Fraudulent Booker

Someone used my business credit card to try and purchase $1,400 worth of tickets on a travel site called e-booker.com.

When the bank called to notify me of the fraudulent activity, I heard e-Hooker.com. Hehe.

Either way, someone's plans for a real good time were spoiled because the charge was blocked.

Now I'm having the fun experience of getting a new account, reconfiguring all of my auto-pays, and catching attempts at additional fraudulent activity (even though my card has already been canceled).

On top of training an assistant, watching World Cup, helping organize Point to Point, working on a bunch of custom orders (yay!), working out, and generally hustling a hard hustle.

The life of an entrepreneur...the good, the bad, and the hectic!

Pressure! 

Full Circle

Life can be so deliciously ironic sometimes, friends. To illustrate, I give you a short summary of the events of the last 2 weeks.

Last Tuesday:

After developing a super plan with Ahmed and Paulo for turning around the local banana sales operation, I became increasingly incredulous regarding what Hugh Marlboro had asked of me. Just to refresh your memories ('cause it's been a while since I've blogged, I know...), on the heels of telling me he had no intention of extending me a contract or offering me a decent salary, and that moreover he simply "didn't know how to put me to good use in the Empire", Hugh Marlboro proposed that I be put in charge of restructuring one of the key areas of his business. He wanted an operational plan, a management plan, standard procedures...EXACTLY the kind of work that I do well. And yet, he expected me to perform this massive task in 30 days on a salary that barely covered my living costs, all the while thinking that at the end of the month I'd hand over my reports and recommendations on a silver platter, and be content to walk away?? Mmmm, yeah. I think not.

I told the boys that my work, just like theirs, had a price, and that I intended to secure fair compensation before embarking on such a project. Ahmed and Paulo agreed completely.

Before presenting the proposal we'd put together, I went in for a private meeting with Hugh Marlboro. I told him that the boys and I had a sound plan, that we were a super team, that we could definitely turn around his local banana sales. However, I explained that my leadership and skills now had a price significantly higher than what I was willing to work for before our big talk the previous week.

I asked Hugh M. if he had a proposal for my compensation in this project, and his eyes practically bugged out of his head. He was totally not expecting me to stand up for myself. After quite a pause, he said he had no idea about a proposal, and did I have something in mind. You bet I did! I'd spent the last day figuring out an amount that was reasonable in terms of the work being performed, yet high enough for me not to feel like a sucker. I did a quick calculation on Hugh Marlboro's calculator, then turned the screen around to face him. "This is what I feel is fair for my work." He stared at that number for ages, and all the while I gripped my notepad so he wouldn't see my hands shaking with adrenaline. Finally, Hugh M. spoke. "I can't afford to pay this. It's simply not a possibility." I felt a bit disappointed, but satisfied that at least I'd brought up the issue.

Hugh Marlboro may not have been willing to pay for my work in the local banana sales, but he did have a proposal of his own. "I'll pay you 3x your previous salary for the 10 days you've worked so far this month. Come tomorrow morning and I'll give it to you in cash, and you can clean out your office. Then we'll start with a clean slate. If we want to work together on a specific project in the future, we will figure out the terms. But for now, at least we have nothing pending, neither of us owes the other anything." I accepted his proposal without hesitation.

Hugh Marlboro then asked to see the proposal that Ahmed, Paulo and I had put together. "Sorry," I said. "If you want to see the details of our plan, then you can hire me as a consultant for this specific project. Otherwise, you are free to move forward with Luigi heading the operation, or whomever you see fit."

Before I left his office, Hugh M. offered me his hand and said, "You are a hell of a businesswoman. My door will always be open to you. It's been a pleasure."

I walked out feeling good. I was free to search for my next job, and even without my participation in the local banana project, Ahmed and Paulo would be moved up to supervisory positions with improved salaries. And, to top it off, I'd gained a level of respect from Hugh Marlboro that I certainly didn't have before, not that it really mattered at this stage of the game...

Last Wednesday:

I went to the Banana Empire headquarters and had the surreal experience of cleaning out my office, taking my pictures off the wall, and saying goodbye to my colleagues with less than 24 hours notice. Everyone was shocked to hear I was leaving. I was having serious bittersweet feelings about the whole thing...

I went home and started updating my CV, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do next with my professional life.

Last Thursday:

Rico and I have been working for the last 2.5 years developing and doing fundraising for an expansion project for Hugh Marlboro's Banana Empire. We submitted the elaborate business and financial plan last year to the Big Investing Company for consideration, and it was through this process that Hugh M. got to know my work in the first place.

BIC is known for its bureaucracy, and the multi-million dollar project had to go through analysis and approval by the institution's regional office in South Africa, and by their agribusiness headquarters in the US. Several months ago, Hugh M. lost patience and got fed up with the drawn-out process. He was ready to give up, frustrated with BIC's runaround, and basically was ready to tell everyone from the institution to go screw themselves. Luckily, he confessed this desire to me before actually acting on it, and I was able to convince him to let me and Rico completely take over the process. We were close to getting the project approved, and Rico and I certainly didn't want to abandon ship, especially since we have a success fee on the line!

Last Thursday, two days after Hugh M. effectively fired me, we got some good news: BIC's credit committee in the US had approved the Banana Empire expansion project for funding! Several million dollars would be dedicated to the project pending a final review of the company's figures and Hugh M.'s acceptance of the loan terms and conditions.

As my mom put it, the timing on this news was delicious!

5 Days Later:

Ricardo and I went to have dinner with my friend T., who manages a fund that invests in local small businesses at the Maputo office of the Big Investing Company. Rico is interested in a potential career at BIC, so he wanted to do some networking. He got some good tips on an opening in their corporate division, and T. told us about her frustrations in the division she runs, namely she's lost all of her staff in the last 6 months due to local banks offering better salaries and lighter workloads. She told us how she is desperate, doing all of the investment evaluation work herself, how she has 5 projects to finalize by the end of June and has no idea how she will manage it, especially since she can't find qualified people to hire here in Maputo.

I talked a bit about how I don't want to lock myself into a full-time job before the wedding in July, that I would likely do consulting work - but where? - until then. I fretted a bit about my professional situation, then it hit us: T. and I could easily solve each other's problems! She needs help doing investment analysis (which is right up my alley!) until June. I want to work as a consultant until June, preferrably in a position that will make me good money. T. told me to send her my CV, that she would urgently push a contract for me through headquarters and that I could start on Monday.

So that is how I came to work for BIC as a short-term consultant, doing almost the same thing Hugh Marlboro had initially hired me to do yet was incapable of taking advantage of, and earning easily 4x the salary he was willing to pay me.

Today T. said that she's been praying to God for help in her program for quite some time now, but that she never imagined that help would come in the form of such a poor decision on Hugh Marlboro's part. She said she ran into him the other day on a site visit and almost gave him a hug, that's how grateful she is to have me available to work with her on the BIC fund.

I started my new job yesterday and it is going well. It's a challenge, I am busy, and I am satisfied with the conditions of my work. It's not the never-a-dull-moment of the Banana Empire, but it is definitely a good deal.

Preparing the Plan

Last Sunday, on a particularly hot and humid afternoon, I met Ahmed and Paulo at Cristal for beers and an informal discussion about work.

Ahmed was wearing bright pink Havaianas and the oversized Gucci sunglasses I'd brought back for him from the US. He made me laugh. I've grown to appreciate his unique sense of style.

"Boys," I said, "I may have opened the door to an interesting opportunity for you."

I proceeded to tell them about the conversation I'd had with Hugh Marlboro, how I'd told him about their strengths and potential within the Empire, how I'd made certain he knew who exactly was keeping the fresh produce warehouse running from day to day.

I also told them about my situation, that I'd likely be leaving the company at the end of the month.

I took a deep breath and continued, pausing to wipe beads of sweat off my upper lip. "Basically, Hugh Marlboro has proposed that in the next 30 days, you two take over the local banana sales and I manage the operation. We will make whatever changes are necessary to stop the thefts and make the whole thing more efficient. At the end of the month, if things have gone well, he will put you permanently in these new positions with salaries that are fair compensation for the work being performed."

Ahmed and Paulo looked at me, then at each other, nodding their heads in approval. "Nice," they said.

"Also," I went on, "I've told Hugh Marlboro quite honestly that you are being grossly underpaid. He's agreed to at least double your salaries, but you should ask for what you know will make you satisfied. This is your chance, put it all on the table. You guys have nothing to lose."

"Beleza!" Awesome, the said.

"I want to make it clear, though, that I don't care if you accept this opportunity or not. I'm not trying to convince you of anything. I'm just presenting a possibility; you need to see what the conditions are, whether or not you feel it is worth your while, if you want to move forward with negotiations."

"So what about you?" Ahmed wanted to know. "What happens at the end of the month?"

"Well, Hugh Marlboro wants an operational plan, a management plan and standard operating procedures prepared. However, all this has a price. I'm going to present a proposal of my own, with the amount that will make it worth my while to restructure this critical area of his business in 30 days. However, I will probably leave the company at the end of this period."

At that point, the ridiculousness of the situation hit me. How on earth could Hugh Marlboro tell me that, essentially, I was being gracefully fired because he didn't know how to put me to good use, and then turn around and put me in charge of *exactly* the kind of project through which I can truly contribute something of value to his business? And then expect me to walk away in good spirits at the end of it all? All the while knowing that at the end of the month I will hand it all over on a silver platter and walk away, no contract, no reasonable salary, nothing?

To use one of my favorite Mozambican expressions ever, Sorry, lá, pá!

Still, part of me thought this whole thing might be a test. Maybe Hugh Marlboro was just trying to get me all riled up, to see exactly what kind of work I could produce if I thought my job were on the line. I could feel the fighter in me rising to the surface. "I'll show him," I thought. "I'll show all of them! I'll do such a fabulous job that Hugh M. will have no choice but to extend me an amazing job offer, and the boys will receive the same."

I grounded myself a bit, then turned to Ahmed and Paulo. "We have a lot of work to do," I said. "We need to prepare a formal proposal for what we will do over the next 30 days to change the local banana sales. We need to figure out salaries, and deliverables. And we need to get together all of the statistics possible from the current manager - very discretely - so that we can have a baseline with which to compare our work."

We made a plan for how we'd divide the work, then scheduled a meeting for the following afternoon to pull together all of the details. On Tuesday, we'd meet with Hugh Marlboro to present our proposal.

"We can do this," Paulo said, his eyes shining. He squeezed my shoulder before getting up from the table. "Thank you," he said. "We know what you've done for us. Thank you."

Interlude

I am working on the next installment in the Hugh Marlboro saga. It is intense writing, but good, as it forces me to think back and analyze everything that happened over the last few weeks.

In the meantime, life goes on and I admit that I am struggling a bit to come to terms with the fact that I am once again adrift in the sea of consulting. Until the wedding in July, I will likely do a few odd contracts, make a lot of jewelry and continue doing translation jobs for the World Bank. I suppose I have the luxury of waiting to figure out what I want to do with myself in terms of a career or whatever until the festivities are over.

I really liked my job at the Banana Empire (correction: I really liked the idea of what my job was *supposed* to be), and it is proving to be a hard transition back to semi-structure-less, work-from-home, live from hand-to-mouth life again... Meh.

I am trying to counter the mild depression with lots of good friend time, and by trying to take advantage of all the things I missed while working commercial hours at an office in Matola. I've cooked a lot, including a delicious almond fig cake yesterday. I've been hanging out with my super-awesome new friend A., who just moved here with her husband last month. She is also struggling a bit with being without a day job, so we've bonded and are intent on keeping each other sane along the way. We went to Pilates together on Thursday, then drove through the border to Komatipoort to go to the grocery store and have lunch at Wimpy. It was a great road trip, even though Spar was the highlight, though that might tell you something about my life at this point. :)

Today Rico and I met a very nice guy and good contact who will move here with his family next month - they have been in Pakistan for the last 6 years. We had lunch at a Thai restaurant, then met with friends for beers in the afternoon.

I had plans to go for beers with Ahmed, Paulo and Raimundo in the early evening, but plans got changed a bit. Ahmed picked me up and we drove to Matola, then on the way to get Paulo, he was like, "Oh, you don't mind if we stop quickly so that I can do a little job, do you?"

"No," I said, "Not a problem."

Little did I know, said job involved driving to some random industrial lot full of half-dismantled semi-trucks where we waited for 30 minutes or so while some men unloaded bags of potatoes and onions from one canvas-covered flat bed truck. Ahmed finally got his radio fixed, so instead of the one Bob Marley cassette that was stuck inside his previous stereo, we were able to listen to some cd's. I honestly didn't mind the detour. It reminded me of the afternoons spent at the warehouse with the boys...

When the truck had been unloaded, we all went out for a drink, then I met up with Rico and our friends back in Maputo at Mundo's. The we went out for Indian food, which I ate with my hands. I only realized this has become second-nature when eating curries with apas when I saw that everyone else at the table was going at it with forks and knives, somewhat awkwardly as the food is really more suited to using yoru hands.

Hope you all are having a good weekend... Tomorrow I have a busy day ahead of me, starting with breakfast with a fellow jewelry-making girlfriend who I haven't seen in ages.

Desilusão

Several months ago, back when Hugh Marlboro first approached me with a job offer, I thought we had a common understanding of the direction in which he wanted to take his business(es). He spoke of massive expansion, professionalization, long-term strategy that would lead him to be one of the largest agricultural companies in Southern Africa, and an eventual IPO on the Johannesburg stock exchange.

We were dreaming big, brainstorming together. My role would be to help with strategy formulation, develop business plans, implement management and operational guidelines, and act as an MBA-educated, straight-talking sounding board for his ideas.

He told me that I would be his shadow, that he saw in me the qualities he knew were essential to be able to run something like the Banana Empire. Hugh Marlboro said that somehow, even if a bit inexplicably, he knew that I was the person that could eventually take his place.

The first few weeks of my job experience were positive. Hugh Marlboro gave me lots of personal attention. I went with him on farm visits and to negotiate new land for his projects. We spent hours talking about his vision for the various companies he owns, how to reach those goals. He assigned me a challenging task - to develop an operations plan for the clearing agency - and within a week I was up to speed on all the import and export procedures, and had put together a super plan and presentation that, according to Hugh Marlboro, was exceptional.

He never implemented the plan. Nor did he assign me any challenging work again in the following three months of my experiential period.

Somehow, due to lack of time or lack of attention or lack of ability to delegate or whatever, I slowly fell into idleness in my job. Hugh Marlboro would leave the office for extended periods and not assign me any tasks or projects in his absence. At most, he'd ask me to schedule a meeting with so-and-so at the Ministry of Agriculture, or RSVP on his behalf to Standard Bank's holiday cocktail party. Unfortunately, my position in the company became one of glorified personal assistant, and I honestly spent 90% of my time at the office searching desperately for ways to keep myself occupied.

The silver lining in this situation was that it was in these idle moments that I got to know aspects of the Banana Empire that had nothing to do with my original job description. For example, I became friends with the boys in the warehouse. It started out with me going downstairs to sit with them and pass the time. I'd ask about the logistics of the operation, where the trucks were coming from, how the clients knew that we were selling potatoes and onions, how the cash sales were recorded, what to do when a truck full of rotten product was sent up from South Africa. I got to know their operation cold, and in the process made amazing friendships that became the fodder for this blog.

Part of me truly thought that, despite the fact that I was unequivocally underutilized during my experience period, Hugh Marlboro still saw the value I could add to the Banana Empire and would extend me a contract and a reasonable salary anyway, if nothing else to keep me around for the day when he really could use my skills in the company. Part of me, however, knew that nothing was guaranteed.

What I've learned about Hugh Marlboro in the past several months is that he is extraordinarily impulsive, and has a tendency to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I still very much see the positive, near-genius, visionary qualities to his personality; however, they have been tempered by a nice sobering look at the other side of Hugh Marlboro. It was this second side, unfortunately, that dominated our conversation last Thursday.

I'd been bothering him for over a week to have the big talk about my potential contract and salary. When we finally sat down, Hugh Marlboro kept it short and to the point.

"Ali, I can't afford to pay you any more than your current [pitifully under market value] salary. The truth is, at this point you are a luxury to me and not a necessity. I still believe you are the person who can do what I do, that you have what it takes to be the CEO; however, I don't know how to put you to good use. I don't need two Hugh Marlboros at the moment. I realize that I could have hired a much less-qualified person to do the job you've ended up doing."

"I agree," I said, "You have not really taken advantage of what I can offer the company. However, we've been talking about several projects in the near future that you'd like me to take on. I think the situation can change..."

Hugh Marlboro considered my point, then proceeded to give me a pathetic excuse. "Well, a big part of the problem has been the transport issue. You have no car, so you're stuck at the office all day. It just kills me to know you are here with no work to do. I need you in the field with me, where I can say, 'Ali, go to Dr. Geraldo's office and negotiate a tax exemption for these vehicles.' But since you don't have wheels, I can't really use you."

I was tempted, but I didn't take the bait. When Hugh Marlboro originally offered me this position, he said he'd give me a car. Then, when I asked him about the details of getting me a vehicle, he backed out of his original promise and said I could use the shared company car to drive myself to and from work every day, but nothing else, no personal use. I didn't take him up on the offer because the vehicle in question is a junker and I was afraid it would break down and leave me stranded somewhere along the 25km commute. Furthermore, most of the time the company car wasn't even available for me to use during the day because Nacho would take it to the border or to the customs holding area to resolve the import/export processes with the trucks of bananas and other produce.

Instead of going into those issues, I simply observed, "It's ironic, isn't it, that I've bought a car and will have it within the next two weeks," leaving out the bit about how incompetent Miss Ludmila had stalled the import process for my car, and had she done her job properly, I'd have had my own wheels three weeks ago.

At this point in the conversation, I proposed a way for us to move forward. I told Hugh Marlboro that perhaps the best arrangement for me was not to be 8 hours per day in the office, that we should instead collaborate on a project-by-project basis where I could act as a consultant.

He agreed, and said we could move forward in that manner, that many things could change quite quickly. "Who knows," he said, "Maybe tomorrow I will figure out how to use you in my company and I will call you back to take over an entire part of the operation."

He continued, "Until then, you can work through the end of this month. After that, you can even continue to use your office for a while, to conduct whatever business you might need to. I won't even charge you rent."

At that point, I knew the conversation was drawing to a close. I wanted to give Hugh Marlboro some honest feedback from my experience with the Banana Empire, and didn't know when else I might have the chance.

"Listen," I began, "there are a few things I'd like to tell you, straight up."

His head cocked, suddenly interested in what I might say.

I took a deep breath, then went on. "First, you need a Human Resources manager. This is a critical function for a company this large, and it is completely falling through the cracks. Ludmila can't keep up with personnel issues for the entire Empire now that you've put her in charge of the clearing agency, and it is in your best interest to hire somebody to pick up the slack."

"Okay," he said, nodding.

I continued. "Second, you say that I'm a luxury and not a necessity at this point. Okay, I can accept that, especially if you truly don't know how to put me to good use within your company. However, I think you should identify the people that *are* a necessity to your operation and recognize them, invest in them, make sure they are challenged and motivated to stay with you. You have some exceptional people working for you right now, people who make this thing function on a day-to-day basis, an I can tell you that they are all looking for other jobs because they are paid such low wages for what they do."

"Who are you talking about?"

"The boys in the warehouse. Ahmed, Paulo and Raimundo. In my nearly three years in Mozambique, these guys really stand out in terms of their work ethic, their honesty, their dedication to the company and their willingness to go above and beyond their job descriptions whenever necessary."

"Tell me more about them," Hugh Marlboro said. "What do these guys do? Who are they?"

I went on to list each of their strengths, describe their personalities, recount a bit of my experiences with them over the past few months. I told Hugh Marlboro how Ahmed is a "do-er" with a gift for organizing and leading work crews, how Paulo can keep impeccable records and settle any dispute diplomatically, how Raimundo is able to do basic accounting and handle huge amounts of cash with total transparency.

"I know you are going to shut down the fresh produce warehouse," I said. "I don't necessarily agree with the decision strategically speaking, but it is your call at the end of the day, and I respect that. However, I think you'd be seriously amiss not to find a way to employ these guys in another area of the company."

"Okay," Hugh Marlboro said. "I hear what you are telling me." He stared me straight in the eyes for several minutes, lips pursed, nodding his head slowly as he gathered his thoughts.

"I have a proposal," he finally said. "As you know, I'm having problems with the local banana sales. We're having lots of thefts, the current process is inefficient, and I think Luigi is making a profit on the side."

"Go on."

"We will do an experiment for 30 days. Ahmed and Paulo will run the local banana sales, and you will manage the entire operation. This is the opportunity of their lives," he said. "Do you think they can do it?"

"Absolutely, but only if they feel it is worth their while. You must compensate them for their work."

"Okay. I will double their salaries," he proposed.

"At the very minimum."

Despite my deception and frustration regarding the conversation, I was suddenly extremely excited for the possibility that the boys could get a really good deal for themselves.

"Okay," Hugh Marlboro said, clapping his hands and getting up quite suddenly from his desk. "You talk to the guys and make a plan. We will have a meeting with everyone and talk about this tomorrow."

And with that, he picked up his keys and walked out, leaving me alone in the overly air-conditioned office. I felt dizzy, nearly sick to my stomach, not sure whether to be upset or hopeful. I could feel tears stinging in my eyes, and took a few minutes to sit at my desk and have a cup of tea before going downstairs to talk to Ahmed and Paulo...

Much more to follow... As usual, I've gotten carried away and become long-winded. I am tired of writing for tonight.

New (Temporary) Addition to Our Household

Saturday morning I received a text from my friend K.

Last night we found a 6-inch-long kitten behind the bar at the train station. We took him home, but I am allergic to cats and we have a puppy already. What do I do??

Sucker that I am, I told K. to bring the little cat over to our house, that we would figure out a solution.

For the better part of the day, K., Rico and I picked fleas off the poor thing, cleaned out its sooty ears with Q-tips, dusted it with flea powder, fed it chicken and canned kitten food, gave it clean water and a soft bed, and held the little thing as it slept in a way I imagine it had never slept before in its life thus far as a survivor.

The kitten is black and white, and basically all ears. It is severely malnourished, just skin and bones really, but quite spunky and certainly street-smart.

Pria and Parceiro were not at all thrilled with the new addition to our household. Pria puffed herself out and raised up all of the hair on her haunches so that she looked like a Ridgeback. Both of the boys hissed and swatted at the newcomer, though he wasn't at all intimidated by the larger cats, and just sat looking at them with his ears flattened.

For now, between the fleas and the worms and the reaction of our boys, we are keeping the new kitten isolated on the verandah. We are concerned that he is still so small that, if left alone with Pria and Parceiro, they might actually kill him...

We are looking for a good home for this little kitten. We already have several people that seem interested, which is a great thing, because we absolutely cannot have 3 cats in our flat, and the longer we raise the kitten, the harder it will be to give him away...

And no, I've not forgotten about my Hugh Marlboro update. I am still waiting on a critical meeting tomorrow before I post the story in its entirety.

I'm a Bit in Shock...

...but if I'm honest, not really.

Just had the much-anticipated contract negotiations meeting with Hugh Marlboro.

I have a lot to think over right now. Big changes could be on the way, or not really any, for that matter. I've learned not to place my bets too firmly when the future is concerned, especially here in Moz, especially here at the Banana Empire.

More later. I think I need a stiff drink, then a good cry, then another drink, then a series of phone calls, then a shout of joy, then another cry, then some writing, then several hundred hours of conversations in my head...just me, myself and I, playing out the various possibilities for my life.

It's one incredible ride, that's for sure...

Limits: They Do a Girl Good

I've still not been able to sit and have the big contract and salary-negotiating meeting with Hugh Marlboro. First he was out of the office, then I went home early one day, then there were the riots, and now he is in South Africa. I am already a week over my período de experiência of 3 months, and while I was glad to accept a very low salary during this trial period, I would like to sit down and figure out just what the Banana Empire is willing to pay me for my work.

You see, I dish out this exact advice all the time to the boys in the warehouse. Don't work if you haven't already clarified your what your wages will be. Don't work overtime without compensation. Be assertive and ask for what you know your work is worth. Don't let management brush you off. Fight for your rights as a worker. Today I put my money where my mouth is, so to speak.

Ludmila, a person with whom I already have a complicated relationship for several reasons, interrupted me while I was having a conversation with Ahmed and demanded that I come upstairs with her, that she had some work for me to do. Mind you, Ludmila is not remotely my boss. The way she approached me really rubbed me the wrong way, especially since she was asking me to cover her work, do *her* a favor, with a tone of voice that was as if I'd screwed up somehow and she was now doleing out the consequences. I told Ludmila that I was in the middle of a conversation with Ahmed, that I'd go upstairs as soon as we'd finished speaking. She looked at me and said, "Make it quick," then turned and headed up to her office. Oh, that was not the way I wanted to start out my day...

When I finally went up to Ludmila's office, she handed me a stack of legal documents and told me that a group of trabalhadores would be coming into the office this morning to look for her, that I must give them the legal papers on her behalf, have them sign a receipt form, direct them to the agricultural workers' syndicate, and set a meeting for the 10th to discuss labor relations. Then I was to track down phone numbers for about 20 depot workers, call them to reprimand them for not showing up to a contract meeting, then ask them to come to the office on the 14th.

Then, once I'd received those instructions and agreed to help her out, Ludmila raised her eyebrows and said, "So, can I give you some more work?" Excuse me? No, not really. I'm currently working without a defined salary, without any job description, without having been able to sit and give input to my boss about my experiential period, and Ludmila wants to give me work that she herself can't get to? Whatever. I told her quite simply, "No, I'd rather you didn't."

She just about keeled over when I said that, then asked why I was unwilling to do her work. I calmly explained that, while I was happy to do her a favor and do the tasks she'd already passed on, I wasn't inclined to do much of anything else until Hugh Marlboro and I have had a chance to sit down and discuss my salary and contract. Ludmila said, "But we're all a family here. Nobody will give you a salary that is unfair! You shouldn't worry about it. Go ahead and keep working."

"Sorry," I said, "I have a right to know what my salary will be before taking on work. More than anything, I want to have a clear agreement about the terms of my employment so that we can avoid resentment in the future."

Ludmila looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. I didn't care. Especially after finding out yesterday what Ahmed and Paulo are being payed as a salary. I won't put the specific figure, but suffice to say it's shockingly low for what they do here at the company, especially considering that Paulo is in the midst of getting his degree in management! College, people! These are not physical laborers, yet their wages would lead you to think otherwise.

I spent about an hour in the morning resolving Ludmila's human resources problems. I made my calls, scheduled the labor meetings as requested, and attended to the 7 men who came in to receive the legal-looking notifications. I had a look at what I was giving them, and I felt a bit depressed when I saw a typical legal-ese letter, referencing articles in the Labor Code, and using archaic and complex terms that even *I* need a dictionary to understand.

I recognize the need to deliver certain information in a legally sound manner, in accordance with time-honored structures and regulations. However, why must there be such a gargantuan gap between the language used to deliver a message and the language necessary for the recipient to understand it? Is it not possible to make two versions of a notice, one that is legally sound, then one that puts the document into layman's terms so that the recipient has a fighting chance of understanding it??

The essence of the document was that these men had been caught stealing bananas from the trucks - 90 kilos, to be exact - and reselling them on the local markets for a profit. As a result, they had been suspended for two weeks, and were being fined the equivalent of 20 day's wages for the infraction. I had to give them the letter, have them sign a copy of it for our records, then direct them to the syndicate to clarify any questions before the big resolution meeting with the company next week.

One man, when it came time to sign the receipt acknowledging he'd received the document, obviously struggled to form the letter 'F', then the letter 'e', then the letter 'r' as he tried to print his name. He managed to scrawl out 'Fer', then stopped, pen hovering awkwardly over the paper. Ahmed was in the office with me (he was covering Roberto's day shift), as was another of the banana workers involved in the theft case. The guy's friend prompted him, saying "next comes 'N'", and drawing the letter on the palm of his hand. It wasn't enough, and Ahmed quickly scanned the top of my desk for something that could help. He found a report cover with big, bold letters in the title. "Here, like this one," he said, and pointed to the 'N' in 'PLANTATION'. Then came 'A'. Ahmed and I both pointed it out on the report cover, our fingers knocking in mid-air. We went on like this until the guy had laboriously printed his name on the piece of paper.

"Hey, brother," Ahmed said, pointing a finger at the guy, "you've got to copy your name 1,000 times so that you get used to writing it!"

I was incredibly humbled by the experience. This was the first time in my entire life I'd come across someone incapable of printing his own name. I've worked with many illiterate people over the years, but all of them have been capable of printing their name, even if it is just a collection of initials.

"What happens to people like him?" I asked Ahmed. "How on earth will he understand the letter I've just given him? Is there someone at the syndicate that will sit with him and explain what is in this notification, what he is being punished for?"

"In theory, yes, there should be someone available to help represent workers who are illiterate." He shrugged his shoulders, then continued, "But I don't know...I've never worked with anyone from a syndicate. I don't know if it really happens like it should."

I would be curious to know myself. Is there anyone who will sit with this man and explain, step-by-step, the process he is about to go through? Though I felt inclined to do it myself, not only is it not my job, *I* didn't even understand the full contents of the legal document.

Yet another reason I want to have this overdue meeting with Hugh Marlboro: if my job here is to include resolving human resources issues, a distinct possibility since there is nobody dedicated to that function at the moment, my salary expectations are going to go way up. While certainly an important part of running a company, especially given my recent rants about low salaries and management providing adequate compensation to the workers, I absolutely DETEST working in human resource management. We all have our price, however...

Amidst the Chaos, Unexpected Bonds

After a day of rioting and chaos due to an approximate 50% increase in the cost of public taxis, things seem back to normal in Maputo and Matola.

Things were calm at our office in Matola for most of yesterday morning, though Paulo and Raimundo were very anxious due to the disturbances in the suburbs, and the news I was accompanying online didn't look too good, either.

We kept hearing rumors that the disturbances were coming our way, but I didn't really believe the situation would get bad. That is, until I heard about 6 shots fired too close to our office for comfort in the early afternoon!

Most of the people in the office had already gone home for the day, as they depended on public transport to get around and knew they must leave hours in advance if they wanted to get to their houses before nightfall. Those of us left in the office promptly decided to evacuate after the gunfire.

Hugh Marlboro went with Ludmila to try and fetch her young daughter from a school down the road. I quickly arranged for the JAC truck and Ahmed's car to be locked in the lot behind the warehouse (he wasn't at the office, but his car and keys were), then hopped in a truck with JR, the manager of the transport sector, and his wife June, one of the financial managers.

As we left the office, we could see burning tires on the road not 500m from where we were, and masses of people were already blocking the highway back to Maputo. It was eerie to be the only vehicle on the road - literally - and have everyone staring at you, the air thick with anticipation of something about to push past a critical point of stability.

Since most of the administrative employees live on the farms, that was where we headed, as it was in the opposite direction of the rioting, and we would be relatively well set-up to wait out the situation. As we headed out of town, things became increasingly calmer, and I could see my colleagues letting out sighs of relief.

Not that I wasn't concerned about the rioting, I was just affected quite differently by the situation compared to my Afrikaner colleagues. It was apparent that the mass protests and the violence triggered memories of past situations for them. We talked about it, how they were reminded of the "old days" in South Africa, the familiar feeling of being the odd ones out - for various reasons - and therefore some of the most apparent targets.

One of my colleagues, Chinney, became gray in the face in response to the chaos. Normally he is a tough, fat little man who compulsively smokes cigarettes and has his lip upturned in distaste whenever not curled around a smoke. Not yesterday afternoon. He just looked as if he wanted to crawl inside a bunker and drink whisky until the problems blew over.

JR, an ex-military man who admittedly did some "not-so-nice-things in Mozambique years ago, but we all have to make peace with history at some point", immediately went back into special-ops mode and started telling me about the strategies to spread cells of violence throughout the conflict area and cut off the principal access points. One couldn't be sure if he was referring to Maputo, or just remembering general bits of said not-so-nice history. [As a side note, JR is one of my new favorite people at the office. He has an intriguing past, between the military stint and working in a diamond mine, but he also is a major history buff and a great defender of the environment. I like talking to him because he breaks sterotypes right and left, especially when reflecting on how one comes to accept actions in one's past that one now recognizes as atrocious. Also, he has a wicked sense of humor, one of these people who is always friendly and always has the perfect joke ready.]

Anyhow, poor June, JR's wife, was just very talkative the entire time. She said the tension reminded her of the armed robbery that had happened last year to the family back in South Africa. She smoked long, thin, gold-tipped cigarettes and chattered away to ease her nerves.

June commented that I was incredibly calm and level-headed in dealing with the situation. I do tend to become quite rational in times of crisis, but I think what was underlying my relatively relaxed state was the fact that I am an outsider. This specific type of violence simply is not part of my past. It is not part of the collective past of my family or my peers in the US, or even in Brazil, though each of these places has their similar issues (i.e. terrorism attempts and armed assaults, respectively). The mass riots by a largely black population simply did not represent a trigger for me in the same way they did for my colleagues. That, plus the fact that I speak fluent Brazilian Portuguese, gave me a sense of calm and confidence, not that I thought I was invincible to the violence or anything, but still...

We drove out to the farm, to the house where JR and June just moved in last week. All of their things were still largely in boxes, and they were certainly not prepared for visitors. Nonetheless, they offered me and my colleague Chinney wonderful hospitality.

To "celebrate" our arrival at the farm, we all piled into JR and June's diesel-converted Kombi bus and bumped down the pothole-ridden road to the local bush bar for beers. This bar was literally one table with four mismatched chairs on a random slab of concrete, with a pretty young woman called Maria serving whatever cool drinks and alcohol had been brought out that week from Boane. This was the first time that all of us had been together in a social situation, but the conversation flowed quite nicely, thanks in part to copious amounts of alcohol and empty stomachs (I am happy to report, however, that I remembered last Friday's sad state and moderated my rate of consumption.)

June and I had the instantly bonding experience of using the makeshift toilet behind the bar together after she announced the need to pee. It was basically two reed partitions joined at an angle to create a cover for the person relieving him or herself on the red, dusty dirt. I thought it was a pretty good deal, as I was expecting a long-drop, one of the more revolting forms of toilet as far as I am concerned. June, however, was intimidated and, I think, a bit clueless as to what to do behind the screen. "Go ahead, just have a squat and go for it," I encouraged her. "I'll keep watch for you from here." Once she was done, I had her keep watch while I peed, even though I didn't really have a full bladder, just to make her feel a bit better about what I know, given her very conservative roots, had been quite the experience.

After sufficient beers and conversation, I negotiated the price of a bottle of whisky for us, bought 12 bottled sodas, and we got back in the Kombi to rustle up some dinner at the farm house. JR is a fabulous cook, I found out, and he made us pasta with a slow-cooked empty-pantry sauce made of ground beef, canned beans, garlic, fresh chilies, and a secret blend of spices that I know at least contained ketchup and monkey gland sauce. Granted, I was starving by the time we finally got around to eating, but it was an incredibly delicious meal.

All through the night, I was texting and calling Rico, Ahmed, Paulo and Luigi to get updates on the rioting in Maputo and Matola. The news was not encouraging - burning tires, throwing stones, blocked access routes, torched vehicles - and I had already resigned myself to staying on the farm for the night.

Chinney, however, who lives just one street down from our office, was intent on going back home that night. He thought that since he lived just off the highway at the entrance to Matola, he'd be okay. Despite JR's warning that it was not a good idea, Chinney got in his truck and drove back to Matola by himself around 10pm. About 45 minutes later, we got a desperate call from him on June's cell phone. "They've put a huge padlock on my gate. I can't get in my house. There are mobs of people everywhere, the streets look like a carnival party. I want to go back to the farm, but I have no petrol and no meticiais to buy some. What must I do??" I consulted with JR and Paulo, who was in Matola at his sister's house, and we came up with a plan. After a bit of wheeling and dealing with contacts, JR managed to buy some petrol using rands, and was able to head back towards the plantation.

When he arrived at the farm house, June immediately presented him with a whisky, and we all went to the lounge to play some pool, one of the few things that was unpacked and ready for use in the house. June put on a mix cd with The Eagles, The Beach Boys, The Police and some random Afrikaans rock, and cranked the volume. At that point, what with all the alcohol and nerves, we were all in altered states. Chinney and I were on a team, and got creamed by JR and June, who obviously had been getting in some good practice on the pool table. Despite our loss, Chinney played the air guitar and did the twist, while JR and June celebrated by singing along to the music at the top of their lungs, dancing as if nobody else were in the room. It was then that June announced - technically, it was her birthday, as the clock had just passed midnight.

We had some Ricoffy with milk and sugar to celebrate, then talked for another hour or so until sleep was inevitable. I slept in a twin bed with Barbie sheets, and wore one of JR's giant trucking t-shirts as pajamas. I brushed my teeth with my finger, and quenched my thirst by drinking straight out of the bathroom tap (there was, to my horror, no drinking water available in the house, and I knew that June would freak out if I told her I was ingesting farm water!). Incredibly, I managed to get some sleep, and was woken up by the constant hum of the 100,000 layer hens clucking away at the egg project site just a kilometer away from the plantation.

In the morning, all of us nursing hangovers to one extent or another, we made calls to our colleagues in Maputo and Matola to get the latest updates. Apparently, at 5am, an agreement was made with the Prime Minister for the chapa price to go back to the previous range of 5 to 7.5 meticais. To compensate for increased operating costs over the years, and to avoid backlash from the taxi drivers, the Government agreed to subsidize fuel.

As the situation seemed safe, we decided to drive back into Matola. Fortunately for me, Ahmed had gone to pick up his car from the office at just the same time, so I was able to get a ride back to Maputo with him. It was incredibly nice to be back at home, with Rico, with the boys, with no need to go out for anything for the rest of the day.

The way the streets looked this morning will stay with me for quite some time - burned out vehicle shells lying on the side of the highway, debris everywhere, the guardrails on the EN4 completely ripped out of the ground, the chain link fence that used to serve as a median twisted and bent where people had trampled over the metal, still smoldering bits of tires and tree trunks in piles on the asphalt. However, I will equally remember the way that I unexpectedly bonded with JR, June and Chinney in the midst of the confusion. I wonder how long it would have taken for us to have the kind of conversations we had last night if it weren't for the rioting, or if they would have even happened at all...

Riots in Maputo in Response to "Chapa" Fare Increase

People in Maputo are protesting an increase in chapa fares that went into effect today by blocking highways, smashing cars, and refusing to take the semi-collective minibus taxis that are the essential form of transport here in Mozambique. The violence and rioting started in the suburbs, but news reports are saying that the chaos has spread to the city center already.

I mentioned the proposed fare increase here, while discussing with the warehouse boys how this would affect their budgets. Basically, if someone earning minimum wage has to take two chapas each day to work and back, they are literally working just to pay their transport costs!

Understandably, the people of Maputo are incredibly upset about this increase, especially since it comes without any tangible improvements in the chapa service (i.e. better safety, improved licensing, more vehicles available, better routes).

You can read updates (in Portuguese) about the situation here, at Oficina de Sociologia.

Due to the boycott of the chapas and the fact that today is a holiday in Matola , there is barely anybody in the office (unfortunately we didn't get the day off, but some people decided to observe the holiday regardless, especially since yesterday was a national holiday). So I am wondering how and when I am going to get home... The driver who usually takes me is (rightfully) concerned about how he will make it home, since there is chaos along the road he must take, and he doesn't want to risk getting in a chapa due to the potential for violence. Maputo is completely backed up with traffic, and nobody particularly wants to drive around the city at the moment, so calling a taxi is not viable.

I suppose I'll just wait it out...I've got Cup-of-Noodles in my desk drawer, and plenty of tea to last through the day. Unfortunately, I don't have any *work* to do, but whatever. I was meant to have big salary and contract negotiations with Hugh Marlboro today, which is why I came to work in the first place, but I've yet to see him today.

Dizzying

Today, I am a bit ashamed to admit, I had such a bad hangover that I actually went home from work at 11am. When I woke up this morning and felt that taste in my mouth, you know, the one Brazilians refer to as "cabo de guarda-chuva" (umbrella handle), I knew I was in for it. My head pounded with the ring of my cell phone on its 15th alarm clock snooze sequence, and I struggled to make it to the shower.

The worst part is, last night was quite tame. No raging party, no excess drinking, no deliberate decision to make myself suffer the next day. All I did was have 2 glasses of wine at dinner with my friend T., plus a few sips of the caipirinhas we were sent by some unidentified admirers. The problem was that I had salad for dinner and, thanks to a prolonged meeting at Hugh Marlboro's house with all the farm managers, hadn't managed to eat anything during the day either. To top it off, I was seriously dehydrated from the heat and the lack of beverages served at the meeting. Not a good combination. Note to self duly, um, noted.

I got to work this morning and couldn't even manage to look at the computer screen because it made me dizzy. The cup of tea with milk I tried to drink just made my stomach flip-flop. The worst part was when my screensaver came on - you know, that one with the randomly bouncing and changing geometric shapes - and I seriously thought I'd have to run down the hall to to the water-less toilet. The prospect made me shudder and, given that I had literally no work to do for the day and Hugh Marlboro was out on the plantation, I decided to go home before my situation became urgent.

The boys in the warehouse were the only ones to whom I confessed that I was hungover and not just sick for any of the dozen reasons a mulungo could fall ill: bad water, bad ice, bad seafood, too much heat, malaria, cholera, too much air conditioning, etc. Nope, I just had a good old babalasa (or is it babalaza?), as they say here in Moz.

The driver took me home (yes, I did feel slightly guilty about using company resources to go home in the middle of the day for such a pitiful reason) and I somehow managed to get through a series of text messages while in the car - ironically enough planning a beer-drinking-afternoon for next Saturday with Ahmed and the boys - without vomiting.

On the way, we passed one of the random street markets on Avenida 24 de Julho. There is a section where they sell women's shoes, all neatly organized in pairs on the sidewalk, a section for handbags, one for men's white button-down shirts, hanging from a clothesline strung between a lightpost and a tree, another clothes line packed full of brightly colored bras, all waving in the wind like prayer flags. All merchandise either second-hand or cheap new Chinese imports, of course.

A child's backpack caught my eye in the school bags section: on the light pink background was a silkscreened image of a Barbie-type doll face wearing hijab. The man selling the backpack was leaning on a car with big letters on the back windscreen that said "BRED PITT". I smiled and wondered if it was a typo. Schoolgirls in ill-fitting uniforms walked in a group holding hands, each one with a different hairstyle and shoes to set her apart from her peers. One girl was wearing clear vinyl high heels, much more fitting for an L.A. strip club than for Maputo's obstacle-ridden sidewalks. A man on the corner held up puppies for sale, waiting for a soft-hearted motorist to rescue the poor things for a pretty penny. Horns honked, the sun beat in through the window, the distinct smell of garbage and mangoes lingered in the air. The light changed, and we were off, dodging Hiace taxis and potholes, honking madly at pedestrians casually sauntering in front of the car. I realized this very particular chaos is becoming a cherished part of my daily commute...

Now, after a good nap, nearly 2 liters of Coca-Cola and some delivery pizza, I am feeling back to normal. Just in time for an extended holiday weekend!

On Capitalism. Yadda, Yadda, Yadda.

I was all worked up - and continue to be - about the difficult situation of the boys in the warehouse, the low wages, the insane hours accepted without protest...

Life in upper management is easy. *My* life is easy...

I attended a series of meetings with Hugh Marlboro this afternoon that really got me thinking. He has two big projects in mind - one is an expansion of the Banana Empire's current operations; the other is a new venture altogether, but has the potential to create many jobs and generate significant revenues for the Province of Maptuo, as well as, obviously, for Hugh Marlboro himself.

I come out of meetings such as these invigorated, excited about the possibilities of entrepreneurism, motivated by the transformation potential on a national level of these types of projects. Then I go back to work, look at the reality of my warehouse friends, and become more of a realist.

I think the Banana Empire - along with most profit-oriented businesses (certainly those in the developing world, but I think in general) - could stand to provide better wages and more benefits (who am I kidding...ANY benefits!) to their front-line workers.

However, I clearly see the other side to this coin.

Hugh Marlboro is the largest employer of women in Mozambique outside the Government. Think about this for a minute. It is a pretty incredible statistic. He employs nearly 1,000 workers in rural areas of the country where there are painfully little job opportunities and the population has significant aid-dependence.

Thus comes the age-old development quandary: is it better to provide employment, any employment, even if it means measly wages, long hours and no benefits? Is this better than the alternatives of joblessness and destitute existance, and total dependence on foreign aid or the State (oh, wait, they are also dependent on foreign aid!) for subsistence??

I flip-flop in my evaluation of this argument on perhaps a monthly basis. Sometimes I see the clear benefits of Capitalism with a capital 'C'. How else can you ensure real accountability and efficiency in service provision? How else can you create a market that will be self-sustainable and not clogged with subsidized, unfeasible entities? On the other hand, there are the clear social downsides to this model...

Sigh..

La Despedida

Yesterday morning, Ahmed came into my office and announced, "Estou a bazar," slang for "I am outta here."

I asked where he was going, thinking perhaps he was making a run to Shoprite for some lunch curries, or maybe to Maputo to run some errands for the day. From the way he looked at me, however, I knew it was more serious.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Estou a bazar," he said again. "I won't be seeing you anymore at work."

My heart froze. What did he mean he was leaving work? Hadn't I just reassured the boys the other day that their jobs were safe, that despite these times of transition, they would still be around at the Banana Empire?

"Como assim?" I insisted on more details.

"Mr. Luigi put me to work on the night shift, starting today. I'm going to be supervising the banana operations from now on."

"What about Paulo and Raimundo?"

"They're staying on the day shift to sell the eggs in the warehouse."

Ahmed and I looked at each other over my desk, each of us suddenly without words as the news sunk in that our fabulous team of four was being broken up. He held out his hand, asking for mine, and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm really sad that you're leaving," I said, unexpected tears welling up in my eyes.

"Não chora," he said. Don't cry. "Life goes on."

And with that, Ahmed turned and left my office, leaving me staring at a blank computer screen.

Obviously I am very relieved that Ahmed still has a job, no matter what the hours are. I am glad that all the boys managed to retain their jobs. But selfishly, I am incredibly sad that Ahmed will no longer be working with us during the day.

After he left my office, we texted each other, trying to figure out when our schedules would cross and we could all get together to hang out and have a beer. There is only one possible time - Saturday afternoon - and I silently vowed to do whatever it takes to make sure we meet at least once a month outside work.

I went downstairs towards the end of the day and sat a bit with Paulo and Raimundo. We all agreed that work simply isn't the same without Ahmed, without his incessant shouting for the workers to load the trucks faster, MAIS RRRRRRRÁPIDO, without his jokes and gifts and stupid cell phone ring that blares out Brazilian funk every time someone calls. The three of us will certainly continue with our lunchtime rituals and camraderie in the workplace, but without Ahmed it's incomplete.

Yesterday evening, while cooking carne adovada, I spoke to Ahmed on the phone as he was on his way to work. I asked if he'd sorted out his working hours and salary. He said mais ou menos, that he still needed to get exact figures. I am always urging the boys to be assertive when it comes to things like unpaid overtime, working on holidays without extra pay, no benefits. If they don't say anything, the powers that be here at the Empire will gladly move forward without giving the workers fair compensation. Not that they are running an exploitative business here, it's just that it's all too easy to give someone the short end of the stick if it means you get a higher profit and have less of a headache in the process.

Last week, for a few days, all of my warehouse friends worked double shifts, from 7am to 11pm, without a break inbetween. I asked if they'd sorted out their extra pay for these insane work hours, and they said Mr. Luigi their supervisor was beating around the bush and avoiding a detailed discussion. The boys worked anyway. I later found out what they'd been paid for the additional shift, an amount negotiated after the work had already been performed: EIGHT DOLLARS. Eight fucking dollars!

This makes me upset on so many levels. Disappointed that management is willing to pay so little to 3 guys who are definitely a rarity in terms of work ethic. Sad that the boys didn't push for fair compensation for their hard work, be it because they themselves don't recognize the value of their work, or because they don't feel comfortable talking to the big boss. Upset that the quest for the biggest profit possible at the end of the year makes these types of decisions commonplace.

Yes, I understand that the principles of capitalism create this situation, and in general I think the private sector, profit-oriented model is the best (or even the "least-worst") way forward. But I also believe there is space in the capitalist model for fair wages, employee well-being, certain benefits. Little things that yes, at the end of the day take away from the bottom line, but end up buying a tremendous amount of goodwill, which in theory leads to productivity and loyalty.

I doubt the people who decide the wages that these boys - and all the other manual labor/seasonal/warehouse workers - receive have ever stopped to think what it means to live on minimum wage in Mozambique. I think there is a perception that life for "those kinds of people" is cheap, that they are quite content and able to make do with a monthly salary that is equivalent to what I often spend on just one meal in a restaurant.

Paulo and Raimundo were telling me yesterday that the price of chapas is set to increase here in Maputo. Currently, the price for taking one of the insane public minibus taxis is 5 to 7.5 meticais, the eqivalent of US$0,20 to $0,30. The new price will be 14.5 to 17 meticais, or US$0,60 to $0,70. This may seem extraordinarily cheap for public transport, when compared to US or even Brazilian bus fares, but bear in mind that these are largely unregulated, unsafe, uncomfortable vehicles.

Raimundo got a calculator and did a simple equation for us. In order to come to work, he must take 2 chapas each way. The end figure for 26 working days a month was 1,500 meticiais, or about US$63 spent on transport. Minimum wage in Mozambique is around 1,600 meticiais. You do the math...

In other news, yesterday was Hugh Marlboro's birthday, but as he was away from the office all day, we are celebrating today. The financial manager and I have organized a small party. I sent one of the warehouse loaders to Shoprite to buy a cake and some cokes. The only cake available in the supermarket's bakery was one that is fit for a little girl's princess-themed 11th birthday. It is light pink, covered with hearts and flowers and silver sprinkles. I can't wait to see Hugh Marlboro's reaction!

Safe Jobs and an Incredible Mind

For now, at least, it seems that the warehouse boys' jobs are safe. True, Hugh Marlboro has decided to suspend the import of potatoes and onions indefinitely. There were some serious management issues in the fresh produce operation, mostly the result of jumping at an opportunity too quickly with no structure or procedures whatsoever, and in light of the consequences of said leap, I actually agree that this is the appropriate step to take. As Hugh Marlboro said to me yesterday, not only does a ship need a good captain before she goes out into the open seas, she needs a captain who is armed with a nautical chart, a radio and a clear idea of where he is going.

Ahmed, Paulo and Raimundo are still working during the day (this is where I let out a very selfish "Yay!!"), but have also been put on the night shift for the next few weeks. They will be supervising the loading of the banana trucks before they head out to the sales depots. Apparently there have been some serious problems as of late regarding theft and side sale of bananas. Hugh Marlboro suspects they were being siphoned off by the banana truck loading crew (different from the crew of boys who sing dirty songs and unload the potatoes and onions), so he put my warehouse friends to work with the banana operation becuase, I am happy to see, my boss recognizes that these boys are hard, serious workers.

This information didn't come easily, mind you. Hugh Marlboro avoided (or just plain forgot about) our meeting in which he was supposed to bring me up to speed about the warehouse operations for 2 entire days. We were on site visits with clients, and in meetings, so I couldn't exactly pin him down in that time. Yesterday, while we were in his truck on the way to the Ministry of Agriculture, I hammered him with questions and gave him my straight opinion about several issues related to the fresh produce operation.

Not only am I satisfied with the answers he gave me (as are the boys, let me tell you!), I think the fact that I insisted on the subject actually gained me some respect in his eyes. The core reason behind the decision to shut the warehouse operations temporarily is not a pleasant one; in fact, it is one that I would prefer to avoid altogether if it were possible, but so it goes in business, you have to face situations that you'd rather pretend never existed in the name of what is good for the company. Bringing up this subject, and then pressing for details was a bit hard for me, but I'm glad I did it. Not only was my own curiosity satisfied, I need to be informed of what is going on in the Banana Empire - the good, the bad and the scandalous - if I am to perform my strategic planning and advising function with success.

In other news, two days ago I went on a day-long site visit with Hugh Marlboro, a Zimbabwean man who is the head of agricultural lending at one of the main banks here, and a group of 5 South African investors who want to start a tropical fruit processing project here in Mozambique. The investors would like to partner with Hugh Marlboro in the venture, so we all went together to look at potential plots of land. We spent the entire day in the bush, with the Zimbabwean and I a bit left out of the loop because all business discussions as well as smalltalk were done in Afrikaans.

I had a strange thing happen to me, though. I was in the backseat of Hugh Marlboro's truck at one point, and he was yammering away to one of the potential investors in Afrikaans in the front seat. It was a long car ride out to the land we were visiting, and the heat plus the motion of the vehicle made me dreadfully sleepy. I was in that dreamtime state, just before actual sleep, and a very strange thing occured. Instead of composing flowing, perfect paragraphs in English (the dreamtime writing I talked about a few weeks ago), my mind randomly decided to start understanding Afrikaans. I swear, I listened to Hugh M. and his potential farming partner talk and talk, and I not only could follow the jist of the conversation (pretty normal for me at this point), I was understanding all of the words they were saying!! I even caught exact phrases, and managed to remember them when I woke up.

Yesterday, I told Hugh Marlboro about the experience and quoted back to him some of the things I remembered from the conversation. I'm talking about specific things, like the man in the car saying that he saw the world through rose-colored glasses, while his business partner saw things through black-lensed glasses in the midst of a discussion about management styles. Hugh M. confirmed these and other details, and was just as impressed as I was that I somehow managed to develop a complete understanding of Afrikaans.

Mind you, I still can't speak a word of the language, and my comprehension is back to normal levels in my awake-state, but nonetheless...what a cool experience! The human mind is a fascinating thing.

And, After Nearly 3 Years...

...we finally bought a car!

It's a 1996 Honda CR-V, silver, automatic, complete with airbags, sunroof and cd player. We purchased the car over the internet from an importer in Durban, South Africa, who specializes in second-hand cars from Japan.

The clearing agency at my work is taking care of the bureaucracy to get the car into Mozambique, which is pretty daunting and includes an inspection to verify that the price on the invoice is comparable to the condition of the car, multiple taxes that add up to over 50% of the value of the car, and getting the license plate and registration.

All said and done, we should have our third-hand (at least!) wheels in about 3 or 4 weeks.

I'm excited to be driving again, even if it is on the left-hand-side of the road. Especially with a sunroof and the possiblity of mix cd's and road trips!

Afternoon Portrait

Anticipating what might happen with the warehouse, I was motivated to start writing about some of the things that I will miss the most...

Twice a week, when the company trucks would cross the border and enter Mozambique with fresh produce deliveries, I would shut down my computer early and go downstairs to the warehouse to keep Ahmed and Paulo company. It was their responsibility to watch the trucks being unloaded to ensure there was no theft or damage to the sacks of potatoes and onions imported from South Africa. We would sit on warehouse dock in the late afternoon heat, the sky hazy with particles belched out of the nearby cement plant, the toxic dust making the sun glow fiery orange.

It was a slow job, each truck taking around 3 hours to unload, as the company did not own a forklift to efficiently move the product. Instead, everything was done manually. A crew of local boys hired for a half-day’s work would form a line inside the belly of the trailer to unload the produce, heaving sack after sack into the next waiting pair of sweaty hands, and finally into stacks on pallets on the loading dock.

One boy in the crew was a hunchback, his shoulder blades twisted at such an angle they looked like the back legs of a grasshopper, tensed and waiting to spring. He walked with a limp, laboriously dragging a misshapen foot against the floor, but nonetheless helped unload the truck. His job was to ensure that the sacks of produce were stacked properly on the pallets outside the truck, adjusting and rearranging when necessary until there were 100 sacks neatly piled high. Ahmed nicknamed the boy Notre Dame, and would call for him in this manner, his startlingly loud voice echoing off the warehouse walls.

In the US we are taught to be blind to physical handicaps. We are supposed to speak to the man with a deformed arm as if we didn’t notice the missing fingers or lumps of scar tissue, for it is rude to stare. We are meant to carry on a conversation with the person in a wheelchair without any mention of whatever accident or medical condition caused paralysis of the limbs, lest we cause the person embarrassment. Only after sufficient intimacy do the unspoken social rules allow that we ask what happened, and even then any reference to the handicap is shrouded in political correctness.

Here, however, it seems that physical handicaps – among other things – are acknowledged with a bluntness that seems to be a trait of many an ex-Portuguese colony. (I am reminded of Brazil, where people casually comment to your face, “You’ve really put on some weight since the last time we met, haven’t you? You’ve gained, what, 4 kilos?” or “Is that a zit? Wow, it’s gigantic! You should stop eating so much chocolate!”) Or perhaps, sadly, it is the vestige of years of civil war, where land mines made physical deformities commonplace.

Whatever the reasons, in Mozambique, you might find the vegetable lady on the corner who is cross-eyed is called just that – Neusa vesga; the vendor who hobbles around on a crooked foot at the car parts store might be known as José manco, literally José-who-limps. The nicknames don’t seem to be taken with offense; rather, the handicap seems to be accepted as a descriptive quality, much like one might talk about a girl with green eyes.

One day, Ahmed asked the hunchbacked boy if he knew what Notre Dame was. He shook his head ‘no’, and Ahmed promised he’d bring him the book the next week.

I shot Ahmed a sideways glance, for not only was the boy likely illiterate, Ahmed himself wasn’t exactly the type to appreciate the classics of literature.

“Have you even read ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’?” I asked.

“No, no!” Ahmed laughed at my question. “I saw the movie!”

“The cartoon, you mean?”

“Of course.”

While unloading the trucks, the boys in the work crew would go shirtless, with the exception of Notre Dame. He always kept on a torn and stained t-shirt while he worked, faded red letters proclaiming the FUN TIMES! that were had in Tampa, Florida at the JAMESON FAMILY REUNION, 2002. Clearly this was a charity shirt, one of the thousands hawked at used clothes markets all over Africa. I could only imagine the trajectory such a shirt must have followed, from a church donation bin in the Southern US to a crowded stall in Xipamanine, the largest popular market in Maputo.

The boys in the crew would sing as they worked, the rhythmic melodies helping them keep up the pace of unloading the produce, one sack thrown down the line of muscular arms for each beat of the song. Each sack had its own unique markings – not just the logo of the farm where the potatoes or onions had been grown, but full color geometric designs. At the top of each paper bag, the name of the product inside was written in 3 different languages: English, Afrikaans and Zulu.

The name for ‘potato’ in Afrikaans particularly caught my eye, and I would whisper the name repeatedly under my breath, trying to imitate the pronunciation of my South African colleagues in the administrative sector upstairs. “Aart appel. Aart appel. Aart appel.” Each time I would accentuate a different part of the word, trying out all of the variations I could imagine. Unexpectedly, one day what had before been meaningless trills and vowels were suddenly words I recognized. Earth apple! Of course - the same root as the French name for a potato.

I would sit with Ahmed and Paulo until the truck was empty and the warehouse had neat, colored bags of produce covering the floor. All of the sacks would be accounted for, including those that had ripped open during transport, or that contained rotten potatoes and had to be disposed of before fouling up the entire building. The work crew would then be paid for the afternoon's labor - $2 per head, plus a loaf of bread. Sometimes Ahmed would let the boys take home the loose potatoes and onions that had spilled out of the sacks in the truck, or those that were salvageable amongst a bag of otherwise rotten product.

I would keep Ahmed and Paulo company while the warehouse was swept, the paperwork for the load filled out, and the truck sent back to the farm. Many times, this meant I would be at the office for several hours after my workday was meant to end. I didn't care. On some level, I already knew that those afternoons spent chatting with my warehouse friends and watching the workers unload a truck full of produce would be one of the things I'd miss the most about my time in Mozambique. The humid air, the work crew's harmonies, the earthy smell of the produce, the subtle process of establishing a friendship across cultures. I would recline in my chair on the loading dock and take everything in, occasionally becoming overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia for something that hadn't yet ceased to exist.

Please Say It Ain't So!

I received some news yesterday at work that made me very sad. It isn't official, but it seems Hugh Marlboro intends to close the fresh produce warehouse where my friends/lunch partners/beer companions work. Ahmed, Paulo and Raimundo were briefly told by their supervisor that we will stop importing potatoes and onions. Without the imports, there is no need for the fresh produce operation, and consequently not much of a justification for the boys to retain their jobs.

These boys are some of the hardest workers I've come across in Mozambique. They are dedicated, honest and pleasant to be around. I don't know what is behind Hugh Marlboro's decision (assuming he does actually intend to close the warehouse), but it is a shame for the company to lose such good employees. Furthermore, I find it hard to stomach that nobody will be straight with these guys and say, "You know, you might want to start looking for other work options. The warehouse will close in 1 month." (or 2 months, or whatever) None of the boys have signed contracts, so not even the super-pro-worker Labor Law of Mozambique will safeguard their jobs.

Obviously I am sad about this possibility because I will be losing something that has grown very near to my heart. In the last 3 months, Ahmed, Paulo, Raimundo and I have developed a special and unexpectedly close friendship. I will miss our communal lunches, our text messages throughout the day, the carpool rides back to Maputo, the gifts and snacks sent up to my office, and the general feeling that we are a team at work, we have each other's backs, despite the fact that they are in the warehouse and I am up here on the administrative/management floor.

Obviously this news is not 100% certain. Hugh Marlboro has yet to come into the office and bring me up to speed on the month of work that I missed while on vacation. He promised to do that today, but as of now still hasn't shown up. I want to hear what he has to say, what is behind this decision, becuase - all biases aside due to the fact that the boys are my friends - the fresh produce operation seemed to be bringing in a lot of cash.

My hope is that, assuming there is no pressing reason to close the warehouse, Hugh Marlboro will change his mind. He is notoriously impulsive, and I take most of what he decides/promises/declares with a reasonably large grain of salt. I hope this warehouse story is something he said in a moment of stress, financial worry, strategic misdirection. Whatever. I just hope it's not true...

Last night I invited Ahmed and Paulo out for beers. We sat for hours at the restaurant, talking over this uncertain news. I realize that good things can't last forever, that situations change, and people move on...but I wasn't expecting to feel the pang of saudades for my dear colleagues and our amazing bond quite so soon. I know that I can still see them outside work, we will still be friends even if they have jobs elsewhere, but it won't be the same, and this makes me very sad.

Yesterday, when I came to work for the first day, I distributed chocolates and presents that I'd brought back from Brazil for the boys. The cowboy boots were delivered and much appreciated, as were the Levis, the designer sunglasses, the t-shirts, the surf shorts, and the hat. They loved everything.

What I didn't expect was that the boys would have gifts for me as well. They gave me a beautiful silver necklace and bracelet set, and a really cool dress that is basically a white tube top with a flower-print halter dress layered on top, with a cinch tie at the side. It is a dress I'd never have picked out for myself, but they actually managed to give me something I really like! I tried it on yesterday, and it fits perfectly...

Estamos Juntos

At noon my phone beeps with an incoming text message: Come downstairs. It's lunchtime.

I type the final paragraphs of a petition for the rights to a parcel of land near the river, suspend my computer, and head down to the warehouse.

After 2 months of eating cookies, cup-of-soup, cashew nuts and whatever other non-perishables I can store in my desk drawer instead of a proper lunch, I have felt the sorry effects on my body. I have gained weight, and not surprisingly feel sluggish during the day as the result of subsiding on carbohydrates, tea and coffee.

I've found a solution, however, to my lunch woes. My colleagues on the top floor of the office - the financial people, the administrators, the paper-pushers - may be content to go through the day with no lunch break, but the boys in the warehouse take a much more sane approach to eating. They actually set aside an hour each day, at a fixed time, to enjoy a proper hot meal.

Each day, we share a communal lunch. I cook family-sized portions of chicken curry, lasagne, rice and beans, enough to go around.

The first day I cooked for the warehouse boys, Raimundo, the cashier who sits inside a locked metal cage and deals with all the money from the fresh produce transactions, was afraid to eat my food.

"It's different from what I know," he said, one eyebrow cocked, examining the tray of ground beef and potato casserole I'd brought to work. "This is white people food!" he teased, sending a broad smile in my direction, all the while ensuring he was out of arm's reach lest I try to run after him and give him a smack upside the head.

After watching Ahmed and Paulo try my food with no disastrous effects, Raimundo consented, gingerly taking a bite. He chewed slowly, his tongue taking in the taste of the white people beef and potatoes, then suddenly clutched at his throat, fell to his knees, and mimicked the slow, painful death of someone who has been terribly poisoned.

"Fine," I said, turning my back and feigning indifference. "If you don't like my food, I'll just give your portion to the other guys."

"Noooooooo!" Suddenly Raimundo was up on his feet, full of health, grabbing for the serving spoon to pile on his plate a generous helping of casserole.

Now that Raimundo is over his fear of white people food, which I think was an honest concern on his part in the beginning, though masked by humor, we all eat together like the mismatched members of a little family. Paulo and I take turns bringing the main dish. His wife cooks delicious Mozambican and Portuguese-influenced food - matapa, couve, cacana, cozido, rice and potatoes. I supply the so-called white people food, though usually with a heavy dose of New Mexican, Indian or Italian influence. Raimundo contributes, too, bringing local delicacies for me to try such as raw manioc, badjias, and chamussas and rissois filled with meat and shrimp.

We divide the food into 2 tupperware containers, then heat everything up in the crazy microwave from 1988 that has found its final resting spot in our office kitchen. I am the only one who can make the microwave work, the labels and numbers long having worn off the front panel from years of being pressed by oily fingers. I have a special combination of buttons that I press to get the microwave to work, a sequence I invented by trial and error, though guided in large part by the memory of the giant microwave my mom's ex-husband would use to make nachos back when I was in middle school.

Once the food is hot, we crowd around the desk at the warehouse entrance and enjoy our communal meal. Ahmed buys 2 large bottles of coke or sprite, which we drink out of teacups due to the lack of proper plates and dishes in the office kitchen.

We share tupperwares - one for me and Ahmed, the other for Paulo and Raimundo - sometimes eating with forks, and sometimes eating with our hands depending on the food. Both Ahmed and Paulo are Muslim, and they remind me and Raimundo how it is pleasing to Allah for us to eat from the same plate, to use our hands, to connect through food.

For all of my hangups concerning shared drinks and food contaminated by the saliva of others, I am surprisingly happy eating this way with my colleagues. In fact, I haven't been grossed out a single time by the idea of communal plates, utensils or cups.

On the days when nobody brings food from home, Ahmed will order take-away meals for us, usually grilled or fried chicken with chips. I once asked Ahmed how many chickens he eats per week; without hesitation, he said at least 6!

After lunch, I sit and socialize with the boys for the remaining part of the hour. We have established a special friendship in the past 2 months, something I think came as a bit of a surprise to all of us. We joke with each other, we laugh, we tease. We talk about serious subjects as well - relationships, race, money and, of course, work. Ahmed, Paulo, Raimundo and I have managed to create that over-used workplace concept of team spirit. We have each other's backs. We make each other smile. No matter how shitty the day, it is always more bearable because we are all in it together. As they say in Mozambique, estamos juntos.

These are the friends I've been hoping to find in the last 2.5 years. We are friends because we are colleagues, because we enjoy each other's company, because we have things in common no matter how different our occupations, backgrounds or individual paths. Our friendship is based on these commonalities, not on the fact that I am a foreigner looking for an "authentic" experience with Mozambicans, nor on the perception that I represent money, a job opportunity, a leg up, a status symbol. We are friends because we are friends, full stop.

In addition to our daily lunches, we have established a wonderful weekly tradition. Every Friday, at the end of a long work week full of trucks, potatoes, onions, bananas, erratic bosses, electrical outages and everything else that operating a business in Mozambique has to throw at us, we get in Ahmed's tricked out Honda Civic and go for beers and food. Each week we choose a different place to sit and shoot the shit. Sometimes I treat the boys, sometimes they insist on being gentlemen and treating me, sometimes we split the bill. It doesn't matter what each person's money situation is for that week - we work it out among ourselves so that nobody is left out of the Friday beer because of financial concerns. It will all balance out in the long run, we figure.

Last week, Ahmed, Paulo and I went for beers at the Clube dos Professores, a tucked away little restaurant near the University. Raimundo wasn't with us - he stayed back in Matola because of the torrential rains that had been falling for several days. He didn't want to deal with the hassle of taking an inter-city chapa at night through the flooded streets, so we dropped him off on our way into Maputo.

Ahmed, Paulo and I sat at a table on the covered patio and ordered pizza and several rounds of 2Ms. There is a summer promotion going on right now, so with each beer we got a sort of lottery ticket. Over the course of the evening, Ahmed won 2 free drinks, and Paulo scored a 2M printed bandana. I was unlucky, perhaps the result of my ominous birthdate, as Ahmed kindly reminded me with each frustrated ticket I scratched.

As we drank on the patio, the rains intensified. Water had been falling on Maputo for the previous 2 days, and the city was already flooded due to the poor (ou seja: non-existant) drainage system in the streets. But the rain that fell that night at the Clube dos Professores was of biblical proportions. The drops thudded on the tin roof with such force that we had to shout in order to hear each other. The water accumulated on the street outside the restaurant and reached such a level that it began to creep over the front steps, innundating the patio floor and the inside dining areas. The water poured down from the sky and we realized: we were stuck, at least for the time being. It simply wasn't worth trying to brave the flooded streets of Maputo in Ahmed's low little car. We looked at each other, and smiled. "Another round, please!" We drank and laughed and marveled at the rain.

I confess: part of me wished the water would never stop coming down.

In the Midst of Boredom, I've Found My Strengths

Hugh Marlboro hasn't been at work for the past 2 days. Also, about half our office is out for some reason, either out of town in South Africa or running around trying to get things in order for the payment of salaries.

Not surprisingly, I am bored. And since it's been a slow day, as are my remaining colleagues in the office with me.

I arrived at work to find that someone had cut a fire lily, a purple-hued cluster flower that looks like chives, and a bit of fern from the garden in front of the warehouse and placed them in a nicely arranged minimalist bouquet in a water glass on my desk. It is a nice feeling to know that someone went out of their way just to make my day a bit more colorful and pleasant.

This morning was spent checking e-mail, organizing my desk and looking at photos of cowboy boots on the internet with Ahmed, Nacho and Versace. All of the boys have requested that I bring them "texanas" from the US. I find this endlessly amusing, especially after seeing that they are most interested in the pointy-toed, embellished, fashion-forward boots. We spent about 40 minutes looking at boots, each photo greeted with a group critique of the nice and undesireable characteristics of each pair.

So, after looking at boots, I decided to take an internet quiz that I found through my friend Vanessa. According to the 240 question quiz, here are my Signature Strengths:

1. Capacity to love and be loved
You value close relations with others, in particular those in which sharing and caring are reciprocated. The people to whom you feel most close are the same people who feel most close to you.

2. Curiosity and interest in the world
You are curious about everything. You are always asking questions, and you find all subjects and topics fascinating. You like exploration and discovery.

3. Appreciation of beauty and excellence
You notice and appreciate beauty, excellence, and/or skilled performance in all domains of life, from nature to art to mathematics to science to everyday experience.

4. Creativity, ingenuity, and originality
Thinking of new ways to do things is a crucial part of who you are. You are never content with doing something the conventional way if a better way is possible.

5. Forgiveness and mercy
You forgive those who have done you wrong. You always give people a second chance. Your guiding principle is mercy and not revenge.

And, just in case you were wondering, my bottom strengths were "Modesty and humility" and "Self-control and self-regulation". Yes, I can be arrogant and out-of-control with my impulses. I totally admit this. :)

For those of you who know me, what do you think? Is this a reasonable assessment of my character strengths?

It Sounded Like Such a Sweet Song

These days I feel I can barely keep my head above water. Back when I was doing freelance consulting, working from home, and waking up whenever I pleased to start the day, time seemed to be an endless commodity. Now that I am working full time at a company, however, it is a completely different story. Not only am I occupied during commercial hours, our office is in Matola (a good 25 minutes outside Maputo) and I have no car, putting me completely at the mercy of pleading rides to go to and from work each day. Either that or pay $15 one-way for a taxi, which gets old after a while. And, just a final little note, because I work with a bunch of crazy people I have no lunch break (not like I could go anywhere on my own even if I did given my transport situation), so the possibility of getting errands done in the middle of the day is out as well.

The result of all of this? I have a to-do list about a mile long that I just can't seem to tackle. I'm stressed enough that I finally had to put up a limit today. I've gotten permission to go to work 2 hours late tomorrow so that I can get a taxi and ride around the city like a mad woman trying to get all my shit done.

And, to add to the craziness, jewelry production is on in full force. Every day when I come home from work I sit at my improvised crafts table and lose myself in silver wire, trade beads and gemstones. Time flies, which is something I have mixed feelings about at the moment. But I am getting a lot done, and I am totally in love with some of my new designs. The big national crafts fair starts a week from today, plus I am making a few custom pieces for a blog-friend in the UK who will be coming to Mozambique next month. Pictures soon, I promise.

Predictably, the honeymoon period is starting to wear off at my job. I still love my work, and am very glad I took the opportunity, but my eyes are now able to see the other side of the coin. I could sum it up by saying that, for all of his amazing qualities, keen business skills and vast knowledge of world history, Hugh Marlboro is also capable of being incredibly difficult. I'm not sure what part of it is due to cultural or generational differences, and what part is due to his own unique personality, but there are definitely aspects of my boss that I find hard to swallow. For now, I am picking and choosing my battles (especially until my 3-month probation period is over), but there are certain things that simply won't fly in the long run that we'll have to work out. So it goes with every relationship, I suppose...

I am starting to pick up some Changana (Shangaan) at work, thanks to the boys in the warehouse. So far I can remember cacata (cheapskate) and mamparra (equivalent to the Brazilian mané - who has a good definition for this in English?). Not sure on the spellings, but at least I am retaining a few words. For as good as I tend to be with languages, Changana has certainly gone in one ear and out the other without leaving much behind over the last 2 years.

The other day I was in my office and heard the boys that help around the warehouse singing work songs as they unloaded sacks of potatoes and onions from one of the reefer trucks in our fleet.

"How wonderful," I though to myself. "What a lovely, authentic cultural experience."

I listened for a few minutes to the strong voice of the leader call out a verse, and the different harmonies that the other boys would do when calling back the chorus. The melody was simple, but made truly beautiful by the blending of tones and the syncopated rhythm. Occasionally someone made a show of hand-clapping or foot-stomping to accent a particular point in the song.

Wanting to appreciate the music from a closer place, I went down to the warehouse and sat with Ahmed, who was observing the workers unloading the truck to be sure none of the stock was deviated or damaged.

"What a pretty song," I commented. "What are they singing?"

"Ummm, it's in Changana."

"I know, but you speak Changana. Don't you understand the lyrics?"

Ahmed shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then took a deep breath and looked up at me. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes!" I insisted.

And he proceeded to translate one of the dirtiest yet simple song lyrics one could imagine.

So much for my impression that this was a nice, innocent manifestation of culture. Well, I suppose it was an expression of culture, just that of a group of horny 16-year-old boys, not that of a wise Bantu heritage. I don't know what I was expecting - lyrics about the rising sun, or the destructive nature of floods, or the blessings of grain and milk - but it certainly wasn't what Ahmed translated for me.

Ah, yes. Boys will be boys, the world around...