Hello, Goodbye

For me, this summer in Africa took a cue from the title of a Beatles song (Or, I guess if you’re more inclined, the song from that Target commercial or Glee episode).

“Hello, Goodbye.”

And since my sentiments on goodbyes are fairly well known (I consider goodbyes to be like middle school and stirrup pants--an inescapable depravity of life), it was a bittersweet season.

I guess in all reality, it started with a goodbye as one of my site mates, Alex, a partner in crime and sage in all things Mozambique, said goodbye to Angoche to return to the states.

Everyone here has since been offering me condolences because they say the three of us (Alex, Erin--my other beautiful, amazing site mate, and I) are like family and it‘s like one of my sisters left. I guess when you’re in such a bizarre place so far away from everything you know and love, having someone around to remind you of all the familiarities of home is instantly comforting. Whether it was just speaking English together, cooking an American meal, playing UNO, commiserating about our recent bouts of tropical illness, or making dated cultural references to Saved By the Bell, it has been such a blessing to have two other amazing girls/friends/sisters here who understand the gauntlet of emotions you go through every single day.

So, when one in our Crazy American Branca Trio left, it was a hard, very sad goodbye.

The thing that did not permit me to dwell on it, though, was the visit of my dear friend from home. Hello, Claire! And hello to the Crystal Lite, new books, girly smelling products, and news from home that she brought with her.

Hellos are infinitely more fun.

Words cannot express how wonderful and refreshing it is to see a beloved, familiar face and have them see your new life and world. My literature professors while grading my papers always admonished me to show, Margaret, don’t tell. Show.

This place is nearly impossible to accurately describe using words so having someone here I could show, rather than tell…well, it was pure bliss.

Her trip entailed an evening on the town in Maputo, a weekend outing on the beautiful and haunting Mozambique Island, a chapa ride straight out of the depths of hell back to Angoche after which I am thankful she still agreed to be my friend, the meeting and greeting of so many of Angoche’s resident personalities, bucket baths, mosquito nets, the frequent lack of electricity, a dip in the waves of the Indian Ocean, a traditional Mozambican birthday party, a boat ride to a private, palm tree canopied beach, an 8th grade Mozambican biology class, capulana shopping, piri-piri eating, and ultimately and inevitably, another sad goodbye.

Every time I introduced Claire to someone new in town, they first wanted to know if she knew Obama or was my daughter. After I explained she was a friend, they responded incredulously, “Margarida, she came all the way here just to see you?! Wow! Ela é uma grande amiga!” Yes, I agree. She is a great friend.

Sometimes it’d be nice just to be desensitized to the constant hellos and goodbyes, but I really don’t think it will ever happen. Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye. That’s just how it goes.

And one big hello on the horizon is to the new group of volunteers that will be arriving in Mozambique next month. It’s hard to believe that one year has passed since I said goodbye to my home and hello to Africa.

When it comes to coping with everything Africa throws my way and all the hellos and goodbyes that go with it, I remember Alex, Claire, Erin, the rest of the volunteers here, and all the wonderful people back home, and I take a cue from another Beatles song.

I get by with a little help from my friends.



Erin, Alex, and I at Alex's Despedida Party



To me, this sums up quite accurately our whole relationship.



Claire's first chapa ride. Don't let the spaciousness and functioning seats fool you. This was just a tease.



Claire and I standing on the famous anchors of the historic ghost town, Ilha de Mozambique.


Claire with Fabiao, the mailman, and one of the nicest people in Mozambique and the world.


Beautiful Claire waving goodbye to beautiful Angoche.

Waka Waka

Several summers during college I lived together with 5 of my girlfriends in this beloved little white frame house. On those rare idle summer evenings when nothing--not margaritas, not mullet hunting, not Russian Roulette, not even Apples 2 Apples--seemed to trip our trigger, we would entertain ourselves by popping in a movie.

Side note: When we first moved in, we harnessed our inner Monks and in our OCD stupor, we managed to create the most intricate movie cataloguing system ever. Eat your heart out Blockbuster.

Soooooo, when the tequila ran dry or the weather turned wet or when any entertainment options that necessitated putting on a bra were unanimously vetoed, we resorted to our anally arranged movie collection, all the while congratulating ourselves on our undervalued skill of cinematic taxonomy. Our choices ranged from the following categories: action, drama, period drama, comedy, romantic comedy, vulgar Apatow-ian comedy, Disney movies, television shows, Classics, eye candy movies, pretentious movies only the critics and your smart friends claim to enjoy, movies you are mortified to possess (ummm…Lake Placid 2, Spice World, the whole Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen straight to DVD collection), and then, of course, there was the Sports section.

Whenever we were at an impasse in our movie decision process, the category we always turned to was sports. It was the great unifier--the middle of the Venn Diagram. It didn’t matter if you were more Anna Wintour than Jim Thorpe. Everyone could relate to a good sports movie. Everyone. Because although most sports movies stick to a formula that is painfully predictable, it is also one that makes you feel good about life. Everyone loves a good underdog story which is what most of the best sports movies are (Little Giants, Mighty Ducks, Space Jam, Bring It On!!!).

And it is also what Mozambique is, the underdog.

It came as no surprise to me, then, that my little Mozambican town rallied together in a show of solidarity and collective pride that Africa played host to the biggest sporting event in the world…the World Cup.

Africa United, the commercials broadcasted. United by the pure and simple love of a sport, soccer.

Nooowwwww, before my arrival here in Mozambique, I would definitely not have considered myself a soccer fan. First of all, I never played it. Secondly, in Nebraska, nothing eclipses Husker football. And lastly, my dad’s dislike for the sport seemed to rub off on me. To avoid getting a Howard Stern sized smack down from the FCC, I will refrain from using the expression he likened it to.

But being here with that vuvuzela noise and all those sport endorphins so close, I became hooked. I loved every minute of the World Cup. Before all my favorite teams were eliminated (by “favorite” I mean teams that either had the best looking players or the most offensively short shorts), I was catching every game with the locals in the only place here that has a television.

And talking World Cup action with the community members garnered me major brownie points. For instance, the owner of the local bakery and I became best buds because he was just as fired up as I was about the US being robbed of its third goal against Slovenia. Damn straight, Mr. Ossufo. WTF!?

But it’s not just professional soccer. Soccer in all forms here is just a way of life. At any point in the day you will encounter some sort of pick-up game. Kids, adults, boys, girls, Mozambican, Chinese, American, Portuguese. Everyone. And because there is really no equipment or soccer balls, they have to improvise. Bare feet on an open plot of land, with tree branches staked into the ground to mark the goals. Just playing a game they love. Their creativity and resourcefulness still amazes me. I have seen soccer balls fashioned out of almost every sort of material. It’s really quite unbelievable--like when Benny the Jet Rodriguez pickled the Beast! In Mozambique, you don’t have to build anything for them to come.

While most of the soccer fields are pretty rustic, Angoche does have one big field with actual goals where the local town team plays. And these games are major town events and a great way to mingle. Attending my first soccer game here was probably one of the most entertaining things I have ever experienced. After watching just a few World Cup games, I began my transition to the dark side…aka into a fan of soccer (I’m sorry, Dad, please don’t call me Benedict Arnold. I can’t help it. I mean, have you seen Cristiano Ronaldo!). Anyway, ogling the Copa Mundial players, I have been amazed at the finesse and fluidity of the athletes.

I don’t know why I thought an amateur Mozambican game would be the same. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t. The game was rogue, unpolished, and tears were involved. It was like Mozambique meets the WNBA. There may be no crying in baseball, but there definitely is crying in small town Mozambican soccer. One thing I’ll give em’ though, they’ve got flare. Whenever there was a remotely good play, both the spectators and players would celebrate with a soiree of acrobatics. When the winning team scored the only goal of the game, the whole team erupted into flips up and down the field. What now, Kerri Strug!?!

Maybe it’s not technically soccer that I am enjoying--perhaps it’s just being surrounded by so many people who just so much love a game. It’s like being back in Memorial Stadium.

What can I say, sports fans, Africa was most definitely an exciting place to be this summer. The World Cup was a welcome distraction from so many other things and one of the most successful ways I’ve found to get to know folks here.

Ahhh, the power of sports.

It’s enough to make me want to eat a box of Wheaties, put the SportsCenter theme song on repeat, and chant Rudy Rudy Rudy!

Or I could just pop in a good sports movie. I like rooting for the underdog.