Geneva 2015

At the tail end of September, Rico and I went to Geneva for a mini-reunion of Mozambique friends. Kelly and Marcos, our fellow American-Brazilian couple, have been living there for about a year, as has Helen, our badass friend who heads up land mine removal operations. Europe's geography helped out the reunion effort, as Brighton-based Jenny was able to fly down for a few days with no problem.

It was a much-needed get together. Nothing like old friends to make you feel all is right in life, and to give you objective but well-founded perspective on your current concerns and opportunities. Us girls held a Council of Elders and basically advised each other on the Major stuff: relationships, career, family, health. The boys also had boy time, which I imagine was just as satisfying. 

Amid all the talking, we managed to squeeze in some leisure. Kelly and Marcos, who hosted us, actually live just over the border in France. I neglected to take any photos, but their house is right next to some lovely agricultural fields beyond which are the Alps in the distance. I went running along tractor paths that criss-cross the fields, through corn and kale and what looked to be radishes. There were self-serve farm stands with pears and quince and apples, and signs for a co-op vineyard with local wine.

Interestingly, the farm roads I was running on actually crossed the border into Switzerland but save for a sign saying you should have an ID on you, it was an almost imperceptible passage. Borders were on my mind a lot during the trip: who can cross them, who can't, and how unfair it often seems.

We only had a short few days in Geneva, but we managed to get in some tourism. One afternoon we cruised the lake in an old paddleboat and had lunch in their chic on-board dining room. All along the perimeter of the lake there were gargantuan old world mansions with manicured grounds, which Marcos told us cost a cool 50 million Euros.

Apparently Geneva is up there as far as real estate prices are concerned, and that was definitely the feel I got being in the city: that it is a place for the well-off. With the UN headquarters there, as well as many other international development organizations, there is a bubble that brought flashbacks of Maputo. The people working to help the world's least fortunate often have a cost structure and lifestyle that is among the world's most expensive. Irony at its finest, for sure.

Anyhow, the boat was lovely as was the wander around old town that we took after lunch...

On our last night, we went out to a fancy Michelin-starred restaurant called La Ferme de l'Hospital. Innovative food, well-curated atmosphere, but also one of the biggest shocks of this trip: only the men at our table were given menus with prices. Us ladies all had menus with descriptions of the food but no prices.

The assumption about gender roles left me drop-jawed. If we had been a table of all heterosexual couples, maybe I'd have been mildly offended but let it go. What really perplexed me was that we were four ladies and two men. So were Rico and Marcos supposed to also pay for Helen and Jenny (who have boyfriends of their own back home?) What if there were a lesbian couple at the table, would the more masculine-seeming lady have received a menu with prices? Or would the men still be "expected" to pay? What if a table of all ladies came to eat?? I was incredibly shocked at this old-fashioned gender BS, but my dining companions had all seen it before and thus it was less of a thing for them...Gender issues aside, the meal was delicious and ridiculous in the way that 7-course formal dining usually is. 

The next morning we said our farewells and headed to the airport to continue our vacation. Actually in the airport I had my #2 shocking experience of the trip. We checked in to our flight and were only asked for boarding passes, no ID. We went through security, and still no ID. Boarding the plane we went through an automated gate that scanned a bar code on our boarding pass.

As an American used to US security routines, this was shocking to me. How on earth could it be possible in 2015 to board a plane all willy-nilly with just a cell phone boarding pass and no positive ID that you are actually the person traveling? I understand that within the Schengen countries there is free movement of people and goods, but it was shocking to experience it in an airport. I guess land borders seem more anti-climactic as far as unhindered passage. Also, it brought up thoughts again about who can freely move between countries and who can't. So much seems linked to money, privilege, and xenophobia. Lots to question, and lots to be grateful for.

Next stop: Croatia!

Finding Short-Term Housing in Maputo

Even though it's been two-and-a-half years since we lived in Maputo, I still get several requests per month from people planning trips there and wanting advice on how to find short-term housing. This was a tricky proposition when we lived in Mozambique (2005-2009) and I imagine it's only become more difficult as the expat population grows, gas and oil discoveries abound, and rental prices skyrocket.

Without being totally up-to-date on Maputo life these days, I base my advice on a few assumptions, namely:

1) I believe the already inflated rental prices in Maputo have increased significantly since we lived there. Expect to pay a premium for any place that is available.

Rico and I had a 2-year renewable lease on our apartment (good location across from Hotel Terminus/Vila Algarve, street parking, crappy building with water problems, 3-bedrooms, nice natural light, beautiful wood floors, totally outdated bathroom and kitchen, lots of "character", several repairs needed) and paid US$550 per month. We never told people how much we paid in rent because it was a fantastic deal (especially for expats) and we were afraid someone would turn up and offer our landlady double the money and she'd kick us out. We did a lot of repairs and upgrades to the place (replaced the water heater, put in a separate water system for the apartment, painted everything, bought new furniture that we left behind, etc.) so I guess in the landlady's eyes it was worth the low rent because we had a long-term contract, didn't cause any problems, and fixed up her flat so she could get a lot more money for it when we left.

When Rico and I moved away, friends took over our lease and agreed with the landlady to up the rent to US$800 per month. This was in late 2009. I haven't heard what happened after that, but I'd say it's safe to guess that the apartment would easily rent for US$1,500 per month now, if not more.

The nice 3-bedroom flats in the high rise buildings on Av. Julius Nyerere used to rent for US$2,500 to US$3,000 per month back in 2009. I'd imagine they go for around US$4,000 to US$4,500 now.

A fantastic house in Sommerchield with 4 bedrooms and a pool used to go for US$3,500 to US$4,000 in 2009. I wouldn't be surprised if those types of houses are now rented for US$5,000 and up.

I suppose an easy way to check would be to look at the classifieds on Club of Mozambique...

2) I doubt there have been any improvements in the ease of finding short-term rentals. I think a lot of housing is still found informally, through word-of-mouth, especially if you are looking for something less than a one-year lease.

Much of my advice to people looking for a short-term lease or to find a roommate situation is to rely on social networks. This can mean hitting up your Facebook friends to see if someone knows someone with a room for rent in Maputo. You can try Couchsurfing and see if there's a sofa available for you for a couple weeks.

If your trip is sponsored by an academic institution, see if they have any contacts with university housing or students in Maputo who would have a room to rent. If your trip is to volunteer with an NGO or a branch of the UN, see if they can give you names of previous volunteers and email or call them to see what their strategy was for housing.

3) It's easier to find a place once you are in Maputo rather than before your trip. That said, Murphy's Law rules, and you should definitely have a backup plan in case you aren't able to find an apartment or roommate situation while in Maputo.

I often recommend to people that they plan to stay in a hotel or backpacker's for the first few weeks on the ground, so they can have a chance to meet people and network and potentially check out a couple of places in person. Ideally you will find something decent and relatively quickly. However, you might not, and it's important to think about the possibility of staying at a cheap hotel or backpacker's for the duration of your trip if necessary. 

You might try to negotiate long-term rates with some of these establishments: Fatima's Backpackers, the Base Backpackers, Hotel Africa (multiple locations throughout the city), Hotel Terminus (more expensive, but very nice and conveniently located), Hotel Monte Carlo.

And now a request for anyone who has moved to Maputo within the last three years and tried to find short-term housing. What was your experience like? Where did you end up staying? How did you find a place? How much did you pay? 

If you would kindly share any information in the comments, it would really help out the next round of travelers who are trying to figure out short-term accommodations as I am definitely out of the loop these days. Thanks in advance! 

Looking Back: Two Years and Four Months after Mozambique

Two weeks ago I was on the phone with my best group of girls from Mozambique. It's hard for us to find a time to chat nowadays, not so much due our busy schedules but because of the ridiculous time differences between the places we now call home.

K. is in Honiara (Solomon Islands), Z. is in Melbourne, H. is in Bogotá, J. is in London and I am here in California. There is only one special time that will work for all of us, and we manage to make it happen about once a quarter. We're incredibly scattered about the world and I haven't seen any of my girls in nearly 2.5 years, but we have one of those magic friendships where we gossip and philosophize and plan our lives as if we were simply having our weekend catch-up, poolside at Hotel Cardoso or possibly Clube Naval with a gin and tonic in hand.

(On a related note, check out this snarky gem of expat writing if you haven't already.)

In my last chat with the girls, the topic turned to whether or not we miss Mozambique. The answer, it seems, is totally dependent on where we all ended up post-Maputo. I have a similar perspective to Z. in that we are both very content with our new homes, our new occupations, our new lives. We are both putting down some solid roots in cosmopolitan cities with good weather, in which we have family and where our partners are content. Neither of us really misses Mozambique, in the sense that it was good while it lasted but we are glad to have moved on. Of course we feel moments of nostalgia and saudades. But in general we wouldn't want to go back, perhaps not even for a visit.

K., on the other hand, really misses Mozambique. Nothing like the perspective of living on a small, quiet island in the middle of the South Pacific to make Maputo seem like the most fun, fantastic, fast-paced and flavorful city ever invented for expats. K. and her husband miss the restaurants, the international crowd, the easy access to nearly everything, the endless opportunities for weekend trips, the (relatively) good connections to major cities on other continents, the solid group of friends... I'm not sure if they could go back if they had a chance, but Maputo understandably has become a grass-is-greener sort of place for them.

H. also misses Moz quite a bit and has already traveled back once to spend the holidays. She still has very close friends there, the kind that will likely never move away, so it's like a homecoming of sorts in that she is greeted with familiar faces and can easily slip back into the life she'd established there. Or so I imagine.

J. is somewhere in the middle I suppose, enjoying her life back in the UK and the excitement of a post-grad-school job search, but also ever-open to the possibility of traveling again. I'd guess that given the chance she'd travel back to Mozambique, but that it's perhaps not at the top of her priority destination list.

What's strange for me is that Mozambique had such a huge impact on me and yet I don't think I'd return if given the chance. I prefer it as a memory, preserved in time, protected from the inevitable disappointment and depression that I would feel if we ever went back. I don't really know how to explain this, especially because there *are* still people there I'd love to see again. Zeca and his family, for sure. The handful of friends in Maputo who call the city their permanent home. Hugh Marlboro. The guys from the local crafts council. Dona Lídia.

I suppose it's like returning to your hometown after many, many years away (Maputo isn't my hometown but it's the place where I spent the most time of my adult life - nearly five years). Everything has changed, and that is depressing. Nothing has changed, and that is depressing, too. People have left, and that makes you long for the good old days when you all used to hang out. People have stayed, and that makes you sad, too.

More than anything, a trip back to Mozambique would make me recall in vivid color the person I was back then. Not that I was a bad person or anything, but I was a *different* person. More immature. More insecure. More arrogant. More idealistic. Still figuring out an awful lot about who I am... There were good times - amazing times, for sure! - but I have a general bittersweet taste when I think back about the Moz years.

Rico and I often reminisce about how unhappy I was there. I know I cried often, that I had stress-induced allergy attacks every week, that I grew to hate the "development" work that had at one point been so inspiring, that I became so cynical I'd force myself to keep my mouth shut when meeting new people because I didn't want to come off as a total asshole and tell them their water sanitation project was doomed to fail.

I remember these things but they often seem like false recollections, like I'm telling the story of how someone else felt, not how I felt. It was bad but I don't remember the details. It was good, but I also don't remember a lot of the details.

For me, our time in Mozambique was characterized by an awful lot of gray areas. Swinging emotions. Sick feelings about what it means to be white and/or foreign and/or rich in a country where so many are born into situations of need. Questions about "development" and what motivates us to "help" others. Questions about who my local friends were and who their families were, realizing that all of that corruption and willingness to turn a blind eye comes from somewhere...Exciting, fun times in the midst of all that gray. Meeting incredible, smart, genuinely kind people from Mozambique and all the corners of the globe. Feeling humble. Feeling like a know-it-all. Living the jet-setting life. Longing for home.

I guess it's only fitting that my feelings post-Moz continue equally gray.

La Vida Expatica #7: Stuff Expat Aid Workers Like

I imagine some of you may have already come across this snarky gem of a site. The postings are hilarious and so dead-on, definitely worth checking out if you are working or have worked in international development.

La Vida Expatica #6: The Place I Once Called Home Yet Never Truly Belonged

I had lunch with my best friend from high school today. She is due to have her first baby on Tuesday. It was incredibly nice to see her, even if just for a few hours, and the Thai crepes place (how's that for fusion!) we went to in Fremont was divine. I had the peanut chicken crepe and it totally satisfied my craving for spicy comfort food.

M. is my closest friend here in the Bay Area, despite the fact that we haven't really spent a lot of time together since we were 16 (I moved to Brazil to do a student exchange that year, and we subsequently lost touch for nearly a decade). Ironically, life brought both of us to California. She and her husband fled Hurricane Katrina and resettled here. Rico and I, as you know, moved here just over a year ago for his work, to be near my mom, and so I could go to school at CCA.

M. lives over an hour away, but we manage to see each other once every couple of months. I deeply miss having girlfriends nearby, and am reminded of how wonderful that kindred connection can be every time I see M.

Today she asked if I miss living in Mozambique. The answer is yes and no.

Yes a thousand times over to missing our friends, our social life, our global nomad community. The quick bonds formed with people from faraway lands, the dinner parties, the comfort in knowing that you are sharing a common experience. I miss the road trips, the Sunday lunches by the Indian Ocean, the animated discussions about how - and if - development work can really make an impact, about why projects fail, about why we were all there in the first place. Many an existential crisis was sorted out over gin-and-tonics and king prawns.

I have never felt so at home with a group of people in my life. I miss that immensely, the feeling of belonging, of understanding and feeling understood.

I miss many other things, too. The view of the Vila Algarve from our balcony, the tiles crumbling a bit more with each passing day. The streets lined with flowering trees, and the way I started tracking the seasons by what was in bloom: jacarandas, red acacias, yellow acacias. I miss catching bursts of the animated chats had by our building guards, full of whoops and hollers and shrill shrieks of excitement to punctuate the stories being told. I miss Dona Lidia's laugh. Zeca's warmth and reliability. The humility, kindness and hospitality shown by so many Mozambicans. The rich local culture. The mini global melting pot that is Maputo, and increasingly the rest of the country. I miss the pool at Hotel Terminus, site of many a sun-drenched, lazy afternoon, tanning and eating sandes de galinha maionese. I miss the piri-piri, obviously. I could make it at home in the blender, but somehow it's not the same as out of a small communal container on a wobbly restaurant table. I miss the sunrise at 4:30 in the morning in the summer. The nights spent dancing or listening to live music. The markets. I miss bumping into friends nearly everywhere we went. I miss Mozambique because it holds such a special spot in my heart as the place where Rico and I met each other again, fell in love, and started our life together as husband and wife.

Despite all of these wonderful things, there are many I don't miss: the in-your-face poverty, the inefficiency and inescapable bureaucracy, the lack of customer service, witnessing the abuse and exploitation of maids/waiters/workers and realizing that for many well-off Mozambicans that kind of treatment is acceptable, the exploitation of locals by foreigners and foreign companies, the sensation that you were always getting somewhat ripped off because you were white or a foreigner, the often false or tense relationships with the Mozambicans, the finely-tuned hate of "the stare" - an empty-eyed look accompanied by silence that became par for the course in many interactions...the frustration that the Moz experience wasn't what I'd expected - that in many aspects I'd become the typical expat I so swore I'd never be, the sad realization that I, too, looked at people in "local" vs. "expat" categories, that I was overflowing with cynicism, that I continued to do a job I didn't believe in for way too long - one of the motivations being a fat paycheck (the same fat paycheck to international consultants that was so often the topic of our rants on what was wrong with the development sector), the hypocrisy - my own and that of others...the ever-present shadow of depression...the corruption of government officials and others in positions of power, the fleets of white Mercedes and the massive mansions, the decision to give bribes to police or otherwise grease the wheels of the system - and wondering exactly how fast that particular slope would get too slippery to be controllable...the inability to ever be anonymous or feel truly comfortable living in the country.

Some days I am all the way on the "dying of saudades" end of the spectrum; other days I still feel very cynical and am glad that we left when we did. It is all very gray, even as the passing of time affords me a wiser, more objective perspective through which to view our experiences in Mozambique.

Riots in Maputo

"Six people, including two children, are reported to have been killed during riots in Mozambique's capital, Maputo, over rising food and fuel prices."

Apparently the local population, tired of increases in the price of bread, petrol, water and electricity, took to the streets in a protest that was organized primarily by cell phone. Unfortunately violence erupted, and people who I've spoken with in Maputo today say the situation is still quite chaotic. There are reports of tires burning in the streets, cars being stoned and vandalized, barricades blocking the circulation of vehicles, and even reports of the police firing live rounds into crowds (although supposedly the police only use rubber bullets). Most people are just staying home, hunkering down until the violence draws to an end.

The news today gave me flashbacks to the riots of 2008, which I experienced first-hand and wrote about extensively here and here.

The main problem, as I see it, is that there is no real solution in sight. Prices will continue to increase, salaries will continue to be miserably low, and the root causes of the social and economic inequalities in Mozambique will persist. While I don't condone the violence, I can definitely see how the poor reach a breaking point when their lives are so unimaginably hard, and yet they constantly witness others (i.e. the fat cats associated with the Government and those who thrive on corrupt business practices) driving their luxury cars, living in their 15-room mansions, and acting like they rule the world. Something fundamental has got to give...until then, expect more headlines like today's coming out of Mozambique.

Volunteering in Mozambique

Lovely readers with experience in Mozambique, can you help me out?

I often get emails from people asking about places to volunteer in Maputo and other locations in the country. I have a few recommendations based on my own experience, but I imagine that with your input we can create a list of volunteer opportunities that is much more complete.

Have you had an experience volunteering in Mozambique? With what organization? Would you recommend it to others? Were there any prerequisites (language, specific skills, etc.)? How did you find about the opportunity?

Here's my recommendation for people who want to volunteer: get involved with MAPS, the Mozambique Animal Protection Society. Visit their website for more information about how they are helping stop animal cruelty in Mozambique and how you can help.

I look forward to seeing your recommendations in the comments!

La Vida Expatica #5: Reverse Culture Shock

My greatest fear upon relocating to California after nearly five years in Mozambique was that I would suffer from some wicked culture shock. I was afraid I'd have such a hard time adapting to life here that I'd become somewhat of a social outcast. In some ways, what I worried about came to pass - I do feel very, very different from most of my 'peers' here - but it's not depressing or anxiety-inducing or something I'm out to change. It just is.

My life's path has shaped me in a way that, while I've become the consummate chameleon and am able to adapt and fit in anywhere, it also means that I never really fit in anywhere at all. The best way to describe it, perhaps, is that I now feel slightly foreign in the US. And surprisingly, it doesn't really bother me at all (which was, in truth, what I really feared - being unhappy with the culture shock I might experience, not the culture shock itself).

Here are a few of the "differences" I've most noted about life in California - the positive and the negative:

- The postal system works reliably and for a reasonable price. Being able to send and receive mail with confidence is something very much appreciated.

- Everything is cheap. Food, clothing, shoes, electronics, entertainment, jewelry supplies, books - you name it. Prices are even better now that the wonderful world of online shopping is at my fingertips and immediately available.

- It's a bit of a 'returning from the developing world' cliché, but the variety and subsequent choices one is faced with as a consumer can be crippling. What brand of toothpaste to buy, what breakfast cereal to eat, what shade of lipstick to wear - I was so accustomed to not having much choice at all, I get overwhelmed quite easily when faced with all the lovely options here. Ironically, this is one of the reasons I love COSTCO so much - yes, it's a crowded warehouse where you buy a year's supply of toilet paper or whatever, but usually there are only one or two options per type of good. Want a 12-pack of canned tomatoes? Great, there is one kind available. Need shampoo? Choose a giant vat from generic Kirkland brand or a name-brand competitor.

- People frequently comment that I have an accent. Even now, nearly a year after we moved from Mozambique, I still get the questions. "But where are you from originally?"

- I love being able to be anonymous. Walk down the street, enter shops, drive the car, go work out, go to the movies...whatever. This place is so diverse you really have to try to get some attention.

- California knows how to embrace diversity, but judging from the young 'uns I've met at school, much is left to be desired in terms of embracing basic education. I do not mean to play into an 'uneducated Americans' stereotype, but it seems that much is lacking as far as math, reading, spelling and general culture go. I am increasingly appreciative of the education I had growing up, and of the education that is so appreciated in other places because it truly is the key to getting ahead.

- So much concrete. So many highways. So much urban development.

- The Bay Area is definitely a hot spot for liberal thinking, but I find myself amazed at how radical and uniformed much of said liberalism can be. Every time I see a 'Free Tibet' or 'Not on Our Watch' sticker it makes me want to let out a cynical laugh. I really want to ask the person who's plastered that on their car or house window if they truly know what's going on in those places, or if they've decided to support the cause because it seems the 'right' thing to do in the face of all the injustice happening in those oppressed, far-away countries.

- Even in this mecca of recycling and reuse, I am struck by how much is wasted. Ziploc baggies are used once and thrown away. Food is bought and left to waste in the refrigerator. Paper or plastic plates are used at parties, then tossed. I am not immune to the convenience of the trash can. It's a daily battle to wash the used Ziploc or wash the real plates instead of caving and using plastic. It's so easy to slip back into old habits. I'm not preachy about any of this, and I try not to judge. It sadly seems inevitable that there is a trade-off between conservation and convenience.

- People love their dogs like nowhere I've ever seen before. I feel like I'm missing an arm sometimes because we don't have a dog.

- Eggs are refrigerated here. Always. In store and at home. I wonder what peoples' reaction would be if they knew I've been eating room-temperature eggs for the last several years and never once got sick...

- It's really, really, really difficult to get on board with the health system here. I know this is a complex subject, but to someone who's just come from the "outside" and not had regular health insurance for quite a while, the system seems very messed up. I find it absurd that I can have a consultation with a dermatologist and they can't tell me up front how much it will cost, that I have to wait for weeks until the insurance company determines how much of this mystery amount they will cover, and then I am billed for the rest. We are transitioning to a different plan now, one with co-pays, so hopefully this will no longer be an issue. Still, how backwards! Also, I've yet to see a doctor who I truly believe cares about me or my affliction. It's all so impersonal, I feel very unmotivated to go get non-emergency medical attention because it seems I spend money for generic advice. I'm thankful we have doctors in Rico's family, because they are the ones I turn to when I'm feeling ill.

- Not exactly a news flash, but it's amazing how Spanish is truly the new universal language of the US. There's not a day that goes by without me hearing or speaking Spanish. It's the language of our kitchens, construction crews, shop attendants, bus drivers, social workers, teachers, house cleaners, city planners, small business owners, international executives. Shame mine is all muddled with Portuguese these days. :)

- Poor Brazil suffers from quite the heavy stereotyping here in the US. On multiple occasions, upon hearing I'm married to a Brazilian, women have asked me, "So, is he really hot?" Seriously! They all have the image of a samba-dancing, soccer-playing, dark and tan lover. I tell them, "Yes, my husband is hot, but not the way you imagine. He works in investment management and loves sailing and comes from a Portuguese family." They look at me like my answer does not compute.

- I really miss some of the little luxuries of life in Moz, namely having Dona Lídia do my ironing and go for shop runs to purchase milk and eggs, and having the building guards available to help me parallel park (the hand gestures showing which way I should turn the wheel were priceless!) and carry heavy loads up the stairs. On the other hand, I love having a Roomba. :)

These are a few of my observations. This list is incomplete and ever-evolving.

I'd love to hear the thoughts of expats who have recently relocated, be it to a third country or "home". Did you experience reverse culture shock? What were the aspects you found most challenging/entertaining/interesting?

A Few Ways in Which Mozambique Changed Me

I've written about this topic previously (here, here, here and here) but always while still living in Mozambique and without the valuable perspective that comes from being away from a place for a while. Some changes were obvious - salvaging still-fresh parts of partially rotten vegetables and fruits, becoming less wasteful in general, being more relaxed and laid-back when things don't go according to plan - but others really took leaving Mozambique and living in California for several months to notice.

Here are a few changes I've recognized since moving to Casa Cali:

- I find it really difficult to be opinionated on subjects that I haven't experienced first-hand. I remember back in high school and college, I was such an enthusiastic debater in the classroom. I'd take positions on novels, case studies, politics, ethics, etc. and passionately argue my view with classmates and even professors. It was relatively easy for me to identify what I thought was right and wrong, what I thought would work and what would fail. Not the case anymore. Living in Mozambique - and very particularly working in "development" - significantly changed many of the opinions I'd previously held dear. I used to be the typical supporter of NGOs, international development projects, humanitarian aid, etc...and now that I've experienced them first-hand, my beliefs have radically changed. My politics have also shifted as a result. I can't help but wonder how many other things I support in theory I'd view differently if only I were to experience them in person (as opposed to reading about them or hearing others' stories).

- As a result of the above phenomenon, I am overwhelmed by voting here in the US. There are a few issues I have a clear opinion on - for example, supporting our schools and a woman's right to choose - but others have me on the fence. Immigration, budget cuts, taxes, environmental protection. I can understand both sides of most of these issues, and feel like somewhat of a sucker if I'm swayed by a tv ad or political debate. I think there is so much smoke and mirrors, and apparently I've developed a big dose of cynicism about the political process in the last 5 years. I just don't know what to believe, and after my changes of heart in Mozambique, I feel like I might be wrong on a whole host of other things I currently support. I'm registered as an Independent voter because I really struggle to even choose which political party I most closely identify with and want to support.

- I also find myself avoiding controversial discussions like the plague. I think I've always been somewhat of a natural diplomat (and some would say my star sign doesn't help - I'm a Libra), but post-Moz I really don't want to get into it with people. I don't want to debate politics, religion, healthcare reform, immigration. I will, however, get on a soapbox about my experiences in international "development"...but that's only because I feel minimally qualified and entitled to an opinion because I worked on-the-ground with so many different players in the aid/development scene.

- I have become a total homebody. This makes me laugh because I was such a wanderer and adventurer for so many years. I used to think that "settling down" would mean I'd given up my dreams in life and become boring. :) Nowadays, there is nothing more that I want than to stay home with Rico, work in the garden, make jewelry, play with the cats, watch tv and cook delicious meals. It's really hard for me to get out of the house, which I'm aware can become problematic, but for the time being I'm giving myself a break. I think the move to the US and the subsequent career/lifestyle changes it brought about really took it out of me, more so than I'd ever really anticipated. We've now lived in Casa Cali for 9 months and I still feel tired and somewhat disoriented a lot of the time. I do make myself venture out - to the city to meet friends for dinner, to go to a new restaurant near the water - but it takes a colossal effort and makes me appreciate our home that much more.

- I love the anonymity that living in the Bay Area provides. I can go shopping, go for a run, go for a coffee or whatever and I blend in with everyone around me. I don't attract attention unless I want to. The flip side is that it's much harder to make friends here than in Maputo. No real surprise there, for sure, but it's sort of shocking that Rico and I have only managed to make friends with one other couple and our neighbors since moving here. We have other friends, but they are people I went to high school with and therefore only required reconnecting rather than the entire process of meeting and establishing a friendship. I'm aware that the lack of friends is tied to the homebody tendencies described above, which is fine for now. I miss having close friends, but I simply don't feel ready to put in the energy to meet a bunch of new people. I'm sure that will come, though. I remember having lived in Mozambique for 1.5 years and feeling like I had no friends. That sure changed! :)

I suppose it's hard to attribute these changes solely to having lived in Mozambique. In the last five years I also got married, did an overhaul of my professional life, and generally did a whole lot of growing up - all of which have surely influenced my personality and perspective on the world. Still, I feel it's impossible to separate "Life in Mozambique" from any of those other events - they're all so interconnected and definitely influenced by our time in Africa.

Anyhow, I have many more observations about our life in Mozambique now that we've been away for a while. Bit by bit I hope to process through them and share my conclusions here on the blog.

Edited to add:

On a lighter note, I've also stopped reading so much celebrity gossip now that we are living in California. I still enjoy an occasional visit to Perez Hilton, but I'm not checking multiple times a day for updates. I suppose it's a testament to 1) how much I procrastinated in Mozambique, and 2) how much better I am using my time here...although we do watch a whole lot of tv. :)

Snakes in the Road

Looking back on our experiences in Mozambique, there was so much I wanted to capture in writing but didn't - either because the topic was too sensitive and required the invaluable perspective of time, or because life got in the way and I spent my writing energy on things like business plans and grant proposals for clients. Bit by bit I hope to put these myriad recollections and opinions on paper, so to speak, so that they don't fall victim to the funny tricks memory inevitably plays on us.

Below are a few memories from a trip to Nampula and Zambézia Provinces I took with my colleague A. back in May 2009. We were there to interview community-level maize millers in order to better understand their businesses and, eventually, develop a program proposal through which the organization we were consulting for could do an "intervention" to raise the millers' incomes and link them to the larger meal-processing industry in Mozambique. A classic example of a concept and proposal that seem stellar in theory and on paper, but that made my stomach sink with cynicism and my head hurt from all the BS and international development buzzwords.

------------ -------- ------------

"If we're lucky and the road is good, we can make it to Guruè in time for you to interview some millers," says Sulemane, our driver. We bump along a road whose asphalt is pocked with craters, signs every dozen kilometers or so announcing which donor is next in the endless cycle of support to highway repairs.

All I can think is that I hope the road gets worse, that we arrive in Guruè far too late to feasibly do anything other than find the Catholic mission where we are to stay the night, eat a quick meal and go to bed. I don't want to interview any millers - not now, not tomorrow, not ever. And yet it is my job to interview millers - at least for this particular assignment - so I give myself a silent pep talk and try to put on an enthusiastic front for the benefit of my colleague A., who is new to the development world and seems eager to carry out our field work.

We bump along past clusters of mud-and-straw huts, past women carting water in giant yellow containers, past the occasional abandoned colonial structure. The land is visibly fertile, full of lush trees and countless small-scale agricultural plots, a significant contrast to the grays and browns that dominate the countryside around Maputo.

After a few hours we stop for a rest in Alto Molócuè, a small town that has the reputation for being a promising player in grains and soya production in Mozambique. My colleagues talk about Alto Molócuè as if it were Eden waiting to be discovered as far as agriculture is concerned; I find it immediately depressing.

The central part of town seems like one big truck stop, full of seedy-looking men, begging children, and girls who are clearly out to make a buck. Alto Molócue is located at the intersection of two main highways and is also the only place with minimal infrastructure for miles around, making it a logical location for travelers to overnight, stock up on supplies or seek out some "entertainment". I try to convince myself that things get better a couple streets over, on the other side of the bridge, away from the influx of trucks and men and money.

We order three roast chickens with xima at the only place in town our driver says is decent. I pay for the meal and invite Sulemane to sit with me and A. He refuses, which I find odd given that we've been having such nice conversations in the truck. As we pick at the chicken with our hands, a crippled man stares at me from outside the window, rubbing his belly and pleading with me to give him the leftovers from my meal. "Estou a pedir-e, amiga." I selfishly wish he would go away.

I seem to flip-flop from day to day on how I feel about begging. If I give food, am I perpetuating a problem and encouraging dependency? On the other hand, how can one possibly eat in front of a starving man and not feel compelled to share? I feel conspicuously overfed and white and rich and foreign.

I eat half the chicken, then ask the shopkeeper if it's okay to give the leftovers to the man outside - not because I particularly want his opinion, rather to ensure the beggar won't be yelled at (or worse) for disturbing the paying customers who want to eat in peace. The man devours the rest of my meal, hotly refusing to share with the dozen or so kids who have come out of the woodwork to beg for their own mouthful.

A small, hand-written sign next to the door catches my eye. In scrawled script it says "Duá para a barraca" followed by what I imagine to be the same message in Arabic. A prayer to bless the small shop. Amen, I think. Amen.

We return to the truck and A. and I discuss our field work strategy. We will be interviewing as many maize millers as possible over the next five days. We plan to start in the mountains near the border with Malawi, then make our way back towards Nampula. We go over our interview guide, and think of how to introduce ourselves and the work we are doing. I make A. promise not to use the word "programa", for fear of implying some sort of support or inadvertently raising the hopes of these millers that an NGO will be coming in to save the day. Rather we decide to say we are doing an "estudo", that we are simply gathering data to better understand the milling business in the region.

Although we are, in reality, preparing a program proposal with the end goal of supporting the millers - at least with technical assistance if not with actual funds - I am incredibly reluctant to say anything. Why? Because I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that nothing will ever be done. Nothing will change. Even if the organization where A. and I are consultants manages to get the program funded, I doubt it will be properly implemented. Perhaps there will be one or two "star" millers involved in the program (convenient characters for the donor reports), and some nice statistics to go along with them - but I can't fathom there being sustainable, widespread change for the millers we will interview, despite the fact that's exactly what is being argued in the grant proposal.

It's not that the organization where we work is corrupt, or ill-intentioned, or staffed with incapable fools. On the contrary - the majority of the people employed at the NGO are quite skilled and truly want to make a difference in the lives of the rural poor. Somehow, however, between the good intentions and the actual results, something breaks down. People get burned out, there is disconnect between the donors and the reality on the ground, there is a lack of training and proper program management (despite endless attempts to address these issues), programs continue to be top-down in their conception and implementation (again, despite purported focus on community-driven or demand-driven interventions), etc. These are not problems specific to any one organization - they are widespread throughout the development industry...and they are completely clouding my vision.

I try to convince myself that doing the best job I can, even within a flawed system, is the right thing to do and really my only option. I must put on a smile, find the silver lining in the work and try to believe something good will come out of it for the millers, their families, their communities.

A bright green snake slithers across the road in front of our vehicle. While Sulemane could have easily swerved to the right and avoided it, he aims for the middle of its body and guns the accelerator. I feel a slight bump, but nobody looks back.

------------ ------ ----------------

Edited to add: I am always a bit reluctant to write posts like these because I hate the idea that I might propagate, in any way, the idea that Africa is one giant place full of poor people who live in a rural context and somehow or other need to be "saved". Those of you who know me and have taken the time to read my past entries know my view is vastly different. This post is much more about my mindset and experiences as a private-sector development consultant on a particular assignment, and the rural poverty and the people we encountered while doing field work are unavoidably a part of the story.

For a post that hits the nail on the head 110% when it comes to the diversity and "un-classifiable-ness" of what it means to be African (or Angolan, or Mozambican, or Zambian), please read this excellent text entitled "Sou Africana e não como mandioca" by my friend Jessica.

Africa Agri-Culture: Non-Homogenized

I always come across the most interesting articles and blogs related to agriculture in Africa, but seldom get around to posting them here. I'm going to try and change this trend for the last few months we are here in Moz.

Speaking of Mozambique, here is an (optimistic) article on what could happen with agriculture in this country, assuming the critical constraints to development are addressed. Click through to the full article, "Mozambique Could Become a Field of Dreams".

I recently discovered a blog simply called African Agriculture, which seems to provide good news updates and opinion pieces. Click here to visit.

Finally, here is a link to a publication called "The Conversation Behind Closed Doors" that was prepared by senior associates of Baird's CMC. Apparently the report reveals the attitudes toward corporate investment in Africa among leading U.S. corporations -- according to senior officers of 30 American Fortune 100 corporations we interviewed. The fundamental question is: Why has Africa not attracted more interest from the U.S. business community?

I had a look at the executive summary of "The Conversation Behind Closed Doors" and it was intriguing. However, most of the points highlighted in the summary are the same ones on the Laundry List of Conditions for Development and Investment Promotion that any of us who have worked in private sector development for a reasonable length of time could cough up on command. I suppose these issues may be relevant for the CEO of a company not familiar with investing and operating a business in Mozambique or Nigeria or the Sudan, however these are most certainly issues that the governments of these countries, in addition to the people working on the ground to promote a many of the changes called for, are almost numbingly familiar with.

I asked the study authors to clarify who the intended audience is for this report. Is it the US companies who might potentially expand operations into Africa? Or is it the potential recipient countries of said US investment? I'd be curious to know, and see how that might change my evaluation of the report contents.

One final note on "The Conversation Behind Closed Doors", but this is just me being picky: along with all of the other choir-singers, I am tired of hearing Africa referred to as if it were one sad lump of a country, or one fabulous unified destination for investments.** The tagline for this study is "Inside the Boardroom: How Corporate America Really Views Africa." Isn't that just a bit pretentious? Assuming that the suited and tied occupants of the US Fortune 100 boardrooms could possibly have a view, much less a *real* one, on all of AFRICA?

Perhaps this seems petty, but it drives me nuts. Maybe it's just a bad day. Do any of you find this tagline bothersome?

Regardless, I'd like to read the full report so that I might make more meaningful commentary.

**Yes, I realize I'm fully in hypocrite territory because of my blog title. Africa's right at home on a list of two cities and a country! Despite my best efforts, it seems I was also guilty of referring to "Africa as a unit" prior to moving to Mozambique.

The Story of Zeca

When Rico and I first moved to Maptuo back in early 2006, we didn't have a car. We relied on taxis to go to meetings, to the supermarket on the outskirts of town, to the airport, out to dinner, to clubs - essentially anything that wasn't within walking distance.

Taxi drivers in Maputo are a notoriously unreliable bunch, and at any one point Rico and I each would have a list of about 25 drivers stored in our cell phones that we would continuously update, moving the good drivers to the top of the list and deleting the ones who would show up drunk, who would run out of gas halfway to our destination, whose cars seemed within even the Mozambican definition of "unroadworthy", who would blatantly lie and say they were on their way and then arrive 30 minutes later with an indignant look on their faces as if they were doing us some grand favor by even showing up at all. We went through a long list of drivers before settling on a marginally satisfactory rotation of two or three for the day shift, and one or two for the night shift.

Even among this group of decently reliable drivers, Zeca stood out. He always kept his taxi - a silver Toyota Corolla - in good repair and with at least a quarter tank of fuel at all times. He was courteous, a good conversationalist (Zeca lived in East Germany for several years in the 1980's, where he worked in a tire factory as part of the Mozambican government's worker exchange initiatives), well-groomed (unshowered drivers make for an unpleasant ride) and punctual. We even got to the point where Zeca would call and let us know if he was going to be even 5 minutes late.

At that point, Rico and I were using Zeca's taxi services on a regular basis. We easily spent at least 1,500mt (about US$60) per week running around Maputo, and figured he was turning quite a profit thanks to our business. Additionally, we started recommending Zeca to all of our friends here in need of a reliable taxi.

Our friend M. started using Zeca quite frequently, and made a joke one day that Zeca must be filling his pockets with money having all these mulungo clients. Contrary to what we all had assumed, Zeca proceeded to tell M. that no, in fact, he wasn't making any additional money despite the spike in his business.

Apparently, as is the case with most taxis here in Maputo, Zeca's taxi belonged to his patrão, or boss. The patrão would pay Zeca a fixed salary each month for driving, and Zeca would hand over his earnings regardless of how much or how little he'd made relative to his salary. Essentially, his patrão was sitting cool watching more and more money come in the door without lifting a finger (Zeca is very honest and would always hand over 100% of the revenues), while Zeca - who had won over all these clients because of his good work ethic and dedication - was not reaping any of the financial benefits.

M. discovered that Zeca's patrão payed him 2,000mt (US$80) per month as a salary, which made me and Rico feel extraordinarily ashamed that we'd simply assumed his situation was improving as a result of our patronage. Zeca earned a pittance of a wage, and had never once complained about his situation in the nearly two years we'd known him. He'd never had the handout attitude of "Estou a pedir-e" or "Está difícil, pá", and this very fact made us respect him even more.

Rico, M. and I hatched a plan to do something to support Zeca and help him reap the benefits of his hard work. We decided to finance a car for him. We did the math, and found that the 14,000 to 17,000mt (US$560 to $680) that Zeca averaged in revenues per month could easily cover his fuel and maintenance costs, as well as a small car payment and insurance. We decided that Rico and I would buy the car, and that M. would cover the insurance cost.

When we told Zeca about the idea, he was ecstatic. We were clear, however, that we wouldn't be able to purchase his car immediately because we didn't have the extra cash on hand. Zeca didn't mind, and patiently waited multiple months for us to save the necessary amount. In the meantime, Zeca started saving as well, as he wanted to make a contribution to the insurance cost. Even on a salary of US$80 per month, he somehow managed to save 5,000mt (US$200) by the time we were ready to purchase the car.

Zeca did all the legwork, and identified a silver Corolla that was in good condition and had a reasonable price. We gave him the money - just over US$5,000 for the car and US$500 for the insurance - and he and Ricardo went together to buy his new taxi. He asked Rico to bring a camera so he could record the day his life changed and - in his words - we became his "parents". Zeca and his wife always refer to us in this manner, and I find it funny but really endearing.

The day Zeca announced to his old patrão that he had his own car and wouldn't be working for him anymore, his patrão was in such a state of disbelief that he actually accused Zeca of stealing. He thought it was the only way Zeca could have possibly come across the necessary cash to buy a car (or get the minimum collateral for a bank loan) given the miserable salary he was paying. In order for the patrão to believe that Zeca's clients had financed a car for him, Rico had to draw up a "contract" with Zeca attesting to the loan, as well as talk to the patrão himself. I can only imagine how that man (and his wife with a hefty shopping habit) must have felt the day they saw their goose with the golden egg walk out the door, ready to become an entrepreneur.

As a guarantee, the taxi is in Rico's name until Zeca finishes paying us back. We have an arrangement whereby every Monday he deposits 2,000mt (US$80) in our account - the equivalent to his previous monthly salary - and the same amount each month in M.'s account. We charged Zeca a modest interest rate for the financing, more than anything to respect the idea that money has value over time rather than to cover our risk as lenders.

To date, Zeca has payed back over 75% of the value of the loan. He has never missed a payment or been late, and we never have to remind him that he needs to deposit the funds. He is like clockwork. Zeca has also started putting away a bit of money each month so that he has enough savings in a year's time so that he can buy a second car, or upgrade to another vehicle should he want to.

Since Zeca became self-employed, his income has increased multiple-fold and he will soon have an asset in his name. He and his wife just moved into a larger house in a better neighborhood. Because of Zeca's improved financial situation, his wife was able to leave her job as a maid in an abusive family and find a new employer. They are both much happier.

To say thank you, Zeca threw a churrasco party for me, Rico, M. and his wife K. He made it clear that he wanted to cover all the costs, up to about US$100. He bought us meat, shrimp, beer, sodas and all sorts of other treats. We had a nice barbeque in M. and K.'s backyard. Zeca and his wife gave us a heartfelt toast of thanks, we took some commemorative photos, and then settled into a comfortable rhythm of conversation, chatting about current events, sports, Maputo politics, cultural differences and whatever else came to mind.

Without a doubt, helping Zeca get his own taxi was the greatest "development" impact we have had during our time in Mozambique. Rico and I often muse about opportunities for replication of our intervention with another decent taxi driver, or perhaps something with our maid or our security guards. However it's not easy to find another Zeca. The combination of his personality, his work ethic, his line of work and the timing all made it a unique situation.

Still, we're not giving up hope. We're doing a bit of an experiment with our maid, Dona Lídia, to finance a small house adjacent to her own residence that she can rent out for a modest income. I'll keep you posted on the progress as things move forward...

The Micro Difference

In a comment regarding yesterday's post, my friend Safiya wondered what can be done to make a difference in peoples' lives if one does believe that Aid is Dead. This is a really intersting topic, because for all of my cynicism and burned-out state, I still believe there are ways to have a positive, meaningful, sustainable impact outside the traditional "development" model.

In my personal experience, the successful models are all on the micro-scale, grassroots in the true sense of the word. While the notion of micro traditionally refers to the amount of money at hand (micro-lending), or the size of a business (micro-enterprise), I believe the successful models are micro in the sense that they are from individual to individual, with two or perhaps three people involved in the "program".

Rico and I have one great, crowning "development" success story - that of our taxi driver, Zeca. In our minds, there is no doubt that the small intervention we did (with the help of our friend M.) is the most significant impact we will ever have in our work here in Mozambique.

Alas, I have to go to a meeting, so I can't tell Zeca's story right now. I will, however, as my next post.

When You Realize It's Time

Today I am feeling very impatient and cynical. It's the kind of day where I realize that there is high burn-out in certain industries for a reason...after a determined point, your heart isn't in it anymore and you can't see your work through anything but gray-colored lenses. There needs to be a reasonable level of turnover, to keep ideas fresh, motivation rolling and spirits high.

The problems start when, as I did today, you sit in a meeting and think, "I don't care about any of this, I don't believe any of it will make a difference." I don't care about soy, I don't care about small-scale farmers, I don't care about malaria, I don't care about the Gates Foundation, I don't care about new proposals or budget categories or stakeholder meetings. It's all just one big cycle - AID begetting AID - even when it is packaged in the alluring label of "private-sector focused".

I find it laughable that the people in the meeting room - including myself - are discussing the future of farmers, of industries, of countries. I can talk the talk - we all can - and some of us certainly walk the walk...but I feel a bit as if I've been tasked to conduct a seminar in astrophysics, that's how far removed I am from the plight of the poor peasant working a plot of maize in Mozambique. And, much like astrophysics, at the end of the day it's really not my passion.

I feel very bad admitting this, like I've stated that I hate kittens and small children and sunshine. Obviously it's not a black-or-white situation, this development game, and the ultimate positive impact or damage of any program is a question of perspective. However, I know that I am burned out in my work here in Mozambique, and that likely I was never the right ambassador for a lot of these projects in the first place. I feel that I am essentially at the end of my line, just as I knew I was at the end of my line when I was directing an HIV Prevention Program in Austin back in 2005. Something shifted, the frustrations became more frequent, the apathy almost constant.

Still, it's hard to make the decision that it's time to walk away. I know I do a good job, despite my bitter days. I know my work is thorough, ethical and high-quality. I know that I have something beneficial to contribute, even if if said contribution is in the context of a system I disagree with. I try to remind myself that, fundamentally, I am lucky not only to have a job, but to have one that pays decently well and offers me so many opportunities.

I need a change, though. I know it's time, and I believe it's the right thing to do. For me and for the supposed beneficiaries of this work.

Stay tuned for what's next. It won't be immediate, and I certainly don't have a plan 100% forged in my mind, but it's gotta happen. Soon!

Glamorizing Poverty or an Innovative Way Out of It?

Check out this article, called "Rio tourists to slum it in style" about a German developer who believes that building a high-end hotel in Vidigal favela is the next big thing for tourism in the Cidade Maravilhosa.

Depending on the day, my mood, my geographic location, the latest news, etc. I can understand - and likely argue in favor of - both side of this type of story.

Be it favela tourism in Rio, visits to Khayelitsha in Cape Town, homestays in empoverished but breathtaking Sapa in the hills of Vietnam, or any other such venture offering an "authentic" experience to those willing to pay, it is hard for me to decide whether I believe the end result is exploitation or a fascinating way to bridge social differences and recognize the value of otherwise marginalized people and communities.

For each altruistic, socially conscious visitor who is truly interested in understanding how others live, I imagine there will be 10 others who are keen on staying in a favela hotel for the Experience - just so they can take the requisite photos of "innocent schoolchildren walking home past another child, only slightly older, holding an AK-47 and keeping watch over a drug sales point" or "visibly destitute but smiling favela resident dancing samba with beer in hand and view of city lights in background" - and return home to impress friends and family with said photos and tales of authenticity and how, despite the occasional brush with gun-wielding drug traffickers (referred to in a very nonchalant manner), they were truly accepted into the Vidigal community during their 4-day visit.

As much as I am annoyed by the "Quest for Authenticity" in tourism (staying in a penthouse in Barra and eating sushi every day is just as *authentic* as playing cards on a stoop in Rocinha, although it's not necessarily *representative* of the way most brasileiros live...), is it really a bad thing? Is it harmful?

Again, back to the questions I can argue either side of, depending on the day.

Thoughts?

Sotto Voce

I've been uninspired writing-wise lately, at least as far as the usual topics go on this blog. Life is comfortable, I've settled into an incredibly nice rhythm of married life and work, and the days tend to be smooth and enjoyable. While the lack of stress and drama is certainly welcome, it leaves me without the drive to sit down and write empassioned posts about development work, eating struggles, loneliness, job anxiety, housemates and any of the other topics that were my staple for the past several years.

It's funny, sometimes I think this lack of fire in my writing is a sign of complacency, or at the very least cynicism. Not surprising, as I suspect I suffer from both to a certain degree. Other days I see it as a gift to discover other, more subtle subjects to write about. When I'm not surrounded by drama, when I'm not on the soapbox about the inherent hypocricy of much of the "development" work that is done, when I'm not struggling with my own demons...suddenly I am free to write about days past, characters not yet fully formed, ideas waiting to sprout.

I'm not expecting anything revolutionary or genius - and am certainly trying to stay away from building those crippling expectations - but I lie awake each night, in the few intensely creative minutes before sleep sets in, and I imagine the protagonists of my future writing. Many of them are based on the very people who pushed me to write such intense posts since arriving in Mozambique, but they are developing into distinct personalities. I don't pretend to know other people's stories fully - and don't particularly want to write 100% faithfully about my friends, colleagues and foes - so it has been a great revelation to break free from the idea that I must be a biographer or an autobiographer if I am to write based on experience.

Yes, they say to write what you know, but I've understood that it is also okay to venture off and let life-based characters take on their own adventures, downfalls and triumphs on paper. I think the quiet, almost predictable place I am in at the moment allows for the imagination to spring forth, for the voice that was somewhat buried underneath all of the drama of the initial Mozambique years to come to the forefront once again, albeit with a much sharper tongue and some incredible experiences shaping the words unfolding.

I know what the next step is, but it is incredibly intimidating. To write, one must write. I need to write. It's time for a beginning.

Churrasco, and the Sweetest Sense of Success Possible

Tonight Rico and I are going to a barbeque (churrasco, in Portuguese) where we, along with our friends Kelly and Marcos, are being treated to an evening of meat, shrimp, beer, sodas and good times.

The occasion? Zeca, our main taxi driver since arriving in Maputo, and a person who has definitely become a friend over the years, is throwing a small party to say thank you. I will properly tell the story later, but one thing is clear: helping Zeca has been the greatest "development impact" we've had thus far in Mozambique, and likely will be the greatest impact we have during our time here, however long that may be.

Zeca refers to me, Rico, Kelly and Marcos as his "pais", literally his parents, an allusion to the way in which we've influenced his life.

I am excited to go celebrate together, in one of the rare cases in which we've all been able to break out of our unfortunately common, prescripted roles of Poor Mozambican vs. Rich (White) Foreigner. Tonight we are the guests. Tonight Zeca is paying the bill. Tonight we will break bread with friends and commemorate the success of an entrepreneur, one of the people who is able to cure me, if even for a moment, of my terrible cynicism regarding this "development" game.

Changing: Seasons and Jobs

After a couple of windy, nasty days, summer is finally here in Maputo. Today it is bright blue skies and feels like it's easily 40C. I'm excited about the onset of summer, even though it is unbearably hot and humid at times. This year I am determined to take advantage of living in such a beautiful place. I want to do more trips to the beach, visit new places like Tofo and Ponta Mamoli, finally go to Kruger, and continue the trend that A. and I started the last weekend it was this hot - freshly squeezed Bloody Marys using our juice extractor and the tomatoes and veg from her garden.

Along with the weather, today marks the end of a chapter in my professional life. I have accepted a full-time job (gasp!) with an organization whose tag-line is something like "Business solutions to rural poverty." Technically they are an NGO, which has me a bit wary given my general opinion of aid, however they *are* heavily private sector focused, and their mission is to strengthen business operating environments and develop specific sectors, cooperatives and entrepreneurs. One thing that has me cautiously optimistic is that they use quantitative, business-inspired indicators to measure their activities and successes - or lack thereof.

If nothing else, it is always good to understand both sides of an argument. Leaving the private sector for the time being will give me valuable insight to the day-to-day workings and strategies of a business-oriented NGO in Mozambique. I continue to believe there is some model out there that provides a positive impact, though on my more cynical days all I can think about is how all donors and capacity-builders and long-term sustainable developers should just get the hell out and leave Mozambique and the Mozambicans to sort themselves out - same thing for all "developing" nations.

Anyhow, it will be an experience, that is for sure. I hope to take something good out of it, as well as contribute something valuable in the process. One thing sem dúvida is that I am ready to leave Big International Corporation. For all the private sector, bottom-line-focused, small-business-enabling rhetoric around here, my end evaluation after working as a consultant here for 8 months is that it is one of the more supremely, maddeningly, absurdly inefficient institutions I've ever encountered, both internally and externally. So much for the "private sector is more efficient" argument, although BIC is more like an aid organization in that their funding for this particular fund comes from donors, and therefore heads don't roll in the face of non-performance like they do in traditional financial institutions.

So what will I be doing in my new job? A lot of different things, but I hope that keeps me interested. My title is Director of Stakeholder Relations, which I am trying to ignore because I hate the wishy-washy sound of it. Essentially I will be responsible for: 1) ensuring the quality and timeliness of all written proposals to funding sources; 2) ensuring the quality and timeliness of all reporting to funding sources and other stakeholders; 3) managing the volunteer consultant program; and 4) developing and implementing knowledge management practices, including trainings and mentorships for staff.

The part of the job that I am most looking forward to is working with the volunteer consultants. This particular organization brings very high-caliber individuals to work on specific projects in each of the countries where they operate. For example, an executive from Shell Oil might come to Mozambique to work for 2 months helping a group of coconut producers develop a biodiesel business plan. Or a consultant from McKinsey might come for 6 months to create a marketing plan for the country's cashew industry. I am hoping that the interaction with all of the volunteer consultants keeps me inspired, on my toes, and interested in my job.

I'm counting down the hours until I say goodbye to BIC. More than anything, the bureaucracy drove me crazy. I already knew that I'm not cut out to work in an environment that doesn't embrace innovation and flexibility, but this experience confirmed it 100%. The saddest part is that BIC is staffed with some of the most intelligent, committed people you could hope to come across, both Mozambican and expats. The cumbersome, ineffective system, however, almost negates that fact...

Adeus, senhores. It's been a good ride, but it's even better to get out when the time is right.

Vision for the Future: Project A

Today, after a very long time not feeling it, the spark inside me - the tesão I feel regarding my professional experience in Mozambique - the idea that these 3 years have not been spent here only to look back with resentment at some point in the future and think, "Damn, we were there at the right time, and we didn't make it happen,"...that spark came back full force.

I am part of a grand plan for business in Mozambique. I am part of an incredible team. We have a vision, and a real chance at making something work that would be an innovation in the country. I will call it Project A for now.

There is also a possibility that we will fail spectacularly, but at least we will have tried. One of my greatest fears is that I will look back and regret not having taken a risk. We are here at the right time. We have the experience. We have the people. We just need to take the gamble...and we are ready to do it.

Our brainstorming phase is over. We are moving forward, concretely, to put things into action.

Much more will come regarding these plans. They've been in our heads for nearly two years now. I can clearly see how everything has played its part in preparing us for this next step...our initial experiences doing consulting work in Chimoio, our freelance period in Maputo, working for various private-sector clients and donors, networking galore, my stint with Hugh Marlboro, my current consulting position at the BIC working on investment projects for local small and medium businesses...it all adds up, and it all comes together as the framework for a grand plan.

Come success or come failure, I'm just glad to have the spark back. The road forward will be a challenge, but I think we are all ready to have a go at it.

Long-Haul

Yesterday Rico finally arrived back in Maputo after an absolute nightmare journey. First his flight from Brazil was cancelled because the pilot brining the plane over to São Paulo from Johannesburg managed to overshoot his landing and end up in the grass outside the runway, blowing out 2 tires in the process. So Night 1 was spent in São Paulo.

The next morning, after an additional 4-hour delay, the rescheduled flight took off, but unfortunately arrived in South Africa so late that there were no connecting flights to Maputo. Night 2 was spent at a hotel in Sandton.

South African Airways had given Rico a printout of a confirmed itinerary where he was rescheduled on a flight to Maputo the next afternoon at 1:55pm. However, when he arrived at the airport to do his checkin, SAA informed him that there was, in fact, no such flight on Saturdays and that he'd have to spend another night in Joburg because there were no more flights to Maputo that day on any airline. Night 3 was thus spent at the Emperor's Palace hotel or something like that.

Rico finally made it to Maputo yesterday morning, only to find his luggage didn't arrive. Apparently they stuffed the plane full of cargo in lieux of passengers' suitcases, as about half of the flight was in line to file a claim with SAA upon arrival. We had to go back to the airport later in the evening to pick up his bags, as the airlines here don't deliver lost luggage directly to passengers' hotels or homes as is the case in every other country I've ever visited, developed or not.

It was funny watching a man in front of us in line at the SAA baggage desk, obviously on his first trip to Mozambique.

Man: So do you have any idea of where my bags are right now? Are they in Johannesburg?

Woman at baggage counter: Ummmmmmm, no. We can't see any of that information.

Man: Okay, do you at least have an estimate of what time my bags will arrive in Maputo?

Woman: Maybe on the 3pm flight. But you should call before you come to the airport because the flight may be late.

Man: But you will deliver my bags to my hotel, no?

Woman: No, you must return to the airport this evening to fetch them.

Man: You're kidding, right? (several people in line, including me, laughed out loud at this point because we were all to familiar with the situation)

Woman: No, sir. You must come to the airport. This is Mozambique.

Man: But it's the airline's responsibility. At least South African will pay for my taxi to the airport, right?

Woman: No...

Man: This is absurd! How is it the passenger's fault? I shouldn't have to pay for this! Where is the office of SAA?

Woman: Around the corner to the left, but it will do no good.

Man: No, I want to talk to someone.

Woman: But this is Mozambique!

Man: I am from Argentina - it's not so different there - but we manage to provide this basic service!

Woman: Here we are struggling to eat. We are dying of hunger! We ask for international donations! How can we provide this service? We can't be expected to have the means to deliver a bag to a passenger's hotel! This is Mozambique...

The poor Argentine man huffed off to try and talk to the attendant at the SAA office, and the rest of us in line commented about the situation. The man was right, after all. It should be a service provided by the airline, regardless of the donor-dependence or poverty of the country in question. Isn't this type of thing taken into consideration when passengers are charged overhead and airport handling fees and other taxes as part of a total ticket price?

Regardless of the obligations or lack thereof on the part of the airlines, there was something about the woman's attitude that made me feel exasperated and sad. This is exactly the type of attitude, in my opinion, that hinders progress. It is easy to sit back and play "poor me", both on an individual and on a national level. Finding solutions, being proactive...now that requires an effort and an ounce of hope.