon, and if there is a break on the intersecting traffic they will take off against the traffic lights.  Kinda like throwing a rock at the watermelon.  I’ve seen them carrying: mattresses, furniture parts, parents with 3-4 kids, DHL boxes, chickens/goats/dogs, plastics jugs, old women sitting side-saddle and I saw a guy in back holding what appeared to be a long section of stovepipe sticking up in the air.

Forget the traffic laws.  They are only for non-motorcycle vehicles.  I worked with a Seabee from Kenya who told me, traffic lights in Nairobi are only obeyed if a traffic cop is present.  As soon as he leaves, it’s a free for all.

While riding the shuttle to and from the airport every day, there will be venders who stand at the congested intersections to hawk their wares.  I would see several of them carrying a clear bucket of what I thought was chopped up pieces of a plant.  Ayten told me they were grasshoppers and tasted terrible.  Terrible!  He repeats things like that. “Have you tasted of them, Ayten?”  “No!  No! They taste terrible!”  he replied.  “Terrible!”

Also, along the side of the road we traveled on, I saw many pieces of furniture for sale.  I mean, a lot of furniture.  It took several trips to and fro, before I realized, they were actually building the furniture right there on the side of the road!  And it was good looking stuff.  Some upholstered, and some just wood, but nice looking stuff.  – just right there on the side of the road and left it there to sell.

I’ve been through several airports overseas, but the one in Uganda was most unusual.  It is the first time the officer at any passport control, actually pronounced my name correctly and casually visited with me as he did his check.  Made the trip seem so much more pleasant.

Now that I’m home, I uploaded several of the best pictures I took of Kampala.  I have what I call, flying shots.  They are taken very quickly from a fast moving vehicle of the side of the road.  Many of them turn out blurred, but those that did not are posted.  Look over to the left side of the page and you will find a link to our Flickr site.

In every life, there are people who determine who you are or what you do.  Aside from my immediate family, there are two individuals who helped define who I am, but I need to save those for another discussion.  But we as humans interact with others and whether we know it or not, they do lead us in certain directions in life.

About 10-15 years ago, there was a short round nun, Sister Dragotta, who directed the religious education in my church.  I myself am somewhat a loner and make a point to avoid people.  This little nun was just the opposite.  For some reason, she thought I was a nice guy and made it a point to sit with me when she saw me at a dinner or get together, even when I sat in the far corner of the room.  Before I knew it, a dozen people where around me, because they wanted to sit with her.  I always welcomed her, since I found her personality energetic and effervescent.  I start calling her Sister Livewire, as it just seemed to fit.  After her tour in the parish, and she returned to a Milwaukee convent, I sent her a card addressed to “Livewire Dragotta”.  She replied back that she had a devil of a time explaining to the other nuns where she got that name.

One day after Mass, she stopped me in the foyer and asked me, “Dwaine, I want to ask you something.  I want to ask you something.”  (She said everything twice.  She said everything twice.)   “I want you to think about becoming one of the CCD teachers. (Sunday School).  Just think about it, Dwaine.  Don’t answer me now.  Don’t answer now, just think about it.”

That’s where I went wrong.  I thought about it.  Twice.

I ended up teaching a class of 14 & 15 year olds. (9^th & 10^th graders)  They were at the age where they start to realize they know everything, and it was at the time of my life, when I realized how little I really knew.  So, it went better than I thought.  In doing so, I realized teaching is just a higher form of learning, for I learned a great deal from the seven years of working with them.

One of the things I did every Sunday morning, was ask the kids, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how was your week?”

I did this for two reasons.  One, it got the kids feeling comfortable talking in the class; and two, it got them talking about home and school, which helped me better understand their personal lives.  I would say 90% of the kids came from good family life. (although some would have argued with me)

I would tell them they could not use One or Ten.  One is when you died and went to Hell, and Ten was when you died and went to Heaven, so everything had to between One and Ten.  I remember one girl came to class one Sunday morning in a foul mood.  When I asked her, “Scale of one to ten?” she said, “One!”

“You can’t use One.”

“Well, then 1.5!”

I sadly said, “Oh!  Your dog died and your house burned down!”

“Then two!”

“Oh!  Your house burned down!”

“2.5.”

“Oh! Your dog died?”

It didn’t take long for her to start laughing and talking about the real cause of her foul mood, which didn’t deserve a low number.  There was one interesting young man who always gave me a complex number such as 8.233654.  But it was always above an eight.  We figured 7.0 to be normal.

The class was interesting and I had each kid for two years, so I got to know them pretty well.  There was one girl who was an only child with a dominant mother and effeminate father, so she herself was dominating and outspoken.  This was a time in my life that I was somewhat separated from my first wife, and was the object of a few discussions among the parish populace.  Didn’t bother me any as life continued on, but she would make a few sly remarks about my personal life at times.  I just ignored them and kept going.  Yet, after the two years I had her, and she moved to the next class, she would sneak out of that class about once a month and sit back in mine.

I had one young man who seemed to make it his lot in life to disrupt the class.  He was an only child also, whose parents were wealthy through an inheritance and a bit arrogant.  They were ones who liked to churn out rumors.  A few years later, I happened across him and he said, “Remember me?  I was probably your worst kid in class!”  I wasn’t just about to give him that satisfaction, so I stated, “You?  Worst kid in class?  Nah. You were a piece of cake!”  I felt the hot air gush out of his balloon.

There was one girl who had a perfect attendance and at the very last class I brought her a rose to show her my appreciation.  She wasn’t there, due to a late school function the previous night.

I created several exercises to try teaching them something, some successful and some flopped.  I had purchased a roll of butcher paper and drew sections for each week.  Each section was further divided into squares to match the number of kids in class.  Their task every Sunday morning, was to color or draw something about themselves, or school or home, or whatever they wanted in their assigned square, and then sign it.  At the very least, they had to sign their name in pencil to show they were there.  The very least.

At the last class of the year, we would take that rolled up paper, the scroll, into the gym and roll it out.  The kids would walk along it and see what all they did throughout the year.  I pointed out to the class, that the empty squares showed they were not at class, and those squares would never be filled.

I said, “Look at some of the beautiful colors people used!  The ideas they had at the time!  Amazing!  … and some have simply signed their name in pencil.”

One young man said, “But you said we could do that.”

“I said, at the very least, put your name in pencil.  You will never have an opportunity to add to the scroll now.  This is just like Life.  You only get one chance each day.  Don’t let the day slip away without leaving a mark.”

There was another exercise that involved a weird puzzle I created of a tree with branches.  Live and dead branches.  The idea was to show them you have to trim off the dead branches before new ones can be grown.  The purpose of the exercise, was to make them understand, we all make mistakes and that is okay as long as you learn from them. (trimming off the dead branches)  So, the bottom line is, learn from your mistakes, but also realize others make mistakes as well.  Forgive them as you forgive yourself for making mistakes.  That’s how we all learn.

There was a pop test I gave them.  It was a list of 20 people, and they had to list on a scale of 1 to 5 whether they could live with them.  The list of people was strange.  I had: a reformed alcoholic, reformed drug dealer, someone with AIDS, someone who got out of prison for murder, someone who was gay, someone who had a sex change, etc.  Even listed then president, Bill Clinton.  They had to be honest.  Then they added up their score and compared it to a perfect score of 100.  Afterwards I asked them, if Jesus took this test, what would his score be?

One of people on the list was an ex-neo-Nazi.  I explained to them what the word “neo” meant, but made the mistake expecting them to know what a Nazi was.  When I realized there was a problem, I asked the class who could define a Nazi?  Silence.  Then one kid raised his hand and asked, “Wasn’t he that, … that Hitler dude?”  I tell you Dear Reader, I almost cried.  There is no doubt they could tell me who Michael Jackson was, or Hans Solo or any actor who played on a sit-com.  But someone who irreversibly damaged millions of future generations?  No.

That really affected me, and when I got home I asked my daughter if she knew what a Nazi was?  She was the same age as these kids, and she replied defiantly, “Well, yes.”  I looked at her, and had to ask, “Well, what is it?”  She replied, “It was the political party in Germany during World War Two.”  I stated, “That’s right”, without letting her know I forgot about the political party stuff.  That young generation was redeemed by my daughter, at least to me.

Okay.  I rambled on too long.

D.

 

   I’m currently reading, We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families by Philip Gourevitch. This is a book about the Rwandan Genocide that took place in 1994.  This is not the book report on it, (I’m not a fast reader; I’m only halfway through), but I have to pass on some words from the book that I found awe inspiring.

The book is very intense and the actual report will be long, because the story is complex and there is no one segment of the book that doesn’t need to be told.  From the buildup of the genocide, through the actual killing and even at the conclusion of it.

Philip Gourevitch wrote about the genocide only a few years after it took place.  I find his style of writing extremely brilliant.  He sees and senses life like no one else I have read.  At one point in the book, he writes a page which basically describes the African way of life.  I tried in my written word Africa on the Written Word page, but he captures the African way of life best.  When reading this, be aware, the genocide was the Hutu people of the population killing the Tutsi population at a rate of 800,000 in 100 days,  … they killed 8000 Tutsi a day, with machetes.

   When I got depressed in Rwanda, which was often, I liked to go driving.  On the road, the country resolved itself in rugged glory, and you could imagine, as the scenes rushed past and the car filled with the smells of earth and eucalyptus and charcoal, that the people and their landscape – the people in their landscapes – were as they always been, undisturbed. In the fields people tilled, in the markets they marketed, in the school yards the girls in bright blue dresses and boys in khaki shorts and safari shirts played and squabbled like children anywhere.  Across sweeping valleys, and through high mountain passes, the roadside presented the familiar African parade: brightly clad women with babies bound to their backs and enormous loads on their heads; strapping young men in jeans and Chicago Bulls T-shirts ambling along empty handed – save, perhaps for a small radio; elderly gents in suits weaving down red-dirt lanes on ancient bicycles; a girl chasing a chicken, a boy struggling to balance the bloody head of a goat on his shoulders, tiny tots in ragged smocks whacking cows out of your way with long sticks.

   Life.

   You knew, by the statistics, that most of the people you saw were Hutu, but you had no idea who was who; whether that girl, who stared blankly at your oncoming car and at the last minute winked and broke into a wide grin, was a massacre survivor. Or whether she was a killer, or both, or what.  If you stopped to buy a cold drink and a brochette of grilled goat, or to ask directions, a small crowd gathered to stare and offer commentary, reminding you of your exoticism.  If you drove around in the northwest, and pulled over to admire the volcanoes, peasants came out of their fields to express approval that you had no greater purpose, in that moment, than to regard their place with pleasure.  If you traveled southwest through the Nyungwe rain forest preserve and got out to watch the colobus monkeys, people in passing minibuses waved and cheered.

 This describes Rwanda, this describes Africa.

 

September 27th was the Ethiopian holiday Meskel, which commemorates the discovery of the True Cross by Queen Helena (Saint Helena) in the fourth century. It includes the burning of a large bonfire decorated with daisies, prior to the celebration. Afterwards, charcoal from the remains of the fire is collected and used by the faithful to mark their foreheads with the shape of a cross, as it is done on Ash Wednesday in the States.  It is believed that a part of the true Cross has been brought to Ethiopia from Egypt.

When Terese arrived from the States a week ago, one of her bags did not make the trip with her, so the next day we headed out to the airport to retrieve it.  Traffic on Eto-China was so bad, we decided to make a U-turn (across the center median) and head to the airport via the “Ring Road”.  When we do something like that, I usually end up lost, and this was no different.  While we sat at an intersection waiting for the police to direct traffic, (one of the few that actually directs traffic) there was a naked young man standing on the curbed median in the middle of the street, in the rain, with nothing but a red wrap around his head, and a stick in his hand. (they always carry a stick).  Public nakedness is not so strange as you may think, because this is Africa; what was strange, was he had a pair of sun glasses on top of his head.  He was standing in the light rain, crossing his arms to keep warm.  It looked as if someone told him to stand there and do not move.

I love Africa.

The monkeys have not returned since I nailed one in the chest, but it’s just a matter of time before they do.  After all, life here would not be the same if it was not for them.

The rains have slowed down and we will go several days without any.  Usually in the morning it is clear and sunny, then about 11 AM it clouds up and sometimes rains.

When I drive, I turn my headlights on to make myself more visible.  Occasionally, someone will flash their lights at me, to tell me I have them on.  Many Africans have the idea that the battery in a car will only last so long, then has to be removed and another one installed, just like the batteries in a flashlight.  They don’t understand that the vehicle charges up the battery constantly.  Many of them will actually drive at night without their lights to conserve their battery.  But during any medium to heavy rain, they will turn on their flashers.

There is an old coot, who appears to be homeless, that I sometimes see in the mornings.  He will step out into the street when he sees me coming and gives me two thumbs up.  I don’t know if he does this to all vehicles with diplomatic tags or just telling me my lights are on, but for whatever reason, he gives me two thumbs up.  Afterwards, he has a satisfied look on his face, like he has completed his morning task.  We call him, Thumbs Up.

The other day, I was driving through the streets with two of my Regional Security Techs, (local men who work with us), and I asked them when the city was going to fix all the broken traffic lights.  They told me several years ago, a man was going to replace all of them, even ordering some of the newest ones on the market, but there were so many people in the government who demanded money from him, he just gave up.  So, Addis does not have any modern traffic lights due to the corruption in the City Government.  Sounds like Chicago.

The people in Africa can come up with some unusual ways to get money off you.  Often times, especially in a light rain, men will stand at intersections with shovels, and when they see you coming, they will start shuffling dirt into the pot-holes in the road, like they’ve been doing it all day.  When you pass them, they will stop like they are taking a much deserved break, hoping you will stop and give them money for making the road easier to drive on.  Why they do this only in the rain is beyond me.

We have finally got ADSL Internet installed.  We will be paying about 10-15% more, but we are no longer limited to 4GB and it’s much faster.  So, I will be uploading some images to our Flickr site soon.

Speaking of pictures, below is a picture taken in Heidelberg I forgot to post.  This was at the train station.  No further comment needed, except, that is Germany.

Many times on our way home on Fridays, we will encounter a mess of cattle being herded along the road to the packing plant near our house.  We finally had a camera with us this time.  Usually, the herds are much larger.And here is a picture one of our Seabees took on his way home.  If there is a further comment, I don’t know what it is, except, this is Africa.More later.  D.

 

… and the war is on!

There are those who see us only as a source for theft, who will do what they can to steal from those of us who work hard for what we have.  They are the ones who wish us harm and will smile at us while planning their next attack.

I love my Saturday mornings, when I can sleep late and then sit out on the patio with my coffee and cinnamon roll.  Afterwards, I will sit in the sun with my eyes closed, soaking in the sunshine.  This morning, as I sat in the solitude, I heard a rustle in the trees.  Opening my eyes, I quickly saw where branches were still moving, but nothing that caused it.  Closed my eyes again and a minute later, more rustle.  This time I was quick enough, and saw that my greatest fear has been realized.  The monkeys have returned.

When we first arrived in Addis, one of the first Saturday mornings we sat outside with our coffee and breakfast, we had the little critters show up.  We found them cute and lovable, even getting them to feed out of our hands.  If you remember the pictures we posted of Terese feeding one.  While they gathered around to welcome us to the neighborhood, others ran through the flower beds eating anything that was not green, while the younger ones jump in and out of the trees.  We did notice there was unusual commotion elsewhere in the yard, but it wasn’t until they moved on, did we notice the debauchery that had taken place in our yard.  Terese felt bad Monday morning when Michael, the gardener showed up and almost fainted at what was left of his garden.

I have to admit, there was a bit of guilt at letting this happen, because Michael is very proud of his work, as he should be.   I don’t remember if I blamed it on Terese, or she blamed it on me, but it was at this time we realized, the monkeys are no longer welcomed in our yard.

If one or two comes to our yard and stays high up in the tree eating the seeds that grow on it, it would be no problem.  But if one or two show up, others follow and before you know it, they are having a block party.  They are not dumb.  They have seen us go in and out of our house, and realize the handle on the door has something to do with opening it.  One had the audacity to come into our kitchen while Terese was doing dishes and attempt to eat an apple, still wrapped in cellophane, knocking over the trashcan in the process.

Last year when I battled these little degenerates, I first tried using the water hose to drive them away.  The only place it drove them was higher in the trees.  They would go just beyond the water stream and no further, as if they wanted to feel the mist on a hot day.  Soon I found a water squirter in Michael’s room.  One of these things you fill with water and press the plunger.  It sent water higher, but still not enough.  In the meantime, Shawn, the gardener next door would just throw rocks at them.  I tried that, but it just gave the idiots something to laugh about.  I may even have heard a snicker from my wife.

Notice the difference in this picture from the ones above.  Here she’s trying to kill a monkey.

It just got worse.  The more I battled them, the more would show up.  It’s as if one ran back to the others and said, “Hey guys, the idiot with the water hose wants to play with us again!!”  They stayed just out of reach and at times would hunker down behind the back wall of the yard, and send one of the youngest ones to slowly raise its head above the wall to see if I was still there.  If I felt they were all gone, or if I went back inside to get more coffee, when I returned, the whole troop would be bouncing through the trees again.

So, I knew something else had to be used.  I contacted some people back in the States and had a secret weapon sent to me.  It had to be disassemble to make it unrecognizable by any Government inspector, and shipped to me in three separate containers.  After weeks of anticipation, the weaponry finally arrived.  I quickly hid in the back room giggling while assembling the slingshot.  I knew I had ‘em now!

Okay, now I am a humanitarian of sorts.  At that time, I didn’t really want to kill the little bastards, just drive them away.  So I ordered some rock salt to use as ammo, just in case any of the projectiles gets under their skin, it wouldn’t cause an infection.  But it took only a few shots to realize it disperses too quickly and will not get to the target.  So I came up with an excellent idea, if I say so myself.  One word – paintball.  These are the little balls with paint inside that are used all over the country in mock battles.  They are usually shot with paintball guns using highly compressed air.  I ordered a small pack of 50 caliber paintballs as a test.  This Saturday morning, I had my opportunity to test them.

So, as I mentioned above, the monkeys have returned.  I quickly headed in the house, grabbed the weapon and ammo, and went out onto one of the upper balconies.  One lone critter climbed up high in a tree, and sat in a clearing.  I pulled back the strong elastic tubing of the weapon, aimed and released.  In less than a heartbeat, the yellow paintball pierced through the air and hit the little sucker right in the chest!  It evidently did not break, probably due to the thick fur as I heard the ball fall to the roof of the little building below and roll away.  But I know it stung, as the monkey yelled out, “Holy bananas!” and quickly disappeared down and did not return.  Not even to see what the heck happened like they normally would.

Normally when I try to fight them, many show up to watch the fiasco, but it was about 5 minutes before any of them came around.  I’m thinking the one I hit ran back to the others saying, “Hey, don’t go in that tree over there, because if you do your chest will hurt like hell!”

Several things have come out of this.

1. The monkeys came
2. The monkeys were driven away.
3. The monkeys will return.
4. … and I will be ready.
5. As I type this, it is now Dwaine: 1, and Monkeys: 0.