Valencia County Observations

I'm in New Mexico for a week, enjoying some time observing life in the place where I grew up. Here are some of the moments that have stood out to me about Los Lunas and Valencia County, the place where my dad calls home:

This is a rural area about an hour south of Albuquerque. The scenery is serene and classically New Mexican: wide open fields of hay and corn, grandiose cottonwoods whose leaves have started turning yellow with the changing seasons, chile roasting on street corners, and dusty mountains in the distance. In the middle of this all runs the Rio Grande, currently a small trickle because so much water has been diverted into the irrigation ditches that criss-cross the landscape. The people here are connected to the land, to family, to tradition.

Driving around I am struck by the billboards along Highway 47, which fall into a few main themes:

- DWI (You can't afford it!)
- Anti Domestic Abuse (Elders and children are our heritage, our future!)
- Pro-Life propaganda (My heart beats 18 days after conception!)
- Personal Injury Lawyers
- Military Recruitment
- Indian Casinos

Tells you a lot about the problems people face and the values they hold...

As I write this I am sitting in a café in Los Lunas (the main town around these parts) that is part coffee shop, part Christian bookstore / religious supplies, and part guitar store. It is the closest wifi to my dad's house (he has no internet and my cell signal is practically nonexistent) so if I want to check email or blog or do some work, I come here.

Culture shock is an understatement. Not only is there all the religious paraphernalia and "church people" vibe from the staff and patrons, there is the political aspect. The people here like their guns. Next to the coffee creamer is an advertisement for Concealed Carry Training. I just overheard someone talk about how Obama was the best thing ever for gun and ammo sales, that they skyrocketed because of him. Another table over there is a guy loudly voicing his support for Trump and calling Bernie Sanders supporters "sheeple" for now supporting Hilary. He's all about the government conspiracies, too, talking about 9/11 being an inside job and how he just bought a $2,000 end-of-the-world survival kit because shit is going to go down.

The scary part to me is that everyone who walks in and overhears these conversations in progress jumps in and is in agreement! Guns and Trump and anti-Obama and God are the anthem over here! It makes me reconsider where I am spending my $7 for coffee and a breakfast burrito, but then again there's no guarantee that the owner of Starbucks on the far side of town (the other wifi option) is not cut from the same cloth, even though the corporate aspect of the place might suggest neutrality.

I don't identify with Valencia County as being home (I lived with my mom in Albuquerque from ages 5 to 15), but my dad has always been here so it is familiar and full of memories. Since my mom moved to California over a decade ago, my dad's house is now my base when I come to New Mexico. While I appreciate the hospitality he and his wife extend to me, I am struck by how anthropological these visits feel. I am definitely an outsider, observing "the other," gaining heightened perception of my own views and values as a result of the contrasts.

Brazil July 2011: The Roundup

Trip Highlights:

• Selling the Casa Rosa. By far the most efficient turn of events possible. The house had been on the market for many months already, and Rico and I decided to go down to Rio to clear out all the furniture and the few personal belongings we had there so that, when a sale did eventually take place, the Casa Rosa would be ready to hand over. Never in our wildest dreams could we have anticipated that, not five minutes after stepping in the house the first Monday of our trip, the phone would ring and our broker would let us know that an offer had been made by an extremely serious buyer. Within 24 hours the house was off the market, and we were busy moving furniture and taking care of the initial paperwork for the sale.
• I anticipated this being a really hard trip for me. It was, but only for a small moment. I'm happy to report that selling the Casa Rosa really did feel like the right thing to do. I had no remorse in letting go, my desire to cling completely dissipated. Simplification really feels good, as does recognizing and accepting when a particular chapter has run its course, as opposed to fruitless, tiring attempts to prolong it unnecessarily.
• I got over one of my fashion hang-ups and actually wore Havaianas in public in Brazil. The mere thought of wearing flip-flops outside the house and/or beach used to provoke a cold sweat in my afraid-to-be-identified-as-a-foreigner person. I'm over it. When my feet are swollen and it's hot outside and I have blisters, I'll wear Havaianas and like it. Aside from going into the lobby at Citibank, I didn't even feel weird doing it!
• The opportunity to catch up with most of the family and friends we wanted to see. So nice to reconnect.
• Rico and I redecorated my mother-in-law's apartment. It looks amazing. We bought only a couple of pieces, relying rather on rearranging what my m-i-l already had and supplementing it with furniture, lighting, and paintings from Casa Rosa.
• Rico and I celebrated our 3-year wedding anniversary. It was a treat to be in the Casa Rosa and at the church across the street, hard to believe that so much (and yet so little) time has passed. We had a photo shoot to say goodbye to the house and to celebrate our anniversary. The proofs arrived yesterday, and they look amazing.

The Lowlights:

• I realized that, not only do I get slightly motion sick, I am *really* afraid of sailing at anything but a children's pace. We went sailing at Angra, which was incredible, but the winds were good and the boat was big and eventually we were at an extreme angle hauling through the water. For Rico and his family, it was paradise. For me, it was tear-inducing. Literally. I was so scared by the feeling that the boat was about to capsize, I couldn't help but cry. Not my finest moment, but everyone was very kind and understanding.
• Speaking of such things, I also am increasingly scared by air travel. After years of not partaking, I am now a happy airport and in-flight drinker. And if I didn't feel like such shit after taking sleep aids or something like Valium, I'd be all over those, too.
• I ate way too much fried food in Brazil. Inevitable, really. Everywhere you look there is a fried treat. Bars, highway rest stops, street fairs - hell, even breakfast - are the glorious kingdoms of bolinhos, pasteis, coxinhas and more. And if you manage to avoid the fried stuff, you will be satisfied to encounter large quantities of puff pastry, cheese and sweetened condensed milk. Not surprisingly, I put on a little weight.
• To be fair, Brazilians do eat lots of healthy, fresh things. And drink lots of beer. :)

La Vida Expatica #7: Stuff Expat Aid Workers Like

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rio Through New Eyes

It's been a while since I've actually lived in Rio - since 2001, to be precise - and it's always interesting to see the city through non-resident eyes. When you live in a place, after a while even its most strange and wonderful and shocking aspects become commonplace. Stay away for long enough, and when you come back for a visit they hit you in the face.

Here are some of my observations about the cidade maravilhosa this time around. (Our last trip was in March 2009, and somehow it seems there have been big changes in Rio since then...or perhaps it's just my frame of reference that's changed - from Maputo to Casa Cali). At any rate, here are my thoughts:

- The traffic in Rio these days is horrendous. It's always been bad, but somehow it just seems that much crazier, chaotic, congested and aggressive. The first day we arrived in the city, I was hit with a wave of confidence and thought, "I can totally drive here." After the do-what-you-please, traffic-law-ignoring attitude of drivers in Maputo, and now the high-speed, think-fast attitude of drivers in California, I somehow felt prepared to get behind the wheel in Rio. After just one day in the city, I'd changed my mind. I don't drive in Rio by choice, and I believe it will stay that way. Quite frankly, I'm amazed there aren't 1,000 accidents each day. Traffic here is the definition of organized chaos, and I'm happy to remain a passenger.

- Everything is EXPENSIVE. Ridiculously so. Consumer goods are, in general, three times the price in the US. Anything imported is absurdly priced. Even food and drinks are super expensive, and it sadly seems that Rio is no longer a city in which one can get simple, fresh eats for less than R$10. I don't think Rico and I managed to go to a restaurant and spend less than R$75 (the exchange rate is about US$1 to R$1.75) and we were going to pretty run-of-the-mill places and ordering modestly. Even a serving of pasteis or bolinhos (fried pastries that Brazilians love to eat as appetizers) is at least R$20. Preparing food at home is definitely the way to go, but sadly that wasn't an option for us on this trip, as the majority of of our social and family events were geared around restaurants.

- Despite the plethora of fresh fruits and vegetables available, Brazilians really love their fried foods and snacks. Fast food is commonplace, and there are multiple national chains. I don't understand how people can eat so much oil and fritura and maintain such trim figures. That said, it's definitely more common to see overweight people in Rio (and I imagine in all of Brazil) these days. I routinely see women who are "bigger" than me in the streets, which was something rare 10 years ago.

- There is a massive real estate bubble in Rio at the moment. It's a hot topic among cariocas these days, trying to figure out whether it's a bubble that's bound to burst, or simply market valuation that's here to stay for a while. Part of the upswing in real estate prices is due to the World Cup in 2014 and the Olympics in 2016 that will be hosted in Rio. Another factor is geographic limitation. Like San Francisco, Rio is a city of mountains/hills and sea, which means there are natural boundaries to how much the city can grow (thus driving prices of existing real estate quite high). Furthermore, there are a few neighborhoods (e.g. Ipanema, Leblon, Urca) that are highly desirable to live in and will always have greater demand than supply. Additionally, there has been appreciation due to certain neighborhoods being rehabilitated/"gentrified" (e.g. Lapa, Santa Teresa, parts of Zona Norte) and, plain and simple, time passing and Brazil developing. A final factor is that Brazilians are increasingly getting mortgages and financing their real estate, meaning they are willing to purchase properties for a higher face value. It will be very interesting to see what happens... Personally, I think it's a bubble.

- Women are very, very trendy in Rio. Fashionable, for sure, but very specifically trend-followers. I am amazed at how many beautiful women wear clothes that are horrifically unflattering just because they are the latest runway trend. Most specifically, low-cut skinny jeans on women who are blessed in the hips department. They end up looking like they've got two chicken drumsticks for legs instead of beautiful, shapely curves. It's disproportionate to their shapes, and my inner fashion cop wants to take photos of them to see if they actually think the look is working. I feel authorized to speak on this subject because I am one of the many ladies who isn't really flattered by the whole skinny jeans look. Other trends seen during this trip? Jumpsuits (many in loud, neon prints), 80's style back in full force, ankle booties, and shorts with tights.

- Small bikinis. I know I was once totally on board with this one, but apparently the size of my bikini has grown with each year I've lived outside Brazil. I felt like my current bikini was more appropriate for a granny than a girl in her late 20's. Tomorrow I'm off to buy a new one, although I doubt I'll ever wear it in public in the US. :)

- Manicured nails all the time. Color of choice right now: blue! (especially dark, gray-tinged, metallic blues). I try, but I can't keep up. But seemingly Havaianas are now acceptable in more social situations and in public than ever before. I still can't bring myself to wear flip-flops out of the house, but who knows on another trip I might just give it a whirl.

- Santa Teresa is full of tourists (wandering through the streets with cameras in hand, worry-free!) and lots of cute new shops and restaurants. Seems like the cool, bohemian neighborhood is more interesting than ever. There is a hotel down the street from the Casa Rosa that has a bar I'm dying to try, there is a new German restaurant on the corner, and there's lots of new artsy graffiti in the streets, including a gorgeous mural of the Brazilian national soccer team in the Santa Teresa street car, surrounded by all sorts of African animals in a fusion homage to the World Cup in South Africa.

There are many other observations to add to this list, but I'm going to call it a night. I just got hit with a wave of sleepiness, and it's best I head upstairs lest I fall asleep here on the veranda.

The Biggest Difference

People frequently ask me and Rico what the biggest difference is between life in Maputo and life in Cali. They want to know how the transition has been, if we've experienced wicked culture shock, if we are feeling like foreigners in a foreign land.

To be honest, the culture shock thus far has been minimal. The changes are obvious - we are talking about two very different places and lifestyles, of course - but coping with said changes hasn't been traumatic at all. What we most miss about life in Mozambique is our friends, full stop. The rest is incidental.

However, this evening Rico had a eureka moment. There is one really big difference that impacts our lives and the way we interact with friends, family and the rest of the world on a daily basis.

Any guesses?

I won't be dramatic. :)

The big innovation is that WE CAN RELIABLY SEND AND RECEIVE MAIL. Such a simple thing, but with such a huge impact. Being able to depend on the postal system (and not be at the mercy of terribly overpriced couriers) has made it possible for me to order gemstones and other jewelry supplies online, make custom designs for my customers and ship them within a few days, set up a website with e-commerce capabilites, send Christmas gifts to everyone in the family on time, send letters to friends, fill out and return assorted paperwork, subscribe to Vogue and other magazines, order shoes online and return them immediately if they don't fit, receive and recycle junk mail, pay bills by check, print photos online, order books from Amazon.com...and so much more.

I can't believe this didn't dawn on us earlier.

Holiday Spirit

I'm not particularly into the holidays. I think it's because most of my Christmasses for the past decade or so have been spent in tropical splendor (or at least in Maputo, or on a plane on my way to tropical splendor). Being from New Mexico, I associate Christmas with cold weather, snow, luminarias, bizcochitos, fireplaces with piñon wood, posole, tamales, real Christmas trees and presents on Christmas morning. It seems that without those triggers, the holidays didn't feel "real".

I remember the first time I spent the holidays in the Southern Hemisphere. It was 1997 and I was living in Maringá, Paraná in Brasil. My host family had taken me to the beach in Santa Catarina state, and we celebrated with the traditional midnight dinner on December 24th (in this case, on the roof of the resort town's tallest apartment building), lots of drinking, card playing and samba dancing. There wasn't really a gift exchange, which made me feel a bit like the odd one out since I'd prepared a little something for each member of the family. Most of Christmas Day was spent sleeping, then when the effects of the previous night's festivities had worn off, we all went to the beach. It was so incredibly un-Christmaslike that I was actually quite sad.

At some point over the last 12 years, I got over it.

I suppose I spent so many Christmasses on a plane by myself (always the cheapest day to travel over winter break, and every year from 1997 - 2002 I went back to Brasil for the end of the year) that the absence of a holiday tradition ceased to matter. Holidays were in my head, were easily celebrated on off-days whenever family was together, and many times simply involved a phone call or small dinner celebration. I wasn't sad anymore at the absence of a traditional New Mexico Christmas, but I also ceased to get into the spirit that much.

Now that Rico and I are in Casa Cali, back in the "cold" weather and the land of the Christmas-obsessed, we've tried to resurrect some of the holiday excitement. We had grand plans to buy a Christmas tree - a live one with a root ball, of course, to be kept on the deck semi-undecorated until planting time thanks to our cats (they'd be up in the tree and knocking off all of my precious family ornaments in no time were it left indoors as a "present" to them) - but that just didn't happen. We had other priorities, I suppose, and got busy with things like work and driving a van full of furniture back from New Mexico. So no tree this year...

However we did manage to muster up a bit of Christmas festiveness: we bough red chile lights, and fully plan to put them somewhere visible before the actual holiday has passed. That, and I plan to bake a bazillion Christmas cookies to give as default gifts to our extended family and neighbors.

The big Christmas present, however, was one that Rico and I agreed would be our one and only gift to each other (we're not really into exchanging presents à la US tradition). We purchased a Sonos, a fabulous music system for Casa Cali that allows us to listen to whatever we want in different rooms. Music was definitely one of the things missing in our life (we sold our iPods and speakers prior to leaving Maputo), and we couldn't be happier now that we have a soundtrack available for working, cooking and entertaining. Amazingly, I actually listened to holiday music the other day: a Baroque Christmas, unearthed from my huge collection of classical cd's. Baby steps to full holiday spirit, I suppose. Baby steps...

The Quest to Become a Social-ista

No, not as in an ideology or political orientation. Lord knows that my time in Mozambique moved me firmly to the capitalist side of the equation. No quiero ser socialista, I want to be a Social-ista - as in a Fashion-ista - but instead of being a devotee of the latest designer collections and accessories, my quest is to interact with friends, friends-to-be and all of the other people who come across my path inbetween.

You see, I am an "ambivert". I first heard this term on the personality and style questionnaire developed by Wardrobe 911 as part of their style consult (a very fun experience, by the way). It means a person who is primarily introverted by nature, but who can be extroverted in inspired little bursts or simply when the situation calls for it. What a welcome relief, after all these years debating whether I am the 'E' or the 'I' in the Myers-Briggs test, to find there is a third category, an intermediate term that validates what I've known about myself all along. (I am either an ENFP or INFP depending on the day.) There are few things I love more than to be alone with a cat in my lap and some solitary hobby with which to occupy myself, but on occasion I can be the unabashed life of the party.

Being an ambivert is great, but if I'm not careful I can slip nearly 100% into the introvert category and spend all day at home, every day, day after day. It's super easy for me to just hang out with Rico and the cats (and my Mom now that we are in Cali), ignore my phone calls and emails, and isolate myself from the rest of the world to the point that when the opportunity to go out and be social presents itself, I find it completely daunting and honestly unappealing. I love my own company, but there is a point where I nest into a cycle of isolation that, in the long run, I know isn't ideal.

I do not want to become a person who is house-bound by choice at age 30. I don't want to get into the rountine of living a limited life here in California just because it feels comfortable and is easy. The period right after a move is so critical because it establishes many of the habits and patterns you will have for that chapter in your life. I really want to approach this Casa Cali life with awareness and an open mind. I want to push my boundaries and learn new things. I wan to explore this great area with Rico and find people, places and things that we really enjoy. Part of what makes this difficult is that we have such a fabulous home and love each other's company so much that we don't feel particularly dissatisfied just hanging out at Casa Cali.

I know that having friends and a life outside my mind and my home is important, healthy (and fun!), but I'm at the point where I have to remind myself of that fact in order to branch out a bit. I want to meet friends in the city, go out for drinks, go dancing, go see live music, go to museums, go to the park, participate in art shows, see the redwoods and the beaches. All of these things and more are within reach. It's just a matter of doing them...

Thus the somewhat early resolution for 2010 to become a social-ista. I want to seek out the few friends I have here in the Bay Area and cultivate those friendships, even if it seems like an extraordinary hurdle to leave the house, get on BART and interact with other people. Just yesterday I met two friends in the Mission for ice cream and coffee. We walked around, chatted about life and business, got caught up on the 3 years or so it's been since we last saw each other. It was incredibly nice to be with them, and to venture out on my own for an afternoon. Although part of me wanted to call and cancel the morning prior to our outing (I'd already schemed a list of plausible excuses to reschedule), I'm really glad I didn't. I had a great time, and hope we can do it again soon.

So here's to being a Social-ista in 2010, to getting back to my ambivert roots and throwing off the cloak of (temporary) total introversion. School will help, I'm sure, but I also don't want it to be a substitute for getting out there on my own, or with Rico, for no reason at all but to explore and be social.

What Is the Obsession with Pomegranate?

I mean, seriously! Why is every last thing from fabric softener to "flameless luminary" faux candle air fresheners to hand creme scented with pomegranate these days? And don't get me started on all the granola bars and juices that are pomegranate-flavored. I get all the health benefits of pomegranate, but this seems like a overload.

I remember a few years ago when the big thing was cranberry. What's next, I wonder. Fig? Satsuma? Passion fruit? We all know that açai is already on the horizon (as a weight loss supplement, no less!) so I suppose that's off the trendy list...

In other news, my mind is slowly being corrupted by commercials. Rico and I watch at least one episode of Law & Order and one of Criminal Minds each night - it's our favorite way to relax at the end of a work day - and the commercials during these shows are just terrible. They are also lamentably effective. For the last two days, the Geico commercial with the talking pothole has been stuck in my head. I have a talent for imitating accents, and I can do the ditzy Southern, "Oh, naaaaaaaaaaaoe!" spot on. "Hawld on, lemme get mah ce-lyoo-lur, call ya a wreckur." Please tell me you know the commercial I'm talking about. I did it on the phone for my friend Jenny in Moz the other day, and I think she thought I was losing it. Still, I laugh every time I see the stupid thing on tv.

Other top commercials on the mind: the whole "Love Stinks" series by Swiffer, Geico again with the Russian thug pipes the car backs into, and a top contender for my favorite ad on tv at the moment, the Mucinex animated mucus guy that dances at the Cough-a-Cabana, invites all his animated mucus relatives for the family reunion, and protests, "Twelve aowahs!" at the purported duration of the medicine.

Yes, mush. My brain is turning to mush. I should be filling my mind with QuickBooks and taxpayer id#'s and brilliant ideas for how on earth I'm going to manage being at 8am classes for the next 3 years...come to think of it, it's not surprising I want to watch trash at the end of each night. ;)

Changes in the U-S-A

The last time I was in the US, they were advertising 3-blade razors. Now, apparently, what you really need for a close shave is 5 blades. This makes me laugh since I've been making do for the last 4.5 years with crappy disposable 1-blade razors with no moisturizing strip and a plastic handle that will crack if dropped in the shower.

Apparently bamboo is now the popular, eco-friendly choice when it comes to wood. From furniture to flooring to chopping blocks, it seems every store we've been in has some sort of bamboo product to push. We actually bought some of the kitchen stuff - very cheap, good design - and drooled over a high-end catalog with marbled "espresso finish" bamboo chaise chairs when shopping for our basic furniture needs. Sadly, the beautiful deck furniture didn't make it on that list...

It seems America has discovered açai since I was last here. I've seen signs of this in my spam folder for several months, interestingly with açai being toted as the next big thing in weight loss aids. Funny, because in Brasil it's known as a high-calorie, high-energy snack that jiu-jitsu guys eat with granola prior to training. Also, here it's sold mainly in juice or pill form, while in Brasil I've only ever had it as a frozen pulp that's blended with banana and honey and eaten with a spoon.

Granted we are in California, land of the recycling fanatics, but it's clear that if you don't walk into a supermarket or shop armed with your own canvas bags you will get VERY disapproving looks from the cashier and your fellow shoppers.

For the first time ever I am living in a place with organized recycling that is collected along with your regular waste on trash day. It takes some getting used to (each item in the bin is preceded by a question: Can you recycle plastic clamshell packaging? What about corks?) but I'm very happy it's an option.

Organic is clearly the only choice around these parts. Vegetarianism and veganism are mainstream. I feel like the odd man out buying oxtails and non-organic butter in bulk at Costco, although some of my "guilt" is offset by the fact that we have been gorging ourselves on 100% organic apples and meyer lemons right from our own backyard that are the definition of Local Produce.

Leggings are in. Knee-high boots over jeans are as well. Neither look particularly good on me. :(

I am out of date with slang. I speak like an overly proper school marm compared to the way kids these days sound. I wonder how long it will take for my regullllrrr English to come back, if it will at all.

Apparently you now get tax credits for buying a new car, not just for first-time home ownership. Looks like Rico and I hit the jackpot on this one. There are definitely small silver linings to the recession and to climate change.

It's been fun noticing all these small changes, taking stock of what my first baby steps of reverse culture shock turn out to be.

The End of an Era?

In the wake of multiple fatal traffic accidents involving chapas, it looks like the days of this ubiquitous sardine can on wheels are numbered:

Mozambican private transport operators have 90 days to replace 15 seater minibuses with larger passenger vehicles, under new transport regulations approved by the government. According to Olivio Pinto, national director of road transport, interviewed by the independent television station STV, the growth in the urban population demands the use of larger and more comfortable vehicles. Three months from now, only buses that can carry 40 or more passengers will be allowed on the roads of Mozambican cities."Compulsory timetables seek to discourage operators from starting the journey whenever they see fit, and leaving citizens waiting at bus stops for hours, without knowing when the bus will appear", the deputy national director of road transport, Taibo Issufo, told reporters at a seminar to publicise the new regulations.
("15 Seater Passenger Vehicles to be Banned, AIM NEWS)

Banning small chapas seems highly unlikely given the reality of public transport in Mozambique, but moving toward safer vehicles and actually enforcing operating regulations is definitely a step in the right direction.

I don't take chapas. I've done it a few times, either out of total necessity or when riding with a local friend, but they make me claustrophobic and I find the safety issues to be quite terrifying. Before we had a car, I was happy to save money on food, entertainment, electricity consumption - just about anything - rather than be forced to take a chapa for budget reasons.

For many foreigners, riding chapas has massive "authenticity appeal," so I suppose it's time to take advantage of the experience while it is still around. After all, nonchalantly telling friends back home at a dinner party that you rode to work every day in Maputo in a regular bus really doesn't have the wow-factor of saying you were shoved in a Hiace with 25 other passengers, someone else's snotty baby on your lap, a chicken between your feet (not yours either, of course), and the guy who makes change discreetly trying to cop a feel while you struggle to the front of the vehicle after having yelled "Paragem!" in a desperate attempt to get the bloody thing to stop within walking distance of your destination.

Yeah, Well I'm Bothered, Too

I was supposed to lead a task group meeting this afternoon at the Big International Company where I have been consulting since February. We need to provide descriptions of all the SMEs (small and medium enterprises) in which BIC has invested in Mozambique. It's not a difficult task, but it requires coordination to get all the financial, technical assistance and other information together.

Anyhow, I was just informed that we won't be able to have the meeting because my colleague Ratinha didn't come to work today.

"Ela está incomodada," my colleague Tortoise told me.

This is one of the best Mozambican euphemisms of all time. 'Estar incomodada' literally means 'to be bothered', but in this instance it is code for 'she has her period'.

That's right - lovely Ratinha didn't come to work today because of the devastatingly serious reason that SHE HAS HER PERIOD. And the whole freaking office knows. She didn't just call in sick or say she was taking a personal day. Nope, miss Rata told her boss and the secretary quite openly that she was "bothered" and they all understood immediately that the poor dear wouldn't be in today. In fact, perhaps she wouldn't be recovered from her bothersome condition until early next week.

The worst part is that Ratinha is no exception to the rule, and it seems to be standard practice here for women to call in "bothered" to work and for employers to nary bat an eyelash!

I tried to reschedule the task meeting to no avail. "Epa," Tortoise said when I suggested we hold the meeting on Tuesday (Monday is a public holiday), "talvez ela ainda esteja incomodada até lá..." Yeah, no use trying to schedule something 4 days in the future because, depending on Rata's cycle, perhaps she will STILL BE ON HER PERIOD at that point and therefore out of the office!

I used to have really painful periods, and still do on occasion. I know what it is like to want to curl up in a ball and watch tv and eat chocolate all damn day. But I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that a woman having her period in Mozambique is license for 4 to 7 days out of the office, no questions asked!!! Granted, not all females pull this card here, but still - freaking insane, no?

Anyhow, I sure feel less guilty that I've been taking half-days off to work on my jewelry business and get ready for the Mozambican National Crafts Fair. At least my time out of the office is 1) used productively, and 2) UNPAID.

What the *F* Is Monkey Gland Sauce?

I am feeling a bit better today after a good night's cry, long talks with Rico and my mom, and emails to my Dad. Also, thank you, my blog friends, for the emails and comments yesterday. I will write more about what happened later on in the day, as I'm supposed to go on a site visit in a few minutes...

In the meantime, to satisfy your curiosity:

This very popular South African sauce is usually eaten with steaks, though it goes well with chicken and other meats too. While no monkeys or their glands are used in the sauce's preparation, it does include just about every ingredient you could imagine inhabiting one's kitchen pantry.

I've heard several versions of the origin of monkey gland sauce, but the general idea is this: at some point, French chefs came to South Africa to cook at a fancy hotel or a prominent food festival or something along those lines. The chefs tried to impress their clients with delicately flavored haute cuisine sauces. Unfortunately, they didn't go over so well with the predominately Afrikaaner palate.

Frustrated, the French chefs decided to invent the most vile sauce imaginable and get revenge on the people so obviously incapable of appreciating fine cuisine. They threw together all of the ingredients in the kitchen - garlic, onion, fruit chutney, wine, port, vinegar, chili paste, ketchup, curry, etc. and called it monkey gland sauce as a joke. To the great surprise of the chefs, instead of becoming ill at the dubious concoction, the South Africans absolutely loved the sweet-sour taste of the new sauce, and a national tradition was born.

Like barbeque in the South, or green chile stew in New Mexico, everyone has his own special recipe for monkey gland sauce. You can find a few versions here, here and here.

Enjoy!

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...

Awkward Moments, or How I Acquired a New Taste

The scene: An invitation from my friend T. to join her for dinner at the house of a Dutch man who does lapidary work on Mozambican gemstones.

Awkward Moment I

We realize, after drinking a coke and some juice and throwing about much more conversation than is socially obligated, that food is not in the plans. Unfortunate, given that we'd understood this to be a dinner invitation. Especially unfortunate considering I'd spent the entire day at the plantation with my crazy boss who doesn't eat lunch, and was completely ravenous as a result.

Awkward Moment II

Dutch friend: Would you like some wine?

T.: I don't mean to be rude, but is there going to be something to eat? Because I can't have alcohol on an empty stomach, I'm still recovering from the party this weekend. If there's a snack available, I'll have some wine, otherwise just another coke for me, thanks.

Dutch friend: Oh, did you expect to have dinner?

T.: Noooo! I just brought Ali over to look at your gemstones.

Dutch friend: Well, I can make you a specialty from the Netherlands! We will have croquettes.

T.: Ummm, I don't really know what that is, but I don't eat pork.

Dutch friend: Let me check the package. If there is no pork in the ingredients, we will have croquettes.

Ali la Loca (thinking): I don't care what's in the damn things, please feed me!!!

Awkward Moment III

After confirming there is, in fact, no pork or semi-hydrogenated pork products in the croquettes, we move to the living room to have a look at the guy's impressive gemstone collection. I am completely enchanted - imagine a table full of rough and cut aquamarines, tourmalines, topaz, rubies, emeralds, apatite, iolite, amethyst, garnets, sapphires and more! Total heaven for a rock and mineral geek like me.

But I am also starving, so my attention is fully directed to the basket of french fries and sausage-type things the friend finally brought out for us. T. looks at the croquettes and mouths to me across the table, "I don't eat beef, either!"

"That's okay," I say. "Just eat some potatoes and I'll have the sausages."

Unfortunately, the friend serves the food for us, a crispy breaded sausage for T. and a long, thin one for me. I dig into my food, and poor T. does her best to camoflauge the fact that she hasn't touched the sausage. Inevitably, at some pont, the friend catches on.

"Oh. You don't like the croquette."

"No!!" T. protests. "It was just too hot when I cut it open. See?" And to prove her point, takes a valiant bite of the beef-laden sausage.

However, she is unable to eat any more of the thing. When the friend excuses himself for a moment to the other room, T. hisses across the table, "This has pork in it! I can taste something funny. It's pork!!"

The friend returns and sees the nearly-whole sausage still on T.'s plate. "You don't like it. I knew it. It's okay."

Sheepishly, T. admits she suspects the croquette is made with some pork.

"That's okay," I say. "I'll eat it for you," and hungrily take the sausage from T.'s plate. I take a bite and enjoy the crispy breaded coating that contrasts with the almost creamy meat filling.

The Dutch friend looks puzzled. "I'm sure there is no pork in it," he says. "I looked at the packaging! This croquette is only made with beef and horse."

"HORSE????" T. and I yelp simultaneously, swinging around to look at the man with carbon-copy horrified looks on our faces. "This is made with HORSE??"

My stomach turns into a spin cycle, and I can tell by her face that T.'s is doing the same.

Then I realize how ashamed the poor guy looks, how red his face has suddenly become, how he has slumped in his chair and his neck has disappeared into his collared shirt under the weight of his bowed head.

I decide to play the diplomat.

"Ah, horse," I say, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be offered as a compensation for a dinner that never materalized. "I used to eat horse all the time as a child at my grandmother's house in Italy. It was considered a realy delicacy," which is a semi-truth because they did indeed serve it on many occasions, but I was always too finicky to muster up the courage to try the stuff.

I wonder if he knows I'm lying. I realize, somewhat horrified, that I'm going to have to eat the horse croquette if I wish to pull off the story I'm spinning.

"Just eat it," I tell myself, having flashbacks of all the times I've been in a similar situation. I try not to think of the horses we had at my dad's house when I was a child.

I manage to get down the entire thing, except for one bite which I leave on my plate to give the illusion of politeness. I could eat more, but the awkwardness of the situation has made it imperative that T. and I make a timely exit.

After saying our goodbyes, T. and I head to the car and have a good laugh at the whole evening once we are around the corner and certainly out of earshot or sight.

"I'm so sorry!" T. says emphatically.

"It's okay." I assure her. "I really liked looking at the gemstones. It was a nice night overall."

"Do you want me to take you to Mundo's to get something to eat? Poor thing, you were starving when we got there."

"No, it's okay. I'm not really hungry anymore...that horse sausage was actually really good!"

We start laughing again and replay our synchronized "HORSE!?!" exclamation a few times just for kicks.

"I can't believe you liked that stuff," T. says, shaking her head.

Quite honestly, I can't either. It seems totally wrong, but then again, it was in a similar situation that I first discovered how tasty intestines can be. On a regular day, no way I'd eat such a thing. But under the right circumstances - after a day of work with no lunch, or when fried and put inside a tortilla with a bit of chile and eaten at 3am on a Juarez streetcorner after a hard night drinking - anything is possible in terms of culinary appreciation.

Resentment, Retribution, Respect

I was put in a delicate situation last weekend. I don't usually tell other people's stories here, but this one affected me greatly, so I feel compelled to speak/write.

My friend S. had been talking all month about this cute guy from her work who she had a crush on. According to S's nightly swoons, he was intelligent, politically conscious, motivated and, not least of all, they had amazing chemistry.

The object of S's desires was a young Mozambican who dreamt of being an actor and continuing his education outside the country. His current position was as the driver for the international NGO where S. was doing a short-term public health internship. It was the best-paying job he could get, though it capitalized on little of his past experience in theater and as an activist.

S. is a student finishing her Master's degree at a prominent Ivy League school in the US. She is originally from California, but has traveled extensively and called places as diverse as New York, Santiago and Rio de Janeiro home. She speaks 3 languages and wants to pursue an international career.

The first time S. and her crush finally went on a date it went spectacularly well. He even took her to his home province of Gaza, 300km north of Maputo, so that she could meet his family. S. had quite the experience in the campo, where the family spoke primarily Shangaan and initiated her into traditional women's work. During that visit, S. pulled the hard roots of a mandioca plant out of the family's machamba (vegetable plot), learned how to have a bucket shower, and cooked rice over an open flame - all "tests" of whether or not she would make an adequate wife for her man.

They had a wonderful time together on this first date, and S. came back to Maputo gushing about what a connection she felt with this guy from her work.

I felt excited by the idea of S. and her friend getting along so well. What a message they were sending, breaking down cultural and social barriers right and left by pursuing their attraction!

Not everyone shared this feeling, however; S. received multiple comments about how it would never work between them. There were also many wagging tongues behind her back, commenting about how scandalous it was that S., the "rich", educated, white American would fall for the driver, of all people. If she'd perhaps become enamored of the Mozambican financial officer at the organization, that would be fine, but to stoop to the level of a motorista? Unthinkable. She must be out of her mind!

Last weekend, I had invited a few girls over for dinner. I was making tacos and other traditional New Mexican fare, and S. asked if she might invite her crush over to share the meal. I said there was no problem whatsoever, and we buzzed about the kitchen getting the food ready, S. excited by the idea of being able to give him a taste of her world as he'd done for her during the trip to Gaza.

J. and F. came over with some wine, and helped us finish up the final preparations for dinner.

Finally there came a knock on the door, and S. squealed and ran to receive her man. He'd brought along his cousin, a sweet teenage girl, and the two of them stood a bit awkwardly outside the door to the flat. S. unlocked the door, and I stood behind her in the hallway and welcomed our visitors. "Come it! I'm so glad you were able to come. Please make yourselves at home."

We all sat in the living room - me, S., our 2 girlfriends, the crush and his cousin. I started making smalltalk, pulling out all the stops as a hostess. I told the crush and the cousin a bit about the food I'd prepared, then chit-chatted about all of the delicious Mozambican food I've tried to date. We were having a nice time, and the conversation was beginning to flow naturally.

Then S.'s man made a comment that was so off-color it stopped me mid-sentence. Basically, he turned to us and said, "I bet you're all thinking 'Get this [n-word] out of here. Right? Hahahah!! Kick the [n-word] out the door.'"

I was shocked, and honestly thought I'd grossly misunderstood his Portuguese because I couldn't fathom someone making such a remark, especially given the context that he was a guest for dinner in my home.

"O que??" What on earth do you mean by that?

The guy repeated the comment, stared pointedly at all of us as if waiting for some sort of reaction, then started laughing hysterically.

"Hahaha! I'm just kidding," he said, "I like to make jokes."

Yeah, fucking hilarious.

I tried to brush off that remark and not take it personally. S. had mentioned before that this guy was quite dramatic, loved to do theater, and had a way of provoking people. Perhaps this was the way his personality manifested itself when he was a bit nervous. After all, as he said, it was his first time being invited to a white person's house for a meal.

Truthfully, though, I was extraordinarily offended. Whatever the motivations for that comment, it was something that I found very inappropriate. I understand the idea of using humor to deal with complex issues, but the self-depreciating (and obviously racially charged) way this guy chose to express himself was like a blow to the gut for me.

The rest of the dinner, unfortuately, went along similar lines. S.'s man outright refused to eat my food (though his cousin happily had seconds and seemed to be enjoying herself, if not a bit mortified by her primo's behavior). I didn't take that personally either, though it's the first time I've ever had someone over to dinner who has turned down my hospitality. What would have happened, I wondered, if S. had refused to eat his mother's cooking on the trip to Gaza? I'm certain it would have caused some serious offense, but whatever.

What happened next was almost as surreal and offensive as the guy's inital race "joke". He proceeded to personally attack each of us foreigners at the table (with the exception of S., who was drinking her wine and trying to be oblivious to the situation at hand). I played the supreme role of diplomat and gracious hostess for the rest of the evening, trying to defuse an increasingly unpleasant interaction. My girlfriends took his provocations as well as possible, with F. choosing to be practically silent at the dinner table, and J. making a visible effort to hold her tongue.

He told J. that she - along with all other citizens of the UK - was chata, a bore and too serious.

He told F. that she - along with all other Italians - was aloof and uncommunicative.

I got nailed for traveling too much, and for being in a relationship with a Brazilian (not sure what that one was about).

All of these comments, of course, then brushed off as "jokes".

His insults made me tempted to blame it on ignorance, as sweeping generalizations about race and nationality are often made by individuals with no multi-cultural experience or sensitivity whatsoever. However, this guy works in an international office, and obviously was having a pleasant time hanging out with S. up to this point, so it wasn't as if he were incapable of being respectful toward foreigners. I got the distinct feeling - as did J. - that is remarks were quite calculated and intended to offend.

It seemed as if he was taking the opportunity to avenge the discrimination and lack of respect he'd felt at the hand of white foreigners in the past; or perhaps, if he'd not directly experienced such oppression, he was taking out long-harbored grievances on behalf of his brothers and sisters who did suffer at the hand of people that look and talk like "us". One certainly got the impression that his actions were representative of something much larger, much more seeped in resentment and bitterness, than could have possibly transpired in the space of a 3-hour dinner to which he had been invited and was being treated, along with his cousin, as a guest of honor.

After the meal was over, we all went out for some live music and dancing. By this point, J. and I had snuck a quick chat in the bathroom and agreed that this guy was not a positive person, that we had exhausted ourselves trying to be polite and diplomatic, and that at this point he was simply sucking our energy. So we went off and danced with F. and some other nice girls we met at the club in a little group. Interestingly, the crush's younger cousin decided to join us, and we had a fabulous time shimmying and twirling to the music.

S. and her man ended up getting in a colossal fight that evening. Unfortunately, she doesn't remember much of it thanks to the amnesia-inducing properties of alcohol.

The next day, S. and her guy made up. They came over to the flat and announced their grand plans: the crush was going to take S. to the beach for the remainder of the weekend - her last in Mozambique - and treat her to a nice hotel and lots of good times for her to take away as sweet memories. He said he needed to get a few things ready for the trip, and told S. to pack her bags, that he would be back to pick her up in 40 minutes.

S. excitedly got together a bikini, a cute outfit for a romantic dinner, her guidebook, insect repellant and all the other necessities for a weekend getaway. An hour passed, and there was no sign of her man. Two hours passed. Keeping in mind cultural differences regarding the perception of time, S. patiently waited. Three hous passed. She called her man and got no response. Four hours. She texted him, with no answer. Five hours. She started crying and decided to join me an F. for a meal at the Thai restaurant. Six hours. Seven. No sign of the guy whatsoever. It was becoming apparent that either something horrible had happened, or he had flat-out stood S. up for their date.

When he didn't show by that evening, S. and I decided to have a girl's night and stayed home watching movies and drinking wine. She was so upset by what had happened. I tried to offer comfort, but there is little to be done in such times. When the hurt is that deep, and completely unexplainable, sometimes the only thing to do is cry and cry.

The next afternoon, a full 36 hours after telling S. to pack her bags for the beach trip, the guy finally sent a text message. He said that he'd been tending to his dying uncle, that there were family obligations that he needed to respect. S. and I both understood the gravity of a sick relative; but was it not possible to share this information sooner rather than later, thus avoiding a night of tears?

S. left Mozambique yesterday. Before her flight, she allowed her man to come over one last time. Apparently he apologized sufficiently for her taste, because she gave him a "second chance". They will see what happens over the next few months, as S. has plans to return here next year at some point to do research for her thesis.

The events of the weekend left me with several thoughts:

1) I believe there is a pressure among expats in the developing world - at least a pressure that I feel as an expat in this situation - to befriend "locals" that represent the most humble levels of the socio-economic spectrum. It's as if an experience in another country is only "authentic" when one can say the've been to the shantytown, established friendships with the humble farmer, stayed in a home with no electricity or running water, had a consult with the local healer, etc.

My willingness (and sense of obligation) to be kind and patient with S.'s crush made me realize how much of that was due to the fact that he represented the elusive "authentic local person" that I've so desired to bond with here in Mozambique. Were this man an American, I'd be respectful towards him because that's the way I want to behave in general, and because he's someone that my friend obviously has feelings for. However, I'd have had much less tolerance for his insults and offensive jokes were he one of my peers, and would likely have kicked him out of my house after the infamous dinner. In the US, for me, an asshole is an asshole regardless of race or social standing. As an expat, I am much more tolerant, especially if the person is of humble origins. I don't know that this is a posture I am proud of.

2) There is significant pressure on expats to always be the representative of their home country. I want to set a good example no matter where I travel, because I don't want to become the justification for someone I encounter on my travles to develop an "ugly American" stereotype. I want to show that Americans can be cultured, aware of world events, pacifists, intelligent, tolerant, etc. I want to exemplify the best possible face of my country.

Given this desire, it makes it hard to put up limits sometimes. If I'd kicked this guy out of my house for being offensive, for example, certainly he'd add a list of expletives to his current stereotypes about Americans. I think all expats want to set a good example, but for Americans I feel, at this point in history, it is even a more critical concern. It is difficult to strike a balance between wanting to be a cultural ambassador and needing to respect your personal limits.

3) I am glad that I have my relationship with Ricardo. For multiple reasons, on infinite levels.

4) I continue to try and embody the lesson of being non-judgmental. I'm not entirely there yet, but at least I'm aware of this fact.

5) I am grateful to know the true meaning of forgiveness, that it is a decision one arrives at for one's own good, and for no other reason. To harbor hate and resentment is a recipe for wearing away at one's soul. Forgiving - whatever may be the transgression - is an act of self-love. It does not condone the actions of another, nor does it send the message that those actions did not have the capacity to hurt and poison. I am thankful to have forgiven many hurtful, hateful acts against me to this point. I feel genuine pity for those unable to let go and heal, for resentment and hate of that nature are destined to be passed on from generation to generation.

6) This is my first truly unpleasant interaction with a Mozambican. I hope it is my last, but if not, I hope to be able to deal with the next one with a better balance of self-respect and sensitivity for my position as a guest in a third-country. If that means throwing the guy out the front door, so be it. I hope to stand proud behind my decision.