Thursday, January 19, 2012

Home: A vida continua.

Home. I am home. Homecoming…Homeward bound…Homemade cookies. Home has such a warm, comforting feeling to it. It’s safe. It’s what you know. It’s where a country road will take you.

Over two years ago, I left my home for Africa. Feeling like a less slutty, female Indiana Jones, I set out in search of adventure, understanding, and a way to fulfill my desire to learn about the world and its people while also attempting to make a difference. Due to heavy TSA regulations and the fact that there are so few wild lions roaming Mozambique, I left the whip at home.

I ventured into the wild and two years, many friends, and a deep addiction to mangoes later, I returned home safely. I returned home better, in fact. More enriched. More loving. But ultimately, more lost. Coming home was hard. Right when I felt like I had gotten the hang of things, when I had made true friends, when I felt like I had found my niche and was making a difference, it was time to go. Time to go home. Home to a place that carried on without me. Home where my “I just returned from Africa” glow seems to immediately dull to everyone but me. I’m caught in home-is-where-the-heart-is limbo.

And for how blissfully happy I have been to see and talk with my friends and family at home and despite how beyond amazing they have been with their genuine interest, letting me drone along about every intimate detail of my experience, there are only so many times I can interject a conversation with “In Mozambique…” before someone goes all angry birds on me. The truth is, honey badger don’t care anymore. After being home a while, one should adjust. Repatriate. You were in Africa. Now you’re home. A vida continua. Life goes on.

In the song “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” the first verse goes like this: “A band of angels coming after me. Coming for to carry me home.” And like many spiritual coming home songs, home is considered an allegory for heaven. Nebraska is most definitely a little slice of heaven. And in this case, the chain-smoking angel that came to carry me home was my mother.

Yep, my mom came to Mozambique to fetch me and to help me say goodbye to my site and my friends. Her arrival to me was the most bittersweet taste my undistinguished palette has ever experienced. I was so happy for her to get the chance to see and love Mozambique, but her visit also signified the end to my service.

For weeks prior to my mom’s arrival in Mozambique and subsequently my imminent departure, my whole community of Angoche became aware that she would be visiting. The town was buzzing with excitement about the arrival of another strange white person and soon enough, my mom’s touchdown in Mozambique was here.

My mother, armed with 15 pounds of baby wipes and the combined traveling prowess of Clark Griswold and Don Quixote, emerged radiantly from the airport. There she was, with all her luggage, cigarettes in hand, a smile on her face, and with alacrity she embraced the whole trip. Her mantra for Africa was, “I’m a gamer.”

My mom’s time in Angoche was like one big giant Show and Tell. But with a human. All my friends wanted to meet her and even people I didn’t know wanted an introduction. Parading my mom around I realized how much power an interpreter wields. I’m fairly certain the U.N. won’t be calling anytime soon requesting my translating skills based on conversations like these:

Convo 1:
Mozambican: “Margarida, why don’t you remove the shells on that shrimp for your mother. You should do more things for your mom. You are being a bad daughter!”
Mom: “What did he say?”
Me: “He said he thinks that tights worn as pants are just plain obscene. Oh and that you are a natural with that shrimp.”

Convo 2:
Mozambican: “I’ll sell this to you for 500 meticais.”
Me: “No way, dude. That price is way too high. Can’t you see, I’ve got my mother here. She’s got malaria and she’s old.”
Mozambican: “She doesn’t look old or sick.”
Me: “That’s because she’s also crazy and so she’s convinced herself she’s normal.”
Mozambican: (Considering…) “Okay, fine. 300 meticais.”
Mom: “What’s going on, Margaret?”
Me: “Oh, he just said he would give me a nice deal because you’re here with me.”
Mom: “Oh, that’s so nice.”

Convo 3:
Mozambican: “Your mother is very beautiful. We are so honored she came all the way to Angoche!”
Mom: “What did she say?”
Me: “She said you are very beautiful and they are so honored you are here. Oh and in Mozambican culture, she wanted to remind you, oldest daughters are the most highly valued of the children.”

Sensing I may have been giving myself a little latitude, my mom set out to learn all the Portuguese words she could. By the end I think she had down “thank you” “goodbye” “ my name is Nora” “mother” and “lighter.”

After taking a walking tour of Angoche, meeting all the local personalities,
sampling some delicious seafood and the Mozambican beer, visiting the Indian Ocean, learning how to take a bucket bath, and practicing her burgeoning Portuguese, I was certain my mom was on the fast track to integration. She even made several smoking buddies.

My mom, who has single-handedly bankrolled the Marlboro Man’s custom-made collection of designer chaps, would sit out on my doorstep having a cig, watching the folks pass by, waving and tossing out the new Portuguese words she had learned to anyone who approached. Since an open door is an open invitation in Mozambique to linger or to bum a cigarette, my gesticulating mom had a constant, smoky cloud of visitors. Mozambique and Mom were getting along just swell.

Then the fateful day came: Capulana shopping. For as long as I can remember my mom has had an almost physical aversion to shopping. She doesn’t like to window shop or browse. When she shops, she’s like a member of SEAL Team 6. She gets in quietly, quickly, and gets the job done.

But, I figured shopping in Mozambique was a cultural experience and she might enjoy it. I neglected to consider the fact that it was a katrillion degrees out and that markets in Mozambique are deathtraps for claustrophobes. But off we went. We meandered our way through the stalls and my mom even made some purchases. Then as we wondered deep into the market and as more and more people began trafficking, it got hotter and hotter.

We stopped at one stall to take a look at some capulanas and chat with some vendors. My mom said she was a bit tired and sat down on one of the stalls to rest. As I began to discuss prices one of my favorite students came up and wanted to meet my mom. As I turned around to introduce him to her, I noticed that she had fallen back. At first I thought maybe she just plopped down to take a nap but what an odd place. Then I thought it was a planking attempt gone awry. I was about to correct her form when I realized her eyes were closed and all her color had drained.

I lifted her limp body up and at first I thought I had legitimately killed her. I saw the headlines: “Daughter kills visiting mother in Africa by shopping her to death.” Then she started to come to. My student went to corral some drinking water as several Mozambicans barreled down the market aisles screaming “Está á morrer. Está á morrer!” “She’s dying! She’s dying!”

I felt like a Kardashian with the swarms of Mozambican rubberneckers who gathered to witness my mom’s poorly executed Scarlet O’Hara-style faint and subsequent recovery. A large group of do-gooders brought buckets of water and began delicately spritzing Mom until they collectively decided they needed to intensify their efforts. It was then that one of them took their whole bucket and splashed it in my mom’s face. It was a Mozambican baptism of sorts. We left the market amidst a ruckus, me carrying the merchandise and my mom looking like she had been bobbing for apples in a very deep trough of tequila.

Despite this, my mom rallied like a pro and participated in all the activities planned for that day including being serenaded by our girls’ empowerment group, a party for the youth center kids where they performed their theatre piece that won them 2nd place at the English Theatre Competition and where one of our students (and one of the only girls there!!) won the coveted prize of Best English Speaker. It was the culmination of a year of hard work and I was beyond proud.

We forged ahead to the finale—a big goodbye party complete with all the traditional Mozambican ceremony including speeches, feeding of the cake to the guests, the first dance, and eventually an all out dance party. It was a lovely celebration and the perfect way for my mom to get a sense of all the bizarre reasons I love Angoche.

On the final morning in Angoche, Mom accompanied me on my final goodbyes as the reality set in that I might never see these people again. The driver, seeing my tears, decided I was sick and was determined to take me to the hospital. When I explained why I was so sad, he looked at me unsympathetically and shrugged, “A vida continua.” Life goes on.

We spent several days in the capital city wrapping up paperwork and medical stuff before they thanked me for my service and gave me that coveted “R”. Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. My Mom and I said our final obrigadas to Mozambique and hopped on a plane to Cape Town where we met my old Peace Corps buddy Melissa. It was a perfect transition back to the States as Cape Town had McDonald’s and English and people walking their dogs on leashes. And it was damn fun. Cape Town is stunning, fun-loving, active, and super popular. It’s the Sandra Bullock of African destinations.

Our first activity was a trip to one of the contenders for the new Seven Wonders of the World. Despite my Mom’s fear of heights, we convinced her to board the revolving cable car and we shot up to Table Mountain, a famous Cape Town hot spot and a place with a view to rival any. Next on the agenda was a trip through the beautiful Stellenbosch wine lands. Maybe it was the fact I was in such good company surrounded by such beauty or perhaps I was a just a little tipsy, but I distinctly remember thinking to myself how Tuscany or Bordeaux or Napa couldn’t possibly be more lovely than where we were.

Plus the strange little tour guide cracked me up because he was constantly warning our group not to go “deep down” which apparently is a South African euphemism for getting wasted. My mom and he got off quite well as my mom tends to do with most people she meets. He even addressed her as Momma, and I nearly choked on my Merlot when I heard him tell her, “Now Momma, remember not to go too deep down.”

Our final day we took to the open seas to go cage diving with great white sharks. The guides chummed the water with waste to attract the sharks, supplemented by the ten or so people who were continually vomiting off the edge of the tiny boat from seasickness. As I was getting into the cage, I had to use all my willpower not to hum the JAWS theme song. Let me just say, it was legen…wait for it…dary! Those beautiful, massive creatures were completely terrifying. It was the most Indiana Jones thing I had done.

But as wonderful as Cape Town was, I was ready to get home and see my family and friends who I had so dearly missed. I rolled into Nebraska on Thanksgiving, truly grateful to see my family and friends and witness a Husker victory over Iowa the next day. I was thankful to be home.

One would think as the novelty of being home starts to wear off, I would get the hang of things and transition back to my home. But, like I said, I’m caught between two worlds. Currently, I’m in a place where an iPhone can actually emasculate a flip phone into malfunctioning. If America is the iPhone, Mozambique is the tin-can. And I’m caught somewhere in between. I’m on a rotary dial.

When I get really nostalgic about Mozambique, I think about the abysmally low days (we’re talking spelunking here) where I was truly and utterly miserable to remind myself how happy and relieved I should be to be home. But then I think of my students or my friends or the Indian Ocean and I am reminded of the halcyon days; the days where I thanked God that I was so blessed to be living where I was, my little corner in Africa. Yes, I may have even done some occasional Tebowing.

And then I go back to missing it.

The funny thing is, a lot of people when applying to the Peace Corps don’t want to go to Africa. Too volatile. Too scary. Too many problems. Too many times seeing Blood Diamond. To so many, Africa is nothing more than the big game hunting land of Hemingway, where everyone’s private heart of darkness is eventually revealed, where things fall apart.

However, I never set out to put Africa back together, to save it. It doesn’t need saving. I set out to learn. And the biggest thing I have learned is that I really don’t know shit. I learned that Mozambique has a lot of problems but with equal potential, that Mozambique is infinite in its surprises and its people infinite in their care for me. I have learned that change is hard. And slow. I learned that my mom can do anything. And I learned the hardest part was coming home.

I remind myself; though that even Indiana Jones rides off into the sunset toward home with his dad at the end. And with that, I’d like to tip my fedora and say thank you to everyone for their kind thoughts and support throughout my service. If anyone feels compelled by New Year’s Resolutions or perhaps sits next to Warren at the Berkshire Hathaway shareholders gathering, here is a link through Peace Corps Partnerships to donate money to buy books in Portuguese for our Youth Center, a place that is so dear to my heart. A shameless plug, why not?! It’s my last blog. And a beautiful cause.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=640-028

You are a wonderful audience and I hope throughout my two years here you found something thought-provoking or funny or something to entertain yourself with when you needed a break from your Fantasy Football strategizing. And I hope you found this a fitting end to margaretinmozambique. For more inquiring minds, you can always reach me at goll.margaret@gmail.com. As for me, dear readers, I am heading out to California. Time to make a new home. After all, a vida continua. Life goes on.



Mom with some neighborhood kiddos outside the Youth Center.



The Youth Center kids performing their award-winning theatre piece.



After our little gathering the students thought it would be a fun surprise to carry me around. Carregar! Carregar!



Saying goodbye to my Association.


Mom and I doing a little wine tasting in Stellenbosch.


Getting ready to go play with JAWS.


Hold on, what can't you do there, Mom?


Goodbye Africa!

1 comment:

  1. What an incredible, incredible story! I'm a friend of Eli's and saw her post this story on Facebook...so my apologies for only having read this ending post (though now I'm going to have to go back to the archives and read more!) It sounds like you had the most amazing time and had such a good attitude/mindset, which I think might be one of the most key aspects of a successful time abroad. Also, you are an impressively gifted writer. Your sarcastic style is extremely entertaining, but you're also able to be serious/sincere when appropriate. Thanks for the delightful travel read and best of luck with your transition home!

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