At 5’3″, I’m not used to being called the tall one. But that’s exactly how I was referred to . . .
The other day I was chatting with my host mom (in Jula), and she was telling me more about life on their end when we were about to move in. She had found out that Jen and I were going to be staying with her and with the lady who has become Jen’s host mom, but they didn’t know for the moment who would be with whom. She said that one of her kids told her, “Pick the tall one. She speaks some of our language.” So there you have it. I’m a bit taller than Jen, and since she had been studying Jula while we were making our village trips, she hadn’t had as much time to work on picking up the greetings, etc., that we were taught at that time. So I’m the tall one. And my host mom got me.
My tallness has come in handy, too. In the morning, one of the tasks is to put the solar-powered light and flashlight on top of the thatched lean-to (sorry, that’s the best word phrase I can come up for in English for the Jula “gwata”). If my host mom wants to do it, since she’s a tad bit shorter than me, she has to stand on a chair. But since I grew up dancing ballet and am used to standing on tip-toe, I, being the tall one, can stand on tip-toe and put it up without standing on a chair. See, I guess there are benefits of being oh so tall like me!