Thursday, November 3, 2011

Family Ties

The Corleones, the Kennedys, the Kardashians. Heck, the Simpsons. All tight-knit, powerful families in their own right. A bit touchy on who gets in though.

Keeping it in the family.

And family is something I’ve been thinking a lot about because in a few short days my brave mother, who until recently has never had a passport, will venture to Mozambique to not only see where I’ve been living for the past 2 years, but to help me say goodbye to my Mozambican family.

And a big Mozambican family I have because here, selection is not very exclusive. Everyone more or less considers each other family. Walking down the street people address each other as Brother, Uncle, Mom, or any other appropriate family member. It took me the longest time to figure out that not everyone was actually related in that way. For a while I thought I was living in the most incestuous place in the world. What I eventually learned is that family is a more general, inclusive concept. Everybody claims everybody as family. You could be the blackest of black sheeps and have nothing to worry about because family is so communal. You are the daughter, son, or nephew of everyone so your immediate family would have lots of help sharing your embarrassment.

And no one is just Fatima or Mussa or João. They are Sister Fatima or Brother Mussa or Uncle João. The whole Mozambican culture operates as one big family. Addressing someone, even if you’ve just met, as Uncle or Mother or Sister is a sign of respect and endearment.

In Angoche, I am known as…

Tia Margarida=Aunt Margarida
Filha Margarida=Daughter Margarida
Teeeeeecher Margarida=Teacher Margarida

But mostly as…

Mana Margarida=Sister Margarida.

I absolutely love it. It is nice here to always be considered part of the family. And I’m sorry to those back home if I have annoyingly started addressing you as Mano or Mana or any other Mozambican family term. I’m not trying to be esoteric. I can’t help it. I just love it and what it means. You are not just my friend or acquaintance. You are my family.

Plus, despite being here 2 years, there are still some names that are not only hard to pronounce, (Iahiah, Muazarea, Zainadine) but hard to remember. In which case I can just call this person whatever family member I pluck out of my head. Maybe it is enabling my laziness, but Mozambicans love it. I am part of their family and they are part of mine.

Through the years, a name undergoes transformations. I can always tell if someone knows my Mom from high school, college, or work by whichever name they call her.

I grew up Margaret. At college, I was Margo, and in Mozambique I am Mana Margarida.

It will be hard to not have the Mana. It will be hard to not have that family.
Still, I am so excited for my Mom to get initiated into the Mozambican family system. Several of my students here are already preparing for the arrival of “Nossa Mãe,” or Mother Nora.

I can’t wait for my Mom to see that although I’ve been away from my real family for so long, I’ve been adopted into so many others.

And soon enough, she will be too.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Assante Sana Squash Banana

Zanzibar—it sounds like a mythical land like El Dorado, or Atlantis, or Costco but Reader, it's even better. Last month I celebrated two years in Africa and seeing the sad end in sight, two Peace Corps colleagues and I decided to venture outside Mozambique to get a different taste of Africa.

To Tanzania we went, home of Swahili, the Maasai, Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, and an outrageously high VISA for Americans. Not to worry. Upon disembarking in Dar Es Salaam, I was just tickled to death we even made it alive considering Mozambican airports, due to their completely un-nurturing environment, are where mothers threaten to send their children when they're naughty.

Cheers to Mozambican airlines, just another testament to our survival skills my colleagues and I toasted as we popped open one of Tanzania's national lagers, a “Safari.” Appropriately named as “safari” means “journey,” one of the few Swahili words I knew. And the first big step in our journey was understanding what the heck people were saying.

I had forgotten what it was like in Mozambique those first few months not being able to communicate and I reverted right back to this sense of helplessness, my only Swahili coming from The Lion King:

Simba=lion
Rafiki=friend
Hakuna matata=no worries
Assante sana squash banana=thank you very much squash banana

I thought my basis in Koti (the local dialect in Angoche which has similarities to Swahili) and the comforting misconception that “everyone speaks English anyway” would be enough. And, I guess it was. But it would have been nicer and more respectful if I had taken the effort to learn some more key phrases. Traveling can be hard work, so why be lazy in the single thing—a common language—that could make it so much easier?

I vow in my future travels to Rosetta Stone away the Tower of Babel.

Despite the language difficulties, my colleagues and I got our ferry tickets. This is after a ferry sank just weeks ago on the same route requiring foreign aid. All the vendors kept assuring us, “Our boat won't sink. Our boat won't sink.” Umm, Titanic anyone?

We risked it, maybe secretly hoping Leo was on board and sailed away to Zanzibar.

Ahh...Zanzibar. A magical island with giant turtles, water the color of which Crayola has yet to discover, scarves galore, the friendliest most patient people, food fit for Anthony Bourdain, and the most ridiculous tourists I have ever seen. Ridiculous to the point of being embarrassing. Let me explain.

So, we stayed the majority of our time in old Stone Town where the narrow, cobblestone streets, vendors hawking their crafts, and the beautiful semi-veiled Muslim women invoke images of Aladdin, Casablanca, and a Husker home game. It is such an interesting combination of African, European, and Arabian—a mixture that sounds disastrous. And the history of the island is nothing if not contentious, but now the cultures form a kind of peaceful symbiosis. Zanzibar and everything it has to offer---the music, the food, the clothes, the people—all of it is exempt from the rigid boundaries of geographic labels. Zanzibar is not just African or Arab or European, it is all three fused together, a tri-continental, cross cultural assimilation. It is a place unlike any other.

Still, Stone Town remains very heavily Muslim from the Arab influence. This was obvious just from the pre-school uniforms where the little girls wear the veils and robes and the boys the prayer caps and robes. My site, Angoche, is similarly Muslim and conservative so I found the Call to Prayer and other traditional practices comforting.

What I did not find comforting was seeing so many tourists in their skivvies, walking around a place that is traditionally very modest. I understand people are on vacation but if you are not going to respect any of the social norms of the place you are visiting, why even go?! Any guide book will tell you that in Stone Town it is not appropriate to walk around in bikinis (I saw both men and women, yikes!) or other clothes fit for Spring Break in Cancun. Yet, so many people did.

I don't know. Maybe two years of covering my knees has turned me into a big ole' prude, but all I'm saying is that when you are visiting another country where the customs are different than yours, for Heaven's sakes, cover your butt cheeks.

In Angoche, if someone is scantily clad, they like to say that person has no “vergonha” or no “shame.” They're shameless. Good for a Garth Brooks song. Not good for one of the most traditional hubs of African history.

I'll digress because ignoring the semi-naked tourists was easy with all the treasures of Stone Town. Apart from the people and the food and the history and the beautifully crafted doors was the shopping. In Mozambique you go to the market and barter for everything. I have spent so much time negotiating the prices of things here, be it a capulana, a chapa ride, or a bag of mangoes—the difference of which might amount to 40 cents. But it's more than just the principle of demanding a fair price and not the “nzuko” or white person price, it's knowing how many pieces of bread that 40 cents could buy. I learned long ago to stop thinking in terms of dollars. The Atkins Diet's worst nightmare, I think in terms of bread.

Mozambique had trained me well for the bartering that goes on in the streets of Zanzibar. I don't know if the vendors were more impressed or terrified by my cutthroat negotiating. I'm afraid when I return to the States, I'm going to try to barter down the McDonald's Dollar Menu. Price tags will mean nothing to me.

Perusing the aisles and aisles of little treasures Zanzibar had to offer was so much fun. The best of Zanzibar shopping for me was what I call “The Isadora Duncan Corridor of Heaven,” or the scarf aisle. The women on Zanzibar use them as beautiful head wraps so they abound all over the island. And the vendors know there are lots of crazy westerners who like to wear them around our necks. It was divine. Maybe there was a time when I would have preferred something like the shopping on Rodeo Drive to the streets of Zanzibar.

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

In Zanzibar, it's all about the experience. Walking the streets of old Stone Town was like walking through a labyrinth of stalls and stores and musicians and delicious food.

And one inevitably would find herself lost in the maze. But you never had to hurry or worry or use a spool of thread to find your way out because being lost was all part of the magic. Plus, so much more welcoming than a minotaur were the beautiful and nice shop owners or other locals who were ready to help you navigate the maze.

After some days in Stone Town and a trek to visit the famous Zanzibar giant turtles, we finally forced ourselves to venture out of Stone Town to take a tour of something else Zanzibar is famous for—spices!

After the sport of cricket, horticulture is probably the second least interesting thing in the world to me, but a tour of the origin of the spices, their plants, and how each culture used them in the past was pretty fascinating. Curry, cloves, cinnamon, mint...I'm now certain I would dominate the “Name that Spice Challenge” on Top Chef.

Our trip also entailed an excursion to the beaches of the north where Maasai warriors guarded the entrances of beautiful, honeymooning-filled resorts. It was interesting meeting fellow travelers there, many who were doing the Serengeti safari, Kilimanjaro climb and beaches of Zanzibar circuit. Many were darlings. Many were insufferable. The most important thing I learned from all the visitors was how not to be a pain-in-the-ass tourist.

You know, one night on Stone Town we were watching the sunset from Mercury's restaurant, named after Freddie Mercury himself, a native of Zanzibar, and I got to thinking. If not for Zanzibar, we would not have Freddie Mercury, and then we would not have “Fat Bottomed Girls,” or “Somebody to Love,” or “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and then where would Glee be?!

I shudder to think.

Maybe it was bizarre, walking down the ancient streets humming “We Are the Champions” simultaneously passing some Maasai, a group of Muslim women in full gowns, and tourists in string bikinis. But that's what Zanzibar is. East meets West. Past meets present. Conservatism meets tourism. Queen meets The Lion King. And somehow it all works.

Zanzibar was so lovely but truly one of the best parts was when we serendipitously ran into another group of vacationing Mozambicans. There was a big group hug, and pictures, and promises to visit each other. It was the excited embrace of fellow countrymen reunited in a faraway land finally speaking a familiar language, talking about how we miss home, how we miss Mozambique.

The vacay was great but I knew I was ready to come back to Mozambique, my home for the last two years; my home for just a while longer until November 18 when I will complete my service, hang up my Peace Corps robe, say goodbye to Mozambique, and return to America.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Last month was our annual Girls Empowerment conference. A sort of summer camp—like Salute Your Shorts on crack. Thirty Mozambican teenage girls from across the four northern provinces tossed together to share and learn and essentially have a good time. It was manic and stressful for us as organizers but so rewarding in that it seemed completely motivational and life-changing for the impressive young women.

But instead of horseback riding, canoeing, and camp fires with s’mores like traditional summer camps, we had sessions on nutrition, self defense, study skills, public speaking, sexual education, the anatomy of a woman’s body, the mechanics of HIV and how to prevent it, gender debates, and the most disturbing for me—an entire session devoted to what the girls can do if they are being blackmailed, extorted, or harassed by their teachers for sex.

Camp Nowhere…meet Mozambique.

I’ve been racked for over a year with apprehension on how to present this or even if I should. I tend to try to focus on the good things, the things that make me love Mozambique. But sometimes there are things here that also break my heart. And after our big conference, I realized if our girls were brave enough to talk about it and denounce it, then I should be too.

I guess it really started to sink in about a year ago—the first time I called home crying to my Mom. Every week at our REDES meeting (REDES is the name of our girls’ empowerment group) we do “Melhores e Piores.” This is when we go around and each girl essentially talks about the best and worst thing that happened to her that week.

Anyway, one of the girls relayed to the group how her worst thing was the fact that her friend was being harassed by a teacher who was threatening to fail her if she didn’t sleep with him. This led to all the other girls accounting a similar version of this exact same scenario. Every single one had a tale of harassment. They said of around the 50 male teachers at their secondary school, most of which are married with families, there are maybe ten that don’t actively pursue and sleep with their students.

Now, I know sometimes Peace Corps volunteers can get on their high horses—we’re talking Clydesdales here. But in this situation, I felt justified in my fury and sadness. I remember hysterically telling my mom what a fool I was preaching to these girls the importance of an education when it is at that very institution of learning where they are subjected to this sort of treatment.

Well, with another year in Mozambique under my belt, I can now say that I still think the majority of teachers here make the folks at Enron and the characters on The Wire look like honest, enterprising fellas.

But, with time comes the humbling clarity of hindsight. And it is with time that I realized just how much I did not understand. I originally thought it was just a problem of horny, pervy teachers preying on their helpless female students. And most of it is! But the problem is also so much bigger and more convoluted than I had imagined. I called my mom crying thinking I was dealing with a haiku. Really it was Tolstoy.

You see, so much in Mozambique is cyclical and interconnected. HIV and poverty and education and corruption and sexual debut and rites of initiation and transactional sex all come in a packaged deal. You don’t get one without all the others.

Let’s just say a well-meaning but slightly inebriated mechanic wants to do some work on your car. And let’s say your car is Mozambique and the mechanic is developmental aid. So he starts with the steering column. But that shows there are problems with the brakes. Which shows there are problems with the key-less entry pad. Which shows there are problems with the carburetor. Which shows there are problems with the windshield wipers. One problem just illuminates another problem, all of which were seemingly unrelated. But upon further investigation and the onset of sobriety, our mechanic can see how holistic the problems really are. And neither he nor all of Jiffy Lube will be of any real use to the car until they understand how all the parts are connected.

Now that I have explained the necessity for context, I am going to harness a bit of my initial, only slightly premature rage to explain what goes down. Basically, what happens is that these teachers approach female students in an effort to “conquistar” them. Yes, that’s the verb they use. Conquer. And like Cortes and Pizarro they are relentless and callous in pursuit of what they want.

If the girls say no to this hanky panky, the teacher threatens to fail her or worse. The girls cannot go to the Director because he is, if not equally involved in the system, completely indifferent. It is just something that is not only accepted but expected—like a bad Jennifer Aniston rom-com.

Sometimes I swear being a male teacher in a Mozambican school is the equivalent of having a coercion-based harem. The teachers can just pick and choose who to bully into having sex with them.

However, there are several other, darker ingredients in this Mary Kay Letourneau jumbo pie. For one, oftentimes parents will encourage their daughters to try to sleep with a teacher in the hopes that the professor will give some of his relatively large disposable income to this young girl as hush money. She in turn will donate it to the family fund. If they’re really lucky, she’ll become pregnant with the comparatively rich teacher’s baby and then she will become his burden and not her parents.

Money plays a very large part in this cycle because essentially after girls here go through their rites of initiation, many of their parents just plumb stop supporting them. Not all, but many. In which case, they are told to use whatever means necessary to get what they need and want. This leads to the sad fact that many girls actively pursue their teachers, knowing full well that out of the deal they’ll get a passing grade, or money, or other little presents. They call it transactional sex here. To me, it’s essentially a more technical way of saying prostitution. Young girls will have relationships with older men with the premise that the men will buy them things. If they want a cell phone, or a new weave, or a soft drink, or a new capulana, the sure-fire way to get it is to go on the hunt for a “pito.” Pito roughly translates to “sugar daddy.” Sugar daddy often translates to Biology Professor.

A lot of this behavior is whetted by the EXTREMELY popular sex and drama-filled Brazilian soap operas that nearly everyone watches here. They make The Young and the Restless look like Veggie Tales. The girls see these novelas and want to imitate the characters—what they are wearing, how they style their hair, and how they interact with men. But characters in Brazilian soap operas don’t have to worry about a 20% HIV rate. Girls in Mozambique do.

They see these characters with high heels, skirts that could double as slap bracelets, and a laissez-faire philosophy about sex, and a lot of times it doesn’t register that it is not real.

Regardless, it is my firm belief that these girls could channel Lady Godiva and strut around in their birthday suits seductively eating cherries and challenging their professors to a game of naked Twister and it still would absolutely not be okay for their teachers to act on that forwardness. Teachers are in a position of authority and the responsibility rests with them. It’s not fraternization. Most of the time, it’s statutory rape.

I wish I could say there was a solution. But each person I talk to blames something else. A good friend of mine (a wonderful professor who is known as one of the ones who does not sleep with his students and is consequently lauded or mocked depending on who you ask) blames the Rites of Initiation for the forwardness of his female students. The whole situation I tend to blame on the shameless professors who take advantage of these girls, the willing and the unwilling. Others blame the novelas. Others poverty. Others corruption in the schools.

But really, it’s all of them.

And as much as I now know this, and as much as I know that this happens in America too, I still can’t help but remember the casual way our girls told me they are harassed by their teachers. As if it were okay, normal even. And as much as I try to see all sides of the story, I mostly just see this.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Return to Sender? Hell NO!

Can you remember your best Christmas? Okay, how about your best birthday? Now, let’s combine those two days with an imaginary Valentine’s Day where you are given the most beautifully written Petrarchan sonnet wrapped around the Hope Diamond by the newest Calvin Klein underwear model who is, coincidentally, not a tool. And it is also the day you discover the world’s best sandwich and a calorie-free Piña Colada.
Not too shabby a hypothetical day, right?

Yet, all that awesomeness and excitement of the combination of Christmas, birthdays, delicious sandwiches, and fantasy Valentine’s Days are nothing…NOTHING…compared to the awesomeness and excitement of getting a letter, book, or care package in Mozambique.

You may think I’m exaggerating (or fishing), but cross my heart I’m not. I wish I could accurately describe the feeling you get when you realize that someone…some kind, beautiful person from home took the time and effort and money to send you something all the way to Africa. It never even matters what it is—I love it because it is a reminder of home and a welcome distraction from some of the harder aspects of being a volunteer in southern Africa.

Maybe I sound crazy…a grown 25-year old woman who gets all worked up about Crystal Light or a bar of chocolate or a People Magazine or a letter from home, but let me tell you, your standards here just change. What was once mundane or ordinary to me in the states is worth more than all the gold to ransom Atahualpa here in Mozambique. Rumpelstiltskin be damned. He could show up in Mozambique and there are some days I swear I would offer up my first born for a box of Cheese-Its.
Basically, I am not remotely picky and even things I wasn’t necessarily fond of in America, I love here because it means someone thought I would like it and took the time to send it. And I love that.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I would like this blog to serve no other purpose than to thank those dear folks back home who have been so kind to me. And maybe it’ll also be of some guidance to anyone (assuming there are others besides my Dad who read this) looking for advice on what to send someone serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer around the world.

So, let me just reiterate again that anything sent…and I mean anything!...will be used, it will be appreciated, and it will be loved. Even the astronomically large granny panties my mom sent me were amazing. Heck, I’ve got those puppies on now.

With the exception of the underwear and the Cheese-Its, which I hoard, most everything else that is sent to me gets shared. It’s fun to use things sent as birthday presents, awards at the Youth Center, prizes for student contests, or gifts for beloved friends.
I have been so blessed. Dear folks have sent homemade cookies, kids’ toys, nice smelling girly products, cake mix, books, children’s books for the Center, wedding invitations, anti-chafing gel, Connect Four, mixed CDs, stuff for our girls’ group, Nebraska paraphernalia, newspaper clippings, and scarves that remind them of me. I had a friend send me a package of everything Google recommended to her to send to Peace Corps Volunteers. I have received letters of encouragement from strangers and a book from someone who thought my writing style reminded him of the author. And I have an old professor who writes me a letter every week without fail, despite the slow return rate.

Sometimes it’s easy to slip into the egocentric frame of mind that everyone back home is doing so many fabulous things and has forgotten about you so far away being tormented by mosquitoes and BIC pens. So anytime something arrives, it is like Christmas and a welcome reminder that while yes, your friends and family are off doing fabulous things, no, they have not forgotten about you.

I was actually discussing the topic of packages a while back with a friend of mine, a high school and college classmate who is serving abroad with the Air Force. We talked about missing holidays, missing friends and family, being the only ones from home in the same hemisphere, and what were the best things we ever had sent to us. I was reminded that while our American agencies are very different philosophically, we are both serving our country, we are both far away from home, and we are both missing the same comforts of America. I felt bad thinking about one of my cousins who has been abroad in the armed forces off and on since I was little.

The realization that in the event of a severe Lime Flavored Tostitos craving, he couldn’t just pop on over to the grocery store never even crossed my mind until I came to Mozambique.

Discussing with my friend just what he and his colleagues in the military enjoyed receiving was really interesting compared to what my colleagues in the Peace Corps and I love getting. I can’t speak for him, but based on a small inventory I have collected amongst volunteers, what seem to be the hot ticket items are spices, any food packets that just require water, juice mixes, reading material, snack food, teaching materials, quite often vanity items like hair gel or deodorant, and letters.

While I have loved everything ever sent, some of the most amusing things I have received are letters from elementary classes in the states. I have included some of their very astute questions and concerns.

In Mozambique did you seen any loins thair?

Funday is tomorrow. It will be fun.

Have you maked any more frends? I mabie wood be your frend.

Do the people in Mozambique no the Pledge of the Allegiance? Is it worm there?

Can you have resese there? Can you come visit on Monday!!?

Do you have to read to the kids every day or do you stay asleep sometimes?

I am very luckiest because I have the best teacher.

I bet you’re the best Margaret that I ever knowed I hope you have a great day.

I bet you miss your family. I did when I hade to go on a trip with my mom. My dad and sister couldn’t go.

I wish I cud be with you.

Do you like to write storys? I like to write storys. One time I rote a story about a kitty who tured into a gohst.

Is it funner in Aferica than Arizona? Is it desert in Aferica like Califonia?

My favorite color is red, purple, and greyish-blackish.

Do you grow lemon trees if you do make lemonade. It’s good on a hot summer day.

Hi Mrs. Margret. I saw the Justen Bieber movie it is asome!!!!!!!!!!

Life in America is grate! I have roller skates but I’m still learning.

Upcoming is Father’s Day. It’s like Mother’s Day.

Hi. I am 8 years old. I’m sending you happyiness.


So, thank you to everyone, 8-years and older for thinking of me and sending me happiness (not just letters, books, or Cheese-Its) but newsy Facebook messages, regards sent via my mom, or just a nice thought. Those are the really good, better-than-birthday-and-Christmas-combined days.

Monday, July 11, 2011

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Mozambique

At the end of Thelma and Louise, I was left with some serious lingering questions…

Are convertibles really that aerodynamic? So, exactly which one was Thelma and which one was Louise…I can‘t keep track! Where have all the Polaroid cameras gone? Are hitchhikers ultimately good or bad?

This last question I have been marinating on for quite some time. Sure, the hitchhiker in Thelma and Louise stole all their money causing them to commit armed robbery and eventually leading them to drive off a cliff in a show of female solidarity. But, come on, the hitchhiker was a young, sprightly Brad Pitt in a cowboy hat.

I’m torn.

Hitchhiking generally seems to be associated with bums, Jack Kerouac, hippies high on peyote, heartbroken wayfaring country singers, or serial killers. But in Mozambique, hitchhiking (or “boleia-ing”) is in fact the premier mode of transportation for many Peace Corps volunteers. For those of you who have regaled yourselves with my chapa blog, you are well aware of the horrors of public transportation. Hitchhiking, for all its bad connotations (I still think the Jack Kerouac one is the worse), has proven to be a safer, more reliable way to travel in Mozambique.

Now, you’re probably thinking that perhaps I contracted cerebral malaria that caused my brain to atrophy because one would have to be insane to stand on the side of the road in the middle of a tropically hot, recently war-torn, poverty stricken, HIV riddled country and ask for a free ride, right?

“Small town Nebraska gal hitchhiking it up in Mozambique“--sounds like the start of a bad torture porn movie cast exclusively with the stars of various CW television shows, I know, I know. But getting in a private car usually means seat belts, and a human capacity level, and functioning brakes and no car parts being held together with straw. So yes, while there are dangers in waiting by the side of the road for some random person to swing by and pick you up, the careening, accident-prone, badly maintained chapas have a far worse track record.

Now that I have sufficiently justified the whole hitchhiking culture here in Mozambique (please don’t worry Mom and Dad) I might as well get down to the nitty-gritty…how does one go about hitchhiking in Mozambique? What is the process? Well, folks, I must admit that I am a rookie boleia-er so I can only speak from comparatively limited experience. I have colleagues who have hitchhiked all over the country and only ever travel by boleia-ing. But because Angoche is a little bit off the beaten path, boleia-ing is quite a bit more difficult.

Recently, however, a friend and I took to the road (6 days on the road to be exact) to travel down south for a little Peace Corps shindig. It was on this trip where I gained some serious hitchhiking experience and a solid education in the art of boleia-ing.

One of the biggest lessons I learned was the motivation cars have for pulling over to pick you up. Understanding this is essential to getting a good boleia. I learned early on that most people who pick you up just want company on a long trip. Therefore, cars with only one person are prime boleia-ing candidates. The less people in the car, the likelier they are out of sheer boredom to pick you up.

Sometimes folks will pick you up because they are simply curious what this random white girl is doing on the side of the road. Sometimes they ask for money. Some people just want to practice their English. Sometimes they are Creepy McCreepsters and will try to put the moves on you (but this is rare in my case). But generally, cars are just trying to beat the loneliness of the road with a little company on their journey.

Once you have hailed down the car, agreed on a destination, and hopped on in, what next? There are no drive-thrus, books-on-tape, or trying to find all the states’ license plates, so usually we just chat. Most people who have given me rides love to know what the heck I’m doing in Mozambique, where I came from, what I think of the situation in Libya, where I learned to speak Portuguese, why I don’t have children, if I’ve ever been to California or Chicago (unanimously the two places Mozambicans know), and if there are black people in America. It was actually in a boleia where the driver gave me the news about Bin Laden. The people and levels of conversation are as different as Mozambique itself, and I have met some fascinating characters.

One man who gave 2 friends and I a boleia was a white man of Portuguese descent, born and raised in Mozambique who fought against the Portuguese in the war for independence. Eccentric and desperate for anyone to listen, he unleashed a torrent of disillusionments about the current Mozambican government, corruption, how everything he thought he had fought for went to hell and about being a white Mozambican. His wife, who had apparently heard this catharting before, quietly ate her bananas in blissful indifference.

Again, either loneliness, blatant curiosity, or lack of a listening ear seems to drive the whole system of boleia-ing.

There are cases where people will offer you a ride thinking you’re Rambo’s daughter or that you are a lost, rich vacationing South African, or they’re hoping you know someone who can get them a scholarship to study in America. I have encountered all these cases and as disappointed as they all are that I am just a lowly volunteer and not a personal friend of Brandy or Bryan Adams, they tend to forgive all this in light of my engaging company.

The only time I have ever felt worried or threatened in a boleia was when my friend and I, a little while into the ride, discovered that everyone in the car including the driver was diluting their Orange Fanta with whiskey. The best way to get out of these situations is just to say you have a change of destination (or you were confused where you were--geographical ignorance works well) and say you need to get out immediately. DUIs, Open Containers, and speeding tickets are nonexistent in Mozambique so drunk drivers and Speedy Gonzalezes are a reality. If the manner in which your boleia is driving is unsettling, the best deflection is just to make up an excuse and get out.

So now that you know the whole motivation behind boleia-ing (hopefully it doesn’t sound too reckless), it’s important to understand the actual mechanics. In America, mostly everyone is aware of the iconic, rather phallic hitchhiker thumbs up. In Mozambique, the universal “I’m-so-pathetic-but-I-don’t-smell-that-bad-so-please-give-me-a-ride” signal involves lifting your arm to a lateral position, whilst flapping your flaccid hand about like a small bass just fished out of the lake and dropped unceremoniously onto the deck.

The key though, like any recreational table tennis player will tell you, is that it’s all in the wrist.

It is also important to scout a good location on the side of the road, a little bit away from the crowds with enough space for cars to pull over. (It sounds like I am describing the strategy for some other tawdry transaction, but I’m not.) After you have picked a good spot to boleia, the rest is in the hand motion.

Ultimately, boleia-ing is a true test of patience. On our previously mentioned trip south, my friend and I spent nearly 16 hours total waiting on the side of the road for cars to give us a ride. Waiting for a car to stop and pick you up is the roughest part because it involves mostly waiting and mostly not knowing. While waiting, you have to fight against the emotional issues of rejection--(Why don’t these cars like me!), the physical elements of the road--(OMG it’s 113 degrees out here), as well as the always distinct possibility that no car is going where you want to go (I’m going to be stranded on the side of the road and a lion is going to eat me!). When boleia-ing, you tend to lose all sense of shame and rationality.

Yep, Mozambique has turned me into a connoisseur at doing nothing but waiting. Luckily, I have done most of my boleia-ing with friends, which means we have discovered all sorts of ways to entertain ourselves during dry spells with no cars. Such road-side entertainment has included synchronized dances with our umbrellas, playing “Date, Dump, or Marry” with Glee and True Blood characters, trying to invent new yoga poses, or composing Portuglish haikus. Still, there is only so much you can do, and on those extra slow boleia-ing days much of the time is spent just waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Yep, four years of college and a year and a half in Africa, and I am a hitchhiking vagabond and a professional waiter. Eat your heart out Brad Pitt.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Adventures in Babysitting

This year Peace Corps celebrated its 50th Birthday. And instead of descending into the throes of a midlife crisis involving a toupee, sports car, and condo in Phoenix, Peace Corps partied like it was 1999. And as part of the celebration festivities, Peace Corps Mozambique launched a country-wide student art contest, the winners of which would be brought down to Maputo for a 50th Anniversary party to be held at the American Ambassador‘s house.

I got the email describing the contest and thought the theme “World Peace and Friendship” would be a great topic to discuss with our student art group. After mentioning the contest, the boys went to work thinking about what they could incorporate into their drawing. We talked at length about what peace meant to them, especially growing up in a country rebuilding after a brutal civil war. Two of my students, quite talented brothers, took a special interest in the project and together drew a picture that they wanted me to submit.

Not quite Michelangelo, I would say their style is more of a blind Picasso meets an even more epileptic Jackson Pollock. Still, their beautiful drawing won and as a reward they were invited, along with a chaperone and me, to attend the 50th Anniversary Party in Maputo.

I was a little apprehensive traveling with 2 pubescent Mozambican teenage boys, but I took a little comfort in knowing that their chaperone was their Mom and she would be coming with us. The trip was going to be their first time on a plane, their first time in Maputo, their first time out of the province of Nampula. It was a big deal, and it is with this excitement in mind that I braced myself for what was to be a sort of adventure in babysitting.

Now, to leave Angoche, you have to be at the chapa stop by at least 3:00 A.M. So, I told the boys to be there at 2:00 A.M. and when they showed up promptly at 3:15, I was tickled to death. What with my delight that the boys and their mother were relatively on time and my sheer exhaustion at being up in the middle of the night combined with my utter dread of the chapa ride that was to come, I neglected to see a tiny baby strapped to the back of the boys’ mother.

When we got to the airport and I realized that there was another tiny person in our foursome, I really didn’t think much of it. The baby was a newborn, he wouldn’t eat the airplane food, and he would stay in the arms of his mother the whole time. But, upon entering the security line, we were informed that yes, we needed a frickin’ baby ticket. As my students entered the waiting room, Mom and I ran back to the counter and I used a month’s worth of our Peace Corps subsidy to buy a baby ticket. Seeing as Mom spoke barely a lick of Portuguese and my Koti is still crap, translating complicated questions about the baby’s immunization records for the airline staff was a hell of a time, and I was terrified we would miss our flight.

Mom, Baby, boys, and I all ran onto the plane as simultaneously several grays hairs sprouted from my head. The plane took off, and I glanced over at Mom sitting next to me and then at my teenage students sitting right behind me. Mom was very publicly nursing her baby, eerily calm despite her first time on a plane and the day’s stressful activities. The boys were excitedly gawking out the window until they saw I was looking, at which point they sat back and tried to play it cool. Meanwhile, I tried to catch my breath and began to calculate just how many years I no doubt lost off my life.

When we arrived in Maputo, we hailed a taxi and headed to the hotel. Mom, boys and Baby stuck to me like they were tourists from Ohio and I was a guide at the Louvre. Although a foreigner in their country, having previously been in Maputo and on a plane and in a hotel gave me some clout. Just the cab ride through the streets of the capital made the whole trip worth it. It was the realization for the boys that there was a whole other world out there beyond the coconut trees and cassava and capulanas of our quiet, little Angoche.

We got to the hotel and checked into our rooms. I showed the boys, Mom and Baby to their rooms and went to drop my stuff off when I heard a knock at the door. I opened to find Mom who looked at me sheepishly, grabbed my hand, and led me to her room. Maybe she wanted to play Connect Four, I thought.

When we got to her room, she took me into the bathroom, gave a menacing glance at the toilet like she was certain it was planning to swallow her whole, and then proceeded to hop in the shower, lift her skirt up, and imitate with sound effects like she was peeing. After which, she briefly clutched both her butt cheeks, then threw her hands up in the air and gave me a look that basically said, “What ‘chu talkin’ ‘bout Willis?”

It took some more gesticulating and broken Portuguese and Koti, but eventually I understood. She thought the shower was where you peed, but was trying to ask where in the heck you go number 2. It was clear she thought the toilet was a robot.

I completely took for granted that she had never been to a hotel or taken a shower or used anything that flushed. I imagine I looked like the world’s worst Chorades player ever as I imitated how to use these new devices.

I got a little break from my glorified babysitting when the boys, Mom, and Baby met up with their uncle who lives in Maputo and took them out on the town. I could tell Mom felt at ease again when she could speak her first language to a long-seen loved one.

The following day was the day of the big party at the Ambassador’s house where the boys’ artwork would be on display, and they would be publicly recognized. There were only two other volunteers who brought students so they were a little outnumbered at the party amongst other expats, Peace Corps Volunteers, and Mozambican dignitaries. We arrived at the Ambassador’s beautiful house, munched on the gourmet finger food, and drank soda out of the wine glasses. From the collective deer-in-headlights look on the faces of Mom, my students and Baby, it seemed like we had entered an alternate reality. I imagine that’s what it’s like on the set of Gossip Girl.

Still, whenever the boys were asked about their artwork, they answered confidently and intellectually about the work they had submitted. Mom looked on so proudly as the boys described to our Peace Corps Country Director and all sorts of other folks how they used abstractionism to combine the theme of World Peace and Friendship.

There was a small ceremony where the 4 student art winners were recognized in front of the whole party, awarded a certificate and T-shirt, and photographed with the Ambassador.

On the plane back home, I asked the boys what their favorite part of the trip was. They both said the party. I agreed, and not just because of the free wine and champagne. I asked what they liked about seeing Maputo and they said all the different ways people used art, from the murals on the walls to big billboards to the paintings in the ambassador’s house to the vendors selling their crafts on the streets. “Teacher, there’s so much you can do with art.”

Sure, I love art history, knowing the context of a piece of work and how it fits into that time period. But actually creating art--drawing, designing, sculpting, painting--it has never been my gift or interest. In fact, I draw fat stick figures.

But I am so thankful that in a country where creativity is not lauded, these boys (whose gift is art) got the opportunity to be recognized for their craft.

And while the trip was stressful and sometimes awkward and I mostly felt like a chaperone at a school camping trip, I can’t help but think the gray hairs were all worth it.












Showing the Peace Corps Country Director their beautiful work.


Such a proud mom. And rightfully so.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

My Dow Jones

There is a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer that sometimes passes through Angoche. She served in Honduras in the late 60s. Badass is how I would describe her.

Anyway, one evening we were chatting, and she warned me that for the rest of my life Peace Corps would most likely be my “Dow Jones.” You know--that conversation topic that is so boring to everyone else except the person talking that it instantly puts whoever is stuck listening into an extreme state of comatose disinterest. For some people, their “Dow Jones” is in fact the Dow Jones. For others, it is their children, their thesis, their theories on Lost. You get the point. For me, she said my “Dow Jones” would be Mozambique.

She went on prophetically to tell me that people will be interested to hear about my service for approximately 2 minutes before my blathering instantly becomes self-righteous and boring. Even sometimes around other Peace Corps Volunteers, I can get a sense of what she is talking about. Therefore, I have done my best to spare you, dear readers.

However, I reconsidered this recently when I was home for Christmas. While most people tended to enjoy reading my blog, they also agreed that after a year they still had absolutely no idea what I did. And they actually wanted to (or at least they pretended that they wanted to).

Even my Dad routinely asks me what exactly it is that I do. My blog is apparently like one of those really awkward prescription drug commercials for some ambiguous social disorder--it’s entertaining and you laugh because it’s slightly inappropriate and the litany of side effects at the end is funny, but after it’s over you still have no idea what pain it is they are trying to alleviate.

So, I thought I might take this opportunity to try to explain better just what it is I spend my time doing here. Best be warned, I am going to use up my two minutes…

My primary assignment with the Peace Corps is as a Community Health Volunteer stationed with a little community based organization called the Associação de Solidariedade e Aconselhamento em Saúde. Just being able to pronounce that name for me was a big step.

Do I work with HIV positive people? Every day. But none of the work I do is clinical--it’s educational and preventative. My colleagues are a motley crue of Mozambicans, ages 21 to 67, men and women, some HIV positive some not, who all wanted to help those in their community affected by HIV.

A lot of people ask me why I am a health volunteer when I still consider Cinnamon Toast Crunch to be a viable addition to the food pyramid. Also, my medical knowledge starts and stops at McDreamy and McSteamy.

Well, while I am technically a health volunteer working with a Health Association, I am really a community development volunteer whose focus is on people. I am around more to help with administrative things--organizational development, capacity building, and helping them work productively with each other. Whether that includes computer lessons, helping to develop a filing system, working with financial management aspects, or helping to create a theatre piece about HIV, my role has no clear definition. Anything and everything. After two years, I don’t know if the work I do will make any impact on the HIV epidemic. In fact, I doubt it will. I am banking on the hope, though, that through one of my relationships here, someone, somewhere along the way will have garnered something from my friendship.

Whatever impact I may have (to the chagrin of our Peace Corps Monitoring and Evaluating folks), it will not be gauged in numbers and data but through people.

So, despite the complete disregard of time, lack of linear thought, and corruptive aspects that seem to seep into so many things in Mozambique (it can‘t all be good), I do generally enjoy my time at the Association.

What I have come to LOVE here, though, is my time at the Angoche Youth Training Center.

This magical place was started by an incredible Peace Corps Volunteer, Alex, my very own site mate if I do say so myself. When she returned to the States, followed by my other site mate Erin, the process of running the Center went to myself. Initially, I was terrified, but I have been channeling my inner Ms. Frizzle, and I think I am starting to get my sea legs.

It is truly one of my favorite places, and although I find teaching extremely difficult and slightly terrifying, I also really enjoy it. Last year there were twelfth grade English classes with students I came to adore, and today we began twelfth grade English classes with a new bunch of students. Originally, I had fantasies that Mozambican students would hop up on their desks and start reciting “O Captain! My Captain” to me or bust out into a rendition of “Lean on Me,“ but are you kidding? I have no idea what I’m doing. I am just thankful that the students were so excited and desperate to learn (and equally for a teacher who just showed up) that they were so patient with me.

This experience above any other has made me appreciate the impact and the work that those thoughtful teachers do. In Mozambique, teachers wear a white lab coat, like doctors in the States, a symbol of the caliber of their profession. A teacher in Mozambique is one of the most sought after and well-respected positions. This mentality is one of the things above all others (except maybe capulanas and mangoes) I wish I could take back to America with me.

Still, several of the Youth Center students went on to study at the University in the provincial capital and two of the students from the Center went on to receive very selective scholarships to study at the major university in Maputo, the capital of the country. And when they came to deliver the news to me, I was so delusional with pride and happiness for them that I swore in the distant background I could hear the hushed, reverent murmurings of Robin Williams saying over and over again “Carpe Diem.”

Because of so many factors that would require a WikiLeaks page to enumerate, suffice it to say that education is an uphill battle here. The Youth Center tries to help level off the incline.

The Center has also offered Adult English Courses, community activism, essay contests in the local language, and we have a wonderful library too. For this bibliophile, English major, and gal who still has awkward fantasies about the library scene in Beauty and the Beast, the fact that books are so hard to come by in Mozambique is a downright tragedy. Knowing that our little Youth Center is a place where students can come to find a book for school or to just escape into a story is incredible. Still, there are so few children’s books especially in Portuguese, so we have been working on a way to get more. A children’s literary program along with a local language cultural preservation project are two dreams on the horizon. The Center is just so wonderful because it provides a safe space for our students and a convenient meeting spot for so many activities.

For instance, another project dear to my heart here is our girls empowerment group, REDES, Raparigas em Desenvolvimento, Educação e Saúde. (Girls in Development, Education, and Health). We meet weekly throughout the year at the Youth Center doing various projects and activities and sometimes just talking. We have done public speaking, women’s health, friendship bracelets, Women’s Day Performances, and so much more. Last April, two of the girls were chosen to participate in a week-long conference/workshop/summer camp thingy with various girls from all around Mozambique. The final day of the conference all the girls climbed a mountain together to celebrate the week. If there was ever the perfect metaphor for being a young girl in Mozambique, climbing a mountain would be it. The crap these young girls have to deal with is unbelievable to me. Some days the things they say break my heart. Some days it gives me hope for Mozambique.

We also have an art group here, and we just completed painting a giant mural on the main boulevard in town about domestic violence and malaria. The whole process, including writing the grant, planning out the designs, and actually painting the mural took around 6 months. For kids that grew up without the knowledge of the existence of crayons, I am constantly impressed with their talent. Seeing folks stop by the mural when they are walking by to discuss the message is really exciting, even if sometimes they remark that the drawings of people look like Martians. Two of the boys also entered a Peace Corps 50th Anniversary Art Contest where they submitted a drawing about World Peace and Friendship. I recently found out that they won the contest and this Saturday I get to deliver the news that they, along with their mother, will get to travel to Maputo where their artwork will be displayed in an exhibit.

To be perfectly honest, I still have no idea really what I am supposed to be doing here. The Peace Corps is an exercise in uncertainty. I wish I could say I was busy saving orphans or preventing cyclones or cultivating the next Nelson Mandela or single handedly eradicating cholera. But I’m not. I’m just taking it one day at a time, trying to relish in the small victories.

Because whether it’s two years in Mozambique or two minutes of someone’s time, sometimes the little victories are what keep you going.



Our REDES girls on the beach at our last meeting of the year before Summer Break.




Two of the students at the Youth Center giving a presentation.




A full shot of the wall.




Our Art Group celebrating our completed mural.





International HIV/AIDS Awareness Day. My Association participated in a march down the main boulevard.




Some other Peace Corps Volunteers and I with our representatives on the top of the mountain.




Some of our REDES girls with me on Mozambican Women's Day. Man, I am white.



Some of the Youth Center kids doing an activity.



Some members of my association working on a theater piece about HIV.



This was one section they painted about domestic violence.








One of the students at the Youth Center on our final day of class.





My site mate and I went out to one of the Islands to interview some of the older folks there as part of a language preservation project.




My site mate Alex and our friend Mussa during one of the first English Talent Shows.





What we started with.




One of the REDES girls giving a presentation on Public Speaking.





The REDES girls and I on the beach.




My association participated in the Science Fair at the local high school. They were there to present about HIV and answer any general health questions.




The Youth Center decorated for International HIV/AIDS Day.





From afar. Damn, that wall was work.





The little library at the Center. And this is one of the most well stocked libraries for miles.





Our motto at the REDES Conference...Anything is Possible. A fitting one to end on.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A Mango a Day...



I never understood Eve or Snow White or Steve Jobs or the nicknamers of New York City. Why all the fuss over an apple? Apple schmapple. It is painfully obvious to me that these folks have never bitten into a tender, juicy, delicious mango.

Let’s just put it this way, if Snow White had ever tasted the sweet nectar of a mango from Mozambique, she would have taken that apple, regarded it, and disdainfully tossed it aside like a cheap imitation Kate Spade handbag. So while the miserable, sweltering heat has returned to Mozambique, it has also brought with it “mango season.” Ahhhhh…

I had never eaten a mango until arriving in Mozambique. In fact, my tropical fruit intake was more or less limited to Coconut Rum. Now, though, I can’t imagine my life without them. I firmly believe there are few things in this world more delicious than a mango. Even my Grandma’s famous homemade dollar pancakes taste like rotten coleslaw in comparison.

And because mangoes are as ubiquitous as Lady Gaga (there are mango trees everywhere and you can buy about 20 for under a dollar), for a little while at least, less people go hungry.

The only complaint I can file about mangoes is the messy eating process and the mango hairs that stick between your teeth in the aftermath of a mango binge.

If I were ever invited to tea with the Queen of England and that she-wolf Camilla Parker Bowles as a practical joke convinced Her Majesty to only serve barbeque ribs and mangoes, I could probably eat the ribs in a more graceful and ladylike way than I could the mangoes. There is just something so primitive and messy and wonderful about eating mangoes. I’m sure Emily Post would be disgusted with me.

I guess that after just recently returning from the States for Christmas and seeing my family, I have been feeling the sting of saying goodbye all over again, and well, my saudades are more acute than ever.

Saudade--golly, how to define “saudade”? It is just one of my favorite Portuguese words because while it is slightly ineffable, it also is the perfect manifestation of Mozambican hyper-drama into one even more perfectly hyper-dramatic word. All the aching and melancholy that could ever enter your sphere of emotions IS saudades. The best, most wam-bam-thank-you-ma’am way I heard it described was as “missing you sickness.” The point of this Portuguese vocabulary lesson, dear readers, is to say that my saudades are creeping up a bit and when that happens, I have to constantly remind myself of all the new and wonderful things I love here…like mangoes.

So while an apple a day may keep the doctor away,
A mango a day keeps my saudades at bay.

Yeppers, I am pretty sure the Bible and Disney and the Mac were a little premature with their silly apples. I’m especially disappointed with Eve. For me, if there was ever a fruit to shuck paradise for, it sure as hell would not be an apple. It’d be a mango.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Coming to America

Like Borat, Elian Gonzalez, and Eddie Murphy, coming to America for me was a culture shock, a whirlwind tryst through the land of social networking, unabashed consumerism, and Taylor Swift. After more than a year in Africa, I closed my eyes, clicked the heels of my ruby red slippers together and poof...three days of traveling later, I was back in Nebraska to spend Christmas with my family.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

Apart from seeing the most amazing family and friends in the world, it was so lovely to not be gawked at all the time, to walk with a slight air of anonymity, to not constantly be asked for money or told how beautiful I am because I’m so nice and gorda (yep, that means fat), to drink a cold drink with ice, ride in a vehicle with less than 40 people, to sleep without a mosquito net and take a warm shower, to finally see what Justin Bieber looks like, and to sit down in person and chat with those I love and hear about all the wonderful things they are doing without being and feeling a world away.

As amazing as my time home for Christmas was, it went by so fast and I’m afraid it was impossible to see everyone I wanted. Even those I did see, I should probably apologize. You see, most people had such great questions but because I was so easily distracted by all the wonders of America like chocolate chip cookies, pizza, and watching Glee that I feel I may have neglected to really answer the things folks at home wanted to know. While I lament the fact that I no longer have access to Finn, Puck, Sam, Blaine, Mr. Schuester, and especially Mike Chang, I can now focus on providing slightly better answers.

Dear friends, thank you for being so patient with me while I was home and a special thanks to all those who bought my drinks. Here are your top questions…

Q: Why are you not tanner?
A: Well, I am in Africa, not South Beach. In my conservative Muslim town, it is not appropriate to flash your knees. The rest of me I lather up with sunscreen. Two years under this African sun has the potential to turn me into an ad campaign for premature aging or a spokesperson for the Lindsay Lohan Foundation for the Dangers of Over-Tanning.

Q: What do you eat?
A: Lots of starches, rice, corn meal (xima), potatoes, bread, matapa (a traditional Mozambican dish made from cassava leaves). Mozambique has so many delicious tropical fruits and because I am right on the ocean there is a big supply of fish. I can get a kilo of shrimp for around 2 dollars. Forrest Gump and Lieutenant Dan would’ve made a hell of a killing in Mozambique too.

Q: Do you feel safe there?
A: Apparently there was a big 20/20 expose right after I left about the rape/murder of some Peace Corps Volunteers in other African countries, prompting a frantic, worried call from my mother. Okay, so I do know several volunteers who have had their houses robbed, several who have been mugged, and one who was sleeping when men entered her house with machetes, threatened her and then stole most of her belongings. That being said, I have never felt endangered at my site, ever. Maybe it’s so quiet and hard to get to. Maybe I’m subconsciously being extra vigilant, maybe it’s because I have made such nice friends who keep an eye out for me. I don’t know why—maybe it’s pure dumb luck, but all I know is that I sleep peacefully and soundly at night absent of the fear that anyone here would truly try to harm me.

Q: What language do you speak?
A: The national language is Portuguese and yes I have been speaking it for over a year. I can get by just fine and get whatever I need, but I am by no means fluent. However, occasionally someone will ask me if I’m Brazilian or Portuguese, in which case I throw up a fist pump and congratulate myself for fooling someone into thinking I actually know what I’m talking about.

While Portuguese is the national language each region has their own dialect. In Angoche, they speak Koti which is a mix of Swahili, Arabic, and other African languages. I am learning it, but it is hella hard. I’ve got a few phrases up my sleeve to at least get a smile out of some people.

Q: What is the biggest difference between there and here and how much has it changed you?
A: When I was home going through some of our old children’s books to bring back to Africa, I came across Snoopy’s Book of Opposites, and I couldn’t help thinking it was the perfect metaphor for returning to America after 15 months in Mozambique. Not that I necessarily equate myself with Snoopy, it’s just that everything is different. America and Mozambique are like a book of opposites.

One thing I noticed right away was that in America there is such an emphasis and pressure on how one looks. There is such a narrow definition of beauty while in Mozambique so many shapes and sizes are considered beautiful. It was bizarre coming from a place where every day people tell you how beautiful you are (and mean it) to a place where beauty is so painfully sought after and yet so tightly confined to those who fit a particular mold.

I guess another telling experience was when I walked into Target and nearly fainted from the sheer exhaustion of choice. Who knew there were that many flavors of Doritos or brands of deodorant. I guess you could call it reverse culture shock. Everything is bigger, louder, and faster.

But seriously, everything is in excess…the word seriously, food, clothes, Jersey Shore catch-phrases. Sometimes it seemed ridiculous, how much stuff there is, how much we take for granted, and just how easier everything is in America. However, living in a poor country for a short time does not give me the right to judge. Hell, I too lusted after an iPad, watched Jersey Shore with no shame, and indulged in a pedicure the cost of which could feed my neighbor’s family in Mozambique for a week. America is what it is, and while I won’t ever be able to see it with the same eyes, that doesn’t mean I should see it with eyes full of ridicule and self-righteousness.

Being in Africa has taught me to love my country, not to resent its frailties.

Q: How do you feel about going back?
A: Granted, I am now back in Mozambique so my answer is circumstantial and anachronistic at best. Be that as it may, I would not have exchanged going home for the world. Seeing my family and friends not only revitalized me but sent me away filled with words of encouragement and confidence disproportionate to my actual abilities. I love being home with those I love. Sometimes I miss them so much it hurts.

But, I have unfinished business, and more to learn and share, and friends in Mozambique who love me too. So if ruby red slippers take me home to my family, I guess it would be three clicks of my rugged sandals that take me back to Africa. Here we go then...

There’s no place like Mozambique. There’s no place like Mozambique. There’s no place like Mozambique.