Two weeks ago, I got pulled from my desk down by the printer, where my homemade name plate proclaimed “Alli McKee, Special Projects Manager” in blue cursive. Josh, the Director of the Center for Entrepreneurial Leadership started talking. “So as you know, we have an open teaching spot all of a sudden. And we need to fill it, fast. You’ve expressed interest in getting more involved with the kids. Would you be interested?” I pretended to think about it for a minute but my glow probably gave away my hand. “You have to, you know, act like a teacher though, you know? You can’t like come into work late.” Point taken. So someone has been noticing. As just like that, I became a teacher. Starting at 7:45am on Monday morning.

Our first week’s lessons explored identity and the “mental models” that shape the way we think. To demonstrate how quickly we are to act on stereotypes, we began Monday morning with the “There’s been a Tsunami and you have twenty minutes to save 11 of the following 18 people off of the Island, Go!” game. An HIV positive man. A 40-year-old terminal cancer patient. A Catholic priest. A conservative Imam. An 87-year-old lady. Your 87-year-old grandmother. But, Ms. Alli, we have to preserve the culture! A convicted rapist. A homophobic journalist. An openly gay man. An illegal immigrant. We should take him because he’s probably good at swimming. A blatantly racist person (ended up doggy-paddling for his life alongside the boat, just about every time). And after our kids played  God, condemning these “people” based on their labels, it became clear – our first instinct is to judge based on the “mental models” shaped by our own identities and experiences, rather than treating people as human beings.

But often, even simple “mental models” are tough to crack. Last Tuesday, TIA stood for “This Is Absurd.” And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Six minutes into my daily drive, I’m about to turn right on William Nicol and a yellow striped taxi van bursting with human limbs just barrels through its STOP light, crunching the hood of a pickup-truck-with-tiny-tires into a deep V. Red lights are for wussies. After about four spins, the tiny-truck slows, its face smashed in, fluid projectiling from the teeth of its grill, steam bursting from the hood. Reverse, and time for a wider turn.

About 8 minutes later, I feel like I’m in Yellowstone. A fire hydrant has burst and water is… everywhere. As cars wade through the small sea that has pooled in the middle of this 8 lane intersection, rainbows burst through the sky, exploding in the spray of the wheels. Such beauty peeking through the chaos.

I’ve come to appreciate this morning’s commute as classic African absurdity. You have to embrace it. That’s half the fun, eh? So when it’s my first real day of teaching class, and the power outage makes my Powerpoint pointless, you can guess what my reaction is. Inappropriate laughter, of course. No first impression is quite like sitting in the grass (amidst piles of pigeon poo, no less), blocking the glare with cupped hands as the broken fan is burning the hell out of your thighs. “Can you guys see this?” I wince as I can practically feel the boils rising from my flesh. I think they like me, they really like me.

The biggest barrier to holding class outside was not my burning body, or my dying battery (SA electric currents have fried its life to a tender 26 minutes, on a good day). It was… the Pigeons. The highlight of Monday’s Assembly had been Cristina’s straight-lipped update on the strategies and tactics of the newly formed Special Pigeons Unit. SPU, as I lovingly call it, had a “three-pronged approach,” she warned us (in a Patton-esque voice so threatening that I wondered for a minute if we were all pigeons ourselves. We’re coming for you.) “We’re in their heads. This. Is. Serious.” By the time she got to describing the third and final tactic (an installed weapon called “Eagle Eyes” to scare the crap out of the pigeons – literally), I had put myself in a headlock, desperately trying to stifle my laughter. “Oh yes, I teach leadership.” Setting a good example, Ms. Alli. But I couldn’t help it. We were learning that we had to eat in the dining hall with all of the doors closed (to be enforced by armed guards), hotboxing out the pigeons, and the human beings along with them. But ensuring the pigeons perished was far more important. A few human casualties are to be expected in times of war, you know.

Still laughing about the Special Pigeons Unit, I went to call Anj to check on dinner plans, side-stepping piles of pigeon poo. But alas, my airtime was out. So I hopped in Nugget and drove to the closest Cell C store to top off on my way home. Kicking myself for complaining about AT&T so aggressively. Especially when the Cell C store had (conveniently) decided to move the week before. So my parking garage and mall adventure was all for nothing, except a bit of exercise. I was frustrated driving home, until I saw the latest headline from The Star pinned to a streetlamp. GREEN LIGHT FOR TEEN SEX. I’m driving through the intersection getting my daily “news” and realize both the green and red lights are illuminated. Optimism says go…? Still reeling over The Star. I’m not even mad, I’m just impressed. As Ryan put it, “A. In terms of teen sex, pretty sure the light’s been green for some time now. B. The Star, how low will you stoop for R5?”

It’s been a long day in Africa. So I decide to wind down by going to see Life of Pi in 3D… at Monte Casino. I thought Beach Movie on Laskin was fancy because it serves Blue Moon in 16oz glasses. But Monte Casino was a whole new level. Having flashbacks to my days living in the Flamingo, (nothing like a stop at the craps table on the way to the Harrah’s breakfast buffet, eh Dan?), I fumble through the slots in search of the cinema.

I won’t spoil it, but Life of Pi is not exactly a stress-reliever. Siberian tigers in 3D never are, really. So walking out to my car, I was already a little shaken up before the Segway cop patrolling the parking lot pushed me over the edge. What IS this day? I got about 2km out of the Monte Casino roundabout number 3 before a police man who was furiously wrist whipping his flashlight. Is he flashing at ME? I just hear in my head “Never stop for cops at night” and am tempted to keep going, but, paralyzed by the vision of Richard Parker roaring in my head, I pull over. “License.” I’m waiting for the “and registration” but we’re not in the movies anymore. I finger through my stack of cards – Gautrain Gold Card, my American Express that’s been expired for years, my debit card, my credit card, a business card from a new friend I met in Cape Town (worth it), my Virgin Active card (Eish, I should go to the gym someday soon…), and then finally my driver’s license. “California?” Snicker. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize, “Is everything OK? I just came out of the casino, and …” I look down to see a dark dashboard. Idiot! I can’t figure out when to keep my lights on and off in this stinking car. I hadn’t even had so much as a diet Coke, either. “It was so bright in there, officer,” I stumbled as he shook his head. “Just go.”

My very first police pull-over. Ever. Flashbacks to riding three deep in the front seat of Skylar’s Big Blue Buick on the Virginia Beach Strip. “But officer, it’s so bright!” hadn’t worked as well for us that time. But then again, her 16-and-three-month-birthday isn’t exactly my 26 is it? This time, at least I can blame it on a Segway.

And the decision is made. Today, I think I’ve proven my “mental model” true. Some days, Africa is, in fact, absurd.