by Susan Thomas
It was sunset as we walked back through the lemon groves to the villa. I noticed that we were all walking along with both hands gently massaging our bottoms and started to giggle. When Aimee and Jess realised what was funny, they started giggling too. What a sight we looked, tear-stained eighteen-year-olds soothing their bottoms with both hands. I didn't feel one bit grown up I can tell you.
"Have we got any ice to put on our bums?" asked Jess.
"No," I replied, "but we have got a swimming pool."
Aimee suggested a bottle of chilled village wine. (I took a bottle home to my Dad who said it was rough but we loved it - too fussy my dad.) We were going to put on our swimming costumes, but I couldn't face pulling a costume over those welts on my bottom, so we just took our clothes off and went in naked. What a relief, the water soothed our bottoms beautifully. The bottle was on the table by the pool, and we each had a glass of chilled wine. We had been bad girls, but we'd been punished and now we were good again. There was only one toast we could make.
"Here's to good girls. Cheers!"
Good Girl in Africa
We had never been split up before, but the voluntary service saw us going in very different directions. Jess was off to the Far East, Aimee to a children's home in Romania, and I went to Africa. The Church we belonged to was affiliated to a wider church network and they ran two orphanages in Africa. Both were for children whose parents had died of AIDS. One catered for those poor kids who had the HIV virus themselves and the other (the one I was assigned to) for those free of the virus but with no surviving family to help them. It has recently been suggested that voluntary service by people of my age is a new form of colonialism; that's as maybe but I learned so much in my year I would defy anyone to say it was wasted time. Besides, I didn't feel like a colonial when my bottom was being thrashed with a cane, I can tell you.
To be honest, I don't think I was a huge amount of use over there, but when I graduate I will go back and put that right. I was assigned to the junior department of the school. My job was to help teach the children aged up to eleven years of age. I also had to help develop a sensitive AIDS education programme and help the senior students with English language issues. Before I carry on and tell you of my experiences I'd like you to understand the context. The school was a wonderful place, and in spite of the horrendous background there was a great atmosphere. People of all races worked together as colleagues and friends with laughter and cheerfulness. The children were extremely committed to their education and would make most kids in more prosperous countries look pretty third rate. Nevertheless it was very different to my previous experience.
The first shock to my cushioned existence was the use of corporal punishment. I am sure you will know that Africans in general have a different attitude to corporal punishment than the people of the United Kingdom. Teachers had a status they did not enjoy in the UK, and unless they went well beyond locally acceptable limits, the use of the cane was not frowned upon. Male teachers could also cane girls although again within limits. I had only my very recent experience of being switched so it all seemed very alien to me.
The second great shock to me was that my status was only fractionally above that of the senior girl students. Senior girls helped out with the junior department and frankly I, in spite of my 'superior' education, was of no more use than those girls. However, they were lovely girls whose kindness and generosity towards me was wonderful. I was able to help teach them of course but there was so much more they could teach me.
The third big shock was that the headmaster of the junior department could apply corporal punishment to those senior girls. Mr Obaaro was not local but from another African country; he was a well-qualified man in his early thirties. He was by no means a brutal man but nevertheless he used the cane to enforce the very high standards that he felt should and could be demanded of the senior students.
I was fortunate in being assigned a room all to myself in a bungalow. In the solitude of my room when I understood all the three shocks I have outlined above, I wondered what would stop me from getting the cane. Of course I was not a senior girl or pupil but a volunteer but... to be honest, after being switched while on holiday in Cyprus, I wasn't at all sure so I decided to be very careful yet as it turned out not nearly careful enough.
It was my project to do with AIDS education that earned me my first punishment. I was with four senior girls and we were to be responsible for all the junior children (some fifty kids in all) for several hours after school had finished prior to the evening meal. I had heard of a government funded travelling play that was visiting a nearby village as part of AIDS education. It was quite suitable for children and because they had so little entertainment it seemed like a good idea but it wasn't my idea to go that day. The other girls suggested we go off there and then. To me the causal disregard for time seemed so typical of Africa; I was worried about getting back, permission, walking through the bush and a hundred other things but I said nothing. I now realise that it was my responsibility to hold back and make arrangements for another time but I didn't do that. So we walked and the children really enjoyed the play, learned a great deal and we got back safely but very late. When we returned there was Mr Obaaro looking very worried and angry. He sent the children off for their belated meal and then he began on us.
His voice became high-pitched when angry and now it was very high-pitched. In a few short sentences he exposed the utter folly of taking the children off in that fashion without having informed anybody. Those doing the cooking were cross he told us because they wanted to relax at the end of a long hot day. He then asked us if there was any reason why we should not be punished. Well that is to say he asked the four senior girls. It was very unclear whether he was talking about me as well. I most certainly didn't want to be caned, but I didn't want them caned either so I didn't know what to do. We were standing under a large spreading tree by the side of one of the classrooms. Outside the classroom was an old table and on it a lay a cane. It was straight and perhaps a little over a metre long and maybe six millimetres thick (just over three feet long and a quarter of an inch thick); it looked really nasty to my eyes.
He called one of the girls by name, and with a resigned but un-resentful sigh she walked over, picked up the cane, and gave it to him. She then turned towards the table and to my horror lifted her dress and pulled down her underwear before bending over the table. Anyone could have come by and I thought it awful, but the girls (although not anxious to be caned) seemed quite used to it all. To my eyes the six strokes of the cane he gave her seemed incredibly fierce. She wailed loudly throughout her punishment but made no attempt to get up. She was wiping tears from her face as she adjusted her clothing and walked back to her place. He called another girl over and as he repeated the punishment I began to wonder whether I was to be punished or not. Surely he had no right to punish me? If I just walked away he could do nothing but would that be fair to the girls? If I was uncertain then I think he was too because next he turned to me. He didn't call me by name at all but sort of half pointed the cane at me. It was as if the cane was a question and he was curious about the answer. A sudden stillness came over the girls and for me time seemed to have disappeared; there was only the question. I couldn't think what to do. It was my feet that brought everything back to normal because they started walking towards the table.
It was expected that I would wear a fairly formal lightweight skirt and blouse when on duty. When I reached the table I lifted my skirt to pull my knickers down and I heard a collective gasp from the girls. That moment was one of acute embarrassment. Quite apart from the fact that we were right out in the open, I was doing this in front of relative strangers, and worse, in front of Mr Obaaro. I know I had been switched in front of the old farmer but he was an older man like a father or even a grandfather. The headmaster was a much younger man and known to be looking for a wife. Obviously the senior girls were off limits as prospective wives but I wasn't, so in theory he could be looking at me
as a possible wife! This combination was hideously embarrassing to me as I pulled my knickers down and bent over the table as the other two had done.
I knew that this beating was going to hurt because of my Cyprus experience, and I had witnessed two canings already, but nothing prepared me for the sheer force of the cane as it whacked into my bottom. I was bent over the table which was a support but I felt as if were being driven further over it. I made an "Ahh!" of surprise but then the pain registered - the "ahhhh" kept going and I felt my knees go weak. The pain seemed to go right down into my bottom and it really hurt! The next one landed while I was still trying to master the first and I screeched out just like the other girls. I stamped one foot in a silly attempt to get rid of the pain and then the third hit me. I screeched again and sort of stamped up and down while holding on to the table for dear life. This punishment was far worse than the switching I had had in Cyprus. I could do nothing about the tears that started when the fourth stroke landed; my head came up and I nearly stood for it had landed across the first three. I have no idea how I hung on for the last two. I was gripping the table so tightly that my hands were hurting. I stood slowly like an old woman because every movement seemed to cause the most intense pain in my bottom. I was ashamed of crying but I couldn't help it so I hung my head and didn't see the other two punished. They screeched loudly too and now I knew why. He then told us off all over again and we were dismissed; I fled to my room.
When I got back to my room I looked at my bottom in a mirror and was horrified. There were these huge long welts across my bottom. They were large, angry and prominent. They were also extremely hard to the touch but very painful which discouraged all but the gentlest probing. I washed my face and knew that I had been thoroughly thrashed African style. Well, I had come to learn after all.
The next morning the Director of the whole complex called me to his office. He was a shrewd but kindly man who managed to combine efficiency with compassion. I sat carefully in the chair in front of his desk.
"Well," he asked, "how are your welts this morning?"
So he knew! I suppose that was hardly surprising in the circumstances. "Very sore, I can hardly bear to touch them."
"Mr Obaaro certainly knows how to cane, of that there is no doubt. He does so because he wants the very best for the students and will not compromise on standards. And now you are a celebrity, the talk of the whole complex I might add. The senior girls think you are a heroine and are in awe of you. They would not have resented your walking away but the fact that you chose to take responsibility and share their punishment has made you a real star in their eyes."
"I only did what seemed right. I certainly didn't want to be caned, and I found it horribly embarrassing."
"I am sure you did, especially as you had no corporal punishment at school but that only adds to your credit don't you see. Anyway, I also add a 'well done' and I think you were very brave, but I am afraid you have now created a problem for yourself. Mr Obaaro was uncertain of his right to punish you. Had you refused he would have accepted it, but now a precedent has been set. I think that from now on he will treat you as he does the senior girls. If you do something he regards as wrong then I am afraid you will be in for another punishment."
I had suspected that I might have laid myself open to more punishment. I was horrified and vowed to be very careful, but as I've said already 'not careful enough'. I simply didn't adapt fast enough. I didn't intend to cross Mr Obaaro, I really didn't. I did everything he asked quickly and promptly, was attentive to all my duties, and couldn't have been more polite to him, but I forgot that I wasn't in England.
My downfall came in a classroom where I was assisting the children with their English language lessons. This was very different from classrooms in Europe or America but the children were all very well motivated. Did I say 'all'? Well there were two boys whose minds were not entirely on their studies. Lovely boys the pair of them but compared with the other pupils just not hard working. I had been asked by the teacher to help these boys in particular as they had an important test coming up. It worked, they 'fell in love' with me and would do anything I asked and I became very fond of them, but they were just youngsters and were finding some things difficult. I was trying to sort out the mess in their minds when Mr Obaaro came on a tour of inspection. He was tough on them and I defended them in a sort of English school way that I had heard many times in my schooling. It is a kind of 'good cop, bad cop' game that teachers in England use. One rants and the other says something like, "now don't be hard on them, I know they are really going to try hard for me." Only this wasn't England, I wasn't a teacher and Mr Obaaro saw education as the salvation of Africa and tolerated no slackers.
I had the feeling throughout our encounter that he was not happy, but I pushed it to the back of my mind until that evening when I received a summons to see him in his bungalow. In the evenings I changed into shorts and polo shirt and it was dressed in that manner that I went to see him. His bungalow was small but he had it to himself. There was a small shower room, a sort of kitchen, bedroom and a living room doubling as a study. With its bright red floor it was very unlike an English Headmaster's office but one wall had his many certificates. The school was lucky to have such a well-qualified man and one dedicated to the education of the children. He had virtually started the junior department single-handed and driven it to success and was tipped to be the next director. Before I tell you what happened I want you to know I admired him.
I stood in front of his desk and he sat. He was scathing. As far he was concerned what I had done was challenge the authority not just of a teacher but of the Headmaster. These children were the future of Africa and only the best for them and by them was good enough, and who was I to interfere with that? He wiped the floor with me and I saw it clearly from his point of view. However, he went on at some length about his mission and vision and my mind became concerned with only one question. Was he going to cane me?
"Well," he demanded. "Do you understand all that I have said to you?"
"Yes, Mr Obaaro I do. I really am very sorry, I was just ignorant of your customs but I know that is no excuse. I do realise I should have been more careful." I then couldn't hold back my fear. "Are you..." I began unable to look anywhere other than the floor, "going to ...." I had been going to say "cane" but couldn't bring myself to use the word so finished, "...punish me?"
He sat right back in his chair with wide-eyed astonishment on his face. He voice went high-pitched again, not with anger but disbelief. "Punish you? Of course I am going to punish you, foolish girl. What did you expect? Don't you see that you deserve it?"
Well if you were caught up in his vision and mission you'd see it from his point of view too and I just feebly said, "Yes, Mr Obaaro, I do deserve it, I am sorry".
My hands were shaking from fear and embarrassment as I undid my shorts and pulled them down and followed them with my knickers. It reminded me of Cyprus, what with the heat and being bare bottomed but I knew this was worse. I bent over his desk and then he discovered that the cane he had was too lightweight and he told me he was going to fetch his 'proper' cane. I had to remain where I was while he went to retrieve it. It was a horrible position to be in; he had made me stretch right across his desk and had pulled up my polo shirt away from my bottom. So there I was, my feet with sandals on, my shorts and knickers only just above them and bunched around my ankles, but then nothing until the middle of my back. Stretched and bent over his desk like that it suddenly crossed my mind that it was common for visitors just to walk right on in. Suppose someone came in while I was like this? I went cold all over in spite of the heat. I don't know how long I remained like that but it seemed forever.
When he came back in he was swishing the cane through the air which made me feel cold all over again. He rested the cane on my bottom and I couldn't help tensing.
"Are you ready, young woman?"
"Yes, Mr Obaaro. How many strokes will you give me?"
"I shall
give you nine." Nine! I nearly fainted. Six had been bad enough and slightly over a week later there were still residual marks from that caning. Now I was going to get nine. My fear made everything became strangely unreal; I could see every detail of the desk down to the finest part of the grain or tiny ink mark. Sounds I wouldn't normally hear came to my ears including the scratching of small animals in the roof. I heard his feet walk back a step or so and then the swish of the cane as he tried it again. Then everything went back to normal with a frightening flurry of movement before the cane landed on me. I screamed out loud because it was as if I had been cut right through to the bone. His next stroke came down practically on top of the first. All the breath went out of my body and I almost climbed on top of the desk in an instinctive reaction to escape the punishment. Somehow I forced myself back down. I gripped the desk tightly and somehow managed only a grunt when the third hit my poor bottom. After that though I started to cry.
Swish! was followed by crack! and each stroke of the cane was delivered right in the centre of my bottom. I was trying so hard to stay down that I got into a panic about how many I had taken and whether I could hold on for all nine. I just didn't realise that being caned could be so bad. I sobbed and cried out with each cut of the cane but stayed grimly down. The last stroke landed right on top of an already well-caned area and I screeched out loud but now it was over.
"You may get up now," he told me. The centre of both cheeks had a band of the most incredible heat and soreness. I stood slowly and sort of put my hands close to my welts. I could actually feel some heat coming off and there was a terrible soreness, but much worse there was a deep band of intense pain where the force of the caning had gone down into my bottom. I just stood very still with my shorts and knickers around my ankles. I could tell that if I bent to pull them up it would hurt.
