Benazir was a slightly built woman. Her leisurely movements suggested a certain weariness, but when the full regard of her deep-set eyes was turned on you, an impression of drive and energy was received.
A screen lit on the wall. Insect noises could be heard. A brilliant landscape was revealed, the landscape of East Africa. The viewpoint moved rapidly towards a fine stand of trees.
‘They’re acacia trees,’ said Benazir.
Young saplings grew here, as well as mature trees with their corded bark. Benazir gave the children an explanation of what trees were and how they had developed. As she was explaining how grazing animals threatened the very existence of trees of all kinds, the viewpoint snuggled into the shade of a particular tree as if it would nest there. The children were silent, wondering.
A branch served as a highway for ants. The creatures were busy patrolling the whole tree. The camera followed them down to the ground and up to the fragrant blossoms of the acacia.
‘I’m glad we don’t have those little things up here, miss,’ said one of the girls.
‘Ants are clever little creatures,’ Benazir replied. ‘They have good social organisation. They guard the acacias from enemies – from herbivores and other insects. In return, the trees give them shelter. You wouldn’t want to climb that tree, would you? Why is that?’
‘Because you’d get stung/attacked/bitten/eaten alive,’ came gleeful answers from various parts of the room.
A thoughtful-looking boy asked, ‘What about the tree having sex? How can bees get to the flowers if they are attacked by these creepy little things?’
Benazir explained that the young acacia flowers, which smell very sweet, put out a chemical signal to keep the soldier ants away, so allowing the bees to pollinate them.
‘What do the flowers smell like, exactly?’ the boy asked.
Cang Hai and I debated privately if such glimpses of life on Earth would not start the children wondering about what they were missing. When we put this point to Benazir, she said that her charges had to be prepared for their return to Earth. She fed them with these shots of knowledge before they went out to play.
The children’s games had been cleverly adapted to encourage the boys without discouraging the girls. Skipping and counting games were played ‘outside’, on the Astroturf. The differences between the temperaments of boys and girls became clear when Alpha volunteered to tell everyone a story.
Her story was about a little mummy animal (evidently a mole), who lived with her tiny family under the Astroturf. She told her children to behave and, if they were good, they would get extra cups of tealem, their favourite drink. They all went to bed in little plastic beakers and slept well till morning. The End.
Scornfully, a boy called Morry took up Alpha’s tale. The mummy animal was going off to get some groceries. She popped her head up above the ground just as the machine that trimmed the Astroturf was whizzing along. Zummmm! It cut off her head, which went flying with a trail of blood like a comet into someone’s shoe!
‘Oh no, it didn’t at all!’ shrieked Alpha angrily.
‘Well, let’s see how likely these events really are,’ said Benazir, smiling at both sides.
‘Her head did not come off,’ said Alpha firmly. ‘More likely it was Morry’s head.’
Unable to sustain verbal argument, Morry stuck his tongue out at her.
Benazir said nothing more, but began to dance in front of her pupils. Her steps were slow, teasingly cautious, her hand gestures elaborate, as if they said, ‘Look, dear children, life is like this and this, and so much to be enjoyed that no quarrels are required…’
As Cang Hai and I walked back to our apartment, we discussed what kind of future citizens of Utopia these children would make. We decided that the anti-social phase the children were going through would not be sustained; and we hoped the element of fantasy and imagination would remain. We realised how important were the skills of mothers, fathers and teachers.
Back in our apartment, I was forced to lie down. I slept for a while.