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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.