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.

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.

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.

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.

Sorry Hermès, You’ve Got Nothing on the Capulana

Those who know me well are most likely aware of a strange, little fetish I have developed over the years. Yes, it’s true, I have an unhealthy obsession with scarves.

I can’t really explain it--it’s a strange little tic. I just love scarves. The way they look and feel and keep you warm and elongate your neck and make you feel momentarily like Audrey Hepburn. For some it’s chocolate, others cigarettes, FOX News, mystic tans or Michael Bublé. What does it for me…scarves!

I have heard the slanderous tongues of those who call them pretentious, others who call them the trimmings of a prude, and still others who claim they are just a second-rate accessory to headbands on Gossip Girl.

Blasphemous fools!

I think they are perfectly lovely.

But, being that I am in northern Mozambique where cold is more or less nonexistent, scarves are about as ridiculous and as nonfunctional as water beds.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, lucky for me, my love and infatuation of scarves has since been projected onto the capulana. In fact, the only thing here that successfully counteracts my loathing of chapas is my love of capulanas.

A capulana, my dear readers, is this beautiful, colorful fabric that women here and in other African countries use to wrap around their waists as a sarong. It is not exclusively used for clothes but also as curtains, table cloths, towels, sheets, head wraps, rags, cloths in which women strap their babies to their backs or bundle up food to cart on their heads. There is an infinite use to the capulana. It truly serves every practical function.

When the Arabs disembarked in Mozambique and began to integrate, they brought with them the capulana, the long rectangular sarong that Muslim women used to wrap around their waist and cover their heads. The Arabs forcefully encouraged African women to adopt this style of dress. And after years and years of this fashion indoctrination the capulana became a part of African women and a part of African culture. Women here came to love the capulana. They took the idea of it and made it their own, adding beautiful, bold colors and designs.

There is a special capulana to commemorate every holiday and celebration--Independence Day, Christmas, Women’s Day, Children’s Day, weddings, elections, rites of initiation. There are also capulanas that commemorate specific people. I have seen capulanas with the faces of Michael Jackson, Obama, Guebueza (the Mozambican President), and even Pope John Paul II graced the beautiful fabric of a capulana. The designs featured on capulanas are as diverse as the capulana itself. There are tie die capulanas, capulanas with stunning African patterns and images, capulanas with random objects like high heels, casseroles, turkeys, cupcakes, maps, and anatomy a la Georgia O’Keefe.

Now, most women here wear the capulana very tightly around their waists to accentuate their derrieres--badonkadonks that would send Beyonce spiraling into a Iago-like state of envy. Always conscious of this, Mozambican women tend to strut especially slow and honey-like when wearing a capulana. Thus, their pace is about equal to a Chinese woman with her feet bound. I have neither the patience nor the frame nor the swagger for this, and my long American legs like to take long American strides. So while I do don the capulana traditionally for various occasions, my site mates and I have taken to buying a capulana and taking them to the tailors for them to make an assortment of other more functional clothes for us--dresses, shorts, pants, shirts, everything!

Because Africa has slowly eviscerated most of the clothes I brought, my entire wardrobe is now essentially all capulana clothes. And I must say, our capulana inventions and designs would make Tim Gunn proud.

Make it work.

Being that capulanas are such a huge part of being a Mozambican woman, folks here adore that we adore capulanas. Whenever I wear something made from capulana, they like to tell me, “Oooh, Margarida, now you are Mozambicana.” It is such an enormous part of the culture here that even Mozambicans equate being Mozambican with the capulana.

So, to those fashion capitals of the world Paris, Milan, New York City I say, suck it. You may have Dior, Versace, and Vera Wang but Mozambique…we’ve got capulanas.




Modeling a little capulanaware. This one is my favorite capulana ever. And yes, I had them make a scarf for me.




My beautiful site mate Erin with one of her lovely capulana creations.



Yes, those are capulana shorts. I wouldn't be caught dead with them in Angoche but they're nice for other places.




A turtle capulana. Hah.



Another one of my favorite capulanas.



Erin and I with our butterfly dresses. A crowd favorite here.

I Just Felt Like Running

In the opening scene of Cool Runnings, the guy heads out at the break of dawn for an early morning run. We see the full sun slowly rising up over the sea, almost as if it is being born out of the ocean water. The dude sprints past a pack of giggling children offering up high fives, across a white, sandy beach and down a palm tree lined dirt road. He passes by a friendly group of old and weathered fishermen in their sailboats and then through an admiring group of chatty women carting baskets on their heads. All the while he greets everyone with a good morning and a wave.

Except for the fact that I am in Africa, white, a girl, geriatric-ly slow, and sans a really sweet Jamaican accent, that scene truly serves as a pretty accurate representation of my running situation here in Mozambique.

Running.

I always thought it was such a silly ritual. For years I watched my brother run and run, all the while thinking he was a masochist with entirely too much time on his hands to be devoting so many hours to running. Running from nothing and for nothing. Just running.

I don’t know what it was--maybe I took one of my brother’s crazy pills, but one day I too, just felt like running. It was relaxing and calming and made me feel good. I wish I could say I was born to run…that I was a natural but let’s be honest, I’m slow, have terrible form, have to wear custom orthotics, refuse to do speed intervals, prefer flat terrain, and once had a fellow runner on my favorite trail convinced that I was training for the Special Olympics. Let’s just say I will not be shipping out to run Boston anytime soon. Still, no matter how slow I am or how often my knees give me problems or how awkward and uncoordinated I may appear, I still just love running.

So, upon arriving in Angoche, my home for two years, one of my first tasks was to scout running routes. As luck would have it, I found a nice little dirt road that leads out past the salt fields to a beautiful stretch of open beach. On early mornings it is usually me, the road, a few fishermen headed out to sea and several small groups of women off to farm their little plots of land.

Those first couple months were definitely an adjustment. Because I arrived in the heart of summer here, I tried to be out on the trail no later than 4:45 A.M. to try to beat the heat. Some days though, even at that time, the temperatures were well within the 110s.

And when I first started running on the road, people were downright confused. Every single person I encountered stopped dead in their tracks and stared at me as I trotted on by. Little children who had never seen a white person before were terrified. In fact, several children out of sheer horror at the sight of me burst into tears and ran screaming for their mothers.

Once the kids realized I had no intentions of eating them or harvesting their organs or taking them off to the Land of Tall White Girls or making them wear clothes, they became infinitely friendlier. Now there is a core group of kids who will wait on the side of the road for me when I pass by. My site mate Erin and I, on a run together once, taught them the concept of a high-five. Now, every run the kiddos will see me hobbling along from a distance, and they will mobilize to form their high five line. They make me feel like Jackie Joyner-Kersee…that is until some of them start to accompany me on my run and eventually have to slow down to a glacial pace so I can keep up. Quasi naked, barefoot, and sometimes with loads on their heads, those kids can still run faster than I can.

Besides the kids, I have another favorite part of my run. You see, there’s this section in the road where some mornings, if I time it just right, the full African sun will be coming up, silhouetting a row of women working their plots of land, the alternating downswing of their hoes operating like a cog in perfect rhythm. The coconut trees create a sort of canopy and the reflection of the water from the salt fields makes the women in their beautiful capulanas appear almost angelic. I half expect a giraffe to pop its head up and serenade me with some Bob Marley or Justin Bieber song. That’s how surreal it is--that picture for me--it is so beautiful and quintessentially African it should be on a calendar or in the optimistic closing scene of one of those Sponsor-An-African-Child-for-75-Cents-a-Day commercials.

I try to relish the beauty in these vistas on my runs, though, because at any moment I could happen upon someone going to the bathroom on the side of the road. There is a big lack of latrines in the neighborhood closest to the road I run on so a lot of people just stumble out in the early morning for a public pooping exhibition. I have to be careful of fecal matter everywhere I step.

Along with the high-fiving kids, I have found that there is a solid group of people that has become accustomed to seeing me running and will keep tabs on me. If I start out thirty minutes later than usual, I will hear at least three or four people when I pass by tell me "Atrasou hoje" (You were late today). Once, after being away from site for a week, Erin informed me that she had been inundated with concerned folks from the trail wanting to know if I was sick because they hadn’t seen me out running.

Having these folks start to understand this crazy ritual and get used to seeing us running for other reasons than to avoid a careening chapa driver or to catch a chicken gone awol, well, it gave us an idea. You see, every year Angoche commemorates its founding with three days of festivities including a motorcycle race, a sewing contest, a sail boat race, live music, speeches, traditional dancing, and…a foot race. Historically, they have never had a woman enter the 10K foot race because it is reserved for “homens fortes” only strong men. Women, we were told, were physically incapable of running that distance. Nearly every person gave us this forecast.

So, what did we do? We signed up and entered the men’s race.

Angoche Day quickly arrived, and I found myself at the starting line in front of thousands of gawking Mozambicans, my ashen legs seeing the light of day for the first time in 11 months, getting ready to go all Title IX on their asses.

I have never felt so exposed, spectaclized (yes, I just invented that verb: spectaclized, as in to be made a spectacle of) and so damn determined.

They blew the whistle, and off we went. The race was a continuous loop 6 times around the main drag. The streets were lined the whole way. Some people cheered, some clapped, some hollered out marriage proposals, everyone stared. Not only were we women running in a man’s race, we were also reportedly the first foreigners to participate in an Angoche Day activity. The race was supposed to start at 8 am and in true Mozambican fashion, it started at 11:30, quite possibly the hottest time of the day. We all crossed the finish line to the incredulity of so many. When my friend passed one of the men (she eventually won third place and was even interviewed by the radio) his response was “Como?”-- HOW? That was the response of so many…Como? How was it possible that women could do the exact same thing as the men?

We soon became the talk of the town. Most people seemed to get a big kick out of it--I’m not sure if it was because I was running or because I was wearing shorts and they could see my knees. Some people congratulated me, some told me that the whole race my face resembled an exhausted goat just after giving birth, others told me I embarrassed them because I didn’t win. They didn’t understand why I didn‘t just quit after someone had already won. I explained our goal was to show that we could run the same distance as the men and faster than a lot of them. I just wanted to show them and all the marginalized girls here that they shouldn’t listen to those nay-sayers who are constantly telling them they are incapable of doing something.

With the Angoche Day race over, I am back to trotting along on my road at my own pace with no plans of using running to make any more grandiose statements on gender equality. Just running to run.

It’s funny to me that in the states there are magazines and stores and doctors solely devoted to runners. It would be ridiculous to me if I hadn’t at one point actually used the services of all three of those things. For the longest time I was so convinced running was a science. And like force equals mass times acceleration, maybe it was a scientific equation I would never master.

I think though, that after a year of running in Africa (my Nike pedometer thingy tells me I’ve logged over 1,000 miles in Mozambique) I am starting to understand why celebrities who want to run a marathon or something choose to come here to train. Whether it’s with Maasai runners in Kenya or giggling children in Mozambique, Africa makes me realize how innate and beautiful and cadenced running is--and how anyone can do it. I don’t think it’s a science. I think it’s music.