Maputo Train Station

“I think Maputo is actually a beautiful city. It is just that the gems aren’t easily visible so as a tourist you don’t really get the beautiful vibe.” I said to Abby while meandering through the city on a warm sunny day.

“Yeah, if you can get past the trash. It took me a long time to get past the trash,” she responded in agreement. True. And the urine. For me it is the urine that is hard to stomach. My favorite game to play is to walk down the street and look at the bases of all the acacia trees lining the streets, casting friendly shade on often sweltering summer days, and see which ones have been peed on. I tend to shout out “URINE” whenever I see a wet spot in the sand around the trunk. If I were to do an actual study, I think I would find that 97% of said acacias are watered with urine at least four times daily. Which means I am basically a crazy person, speed walking down the street, plugging my nose, examining tree trunks, and shouting “URINE!” about every three feet.

I am currently reading Paul Thoreaux’s Dark Star Safari which details his travels from Cairo to Cape Town and his deditations on Africa, Africans and commonly held ideas about both. While reading the section on Maputo I couldn’t help but think to myself, “If I hear the word dedrelict one more time!” Not that I was offended, the man just tends to choose a word and repeat it. In the first chapter he was really into crepuscular. But every time he referred to the derelict city, the derelict buildings, the derelict train station, etc. I was reminded of the movie Zoolander and would just giggle to myself thinking of Will Ferral’s character and his line "Derelict."

And like his fashion line, Maputo too is derelict chic. What did Abby and I do today to make me realize this? We walked the world.

After resolving to spend all morning "walking the world" - which just means walking for hours around the city to discover its wonders - we strapped on our dirty running shoes, ashamed of the layer of red Namaacha dirt which coated them, knowing that Mozambicans would judge us for being dirty heathens in such foot-ware. They also just ruined our look – I was wearing a hot pink mini dress, black leggings, and a patterned headband adorned with a sweet little bow. The running shoes were a clunky base to the otherwise bright and delightful outfit. But as I have said before, I learned from my mother that I “need some sensible shoes.”

And we were off. First stop, the train station. Designed by Mr. Eiffel, yes, the French tower man. At first site, it is breathtaking. Then, upon looking closer, you realize that, like many things, it is falling apart from years of disrepair. Literally, in addition to the apparent rust, grime and water damage, there was a piece of white molding dangling precariously from the second story veranda. I suppose it is the epitome of derelict… and I think Mr. Thoreaux even used his beloved adjective to describe this very building. Inside we found a line of colorful plastic bags, each holding the place of a Mozambican laying or lazing or sitting around the station, waiting for their ticket and train to the interior bush of the country. Pushing past the line of bags and masses of travelers, we sought out the café and gallery, creating an interesting dichotomy between chic and decrepit – or should I say derelict chic – with local art exhibitions and a café which turns into a hip bar at night - who am I, a granny? Who says “hip” these days? But I digress…

Anyway, of course the gallery was closed because it is a holiday. Everything was closed practically. This includes grocery stores (we discovered as we went on a wine search later in the afternoon. Don’t worry, we eventually found our much needed vino).

Next up, just down the road, the Fortaleza. It is this old Portuguese fort overlooking the bay that has been turned into this fantastic gallery venue. Right now they have a local artisan fair. My purchases: recycled bottle cap earrings which have been hand-painted in bright and african patterns and a necklace made of strings and stones and what Abby calls “funfetti beads.” What I wanted but couldn’t afford: EVERYTHING. Including these amazing twisty wire and bead rings, a headband with a giant peacock feather on it, capulana genie pants and more!

Then we were off to the Parque de Gastronomia e Artesania – food, crafts, a lovely park and a pond with a little fountain. I managed to do all my gift shopping for my return home next month in one lovely stop!

As we sipped our post shop wine and Italian meal at the restaurant located in the park – I had bruschetta, fresh ravioli stuffed with spinach and ricotta cheese the whole meal topped off with a tad of tiramisu, - Abby exclaimed, “The only thing that would make this better is if there were ducks and swans in this pond!” I disagree. Though ducks and swans would, in theory, add to the quaint ambiance, the quackers would eat all the grass and shit everywhere and swans are just plain mean. Talk about derelict chic.

So, in summary, Maputo is dingy and dirty and, yes, quite derelict. But amongst the garbage, urine, and falling buildings are architectural beauties, mural masterpieces, delicious eats, creative crafts – often made of recycled materials, and cool cultural events. But don’t go outside on a rainy day. Because “derelict chic” turns into muddy trash and urine and men harassing you on the street. I suppose the men exist on sunny days as well, but who would even care when the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the bougainvilleas are blooming and the acacias are rustling in the breeze.

So Mr. Crazy is old news for many of you, but I have been planning resiliency sessions for the new group of trainees here in Namaacha, and, in order to describe how I have been able to bounce back and survive 3 years here, I have had to revisit my low moments in Mozambique.

Rather than just a walk down memory lane, I have taken an ocular perusal (does that even make sense? I don’t speak English very well anymore these days) through my virtual journal aka the blog.

The blog has always been a crowd pleaser and really my therapy outlet. There was the first month at site, where I made a not so PC list of things I hate about Mozambique. As you might notice I do, in fact have a dramatic bone in my body (but hopefully not a smelly bone). There was my 1 year marker meditation on my efficacy or lack thereof as a volunteer. My downright rage against the bique. And general, I have noticed that curse words were often and not so gracefully involved, feces was often a major stress provoker and, more often than not, my rocky bottoms were accompanied by some sort of random inexplicable illness and enumerations on the loathsomeness of my roommate.

The thing is, as you might hope after 2 years, I no longer really need my blog’s cathartic comedy to get me back up from the downer moments. Also, I have reached such a level of normalcy in my life here that the dramatic, crowd-pleasing posts now seem a tad forced, culturally insensitive, and mis-representative of Mozambique and Mozambicans…

Well, that WAS true, until about a month ago, when I got drop-kicked by Mr. Crazy, and hit the bottom of the bucket yet again. So now I am re-embracing virtual catharsis.

Side note: I have used a form of the word catharsis at least twice in this post already. It may or may not be my favorite word at the moment. I just picture someone violently vomiting up emotion and that image in itself is therapeutic to me.

So, here goes…catharsis, catharsis, catharsis

I was dropkicked and punched in the face by a crazy homeless man on the street in Maputo.

I don’t actually know what a drop kick is. So if, when I say I was dropkicked, I am implying that a man actually picked me up and punted me, then I am afraid I have misled you, it was not nearly so street-fighter-esque. (Though I am learning some great moves through my new obsession with P90X. One of which involves leaping into the air, kicking forward and then, as I land in a sort of spider-man position, vigorously punching at the floor like a badass video game character… which I practically am).

So here is a minute by minute 3rd person description of what actually happened:

• Caitlin is in Maputo to meet the new trainee group at the airport and get them prepped for Pre-Service Training and their move to Namaacha.

• Caitlin decides to go for a run in the morning.

• At about 7am, in the bright light of day, Caitlin runs past the American Embassy, the French embassy, and turns the corner onto a busy and normally safe street.

• At about 7:01am, just as Caitlin comes around the corner, Mr. Crazy simultaneously screams, kicks Caitlin in the stomach (his boot hit her arm which was bent in normal running fashion) and punched her in the face, before gleefully skipping off and loudly muttering gibberish to himself and passersby.

• At about 7:02am Caitlin thinks to herself, “What the fuck just happened?” as surrounding pedestrians look at the little confused white girl and the crazy man skipping down the street and also think to themselves, “What the fuck just happened?”

And so, trying to hold back tears, I just kept running. What else could I do? I had to make my way back to the hotel. Once back, I burst into the hotel room and broke down in tears to my roommate Abby, explaining, “A homeless man just dropkicked me on the street.”

“WTF?” responded Abby. Exactly, my friend, exactly.

And so the event spun me into a down in the dumps moment…

I am a volunteer; I am trying to help Mozambique; I work so hard; I love this country; I don’t do anything to hurt you; I don’t kick people; this is what I get; is this karma; what have I done; this is how I am repaid; WTF; crazy people; Ahhhh; I can’t handle this; LAST STRAW; what if I have a black eye; actually that would be kind of badass; but the new trainees will be so scared of Mozambique; well maybe they should be because crazy people attack you on the street; seriously Mozambique; WTF?

And then my head exploded.

Not really. My moment of explosive tearfulness passed and I quickly called Iraque for further comforting.

“What the fuck baby?” He responded in a sort of bewildered gasp after I recounted the tale. Exactly my dear, exactly. And then he forbid me to ever run again. Not realistic, but I appreciate the concern.

Unfortunately, no black eye. And though I had resolved to not tell the new trainees for fear of scaring them right back to America, when asked later that day at their orientation about the big bruise on my arm, I caved and recounted the epic moment. They might have been scared, but they didn’t go home. Phew. But most of all, they just remarked how ok I seemed about it.

Well let me just confess, my ok-ness was a lie. I was shaking inside and rolling around my rock bottom for about 3 days after experiencing such a violent disregard for my personal space.

But it passed. I mean, it was nothing personal. He didnt want to rob me, or even really hurt me. I suspect that the little white girl running down the street towards him just startled him. However, I still have anxiety about running. Just this morning, as I trotted down the street in Namaacha, I had a flashback to the moment in question and had to do a quick look around to make sure no crazies were coming out of the woodworks and barreling towards me. All clear.

So, here is what it all boils down to, the wisdom, or as Jerry Springer would say, the final thought:

If you buck up and bear it the bad stuff will pass.

Not so inspiring… but true.

Oh, and lesson #2: Crazy Happens.

Twenty-nine Peace Corps Mozambique Trainees and their homestay families teamed up to give a helping hand to their training community on Sunday, June 12th by cleaning up the local hospital in Namaacha.

“We’re here … with our families to hopefully extend that sense of volunteerism that we already have by being involved with the Peace Corps. I’m here with my sister Anita and she’s teaching everyone how to use the tumba tumba,” a machete like tool used to cut grass, says Trainee Morgan Nevins, New Hampshire.

Several hospital staff expressed gratitude to the Trainees for their effort to keep the community safe and healthy. “It gives them an area to work and play without stepping on a snake or bottles. And also gets rid of tall grass, which nobody likes, and reduces the population of mosquitoes, “ explains Trainee Kelly Anderson, Florida.

That afternoon, Trainees and their Mozambican homestay families participated in sporting and cultural activities at the Namaacha Teacher Training Institute, including soccer,basketball, singing and coloring. Two local primary school cultural groups also performed, teaching the Trianees about traditional mozambican music and dance.

The event, organized by Peace Corps Mozambique’s 50th Anniversary committee in partnership with the Namaacha municipal government and hospital administrators, promoted volunteerism and facilitated mutual cultural exchanges between American Trainees and their Mozambican community.

The Moz 16 trainees arrived in country on June 2nd and will work as Community Health Promoters throughout the country upon their successful completion of a 10-week training on the Mozambican health system, cross-cultural integration and Portuguese language. There are currently 170 Peace Corps Volunteers in Mozambique working in Health and Education sectors.

“It seems pretty serendipitous that it’s also the year that we get to join Peace Corps on this 50th birthday celebration. It’s wonderful that we can celebrate the Peace Corps birthday with events like this, applying the Peace Corps goals and community service,” adds Nevins.

PCT Morgan Nevins with Host Sister

PCTs and Host Family MembersChimchoanine Primary School Dance Group performing a traditional dance.

I forgot how difficult it is to arrive in some new and strange place that is supposedly your home and try to set up a life. It is even more difficult in a different country/culture.

I forgot that I wasn’t always known in Chidenguele and that there existed a time when I walked down the street and people stared in confused wonder, kissed at me, asked me to marry them…

On my departure from Chidenguele one week ago, it was amid a multitude of goodbyes. I forgot how difficult it was to say hello to these people for the first time over two years ago.

And so here I am, 2 years, 3 months and 1 day after my arrival in Chidenguele, doing it all over again, this time around with new comforts and new challenges.

I am living in Namaacha, located about 50km outside the capital city of Maputo. My roommate and partner in crime here is Abby, another 3rd year volunteer who I have been friends with throughout my service here. No more horrible crazy roommates! Thank goodness! Abby is also currently on a hardcore diet (keep it up!), so I have sort of inadvertently lost a few myself. Actually, I am below 150 for the first time since high school. Is that normal at 25?

But despite my constant hunger pains and excessive exercise, because, let’s face it, I am too competitive to sit around being lazy and gluttonous while she is bouncing about with her workout videos and healthy food, we are living a happy little life together.

I remember the first day I arrived in Chidenguele. My Peace Corps supervisor, Sergio, dropped me off at my little cement house, helped me with my suitcases, wished me “Welcome home!” and drove on his way. I promptly closed all doors, rounded up some most likely out of date lentils that the previous volunteer had left me, and timidly hid in my house hoping that no stranger would dare to disturb me.

Last week, Peace Corps passed through the Chid, loaded up my stuff in a big Land Rover and I followed, making the move myself a few days later, hopping from chapa to chapa like a seasoned, unafraid, travelling veteran. Namaacha is actually where my initial Pre-Service Training took place. In that sense, I know getting to and away, my way around and I already have a small community of friends/family here.

That being said, Namaacha is significantly larger than Chidenguele and I am in a totally new neighborhood, with totally new faces, and a 45 minute walk between me and my mama’s house.

On my second day in Chidenguele, I ventured out of my cave, hungry for something other than stale lentils and made my way generally toward where I assume the market must be. I walked down the street, a stranger to every soul that passed. And on top of it all, despite my enthusiasm to get to know my community members, my effort to meet, greet, chat and make friends was hindered by my measly base of sort-of-Portuguese.

Now, after countless conversations and endless study, I‘ve got the language down. No, it’s not perfect and I continue to learn new words, phrases, and grammar items every day. But I can communicate and be understood without trouble and without fear. I can even throw in a little Changana if I am looking to provoke a few laughs.

So I should have integration down pat, right?

Not so simple. For example, my new house is spacious, clean, wonderful and, most importantly, safe. But you need about 4 different keys to unlock the gates, padlocks, bars and doors just to get inside. In the Chid, I was used to constant visitors, constant exposure to neighbors and a constant “you are going to chat with these people if you like it or not” setting. Here, visitors don’t often brave the fortress, so I have to leave its comfort and seek out potential new friends.

Also, I am not working at a school or community organization and thus don’t have a built in network of community contacts and friends. Rather, I am working for Peace Corps and my main contacts are Abby, other Americans and Mozambicans that live in Maputo. Again, this means that I have to seek out potential new friends.

But, don’t you worry about me. Ever the adaptive, outgoing, mover and shaker, I’ll find my way and my niche here. I will also enjoy the perks such as regular internet access, grocery stores and all their glorious products, an American roommate, and the massive stock of resources now at my disposal.

Difficult, but doable. I love a challenge.

Let’s raise chickens to support our association. Well that sounds like a wonderful and sustainable idea.

Little did I know as an unseasoned volunteer in my first year that like 98.9% of community organizations have chicken projects. Organizations often begin such projects, not really because they have done a thorough analysis of the market for live chicken sales, but because they are unoriginal and that is what everyone else does.

It is like when I assigned my 12th grade students a business proposal project. They had to develop a basic business idea, analyse the market for their project in Chidenguele, and create a simple budget in English. About 75% of the students were completely lacking in any hint of creativity and were planning on selling coconuts right next to the 245245 other women that sell coconuts for the exact same price.

Also, little did I know, raising and selling chickens is a whole heck of a lot of work with a very low profit margin. For example, you can spend something like 1,500 USD producing the poultry, which involves daily care, cleaning, feeding, heating, transporting materials, etc only to make about 140USD of profit. Not worth the hassle if you ask me.

But of course, my wizened realizations that chicken projects are not, in fact, all that wonderful have come only after 1.5 years of project prep, 6 months of attempted implementation, 2 rounds of chicken sales and two horrible weeks of chasing, corralling, carrying and cursing chickens from Chidenguele to Kingdom Come.

Word to the wise. Don’t do it.

The project was a headache from the beginning.

We applied and were approved for a VAST grant. How exciting!

But between the time we wrote the proposal, the time it was approved and the time we actually received the money and could begin implementing the project, about a year had passed, price inflation went crazy, our carefully planned budget was unfortunately quite irrelevant and our aid award was insufficient. This was not totally our fault and more had to do with the grant provider’s lack of timeliness. But even despite these downer elements, I, ever the optimist, maintained my high hopes and busied myself trying to get creative with the little money we had available to us (A skill of mine that was well nurtured by my time as a teacher in a cheapskate, zero resources school).

I mean what was I expecting while planning the project? Smooth sailing? Let’s be honest, not a single thing I have ever tried to do in Mozambique ever ran according to plan or schedule.

In an attempt to stretch our funding, we made cuts every which way in our budget, inching towards that ever illusive balance in our account, trying to cut out materials for chicken coop construction without compromising the end product’s quality, lowering our first batch of chicks from 800 to 500 and just generally cutting corners. Somehow, we managed to get about 500USD within range and just borrowed the rest in somewhat desperate hopes that our business would be a success.

But, of course, on top of our no money mo’ problems, other challenges came one after another. The carpenter, as Mozambican carpenters tend to be, was late, lazy and lugubrious in his work, which delayed the coop construction. Our chicken care-givers were also slightly less than dedicated and gave sub-par care. Well, except when they were accidentally over feeding the chickens – resulting in extra-large poultry, which was delicious for consumption but painful for the pocket-book because it demanded a few thousand extra meticais in feed funds that we most certainly didn’t have.

However, despite the setbacks, the headaches and the discouraging feeling that my entire life revolved around some crazy chickens, sales of our first batch was slightly successful. We had a low death rate, big fat juicy chickens and our customers were enthusiastic. Within six days, we sold all 488 chickens.

And they were tasty.

Oh, but then the Mr. Trouble reared his head again. We (and by we I mean my counterpart) waited too long to request more chickens from the producers, and there weren’t enough chickens in the Xai-Xai/Maputo area for us to grow and sell our product in November, December, OR January, which are all prime party, poultry selling, profitable months.

In this gap, between sales of our first batch in October and our acquisition of the second batch in February, the chicken market in Chidenguele changed dramatically. Chicken producers sprung up every which way and product prices soared even higher making community members less likely to buy expensive meat products like chickens. Thos e who did buy, tended to purchase 1-3 chickens rather than 5-10. On top of it all, there was a feed shortage ( and my counterpart wasn’t takin care a bidness) and our chickens were skinny and underfed.

These factors compounded with the continued lack of dedication of the care-givers/sellers (why we didn’t just find new care-givers is beyong me… some things make too much sense), explains why I, the little white girl in her sundress, spent hours upon hours coopin it up. For two weeks, my life revolved around a coop and its inhabitants. Once again, I had to get down, dirty and creative to start moving some product out of the coop if for no other reason than to make own my life more pleasant.

I don’t mean to sound selfish, but go smother your feet and hands with chicken shit and spend 8 hours a day trying to sell skinny, over-priced chickens with little or no help from your partners and tell me what you think. At one point I was carrying massive rice sacks of saw-dust on my head uphill for 2k and walking over an hour to personally hand deliver 6 chickens at a time to clients. Damn the chickens.

I am usually not a complainer, but I was just not born to hang out down-wind of the chicken coop sniffing its wafting poo and gleefully frolicking in the dirty saw-dust and scooping salmonella with my bare hands… neither is that the reason I joined the Peace Corps.

So, two weeks and lots of product pushing later, the chickens are gone, thank goodness… and I am moving on. Bye bye Chidenguele and your unfavorable chicken market. I am getting an office job in the big city.

Let’s be honest, Chacos are ugly. But thanks to a week of torrential rain, I am ashamed to say that I have deigned to don them.

Forgive me.

Yes, they are practical

Yes, they are pretty comfortable, despite the weird textured bottom.

Yes, they are supportive.

Yes, they fit all criteria for what my mother would call “sensible shoes.”

But they are ugly. Plain and simple. No opposing arguments allowed. And although the highly paid, presumably quinoa consuming, chaco “designers” create new patterns and colors for the straps, it still looks like some boy scout grabbed an industrial nylon rope and stuck it on some clunky rubber… and now is making millions. All for one and one for… or whatever the boy scout motto is.

I have spent a lifetime fervidly fighting for my right to never wear “sensible shoes.” I indulged in gold and patent leather, I coveted heels even though I am 7 feet tall, I insisted on wearing $3 Old Navy flip-flops in the snow, I trekked across the European continent in converse (or shall I say hobbled, thanks to the arch support-less canvas cuties), I waitressed (and at one point slipped down the stairs with a full tray of glasses) in black pointy kitten heals and I have been known time and time again to buy shoes a size too small because once you cross over from 10 to 11 (yes, I have ski feet) the shoes go from trendy- sparkle-fantasticness to big-mama-wide-as-they-are-long-super-comfort-boats-of-a-shoe. And I certainly NEVER allowed a single chaco, keen, merrel, neutralizer, or equally chunky, clunky, junky shoe in my closet.

“Oh Caitlin, you really need some sensible shoes,” my mother has hopelessly insisted since I was a miniature menina pining after the Payless version of Dorothy’s “There is no place like home” sparkly red Mary Jane that I saw other lucky little girls spitefully strut past me.

So why, you might ask, do I even own a pair of Chacos? Lets be honest, you might also be asking why the girl in gold sequined peep-toed stilettos even join the Peace Corps… but that is another story for another day…

No, they weren’t a gift. In fact, one of the first things I went out and bought after getting my invitation to Peace Corps was my 345345 lb pair of orange roped Chacos. But why?

1) There was a sale at REI (FYI Peace Corps Volunteers get 50% off Chacos, I didn’t know that until I got here. Too late).

2) I suppose I finally heard, internalized and acted upon my mother’s adage about there being nothing more essential than a sensible pair of shoes.

3) Mostly, I think, I was picturing my future self, living in a mud hut, guarded by lions, walking 234525 miles a day up-hill both ways in 87985 degree heat to get water and forage for food and insert other African stereotypes here… Obviously, under such circumstances, I would need a hearty, super durable, not your baby-mama’s sandal.

But since Peace Corps Pre-Service Training (ie 2008), where basically every volunteer no matter your fashion background donned the same unfortunate brand, my pair has been rotting in a suitcase where the things belong.

That is, until two days ago, when I pulled them out, dusted them off and began using the big chunk-a-chaco to top off (or should I say bottom out?) my sundresses – because, yes, it there is torrential rain, but it is still 80 degrees outside.

Believe me, they were not my go-to shoe. First, I slipped on my tried and true converse. But after sludging in the rain from the market to the school (maybe 1km) I was already squishing and sloshing in my socks. Converse out… not waterproof. Running shoes out… they were stolen a month ago. So what do I turn to in my time of wet wet need?

The Chaco look. Because they are tall enough that I can walk through puddles and muddy sand without getting my feet wet, they dry quickly and they are easy to clean… a pair of knee-high leather boots or bright red rubber galoshes would also fit these criteria… but I didn’t think to bring those and thus they are gathering cobwebs in my closet back home.

My house has turned into a fucking barnyard circus.

It started with the chickens. They eat anything that you leave outside (crumbs, spilled rice, coconut shavings that I was planning on using to cook with, but left outside because I don’t have enough counter space inside, etc), they have repeatedly stomped on and ripped up my pot of basil and cilantro seedlings (although the neighbor children helped with that), and they leave chicken diarrhea right in my path, fresh for the stepping.

But ok, tudo bem, chickens exist and they are in my yard. This is nothing new. Chickens roam freely basically everywhere in Mozambique, well, except the beach. However, these particular chickens have now grown some balls and started pecking their way into my house. At first a simple “shoo” scared them out, but now I find myself wildly running in circles around my house and crawling under my bed chasing the chickens, all the while whapping at the floor and waving after them with a monster stick as if I was a goaded granny threatening to take her cane to the behinds of her unruly grandchildren.

No, chickens don’t a barnyard make. But there is also the girl that poops in the yard. She has upped the anty and drops a daily deuce not too far from my doorstep. I suppose she isn’t an actual barnyard animal, but she loves to play fetch and it would appear that her mother is raising her as if she was one… or just trying to cultivate some human manure.

But worst of all, on top of the chicken situation and the poor hygiene situation, a family of porkers has invaded my previously rather tame yard.

I feel like I am living in Babe 2: The Barnyard Visits Mozambique. I mean, the little girl’s little poos don’t got nothin’ on the smell of the big, black, snorting, rolling, waddling, piglets and big piggy mamas that have dug a hole under my fence and taken control of my trash pit as if they were Somali pirates invading a treasure ship.

I liked the movie Babe. In fact, I loved it. My friend Winona and I would watch it over and over again until both of our parents started hiding the film to keep it out of our sights, out of our minds and out of their VHS players. We also obsessively watched the sandlot and took turns kissing the TV screen and the VHS box because we were so in love with Benny. I suppose we were passionate about our film choices.

But now I realize that the big screen images of pigs are practically as romanticized as that of the skinny, mini, big boobed, aryan, sex-bomb, leading ladies. Take for example Babe or Wilbur, these protagonist pigs are little, pink, clean, adorable, have curly little tails and they talk in cute little snorty voices.

Well, real pigs in Mozambique, much like real women in America, do not fit such a fine and fancy stereotype. No, they, the Mozambican pigs that is, are big and black with wiry hair and short tempers. And they smell like poo that has been rotting in the 100 degree super humid heat.

But above all, they seem to be rather feisty and territorial and have zoned off the trash pit as a NO HUMAN ENTRY zone. Who do they think they are? I was here first. And I have garbage in need of dumping. Nope, the pit is a strictly pig eating, pooping, and rolling in sand and waste zone, and should any human try to enter, they angrily grunt like a rhino and prepare to charge.

We should just get it over with and kill them so I can resume tossing trash in peace.

Now serving pork with a side of grilled chicken.

My mother always calls the bathroom the potty. So my cousin started calling my mother Aunt Potty. I am pretty sure she hates the nick name. Sorry mom.

But, in honor of my (I hope not now publicly humiliated) mother, I have lovingly named my new toilet “Aunt Potty”.

You might think it strange to give a toilet a name. But I am now living in luxury, and so I shall shout my new beloved’s name from the tin rooftops.

“AUNT POTTY! AUNT POTTY!”

But call her Aunt Potty, porcelain throne, toity, john, what have you, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Though she doesn’t really smell that sweet. In fact, though I have proclaimed her to be luxurious, A.P. is literally just a toilet. No running water, no flushing, not even a seat or a lid. Just the porcelain pot with the hole coming out the back that I have to pour buckets of water into to flush. In fact, one not versed in Mozambican toilets, might walk in and scoff Aunt Potty. Shame on said ignorant visitor. I pooped in a hole for two years.

But, in addition to her primitive design, to make matters worse, the man who installed A.P. went a little wild with the cement.

“I found some extra tile in the shed, do you want me to tile the floor too?”“Well of course I do!” I logically responded and thought to myself, “I am going to be living such a fabulous life as I do my business!”

The next day…

“Was he drunk when he cemented the place?” asked Iraque, disgusted with the not so handy work of the handy man toilet installer. “Well, I mean, maybe. I guess he was drinking while he was knocking the hole in the wall and then drinking more when he was slopping cement every which way,” I responded innocently.

Beer + Construction work=disaster. Who knew?

So, now, I have a bathroom that looks like someone splattered diarrhea all over the walls (FYI just to clarify, it is NOT in fact diarrhea, but rather cement splatters). And my so called “tile” is really just broken bits of clay pots which have been smothered in cement globs and haphazardly placed around A.P. and the bath basin.

But honestly I will take a cement explosion, manual flushing and occasional bum slips into the seatless pot over the alternative.

I actually rented the house under the faulty impression that it had a bathroom. Well, I suppose it did have a bathroom in the sense that it had a place to take a bath. But as I curiously poked my head in for the first time and saw only a yellow basin on the floor where I could stand and take a bath (at the time covered in 12 tons of gecko poo which I was lucky enough to later get to remove) I turned to Iraque and asked,

“Um, where do you do a #2?”“What do you mean?” He responded confusedly and poked his own head into gecko poo haven aka my so called “bathroom”. “Hmmmm, me too, I thought it had a toilet. I will talk to them.”

So I moved in and stayed under the pretense that my toity would be installed shortly.

And it was…. But in the mean time I had to use the communal bathroom.

“In Mozambique, every bathroom is an adventure,” Shannon, the new Volunteer in Chidenguele who is replacing me at the school, so aptly stated after surviving the shared toilet for the first time.

But I wouldn’t call that bathroom an adventure. I would call that an devilish den of fecal matter where children pee all over the floor, the noxious smell seeps into your pores poisoning you with airborne particles of foreign poo and pee, and mosquitoes deviously linger in the toilet boil awaiting the moment your bum hovers close enough that they can to suck your booty blood.

Had they not installed my wonder pot, I would have followed the little neighbor girl’s lead and started pooping in the yard.

Welcome to the year 2011, and my third year in Mozambique! I am no longer a teacher, I no longer live in a hostile house with Hortencia, and thus I feel like euphorically frolicking through the sandy pineapple fields in my genie pant uni-suit. Hallelujah.

I was explaining to a just arrived volunteer that I officially set foot for the first time in this (usually) lovely country on October 2, 2008. I was 22. In two weeks I turn 25. Shoot.

And the funny thing is, when I arrived 2 years, 3 months and 6 days ago, I certainly didn’t think I would make it two years.

“Yeah right. A year I can do, but then I am just hoping I get medically evacuated or something. Two years is too long,” says the unknowing little white girl…

With the new year comes a new job, a new house, and a new pineapple season. Maybe I subconsciously decided to extend my contract just to experience one final pineapple and mango season in Mozambique. I mean it is unquestionably the most succulent and delicious of the various fruit seasons here… though I seem to love each season as it blooms and then mourn as it withers away… the avocados, the tangerines and oranges, the papayas, the mangos and pineapples, oh the pineapples.

Now, I find myself in some ways right back where I started, in a new house, trying to figure out a new job, occupying extra time with craft projects and eating a pineapple (or two) a day.

However, unlike in 2008, I now speak Portuguese (or at least the Mozambican Ebonics version of real, proper, Portuguese), I know my community, I have a few friends, my house has an actual toilet and my pineapple pieces are frozen - a) because it is hot like the devil’s armpit in my house at all times, and b) because I have irrationally convinced myself that pineapple, when frozen, tastes exactly like ice cream… once, when I was a teenager trying to lose weight, I convinced myself that I didn’t like chocolate. Beware my powers of persuasion.

So what kept me here despite the fact that my mother employed a historically tried and true badgering technique in an attempt to get me back to the states? (Come home! Come home! Come home! You know what you should just do? Come home!...I utilize this technique as a feisty teenager and it often worked because the receptor (mom) of the badgering would just get too tired to keep saying no. I, however, am far too stubborn to cave.)

It was mostly the job. I have a contract with the United States of America for 12,500 USD to help the children. And so that is what I am doing… until April. At that point my community counterpart will take over monitoring and accounting for the project.

What plans are in the works? Well currently my community partner is in the hospital with a nasty throat lesion (how does that even happen?) so not much professional progress is being made. However, personally, in the last week, I have written a grant report, sewed a skirt, made 6 pairs of earrings, created a home storage system, decorated my house, taught the little girl who poops in my yard to play fetch and peek-a-boo and I’ve made a (rough) life plan for the next year (gasp!).

But despite this slight delay, the next four months hold more chickens, more home visits with orphans and people living with HIV/AIDS, more food basket distributions, more HIV prevention activities, and maybe even (I hope!) a Health and HIV prevention themed cultural festival.

I also plan on eating my weight in pineapples.

Let it poop in the yard.

My new house is a 1 bedroom apartment in a little compound of other apartments, rooms and reed roof round houses. Most occupants are teachers, not native to Chidenguele, and renting rooms only because their profession has brought them here. One woman, however, is a local.

She is actually from Manjacaze, about 40km down a dirt road from Chidenguele, but her husband and his family are from Chidenguele. Why, you might think, is a local renting a room in Chidenguele? Don’t she and her husband have a house?

Well, you might not be thinking that, because in other countries it is quite normal for a couple to rent a house/apartment. However, in Mozambique, you live with your family until you can afford to build yourself a house. Except in the larger cities, people never rent if they have family they can live with. The result is that you literally see little, one room houses with 16 people of all shapes and sizes happily coexisting as they fight for floor space.

So, why is miss local renting a room?

Apparently her husband works in South Africa – very common here – and she was living with his family. Well, his mother, as mother in laws tend to be I’m told here in Mozambique, was not very kind to her new daughter. In fact, they fought to the point that the husband moved her right on out of the house and made her my new neighbor.

Moral of the story: lady local (whose name is Lucrencia) has three kids. One of these children is almost 2 years old and no longer wears a diaper. However, instead of teaching her to use the potty (which is shared by multiple tenants ie it is caked in years of never cleaned poo and pee… which might be the reason she doesn’t let her child go near it) she just sends the big bellied little girl into the yard.

“Lersia, take off your underwear and go pee!” she commands, and the little girl, clad only in panties because she refuses to keep on actual clothes, strips off her only item of clothing and toddles out to the yard, where she squats down and wees in the sand.

Ok, fair enough, I have been known to pee outside sometimes, especially when I was a child.

However, one day, I found the little lady squatting in the sand making a #2. Since she isn’t my child, and her mother was nearby, I didn’t scold the little one for the undignified dooty. “Her mother will surely see and that will be that,” I thought.

“Leursia, have you finished pooping yet?” the little pooper’s mother yelled across the yard.

“Her mother knew she was pooing in the yard? She actually had instructed her child to drop a dues in the dirt? “ I contemplated in horror as I watched Lucrencia take a stick, scoop up the toddler poo, and drop it in our garbage hole.

“The worst part is that she just dropped it in the trash hole,” Iraque commented, “instead of burying it.”

Really? That’s the worst part?

Lets start with the strange men. Well, there was only one really who played a central role in my story, though my father was convinced that thousands of others were trying to pick-pocket me at any given moment.

My trip began with the worst flight ever, mostly because my new Maputo adopted family, who works for the US State Department, fed me too much wine, and I was congested (which in Portuguese is Constipado, which sounds like constipated - although I am almost 25 and quite a mature and responsible young woman, this still provokes a giggle every time. I have tried explaining to my students to be careful not to say constipated and then try to explain what it means. They never really understand the concept nor seem to think that backed up poo is very funny. I suppose, compared to explosive diarrhea causing parasites and all around nasty cholera that they have here, constipation might be a welcome bowel state.)

So, hung-over and constipada, I made the short flight from Maputo to Cape Town. Upon arriving in the airport, I was stalked by a man who called himself a taxi driver. He looked normal enough, but had no official taxi company uniform, no sign, nothing. So I promptly assumed, as he was leaning lazily back against a cement pylon, casually sipping his cigarette as if it was the smoothest whisky, that he must be surveying the foreign females just waiting for a sick/drunk little American girl in a frilly purple mini-dress and black tights, to roll her way out of the terminal. So I kept my wits about me.

“Do you need a taxi?”“NO!” I barked, trying to channel my morning misery into my unwelcoming remark. That’ll take care of Mr. Creeper Cabby.

Then I promptly walked up to an airport attendant and asked him to show me where you catch legit taxis. He walked along with me, and the taxi stalker followed us. He repeated,

“Do you need a taxi?”And the attendant stupidly foiled my master evasion plan and blurted out, “Yes, she does, here you are ma’am.”Fuck. Now I’m stuck with Mr. Creeper Cabby.

“Ok, where is your car?” I asked accusingly. “Over there,” He pointed to the parking lot.

Sign of a Kidnapper Creeper #1: Well, I don’t know about where you live, but every airport I have ever been to has a taxi rank where the taxis wait for car-less travelers. Never have I caught a taxi in the airport parking lot.

But I hesitantly followed him, since the attendant had passed me off to Mr. Creeper Cabby and assured me he was legit. Of course, I reminded myself, they could be in on the scheme together. Take no chances.

Sign of a Kidnapper Creeper #2: We arrived at the so called “cab” which was just a little, old, Toyota. No taxi sign, no meter, no official logo. Just a creeper mobile.

“Why don’t you have a sign?” I asked, again channeling my misery in a most accusatory manner. “Just bought the car today.”“No, no, I can’t go with you. You are just a strange man trying to prey on an unknowing little foreign girl.”“Haha, no no, not true I promise.”

Oh, well since he promised, it surely couldn’t be true. But I asked the parking attendant if he knew Mr. Creeper Cabby, and he assured me that he was, in fact, a taxi driver. The thing is, I really shouldn’t have gotten in. All signs pointed to creeper. But I did. And fortunately, in the end, Mr. Creeper Cabby turned out to be the sweetest man and he even gave me a discount. Note to self: never take that chance again.

So although it got off to a questionable start, my time in Cape Town quickly turned into a walk in a hipster filled, colorful, dream land.

Culturally, there is the most interesting mix of European and African art, architecture, music, food, life. I took advantage and purchased a African print Jeanie pant uni-suit (obviously) and a necklace of colorful pastel beads made from recycled paper.

In terms of its natural landscape, I am just going to go out on a superlative limb here and say that the Western Cape of South Africa is the most beautiful place in the world. Within the city, everywhere you go, Table Mountain watches over you, emanating a powerful yet calm aura. As you head out of the city, you can follow the sudden, awkwardly placed, yet magnificent hills which sprout up, their rocky cliffs meeting the bluest and most luminous (but freezing!) water, separated only by small half moons of picturesque white sand beaches. Just a hop skip and a jump from the city and your are in wine-lands (Stellenbosch, a must do) or whale watching central (Hermanus, a cutesy town with excellent lamb stew, well worth the trip), all marked by the same striking beauty.

As for what to do and where to go, there are beaches, bars, restaurants, live music, everything that your average great city offers, but with a twist of natural outdoorsy-ness right on top of the urban chic vibe.

My family of Oregonians and I took advantage of said outdoorsy-ness, and tried our hand at climbing table mountain. Note to travelers: ‘hiking’ in South Africa is not just walking. It often involves some actual mountain climbing skill. Our attempt at the mountain lasted about 7 minutes, and then the gusting monsoon like winds scared us right back down the 100 meters we had managed to scramble up. I clutched stable boulders with one hand and my $2 J-Lo hat with the other as I weenied out and wormed my way back down the cliff.

Scared off the big dog mountain, but still wanting a burst of exercise and a mountainous experience, we headed over to Lion’s Head, a neighboring, not so windy hill. It started out normal enough. A walk up a slightly steep gravelly path. Well, as you got higher there gradually became less path and more steep rocky-ness, until eventually we were scaling a rock wall and climbing up ladders, shimmying up chains, and gripping hand and foot holds, making our way up to the top. Though I discovered that I have a slight fear of heights (who knew?), being young, spry and stubborn, I wasn’t about to give up. I was, however, slightly worried about my father. For those of you that know my father, can you imagine him shimmying up a chain bolted into a vertical rock face on the side of a mountain? But being just as stubborn as his daughter (the apple doesn’t fall …) he just kept assuring me that he was totally fine and obviously just as agile in his 50’s as he once was as a young roofer in Texas (Didn’t you fall off a roof at some point and break your collar bone dad? Not worth bringing up mid chain I suppose.)

“I’m like a monkey! … Really I’m fine… I told you, I am like a monkey!”

“An old monkey,” my mother so lovingly commented the next day as my no longer very primate-like father hobbled about the hotel in bitter remembrance of the previous day’s extreme physical exertion.

So here is the question of the moment as I reminisce about my time in the land of Table Mountain and ponder my plans for the rapidly approaching future. Is there room for my new love of the Western Cape in said future? Let’s toy with the idea by making a pro and con list, because I love making lists, to find the elusive answer.

Pros to moving to Cape Town- Most beautiful place in the world- Fantastic beaches- African print Jeanie pant uni-suits- “Hiking”- I would have more visitors if I lived in Cape Town than I have had living in Mozambique- The shopping. Exquisite. - The city looks like a rainbow exploded, and the multitude of bright colors is good for my psyche- The nearby wine lands

Cons to moving to Cape Town- Wind - Cold ocean water – but then again I don’t really like swimming anyway- Afrikaans language- Too many hipsters in acid washed skinny jeans- Black south Africans are few and far between in the city- Really, really, really far from America- It ain’t cheap. - Racial tensions

Answer: TBD.

In Mozambique, everything breaks at the same time. Fuseka.

That is Changana for fuck you.

Well I just feel like a naïve little Peace Corps trainee again, arriving in flusterville, Mozambique.

It all started in the Poot, which is my semi-endeering name for the capital of Mozambique, more widely known as Maputo. Then again, my father also uses the nickname in reference to farts. “Who pooted?”Maybe not such a coincidence? I mean the Poot has been known to be quite noxious.

Anyway, I was arriving in Maputo one Friday morning, happy to be skipping school (because I am a horrible teacher) and to be arriving in “civilization” also known as the land of ice cream and electricity that doesn’t go out every time the wind blows, fighting through the hordes of people as I tried to catch a chapa from the bus terminal to the city (literally, you have to throw elbows if you want to get a seat), when someone stuck their hand in the front, right pocket of my pants.

And that is when I snapped and entered my current emotional phase: rage against the bique.

Upon feeling the subtle insertion into my pocket, and the gross violation of my personal space, I fiercely slapped my hand down, smacking my leg/my pocket/the intruders hand with the conviction of a woman scorned, causing the foreign fingers to jet out and leaving a slight bruise on my upper thigh. Worth it. The fucker didn’t get my phone or the 50 meticais I had stashed in the jeans pocket. I also got a seat on the chapa, and spent the rest of the ride eyeing all the other passengers accusingly, trying to deduce which one had gone groping for my goods.

A few days later in Xai-Xai, a drunken man got on my chapa. Not a real surprise, it happens. But then, after spending a few minutes sitting next to a woman up front, groping her breast and stealing her peanuts, Mr. Drunky decided to come sit next to me. It started with my shoulder. He just kept touching my should and trying to put his arm around me. Of course, every time he touched me I smacked him in the face. It was actually quite entertaining and even therapeutic. Touch – smack! Touch – smack! The other passengers watched the show in animated awe. Thankfully, this was quite a joyous and good natured man, because most drunkies would have belligerently beaten me to a pulp after being smacked in the face. He just laughed and kept on trying to get at me, as if receiving my palm in his face was a form of sensuous flirtation.

But then it was time for me to get off. He blocked my exit, made me climb over him, and double palmed my ass as I tried to maneuver my way over him. That is, until I told him I was going to grab his balls and squeeze them until they fell off. Well that must have scared him, because he quickly let loose the thigh lock he had on me, and removed his hands from my ass.

Back in Chidenguele, the rage continued.

Oh my roommate. After about a month of tense cold shoulders – verbal contact. I told her I had paid the electricity bill, and would be needing her half when she could. And then she flounced in with a calculator and sassily shoved it in my face as she calculated one third of the bill, and then handed me this amount in change. “But you can keep the extra 1 metical that you would owe me in change.”

She refused to pay her half of the electricity bill because she says Iraque uses too much electricity. Well I immediately got on my high and mighty horse and handed her her dirty dirty change right back. “When you have your half you can pay me, until then I don’t want your money.” Of course she will never pay me, but I don’t plan on paying the bill next month… but I plan on using a lot of electricity.

Then again, I am trying to use electricity, but Mozambique is smiting my vengefulness, and during the last 2 weeks, the electricity has literally gone out every day for at least 1 if not all 24 hours. Right now it is doing the lovely surge on and off every minute, as if Hortencia has literally spoken with the lord of lights and is trying to burn my electric items so they never work again.

In other news, my chickidees are growing well and will be ready to sell in a few days, but we are out of food and there is no money to buy more. So my community counterpart wants ME to pay for it. Sorry, I don’t have 12000 meticais lying around, and if I did I wouldn’t use it to feed chickens.

Then he asked me to lend him 100 meticais and I layed the smack down… to an excessive degree.

And today? The copy machine at the school as broken two days before I am supposed to give my final exam. How am I supposed to evaluate this little bitches if I can’t multiply the exam? You might say, “Caitlin, just go to a copy shop in town.” Well, even if there was a place to make copies in town, I wouldn’t be able to afford to multiply the test for all my students.

The useless question: Why?

“Don’t try to rationalize it Caitlin. You will just drive yourself crazy. It just doesn’t make sense.”My mom was talking about my roommate. But I think it sort of refers to the multitude of things which appear to be crumbling around me, in addition to other Mozambique traditions suck as 4 hour meetings where nothing gets accomplished and excessive and repetitive paperwork that has to be hand written in appropriately color coded, perfect penmanship.

Iraque just keeps telling me to calm down, and refuses to talk to me until I actually do. I must say I am not a fan of tough love… though I am sure I deserve it. He gets kudos for craziness tolerance.

However, despite my rage against the bique, the fact that I hate my job more than I hated working at Subway as a 16 year old when all the other employees would go out back to smoke weed and leave me to tend to feisty customers who got all riled up about the fact that we didn’t have swiss cheese, and the fact that my roommate has caused me to run around like a neurotic crazy pants lady afraid of being bitch slapped at any moment, and to actually repeatedly have the same nightmare that the roommie in question thievishly breaks into my locked bedroom and pours dirty dish water all over my bed, unlike during my naïve newbie days (see 10 things I hate about Mozambique) where I was miserable on the verge of leaving, now I am honestly happy as a (slightly anxious and often angry) clam. I mean, the sun is shining, the chickens are growing, the AIDS orphans are being fed, and the beach is beautiful.

Step 1: Acquire animals. For example, a party planner might choose to purchase 1 pig, 1 goat and 10 chickens for a party of about 25 people. For larger events, a cow might be purchased, however this will be a rather costly investment in your festa.

Step 2: wake up at 5 am to start cooking. You will be cooking all day until the festivities begin in the evening. Be prepared.

Step 3: After waking up with the sunrise and arrange your small farm of purchased animals. Massacre the animals. The easiest way to kill an animal is to slit its throat, or, especially in the case of chickens, cut off entirely its head. Then de-fur/feather them, gut them, cook the head parts and insides to be eaten as an afternoon snack before the party commences, and then continue to skin, gut, and cut up the entire animal.

Now, among other things, you might be thinking, “My word, that sounds like a lot of meat!” It is. But meat is the main staple of a Mozambican party. A common sentiment here as a party approaches is, “wohoo! Party time! I get to eat meat today!”

I suppose this is because meat is expensive and thus saved for special occasions. Nothing says great party like skinning a cow.

Step 4: Spend all day cooking a range of oily delights. A typical menu might include:· Rice· Xima· French fries· Grilled chicken· Chicken in a tomato sauce· Grilled (meat of choice)· Boiled (meat of choice) · (meat of choice) in a tomato sauce· Salad (can be made with lettuce, tomato and onion; cabbage; or cucumber and onion)· Cake with not enough sugar, glittery icing, and a big pastel bow on top· And finally, the prized centerpiece of any delicately arranged party buffet table, and my personal favorite dish (not to eat, but to wonder at), it is called “mayonnaise”. Why that name? Well it is essentially potato salad that has been smothered in mayonnaise. And by smothered, I mean literally, there is ½ inch layer of mayonnaise on top of boiled potatoes and eggs, and elegantly decorated with a hand cut tomato or lemon ‘flower’. I don’t know how people can eat pure mayonnaise like this. And, even more miraculous, is how can they eat the glob of mayonnaise that has been sweltering in the sun since mid-morning? Or maybe they all go home to have secret diarrhea fests. Who knows. I steer clear of the stuff as I have had a life-long aversion to mayonnaise and basically all other white goopy condiments.

I have tried to explain to people that, in America, we have a range of different types of parties, and they don’t all include food. Of course there is your average dinner party, where the meal is the centerpiece, and there are weddings which often involve elaborate meals. But then again, there are also wine and cheese parties, martini parties, parties centered around the watching of an athletic event (aka beer parties), birthday parties, holiday parties, dessert and champagne parties, tea parties etc (I see a somewhat alcoholic trend here, would it be safe to say that the focal point of an American party is the beverage to be consumed?).

American parties usually do all involve some sort of sustenance, from chips and dip to pizza to an elaborate home-made ice-cream cake in the shape of a beach ball to go with the party theme (my mom put on the best birthday parties). But if you handed a Mozambican a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich and called it a party, the person would, first complain that the tea didn’t have enough sugar, and then promptly laugh in your face and gossip about you and your poor party for all of eternity.

Step 5: Cut the cake and feed each other pieces. In America, at a wedding, the bride and groom lovingly provide each other with a delightful nibble. In Mozambique, all parties involve such an activity. For example, at our home stay goodbye party in Namaacha 2 years ago, my friend’s host father fed him cake. At the 12th grade graduation party that I just attended at my school, my students hand fed me cake. It made me a little uncomfortable.

Step 6: Eat. Cake before dinner is so contrary to my upbringing. I will never understand.

Step 7: Dance.

“How are you and your roommate getting along?”

A question I have faced time and time again. It’s like that question you get in high school, “what are you going to do in college?” or the question you get in college, “what are you going to do after you graduate?”

I have always hated these questions because people always want a nice, organized, prepared, pc response. Tell someone you plan on studying business or law and they promptly squirm with glee at your bright future and then forget what you said because they don’t really care anyway. Tell someone you are exploring your interests and want to travel the world and they just shrug and look down (metaphorically if not literally), as if you told them you plan on becoming a bum and making yourself a papier-mâché box house to live in on the street (mine would have sequins and Picasso inspired graffiti art decorating the exterior). Other people just say “cool”… and the buck stops there.

Not that my roommate has much to do with my future plans. In fact I hope she plays no role in my future. But the question, “How are you and your roommate getting along?” demands the same sort of planned, positive, pc, and in this case, culturally respectful response. Especially when I am speaking to my Mozambican Peace Corps supervisor. I can’t just say that I don’t like her, she is controlling, and I would literally rather sleep in my glittery papier-mâché box outside then spend 10 minutes with her.

Those that know me can see through my polite little ruse of, “Oh… we are… ok. We aren’t really friends, but we get along…”

“Well that is an accomplishment,” Peace Corps Volunteer Gracey replied recently, “You have made it through almost two years living with someone that you don’t really like.”

And I suppose it was an accomplishment. And then she went crazy (although, I am sure she would say the same about me).

So now I am getting down and dirty. The gloves are off and the big fat truth is coming out.

Things I hate about my roommate:She has explosive diarrhea in the latrine and doesn’t clean up the droplets that don’t make it down the hole so I have to walk in and see flies sitting on her residual shit storm. She is bossy like a mother fucker. She doesn’t share. Anything. She is stingy and complains that I have a computer and thus use more electricity than she does. But she doesn’t seem to understand that the time she spends ironing her non-wrinkled clothes accounts for about 98% of our kilowatt usage. Her sister comes to visit and then openly insults me in my own house. She hates my students and is rude to them. She hates anyone that comes to visit me and is rude to them. She locks one of our chairs in her bedroom to use it as a shelf and when I ask her for it so an actual person can sit down she throws a fit. She wipes the kitchen table with the cloth that she uses to clean the floor and that smells like old, rotten, pork meat. She is closed minded. She feels this innate urge to teach me things. She tries to teach me things by making see that I am wrong rather than just communicating like an adult. She doesn’t ever clean the house, not even sweep, and then has the nerve to call me a dirty person (please refer back to the above diarrhea comment. Wtf?!)She treats me like a child. She laughs in my face. She uses like 14 buckets of water a DAY. Which means that I have to ration my water use if I don’t want to go carry more to feed her apparent water fetish. She is a dirty whore… well, not really, but I am feeling like throwing the insults around.

Why the sudden dissipation of diplomatic graciousness? Well it went down a little like this:“Hi honey, how was school,” Iraque, sitting on his mattress on a reed mat on the floor inside his little reed house, asked me one day about two weeks ago.“Oh. You know. Same old. Teaching English to a bunch of hooligans,” I responded, a bit exasperated after a full day of 20 something men pushing my buttons because they think it’s funny, “what about you?”“Hortencia called me over today to talk while you were at school. She told me that I am never allowed to step inside your house again. Not even if she isn’t there. Ever. “

What? Why? How? Confused reaction in my mind.

So I waited until she got home from school, sat down at our kitchen table, and without me even asking, she explained to me, as Iraque had recounted, that she was, in fact, ordering him to never enter, nay approach our house.

“Well, did he do something? Was he rude to you?”“I am not against your love, in fact I hope you get married. But I have never liked his presence and now it just makes me furious.”

So we proceeded to discuss/fight/ I couldn’t get a word in edgewise for about 40 minutes, until she finally heard over the racket coming out of her own mouth my response of, “I’m sorry, he was probably here too much, it wasn’t fair to you, he won’t be over as much. However, you don’t have the right to say that he can never come in this house again. This is my house too and I want him here. And you shouldn’t have gone behind my back and acted like a crazy pants, so eat a big fat puddle of your own splattered, parasite filled, diarrhea please.”

The last part didn’t actually come out of my mouth. But it might have if I knew how to say it in Portuguese.

So then she stormed out, slammed her bedroom door, and we haven’t spoken since. Well, that isn’t entirely true, we sometimes say good morning, good evening, the student outside is asking for you, perhaps the occasional, under the breath fuck you, etc. But mostly it is hostile silence. We don’t touch each other’s things, we don’t share anything.

I have chosen to deal with the stress of my hostile home by following a rigid routine of Tae Bo with Billy Blanks in my bedroom… usually picturing the bitch’s bossy little face.

And the thing is, I have given in many a time. I have just done things her way in the past because it is easier than fighting. I have slowly and painfully lost my fire in Mozambique, and I consider her the culprit responsible. But if I had known it would have come down to this – my last 2 months in this house being an absolute fucking inferno of childish girl drama – I would have spiced up my feist with some real American sass and moved out long ago.

“She’s a real bitch!” Iraque exclaimed after the my cat fight with the enemy. But he pronounces bitch like “beeeeeeetch,” and it sounds so cute because his voice goes up at the end almost like he is asking a question. So all I can do is laugh.

And then, this week, the truth has come out, she can’t hide the belly any longer, she is pregnant.

“I knew it.” Iraque claimed. “At least she has an excuse,” commented another Peace Corps Volunteer. “Round house kick. Left jab. Left jab. Round house kick,” counsels my new friend Billy.

(NOTE: Let me just preface this with the fact that I wrote this last week, and everything is now back to quiet normality because the government responded by reducing prices… that is, all is back to normal except life with my roommate. Still a raving bitch.)

Well guess what, my living situation ie relation with a certain Mozambican roommate just exploded, as did the socio-political climate of Mozambique.

You might say merde bateu a ventoinha (shit hit the fan).

Let’s focus on the slightly more concerning political situation in Mozambique. Not that my relationship with my roommate is less important to me personally. But on the whole world scale of things, I suppose riots trump girl drama.

You may or may not have seen it on CNN. But to sum it up, a strike due to an increase in fuel, water, electricity, and bread(wheat) prices, turned into riots, turned into armed banditry and violent chaos in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. Journalists are calling it a “situation”. I would dub it pure mayhem. Then again journalists referred to “vandalism” of gas stations, when in fact I would say, from the images of a certain BP gas station that I have seen, that this so called vandalism falls more under the category of fiery explosion. But, let’s be honest, I highly doubt that “Free Press” exists in this country, so who knows who has their hands on the coverage of this “situation.”

All businesses have been closed in the city of Maputo, beginning 1Sept. On the 3rd a few reopened. These closures may be part of the organized strike due to the related increase in product prices, or just because people are too damn scared to leave their houses. Probably both. Anyway, the strike led to the blocking of streets with branches, blocks, and burning tires, and then the subsequent burning of mini-bus combis that weren’t observing the strike. This then turned into general riots throughout the city, as young people forced their way into closed businesses, leaving nothing except the images caught on tape by news cameras of hoards of seemingly crazed people scampering away with 17 buckets or 50lb sacks of rice balanced on their heads.

As of the September 2 evening news, 7 people were killed by the police including 2 children, one of which was shot directly in the head. How do you say police brutality in Portuguese? That is in addition to a number of other citizen on citizen attacks.

As a result, basically everything has come to a standstill. In the city, nothing is open, no one is working, no personal or public transport is entering or leaving the city (meaning my chicks that I ordered for my project are being held hostage in Maputo by the strike. Yet another delay in this seemingly un-finishable project). Loads of people are held up at the border with South Africa, unable or unwilling to make their way into the country (to do so you have to go through Maputo).

Riots, they say, have spread to other cities in my province, including Macia, Chibuto and Chokwe. But it seems significantly less serious than in the capital and I doubt will move further north. Ie I’m just fine here in my teeny tiny town. No need to worry. But another complaint people have had is that, although strikes and riots have taken place in other cities, including Beira, the 2nd largest city in the country and the stronghold of the opposition party, the news only ever mentions activity in Maputo. This could be due to the fact that a) the situation is significantly worse in the capital, or b) in my experience, Maputonions are often like Americans - they think the whole world revolves around them and see no need to leave their little sphere.

But thankfully, Chidenguele is actually ridiculously calm. Located right on the EN1 (I can literally see it from my house), normally there are streams of cars passing, heading north to Inhambane, Maxixe, Vilanculos and beyond. These last two days: nada. Not a semi, not a mini-bus, nothing. Just the occasional personal vehicle or Xai-Xai Chidenguele chapa (they are currently not observing the strike). The only indications here that anything is going on in the country is that every night at 8pm a swarm of teachers cram into my neighbor’s house to catch a few updates on the evening news and someone came to my school to encourage young people not to participate in the strike or to begin riots here. I concur with this man.

So what is the back story? I’ll tell it like it is from my perspective, as a foreigner living in Mozambique for about 2 years. The recent increase in fuel prices was a catalyst, which set an a population that was already unhappy, poorly represented politically, and dirt poor economically, over the edge. Also, as one of my more educated and worldly colleagues pointed out, one of Mozambique’s greatest problems is that most of the population is poorly or completely un-educated. In this case, the majority of the actual rioters are uneducated and unemployed young people, which may be a reason that this strike – Mozambicans have the right to strike/protest according to the Mozambican constitution – was poorly executed (ie it turned violent).

From my conversations with colleagues, observation of daily news reports, and personal experiences over the last two years, I understand the two main points of protest to be:

1. The government is raising prices on electricity and water (which are publically owned and run) and refusing to subsidize fuel costs, all without sufficiently raising salaries. Due to a lack of infrastructure, the majority of employed people in Mozambique work for the government. Of course, fuel price increases result in an increase in the price of basically all goods.

For example, Propane (what I use to cook with) last year was 470/tank, and now is 650/tank. Charcoal (what I also use to cook with because propane has gotten so expensive) used to be 100/sack and now is 180. Sugar has increased from 20/kg to 40. And what really gets me, the most outrageous increase, garlic has gone from 15mtn to 55mtn! Rice, a basic dietary staple in Mozambican society has increased from about 500/25kg to about 800/kg . I have never bought gasoline, so I can’t even speculate.

Now let’s look at your basic public employee salary. A secondary school teacher, with at 1-2 years of teacher training, makes about 6000 meticais per month. That is including about a few hundred meticais salarial increase beginning in April 2010 to account for inflation (as far as I can tell, you are strictly paid according to your station and training, and years with the government are not taken into account (meaning you could work as a teacher for 30 years and make the same as someone who started yesterday. But I might be poorly informed).

So I am just going to go out on a limb here and say you are generally looking at a 50-100% increase in prices of most products including the most basic necessities such as rice and bread, and a less than 10% increase in public employee salaries. This means that a significant portion of the Mozambican population is making less money (in terms of its spending power) now than they were last year. Another significant portion of the population is unemployed, or in a state of “absolute poverty” to use political buzz words. All of this is only compounded by the rapid de-valorization of the national currency (metical). I have no information on salaries in the private sector.

What does this mean for me personally? I quite literally make less money than I did last year when you convert my salary (paid in meticais) to dollars. Last year I made about 6100mtn (with an exchange rate of 28mtn:1USD), which was 214USD. With my 10% raise that went into effect this month, I currently make about 6800 meticais (with a 37mtn:1USD) which is 184USD… So basically, I don’t use garlic to cook, except to marinade fish. I don’t buy meat, I don’t buy yogurt, I have to light a charcoal stove every day because propane is too expensive, I don’t buy milk, I don’t buy apples, I rarely travel, and I have stopped putting non-dairy creamer in my coffee. My vice? Used clothing markets. Some habits you just can’t (and don’t really want to) kick.

What does it mean for most of the Mozambican population? Most importantly, they can’t buy rice to eat. And, just to put that point in perspective, the amount of rice consumed in this country rivals that of China. Every meal is some sort of “caril” which consists fish or vegetables in a tomato or coconut sauce, plopped on top of a whopping mountain-o-rice or xima (maize meal slop… which I find delicious). In terms of fuel, Mozambicans that don’t live in cities, scavenge for firewood to cook with. And, even if they have electricity or, on rare occasion in cities they have water, many can’t pay the bills. I just have this vivid memory of my mother in Namaacha always unplugging the refrigerator to save electricity and of course all the food died a humid rotting death.

2. The government increased the prices of water and electricity, blaming the international economic crisis, when in fact electricity and water are domestically produced and controlled. Water, somewhat obviously, comes from Mozambique. Usually pulled from nearby lakes, rivers, or straight up from the ground. Electricity is produced in huge quantities at the Cahora Bassa Dam in Tete province. This dam actually produces so much energy it is also exported to South Africa. It is unclear if the electricity is produced and refined in Mozambique, or if raw electricity is exported to South Africa to be refined for use due to a lack of industrial infrastructure in Mozambique. I don’t really know how electricity production works. Like can you just plug a light bulb into the dam? Or does the energy have to be processed before it can be used?

What really isn’t helping and might even be prolonging the “situation” is that much of the population, ie my colleagues that I talk too, feel that political officials are responding poorly and ineffectively. Rather, they are addressing the nation, but making no direct responses to the concerns or demands of the people.

This indirectness and evasive behavior leaves people to speculate about the fact that they are probably all profiting off the price increases. Whether or not this commonly held conspiracy theory is true, my colleagues have expressed their sense of a serious disconnect between the political officials of the party in power and the people of this country. Going back to the Cahora Bassa Dam. People don’t understand the energy price increase when energy is domestically produced. This lack of communication and transparency which seems to exist in all sectors of Mozambican government and society and creates a culture of corruption at all levels, in both the public and private spheres. I try to give lessons on creating transparency in my English Classes. The concept that my students, as citizens of this country, have a right to know basically everything and to complain about anything is difficult to transmit. Then again, they don’t have a problem complaining to me about my tests being too difficult. So maybe I’m getting somewhere.

“People are suffering and the president rides into the countryside with a caravan of 6 helicopters. He doesn’t know our reality, “ commented one of my colleagues.

So, in an ode to Jerry Springer, I will give my Final Thoughts on this issue:

I am honestly not too concerned about a national flare up. Mozambicans experienced horrific violence during their civil war which ended recently, in 1994. Maputo, however, was largely untouched by the guerilla fighting. Mozambicans are a peaceful people. The last thing they want is to return to a time of war and suffering and are, in my opinion, unlikely to follow the example of Maputonions. They want to be on the world scale. They have a sense of national pride and are trying to push their country forward. Although violence is sometimes still considered an acceptable form of punishment – you beat a thief for robbing you, you beat your wife for not obeying you, you beat your children for not behaving – these outdated mentalities are changing. For example, in my classroom of 54 9th grade students in semi-rural Mozambique, I asked, “does a father have a right to beat his wife?” about 20% responded yes, 20% responded no, and the other 60% just stared at me with blank eyes because a) they don’t know what they think or b) they have no idea what the fuck the English teacher just said.

And so, to sound Bush-y, democratic ideals, though still not entirely understood by the people, as can be seen in this strike gone bad, are taking root. Mozambique has a good heart. It just needs some time and some transparency.

“Maybe you should call us the cyclists, because bikers makes us sound a bit… well… intense.”Well maybe you should put on some leather pants and ride your hogs.

As I was cooking up a Tuesday morning gastric delight last week, I received a most interesting text message.

“We are cycling from Durban, South Africa to Kenya and we got your number from the Peace Corps Volunteers in Xai-Xai. We need somewhere safe to keep our bikes if you have some space.” Well, shoot, I love visitors and never get them (except Julia, who came twice. Raise the roof for Julia… but it appears my other friends aren’t too adventurous). So, anyway, of course these ambitious men in spandex can stash their bikes in my house… and maybe even stay a while. And then they rode up in zebra print bike jerseys and ratty converse “trainers”, and I knew I was receiving two little pieces of joy. And of course I thought of my mother who would have commented on their lack of sensible shoes. The project is called East Africa Cycle Against Malaria, and the leather-less biker boys are 23 year olds Pete and Tom from England. They actually grew up right near Norwich, where I lived for a year in college as I nursed my Virginia Woolf literary obsession in her homeland, which was a pleasant discovery as we chatted and they re-hydrated on my porch. Pete worked in the air force and now does something else with planes (forgive me Pete for forgetting exactly what!), and Tom is a paramedic taking a one year “Career Break.” Do they let you do that in other places/companies in the world? Say ‘oh sure, go ride your bike, your job will be waiting for you.’ I just remember being 17 and working at Nordstrom’s Rack, where my somewhat cantankerous manager wouldn’t allow me to go on a 5 day Family Vacation. I, of course, then had to quit and give up my nordies discount for 5 days crammed into the back seat of a sedan. Oh the horror (though I’m sure I loved the trip mom). So I am going to say it’s more common for bosses to say ‘you can stick your first born on the bike and throw it into the fucking inferno because your mine.’ But their cause is fantastic. Pete and Tom have been working to raise money to purchase and provide mosquito nets to families in Malawi, where they are scheduled to arrive next month. 100% of money raised goes to purchasing nets. This is a crucial step in lowering rampant rates of malaria infection, because sleeping under a $6 net at night drastically reduces a person’s risk of infection. It just doesn’t make sense that such high numbers of people, especially children, die of a disease that is preventable and treatable. So raise the roof to Pete and Tom. And maybe donate if you’ve got a few extra bucks. Sidenote: I tried to teach my students to raise the roof yesterday in class. Either the words don’t translate well or the dance really was just an unfortunate and internationally unappreciated blip in US history, because they just looked at me like the crazy white girl and refused to throw their hands up in the air and wave them like they just don’t care. Their lossIn the meantime, on their way to Malawai, “The Guys” as Iraque calls them, are peddling along the EN1, experiencing the inspiring Mozambican beaches , the eager Peace Corps Volunteers, and any other projects where they can lend a hand along highway.“So, were you big cyclists back home?” I enquired. “No, not really. We just did a few practice trips. Do you cycle?”

And then I hesitantly shared with them my disgust for bicycles and how I would rather walk 10 miles than get on a bike. Raise the roof for the Portland MAX train.

So, anyone and everyone, if you see the zebra topped, converse shoed, British cyclists rolling along the Mozambican Highway, wave hello, give em a hoot and a holler, and know that if you have an extra bed, these two lads are the most delightful houseguests. “Youre being too polite again!” I protested as Tom asked if they could perhaps have seconds at the dinner table. “Well, they say you can take the man out of England, but you can’t take the Englishman out of the man.”

Now raise the roof just because you love it.

“Maybe you should call us the cyclists, because bikers makes us sound a bit… well… intense.”Well maybe you should put on some leather pants and ride your hogs.

As I was cooking up a Tuesday morning gastric delight last week, I received a most interesting text message.

“We are cycling from Durban, South Africa to Kenya and we got your number from the Peace Corps Volunteers in Xai-Xai. We need somewhere safe to keep our bikes if you have some space.” Well, shoot, I love visitors and never get them (except Julia, who came twice. Raise the roof for Julia… but it appears my other friends aren’t too adventurous). So, anyway, of course these ambitious men in spandex can stash their bikes in my house… and maybe even stay a while. And then they rode up in zebra print bike jerseys and ratty converse “trainers”, and I knew I was receiving two little pieces of joy. And of course I thought of my mother who would have commented on their lack of sensible shoes. The project is called East Africa Cycle Against Malaria, and the leather-less biker boys are 23 year olds Pete and Tom from England. They actually grew up right near Norwich, where I lived for a year in college as I nursed my Virginia Woolf literary obsession in her homeland, which was a pleasant discovery as we chatted and they re-hydrated on my porch. Pete worked in the air force and now does something else with planes (forgive me Pete for forgetting exactly what!), and Tom is a paramedic taking a one year “Career Break.” Do they let you do that in other places/companies in the world? Say ‘oh sure, go ride your bike, your job will be waiting for you.’ I just remember being 17 and working at Nordstrom’s Rack, where my somewhat cantankerous manager wouldn’t allow me to go on a 5 day Family Vacation. I, of course, then had to quit and give up my nordies discount for 5 days crammed into the back seat of a sedan. Oh the horror (though I’m sure I loved the trip mom). So I am going to say it’s more common for bosses to say ‘you can stick your first born on the bike and throw it into the fucking inferno because your mine.’ But their cause is fantastic. Pete and Tom have been working to raise money to purchase and provide mosquito nets to families in Malawi, where they are scheduled to arrive next month. 100% of money raised goes to purchasing nets. This is a crucial step in lowering rampant rates of malaria infection, because sleeping under a $6 net at night drastically reduces a person’s risk of infection. It just doesn’t make sense that such high numbers of people, especially children, die of a disease that is preventable and treatable. So raise the roof to Pete and Tom. And maybe donate if you’ve got a few extra bucks. Sidenote: I tried to teach my students to raise the roof yesterday in class. Either the words don’t translate well or the dance really was just an unfortunate and internationally unappreciated blip in US history, because they just looked at me like the crazy white girl and refused to throw their hands up in the air and wave them like they just don’t care. Their lossIn the meantime, on their way to Malawai, “The Guys” as Iraque calls them, are peddling along the EN1, experiencing the inspiring Mozambican beaches , the eager Peace Corps Volunteers, and any other projects where they can lend a hand along highway.“So, were you big cyclists back home?” I enquired. “No, not really. We just did a few practice trips. Do you cycle?”

And then I hesitantly shared with them my disgust for bicycles and how I would rather walk 10 miles than get on a bike. Raise the roof for the Portland MAX train.

So, anyone and everyone, if you see the zebra topped, converse shoed, British cyclists rolling along the Mozambican Highway, wave hello, give em a hoot and a holler, and know that if you have an extra bed, these two lads are the most delightful houseguests. “Youre being too polite again!” I protested as Tom asked if they could perhaps have seconds at the dinner table. “Well, they say you can take the man out of England, but you can’t take the Englishman out of the man.”

Now raise the roof just because you love it.

Iraque and I spend many a Sunday afternoon watching Chidenguele’s semi-professional football (soccer) team take the sandy field in town. Unfortunately there are no fried candy bars or elephant ears. Just a lot of booze, cheer and, my favorite past-time, people watching.Well Iraque, as a true football lover, intently watches the games and shrugs off any of my ill-informed comments about who on the team is cute, who looks like an old man, who runs funny, etc. As I learned during world cup, one or two goals in 90 minutes just doesn’t do it for me. So, instead of watching the ball interminably bounce back and forth, from head, to foot, to hand, oops penalty, yelling, kick, out of bounds…. I get a load of the locals. I can’t help it.The seating is like that at any small high school grandstand. So in fact not very grand. I am going to call it a mid-sized stand. It’s basically cement stairs which serve as seats, about 8 steps high and stretching the length of the football field, with a few large tin panels above for shade/rain cover. In this mid-sized stand, there is the inevitable grand-stand effect. You know, the awkward, walk in front of the grandstand and try to look like you don’t care and don’t really see anyone. We have all done it. I did it many a time at HS basketball games. And let’s be honest, in the end, in trying to look like you don’t even care, you really just look like a too cool for school asshole.In Jr. High we used to go to the Banks High School football games. In a small farm-town, football is big-timing (even if the team wasn’t very good), so it was a veritable who’s who of cute boys and popular girls. So of course, we would make our rounds on the track, making sure to strut our what I now realize to be awkward teenager stuff past the masses of onlookers (who, let’s be honest, probably didn’t pay much attention to the gap-toothed thirteen year old girl in her prized Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt).So by watching the walkers and reading the ruckus, I have begun judgmentally stereotyping and categorizing the locals. Forgive me. There are the die-hard fans. Those are the horn blowers, drum beaters and general booty shakers. You know the background hum you heard on TV when you watched any World Cup match? Well imagine that right in your ear. And it isn’t a hum. It’s like a dying trumpet that makes you leap out of your seat anytime anyone blows it. At least all the gymnastic leaping keeps me on my toes, somewhat aware of the game, and stops me from drifting off into a people watching oblivion. Then there are the metro-sexuals. Do people still use that term? What makes a Mozambican metro-sexual? Big, tin (not real metal), embossed, eagle or flag or animal adorned belt buckles are involved. Jeans that may or may not be acid washed. Some fake leather, pointy, often white, perhaps cowboy boot inspired dress shoes. A button down that I personally think should be more thoroughly buttoned, or perhaps t-shirt that is tucked in. Usually the whole get-up is topped off with some badass aviators or other fake-chic sunglasses. But Caitlin, metro-sexual referred to a straight man with fashion instinct and a tad of feminine sensitivity. Well according to Mozambique’s unspoken fashion credo,” go cheap, go gaudy,” these men are chique de matar (dressed to kill). Also, what the above definition doesn’t account for is the schmoozer vibe. And these moz men are rocking their socks, and schmoozing the heck out of all the little ladies with their big buckles and their unbuttoned buttons. Of course, thanks to the influence of American rap music, there are the wanna-be gangsters. These are the boys that giant plastic chains with dangling 50 Cent logos around their necks, and when you introduce yourself they tell you their name actually is 50 Cent. As my mom used to say during the baggy pant trend, “You can see their panties!”Don’t forget the hoocher-coochers. These are the pretty little ladies in their discoteca gear, ie synthetic, super sequined, skank-tanks with leggings. Every time their team plays well, scores, or they are just feeling randy, they start workin their synthetically clad booties like hookers only wish they could. I am actually kind of jealous of the booty roll/bounce/shake moves they have on them. Although I just related these women to hookers, I should inject that hoochie in Mozambique is different than hoochie in America. A teeny, gaudy, shirt/dress with leggings, although semi-scandalous in rural Mozambique, doesn’t compare to the minis and heels that I have seen many a time at Thirsty Thursday baseball games. Nothing like 2 dollar drafts to get the 20-somethings out in masses. Note to Obama: sell cheap beer at the polls on election day. I guarantee minimum 99.7% turnout from the youngster crew. And oh list goes on, with the big beer belly dadies, and the baby-backed mammas. The drunken yellers and the quiet watchers. And then, the largest group of all… the little ones. As I have said many times, Mozambique is swarming with children. It makes sense, considering that half the population is under the age of 18. On a Sunday afternoon at the football field, all the babies come out. The fat little one in the white christening dress and hot pink underwear was my favorite last week. That, or the group of three Shakira impersonators doing their own rendition of Waka Waka, complete with a complex pelvic thrust/booty shake number. Most of the others just run back and forth in front of the mid-sized stand, skipping and jumping and playing and staring at people as they gleefully run amuck. And in the end, Chidenguele usually wins and a nice little Sunday comes to a close with a cold coke. Really, all that’s lacking is a big fat bratwurst and some cotton candy.

WARNING: TMI (too much information)

I may or may not have an amoeba. You'd think they would want to confirm that or something. But I am just happy to be highly medicated. Warning.

I may or may not have an amoeba. You'd think they would want to confirm that or something. But I am just happy to be highly medicated.

One month ago...

Chest pain, I must be having a heart attack or something. Oh wait, it only happens when I eat oranges. Shit, what am I going to do if I can't eat oranges? I mean, it's orange season, there aren’t really many other options.

A trip to the capital, an endoscopy, an ultimate walk of shame, diagnosis: a lesion in my esophagus, gastritis and possible bile reflux condition (my doctors don't seem to agree).

So although I was being treated, and my little lesion seemed to be healing up nicely (thanks to my diet of no fat, no acid, no carbonation, no alcohol and basically nothing delicious), but my tummy was a rumbling.

You might be phased if you looked down mid squat and realized that your poo was a strange shade of red. I however, blame it on the beets. Then again, you don't squat when you poo, so it's hard to make a comparison in general.

But the poo went from red, to yellow, to this is too much information I'm sorry. But FYI the consistency changed too... and let’s just say it wasn't getting firmer or less urgent.

And the stomach aches. Oh the stomach aches. I mean, I have always been a belly weakling. I cry nausea on a daily basis. But not nausea like this. This was debilitating, gassy to the point that I think I might be fired and my boyfriend might leave me, can't do anything but sit in bed nausea.

So I finally, after a month, decided it was time to check in with the doc.

And so I have spent the last week in the capital. Normally, a week in Maputo is a week of walking from here to kingdom come, eating ice cream everyday and rummaging through every used clothing vendor I can find for the latest wardrobe must have (my standards have dropped a little since living in the states... but then again I have always loved a good bargain find. And really, you can't beat a $1 mango sweater and some rip-off brand sexy skinnies).

But this week there was none of that. I was in bed, living on crackers and Gatorade, and trying (maybe not so successfully) not to poop my pants, and to collect "samples" of basically all bodily excretions. Yum.

The results. One doctor says it must be an intestinal infection. The other is crying amoeba. And they are both throwing meds at the problem. Hallelujah!

But I feel better already! So here’s to regular bowel movements and intestinal friends.

So although World Cup has been over for about a month, Mozambique is yet again just a little behind, and the Shakira anthem is just now really catching hold.

While roaming the used clothing market in Chimoio, in central Mozambique, fellow PCV Claire and I started a Shakira echo.

"saminamina" we sang.

"eh eh" the little boys selling used clothes sang back at us.

"waka waka" we continued.

"Eeeeeh eh" they rocked on.

And I am pretty sure we made it all the way through the chorus a few times as we wandered from booth to booth.

What does Waka Waka mean? Well I think it's Zulu, but honestly who cares. All I know is that in English, it means dance party.

This time for Africa.

13:00-22:00 BYOC (bring your own chair). For hours every day, all my school's male teachers are piled in front of the one and only television in the “neighborhood” wide-eyed and apparently mesmerized. Those that don’t own chairs, borrow mine because TV land is in my neighbor's house, sit on crates of beer/soda, sit on speakers, or sit on reed mats on the floor. I’m pretty sure that if it came down to it, they would happily sit outside in the dirt if it meant they could watch the game. During breaks, they are debating their favorite players (they know all their names!) and teams. Imagine 24 year old men discussing March Madness Basketball, but with less beer, a smaller TV, and a with Mozambican accent. That’s world cup in Mozambique. Though I enjoy (sort of) watching soccer, I can’t handle the testosterone permeated room. And honestly, who has time for 3 games a day? But the frenzy is on, and has been since game 1. But hey, at least it’s a good lesson in geography for Mozambicans. I am honestly amazed when people start debating Uruguay and Holland. Then again, I’m not sure many could actually point out either country on a map… though most Americans probably couldn’t either. Ok, so who do the Mozambicans support? (since the Mozambique Mambas might be the worst team in the world). Well, this is what I can make of the constant world cup chats that I hear going on around me. Mozambique was sad to see South Africa go so quickly. Not that Mozambique really loves South Africa, but South Africa is like Mozambique’s older, post pubescent sister. Though Moz is jealous of her older sister’s more developed body, she also wants to profit off her hips and boobs and maybe even go to work in her mines… Portugal , as a fellow Portuguese speaking country, was briefly considered, but quickly dropped… probably because a) they weren’t amazing, and b) I sometimes sense a slight resentment of the colonizing power. Brazil. Oh brazil. One might say that Brazil is Mozambique’s brother from another mother. “Honey, we lost,” cried Iraque. “Since when are you from Brazil?” I barked back cold heartedly. And then there was Ghana. If South Africa is Mozambique’s older, post-pubescent sister, Portugal let’s say is Mozambique’s bossy white step-father, and Brazil is Mozambique’s brother from another mother, then Ghana is … well this family tree is getting too complicated. But Ghana really was the hope for Africa. During the USA v. Ghana game, one of my students turned to me and said, “It’s us against you, and we are winning.” And so they were. Speaking of Africans, it would appear that many a white South African is jumping ship. I would too. The noise. The tourists. The banditry. No thank you. As a result, I can just sit on my porch on any given day, look out over the national highway, and see armored SUV after armored SUV, massive boat after massive boat, ZA sticker after ZA sticker (I think ZA are the initials for South Africa in Afrikaans), as the whiteys pour into their neighbor-land to fish and flash their big fat bellies and post-pubescent boobies on her beaches. Just like a waving flag. And then it goes back… Oh oh ooh oh oooooh.

Oh how I crave white linen pants. As the lovable brit Rupert Ray once said, “They are my colonial pants.” Well, I am not exactly colonizing anyone. But there is something to be said for that ‘it’s really fing hot outside but I am not worried because I am wearing white linen pants and thus I’m experiencing flowing glowing glory’ look. I even have the perfect long, beige shells adorned with a mondo amber stone masterpiece, necklace that I bought from a Kenyan artist, to accessorize my dream threads. Well I have been in Maputo for a week, and guess what… No luck. What have I discovered during my days in the bustling, muddy, rude, sometimes swanky, metropolis that is Maputo? Three girls singing a capella Lady Gaga. “Gaga Ooh LaLa...” A man with a crater in his head the size of a golf ball. No puss, no blood, just a big bore hole. Men pee on the trees that are scattered along the sidewalk. I passed 3 men within 1 block peeing on different trees… and one was a police man. It is socially acceptable in the city to wear leggings instead of pants… but it does provoke more male attention. KFC makes an amazing chocolate sundae. I will never try their chicken. On principle. My friend Laura didn’t know what a Vegan was. “I am from the south. Everyone I know eats meat.” The hotel maid forced me to clean my converse before leaving. Ok, she didn’t exactly knife me or anything. But she was in the room cleaning as I was heading out, and she asked accusingly “You aren’t going to clean your shoes before you leave the hotel? Go ask the other maids for a rag to clean your shoes. “ “OK,” I caved, and sulked off to find a rag. “Give us those shoes right now so we can wash them!” “No no, I need my shoes to walk. Maybe later. But can I have a rag.” And so sat in my socks under the judging eyes of the Mozambican maids, silently brooding and wiping my tennis shoes. Although the city makes me go broke, if I was a real life American with dollas it would be quite reasonable. For example, today I bought an entire frozen chicken, a big box of bran flakes, a pound of hamburger meat and a can of diet coke for like 8 bucks. How much would that be in the states? At least double. Delightful Thai food. Although, apparently, if you don’t ask for rice, they don’t give it to you. Found that out the hard way when I got back to the hotel, excitedly opened up my shrimp in a basil chili sauce, and found myself rice-less. Massive grocery stores are Mecca, and one(I) can wander the isles for hours in complete rapture. 99% of all stores in Maputo are called “King of (insert name of product here)”. For example: King of Jeans, King of Phones, King of Keys, etc. Maputo has a fashion week. And it was this week. And I, apparently a naked mole rat, missed it. But despite my week of further cultural enlightening and minor revelations, I continue to yearn for the flowing glowing glory of white linen pants.

Walk of Shame: The morning trek home after a night out; wink wink the implication is that you slept at someone elses house ie hooched it up; a true walk is adorned with some sort of sequined top or minidress, high heels, and sleep smudged black eyeliner. (in some cases it might involve a little green flowy, booby, brintey spears inspired top that you don’t change out of before meeting your parents for breakfast. Not to name names. Kristen.) But the ultimate walk of shame my friends, I have redefined as the lonely, stumbling, drooling walk home while still recovering from general anesthetic. I have been lucky enough to make this walk twice during my time here in Mozambique. The first, after my sneak attack cyst removal surgery. My doctor had told me it would be a simple procedure with local anesthetic. Then I arrived, and next thing you know I was topless, IV in hand, and falling asleep. This time, it was my first endoscopy, but at least I knew the anesthetic was coming. Dose 1, not enough. “OK, give her another. This girl just doesn’t want to sleep” Dose 2, I was awake long enough to realize they were rolling me on my side and then I was out like a trout. I woke up just in time to experience the doctor pulling the endoscopy scope out of my mouth, and stick some paper towels in my hand so that I could wipe up the mucus that was spouting out of my mouth. They were purple paper towels. “Where do you get purple paper towels?” I thought to myself. Well, I don’t really remember the scope coming out and the purple paper towels, but I remember remembering them. If that makes any sense. Like I was awake enough to know that it was happening but it’s all a little hazy and dreamlike because I was still dopey. As is the walk home. Praise the lordy I wasn’t mugged or something. After waking up (sort of) all I wanted to was lie in the puddle of my own mucus and drool on myself while clutching my ineffective purple paper towels. But Dr. Little Miss Pushy pulled me up out of bed, “ok, lets go, time to get up,” and semi-carried me to the waiting room where she plopped me down right next to all the swanky white clients waiting for their appointments. Well, I might have been drugged, but I could tell that the little scraggly drooling volunteer in the corner was a little out of place in swankville. I mean, I wouldn’t want to get my mucus on their Gucci or anything, so I sort of launched myself out of the chair, mumbled an “Ok, I think I can go now,” in what I think was Portuguese, but it very well could have been English or gibberish, and stumbled down the stairs out of swankville. I remember feeling awfully proud to not have fallen down the stairs on my way out, and for the rest of the walk concentrated on picking up my feet, counting my steps, and trying not to vomit. I made it to the Peace Corps office in what felt like a few hours, with no face-plants and no vomiting. And then promptly collapsed on the couch and fell asleep. Two walks of shame down. Go for the hat trick?

My hypothesis (Do not eat rotting meat) though a catchy phrase, was in fact wrong… sort of. Procedure: · Remove the massive hunk of bone, meat, and cow butthole from the freezer.· Let cow products sit for about 30 minutes to defrost just enough that you can saw at them with a knife, but not long enough that the smell and flies multiply exponentially.· Take a massive knife, and begin to saw.· During your sawing, first attempt to remove rotting parts.· Identify rotting parts by locating any orange goo or brownish grey meat.· If you at any point question if the level of rot is edible, smell the meat. If you can stomach the reek, you can stomach the beef.· Get in there and saw that beef down to the bone.· Once you get elbow deep, there should be some delightfully ruddy chunks.· Throw away the cow butthole when your boyfriend/husband isn’t looking.· COOK THOROUGHLY ALL BEEF BEFORE EATING!!!· Enjoy your meal.· Prepare toilet paper in case of subsequent diarrhea (Although, in my experiment, I did not experience this outcome, you can’t be too careful when it comes to diarrhea). And to think, as a teenager I wouldn’t touch raw meat. Not even chicken. When forced to lend a hand to my mother’s culinary endeavors, I would put zip-lock bags on my hands before handling the peculiarly firm but gooey raw protein of choice. I miss tofu.

Hypothesis: Do not eat rotting meat. I am not sure what is more a kick in the pants for Iraque, the idea of losing almost 300 meticais (the value of the meat), or losing 3 kilos of juicy, tender, we never eat it, prized possession, I am so manly, beef. “The beef is rotting honey. Can we really eat it?” “We will eat it.” How did I end up with the three kilos of rotting beef that are now stinking up my freezer? (Who knew rotten meat still smelled once frozen?) “They killed a cow in Madendere. I told someone to keep 3 kilos for me and now I’m catching a chapa to go pick it up. Do you want to come?” Iraque gasped with glee as he ran into my house. “Um, ok, I guess so,” I responded. I wasn’t so enthused about the beef, but pumped to buy some tangerines and bananas in the village of Madendere which about 10K north of Chidenguele, and seems to always be significantly more stocked than Chidenguele with the latest fruit in season. But this is where the trouble began, because it was already 5:30pm, the sun was setting, and there was a serious lack of transport. After many phone calls, failed attempts by Iraque’s meat hookup to send the 6.6 pound plastic bag of beef via chapa to Chidenguele, and our own inability to catch a car, a solution was reached. “ Can you ask one of the little stores there to put the bag of meat in their freezer over night and we will get it in the morning.” “Yes, the store says they can, no problem.” I had been suggesting this solution for about 30 minutes, but of course the men couldn’t listen to my sensible reasoning. When will they learn… And then the beef arrived via a student the next morning at 10am. And it hadn’t been refrigerated. I was in the bedroom, preparing myself mentally for the painful ritual of winter bathing in a drafty, outdoor, bath stall, when Iraque called me to the veranda. “Honey come to see!” What wonder could await me? The woman that sells fish? The man that sells honey? Some other mysterious delight? Oh no, it was just a cooler with a big beef bone clothed in a few tidbits of meat, what appeared to be the cow’s butthole, and a train of flies following the rancid poo smell. So here’s the crux of my experiment, if you cook it long enough, can you eat beef that’s gone bad?

WARNING: Though I have become a wise, learned,insightful, integrated, seasoned... (basically I am wonderful) Peace Corps Volunteer, this post was written in the heat of frustration, and is a gross generalization of Mozambican culture, manners, and all that jazz. Perhaps I am just a blabbering old hippie. I mean, I do run around my classrooms throwing discipline out the window and encouraging love, free thinking, and the questioning of authority. Next thing you know we will be making field trips out to hug coconut trees. But I miss the old days of eccentrically taste budded compatriots, where there was always someone that liked the burned piece of chicken skin, the heel of the bread loaf, the skin of the potato, or the extra crispy french fry. (I myself am the potato skin girl... not like the dish which involves fried potato skins with bacos, I am certainly NOT the bacos girl, I prefer to avoid chemically engineered meats. I'm talking about the skin of the baked potato. Put a little cottage cheese or chili on that thing and yuuuuuuu-meeeeeeee. ) Despite the immense heterogeneity of dance, music, traditions, religion, ethnic groups, standards of living, etc in this country, Mozambicans – to inappropriately stereotype a massive country – suffer from a fear of the new and different. Now I am not really talking about xenophobia, or a rejection of globalization and development. Come on, the love of Lil Wayne and Celine Dion in this country proves that Mozambicans aren't exactly afraid of other countries or cultural influences in an obvious way. Really, I am talking more about a one, singular, universal, If you don't know you are silly and must be taught, way of doing things. For example, all potatoes are peeled. There shall be no skins eaten. Ever. Everyone has the same bucket systems. Everyone washes their clothes and dishes the same way. Everyone makes rice, cuts pineapples, and prepares tomato sauce in the same manner. Ok, I am exaggerating, some people are rebels and don't peel and de-seed tomatoes when they make salad. But that is a rarity. There is also a wide-spread fear of diarrhea which I think provokes this need to peel, deseed and overcook everything. It's a legitimate fear, but I am pretty sure your diarrhea has less to do with the manner in which you cook your veggies, and more to do with dirty water and a certain lack of hygiene (ie not using soap to wash the raw fish covered bowl, and using the dirty rag, the dirty bucket, and the dirty water to wash both the floor, the table and the inside of MY refridgerator. Also, one time my roommate put sand on our table because it has a dip in the middle which allows water to collect. I am pretty sure buggy sand is worse than water. I mean really, why didn't you just wipe the darn thing. But again, who am I to teach you any lessons. ) Forget deliciously crunchy tidbits of burned skin, your chicken can't even have griller marks without being dubbed the black sheep and socially ostricized. It isn't beautiful. Good thing you don't have a visitor because you couldn't serve that chicken to them. I hate social rules. Thus I have one thing to say to you Mozambique: If I am giving you something, shut up, take it, and act grateful. Initially Iraque didn't understand my ways, and insisted on evaluating every meal I cooked for him. You didnt boil it long enough. I prefer not to eat limp, flavorless, overcooked veggies thank you. Good but not enough salt. Go drink the ocean then. You cut the potatoes wrong. Are you kidding me? The rice isn't fluffy enough. I'll fluff your rice bucko. There is some seasoning in this that isn't right. Care to be more specific? It's good, but it isn't beautiful. You aren't beautiful. It's ok, you're still learning. Please, since you are a horrible cook, do enlighten me. But after a few lessons, he has learned. If you want me to cook everyday, shut up and eat it. Better yet, throw in a compliment now and then. Now, I leave you with one little tidbit to ponder, lets call this the Mozambican riddle: Why is it worse to get soap in the drinking water than it is to get raw fish juice in the drinking water? If you know the answer please let me know because I still don't understand my roommates angry, haranguing, logic.

And whoever's it is needs to drink more water because man is it sme-lly. My casa de banho (bathroom) is a little house made of cement with two stalls, sheltered by a tin roof. Each compartment has its own little opening in the cement, ie there are no actually doors/locks and anyone or anything could walk in at any time. The stall on the left is the shower, which is a shower without the shower if you get what I mean. It is a cement closet with one block to put your bucket of bath water on, and a slightly inclined floor which channels all the bath water runoff into a little hole in the back left corner. The stall on the right, is the latrine which is a very not-fancy hole in the ground with a cement lid that has a small hole in the middle which one squats over to do his or her business. Mozambican rule of thumb – the latrine is for #2, and the shower is for bathing and xi-xi (pee). My rule of thumb – I don't like to bathe where I pee and if I squat over cement, pee ricochets off the floor and all over my feet. So to my surprise, as I entered the shower on Saturday with my bucket of warm water in hand, there it was. I began to step softly, dancing around the dried dribbles, trying not to breathe too deeply, and quickly deciding not to remove my flip-flops for this bath. And so I poured/splashed water on myself with a level of speed and precision like never before, hoping the water would lessen the wafting wee. No such luck. So I covered myself with a capulana, poured my remaining bath water over the uriny floor, in a last ditch effort to limpar, and semi-cleanly retreated to my house. “Did you pee in my shower? Because I just took a 2 minute bath then had to run in fear from the smell.” “Yes.”“Ok ,well at least I know the source and wasn't washing in a stranger's dribble-drabble.” But then, today, there was the pungent pee again. And it was stronger and stranger and not my boyfriend's. And so the mystery of the malodorous xi-xi continues...

Once again exaggerating, as you might suspect considering the fact that you didnt hear about any major hurricanes hitting the mozambican coastline. Although I exaggerate the technical class of the storm, let me just tell you, I have now had two running from the chapa to my house in a terrential downpour experiences.

All in all I love the rain. Not even because I am an Oregonian and it rains there about 9 months our of the year so I better like the rain or I would be semi-suicidal. Really, its because I can put buckets outside, catch the rain, and thus not have to carry water or send students to do it for me. Ca-tching! Free water.

However, rain has a time and a place. And unpaved roads are not the place.

The first incident, I was coming home from Maputo, was barely surviving the most uncomfortable chapa ride of my life (which is quite an accomplishment), and was a bit preoccupied with my melting frozen chicken – not a good choice to buy in Maputo before a 5+ hour wait +ride, but it is like 50 meticais cheaper in Shoprite then in my town.

And I am honestly so poor that my only choices are to carry melting chicken long distances or live a meatless existence.

So there we are, about ten minutes from my house, on a still unpaved road, and the downpour hits. Great. Little white girls stop. Grab your big bag, little purse, and soggy chicken, climb over the goat, step on the grandma, and hop out of the bus into the big, fat, rushing, dirty water. Thanks.

I hit the dirt and ran. As I bounded into my house, dirty, dripping and generally befuddled, my roommate simply looked up and broke out an a great big laugh. Big drippy white girl with her chicken.

Second incident, today, Xai-Xai, REDES conference, coming back to the hotel (about 10k from the city, on the beach), the quasi-hurricane commenced. Like to the point that the taxi (yes, I learned this weekend that there are actual taxis in Xai-Xai), stopped multiple times, hazard lights flashing, because of low or should I no visibility.

No problem, although the driver kept rolling down my window like half way leaving my dodging driblets. And then the dirt road to the hotel was flooded and the cab couldn't continue. Through an exorbitant amount of money at the little old taxi man, and ran. Arriving dirty, dripping, and with my clothes inappropriately plastered to my body. Sexy.

All in all, lesson learned: carry rubber boots and a wader suit with you at all times. Although I suppose that unfortunately isn't super realistic.

"Do they have Matapa in America? Like is it common to go to a restaraunt and see Matapa on the menu?"

Matapa basically consists of finally pounded greens (like collard greens, but without that bitter-ish taste. Instead the Moz greens actually sort of taste like Marijuana).

The pounded greens are boiled for an hour or two, until soft and tender for eating. Then a heck of a lot of ground raw peanuts are added, and the milk of one or two coconuts.

Considering it is Mozambique, the peanuts are not in fact ground, but hand pounded. First, the little Mozambican woman gets out her pilao, which looks like a giant wooden vase, and adds her kilo or so of raw peanuts along with a cup of rice to absorb excess peanut moisture. Then, she takes a stick, or rather a giant wooden rod, which, when placed upright on the ground would reach to about her breasts. In reality though, she would never place her rod on the ground unless she really likes sand in her food.

To pound the peanuts, the woman thrusts the rod up, and forces it to plummet down into the vase of peanuts, ocassionally using a wicker sifter to separate the finely ground peices from those still needing more battering.

To make coconut milk, the little Mozambican woman opens the coconut (usually by banging it on a rock), drains/drinks the water that is inside, and shaves the meat from the inside using a relador. The relador is basically a little wooden stool with a metal blade nailed to one end for shaving coconut into coco pulp. She then soaks the meat for a few minutes in hot water, before massaging out the creamy white milk and straining the pulp. The result is a thick, sweet, coconut milk (like you can buy in a can in America. But better.)

The matapa simmers with the milk, ground peanuts plus some salt, powdered msg filled chicken stock, and one chopped onion for another hour or two. Finally, after about half a days worth of work and a serious upper-body workout, vooala, green goop ready to plop on rice and eat.

You can make basically any leafy vegetable in the same manner - Pumpkin leaves are my personal favorite, but you can also use sweet potato leaves, black eyed pea leaves, etc.

Ok, but lets be honest. I don't pilar. So my peanuts are pounded for me, as are the matapa leaves. But I grind that coconut like it's nobody's business. Seriously, make yourself a coco grinding stool and try it, you will break a sweat and notice mysterious biceps appear after finishing a few cocos.

So no, we certainly don't have Matapa in America. In fact, Mozambique's prized cuisine seems limited only to this country. And in the end, I am ok with that. Not that I don't enjoy the creamy green slop. But really, it's like the work equivalent of cooking an entire thanksgiving dinner including pie, but not as tasty.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life...

Or that's what I kept telling myself today as I was elbow deep in fish guts. But for fish tacos made with homemade tortillas, fresh guacamole, and fish straight off the beach, I can certainly handle an hour with my hands mushing around in innards and smelly fish poo.

But in reality, I have good news! My small proposal to begin a chicken project has been approved, and we are just tying up loose ends ie opening a bank account, signing forms, etc, before we can get at it.

The project is an income generating effort. The association that I work with, Associacao Viva Vida (Live Life Association) will be raising and selling chickens to the Chidenguele community as a means of income to support the association.

Ok, when I say support the association, I am exaggerating. Lets face it, the chicken business isn't ridiculously lucrative. But the principle focus of the project in its initial phase is providing food baskets to AIDS orphans in the community. The baskets will contain such essentials as dry beans, rice, oil, etc. To help these children meet their most basic needs.

It might not be something you thought of the moment you read my simple description of the project, but there is one HUGE flaw to this heartwarming gesture of feeding AIDS orphans. DEPENDENCY. Lets face it, hand out programs are impossible to sustain, and these kids will learn to expect a big basket of free food every month.

But think of it like disaster relief efforts. After a hurricane, food and supplies are rushed to the affected areas to help meet affected populations most basic needs in order to survive. These are children, living alone, with no money, education, or means of supporting themselves. The idea is that we are bringing in relief to satisfy an immediate need, because when you are starving and have little or no financial or emotional support network, you aren't really capable of benefiting from educational and skill-building activities.

The project will then grow from this not so sustainable stage, to incorporating the orphans in the association, training them to work at the chicken coop, in the association's farm, as community HIV educators, or providing them with other skill-building workshops. So worry not critics of international development work, sustainability is on the horizon for my little project here in Chidenguele.

Oh, did I ever mention that the significantly larger, $14,000 grant for the same association was approved last year? Did I mention that this same grant fell through the cracks, and I was told all I could do was resubmit the darn thing because the man that approved the grant ran off with US grant money?

Well out of the blue yesterday, a nice woman at the embassy called to tell me that she has my grant paperwork ready to be signed so we can proceed with the transfer. What do you know! Things are looking up for these orphans over here.

Lets start with the ants. Those little rascals. My house has been ant crazy these days. Hortencia, my roommate says it means it is going to rain. And to give some credit to her divination, it has been raining. But then again, it is the rainy season so it basically rains at least a drizzle or two every day.

Regardless, there is a pretty constant ant occupation of my house. But about once or twice a month it turns to all out war. I have decided that they must be gathering to lay eggs, because I encounter thousands upon thousands of ants, each carrying little white things which I can only assume are larvae, as they swarm under my water barrel, in my basket, or, in this most unfortunate case, under my bed.

Well, I don't in fact have a bed. Rather, I sleep on a foam mattress on top of a reed mat on the floor. I am usually pretty protected from buggers such as mosquitoes, cockroaches, spiders, etc, because I basically swathe my “bed” in mosquito netting, carefully tucking it in under my reed mat. However, these ants are teeny tiny and I am pretty sure can pass right on through the net. That, and it wasn't superbly tucked on the wall side last night... and that is how they got me.

The swarm was laying their larvae under my mat, and then swarming over me and biting my neck as I slept. I felt little things crawling on me, but assumed it was just one of many lariam (my anti-malarial med) hallucinations/dreams. Only once I woke up at 6am did I realize that yes, in fact, everything from my pillow to my toes was crawling in mini ants. Jerks. They didn't even touch Iraque.

However, I shouldn't complain, because the night before, Iraque was beaten with a shovel. He wins.

“Honey, do I have a mark on my back? Is it swollen?”

“Yeah, what happened?”

“I was just beaten with a shovel.”

“WHAT?!”

Emidio, another teacher at our school, and Iraque's neighbor in his little reed duplex, had ordered one of his students that was causing trouble to dig a new trash hole up by Emidio's house because, naturally, hard labor is used to punish most offenses at our school (and I think most others schools too). The student, angry at having toiled in the hot sun for hours digging sand, had returned that night with two friends and was proceeding to re-shovel sand back into the hole. Well Iraque happened to pass the group mid-action, and managed to see through the blackness that something was amiss.

Realizing what was happening, Iraque took off after the little hooligans. He managed to catch one, tackling him on the ground. Then, having no intention to hurt the boy, Iraque was quite surprised when the little brat called his friends back, and one returned, shovel in hand, and beat him across the back. Cringing with the blow, Iraque quickly released the seized suspect, allowing them both to swiftly scamper away.

“This kid will fail this year. And I might even go to the police.”

“Well, maybe, but I am just glad he didn't split your skull considering it was pitch black dark outside. Lucky.”

Hitchhikers Rule Number 1: Remember that peeing into or behind a bush on the side of the road is almost always more pleasant then using a public bathroom. But, bumpy roads and full bladders are a painful combination, so go when you get the opportunity. (Ladies might want to travel with a capulana handy to drape over your bare hieney while you squat.

Thinking I might run into trouble getting home on a Sunday, and because lets face it I naturally wake at the crack o dawn these days, I headed out of Barra Beach, on the coast outside Inhambane city, at about 7 am this morning. But to my delight, things kept rolling in my favor.

About 10 minutes into my 25 minutes trek to the chapa stop, I managed to wave down a nice man in a rickety truck in hopes of getting a ride to the city. He said he could take me as far as the turnoff to Tofo beach for ten mets. It was a tad pricey, but having little other hopes of getting out of Barra aka the deserted paradise, and knowing that Tofo gets a lot of traffic and I would easily get a ride from there, I hopped in the back and held on tight.

The best way to ride in an open back truck is to sit all the way down in the bed with your back preferably against the cab, or sit on the side ledge. The worst place to sit? On top of the wheel well. However, this rusty little Toyota circa 1972 had water puddles in the bed and I was wearing my low-rise jeans. So, in order to avoid wet bum and butt crack show to the world, I was doomed to the wheel well. So there I sat, as the seemingly shock-less truck violently trundled along the unpaved road,

clutching my straw hat as it tried to escape in the wind and cringing as the side of the bed beat me into submission.

After arriving and hopping/limping out at the turnoff, I immediately waved down another ride. This time I was within a closed, air-conditioned vehicle. Amazing. They were a South African family, that lives in Barra because the father is a contractor working to build a lodge on the beach. On this delightfully sunny sunday morning they had turned up the christian tunes and were on their way to church in the city, and were nice enough to let the little white girl with the straw hat and possibly broken back join their trio.

So getting to Inhambane turned out to be a little painful, but relatively quick and easy. Now the hard part, how the heck do I get out of the city and to my home? I checked the market just to see if there was a Maputo chapa ready and waiting to leave within minutes. Nope. There seemed to be not a single passenger headed down south. Plan B: hitchhike.

Well, hitching is actually Plan A, because its cheaper/free and usually safer. But, it requires patience, and a little travel savvy.

The hard part about hitchhiking from Inhambane City is that it isn't on the EN1 (estrada nacional 1 aka national highway), and thus there isn't a large flow of passing traffic going long distances.

To hitch north, your best bet is to cross the Inhambane Bay by ferry to Maxixe. As you squeeze off the ferry in Maxixe, you will make your way up to the main road. This main road is in fact the EN1 or Mozambique's hitchhiking mecca. It is best to walk north on the EN1 until you are out of the center of town where there is less local traffic. Then its just a matter of waiting and waving a car down.

Only today have I learned the secret to traveling south out of Inhambane. Yes, there are a few small gas stations in the city, and you can hit those up to see where travellers are headed. I, however, have never had luck with this, and today was no execption

Instead, I caught a chapa in the market to Lindela (20 mets). This is a little village situated precisely where you turn off the EN1 to go to Inhambane. Small towns are perfect hitching spots because there are slow speed limits, most traffic that passes is traveling a sizable distance, and the little backpacker on the side of the road looks semi-desperate amid the women selling coconuts. They can also be good places to stock up on snacks like fruit and cashews... however Lindela specifically is a little barren. I took advantage of the opportunity to buy cheap coconuts, but your average traveler wouldn't opt for the heavy cargo... or really have any need to buy 25 coconuts.

After only about 10 minutes of chatting with the coconut ladies and listening to the crazy man talk at me in bitonga (the local dialect in the region) I was able to flag down a car. Two men in a sedan going to Maputo: “Oh sorry, you have too much stuff, I dont think it will all fit. Sorry.”

Damn those coconuts.

But only minutes later a black South African that works for a natural gas company in northern Inhambane province threw my coconuts in the back of his beautiful Toyota circa 2010 truck, and we were flying in style towards home. Glorious.

Lets talk about rain storms and small bladders. You have probably never really thought that there was a connection there. I am here to tell you, there is.

Not just rains storms really. Lets also talk about night time, no outside lights, and the need to wee.

What do they all have in common? They have driven me, at night, to pee in a bucket inside my house.

It isn't actually as strange as it might sound. In fact my roommate takes a bacia into her bedroom every night so as to avoid the midnight trek to the squat pot. However, I have long warded off succumbing to the pee bucket. For one, it is kind of gross to pee in a bucket and then proceed to take a bath using that same receptacle. And after all, I am a full grown adult with good bladder function control. I shouldn't be pissing in a bacia in my kitchen at 3am.

And even now, on nights where the moon is full, it isn't raining, and Iraque is sleeping over and can thus oversee that I don't get stolen by random men on my way to the potty (or at least could potentially hear me if I screamed), I use my outdoor latrine to relieve my seemingly very small bladder. But all of these factors probably occur together about once a month.

I never realized what a difference the moon makes. When there is a full moon, everything glows with a sort of dark luminescent white light. Honestly, its like the palm trees are swaying in magic dust. However, the day after a full moon, there is nothing but thick, enveloping, pitch black, scariness. That just doesn't do when it comes to midnight calls of nature.

The solution? Well I tried waking up Iraque every time I felt my bladder swell and making him walk me to the toity. But I just felt like a burden doing that. So, I have shamefully resorted to weeing in a bacia in my kitchen, and just making sure to thoroughly cleanse the bucket with soap and water before using it to bathe. But I think I need to purchase a pee exclusive bucket, because I still somewhat irrationally feel like I am bathing in my own tepid urine.

Last night I experienced a rain storm, pitch black darkness, small bladder incident. Unfortunately Iraque woke up a few minutes after me, thanks to his own urges and walked in on me squatting over my bucket. I looked up like a deer in the headlights, or like a little girl caught eating poo out of the litter box (not that I ever did that, but I certainly loved to pee outside. I honestly think that as I child, I peed more in my back yard then in a toilet.), embarrassed and a little ashamed to be spotted in the compromising position, with my white apple bottom bum exposed as I hovered over a bacia with the sound of my stream loudly ricocheting off the plastic.

He didn't even look twice. Just kept walking right on out to pee in a bush. Now that's love.

Although the majority of Americans, including myself, would basically never even think of stopping to pick someone up on the side of the road in the states, over here it has become our most used form of transport. Why?

For one, it is safer. That sounds strange, as hitchhiking is usually associated with weird serial killers that get in someones car and then kill them at a rest area on the side of the highway in Wyoming or something.

In Mozambique, however, hitching seams to be the safest mode of transport for those sans a personal vehicle for one main reason: seatbelts. An accident in a chapa would quite possibly leave me with one leg and a heck of a head injury, perhaps burning wherever I landed on the side of the road after being thrown from the mini-bus.

Also, hitching is faster. Just think of the difference in taking the bus to work or driving yourself. The same is true here. It seems like Chapas stop at every single coconut tree.

And finally, hitching is more comfortable. Instead of a chicken between your legs, smelly fish under your seat, and a baby on your lap in an sweaty, crammed, dusty chapa, boleias are often air conditioned with leg room. That being said, many a free ride is offered in the back of a truck. Every traveler has to decide their car standards/level of desperation for themselves.

So while hitching can be an optimal mode of transport round these parts, there are a few tidbits I have learned that make the experience just that much more simple/pleasant.

Things to remember when hitching in the Moz:

boleia mean lift or free ride in Portuguese

If the person wants you to pay, in my experience, they will tell you before you get in.

Boleias are usually free, but truck drivers often make you pay

If the ride isn't free, it at least costs less then a chapa

patience is the key. A ride is almost ALWAYS faster then public transport... and safer, and more comfortable.

If the ride isn't faster, it is probably because the driver stops and buys you lunch or takes you to his house and feeds you his mothers grilled pork dinner (well worth arriving in Maputo 3 hours late)

Perhaps men pay for rides more often then women. However, I permit no whining, because if fending off unwanted sexual advances was a currency we would be paying millions.

I try to scope out the level of creepiness of the driver in order to avoid rides with uber creepers. However, they seem to be few and far between... maybe they just don't own cars.

I personally don't ride alone with truckers. I mean they have a bed in the cabin of their vehicle, that just seems like it could easily go wrong.

Rule Number 37: Play like a champion

Perhaps to say that I am referring to Bi-Polar Disorder in the clinical sense would be an exaggeration. I am thinking more along the lines of my own oscillating sense of euphoria/disgust with Mozambique, Mozambicans, and life in general. But there is some scientific fact behind my ramblings. PC medical actually gives you a chart when you go through training showing the psychological ups and downs you will go through during your service . I have never been too online with the chart. I think that my fluctuations are more daily. Today I hate. Today the sky has opened and rays of gloriousness are shining down on my life. Today CAUTION: will cry at the drop of a hat. Today Mozambique is paradise. Today I'm sick, fuck you. Etc. Iraque has learned to tell when I am in fuck you funk and keeps his distance. But since the day to day is sort of crazyness and difficult to follow, let me try to trace my general phases: It is pretty safe to say that I hated Mozambique and my life here in general for about the first 6 months of service. But I think that is normal for Peace Corps Volunteers. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself. At the time it didn't seem so. Even during training, all the volunteers seemed so remarkably ok. “Oh no, I am not worried, I love Mozambique, this is what I have always wanted to do, I am so rugged...” Liars. Why did I hate it? Teenagers are little ungrateful bitches, Mozambicans are nosy and consider me a crazy incompetent zygote (people questioning my physical or mental capacity is my biggest pet peeve EVER), life is dirty, and I was working like a dog. Yes I had a larger work load then other volunteers, and on top of that I had no idea what I was doing. Teaching classes of 60 kids that are all about my age, and me being the little white girl with a bundle of enthusiasm but little/no training= exhaustion. As a result, I spent about six months proclaiming how I loathed teaching - though always loved my students even though they were pains in my booty - cursing my roommate, her 2395239578042 visitors, and her general bossy-ness, and finding my only solace in a local man, tropical fruits and pristine beaches. And then it all took a turn for the better. My roommate realized that I wasn't a completely inept heathen child, probably in large part because I was able to “care for” my boyfriend and even fatten him up a little which is a true sign of a good woman. I also got used to/became complacent to her demands. Maybe that's what happened in general. I just resigned myself to the seemingly interminable-ness of my situation, stopped fighting and began doing things their way. That's a little depressing. People say you lose your idealism in Peace Corps. I hope I don't lose all my fire too. I used to be a pretty feisty little thing. Regardless of the reason, I was pretty darn happy with my little life here as I prepared to make my 48 hour journey back home for the holidays. And then came January, and I returned to Mozambique. Upon my return, everyone commented how I had fattened up at home, it turned out that the man who had approved my $14,000 grant application was no longer working with the US mission in Mozambique due to a nasty case of embezzling, it was hot, everyone kept asking when I was going to marry Iraque, and Iraque was pretty distraught and certain that I would return hating Mozambique and swiftly leave and never return. Well, don't tell him, but as Iraque had suspected, I generally resented Mozambique for not being America and it made for a rocky few weeks. And then the gloriousness returned. Can't even really explain it. Life is beautiful. Let me sing Mozambique's praises. Am I crazy or just a little slow to come around to change? Or both? My conclusion: people are adaptable creatures. Give yourself enough time in any one place and you will find your niche. Koom-by-ya.

It's 110 and I am in jeans. Never thought miss sweaty aka the high school queen of hot flashes and pit stains aka me, would see the day. Actually its been over 100 degrees every day this week, and I have barely blinked. It isn't that I don't feel the heat. Nope. I think the reality is just that I have become accustomed to having sweat dripping down my face, cleavage, and back at any given moment. My favorite part of the Mozambican summer? The sweat rag. A sweat rag is a little mini wash-cloth, or handkerchief that one keeps in their back pocket or purse to pull out and wipe the sweat off their face whenever necessary. There isn't even any social judgement when one pulls the mini towel out to give herself a wipe-down. Heck, I wipe my cleavage mid conversation... I think it is better than the alternative – dripping sweat on my students as I lean over them to check their notebooks to see if they have done the latest homework assignment. Although, that might be a good punishment. “You didn't do homework, I will now drip my booby sweat on you.” Currently the normal punishment is manual labor. Students who don't do homework, disrespect the teacher, or are just plain horsing around have to carry water for teachers or hoe in the school garden. In fact, at the beginning of the year all students have to put in some time to beautify the school ie cut my lawn and dig me a new trash hole. “What did you think extra curricular activities were?” Another teacher once said to a group of hot disgruntled students at work in our yard. I am pretty sure I would go to prison if I ever demanded these things of a high school student in America. Or at least the zit faced students would hastily respond with a “yeah right crazy lady my daddy will sue you,” before hopping in their mom's mini-van and heading to the mall. But I can tell I have acclimated significantly in the past year. Last January and February I spent many a day perched in front of my fan in my bra and underwear cursing the calor. And yet this year, I just carry on my day, sweating, wiping, working, wiping... I have also adopted the typical Mozambican passing exchange: “How are you?”

“I'm fine, just hot.”

“Me too, just hot.”

I bought a box of oatmeal that I suppose sat on the shelf too long. It was full of wormy maggots. I ate it anyway thinking the boiling water would kill them. Now I think I have a parasite or intestinal disease of some kind. That will teach me. Or the bowel discomfort could be residual damage from the food poisoning I and maybe 20 other volunteers got at our conference in January. I am not one normally inclined to each maggots on any given day, so let me explain my lack of wormy discretion. Oatmeal is expensive here. Really expensive. But I buy it anyway in order to avoid the monotony/useless refined carbohydrates/fiberlessness of plain white bread for breakfast. And it is usually a delightfully warm little start to my morning (and sometimes a sweaty hot delicious start to my morning when it is already like 90 degrees outside at 6am. I am used to finding a few little bugs inside, but nothing of note, and certainly nothing worth throwing a whole box of gold into my trash hole outside. Lesson learned: little bugs=OK, just pick them out; wormy maggots=gastrointestinal nightmare

Its a toss up. Sit in the front seat of the chapa, where it is far more comfortable, or sit in the back where I may be squeezed between three other big mama booties, with a chicken between my legs and a random African child on my lap, but at least dont have to watch my life flash before my eyes as we play chicken with oncoming traffic.

I think I can take the physical discomfort in loo of the mental exhaustion that comes along with clenching as I picture myself flying out th front window and dying slowly on the side of the sandy national highway, probably with no phone reception and with no ambulance to come get me anyway. (ps Mom don't be scared)

You wouldn't know it is a national highway, and you certainly wouldn't think it was the most driven highway in the country... especially on a rainy day when all you see is mud pit for miles and overturned semi-trucks leaving their loads of glass coca-cola bottles strewn over the stretch of sand. True story, massive truck, literally upside down.

Oh but it is. And it is also where I call home. The Estrada Nacional 1. I walk along it every few days for about 15 minutes on my way to the market. One word: dusty.

And I traverse the frightening territory each time I have to make the harrowing journey to Xai-Xai (used to take 1 hour, now it's 2) or Maputo.

It makes you wonder. What have these little Chinese Engineers done in the last year besides make a mess? Literally, a significant part of the road is no longer paved. Sand, dirt, mud, trucks, chaos. Sometimes I think I shouldn't complain because volunteers in the north of the country often have to travel like 8 hours on a dirt road in the back of a truck just to get to their site. Then I remember that they aren't traveling on the the most major highway in the country playing chicken with a seemingly endless line of semi trucks, angry South African tourists, and haphazard construction workers.

"Isn't that dangerous?" a nice Portuguese man, who took pity on the little white girl on the side of the road waiting for the "bus" and gave me a lift, once said to me. He was referring to the fact that I use public transportation. Easy for him to say in his air conditioned SUV.

"Yes, but I don't have a car. So what do you suggest I do?" In fact I have taken to hitch-hiking, because it is safer. I mean, I might end up in the car of a creeper, but at least there are seatbelts and usually free snacks. One time I even got a homemade grilled pork lunch out of it.... I also got to Maputo about 3 hours later then I was planning, but I suppose that is the trade-off.

Not that I am an engineer or anything, but my untrained eye sees no end in sight for the project. The Chinese engineers seem to just keep layering sand and dry cement, sand and dry cement, every now and again spraying water, sand and dry cement. They flatten each layer, then lay rocks and branches on it so no one can drive on the beautiful stretch they have worked to smooth out. Its like washing dishes but saying that people can only eat out of the litter box. Why clean the plate if you are just going to make everyone eat shit anyway?

"You would think they would do the road in parts, so there wasn't 60 or so kilometers of chaos all at once," I once muttered in frustration.

"Caitlin, you cant say things like or you will make yourself crazy," replied the nice Irish man who gave me a lift.

Even worse, they will fill holes in the the occasional spots of asphalt road, then put huge rocks in the middle of the road to keep cars from driving over the fresh cement. So not only do you end up having near head on collisions with approaching vehicles, you are swerving to miss giant boulders and caution signs that take up an entire lane of traffic.

There is one little stretch (like maybe 2k) that has been paved. Actually, there is one little stretch (like maybe 2k), with one lane that has been paved. Just enough that cars get on it and go crazy, as if the German Autobahn had been relocated to Mozambique and its sleek emissions conscious BMWs, and VWs morphed into mini-buses blowing black smoke out the back and little beat up trucks with about 7 African hitchhikers and 4 goats in the bed.

And though it is only one lane, both directions of traffic manage to squeeze on, with truckers keeping side mirrors as souvenirs of the weakling cars they have eaten.

Honestly, it is better to just drive on the "shoulder" and try not to hit pedestrians.

I wish we followed this logic in Oregon... we wouldn't have school like 9 months out of the year. Then again, we do have busses and cars and paved roads.

Ok, so school isnt cancelled for any old drizzle. But today, since about 1am, it has been absolute downpour. Honestly, I think it sounds way more intense beating down on my tin roof than it actually is when you step outside and survey the damage. Nonetheless, rain is flying sideways and that is enough to make me not want to leave my little cement hut for the rest of the day (unfortunately my bathroom is outside, so unless I want to pee in a bucket - which I have honestly considered - hunkering down completely isn't really an option).

In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke to the thundering sound of rain on my roof, and jumped out of bed to close my window. Unfortunately, my bedroom window is actually broken so it doesn't close all the way. It also has one big fat crack in the right pane of glass that the school has been "meaning" to fix for about 2 years now (they literally bought new glass, and it is sitting in my house they just won't install the darn thing). All in all though the faulty window isnt usually a problem, unless you count a few driblets of water on the floor a serious inconvenience. So, this morning I just groggily tried my best to shove the boy closed, and scoot the goodies I had left under the window out of dropping driblets way.

Since my 6am alarm was drowned out by monsrous rain sounds, I rolled over at 6:30 to discover that, thanks to the sideways rain culprit, my right pain of glass had turned into a pain in my ass, and there was a big fat puddle under my bedroom window that was creeping towards my new computer. Oh no you di-in't!

I subsequently leapt out of bed, scambling to save sopping books, wet panties, and a few damp doohickies, which basically entailed me flinging electronics around the room in dire hopes of saving thier mechanical lives. Then, as the puddle slowly spread, I desperately scavenged for a towel. Coming up empty handed, I settled on two clean sheets (which now I have to wash as soon as it stops raining, and washing sheets by hand in a bucket is painful!) to throw on and hopefully diminsh the ever growing pond.

"Oh my god! Its 6:30! I have the first lesson! I have to be at school in 15 minutes!"

Iraque, of course just laughing at me as always, responded: "Why would you go to school? it is raining. No one will be there."

Really, so there is just this understanding that, come rain, school is cancelled. So my childhood days of sitting by the radio and turning to channel 2 in hopes of hearing those magical "snow day" words were spent in vain. I should have just grown up in Mozambique where the kids look out the window and decide to cancel school themselves because they know the teachers wont go anyway.

And really, can I, like, get a list of all these unspoken rules you seem to have or something because I am quite often left in the dark.

Or in this case, I was left in the rain. Because I went to school. You betcha. I was about 30 minutes late, but I went. About 3 of my students were there and 1 other teacher, the new guy. I guess he needs a list too.

As I ran back to my house, drenched in less than 2 minutes even with an umbrella, my colleagues marvelled at my dedication.

"Wow, you went to school? But it is raining. I made it about half way," (he lives maybe 50yards from the school), "but I got wet so I turned around."

"Have many wives and too many children because we are dying every day"

That is what I forgot about, the fact that some things would hold a chant with a big picket sign, chain myself to a tree, or burn my bra in protest of, I find incredibly reasonable here.

Does the whole "consider the circumstances and be sensitive to their culture" thing really make polygamy morally ok in my mind? I am not sure. But I get his logic.

Backing up... Today was my first day back in the swing of things at school.

Week 1, Lesson 1

Theme: since I dont have the new curriculum yet, let me pull a lesson out of my bum and make them talk about the future.

And yet it actually worked, and I got some interesting thoughts... after also realizing that most of them had basically forgotten English over the summer.

Teacher CATE! Back in action.

I thought of making an entire "How To" installment on my poultry adventure, but really, not even worthy. This would have been my blog post:

How To: Debone a Chicken

Cut the meat off the bone.

Done.

Really, that's all there was too it. Now, I am sure there is some swanky Julia Child or Iron Chef way to do it which just leaves you with glorious cuts of beautiful meat. But I wasnt going for pretty. My main objective: eat boneless stir fry. Because tossing a whole drumstick with my variety of vegetables just isnt as appetizing. Or as easy to eat.

It wasnt even that wasteful. I should have saved the bones and made my own broth out of them. But that takes hours of boiling , and I just dont have the fuel for that (gas is expensive and I am almost out of charcoal).

Even Iraque was a little amazed at my efforts.

"Chicken without bones, wow. I dont even know how you did that. I have never had it before. You must have much patience."

I decided not to let him in on my little secret, ie that it was a breeze.

Since being back in the Moz I have actually gotten quite creative. I made fish tacos, which were delicious. Yes, the tortillas were flour, not corn. Also, I am not nearly as good at rolling them as a little Mexican woman, and the four was sort of old so I just picked out as many bugs as I could... and rolled the rest right in. You can't even tell once the tortillas are cooked anyway.

I have also been grilling up a storm. However, the teacher who I always borrowed the little hand held basket grill from (its like a sort of flat basket, where you put your meat or veggies of choice, with a handle. You grasp the handle, and hold it out so the basket is over the flames. It can be tiring, in fact I never realized how heavy meat is until I had to hold it over fire, but Iraque has been known to work up interesting basket grill holding contraptions which usually involve long sticks), is no longer in Chidenguele. As a result, until I can find and buy a handy basket grill of my own, I have to use this 6" x 6" peice of chicken coop fencing, which I prop over the fire using rocks and sticks, and usually burn my chicken or at least drop it on the ground a few times trying to flip the unruly poultry without getting 3rd degree burns.

The main reason I am up for all these adventures in cooking? My class load was reduced from about 30 hours last year, to only 10 hours this year. Yep, I work three days a week. Nice and relaxing in theory, exhausting in reality because I find myself constantly stressed out with trying to find things to keep me busy (hence the deboning, tortilla rolling, and chicken wire grilling).

I have also begun a few more useful projects, not that gastronomy is a waste of time, but it doesnt really coallate with the objectives of the Peace Corps Education Project in Mozambique. I have begun teaching English to teachers at my school 2 nights a week, and moving along with a chicken project to fund the HIV prevention organization in my community that I have been working with for the past year. We have our final (hopefully) revised grant proposal out, training plan ready, and are just busting at the bit waiting to build us a chicken coop so we can raise and sell some frangos and save those AIDS orphans.

My girls group is stronger then ever... or at least they seem more interested then ever. Hopefully I can hold that enthusiasm throughout the year.

A fellow teacher wants to start a journalism club at the school with me. That would be fun. After all, I do love writing.

I am also working to get computers for my school. I have two options: 1 - organize a project with other volunteers in the area, and work with one of the large international computer donation companies. That could take 2093750854309 years, and be quite complicated, but would probably result in more computers for my school.

OR

2- I could write a grant proposal, and submit it to Peace Corps Partnership Program, which would put my proposal on the Peace Corps website and you fine people could help me out a little in raising money for a few machines.

Stay tuned...

So I'm not sure if it is because I am on my second glass of wine, I want any excuse to use my cute as your neighbour's baby netbook with battery life almost as long as one leg of my journey, I am innately compelled as a past customer service representative, or really because I am just anxiously awaiting some poor fool who might want to meander on over to the bique to visit me, but I feel this consuming urge to give a review/tutorial about my trip back from the homeland. Well I was supposed to fly Northwest/KLM, but thanks to bankruptcy I have been doomed to Delta on my way back. Remember when I said "you know you have been in Mozambique for a long time when economy class feels like luxury." Well, KLM economy class is luxury and Delta is its cheap on-board hooker.

First thing I noticed, no personal movie screen. You know what that means? I will be subjected to Harry Potter 6, another film in the long line of sequels which I have vowed never to subject myself to. Sorry to alienate readers, but I just cant do Harry Potter. Maybe it's just because i was an English major and avid appreciator of the classics (well the more modern classics at least, I think beowulf equals boredom and only got a few kicks out of chaucer and his old English fart jokes) and thus have this inchoate instinct to shun the literary pop genre. That being said, I both sort of want to be the author of Eat Pray Love (although mozambique does not offer quite the same extraordinary cuisine/zen/sexiness of Italy/India/Bali, but what can you do), and have acutally seen all the Harry Poter movies that were released to DVD prior to my Peace Corps departure. It was a forced marathon event during Peace Corps training. I mean really, what else was I supposed to do, watch the chickens run around my yard?

So anyway, these are my complaints about Delta, PDX to Amsterdam:

Weird emo music during boarding. What?

Who says beer and wine are free, but you have to pay for mixed drinks? Not that I even want a gin and tonic or anything, I am perfectly happy with my red wine (Merlot in a milk carton, not the individual mini glass-sized bottles), but this is a 10 hour international flight, and it's the principle of the matter.

Where are all the hot steward/stewardesses? I remember flying from Amsterdam to New York with all these 6 ft hot blondes. However on my return, American run flight, there is only one woman with a sweet smile and an adequate dye job, she is still at least 55 (no offense mom and dad) and has the worst bangs I have ever seen. Whoever said uber short with a small barreled curling iron was 'in' to their granny was sorely wrong, and was inadvertantly punishing future airborne customers. The rest of the staff are cranky, badly styled, whining little middle aged mums and dads.

For example, there is this one older man, whose lips are as pursed as his forhead is wrinkled right between his eyebrows. He must seriously be carrying a lifetimes worth of anger/worry right there in those wrinkle lines. He walks around muttering under his breath just loud enough that EVERYONE can hear what he is saying. For example:

"paper? newspaper? it's a yes or no question people! do you want a newspaper!?" "those people are openeing the overhead bins while the seatbelt sign is on! if you dont say something I WILL!" - to his not so cranky but still remarkably unfriendly colleague "FUCK YOU ALL!" - ok, he didnt really say this, but I could read it on his wrinkled face and rigid spine which in all honesty made me think someone replaced his vertibrea with a big fat stick up his bum. Although, I have recently learned he is a U of O alum... does that mean we have to be friends?

My saving graces:The nicets Saudi man who I might have been racially profiling at first when he took a suspiciously long bathroom break, and then promply judged when he told me his son was studying at OSU and he in fact went to Rose Bowl victor Ohio State. However his remarkable command of the English language, politer than the staff demeanor, and eagerness to share his tray table really made the trip as delightful as a Harry Potter/finiky flight attendant riddled flight could be.

A vegetarian meal! I am never on the ball enough to order a special meal ahead of time, and end up with the plane meat. Dont get me wrong, I am not a vegetarian. I do enjoy meat now and then and may even shamefully admit to a slight adoration of sliced packaged ham. But microwaved, dry, previously frozen mystery plane meat is never very appetizing. Well Delta, you got something right - a veggie option for anyone that cared to partake involving penne pasta (which I forgot until this moment does not exist in Mozambique... sad), tossed with a delightful mix of cheese, pesto, garlic, cherry tomatoes, and squash.

However, to mess up my organization but follow my train of thought, after this delightful meal they forced us into an 8 hour fast... luckily I packed a few Clif bars in my purse. Otherwise I would have been knawing at the arm of my nice saudi neighbour. Note to travellers: bring snacks. This tidbit is even more important to remember when you are actually in Mozambique. Many an 8hour trip have I spent eating an entire bunch of bananas and about a pound of cashews because those are pretty much the only things you can buy on the side of the road. Unless of course you want a day fried egg sandwich, sopping wet with oil, that has been sitting in the 100 degree heat for probably at least 4 hours.

I think, considering the fact that we arrive in Amsterdam at 8am, the airline staff just assumed we would all sleep the whole way and not need sustenance. Well, they should also take into account the fact that we left Portland at 12pm, thus I am not tired and in fact in need of snacks. So what have I done instead of sleep to pass the time and try to ignore my hunger pangs?

Well Lady Gaga said just dance. and I said ok, I'll booty shake in my seat.

My adivce to those who might, perhaps, in the future, consider, maybe, a little bit, wanting to come visit me: (PLEASE!)

Flying into Joburg rather than Maputo is cheaper, but a pain in the bum. You might save a few hundred bucks (round trip Maputo-Joburg is about 200-300 USD, vs the bus which is $35 each way) but there will be the extra expense/hassle of getting from the airport to the bus station ($40 - yes, getting from the airport to the bus station is more expensive then South Africa to Mozambique... we are talking 30min vs 10 hours, but whatev.

Also annoying: mid-day muggings (note to travellers, mugging does not always meen someone is brutally assaulted but in fact can infer that somone merely had their wallet delicately lifted off thier body. Still, watch your stuff, and carry all valuables in your bra.)

So, if you can get a deal where it is only about $200 more to fly into Maputo, I say it is worth your while.

However, if your plans are highly driven by your budget (as mine often are) keep in mind that there are only 2 flights a day from Joburg to Maputo, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. So, flying to Moz might involve staying in Joburg. For those with a few bucks, the Southern Sun at the airport (OR Tambo) is super nice, has swanky showers, and offers a lovely wine and cheese happy hour in the afternoons. For those significanly more fiscally conservative, Ghandi hostel offers free airport pickup, is located in a beautiful big old house in a pretty safe neighborhood, and is like 15 bucks a night. Cheap and safe, can't beat that.

Well I guess I am going to watch Harry Potter or something now. Nope, I think I will tap into the stock of Gossip Gril episodes I was sure to store in my new tech toy before leaving. Harry has got nothing on sexy high schoolers in designer clothing. I mean really. Its a party in the USA.

Well, I've done it. Made the trip to costco. I even took a picture.

I also took a picture of my sister drinking out of a water fountain at REI. I mean its pretty exciting. Running water, free of parasites, amoebas, dirt, fecal matter, bugs, etc. And its all channelled into such a handy little slurpable stream. My photo and general excitement at the sight of the functioning fountain of course prompted a passing employee to laugh at me - the not so little girl in tights and heeled slouchy boots at REI. I am not sure if I feel like I have to compensate for the fact that I am a Peace Corps Volunteer living in Mozambique, or I am just enjoying myself, but I find myself coveting tights and sequins.

Anyway, the adjustment has been easier and more difficult than I could have expected. What I thought would be difficult: lots of people, lots of stuff, stimulation, ahhhhhh in my face.

Actual reality: my life in Mozambique is far more chaotic than anything I have ever experienced here. Even little jaunts in the mom-mobile Subaru with all five family members crammed in, hooting and hollering, on our way to walk the streets of p-town barely fazed me. So, am I older? wiser? more mature? or just deadened to the hullabaloo?

What I have noticed: lots of houses. and lots of useless shit. Like really, why do electric, rotating, blow-up, Christmas lawn ornaments exist? and how much to people spend on them?

"You aren't going to go chain yourself up in front of Costco to protest or something are you?" mom

"No mom!" I value sparkly shoes too much to protest consumerism.

But, as expected, I feel like a big fat granny pants, sleeping at 9 (or earlier), waking at 4, and finding myself unable to work all these new-fangled, fancy gadgets.

A few American flags, innumerable American accents, and one big fat American stamp in my passport have welcomed me back to the homeland.

Its been about 40 hours of travel, and here I sit in New York JFK airport... one 7 hour flight to PDX still to go… wow, the US of A is huge.

Luckily enough, I had to get my bag to go through customs, and managed to wrestle a sweater out of it before re-checking. Not so luckily, I discovered that everything in my bag, including my little brown teacher/mom/librarian sweater that I love so dearly, smells like musty piri-piri. The culprit? A jar of Mozambican piri-piri hot sauce I bought as a Christmas gift for my uncle. Here’s hoping the thing is just marking territory with its aroma, and not actually spilling the spicy staining oil over everything.

To cover the smell I stopped in the duty free and spritzed a little Burberry. But now I just smell like a dirty, spicy, perfumed, walking zombie with hairy armpits. I also keep picking some dry boogs which have formed in my nose due to excessive plane air-conditioning before realizing it is not a socially acceptable practice.

As I sit in the Amsterdam airport, I perhaps somewhat pathetically rejoice in my own homecoming with a mid-size latte.

No, I am not home yet – although the dutch seem to be awfully tall, blonde and beautiful, wouldn’t make a bad homeland. Rather another 20 hours of traveling still loom over my tan, tired, and all of a sudden incredibly cold head (I forgot it is winter in the northern hemisphere. I almost when into hypothermic shock as I shivered my way off the plane, through the below freezing walkway, and into the only slightly less cold airport. Mind you I am wearing a tank top and Birkenstocks, surrounded by people in pea-coats and parkas. Luckily I was smart enough to pack my Prague-ean Pashmina, which is currently working overtime)

However my belly is feeling right at home with a jolt of acidic espresso, foamed milk, and chemically engineered non-calorie sweetener. Yum. I love the Western World. Its been 15 months since my last latte folks, and the only thing that would make this moment sweeter is a nutty soy rather than cow milk twist in my cup. That’s still awaiting me in my beloved tofu/granola-ville aka Portland, Oregon.

I first left Chidenguele on Friday, making a trip to Namaacha, to despedir my Mozambican Mother. That visit consisted of a sighting of a woman with breasts literally to her waist, like honestly the nipples were brushing the belly button, and a number of chapa marriage proposals which I quickly declined – boobies and bachelors, two of many things that make me so happy to be coming home.

On Saturday I met Iraque in Maputo, and spent a night in a sketchy hotel– a “romantic send-off” which was slightly curbed by the fact that I am pretty sure we were surrounded by prostitutes. But Iraque wanted to pick out the place and pay for it, which was such a sweet gesture that I just hid my valuables, plugged my nose in the bathroom, wore shoes in the shower, and tried not to complain.

The next morning, Sunday, I disembarked on my 10 hour bus ride from Maputo to Joburg with a strange mixture of emotions. Despite my own excitement to see friends, family, and a break from carting water on my head, my heart sort of wrenched, sending a few confused tears down my cheeks as I left Iraque and the life I have known for 15 months.

“Oh, shut up Caitlin, its not like you’re not coming back.” – Gabe, my travel companion.

True.

Unable to get more than a few winks of sleep on the bus, my ears hurting from ipod use, and being seated directly next to the on-board toilet, I discovered a new form of entertainment… watching people come and go from the WC.

It might not sound very exciting, but you know, in a pinch… Some people must have been drinking African big-gulps, because they made like 7 trips to the lou. One little girl, dressed to kill and a white satin party dress with little pink roses around the waist and white lace-trimmed socks (also my own personal favorite fashion statement as a child) got the back of her little party dress stuck in her yellow panties. So on her way out, and back up the stairs of the double-decker bus to her seat, we got a little girl bum show. Another little boy got locked in the bathroom, which resulted in some tears/screaming and a worried mother. However the bus staff quickly came to the rescue with a lavatory key, releasing the frightened adolescent.

Once in Joburg, South African friends of Gracey (my other travel companion) picked us up at the bus station and offered to give Gabe and I, who were both flying out that night, a ride to the airport.

“Really, if it’s out of the way you don’t have to” – me

“No, you aren’t taking a cab, this is one of the most dangerous areas in all of South Africa.” – Gracey’s friend.

Well in that case, hallelujah, and thanks for the ride.

Once in the airport, Gabe and I grabbed dinner, and hung out until he boarded at 9pm. I however didn’t fly out until 12:45. Whoever plans the flight schedule in Joburg is a crazy person. Its one of the most dangerous cities in the world, and they’re expecting people to come and go throughout the wee hours of the night. I will arrive at 10:30 pm on my return trip. Not sure what I’m going to do. Probably just sleep in airport until it gets light outside.

After Gabe’s departure I roamed the airport a bit, before settling down on a bench at my gate and trying to get some sleep. I was luckily awoken an hour later to a boisterous southern black lady proclaiming that “oh my! The gate has been changed and they didn’t tell us!” Well shoot. Good thing she woke me up just in time to walk to the other gate and get on board.

So after a 10 hour plane ride, which actually felt like luxury with a selection of movies, wine, and foods at my personal disposal (you know you have been living in Mozambique for a while when economy class feels like the royal throne), I have completed the second leg of my journey, and satisfied my 15 month long espresso craving.

Two more legs, to go. Just a warning, by the time I arrive in Portland I will not have showered, changed my clothes, or shaved my armpits in about 3 days, and will have only undertaken a few sans-toothpaste teeth brushings.

Oh shit. It just started to snow.

OK, I didn’t actually faint. But I was on the verge. You know that feeling when you stand up too fast, you start to feel dizzy, and your vision sort of goes black. It was like that, but a bit more extreme.

Iraque’s sister’s husband died, so we came to Xai-Xai for the funeral. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, maybe about 80, but the humidity was awful. Also, there I was, the only little white girl, in a Mozambican cemetery surrounded by hundreds of the man’s closest friends (he was actually a pretty important guy, provincial director of the ministry of health, owned a few properties and a few businesses, a few wives, so the place was pretty packed.)

When a Mozambican person dies, it isn’t just a funeral, wam bam thank you ma’am we’re finished. The first few days, friends and family pass by the house of the deceased in order to visit the family, pay their respects, say I’m sorry, etc. A few days later, is the actual funeral, and then about five days or a week after the death, the whole process concludes with the flower planting ceremony. Rather than laying cut flowers on the grave, which will only wither and die within hours, they plant flowers in the ground that covers the casket. As a result, the gravestones almost seemed out of place as the cemetery was a veritable tropical garden paradise.

The funeral, which was on Sunday, happened in stages. First we went to the man’s house, where everyone crammed in under a massive army tent in order to escape the hot rays of sunshine. Prayers and some other things in Changana that I didn’t understand were said, and finally there was a procession to view the body. I declined.

Next we caravanned to the cemetery to place the casket in the ground (fun fact: in Mozambique, or at least Xai-Xai, you don’t just buy a burial plot and leave the person there forever. The family has to continue to pay indefinitely or the body will be dug up and disposed of. Can you imagine? “Oh shoot, we have to pay for great-great-grandma to stay in the ground this month”).

More than the fact that it was hot/humid and the cemetery was crowded, there was no sense of personal space. Some old woman kept shoving her massive boobies up on me, and I just couldn’t escape.

Then, mid-service, under the pressure of hundreds trying to catch a glimpse of the casket, there was a minor roar from the crowd, and a sudden swarm of people pushing and falling over each other. It was like when your at a concert and everyone is pretty crammed together, then the artist comes out and everyone just goes crazy and jumps all over each other trying to get as close as possible to the artist. I felt like Bon-Jovi or Britney Spears or something as the hoard headed in my direction.

I quickly realized that it wasn’t in fact my star power drawing the masses towards me, but that a big cement wall, crippling under the pressure of the hundreds of onlookers and three days of heavy rain that had preceded the event, had crashed over. Luckily no one was injured, but the solemnity of the event was fatally wounded. Hymns and tears were replaced by chattering speculation and apprehension over a possible snake sighting where the wall used to be.

Any Mozambican you ask will tell you it was the surprise over the whole wall incident that caused my own fall only a few minutes later. I blame the big old lady boobies and a general lack of air and water.

“Iraque, I need to go.”

“What? Huh?”

Then my vision went completely black, and I leaned into Iraque, holding on for dear life as I expected my body to go limp at any minute.

“Iraque, I think I am going to faint, I need to go.” I proceeded to have a massive wave of anxiety as I wasn’t sure if I used the correct word for faint in Portuguese, and that he thus wouldn’t understand me, and I would be fated to fall amidst the crowd of close-standers in their Sunday best.

I am pretty sure I scared the poor guy half-to death. For one, because people around him keep dying – the year before last his father, last year his sister, this year his brother in law, I think he was pretty sure I was about to follow them. He said to me later, “if you had died there, I don’t know what I would do. And also, the Americans would kill me.” I assured him the Americans wouldn’t kill him, but he is pretty convinced that all Americans will think he is a terrorist because his name is Iraque.

Luckily he understood my plea and led his momentarily blind little white girlfriend to the shade. I was coherent enough to hear the grandma’s discussing the best place for me to sit ( they decided that shade and ventilation were both necessary) and arranging a capulana on the ground for me, but I literally couldn’t see anything, just blackness.

Thank heavens, once I was in the shade the blackness cleared into sort of fuzzy patches of light, and then actual sight returned. However, I remained shaken and confused as I sat on that capulana in the Mozambican cemetery.

Now, a week later, thankfully all is well, I am alive have my vision. I have only been pointed to on the street a few times amidst explanations, “that’s the girl that fainted during the funeral. She was surprised because there was a wall that fell.”

Ok miss gossip, that’s a lie, I didn’t even actually faint all the way.

Just warning you now, I might pick my nose in public. I apologize in advance if you catch me with my finger up there, digging deep for gold. People here are constantly picking there noses, like mid conversation they embark on a fierce hunt… its one of the worse Mozambican habits that has worn off on me. I also might tell you that you are getting fat and need to iron your shirt. Sorry.

I am going to die from the cold. I can’t even handle a cool 70 degree evening breeze here without putting a sweater and wool socks on. Thus I have instructed my mother to meet me at the airport with my Ugg boots and the biggest jacket she can find.

I need a burrito, a haircut, a soy latte, an IPA and a glass of non-Portuguese red wine within 24 hours of touching down on American soil. Perhaps in that order.

I have been feeling this intense urge to go to Costco. I just need to see a bunch of useless shit in bulk. For example, a one gallon jar of pickles. What are pickles anyway? Cucumbers that have been drained of all nutritional value?

I think I might be overwhelmed by my Costco experience, but I plan on eating a massive cup cheap frozen yogurt to cope. As of yet, I haven’t decided whether to go with vanilla, chocolate, or swirl, but I am pretty sure I won’t want berry compote.

I am terrified to drive a car.

I have become this incredibly calm person and I am afraid the constant stimulation of the states might cause me to hide in a corner. I wouldn’t say that I was fantastically high strung before, but I was known to be a bit anxious and perhaps dramatic at times. Now I am so calm and un-phased by worldly chaos that I am afraid I might be considered boring. If I bore you, just ask me questions and hopefully I will be able to think of something interesting to say.

Also, please don’t call me a party pooper if I go to bed at 9pm and wake up at 5am. I am a teacher, my life is pretty G (as in granny) rated. I mean there isn’t much to do here after dark, and then the sun comes up at like 4am now and I have to get an early start to fetch water before heading to work.

This makes me sound spoiled, but I don’t know what I will do without the beach for a month. Ok, I take that back, I am going to spend a few days at a beach house in Oregon with my family… beautiful, yes, but rocky and rainy is just not the same as my tropical paradise where there are sometimes more monkeys than people on the beach.

HIV has become such a normal part of my life, I am pretty sure I am going to mention something about it in passing and shock the pants off people.

I no longer speak normal English. Rather, I often forget a word in my mother tongue, or use phrases that are direct translations from Portuguese and just sound strange in English.

I also talk with my hands. Hey, I am an English teacher, it usually takes a song and dance to get my students to understand what I am saying.

So the general rule is: when you travel, don’t drink the water and be careful what you eat because your tummy needs time to adjust. I wonder then, now that I am used to the food/bacteria here, will I get really sick in America?

When you ask me, “How’s Africa?” I will probably just answer, “It’s good,” without further explanation. I mean really, you gotta give me a little more direction to go with or at least a jumping off point. It’s like when someone asks you, “How’s life?” I mean you sort of have to say good even though it is complicated and absolute monkey shit at times but at least usually eventful. However, if you were to jump into the juicy details and just go off spouting TMI, the person who was just politely greeting you but doesn’t really give a damn would run for the hills where they would passionately lament ever bothering to ask, and perhaps vow to never again succumb to such seemingly obligatory theatrics of politeness.

No, I don’t love it so much here that I plan on staying forever. Boo ya, I am excited to come back to the land of the free and home of Obama… from sea to shining sea.

Oh yeah, I think I know the Mozambican National Anthem better than the American. I mean, I have sung it every morning, four days a week, for the past nine months. Ask and I might sing a few bars for ya… although I was once told by a very close friend that I should never sing in public. So all requests are made at your own risk.

So Iraque and I decided to elope, but the bastard didn’t show.

Kidding.

In reality, we were supposed to go to a wedding of Iraque’s family friend, but the poor gal got ditched by her Mozambican Miner who works in South Africa. I mean sure, we are all still reeling after Burk left Christina, but I didn’t think that happened in real life. Besides, Burk at least had the courage to get to the chapel and turn his lady down, not call from another country.

Personally, I am not really a big fan of Mozambican parties in general because they just involve eating lots of meat (which is not my fave food group), talking to people I don’t know, being the only white person in a massive group, and then they usually devolve into a massive dance party (which can be fun, but my moves really need work in comparison to the fantastic African booty dancers that all Mozambicans seem to be).

Also, there is the whole “what do I wear?” aspect. Which, I wasn’t even worried about at first because I have this cute little dress that I bought in the used clothing market in Xai-Xai. Well Iraque poo-pooed that, saying I was just going to run around showing my coochie to everyone. Ok, I am an adult thank you, no longer the little girl on the playground in her flower print, big lace collared, homemade dress with peep-show prevention spandex underneath. I think I can manage a skirt.

But I acquiesced, because he assured me there would be a lot of walking and, more importantly, chapa rides involved. Such conditions do make a skirt a bit more difficult and choochie shows a bit more likely.

“Ok, so what do I wear then? Wait, why are lots of walking and chapa’s involved?”

Well, apparently a wedding in Mozambique is a full day commitment for guests. First, you go to the registry, their version of city hall, early in the morning. Directly after, you go to the church for the actual wedding. And finally, the party, which, if done properly, should last from about 1pm to sunrise. Now that is one long dance party.

I have been to Mozambican weddings before, but just in Namaacha, where I was never a real invited guest, more like the kid that tagged along with mama, and thus just attended the party portion.

Returning to the question of clothing, what on earth do I wear if dresses/skirts are out?

“Jeans and that little blouse.”

“Iraque, I cant wear jeans to a wedding, and I certainly cant wear jeans in church!”

“Maybe in America, but you are in Mozambique.”

I didn’t trust him one bit. Men, yes, they can wear jeans with a button down. Children, yes, they wear jeans because hey, they are kids, whatever. Grown women don’t wear jeans. And, on top of questions of proper clothing etiquette, the white American girlfriend making her first public appearance doesn’t wear jeans.

It was the day before the event and the whole thing was honestly giving me anxiety. I just couldn’t be the jeans girl they would gossip about. I even went as far as making Iraque go with me to the used clothing market to look at dress pants (Because I have a very limited and not so cute collection here with me in Moz). But he wouldn’t let me buy any because he kept telling me that I looked like a “senhora.” Newsflash buddy, I am a teacher, and a full grown woman, and we are going to a formal function, am I supposed to look like some sexy little sequin-clad pita in the discoteca? (pita is like ‘chick’ in Portuguese… it sometimes is also what men call the women they are casually sleeping with)

But I also didn’t have a mirror and was relying totally on Iraque’s perception of me, and the last thing I want is to buy some old lady pants. So I gave up.

We went to visit the future couple that evening. Apparently it is custom to go say hello, see how preparations are going, and just generally wish the couple good luck.

Well preparations were well underway. A massive green tent was already up in the yard. I am not really sure what they were thinking when they rented the thing, because it took up the entire yard, and was super low-hanging so you had to duck to get in. Then, once you were inside you could barely see anything because the low-hanging-ness not only was cumbersome to your entrance but blocked just about all sunlight. I felt like I should be packing a machine gun and dressed army fatigues or something the minute I got inside.

Inside the army tent, the bride was having her hair braided so a weave and tiara could be worked into it the next morning, the granny’s were peeling garlic to marinate the meat feast over night, and the boys were sorting out wires and speakers.

“Katarina!”

I have met the woman once in my life, but she was quite excited to see me. So I sat, and witnessed the hair-braiding for a while, while playing with the grandbaby and being introduced the family of 2049835459334908.

I realized after a few minutes, that with all the introductions, I hadn’t yet me the groom.

“Where is the groom?” I asked, thinking he must be inside, or taking care of last minute details with the refrescos and cerveja or something.

“He is still in South Africa, he will get in late tonight.”

“Well that is cutting it awfully close,” I silently thought to myself, just picturing car troubles spoiling the big day.

Well, between this silent criticism and all my attire anxiety I think I jinxed the poor lady. Sure enough, as we woke up early in order to prepare for the day’s festivities, we heard through the grapevine that they guy didn’t show.

The official story is that he got sick. Now, I don’t want to speculate, but lets be honest, I have been in Mozambique too long to be above the gossip chain, so here goes. If I were a miner in South Africa, I would not wait until the night before my wedding to make my journey home. And I certainly wouldn’t miss it because I had a cold, or diareaha or something common. It would take a SERIOUS illness to curtail my travel/marriage plans.

So, I’m going with the other story that has been circulated. The jerk didn’t show that night, and instead called and told his fiancé to marry one of her other boyfriends because he was not coming. Harsh.

Between work and illnesses, I still manage to get in a few runs through the sandy paths around my house these days. When I arrived in Mozambique I thought this might be the perfect time to train for a marathon, but parasite and an excess of refined carbohydrates don’t exactly result in the ultimate power runner. But I do what I can.

I also thought I would become a chaco person in Mozambique. Wrong. You change a lot in Peace Corps, but chaco’s are ugly, and that is one core value in my belief system that has not been shaken. I may live in Africa, but I still have style. (FYI I just did a sassy uh-uh sister snap for emphasis. Too bad I am sitting alone in my bedroom with no one to witness it) But I digress…

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, my most apparent accomplishment has been a successful spreading of the high five in Bairro Chemanine, Chidenguele. I run through the bush, and whenever I see a child in range, I make them give me a high five. They used to be confused, and probably thought I was just going to beat them or something. But now I have got them trained, so well in fact that they chase after me holding up their little fives yelling “Bate! Bate!”, which means ‘hit’ in Portuguese.

Not only is the high five an important cultural phenomenon that I find worthy of imparting to my Mozambican community, but teaching the children “bate!” is a strategic move on my part. I have learned, that if they get all worked up for a high-five, and actually realize hand contact with the little white girl trotting past, they are too overwhelmed/confused/euphoric to chase after me for the duration of my run.

Its not like I am angrily chased by the kids, they just love to run with me. As the still unenlightened non-high-fivers see me coming in the distance they literally shriek, then begin to shout at full volume “Tia catarina! Tia catarina!” as they morph into the roadrunner and shoot at warp speed on their little 4 year old legs to meet me on the path. Then they proceed to trot just on my heals and giggle the whole time. You’d think it would get old, they would tire of heel-trot giggle sessions. Nope.

I really shouldn’t be bothered, its harmless, even healthy, fun for them. But I just can’t stand it. I try to tell myself “you are changing their lives Caitlin, you are changing their lives.” Which is probably a delusional assumption, but it temporarily stays my urge to send the little ones packing for casa.

I have tried everything to get them to go home. I say “go home… no… I don’t want to run with you… enough… go away… don’t you have work to do at home?” But I am pretty sure they don’t speak Portuguese, and I don’t know how to say any of that in Chopi. I also have tried pretending to be a hungry vampire to scare them away. Unfortunately they are smart enough to realize that I must be a phony since vampires only come out at night, because when I suddenly turn, his, bare my teeth, and pretend to make a neck-bite move, they just think it’s funny.

I had a temporary breakthrough and discovered that if I just said “tchau” or “Ta-Ta,” they would stop in their tracks, wave goodbye, and watch me jog into the distance. That worked for about two days.

It would be so easy to run along the main road (ok, it’s a major highway, but don’t picture any LA overpasses… more like the little two laner that runs through Banks Oregon. Yes, my town is like Banks with a beach). If I took my runs on the main road, people in cars would point and laugh but at least there would be fewer children. However, the road is under construction. In addition to dramatically increasing HIV transmission rates in my town, the project is making it particularly dangerous for me to trot along amongst tractors, horny little Chinese men, and precarious cement drop-offs.

Instead I have a few routine paths I like to travel. There is the ‘hilly but burner’ run – which also involves mama Magdalena if you remember the moonshine incident I wrote about many moons ago. There is the ‘short, flat, really nothing but it makes me feel like I’m not lazy and its all sand so that must be something’ run. And finally, the most traveled, ‘the little boy with the slingshot’ run.

The last is my favorite. Not too long, not too short, the distance can be adjusted according to time, energy and desired effort output (now I just sound like a lazy runner, but you have to admit you have used similar logic at one time. Also, I’m a big girl now and can no longer be Crew Caitlin who worked out about twice as much as I slept).

However, like all good things, I think my jaunts on my favorite path must come to an end because now, as you might gather from the name, there is a little boy that chases me with a slingshot.

The same little boy used to smile and wave as he rolled around in the dirt in his little tighty-not-so-whiteys. Not sure what all of a sudden changed, but one day he just began chasing me with a slingshot asking for money (still wearing only his little bikini bottoms). Little does he realize that the jingling in my shorts pocket is in fact my house keys, not money, and that the common conception among Mozambican country folk that I, as a white person, run around with millions of dollars in my pockets is not in fact a reality.

The boy isn’t really angrily, witch-hunt style chasing. Its more like he just runs after me and giggles as he waves the slingshot so I can see, then pulls back the little elastic shooter part like he is going to shoot me. However, as of yet, he has never actually loaded the slingshot. But it’s just a matter of time before he loads that baby with a rock or a mango or something. I can see it now, “American volunteer in Africa wounded in tropical fruit slinging incident”

Anyway, I think I better find a new route or teach Mr. Slingshot the high-five in hopes of pacifying the perpetually chony-clad child.

“I admit I didn’t always love teaching. I was out of my depth. You’re on your own in the classroom, one man or woman facing five classes every day, five classes of teenagers. One unit of energy against one hundred and seventy-five units of energy, on hundred and seventy-five ticking bombs, and you have to find ways of saving your own life. They may like you, they may even love you, but they are young and it is the business of the young to push the old off the planet…But if you hang on you learn the tricks.” -Frank McCourt, Teacher Man

For better or worse, its true, I am a teacher. Teacher CATE! To my students. Do I love it? Well… its complicated.

Classes have ended for the year. And, although there is still work to be done in the school with grades, exams, etc, this leaves me with a little more time to relax and read (preferably on the beach). I just finished Teacher Man, a memoir by Frank McCourt, which recounts the decades he spent teaching English to teenagers.

As I read, I began to notice how the sandy, sweaty salas of Chidenguele seem strikingly similar to McCourt’s experiences in the New York City Classrooms.

Ok, instead of five classes a day, I have six. And about 300 students in total. We have classrooms and desks and not much else (most students have never touched or perhaps even seen a computer, and rarely come across books). But my not-so-little African students are just as sweet, vicious, disillusioned, socially awkward, rude, intelligent, “stoopid”, and enthusiastic as McCourt’s New Yorkers.

But as I noticed McCourt continuously referring to his own “doggedness,” which helped him survive classroom chaos, and really life in general, I couldn’t help but wonder… is there anything dogged about the little white girl in skinny jeans and pearls as she steps into the Mozambican classroom and off the edge of the earth. So how did I make it through my first year? And will I eventually thrive rather than inch by without being obliterated by the teenage hormones/failures/criticisms/cynicism/ and general troublemaking?

He’s right you know. Once you enter the classroom, it’s you against them… ok, but here is where it gets tricky. At the same time, you aren’t against them at all. You are for them, trying to help them. But the little brats just keep standing in their own way and at the same time making your job more difficult.

Well, now that I’m up against the masses, controlling the chaos, trying to conjure up some wisdom to impart, but finding my mediocre nuggets of possibly bright ideas becoming dingy, worn , and then misunderstood entirely before just plain smacking me back in the face. I really have to rely entirely on myself and my ever diminishing creativity and just try to simplify everything so as not to confound entirely the little befuddled minds.

But if McCourt is correct in asserting that the job of the young is to push the old off the planet, where is my place in all the hullabaloo?

I am not older (nor much wiser, but that is a big fat secret I will never tell my students), than a majority of my students.

“Teacher CATE, how old are you?” – inquire the group and 18-26 year old students.

“47”, a response received by a warm chorus of giggles, and confused disbelief

But, at the end of the day, the teacher is boss (even at the tender age of 23), and I have forbidden myself to forget it.

I did make a few discoveries while witnessing the flying chalk, squealing testosterone, and general carnage of my own embarrassment in my first teaching year. Here are the things that I learned a little late, but in the end got me through:

Don’t take anything that teenagers say personally, a) they are usually lying, b) they want to get a rise out of you, and c) who cares, they are zit-faced, hormone driven, teenagers.

What works for one teacher, fails another. What one student comprehends, another misses completely. What works? Trial and error. Just do it. Fall on your face, and then have the courage to get back up and teach with a broken nose and black eye.

Other than that, I am just hanging on, hoping to learn the tricks.