It's about the little people.

I'm encountering new people everyday. Some are friends, some are not. Some are young, some are old. Some are poor, some are well-off (by Ghanaian standards). But there's one population that has overwhelmed me more than any other because it is both familiar and utterly alien: the children.

If an American child worked as hard as an African child, I think he would die. I don't think I'm lazy (for the most part) but these children put me to shame. My host family has five girls. The eldest, Precious (age 11), is up every morning between 4:30 and 5 and the first thing she does is sweep the house and the compound surrounding it. Everything here is dusty. And she doesn't use one of those industrial brooms that clears a room with a few sweeps. The brooms here are bunches of little reeds tied together. Since it's only about a foot-and-a-half long, you have to stoop to use it. I usually wake up to the sound of her sweeping outside.

Meanwhile, Aminiampong (age 9), the second eldest, is taking care of Michelle, the infant daughter. She is often going about her business with Michelle tied to her back. She also fetches water from the spigot outside so her mom can use it while cooking. I've seen children do some serious heavy lifting whether it's buckets of water or stacks of chairs or piles of books. And they carry these things on their heads ... something I want to try one day but I'm too embarrassed to. During school, teachers always ask students to carry books from one class to another. They also stay after class to sweep the rooms clean. Who needs a janitor when you have children around?

Children are not coddled here. They are tough little people who work hard and have an amazing tolerance for physical discomfort. Even little five-year-olds have calloused hands from who-knows-what. They are also super-jacked. I envy the little girls and their shapely arm muscles. I have decided that when I have children, I will teach them the African work ethic.

But I'm conflicted about one particular aspect of African child-rearing: the cane.

Every teacher has a cane that s/he uses during class to keep the children in order. I've seen some serious lashings on the bum, the head, the hands, the shoulders, wherever. But the children accept it; it's just the way it is. In fact, children will only respect the cane when it comes to discipline. I've tried shouting, I've tried guilt-tripping, I've tried sending them to Time Out. But nothing works. When I yell at one group of students, another group will advise me, "Madam! You must beat them. Beat them, Madam!" (Yes, they call me Madam Katrina.)

The children can be monsters if they decide to misbehave. I substituted in Stage 1 (first grade) and they were screaming, running, hitting each other, stealing bags and dumping its contents and wreaking general havoc. I won't lie, I wanted so badly to hit them all. Since then, I've decided to stick with the older classes that are a smidge easier to control. Usually if a teacher can hear another class misbehaving, it's assumed that it's my class and he will come in - with his cane - and reinstate order for me. I can't decide if these moments are a relief or an embarrassment.

In the end, however, I love the children - demons or angels they may be - and they are the ones who make my work worthwhile. They're just so freakin' cute. It's always rewarding when I walk around town on errands and students come out from their homes to greet me, "Madam Katrina! Hello Madam! How are you?"