A new apartment building has just been inaugurated a few blocks over from us on Av. Julius Nyerere, one of the main streets in Maputo. The apartments, from what I've heard from real estate agents and seen in adverts in the paper, are nice but nothing spectacular. Most are 2 - 3 bedroom, with maybe 2 bathrooms and a service area. The big selling points are the gorgeous view of the Indian Ocean from a spacious verandah, and the fact that because the building is new, it conforms to the security standards of most local Embassies and NGOs for their program staff.
You see, if you work for one of the main development / aid / diplomacy gigs in Maputo, you aren't allowed to just live any old place. There are very specific criteria regarding bars on doors and windows, 24hr security guards, off-street parking for cars, etc. As many of the houses and buildings in Maputo are a few years (ahem, decades) old, it can be difficult to find housing that conforms to these security requirements. My friend Jenny recently was looking to move into a new place and had a terrible, months-long search before turning up a place that was not only approved by the security standards of her work, but a reasonably affordable price as well.
How much do you think a 3-bedroom apartment in the building I just described would rent for per month? I know it's hard to envision the apartments, and I personally don't know what the amenities are like inside the place, but let me put it like this. It's a new building in a good, centrally-located neighborhood; however, the area is nonetheless somewhat run-down and is a frequent location for begging and assaults (lots of Western-catering restaurants = lots of foreigners = lots of petty crime).
So, what would be your guess for renting one of these apartments (in USD)?
$800 per month?
$1,500 per month?
Nope. Keep guessing...
$2,300 per month?
Still not high enough. Rico read in the paper this morning that the rents in this building START at $3,000 per month! And that is for the most basic apartment, probably the ones without the sea-facing varandas.
Honestly, for what is being offered, this is a total rip-off.
Chalk another one up to the massive presence of foreigners and foreign organizations in Mozambique. They are so desperate for housing, there is no doubt that these apartments will all rent in a second, no questions asked.
From what we hear from friends in Angola, it is 100 times worse there. I can't even begin to imagine it...
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
Images
I took noticeably few pictures on my recent trip back to Brasil and the US. I'm not really sure why, I just wasn't feeling the photo vibe. It's especially strange considering that my dad gave me an early birthday present (super early - I'll be 26 in October) that is the most bad-ass digital camera I've ever gotten my hands on.
Part of me, I think, is afraid to start using this monster of a camera because it is so cool, and takes such good photos, I'll get sucked hopelessly into another creative hobby. I already have jewelry making, crafts fairs, knitting and crocheting, writing and cooking. Somewhere in there I find time for "real" work.
I can only imagine what it will be like if I get the photo bug, something that has happened to me a couple of times in my life already. We'll see. Perhaps as the weather warms up, I can put the knitting aside and wander around the streets of Maputo instead, taking photos of this beautiful yet somewhat run-down city...
At any rate, here are some photos from my recent trip, none of which I took myself.
Me and my mom doing a wine tasting in Locke, in the Sacramento Valley.
Here I am doing one of my favorite activities in the world: hunting for Native American pot shards (pieces of 1,000-year-old Anasazi ceramics, in this case).
Our campsite in the Jemez (New Mexico). My Dad and I have this camping thing down pat.
Our cooking and hanging out tarp setup. I am in the final stages of "The Poisonwood Bible" and completely oblivious to the fact that my Dad has the camera out.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Keywords
To the person that found my blog by looking for the keywords "cat revenge poo":
I hope you are sufficiently satisfied that you are not the only one out there suffering with this type of problem. I feel your pain, my friend. I really do. My advice is to get your cats fixed, asap.
To all of you out there that have found my blog hoping for hot pictures of Coco Austin's ass implants, so sorry to disappoint. You all do make up a sizeable amount of my traffic, however, so I'm actually not that sorry.
And to the poor soul that searched for "are cocker spaniels allergic to scorpion bites?", all I can do is hope that you were not actually in that situation and hoping to find the answer on my blog. Get yourself to a veterinarian, man. Either that or get a hold on your wild, morbid imagination!
I hope you are sufficiently satisfied that you are not the only one out there suffering with this type of problem. I feel your pain, my friend. I really do. My advice is to get your cats fixed, asap.
To all of you out there that have found my blog hoping for hot pictures of Coco Austin's ass implants, so sorry to disappoint. You all do make up a sizeable amount of my traffic, however, so I'm actually not that sorry.
And to the poor soul that searched for "are cocker spaniels allergic to scorpion bites?", all I can do is hope that you were not actually in that situation and hoping to find the answer on my blog. Get yourself to a veterinarian, man. Either that or get a hold on your wild, morbid imagination!
And I Vow Not to Be a Bridezilla...
Exactly one year from today, Rico and I will be getting married in the Anglican church in Santa Teresa, Rio de Janeiro.
Lots of planning to go until then, but I am incredibly excited about how it will all come together.
This evening we will be having a conference call with the guy that will hopefully be our wedding planner (couldn't pull it off without one). I can't wait to start looking at the more concrete details, like what food we will have, what our cake will look like, and how on earth we will do the logistics for all of our friends and family flying in from overseas.
364 days to go, and counting!
Lots of planning to go until then, but I am incredibly excited about how it will all come together.
This evening we will be having a conference call with the guy that will hopefully be our wedding planner (couldn't pull it off without one). I can't wait to start looking at the more concrete details, like what food we will have, what our cake will look like, and how on earth we will do the logistics for all of our friends and family flying in from overseas.
364 days to go, and counting!
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Improvements
Why is it so incredibly difficult to get out of bed on a chilly morning? Especially if you have 2 warm, cuddly cats lounging on your stomach? And a warm, cuddly boy next to you?
I suppose that's a pretty obvious question to answer, but every morning nonetheless I agonize over how hard it is to haul myself out from under the covers.
Our cold spell continues in Maputo. I am wearing slippers in the house and an overcoat over a turtleneck when we go out. Even Rico is cold, wearing sweats and complaining about how the boys steal the covers from him in the middle of the night. Rico is one of these people who is perpetually overheating, so for him to be chilly you know it's bad.
The cold weather has spurred us to make a big home improvement, one that we've been putting off since we moved here 1.5 years ago. Currently our shower is a miserable little dribble, especially if you want hot water. For most of the year, we use only the cold tap and make do, as it's refreshing to come out of the shower with goosebumps before being soaked in sweat from the 100+ degree, high humidity weather that is the norm here for the summer months. Now, however, the shower's lack of pressure is a problem, to the point where we are tempted to avoid bathing altogether because of the chill factor. So today, after talking with several workmen and hunting about in a couple of hardware stores, we are having a pump installed in our bathroom that will pressurize the water in the shower, both hot and cold.
Yes, friends, getting a pump installed is the highlight of my week. We do lead an exciting life over here in Maputo. :)
In other almost-as-exciting news, we also got it together and finally bought decent office chairs for our desks. My back is quite grateful, and the entire room looks much more professional without a pair of ratty brown kitchen chairs as our main seating options.
This week we also had our building guards make a new straw-knotted bed for the boys, as they'd outgrown the one we had made when they were still kittens. Our guards are very entrepreneurial, and certainly the exception to the rule of the "work-means-sitting-on-a-chair-and-sleeping" security guards throughout the rest of the city. Our guys - there are about 6 of them that constantly hang out at the entrance to our building, though only 2 are actually employed here - make baskets and other objects by knotting palm fronds together. It keeps them occupied, awake, and provides the possibility of earning a little cash on the side. The've made several objects for us, including drawers for our office shelves, hotplates for the kitchen, baskets and - the crowning glory of straw creations - a giant cat carrier with a lid and handles.
Now that I think about it, our flat went through a giant leap forward this week in terms of improvements. In addition to all the items mentioned above, we also hung a tapestry to cover the ugly electric meter in the hallway, bought 2 new teflon pans for the kitchen, bought a ladder so we can finally paint our bedroom wall a lovely coffee-with-milk color, installed a second cat door, and partially enclosed our big verandah with chicken wire so that the cats can reign over that area as well.
Ah, the excitement. (seriously, it is really, really exciting for us!)
I suppose that's a pretty obvious question to answer, but every morning nonetheless I agonize over how hard it is to haul myself out from under the covers.
Our cold spell continues in Maputo. I am wearing slippers in the house and an overcoat over a turtleneck when we go out. Even Rico is cold, wearing sweats and complaining about how the boys steal the covers from him in the middle of the night. Rico is one of these people who is perpetually overheating, so for him to be chilly you know it's bad.
The cold weather has spurred us to make a big home improvement, one that we've been putting off since we moved here 1.5 years ago. Currently our shower is a miserable little dribble, especially if you want hot water. For most of the year, we use only the cold tap and make do, as it's refreshing to come out of the shower with goosebumps before being soaked in sweat from the 100+ degree, high humidity weather that is the norm here for the summer months. Now, however, the shower's lack of pressure is a problem, to the point where we are tempted to avoid bathing altogether because of the chill factor. So today, after talking with several workmen and hunting about in a couple of hardware stores, we are having a pump installed in our bathroom that will pressurize the water in the shower, both hot and cold.
Yes, friends, getting a pump installed is the highlight of my week. We do lead an exciting life over here in Maputo. :)
In other almost-as-exciting news, we also got it together and finally bought decent office chairs for our desks. My back is quite grateful, and the entire room looks much more professional without a pair of ratty brown kitchen chairs as our main seating options.
This week we also had our building guards make a new straw-knotted bed for the boys, as they'd outgrown the one we had made when they were still kittens. Our guards are very entrepreneurial, and certainly the exception to the rule of the "work-means-sitting-on-a-chair-and-sleeping" security guards throughout the rest of the city. Our guys - there are about 6 of them that constantly hang out at the entrance to our building, though only 2 are actually employed here - make baskets and other objects by knotting palm fronds together. It keeps them occupied, awake, and provides the possibility of earning a little cash on the side. The've made several objects for us, including drawers for our office shelves, hotplates for the kitchen, baskets and - the crowning glory of straw creations - a giant cat carrier with a lid and handles.
Now that I think about it, our flat went through a giant leap forward this week in terms of improvements. In addition to all the items mentioned above, we also hung a tapestry to cover the ugly electric meter in the hallway, bought 2 new teflon pans for the kitchen, bought a ladder so we can finally paint our bedroom wall a lovely coffee-with-milk color, installed a second cat door, and partially enclosed our big verandah with chicken wire so that the cats can reign over that area as well.
Ah, the excitement. (seriously, it is really, really exciting for us!)
Patriot Day
Happy 4th of July to those of you that celebrate the holiday, and Hapy Wednesday to the rest of you.
I am increasingly in the lot of people that don't celebrate the US independence day. Not because I'm making a show of being dissatisfied with my country's foreign policy or healthcare system or general treatment of immigrants; no, I just find it ridiculously hard to have holiday spirit while living abroad (and, increasingly, even when I am back in the US).
4th of July for me is only properly celebrated at my dad's house, with a dusty old American flag flapping from the porch, chicken on the grill and Willie Nelson on the stereo. Or perhaps 4th of July could be, on an off year, celebrated with my mom and her husband camping in the backwoods of California.
Either way, 4th of July for me is not about getting together with a random group of people, whose only connection is that they are either born in the US or married to an American, to sing some patriotic songs and perhaps light some half-assed fireworks. Holidays are some of the occasions that most remind me of what an anti-social streak I can have.
To be fair, it's not at all discrimination against 4th of July; I am reluctant to celebrate any holiday that is not exactly as I remember it from my childhood. I can only really "feel" Christmas, for example, if it is a cold New Mexico night and we are touring luminaria displays and waiting to see how long it will take before the cat tries to climb the tree. If I am out of that environment, the next best thing is to be anywhere with my mom, as long as she can cook. Her Christmas feasts are capable of bringing about holiday spirit in me even in my most anti-celebratory bouts. If I can't have NM Christmas or my mom's food, I'd almost rather not bother. I've tried to do the whole tropical winter holiday thing and it doesn't work at all. I don't feel Christmas cheer, I just feel like it's another party and yes, I'd like a third glass of wine.
Interestingly, Rico is also not really into holidays. Our Christmas last year consisted of eating takeaway steak and potatoes from Spur in a dingy hotel room in Bloemfontein, South Africa. The highlight of the evening, aside from the lovely view of a nuclear power plant out the window, was watching some second-rate action movie on SABC. Neither of us missed a proper holiday celebration in the least.
So, while I am aware of some Embassy-sponsored party taking place tonight to commemorate our Independence Day, my form of celebration will consist of leftover chicken curry, lots of tea to ward off the chilly weather, and a conference call with the IFC to discuss the famous banana project. I'll leave the real celebrating to the rest of you holiday-embracing Americans out there.
I am increasingly in the lot of people that don't celebrate the US independence day. Not because I'm making a show of being dissatisfied with my country's foreign policy or healthcare system or general treatment of immigrants; no, I just find it ridiculously hard to have holiday spirit while living abroad (and, increasingly, even when I am back in the US).
4th of July for me is only properly celebrated at my dad's house, with a dusty old American flag flapping from the porch, chicken on the grill and Willie Nelson on the stereo. Or perhaps 4th of July could be, on an off year, celebrated with my mom and her husband camping in the backwoods of California.
Either way, 4th of July for me is not about getting together with a random group of people, whose only connection is that they are either born in the US or married to an American, to sing some patriotic songs and perhaps light some half-assed fireworks. Holidays are some of the occasions that most remind me of what an anti-social streak I can have.
To be fair, it's not at all discrimination against 4th of July; I am reluctant to celebrate any holiday that is not exactly as I remember it from my childhood. I can only really "feel" Christmas, for example, if it is a cold New Mexico night and we are touring luminaria displays and waiting to see how long it will take before the cat tries to climb the tree. If I am out of that environment, the next best thing is to be anywhere with my mom, as long as she can cook. Her Christmas feasts are capable of bringing about holiday spirit in me even in my most anti-celebratory bouts. If I can't have NM Christmas or my mom's food, I'd almost rather not bother. I've tried to do the whole tropical winter holiday thing and it doesn't work at all. I don't feel Christmas cheer, I just feel like it's another party and yes, I'd like a third glass of wine.
Interestingly, Rico is also not really into holidays. Our Christmas last year consisted of eating takeaway steak and potatoes from Spur in a dingy hotel room in Bloemfontein, South Africa. The highlight of the evening, aside from the lovely view of a nuclear power plant out the window, was watching some second-rate action movie on SABC. Neither of us missed a proper holiday celebration in the least.
So, while I am aware of some Embassy-sponsored party taking place tonight to commemorate our Independence Day, my form of celebration will consist of leftover chicken curry, lots of tea to ward off the chilly weather, and a conference call with the IFC to discuss the famous banana project. I'll leave the real celebrating to the rest of you holiday-embracing Americans out there.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Another One Bites the Dust
The night I flew into Rio 2 weeks ago, I was supposed to go to the Lauryn Hill concert with some of my girlfriends. The show was sold out, but the plan was to get box tickets - expensive, but if we could get 3 or 4 girls in a box, it would be pretty reasonable. Unfortunately (or fortunately...), Rafa found out that the box ticket price was per person, not for the space. So, not wanting to stand out in the cold and haggle with scalpers, we all decided not to go to the concert.
I was disappointed, as Lauryn Hill has been one of my favorite artists since her time with The Fugees. I especially liked her solo work.
The next day, I found out from some acquaintances that did go to the show that it was horrible. Lauryn started nearly 2 hours late, then played for barely 90 minutes. She didn't include barely any of her hits in the repertoire, and her voice was hoarse and off-key. The audience in Rio was so disappointed by her performance that they booed and cat-called the entire time.
Also, I heard that in the days leading up to the concert, Lauryn accepted to be interviewed by Brasilian press, but only if the interviewer was Black. In the interview, which was done as per her request, it came out that before leaving the US Lauryn asked her agent for a load of cash, as she didn't think they used credit cards in Brasil.
Sigh. I have issues with both of these things, but am not in the mood to get into it.
So, in surfing the internet today, I came across this article. Seems Ms. Hill's antics were not confined to her show in Rio...
Meh. I respect her desire to be non-mainstream and do things on her own terms, but I really feel like we've lost exposure to a great artist in the process...
I was disappointed, as Lauryn Hill has been one of my favorite artists since her time with The Fugees. I especially liked her solo work.
The next day, I found out from some acquaintances that did go to the show that it was horrible. Lauryn started nearly 2 hours late, then played for barely 90 minutes. She didn't include barely any of her hits in the repertoire, and her voice was hoarse and off-key. The audience in Rio was so disappointed by her performance that they booed and cat-called the entire time.
Also, I heard that in the days leading up to the concert, Lauryn accepted to be interviewed by Brasilian press, but only if the interviewer was Black. In the interview, which was done as per her request, it came out that before leaving the US Lauryn asked her agent for a load of cash, as she didn't think they used credit cards in Brasil.
Sigh. I have issues with both of these things, but am not in the mood to get into it.
So, in surfing the internet today, I came across this article. Seems Ms. Hill's antics were not confined to her show in Rio...
Meh. I respect her desire to be non-mainstream and do things on her own terms, but I really feel like we've lost exposure to a great artist in the process...
Winter, Courtesy of the Southern Hemisphere
I sacrificed 2 of the 5 cans of Hatch green chile I brought back from New Mexico last night and made a delicious green chile stew. It was just the right amount of spicy, perfect for the chilly weather we've been graced with in Maputo since I've been back. I even made 2 dozen flour tortillas to go along with the meal, with help from S. and Rico in the kitchen.
So when I say it's been cold in Maputo, let me clarify. It probably gets up to the mid-70's during the day, and likely not below 50 at night. Basically it's very pleasant weather, but since 1) I am super sensitive to the cold to start with; 2) none of the houses/buildings here are equipped with heating; and 3) my blood has thinned after years of tropical living, I find it actually quite cold and have to bundle up. I wear several layers and a sweater in the house, and put on my sheepskin slippers to keep my feet warm.
Unfortunately for me, but probably to the delight of both Rico and the cats, Pria is obsessed with my slippers and constantly attacks the fuzzy part of the booties as if they were some fleeting animal needing to be pounced upon. I think my slippers must still smell "wild", even after all these years being stuffed in the back of a closet, because Pria really goes nuts over the sheepskin. When they're off my feet it's no big deal, just marginally annoying because the stiff sole slaps against the floor every time Pria shakes her head, slipper clenched between her teeth, in an attempt to "kill" her prey. The big problem is when Pria tries to do this same thing when the slippers are on my feet. I spend my evenings yelling, "Pria! Pára. Pára!" mostly in vain, while flailing my ankles about trying to avoid the cat's mad attack.
For now, the annoyance of the cat attacking my feet is preferable to having cold toes, but if this weather keeps up for much longer I may have to find a new solution...
So when I say it's been cold in Maputo, let me clarify. It probably gets up to the mid-70's during the day, and likely not below 50 at night. Basically it's very pleasant weather, but since 1) I am super sensitive to the cold to start with; 2) none of the houses/buildings here are equipped with heating; and 3) my blood has thinned after years of tropical living, I find it actually quite cold and have to bundle up. I wear several layers and a sweater in the house, and put on my sheepskin slippers to keep my feet warm.
Unfortunately for me, but probably to the delight of both Rico and the cats, Pria is obsessed with my slippers and constantly attacks the fuzzy part of the booties as if they were some fleeting animal needing to be pounced upon. I think my slippers must still smell "wild", even after all these years being stuffed in the back of a closet, because Pria really goes nuts over the sheepskin. When they're off my feet it's no big deal, just marginally annoying because the stiff sole slaps against the floor every time Pria shakes her head, slipper clenched between her teeth, in an attempt to "kill" her prey. The big problem is when Pria tries to do this same thing when the slippers are on my feet. I spend my evenings yelling, "Pria! Pára. Pára!" mostly in vain, while flailing my ankles about trying to avoid the cat's mad attack.
For now, the annoyance of the cat attacking my feet is preferable to having cold toes, but if this weather keeps up for much longer I may have to find a new solution...
Thursday, June 28, 2007
A and K's Alternate Career Meme
One day last month, while riding BART back to the suburbs with my mom, we invented a game to pass the time. It dawned on me that it is the perfect meme - fun, short and personal.
Here is how to play:
If you had the opportunity to do a 1-year internship in a company or field completely unrelated to your current career or specialty, what would be your top 5 choices?
Here are mine:
1. Geologist
2. Host of a radio show on world music
3. Professional dancer
4. Work in logistics, like with DHL
5. Manager of a commercial agriculture project
We played this game last night over dinner. Rico and our friend/houseguest S. had interesting lists that overlapped somewhat with mine and my mom's original choices. Rico, my mom and I all share the desire to work with some type of highly complex logistics operation. S. and my mom both wanted to work at a fashion house.
What are your top 5 alternate career internship choices?
Here is how to play:
If you had the opportunity to do a 1-year internship in a company or field completely unrelated to your current career or specialty, what would be your top 5 choices?
Here are mine:
1. Geologist
2. Host of a radio show on world music
3. Professional dancer
4. Work in logistics, like with DHL
5. Manager of a commercial agriculture project
We played this game last night over dinner. Rico and our friend/houseguest S. had interesting lists that overlapped somewhat with mine and my mom's original choices. Rico, my mom and I all share the desire to work with some type of highly complex logistics operation. S. and my mom both wanted to work at a fashion house.
What are your top 5 alternate career internship choices?
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sweet Home
It's good to be home. I've said that several times, in distinct geographic locations, over the course of the last 2 months. But it's really good to be home in Maputo, in the home that Rico and I are creating for ourselves, with our boys and our work and our friends.
I had a pleasant, uneventful trip over here from Brasil. I spent $70 and went to the transit hotel for my 7 hour layover in Joburg and slept and had a shower. The result of my splurge was that I arrived in Moz rested and ready for a semi-night out with friends at our favorite Lebanese restaurant.
Today Rico and I tidied up our house and welcomed our latest houseguest, S., a girl I met several years ago in Rio who is a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. She is very cool and is here for 1.5 months working on a public health project.
Speaking of work, we did manage to finish the banana project and are set to have a conference call about the business plan this week. I have also been asked to work on a grant proposal for a local NGO that supports artisans and the marketing Mozambican crafts in the international market. I worked with them before on a series of workshops to develop a strategic plan for the organization. Apparently they were pleased with the results, as they have approached me to work with them again.
So, in short, life seems to be back to normal. The boys are still naughty and seem to have doubled in size while I was away. Rico is well, busy with wrapping up an agricultural project. Maputo is still the same, save for cooler weather (thank God) and an unfortunate bout of carjackings (good thing we don't own a vehicle).
Hope you all are doing well.
I had a pleasant, uneventful trip over here from Brasil. I spent $70 and went to the transit hotel for my 7 hour layover in Joburg and slept and had a shower. The result of my splurge was that I arrived in Moz rested and ready for a semi-night out with friends at our favorite Lebanese restaurant.
Today Rico and I tidied up our house and welcomed our latest houseguest, S., a girl I met several years ago in Rio who is a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. She is very cool and is here for 1.5 months working on a public health project.
Speaking of work, we did manage to finish the banana project and are set to have a conference call about the business plan this week. I have also been asked to work on a grant proposal for a local NGO that supports artisans and the marketing Mozambican crafts in the international market. I worked with them before on a series of workshops to develop a strategic plan for the organization. Apparently they were pleased with the results, as they have approached me to work with them again.
So, in short, life seems to be back to normal. The boys are still naughty and seem to have doubled in size while I was away. Rico is well, busy with wrapping up an agricultural project. Maputo is still the same, save for cooler weather (thank God) and an unfortunate bout of carjackings (good thing we don't own a vehicle).
Hope you all are doing well.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
My Collection of Suits
I´m back in Rio. It´s amazing to me, what with all the moaning I do about feeling split between my various "homes" and the loneliness that ensues, how easily I can adapt to being in said homes. It´s like there is a suit I slip on as I get off the plane in whatever city is the temporary recipient of my roots. There is a particular language, set of mannerisms, way of dressing, way of feeling and interacting with others that is unique to each place; the switch between one home and another, and how this shapes who I am for a time, is almost seamless. Almost.
One day I am in Maputo, speaking a modified Portuguese that has come to be second-nature. My speech includes new words, colloquialisms of who knows what origin. I say maninge when I mean "a lot" and I automatically omit gerunds from my vocabulary, preferring instead the Portuguese-from-Portugal habit of saying everything in the infinitive. "Estou a chegar," my taxi driver Zeca is always saying. Literally, "I am to be arriving."
In Maputo, when I go to shake somebody´s hand, I have now acquired the custom of placing my left hand on my right elbow. This is the local way, used across Southern Africa. It shows respect. Supposedly it comes from the days when there was still such conflict among tribes that using both hands to greet someone was a way of proving that you didn´t have a weapon clasped in your left hand, hidden away in a fold of clothing. I learned to shake hands like this without really thinking about the process; I simply mirrored what I saw Dona Lídia do, what I saw our building guards to with each other, how I saw old friends greet one another at the beach. I mirrored what I saw, seemingly one of the best strategies for becoming culturally fluent in a new land.
One day we were to give a big presentation at the IFC (International Finance Corporation) for a client we´d been working with for the last 3 months. The client was Portuguese, but had lived in Mozambique for 20 years. He owned a transport company, and we had prepared an expansion plan for his fleet of Marco Polo Volare busses. When greeting the client before our presentation, I shook hands with him in the local manner, left hand softly resting on my right elbow. He immediately noticed and laughed, making some comment about how I´d really become Mozambican. Something about the way he said it made me feel very stupid, as if I´d subtly insulted him by shaking hands that way. It also made me realize that I´d never shake hands with someone in that manner if I were in a meeting in the US or in Brazil. Without getting into a socio-cultural analysis of why the man was slightly put off by my gesture, it made me realize that my Mozambican suit was fully constructed and being put to good use.
A transformation happens when I step onto the South African Airways flight to go from Maputo to Rio. I am careful in what I wear on the plane, not wanting to be singled out as a tourist when arriving in Brasil. I want to do everything possible to lessen my chances of being mugged, ripped off by the taxi driver, or having anyone think of me as less than 100% local. I never wear running shoes on the plane, the favored footwear of many a traveling American. They are a dead giveaway. I am careful to ensure that my shoes are shined, that my nails are manicured, that my belt matches my purse, which obviously must also match my clean shoes. I brush up on my slang Brazilian Portuguese in my head while in the air, trying to hear exactly what the proper carioca accent should sound like for each word. I make sure to expunge from my vocabulary any typically Mozambican phrases or intonations, lest I be identified as a foreigner.
Perhaps the biggest component of my Brazilian suit, aside from the fashionable exterior look and the modified accent, is a heavy dose of paranoia. As soon as I step on that plane, my hand is constantly on my purse. I automatically divvy up my money into separate bundles, never wanting to put all my cash in the same pocket or backpack. I make sure I always have a spare $50 in a hidden place - perhaps a sock - so that if I do get assaulted I´ll at least have money to get a cab or make an emergency phone call after the fact.
When I get off the plane in Rio, it´s as if I never left. I still know all the streets by heart. I still am able to ride the bus without getting too horribly lost. I know the correct change to give the newspaper salesman, and I am still recognized in the bakery in Santa Teresa. I smile at the workman next door, then pleasantly engage in a bargaining session with him as he tells me about the fabulous crystal chandelier he´s acquired from an estate sale and wants me to buy. I go the beach and don´t bring a beach towel, a backpack or a book. I can even drink water straight from the tap without getting the least bit of an upset stomach, that´s how smooth my Brazil suit is.
Then I go to the US. In some ways being in the US, in particular Albuquerque, will always feel more like home than anywhere else. Rightfully so, that´s where I spent uninterrupted the first 15 years of my life. In other ways, however, the US is the place where I have the hardest time putting on the cultural suit. Or rather, pulling it out of the closet, dusting it off, checking for signs of mold and then crossing my fingers to see if I can still get it zipped.
Some things are easy to slip back into. Ordering red or green, beef or bean when I get enchiladas at Pete´s, the local restaurant that is just about the only surviving, much less the only thriving part of Belen, New Mexico. It is natural to drive a car again. I feel comfortable as ever shopping for a shower curtain and a garlic press in Target´s home department. In California parts of life as a temporary resident are quite easy to acquire, too. I take the BART all over the Bay Area. I walk through the seediest parts of the Mission as if I lived in the second story of the yellow Victorian on the corner and walked that stretch of sidewalk, past homeless people and hookers and taquerias, every single day.
Other things aren´t so seamless. I find it increasingly hard to relate to many of the people I used to be close to. I feel overwhelmed by what constitutes normal day-to-day life for a lot of Americans. I don´t care about Paris Hilton going to jail or the great prices in the new carbon-copy-suburban-hell housing develoment that was just inaugurated east of the highway. I am tempted to judge, then realize that I´m in no position to be up on a high horse, that living in a country where I am surrounded by poverty doesn´t make me any saint, doesn´t give me any divine perspective or prerrogative that other, ordinary Americans don´t have. Yes, I have traveled. Yes, I have chosen a path less frequently trod. But I am no better than my geographically challenged fellow citizen, and I am certainly not free of the very vices I so often criticize in my writings. This is often a fact I must remind myself of multiple times per day. My tendency for arrogance does not make me happy.
Sometimes in the seemingly endless slip-on / slip-off of my cultural suits I forget to stop and consider what - or rather, who - is actually holding up the figurative fabric. Occasionally I get a glimpse at how sensitive I am about my own cultural identity, about belonging to a country that I often don´t feel is mine, about living in countries to which I will never truly belong, no matter how carefully I stitch my suit and patch any holes.
I had such a moment while in Locke, California last month with my mom and her husband. We were exploring the old downtown of this historic Chinese settlement along the Sacramento River and went into an art gallery that was offering a wine tasting. The woman behind the counter, trying to make some smalltalk, asked where we were all from. My mom introduced herself and her husband as being from Walnut Creek, then said, gesturing to me, "and she is from Mozambique." Would you believe I freaked out and corrected my mom on the spot, saying, "I´m not from Mozambique, I just live there." Not because I objected in the least to being associated with citizens of Mozambique, but because I didn´t want to seem like I was posing as something I´m not. The point is, I´m hypersensitive about having an identity that consists wholly of hiding my deep down, red-white-and-blue born American roots and trying to pass as someone else.
The line between being true to my international experiences and relying too much on them for an identity is surprisingly fine. My ex-boyfriend, who I don´t reference often here because we had some major problems and I don´t want to air dirty laundry on the internet, made me aware of how much I can depend on the international component of my life to define myself as a person. He made me aware of this in a not-so-nice manner, inferring that I relied on my global experiences to feel special, and that if you took away my travel record and my language abilities, he suspected that my reaction would be to wither up and die.
As can be imagined, I developed somewhat of a complex after the series of fights revolving around how I present myself, and became pretty socially inept at parties and other instances of smalltalk for some time afterwards. I´d constantly think "Do I say I studied in Brazil? Or do I omit it? Do I say I´ve been to Tahiti? Or do I let the converation about Polynesian islands pass without a word?" The simple question "So, what do you do?" became the one I´d dread the most, a close second being "So where are you from?" For a while there, I wished desperately that I had been born and raised in Minneapolis and had worked in insurance my entire life just to avoid the awful, conflicted feelings these questions brought up for me.
My international experiences are a part of me, and I used to share these things with pleasure and without over-analyzing before meeting my ex-boyfriend. I´ve partially recovered the ability to do so now, just with one foot perpetually behind, always afraid that I´m trotting out the exotic parts of my life to impress, to get a reaction, to feel special, to remind myself that I´m not like the rest of them.
It´s an unbelievable relief that I´m about to marry a Brazilian who doesn´t care one way or another if I say I´m from the US or if, to avoid having the same conversation about how I learned Portuguese for the 1,000th time, I make a false claim and say I´m from Rio. To Ricardo, it´s not a big deal. He doesn´t see me as a poser or someone with serious identity issues. He just sees Ali, no matter what country we are in or what language we are speaking. There is something incredibly heartening to see that Rico has identified essential, unwavering parts of my personality that don´t change with the suit. I supposed I know they are there, too, the fundamental attributes that make me who I am; they just become hard to see sometimes what with all the overlying layers.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Penultimate Day
Once again I sit here, cup of tea in hand, contemplating the massive task of packing suitcases that awaits me. I've set aside the entire day for packing, with the ultimate goal of being able to take the largest amount of things with me, all without exceeding the 50-pounds-per-bag limit (and therefore getting into sticky territory, namely excess baggage fees and not being able to readily lift and carry both suitcases by myself).
When I was younger, I used to love packing my bags in anticipation for a trip. I also used to love flying. It was all such an adventure.
Now I dread both packing and flying. Now regular and essential parts of my lifestyle, they are no longer signs of an adventure ahead.
I still hate unpacking. Always have, likely always will.
As I finish my cup of tea, select a few ripe apricots to have for breakfast, and look at my stuff strewn all about this house, I wonder - once again - where did the time go. I've been away from Mozambique for 2 months already. How did this happen? It seems it was just yesterday I was having a severe allergy attack after Dona Lidia pitched up at our door nearly collapsing with malaria. Rico took her to the clinic, I stayed home and finished packing and made chocolate-orange cake and chicken soup to pass the time.
Before I know it I'll be back in Maputo, with Rico and our sweet boys, starting the countdown for his extended trip to Rio in July. Seriously, the pack-unpack-hello-goodbye cycle never ends.
When I was younger, I used to love packing my bags in anticipation for a trip. I also used to love flying. It was all such an adventure.
Now I dread both packing and flying. Now regular and essential parts of my lifestyle, they are no longer signs of an adventure ahead.
I still hate unpacking. Always have, likely always will.
As I finish my cup of tea, select a few ripe apricots to have for breakfast, and look at my stuff strewn all about this house, I wonder - once again - where did the time go. I've been away from Mozambique for 2 months already. How did this happen? It seems it was just yesterday I was having a severe allergy attack after Dona Lidia pitched up at our door nearly collapsing with malaria. Rico took her to the clinic, I stayed home and finished packing and made chocolate-orange cake and chicken soup to pass the time.
Before I know it I'll be back in Maputo, with Rico and our sweet boys, starting the countdown for his extended trip to Rio in July. Seriously, the pack-unpack-hello-goodbye cycle never ends.
Monday, June 11, 2007
My 100 Things
Usually this is done on some significant blogging anniversary, like your 100th post. Since I've done very little to commemorate my blog milestones, both in terms of time and number of posts, I figure I've got the right to pull this out right now, just because I feel like it.
1. The name most people call me is actually Ali (minus the la Loca), a nickname for my middle name, Alexandra.
2. I am never called by my first name, unless by doctors or the government.
3. I have a famous relative in history. He is my great-great-great uncle on my father's side of the family, and is known for killing Alexander Hamilton (the man on the US $10 bill) in a duel.
4. I lived on a quasi-farm in New Mexico until I was 5 years old. We had several acres of irrigated land, horses, geese...the works.
5. I am an only child.
6. I am set to marry an only child.
7. I was always very, very good in school.
8. I was also very lazy about studying for tests, almost always putting it off until the night before, or sometimes even waking up the morning of the exam and cramming.
9. Nonetheless, I usually got the highest grade in my class.
10. This has made me feel like a fraud for much of my life.
11. To be fair, I had a really hard time with physics and finance. These were the only classes I remember having to bust my butt stuyding for. Also, they were the only times I was satisfied with a B grade.
12. My undergraduate degree is a double major in Latin Amercian Studies and Portuguese. It was a very easy degree for me to get, but then I realized that I didn't want to work in academia or be a language specialist, and knew I had to get another degree to be employable in other areas.
13. I got an MBA with a concentration in marketing.
14. I hated most of the classes I took in business school, and never thought I wanted to work in business until moving to Mozambique.
15. Ironically, I now do almost exactly the same thing as my mom, who was always my symbol of the consummate business woman.
16. I used to direct an HIV Prevention Program at an NGO in Austin, Texas.
17. I was the only white girl in the program.
18. That was one of the most challenging periods in my life, but it prepared me for living and working in Mozambique.
19. I used to be totally pro-NGO.
20. Now I am very, very cynical.
21. When I was 15, I moved to Brazil to do a year-long student exchange.
22. I lived with a Japanese-Brazilian family.
23. I learned how to speak fluent Portuguese - somehow with no trace of an American accent!
24. As a result, people that hear me speak Portuguese assume that I am Brazilian.
25. I always have the same conversation when I meet people for the first time in Brazil. "What do you mean you're American?" "Well, I used to live in Brazil..."
26. This has, over the years, given me somewhat of an identity complex.
27. I used to be very ashamed of being American.
28. To the point where I'd ask my mom to speak Italian with me in public instead of English when we were traveling in other countries.
29. Now I am actually pretty proud to be American, despite all that is happening with our foreign policy.
30. I had such a good experience in Brazil when I was 15 that I decided to go back for another exchange when I was in business school.
31. I lived in Rio de Janeiro for a year and a half, and attended classes at IBMEC, one of the highest-ranked, shi-shi-est schools in the country.
32. Most of my classmates were the children of Brazil's wealthiest families. They wore all designer clothes and many drove Porsches or had drivers take them to school.
33. I felt like a fish out of water.
34. At that school, I quickly became friends with the few "normal" kids.
35. One of them, Ricardo, I dated for a while toward the end of my stay.
36. We totally lost touch when I moved back to the US, and I never thought I'd see him again.
37. Through a mutual friend, Ricardo and I ended up working and living together in Mozambique.
38. Since my first day in the country, we've been a couple.
39. Technically I was dating my boss.
40. Now we are engaged and will be married in July next year.
41. I'd definitely like to have kids someday.
42. Just not yet. For a good several years.
43. I've never been one of those girls who is nuts over babies and little kids.
44. In fact, I never babysat the entire time I was growing up.
45. The first time I held an infant was in 2005, when my friend had a baby in Mozambique.
46. It scared me half to death.
47. I feel more maternal with kittens than I do with little babies.
48. I love cats. My life just isn't the same without them.
49. I actually don't think it would be a terrible fate to end up as "that crazy cat lady".
50. I like some dogs, but absolutely cannot stand the way they smell. Especially if they are wet.
51. I am terrified of snakes.
52. When I was in high school, we found a 6-foot diamondback rattlesnake in our yard in Albuquerque. I freaked out, my mom called animal control, and I can to this day remember the exact rattling sound of the snake as it was carried up our outside steps. They took it to the reservation north of our house and let it go.
53. I love to go camping, but the whole snake thing has me perpetually on-guard in the wilderness.
54. I'd much rather "use the woods" than a filthy public toilet.
55. I love the smell of Ponderosa Pines. If you smell in the cracks of the bark, it is just like vanilla extract.
56. I don't like the smell of most perfumes, especially powdery florals.
57. I love to take road trips.
58. I'm not afraid of flying, but have to repeat the same prayer 3 times before the plane takes off, otherwise I fear something bad might happen. I say, "Dear God, please watch over me, everyone that loves me, and everyone that I love. Let us arrive safely." Then I mentally do the sign of the cross 9 times, though I'm not Catholic.
59. I am shockingly morbid in my thoughts. I have to say "stop it!" out loud sometimes to get the images of me and my loved ones meeting terrible fates out of my head.
60. I think this happens because I love my life and the people in it so much, and I feel like such a lucky person, I just keep waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
61. My favorite number is 13. When I am waiting for things to cook, I will often count in sets of 13 to determine when I should turn off the burner or stop stirring something.
62. I realize that I have some symptoms of OCD, but I don't believe I suffer from the disorder.
63. I love the smell of coffee, but don't drink it. Not because I am a martyr, coffee makes me feel sick to my stomach.
64. I start every morning with a cup of tea. My favorites are black tea with milk, chai and peppermint.
65. I am not crazy about chocolate. I'll eat it, but much prefer toffee or vanilla when it comes to desserts.
66. I hate mayonnaise. I am also very picky about eggs. I despise egg smell or runny eggs.
67. Other than that, there aren't many foods I don't like.
68. Oh, except organ meats. And licorice. And canned meat. I forgot about those.
69. If I eat too much sugar and white flour, I become depressed.
70. Partly because it reminds me of my eating disorder days, but also because I think these foods have a genuine chemical effect on my body and brain.
71. Dancing is one thing that will almost always cheer me up.
72. I especially like salsa and carnaval-type Brazilian music for dancing.
73. I took ballet, tap, gymnastics and rhythmic gymnastics for many years as a child.
74. Then there was a large gap where I felt like an immense klutz and wouldn't dance at all. I'm not really sure what happened, but now I love dancing.
75. I am a certified Nia teacher, but don't think I want to actually teach classes.
76. I like to be the student when it comes to dance.
77. I also like to show off, and that's not really good for being a teacher.
78. Speaking of showing off, I used to be incredibly talented at playing the piano.
79. I played for 15 years, starting when I was 3 years old.
80. I won many state championships, placed 2nd and 3rd in regional competitions, and was my piano teacher's star pupil.
81. I considered studying music in college, but wisely decided against it because what I really loved was the performing aspect, not the music for itself.
82. My taste in music is quite ecclectic. My favorite artists are Paul Simon, O Rappa, Julieta Venegas, Lenine, Jimi Hendrix, and Freshlyground.
83. I am good at music, dancing and languages but TERRIBLE at sports.
84. In Myers-Briggs types, I am an ENTP.
85. I am a loner and often don't enjoy being around people, despite the fact that my typology says I am an extrovert.
86. I am very good at public speaking and presentations. Having to speak in front of 200 people does not bother me one bit.
87. I am terrified of having any medical procedure done.
88. I am so scared I usually cry at the doctor's office, and have had full-on crises at the dermatologist's and the eye doctor's, for procedures that would not really bother most people.
89. My mom and I own a pink house in Rio that I am in love with, though it causes me a lot of stress sometimes. I still think I'll live there at some point.
90. I saved the life of the woman that takes care of our casa rosa. It wasn't a dramatic physical feat, but an intervention at a critical time in her mental and physical health.
91. I have a lot of dark spots in my past.
92. Some of them I have totally worked out, others still have an effect on me.
93. The biggest ones are not on this list because, while they have shaped me, I refuse to let them define me.
94. I don't like animated films or cartoons, except The Simpsons.
95. I am very vain and spend a shocking amount of time looking at myself in the mirror.
96. Before I moved to Mozambique, I owned about 80 pairs of shoes.
97. My closet is perfectly color-coordinated, and organized by season within each color family.
98. I hate when people pick at their cuticles or scabs, but I often do these things myself with great pleasure.
99. I can't stand when someone leaves the car's windshield wipers on once it's stopped raining, even if for 30 seconds.
100. I spend way too much time on the computer.
1. The name most people call me is actually Ali (minus the la Loca), a nickname for my middle name, Alexandra.
2. I am never called by my first name, unless by doctors or the government.
3. I have a famous relative in history. He is my great-great-great uncle on my father's side of the family, and is known for killing Alexander Hamilton (the man on the US $10 bill) in a duel.
4. I lived on a quasi-farm in New Mexico until I was 5 years old. We had several acres of irrigated land, horses, geese...the works.
5. I am an only child.
6. I am set to marry an only child.
7. I was always very, very good in school.
8. I was also very lazy about studying for tests, almost always putting it off until the night before, or sometimes even waking up the morning of the exam and cramming.
9. Nonetheless, I usually got the highest grade in my class.
10. This has made me feel like a fraud for much of my life.
11. To be fair, I had a really hard time with physics and finance. These were the only classes I remember having to bust my butt stuyding for. Also, they were the only times I was satisfied with a B grade.
12. My undergraduate degree is a double major in Latin Amercian Studies and Portuguese. It was a very easy degree for me to get, but then I realized that I didn't want to work in academia or be a language specialist, and knew I had to get another degree to be employable in other areas.
13. I got an MBA with a concentration in marketing.
14. I hated most of the classes I took in business school, and never thought I wanted to work in business until moving to Mozambique.
15. Ironically, I now do almost exactly the same thing as my mom, who was always my symbol of the consummate business woman.
16. I used to direct an HIV Prevention Program at an NGO in Austin, Texas.
17. I was the only white girl in the program.
18. That was one of the most challenging periods in my life, but it prepared me for living and working in Mozambique.
19. I used to be totally pro-NGO.
20. Now I am very, very cynical.
21. When I was 15, I moved to Brazil to do a year-long student exchange.
22. I lived with a Japanese-Brazilian family.
23. I learned how to speak fluent Portuguese - somehow with no trace of an American accent!
24. As a result, people that hear me speak Portuguese assume that I am Brazilian.
25. I always have the same conversation when I meet people for the first time in Brazil. "What do you mean you're American?" "Well, I used to live in Brazil..."
26. This has, over the years, given me somewhat of an identity complex.
27. I used to be very ashamed of being American.
28. To the point where I'd ask my mom to speak Italian with me in public instead of English when we were traveling in other countries.
29. Now I am actually pretty proud to be American, despite all that is happening with our foreign policy.
30. I had such a good experience in Brazil when I was 15 that I decided to go back for another exchange when I was in business school.
31. I lived in Rio de Janeiro for a year and a half, and attended classes at IBMEC, one of the highest-ranked, shi-shi-est schools in the country.
32. Most of my classmates were the children of Brazil's wealthiest families. They wore all designer clothes and many drove Porsches or had drivers take them to school.
33. I felt like a fish out of water.
34. At that school, I quickly became friends with the few "normal" kids.
35. One of them, Ricardo, I dated for a while toward the end of my stay.
36. We totally lost touch when I moved back to the US, and I never thought I'd see him again.
37. Through a mutual friend, Ricardo and I ended up working and living together in Mozambique.
38. Since my first day in the country, we've been a couple.
39. Technically I was dating my boss.
40. Now we are engaged and will be married in July next year.
41. I'd definitely like to have kids someday.
42. Just not yet. For a good several years.
43. I've never been one of those girls who is nuts over babies and little kids.
44. In fact, I never babysat the entire time I was growing up.
45. The first time I held an infant was in 2005, when my friend had a baby in Mozambique.
46. It scared me half to death.
47. I feel more maternal with kittens than I do with little babies.
48. I love cats. My life just isn't the same without them.
49. I actually don't think it would be a terrible fate to end up as "that crazy cat lady".
50. I like some dogs, but absolutely cannot stand the way they smell. Especially if they are wet.
51. I am terrified of snakes.
52. When I was in high school, we found a 6-foot diamondback rattlesnake in our yard in Albuquerque. I freaked out, my mom called animal control, and I can to this day remember the exact rattling sound of the snake as it was carried up our outside steps. They took it to the reservation north of our house and let it go.
53. I love to go camping, but the whole snake thing has me perpetually on-guard in the wilderness.
54. I'd much rather "use the woods" than a filthy public toilet.
55. I love the smell of Ponderosa Pines. If you smell in the cracks of the bark, it is just like vanilla extract.
56. I don't like the smell of most perfumes, especially powdery florals.
57. I love to take road trips.
58. I'm not afraid of flying, but have to repeat the same prayer 3 times before the plane takes off, otherwise I fear something bad might happen. I say, "Dear God, please watch over me, everyone that loves me, and everyone that I love. Let us arrive safely." Then I mentally do the sign of the cross 9 times, though I'm not Catholic.
59. I am shockingly morbid in my thoughts. I have to say "stop it!" out loud sometimes to get the images of me and my loved ones meeting terrible fates out of my head.
60. I think this happens because I love my life and the people in it so much, and I feel like such a lucky person, I just keep waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
61. My favorite number is 13. When I am waiting for things to cook, I will often count in sets of 13 to determine when I should turn off the burner or stop stirring something.
62. I realize that I have some symptoms of OCD, but I don't believe I suffer from the disorder.
63. I love the smell of coffee, but don't drink it. Not because I am a martyr, coffee makes me feel sick to my stomach.
64. I start every morning with a cup of tea. My favorites are black tea with milk, chai and peppermint.
65. I am not crazy about chocolate. I'll eat it, but much prefer toffee or vanilla when it comes to desserts.
66. I hate mayonnaise. I am also very picky about eggs. I despise egg smell or runny eggs.
67. Other than that, there aren't many foods I don't like.
68. Oh, except organ meats. And licorice. And canned meat. I forgot about those.
69. If I eat too much sugar and white flour, I become depressed.
70. Partly because it reminds me of my eating disorder days, but also because I think these foods have a genuine chemical effect on my body and brain.
71. Dancing is one thing that will almost always cheer me up.
72. I especially like salsa and carnaval-type Brazilian music for dancing.
73. I took ballet, tap, gymnastics and rhythmic gymnastics for many years as a child.
74. Then there was a large gap where I felt like an immense klutz and wouldn't dance at all. I'm not really sure what happened, but now I love dancing.
75. I am a certified Nia teacher, but don't think I want to actually teach classes.
76. I like to be the student when it comes to dance.
77. I also like to show off, and that's not really good for being a teacher.
78. Speaking of showing off, I used to be incredibly talented at playing the piano.
79. I played for 15 years, starting when I was 3 years old.
80. I won many state championships, placed 2nd and 3rd in regional competitions, and was my piano teacher's star pupil.
81. I considered studying music in college, but wisely decided against it because what I really loved was the performing aspect, not the music for itself.
82. My taste in music is quite ecclectic. My favorite artists are Paul Simon, O Rappa, Julieta Venegas, Lenine, Jimi Hendrix, and Freshlyground.
83. I am good at music, dancing and languages but TERRIBLE at sports.
84. In Myers-Briggs types, I am an ENTP.
85. I am a loner and often don't enjoy being around people, despite the fact that my typology says I am an extrovert.
86. I am very good at public speaking and presentations. Having to speak in front of 200 people does not bother me one bit.
87. I am terrified of having any medical procedure done.
88. I am so scared I usually cry at the doctor's office, and have had full-on crises at the dermatologist's and the eye doctor's, for procedures that would not really bother most people.
89. My mom and I own a pink house in Rio that I am in love with, though it causes me a lot of stress sometimes. I still think I'll live there at some point.
90. I saved the life of the woman that takes care of our casa rosa. It wasn't a dramatic physical feat, but an intervention at a critical time in her mental and physical health.
91. I have a lot of dark spots in my past.
92. Some of them I have totally worked out, others still have an effect on me.
93. The biggest ones are not on this list because, while they have shaped me, I refuse to let them define me.
94. I don't like animated films or cartoons, except The Simpsons.
95. I am very vain and spend a shocking amount of time looking at myself in the mirror.
96. Before I moved to Mozambique, I owned about 80 pairs of shoes.
97. My closet is perfectly color-coordinated, and organized by season within each color family.
98. I hate when people pick at their cuticles or scabs, but I often do these things myself with great pleasure.
99. I can't stand when someone leaves the car's windshield wipers on once it's stopped raining, even if for 30 seconds.
100. I spend way too much time on the computer.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Speaking of Great Books...
While on my way from Mozambique to Rio, and then from Rio to San Francisco, I had ample time to catch up on my reading. I love to read for pleasure, but do surprisingly little of it at home in Maputo, perhaps because so much of my time is spent reading for professional reasons. Not that work-reading can't be pleasurable - I am honestly interested in many of the market research and development-world news I keep up on - but it just takes time and effort, and at the end of the day I'd rather make something with my hands like jewelry or a great meal than sit buried with my nose in a book.
So with two 10-hour flights and an equal number of 12-hour layovers on this trip, I had plenty of opportunity to read some great books.
The first one I read was "A World of Strangers" by Nadine Gordimer, a South African author. Although this book was written in 1958, and the main character is a man who works in publishing, I found I related quite a bit to the story on a personal level.
This was the second book by Nadine Gordimer that I'd read. The first one was her critically acclaimed 2001 novel "The Pickup", which I enjoyed immensely once I'd managed to get used to her sometimes difficult style of writing.
I find she writes in a similar manner to the way I catch myself talking sometimes. I'll begin a sentence in the middle, then loop around to the part that actually makes sense, making my conversation partner pay particular attention to see what on earth I'm talking about. I think I tend to do this because I talk as I think a lot of the time, and don't bother to rearrange the language in my head to make it more digestible for a listener.
With a lot of Nadine Gordimer's writing, I found I had to speak sentences aloud to understand what her characters were trying to say. She also has a strange habit with comma use, putting commas in places you wouldn't expect according to proper grammar rules, but that make perfect sense when considering the natural rhythm of spoken word.
The other great book I read was "Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight" by Alexandra Fuller, a Zimbabwean author who spent her childhood in what was then Rhodesia. She wrote from a child's perspective what it was like to grow up the daughter of white farmers during that country's struggle for independence. It was, like "The Power of One" and "The Poisonwood Bible", a poignant but also very funny take on some of history's most difficult chapters.
I think I will pick up additional books by both Nadine Gordimer and Alexandra Fuller when I am in the Johannesburg airport on my layover at the end of the month. Since Ricardo will be spending some significant time in Rio again this year, I imagine I'll have more of an inclination to read in the quest to make time pass as fast as possible in his absence.
So with two 10-hour flights and an equal number of 12-hour layovers on this trip, I had plenty of opportunity to read some great books.
The first one I read was "A World of Strangers" by Nadine Gordimer, a South African author. Although this book was written in 1958, and the main character is a man who works in publishing, I found I related quite a bit to the story on a personal level.
This was the second book by Nadine Gordimer that I'd read. The first one was her critically acclaimed 2001 novel "The Pickup", which I enjoyed immensely once I'd managed to get used to her sometimes difficult style of writing.
I find she writes in a similar manner to the way I catch myself talking sometimes. I'll begin a sentence in the middle, then loop around to the part that actually makes sense, making my conversation partner pay particular attention to see what on earth I'm talking about. I think I tend to do this because I talk as I think a lot of the time, and don't bother to rearrange the language in my head to make it more digestible for a listener.
With a lot of Nadine Gordimer's writing, I found I had to speak sentences aloud to understand what her characters were trying to say. She also has a strange habit with comma use, putting commas in places you wouldn't expect according to proper grammar rules, but that make perfect sense when considering the natural rhythm of spoken word.
The other great book I read was "Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight" by Alexandra Fuller, a Zimbabwean author who spent her childhood in what was then Rhodesia. She wrote from a child's perspective what it was like to grow up the daughter of white farmers during that country's struggle for independence. It was, like "The Power of One" and "The Poisonwood Bible", a poignant but also very funny take on some of history's most difficult chapters.
I think I will pick up additional books by both Nadine Gordimer and Alexandra Fuller when I am in the Johannesburg airport on my layover at the end of the month. Since Ricardo will be spending some significant time in Rio again this year, I imagine I'll have more of an inclination to read in the quest to make time pass as fast as possible in his absence.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Fear the Details Shall Disappear
I recently finished reading "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver and it completely blew me away. That is the kind of book I dream about writing. The characters stuck in my head for days, there were bits of dialogue that had me laughing out loud by my self (not that difficult, really, when the narrators are a bunch of girls from 1960's Georgia), and I even cried at the end of the book.
Another thing that really impressed me is how similar the Congo described in the book is to modern-day Chimoio, and to all of the rural areas we've visited in Mozambique. Many of the details in the novel - the kind of "Baptist donation bin" clothes people wear, including men donning "ladies' wear jackets", the way women pound manioc in giant mortar and pestles, the back-breaking labor that the women do while the men sit idly about, the long printed swaths of fabric used as wrap-around skirts over all other layers of clothes... It was all incredibly familiar, and I was left with the distinct impression that the author herself must have spent some significant time in her life observing the people and places of the Congo.
It's been a long time since I read a book that I enjoyed so much. I think the last one was "The Power of One" by Bryce Courtenay. Coincidentally both are books about childhood in Africa, told primarily from the perspective of young people growing up in countries in the midst of tremendous political change.
I was so in awe of "The Poisonwood Bible" - and really continue to be, truth be told - that it's been difficult to imagine sitting down to write something myself, even if just a blog entry.
I take solace in the fact that Barbara Kinsolver apparently wrote this book 30 years after her experiences in Africa. Many times I get in a panic because I fear that I will forget, or otherwise be unable to replicate, the experiences that I am having now in Mozambique. I'd very much like to write a proper book about what we've seen in others and lived through ourselves, but since I no longer keep a personal journal where I can write absolutely candidly, I fear the critical details of what I want to share will dry up and blow away if not recorded RIGHT NOW.
Yes, there is the blog, but there is a whale of information that I've not put up here over the last 2 years, either because it was somebody else's tale to tell (I try not to write about other people's dirt online), or it was the kind of story that I fear if published while we are still in the country could create some significant problems for us (as they have to do with blatant corruption and deceipt, both on the part of Mozambicans and foreigners we've come across).
I know that a tremendous amount of research went into writing "The Poisonwood Bible", that certainly the author didn't simply sit down and pour out all those fabulously accurate details in the space of a couple of months. I know she had to rely on other books on the subject, a KiKongo dictionary, the Bible, and friends and researchers up-to-date on the political and cultural happenings of the 1960's.
Thinking about this process, and the fabulous novel that resulted, gives me hope that I will be able to write the things I desire when the time is right. If Barbara Kingsolver was able to do it 30 years after the fact, then 5 of 7 shouldn't be too tragic for me, I imagine. Or even more, who knows. I am aware that hindsight will play a vital role in what I write and how I write it. The kind of understanding and perspective I hope for in my eventual writings about Mozambique cannot be forced to exist, and can only come about through good old time.
Another thing that really impressed me is how similar the Congo described in the book is to modern-day Chimoio, and to all of the rural areas we've visited in Mozambique. Many of the details in the novel - the kind of "Baptist donation bin" clothes people wear, including men donning "ladies' wear jackets", the way women pound manioc in giant mortar and pestles, the back-breaking labor that the women do while the men sit idly about, the long printed swaths of fabric used as wrap-around skirts over all other layers of clothes... It was all incredibly familiar, and I was left with the distinct impression that the author herself must have spent some significant time in her life observing the people and places of the Congo.
It's been a long time since I read a book that I enjoyed so much. I think the last one was "The Power of One" by Bryce Courtenay. Coincidentally both are books about childhood in Africa, told primarily from the perspective of young people growing up in countries in the midst of tremendous political change.
I was so in awe of "The Poisonwood Bible" - and really continue to be, truth be told - that it's been difficult to imagine sitting down to write something myself, even if just a blog entry.
I take solace in the fact that Barbara Kinsolver apparently wrote this book 30 years after her experiences in Africa. Many times I get in a panic because I fear that I will forget, or otherwise be unable to replicate, the experiences that I am having now in Mozambique. I'd very much like to write a proper book about what we've seen in others and lived through ourselves, but since I no longer keep a personal journal where I can write absolutely candidly, I fear the critical details of what I want to share will dry up and blow away if not recorded RIGHT NOW.
Yes, there is the blog, but there is a whale of information that I've not put up here over the last 2 years, either because it was somebody else's tale to tell (I try not to write about other people's dirt online), or it was the kind of story that I fear if published while we are still in the country could create some significant problems for us (as they have to do with blatant corruption and deceipt, both on the part of Mozambicans and foreigners we've come across).
I know that a tremendous amount of research went into writing "The Poisonwood Bible", that certainly the author didn't simply sit down and pour out all those fabulously accurate details in the space of a couple of months. I know she had to rely on other books on the subject, a KiKongo dictionary, the Bible, and friends and researchers up-to-date on the political and cultural happenings of the 1960's.
Thinking about this process, and the fabulous novel that resulted, gives me hope that I will be able to write the things I desire when the time is right. If Barbara Kingsolver was able to do it 30 years after the fact, then 5 of 7 shouldn't be too tragic for me, I imagine. Or even more, who knows. I am aware that hindsight will play a vital role in what I write and how I write it. The kind of understanding and perspective I hope for in my eventual writings about Mozambique cannot be forced to exist, and can only come about through good old time.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Waiting for the Page to Open
Well, I am back in the land of dial-up internet. My dad - who is one of the more technologically savvy people I know, and who owns a 9-cartridge bad-ass color printer he uses for large-format digital photo printing - still, unfortunately, relies on the old dial-up modem to get online.
Although it would be fitting with his personality quirks to reject some seemingly fine amenity of the modern world based on some moral issue, this is not the reason for the internet deficiency in this home. The reason, I have come to find out, is that it is physically impossible to run cable to his house because his property is cris-crossed and surrounded on all sides by irrigation ditches.
Ah, the benefits of country living. No high-speed internet, no cable TV. He has sprung for "the dish", but has passed over the several-hundreds-of-dollars-a-month internet service from the same provider.
I have become so spoiled, once again, with high speed internet. I am remembering what it was like to be in Chimoio, where not only did we rely on dial-up, we had to share the line between 6 people, all hungry to communicate with the outside world. No wonder I was a nut-case back in that shared house...
*** *** ***
In other news, Ricardo and I ordered save-the-date cards for our wedding, which arrived here the other day. I had a look at the cards and they are very cool, but slightly different than the impression I'd gotten from the computer-generated proof. I suppose this is a good lesson for when we actually order our invitations - get a real, paper-printed proof before deciding on colors. I'm not disappointed - I mean, they are save-the-date cards after all, not some huge important detail in my life, but it's always surprising to see how my assumptions can be off.
We've had to postpone our wedding slightly. The new date is 05 July. It will still be in Rio, still in the Anglican Church, still with the reception in the Casa Rosa.
We decided to change the date because my cousin L. (one of only 3 cousins! I have a very small family) is set to graduate from high school the exact same day Rico and I had chosen for our ceremony. I really, really want my uncle and his family to be at our wedding, and certainly didn't want to force one of "those decisions" as to which event everyone would attend. So we pushed the date forward to the next available US federal holiday and are planning accordingly.
Now I have the small task of obtaining addresses, preparing envelopes, and mailing out save-the-date cards for the 125-or-so people that will be invited who live in places other than Rio de Janeiro.
*** *** ***
The banana project will be finished late tonight. My part of the project, that is. Rico still has to add in all the finalized financial information, but other than that, it's ready to go. I can't believe it.
Speaking of, I should get to work. I have a brand-new laptop I'm working on (I love it, it's another Toshiba), complete with Office 2007, and I'm taking a bit of a beating trying to find all the specific little tools I am accustomed to using in Word and Excel.
Have a great day , friends.
Although it would be fitting with his personality quirks to reject some seemingly fine amenity of the modern world based on some moral issue, this is not the reason for the internet deficiency in this home. The reason, I have come to find out, is that it is physically impossible to run cable to his house because his property is cris-crossed and surrounded on all sides by irrigation ditches.
Ah, the benefits of country living. No high-speed internet, no cable TV. He has sprung for "the dish", but has passed over the several-hundreds-of-dollars-a-month internet service from the same provider.
I have become so spoiled, once again, with high speed internet. I am remembering what it was like to be in Chimoio, where not only did we rely on dial-up, we had to share the line between 6 people, all hungry to communicate with the outside world. No wonder I was a nut-case back in that shared house...
*** *** ***
In other news, Ricardo and I ordered save-the-date cards for our wedding, which arrived here the other day. I had a look at the cards and they are very cool, but slightly different than the impression I'd gotten from the computer-generated proof. I suppose this is a good lesson for when we actually order our invitations - get a real, paper-printed proof before deciding on colors. I'm not disappointed - I mean, they are save-the-date cards after all, not some huge important detail in my life, but it's always surprising to see how my assumptions can be off.
We've had to postpone our wedding slightly. The new date is 05 July. It will still be in Rio, still in the Anglican Church, still with the reception in the Casa Rosa.
We decided to change the date because my cousin L. (one of only 3 cousins! I have a very small family) is set to graduate from high school the exact same day Rico and I had chosen for our ceremony. I really, really want my uncle and his family to be at our wedding, and certainly didn't want to force one of "those decisions" as to which event everyone would attend. So we pushed the date forward to the next available US federal holiday and are planning accordingly.
Now I have the small task of obtaining addresses, preparing envelopes, and mailing out save-the-date cards for the 125-or-so people that will be invited who live in places other than Rio de Janeiro.
*** *** ***
The banana project will be finished late tonight. My part of the project, that is. Rico still has to add in all the finalized financial information, but other than that, it's ready to go. I can't believe it.
Speaking of, I should get to work. I have a brand-new laptop I'm working on (I love it, it's another Toshiba), complete with Office 2007, and I'm taking a bit of a beating trying to find all the specific little tools I am accustomed to using in Word and Excel.
Have a great day , friends.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Anniversary II
Ricardo and I have been together for 2 years.
It has also been 2 years since I moved to Mozambique.
It seems like this whole chapter in my life started an eternity ago, yet at the same time I can't believe how quickly it all passes.
It has also been 2 years since I moved to Mozambique.
It seems like this whole chapter in my life started an eternity ago, yet at the same time I can't believe how quickly it all passes.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Saudades, part Infinite
I am tired. I stayed up past midnight last night working on the banana business plan. It is going well, but there is still a tremendous amount of work to be accomplished before our submission deadline on Wednesday.
I have a jewelry class tomorrow in which I will use a torch to melt and forge silver to make rings. The next day I have a class where I will learn to use precious metal clay. I am really excited.
I leave California on Monday. I am happy becuause this signifies the beginning of 3 weeks in New Mexico with my Dad, Laura and hometown friends. I am weight-of-the-world sad because it means I have to say goodbye to my Mom, once again.
I love coming home, whichever home it may be, but I hate having to leave. I wish I could somehow replicate myself 5 times: one Ali to be with Mom, one Ali to be with Dad, one Ali to be in the Casa Rosa, one Ali to be in Maputo with Rico and the Boys (working to sustain all of these busy replicas of myself), and one Ali geographically unattached, free to roam the world scouting out new places to have adventures.
Until this is possible, I suppose I'll just continue the seemingly endless cycle of suitcase packing---suitcase unpacking---suitcase packing---suitcase unpacking---always longing for something and someone far away.
I have a jewelry class tomorrow in which I will use a torch to melt and forge silver to make rings. The next day I have a class where I will learn to use precious metal clay. I am really excited.
I leave California on Monday. I am happy becuause this signifies the beginning of 3 weeks in New Mexico with my Dad, Laura and hometown friends. I am weight-of-the-world sad because it means I have to say goodbye to my Mom, once again.
I love coming home, whichever home it may be, but I hate having to leave. I wish I could somehow replicate myself 5 times: one Ali to be with Mom, one Ali to be with Dad, one Ali to be in the Casa Rosa, one Ali to be in Maputo with Rico and the Boys (working to sustain all of these busy replicas of myself), and one Ali geographically unattached, free to roam the world scouting out new places to have adventures.
Until this is possible, I suppose I'll just continue the seemingly endless cycle of suitcase packing---suitcase unpacking---suitcase packing---suitcase unpacking---always longing for something and someone far away.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Wire and Hammer Techniques
Two of the jewelry classes I've recently taken focused on contemporary wire-work techniques and how to make hammered metal components. I loved both classes and have been working on several pieces that incorporate the new skills I've learned. Here are a couple of examples, now available at Alexandra Amaro, my etsy site.
Hammered silver 4-leaf clover components with black onyx briolettes and jet swarovski crystal accents.
Caged amethyst rondelles with handmade hill tribes silver bicones and iolite detail.
Hammered hand-formed silver swirls with teardrop freshwater pearls.Check back soon - I'm working on a mother of a necklace that uses several wire-work techniques. It has blue lace agate and pearls, and lots of silver coils and handmade chain links. Hopefully it will be finished before I leave California...
Maputo Eats
I was tagged by Marcia, the organizing queen, for this meme in which you must name your 5 favorite local restaurants for dining out.
Here are my picks for Maputo, in no particular order:
1. Las Brasas. This is one of Maputo's more upscale restaurants, located in the heart of the city on Av. Julius Nyerere. Las Brasas has many Mediterranean-inspired dishes, as well as plenty of local seafood and even ostrich fillets. My very favorite thing to eat here is the Espetada de Mariscos, a huge, dangling sword filled with prawns, cubes of fish and squid that is presented sizzling hot to your table.
Recently this restaurant changed ownership and, under new Brazilian managers, offers daily lunch specials and a killer caipirinha at the bar.
2. Hotel Terminus Restaurant. Right across the street from our flat (and a popular place for business meetings), this hotel restaurant offers some of the best food in town. My favorite is the Galinha Zambeziana, a half chicken cooked in coconut milk and spices. This is also one of the few (only?) places in Maputo where you can get gnocchi, served with a rich bleu cheese sauce.
Also, Hotel Terminus' restaurant has some killer desserts. We especially enjoy splitting one that consists of rum-roasted cherries poured over a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
3. Costa do Sol. This is perhaps Maputo's most famous dining establishment, in its same ocean-front location since the 1960's. The seafood here is unbelievable, especially the mixed platters.
Rico and I are friends with the owner and, as a result, never have to order from the menu. We just show up and ask our friend to make a recommendation. We've never been disappointed.
Costa do Sol is has a special place in our hearts (and stomachs) because it was the place we first went on a date. It's the restaurant where we always commemorate our dating anniversaries, and where we celebrated the night Rico asked me to marry him.
4. Inter Thai. There are 5 Thai restaurants in Maptuo (yes, 5, for a not-so-big city) and, while all are nice, this one is my favorite. The atmosphere at Inter Thai is what makes it so nice. The restaurant is essentially in the enormous backyard of the owners' home, and is fully landscaped with a fountain and a big bamboo forest. There is even a gift shop on the premises where you can buy Thai silk scarves and canned lychees.
My meal of choice here is either green curry with beef, or Pad Thai. We like to come here and drink beers and eat spicy food for hours on end, especially on Maputo's scorching summer days.
Also, Inter Thai is the place to go in Maputo if you need quick service. We've never had a dish take more than 15 minutes to get to our table, something ultra-rare in the city.
5. Mundo's. Typical choice, but this expat hangout is by far the best place in Maputo to get a pizza. You can get any of a number of toppings, and the dough is thin and cooked in a wood-burning oven until it's crispy. My favorite pizza at Mundo's is not on the menu, but occasionally offered as a special: mozzarella topped with figs, arugula (or rocket for you South Africans) and roquefort. It's incredible! Rico likes to get a margherita with prosciutto on top.
Mundo's is in the middle of the city on Julius Nyerere and is a good place to meet people, have a drink, or watch a sporting match - especially if you're into rugby or the english premiere league soccer.
6. Cafe Milano. I know, I know. The meme said 5 places, and here I am choosing 6. But I couldn't leave Cafe Milano, a.k.a. the Schwarma Place, off my list. This is a Lebanese restaurant on Av. 24 de Julho with a great sidewalk patio and a takeaway deli area where you can buy a bag of 10 giant homemade pita breads for 2 dollars.
This is a great place to spend the afternoon drinking beer and eating schwarmas. I like the beef ones, Rico prefers the chicken. We come here an awful lot, so much in fact that the waitresses recognize us and we don't even have to order, they already know what "our usual" is.
Hmmm...seems we have lots of restaurants that revolve around beer drinking and spicy food. :)
------ ------ ------
I have many, many other favorite places in the city... Nautilus for executive lunch specials, Cristal for codfish and mango mousse, Vila Italia for homemade ravioli...
Whoever started this meme should keep track of the answers and make a page where one can access the top 5 restaurants for various cities.
Yum! If you feel inspired to share your dining preferences for the city you live in, consider yourself tagged.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Sunday Scribblings - Masks
There have been two occasions on which I danced with someone - a complete stranger in both cases - with such polish and passion it seemed as if we'd been preparing for the moment our entire lives.
The first time was in Santiago, Cuba. I was at the end of my 10-day public health mission and was sipping a mojito in the bar of a swanky hotel in the city center. A small live band played in the corner, predictably running through the set from the Buena Vista Social Club.
Strangely, nobody danced. That is, until the band struck up one particularly uptempo salsa song, straying from the tourist-pleasing formula. Out of nowhere a man appeared at our table and asked me to dance. I accepted, and we made our way to the makeshift dancefloor in the center of the bar. Only one other couple was on the floor, and all eyes in the place were on us.
Granted, it's much easier to dance well when you have a man for a partner who is a strong lead. Even that, however, isn't a guarantee that you will dance well together. There is chemistry involved in dance, just like in meeting someone in a bar. No matter how good the two of you look separately, you may not click at all when you are together. And so it is always somewhat of a gamble when you get up on the dancefloor to dance with a stranger.
That night, in the warm Santiago heat, I clicked with this anonymous Cuban man. We started out simple, a quick basic salsa step. Then the man discovered that I spoke Spanish, that he could give me little cues like "Venga!" or "Espera!" as we danced, verbal affirmations of what my body was already anticipating. Our moves became more complex, and I was able to follow each double-step, cross-back turn he led me through.
At this point we were really in sync and the entire crowd in the hotel bar was watching the two of us, clapping their hands to the beat and shouting out encouragements as we spun together. We sensed that the music was coming to a climax, one of those songs that was sure to end with a bang. My partner's eyes told me that he wanted to nail the ending. He began to twirl me, fast revolutions under his arm. I tried my best to spot a fixed point with each turn so that I wouldn't become dizzy and stumble.
Faster and faster I spun until he gave a sharp whisper, "Ahora!", then expertly hooked his foot behind my ankle. In a split second, he jerked my feet off the ground, sending me sailing backwards with the momentum of my turns. I didn't even have time to panic from the fall; I had already landed in his waiting arms, my back arched, one arm above my head and the other by my side, as if it had all been planned and painstakingly rehearsed months in advance.
The second time I danced in such a way with a complete stranger was at a Halloween party in Austin, TX. We were in a warehouse that was packed full of people, some in costume, others just dressed homegrown Austin-weird. A dj was spinning a great mix of Brazilian, Salsa, Merengue and Drum 'n Bass.
That evening I wore a black dress of my maternal Grandmother's from the 1940's with a matching black shawl that I attached with a spectacular brooch of rubies, aquamarines and diamonds that used to belong to my paternal Grandmother, a woman I never met. My hair was up in a bun and I had on deep, wine-colored lipstick. I was a vintage vision of elegance and demure style.
I had been dancing in a group wtih my girlfriends in one corner of the warehouse-turned-danceclub. We grooved and gossiped and sipped at free glasses of wine in plastic Dixie cups. A classic Celia Cruz number started playing and I felt someone tap the back of my shoulder.
I turned around and began laughing hysterically when I saw my prospective dance partner. He was a short man wearing an oversized, guffawing George W. Bush mask. Strapped to his chest, on the outside of his dark pinstripe suit, was a massive set of plastic tits with bright pink airbrushed nipples.
"Do ya wanna daaaaiiince?" he drawled from under his mask, extending his hand to ask for mine.
What the hell, I thought, and walked arm-in-arm to the middle of the dancefloor with the short, tittyfied version of our President.
From his appearance and stature, I was not expecting much from my partner. I figured it would be one of those comical dances, where you make complete asses of yourselves in lieux of actual coordinated footwork and proper turns. "Whatever," I thought, I was up for some fun on Halloween.
And so we started dancing, the connsumate odd couple. To my ultimate surprise, the guy was a strong lead, his hand firmly placed in the small of my back guiding me through some simple steps at first, then increasingly intricate footwork.
Maybe it was the wine I'd been drinking, or maybe it was the hilarity of the idiot mask and the size DD plastic boobs on my partner. Whatever the reason behind my high, I was completely in the zone. I was following each little step, hitting every spin, moving in time with this costumed stranger in a completely effortless way. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear my girlfriends cheering us on.
We ended the song with a tight, fast series of turns, our legs so close they were almost interlocking. I could feel Mr. Bush's prosthetic nipples digging into my sternum as we spiraled, causing me to giggle, but not to lose my step. With Celia's last belted-out melody, my partner pushed me out of our spin, held onto my arm and dropped to one knee by my side. He had some serious jazz-hands going, and I gladly followed suit. The perfect, Broadway-cheezy end to our moment together.
As the next song came on, boobie Bush quickly bowed to me, then waved his little hand goodbye and sprinted off into the crowd, never to be seen again that night.
The first time was in Santiago, Cuba. I was at the end of my 10-day public health mission and was sipping a mojito in the bar of a swanky hotel in the city center. A small live band played in the corner, predictably running through the set from the Buena Vista Social Club.
Strangely, nobody danced. That is, until the band struck up one particularly uptempo salsa song, straying from the tourist-pleasing formula. Out of nowhere a man appeared at our table and asked me to dance. I accepted, and we made our way to the makeshift dancefloor in the center of the bar. Only one other couple was on the floor, and all eyes in the place were on us.
Granted, it's much easier to dance well when you have a man for a partner who is a strong lead. Even that, however, isn't a guarantee that you will dance well together. There is chemistry involved in dance, just like in meeting someone in a bar. No matter how good the two of you look separately, you may not click at all when you are together. And so it is always somewhat of a gamble when you get up on the dancefloor to dance with a stranger.
That night, in the warm Santiago heat, I clicked with this anonymous Cuban man. We started out simple, a quick basic salsa step. Then the man discovered that I spoke Spanish, that he could give me little cues like "Venga!" or "Espera!" as we danced, verbal affirmations of what my body was already anticipating. Our moves became more complex, and I was able to follow each double-step, cross-back turn he led me through.
At this point we were really in sync and the entire crowd in the hotel bar was watching the two of us, clapping their hands to the beat and shouting out encouragements as we spun together. We sensed that the music was coming to a climax, one of those songs that was sure to end with a bang. My partner's eyes told me that he wanted to nail the ending. He began to twirl me, fast revolutions under his arm. I tried my best to spot a fixed point with each turn so that I wouldn't become dizzy and stumble.
Faster and faster I spun until he gave a sharp whisper, "Ahora!", then expertly hooked his foot behind my ankle. In a split second, he jerked my feet off the ground, sending me sailing backwards with the momentum of my turns. I didn't even have time to panic from the fall; I had already landed in his waiting arms, my back arched, one arm above my head and the other by my side, as if it had all been planned and painstakingly rehearsed months in advance.
The second time I danced in such a way with a complete stranger was at a Halloween party in Austin, TX. We were in a warehouse that was packed full of people, some in costume, others just dressed homegrown Austin-weird. A dj was spinning a great mix of Brazilian, Salsa, Merengue and Drum 'n Bass.
That evening I wore a black dress of my maternal Grandmother's from the 1940's with a matching black shawl that I attached with a spectacular brooch of rubies, aquamarines and diamonds that used to belong to my paternal Grandmother, a woman I never met. My hair was up in a bun and I had on deep, wine-colored lipstick. I was a vintage vision of elegance and demure style.
I had been dancing in a group wtih my girlfriends in one corner of the warehouse-turned-danceclub. We grooved and gossiped and sipped at free glasses of wine in plastic Dixie cups. A classic Celia Cruz number started playing and I felt someone tap the back of my shoulder.
I turned around and began laughing hysterically when I saw my prospective dance partner. He was a short man wearing an oversized, guffawing George W. Bush mask. Strapped to his chest, on the outside of his dark pinstripe suit, was a massive set of plastic tits with bright pink airbrushed nipples.
"Do ya wanna daaaaiiince?" he drawled from under his mask, extending his hand to ask for mine.
What the hell, I thought, and walked arm-in-arm to the middle of the dancefloor with the short, tittyfied version of our President.
From his appearance and stature, I was not expecting much from my partner. I figured it would be one of those comical dances, where you make complete asses of yourselves in lieux of actual coordinated footwork and proper turns. "Whatever," I thought, I was up for some fun on Halloween.
And so we started dancing, the connsumate odd couple. To my ultimate surprise, the guy was a strong lead, his hand firmly placed in the small of my back guiding me through some simple steps at first, then increasingly intricate footwork.
Maybe it was the wine I'd been drinking, or maybe it was the hilarity of the idiot mask and the size DD plastic boobs on my partner. Whatever the reason behind my high, I was completely in the zone. I was following each little step, hitting every spin, moving in time with this costumed stranger in a completely effortless way. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear my girlfriends cheering us on.
We ended the song with a tight, fast series of turns, our legs so close they were almost interlocking. I could feel Mr. Bush's prosthetic nipples digging into my sternum as we spiraled, causing me to giggle, but not to lose my step. With Celia's last belted-out melody, my partner pushed me out of our spin, held onto my arm and dropped to one knee by my side. He had some serious jazz-hands going, and I gladly followed suit. The perfect, Broadway-cheezy end to our moment together.
As the next song came on, boobie Bush quickly bowed to me, then waved his little hand goodbye and sprinted off into the crowd, never to be seen again that night.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Bananas, Bananas, Bananas
Bananas, bananas, bananas, bananas...
Yes, this means I'm working - while on vacation - but it was something I'd anticipated.
I'm actually not sad about being at the laptop, working on the seemingly interminable business plan for our client's expansion project.
(It feels really good to be working. Getting stuff accomplished. Getting rid of that nagging feeling in my stomach that I have unfinished business I've been putting off.)
The business plan should be done by next week. I can't wait.
Then all we have to do is cross our fingers and hope that we are able to raise $10 million for this project.
PS - not that you would have ever had occasion to repeatedly type the word "bananas", but in writing this post I discovered it's really hard. Go on, try it! It reminded me of doing warm-up exercises when I used to play the piano, or practicing some horribly difficult series of eighth-notes vs. triplets, trying to get the pattern to physically sink into my fingers.
Yes, this means I'm working - while on vacation - but it was something I'd anticipated.
I'm actually not sad about being at the laptop, working on the seemingly interminable business plan for our client's expansion project.
(It feels really good to be working. Getting stuff accomplished. Getting rid of that nagging feeling in my stomach that I have unfinished business I've been putting off.)
The business plan should be done by next week. I can't wait.
Then all we have to do is cross our fingers and hope that we are able to raise $10 million for this project.
PS - not that you would have ever had occasion to repeatedly type the word "bananas", but in writing this post I discovered it's really hard. Go on, try it! It reminded me of doing warm-up exercises when I used to play the piano, or practicing some horribly difficult series of eighth-notes vs. triplets, trying to get the pattern to physically sink into my fingers.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Vacation, California Style
This is what I live for. Quality time with my family, my girl Azul, art classes and beautiful places to roam just outside our front door.
Increasingly I realize that I will likely never go work for a "real company". I value my freedom and my time too much. It would have to be an extraordinary job offer for me to give up the ability to take 2 months off each year to travel across the world and visit the people and places I love. It's getting to the point that I'd literally have to be offered millions to give this up, and even then I'd wonder what kind of obligations and stress I'd be getting myself into...
Anyhow, some photos of what I've been up to lately:
Smiling before a day of shopping. I made this kyanite and iolite necklace and earring set. A similar one is available at my Etsy Shop here.
Hanging out with my girl Azul / Zinha / BebeZee / ZulZalamin. The cat of 1,000 nicknames.
We love a Burmese!
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Last weekend we drove to Pacifica where, miraculously, the fog was missing in action..jpg)
Instead, we got to see this beautiful view of the coast while taking the dogs for a walk.More vacation photos to come soon!
I Am Scrrrrrumptious!
These past few days have been chock-full of activities.
Saturday I drove about an hour out to Vacaville (a literal Cow Town - haha) to meet this amazing blogger. I got a bit lost amongst the outlet malls and car dealerships, but managed to find the Chili's where we'd agreed to meet. We had a wonderful lunch, full of get-to-know-you talk, then moved across the street for some tea and coffee to continue our conversations.
What ensued was, I humbly believe, one of the more insightful political discussions I've ever taken part in. I won't bore you with the details, but we managed to combine large-scale politics with personal-level psychology, using these two lenses to analyze several of the hot topics in the world today. Fascinating stuff, especially because we come from very different backgrounds and lead very different lives, yet share similar centrist, realist viewpoints.
To say I enjoyed meeting Amber is a gross understatement. What an intelligent, kind woman!
The next day, Mother's Day, I had the pleasure of meeting yet another blogger, Kristine. She was participating in an open studio arts crawl in the Mission and my mom and I decided to check it out. Are you familiar with her life-sized wire sculptures of couture dresses and fabulous handbags and stilettos? Kristine does amazing, unique work. My mom and I walked into the studio where her exibit was and - to my delight - Kristine recognized me as we came in the door. I think we were both mildly in shock the entire time about meeting each other, and had a great time talking about her sculptures and the fact that we've been blog friends for an entire year.
After chatting a bit, my mom and I checked out the rest of the artists' expositions, then went back to Kristine's space for an unfortunately quick goodbye. We met her husband, who wowed us with his knowledge of Ferragamo shoes and Givenchy fragrances, talked about my wedding dress, and made (hopefully) plans to meet later this week for a coffee/tea.
We walked out with one killer wire stiletto heel and two painted red wire hearts. I plan to give mine to Rico for our upcoming anniversary on the 26th (shhhh, don't tell him).
After the arts crawl, my mom and I were in the mood for a treat. We spotted a cafe/restaurant type place and decided to check it out. As we walked in, I glanced at the sign over the doorway and realized what we were in for: it was Cafe Gratitude, the place that so many of my blog friends rave and rave about, the mecca for raw and vegetarian gourmet cooking.
Our experience was, well, mildly disappointing.
Friends, I hope this doesn't constitute a serious block in our virtual relationships. Perhaps this just isn't the type of place for me. Maybe I had my hopes up too high after reading all of your reviews about the restaurant. Whatever the reason, I sadly don't share your opinion of Cafe Gratitude.
The entire time we were in the place I wanted to burst out laughing, turn and shake our waitress or the cook by the shoulders, and say, "Are you kidding?"
All of the items on the menu are named with affirmations. Instead of ordering Soy Spiced Noodles, you ask for "I Am Succulent"; instead of a Strawberry Mango Smoothie, you proudly state to your waitperson "I Am Enlightened".
When the orders are up in the kitchen, the cook yells out to the waitress, "Teresa, You Are Gracious, Empathetic, Empowered and Serene," or whatever equivalent list of adjectives is ready to go to her table. As we were waiting for our food, the cook called out an especially long list of positive qualities about a waitress called Irene and my mom snarkily said, "She must be some woman!"
I get the idea behind Cafe Gratitude - I really do. I am kind of a hippie, I love dancing Nia, I could imagine myself being macrobiotic or something similar, I appreciate organic and try to recycle. I am generally "that kind of person." But there is something about Cafe Gratitude that seemed too forced, too incredibly saccharine for my taste.
I ordered a raw milkshake with almond milk, unprocessed cacao chips, dates and vanilla. My mom had a slice of key lime pie with a raw macadamia nut crust. When our waitress brought our treats and announced to my mom with a flourish of the hand, "You Are Delightful!" I smiled and had to agree. My mom is a peach and it was Mother's Day, after all. But when the waitress turned to me and said, looking deep into my eyes, "You Are Generous!" I had to bite my lip to keep from snickering sarcastically.
I wanted to say, "Really? I am Generous. Do you know me? Because actually I tend to be quite Selfish, especially when it comes to food." Ask Rico. I'm certain he will agree in spades.
More than the overly optimistic affirmations about the patrons and the waitstaff, I had issues with the quality of the service. I had to ask 3 times for a glass of water. My milkshake arrived mostly melted and I didn't have a spoon to scoop out the almonds and chocolate chips with. Our waitress forgot to bring us the check. Little things, I know, but when you are paying out the wazoo for prime organic ingredients, you want the experience to be smooth.
And one last observation - for an establishment that is so into political correctness and the celebration of people of all shapes, sizes and colors, the clientele was surprisingly white bread. As in 100%. Including me and my mom. Not that there is anything wrong with having all white patrons, but it took me a bit by surprise. I wonder if it was just that particular day, or if they do struggle to draw in multicultural patrons, something rare in the middle of the Mission...
Anyhow, for those of you that are diehard Cafe Gratitude fans, you will enjoy that our outing ended with a heavy dose of karmic justice. Upon arriving home, I got some serious diarrhea. I guess the almond milk didn't really agree with my stomach.
Or perhaps, in good Cafe Gratitude lingo, I could say "I Am Cleansed."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Moving Forward Quite Nicely with All Tasks
Every day I work for several hours making jewelry, taking hundreds of digital photos of my creations (knowing full well that only 6 or so will be in focus due to my underperforming camera), update my super price-and-cost-calculating spreadsheet, and post new items on my site.
Alexandra Amaro, my shop on Etsy, is updated with several new earrings, a bracelet and a couple of jewelry sets. A heartfelt thank you to those of you that have supported my fledgling initiative.
I have also been busy ticking wedding-related items off my to-do list. Yesterday my mom and I hit the shops and I found sandals for the rehearsal dinner, a marcasite bracelet (I'm doing all my jewelry for the rehearsal in marcasite - should go great with the teal satin fabric), and - drumroll, please - SHOES FOR MY WEDDING DRESS.
It was as serendipitous as when I found the dress last week (remember? it was the second dress I tried on, period). We were in this boutique called Foot Candy and I told the woman I wanted a classic, ivory closed-toe mule with a heel to go with my Old-World-feel dress. The saleswoman said she wasn't sure she could help me, that they only had one ivory shoe in the entire shop.
The shoe she proceeded to show me was something that, I swear, not in a hundred thousand years I would have picked out for myself. It was an ivory silk mule with a pointed toe, alright, but then there were the - what should I call them - "accessories" around the ankle. You know those sandals with a cascade of jewels and charms and stuff that hang over the top of the foot from an ankle strap? That's what was going on with these shoes. I'm talking lots and lots of dark chain-maille-type links with crystal flowers and teardrops hanging all over the place. Totally not my regular style, but whatever, it's for my wedding, it's worth trying anything on that may be an option.
So I tried on these fabulously intricate shoes not expecting to like them much, and do you know what? I LOVED THEM! They are - appropriately - by a Brasilian designer called Constanca Bastos. I think the ankle jewelry will be the perfect combination with my dress and the gigantic crystal cuff my mom is lending me to wear on the big day.
I know this all sounds amazingly tacky in my descriptions - a teal satin rehearsal dinner dress, rhinestone and chain maille high-heeled mules, a huge crystal cuff. It's pretty fertile stuff for the imagination. But trust me - it's all coming together to make an elegant, slightly offbeat, unique statement - all perfectly suited to my personality and personal style. The individual pieces may be things I'd never have picked out for myself, but the big picture is coming together quite nicely and I couldn't be happier.
Now the only thing left is to find invitations and to buy about 100 meters of fabric to ship to my bridesmaids so that they can commission custom-made dresses. Arranging for color-coordinated dresses for women on 4 different continents is no easy task.
Okay. Enough about shoes and dresses and jewels and weddings. I've got a metalsmithing class to take in Palo Alto and need to have something to eat before heading into the overwhelming California traffic. Hope you all are well!
Friday, May 04, 2007
Alexandra Amaro Is (finally) on Etsy!
Friends, it's been a long time coming. I finally have set up a site to sell my jewelry online. You can visit my shop, Alexandra Amaro, on Etsy.
I decided to take advantage of the fact that I'm in the US (aka the Land of the Efficient Postal System) and sell all of the jewelry I manage to make during the 1.5 months I'll be here taking art classes.
So far there are 16 items up in my shop, including some cool wire-wrapped sterling silver rings that I just learned how to do in my class in Palo Alto on Wednesday.
I am still in the process of listing items - it is much more time-consuming than I'd originally imagined. I will also be continually creating new pieces and updating my site as they are completed. You can expect more necklaces and jewelry sets to come up in the next few days, so please check back often to see my newest designs.
All of the designs on Alexandra Amaro are one-of-a-kind. However, if you like something you see listed in the shop but want a slightly modified design or a different size, please let me know. I can usually custom-make a similar piece for you.
My mom and dad have both very kindly offered to act as my shipping agents, so basically everything I am able to make while I am in the US I will leave behind with them so that jewels can be shipped even after I leave.
If you are one of my friends in Mozambique and happen to like something on the site, please e-mail me (or convo me on Etsy) and let me know before you make a purchase. If you are willing to wait until late June, I will hand-carry the item to you and (obviously) will not charge you shipping.
Thank you all for your support. Without your wonderful feedback, it would have been much more difficult to take this step.
Enjoy!!!
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Thinking Blogger
I'm playing catch-up. A while back, LacitheCat kindly tagged me as one of her 5 in the Thinking Blogger meme. Now it is my turn to single out 5 bloggers that make me think.
Here they are:
Safiya at Outlines. A mid-20's Muslim convert who recently got married. I love seeing the world through her perspective, and always learn something from her posts.
Mike Hu at Thinking Differently. A very interesting man who has a background in exercise and conditioning, but who makes some pretty profound observations about education.
Cait at Surviving South Africa. Peace Corps volunteer in rural South Africa. She talks about teaching, village life and culture shock.
Bart at Daze of Our Lives. One of my first blog friends. A sensitive, introspective thinker in the Netherlands with fabulous images in each post.
Kristine at Notes from the Laundromat. A talented wire artist (among other things) who is finishing her degree. She will soon be famous - I am convinced.
Rules:
For each one of you that I've tagged: to continue this meme, choose 5 bloggers that make you think! Then link here to track the exact origin of this meme.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
I Belong Everywere. I Belong Nowhere.
It's always an interesting experience when I come back to the US (or even Brasil) for a visit. I've definitely had some reverse culture shock, but in different ways than last year.
What sticks out in my mind from previous visits to the US - bear in mind that I was still living in Chimoio - is that I was shocked by how much concrete there is in the Bay Area. I got off the airplane and was overwhelmed by the overpasses, the sidewalks, the office buildings, the parking lots. Everything was industrial-looking and developed. Even the green spaces were planned out! So different from my reality at the time, which consisted of 2 paved roads in the city and most all structures being haphazardly put together, in need of some serious paint and plaster work, everything coated in a layer of red dust.
This time, as we have now been living in the big city Maputo for over a year, my impressions are different. No longer the bustle of the city shocks me, although everything is cleaner and more organized (and, resultingly, more character-less) here in the Bay Area. I think what has struck me the most this time around is how much commerce there is around here. Literally everywhere you look there is a coffee shop, a dry cleaner's, a furniture shop, a Target, a taqueria, a kitchen utensil store, an organic market. My mom said it's as if Walnut Creek (the specific are where she lives, a pretty affluent suburb) were just one gigantic, open-air shopping mall. I have to agree...
The other thing I noticed, after an afternoon hanging out in Berkely to celebrate my mom's birthday on Monday (we went to the Scharffen-Berger chocolate factory restaurant for lunch - pity I'm not super into chocolate!), was how "California-y" everyone around here is. I guess I should say how "Bay-Area-y" everyone is, because I'm aware that California, much like Africa, is unfairly lumped into a homogenous group quite often by people that live outside these respective places.
Anyhow, what I noticed was that freaking *everything* around here is organic, yoga, vegan, raw, pilates, healing, holistic, free-trade, Tibet, green, eco-friendly, recycled, liberal, Democratic and - above all - anti-Bush. In general, I'm totally in accordance with all of these things, but here it's become this overwhelming ideology. My mom compared it with the mindset of people in the red-red-Republican areas of Texas where everyone tends to be conservative, big-hair, corporate, SUV-driving patriots. Generalizations, I know. But it really stuck out at me how much people here - despite the undeniable diversity, both ethnic and cultural - still subscribe to this mass ideology and, in the process, become somewhat closed-minded. Try having a multi-sided conversation about any of the hot issues in this country with a typical Berkeley resident...
I had a little taste of how this would go when, while browsing through stones at a jewelry shop, the owner asked what I was doing in Mozambique. I told her that I was a consultant specialized in fundraising for private-sector projects. She raised an eyebrow and puckered up her mouth as if she'd eaten something sour.
"I just went to a talk at the University last week that was an expose of private fundraisers."
"Really?" I asked. "What did they have to say?"
She looked me up and down before responding, "it was about the unethical practices that fundraisers use to charge their fees, and the lack of regulating in the industry that allows them to abuse their position."
"That's interesting."
"I can only imagine what fundraising is like in Africa," she said, with a look of disapproval. "You know, I used to live in Africa."
"Oh, wow. Where did you live?"
"Cote d'Ivoire. I was in the Peace Corps. There is so much need there. People are dying of starvation. We need to do something to help the situation, and all our Government does is spend on the war in Iraq."
"Yep. It's complicated."
I let the conversation trail off. Without a good hour-and-a-half to spend, it's not worth it to even get into the details of what I think works and doesn't work in Africa.
Anyhow, despite the differences in my perspective between this year and last, there are a few culture shock items that remain the same. I still marvel at the fact that I'm not stared at everywhere I go just because I'm white and foreign. I still laugh at the fact that I'm stuck in this Purgatory between being used to driving on the left (Moz) and driving on the right (US). I've caught myself looking the wrong way before crossing the street here a couple of times. I still marvel at the variety of fresh vegetables and fruits, and cheeses - oh, the amazing cheeses you can get here. The US really is foodie heaven, and it's such a pity that the cheapest, most advertised choices are crap-filled, processed fast food and ready-to-eat entrees. (There I go sounding like a true Bay-Area resident.)
It also continues to amaze me how much people get stressed out over little, relatively unimportant details. I know I'm not immune to this, but I believe over the past 2 years I've really chilled out when it comes to getting worked up over little things that honestly, at the end of the day, don't matter one bit. Part of it is letting go, bit by bit, of the perfectionism that has plagued me my entire life. Another part is a reorganization of priorities that has come about, almost unconsciously, as a result of living in Chimoio and Maputo.
Now, when I hear a lot of people's conversations and observe their actions, I feel like I don't belong. I can't relate anymore to what it is like to throw a fit in a restaurant because there is no more Splenda, only Equal, and that is simply not acceptable. (True story, this happened in Rio with a friend of mine when we went out for drinks last week). I don't want to develop a superiority complex or anything, or come off as pretentious, but it's true that I feel like fish out of water. Part of me hates talking about my reality because I don't want to make other people feel bad, or come off as a show-off. At the same time, remembering that speech by Nelson Mandela, I don't want to play down what I do in life, I don't want to dim my star just to spare someone else a slight feeling of inadequacy. It makes it hard to fit in, hard to relate, hard to connect. Every once in a while I run across someone that I mesh with immediately. I felt like this last week when meeting Jenna. I have several old friends like this as well. Thankfully, Rico is someone I relate to integrally. But it's hard when I have to make small-talk or revisit old friends...
My mom said yesterday that once you live in multiple places, you cease to truly fit in in any of them. This is so true. Once you leave your comfort zone, you are changed forever and never can quite recapture that blissful feeling of being accepted, of self-identifying wholly with a particular group or place. You don't even have to travel internationally for this to happen. I imagine that someone who lives across town in a community radically different from their own goes through similar changes. My mom mentioned some reality show about a group of Marines that are sent to live in the Castro for a period of time, how all of the particpants' lives are forever changed from the experience.
There is a Tribalistas song called "Ja Sei Namorar" that perfectly expresses what I feel, albeit in reference to a different concept. The chorus goes:
"Eu sou de ninguem, eu sou de todo mundo e todo mundo me quer bem,
Eu sou de ninguem, eu sou de todo mundo e todo mundo eh meu tambem."
(sorry for lack of accents) Translated, it is basically:
"I belong to nobody, I belong to everybody and everybody wishes me well,
I belong to nobody, I belong to everybody and everybody belongs to me, too."
Somehow, the larger my community becomes and the more extensive my experiences are in life, the lonelier I feel...
What sticks out in my mind from previous visits to the US - bear in mind that I was still living in Chimoio - is that I was shocked by how much concrete there is in the Bay Area. I got off the airplane and was overwhelmed by the overpasses, the sidewalks, the office buildings, the parking lots. Everything was industrial-looking and developed. Even the green spaces were planned out! So different from my reality at the time, which consisted of 2 paved roads in the city and most all structures being haphazardly put together, in need of some serious paint and plaster work, everything coated in a layer of red dust.
This time, as we have now been living in the big city Maputo for over a year, my impressions are different. No longer the bustle of the city shocks me, although everything is cleaner and more organized (and, resultingly, more character-less) here in the Bay Area. I think what has struck me the most this time around is how much commerce there is around here. Literally everywhere you look there is a coffee shop, a dry cleaner's, a furniture shop, a Target, a taqueria, a kitchen utensil store, an organic market. My mom said it's as if Walnut Creek (the specific are where she lives, a pretty affluent suburb) were just one gigantic, open-air shopping mall. I have to agree...
The other thing I noticed, after an afternoon hanging out in Berkely to celebrate my mom's birthday on Monday (we went to the Scharffen-Berger chocolate factory restaurant for lunch - pity I'm not super into chocolate!), was how "California-y" everyone around here is. I guess I should say how "Bay-Area-y" everyone is, because I'm aware that California, much like Africa, is unfairly lumped into a homogenous group quite often by people that live outside these respective places.
Anyhow, what I noticed was that freaking *everything* around here is organic, yoga, vegan, raw, pilates, healing, holistic, free-trade, Tibet, green, eco-friendly, recycled, liberal, Democratic and - above all - anti-Bush. In general, I'm totally in accordance with all of these things, but here it's become this overwhelming ideology. My mom compared it with the mindset of people in the red-red-Republican areas of Texas where everyone tends to be conservative, big-hair, corporate, SUV-driving patriots. Generalizations, I know. But it really stuck out at me how much people here - despite the undeniable diversity, both ethnic and cultural - still subscribe to this mass ideology and, in the process, become somewhat closed-minded. Try having a multi-sided conversation about any of the hot issues in this country with a typical Berkeley resident...
I had a little taste of how this would go when, while browsing through stones at a jewelry shop, the owner asked what I was doing in Mozambique. I told her that I was a consultant specialized in fundraising for private-sector projects. She raised an eyebrow and puckered up her mouth as if she'd eaten something sour.
"I just went to a talk at the University last week that was an expose of private fundraisers."
"Really?" I asked. "What did they have to say?"
She looked me up and down before responding, "it was about the unethical practices that fundraisers use to charge their fees, and the lack of regulating in the industry that allows them to abuse their position."
"That's interesting."
"I can only imagine what fundraising is like in Africa," she said, with a look of disapproval. "You know, I used to live in Africa."
"Oh, wow. Where did you live?"
"Cote d'Ivoire. I was in the Peace Corps. There is so much need there. People are dying of starvation. We need to do something to help the situation, and all our Government does is spend on the war in Iraq."
"Yep. It's complicated."
I let the conversation trail off. Without a good hour-and-a-half to spend, it's not worth it to even get into the details of what I think works and doesn't work in Africa.
Anyhow, despite the differences in my perspective between this year and last, there are a few culture shock items that remain the same. I still marvel at the fact that I'm not stared at everywhere I go just because I'm white and foreign. I still laugh at the fact that I'm stuck in this Purgatory between being used to driving on the left (Moz) and driving on the right (US). I've caught myself looking the wrong way before crossing the street here a couple of times. I still marvel at the variety of fresh vegetables and fruits, and cheeses - oh, the amazing cheeses you can get here. The US really is foodie heaven, and it's such a pity that the cheapest, most advertised choices are crap-filled, processed fast food and ready-to-eat entrees. (There I go sounding like a true Bay-Area resident.)
It also continues to amaze me how much people get stressed out over little, relatively unimportant details. I know I'm not immune to this, but I believe over the past 2 years I've really chilled out when it comes to getting worked up over little things that honestly, at the end of the day, don't matter one bit. Part of it is letting go, bit by bit, of the perfectionism that has plagued me my entire life. Another part is a reorganization of priorities that has come about, almost unconsciously, as a result of living in Chimoio and Maputo.
Now, when I hear a lot of people's conversations and observe their actions, I feel like I don't belong. I can't relate anymore to what it is like to throw a fit in a restaurant because there is no more Splenda, only Equal, and that is simply not acceptable. (True story, this happened in Rio with a friend of mine when we went out for drinks last week). I don't want to develop a superiority complex or anything, or come off as pretentious, but it's true that I feel like fish out of water. Part of me hates talking about my reality because I don't want to make other people feel bad, or come off as a show-off. At the same time, remembering that speech by Nelson Mandela, I don't want to play down what I do in life, I don't want to dim my star just to spare someone else a slight feeling of inadequacy. It makes it hard to fit in, hard to relate, hard to connect. Every once in a while I run across someone that I mesh with immediately. I felt like this last week when meeting Jenna. I have several old friends like this as well. Thankfully, Rico is someone I relate to integrally. But it's hard when I have to make small-talk or revisit old friends...
My mom said yesterday that once you live in multiple places, you cease to truly fit in in any of them. This is so true. Once you leave your comfort zone, you are changed forever and never can quite recapture that blissful feeling of being accepted, of self-identifying wholly with a particular group or place. You don't even have to travel internationally for this to happen. I imagine that someone who lives across town in a community radically different from their own goes through similar changes. My mom mentioned some reality show about a group of Marines that are sent to live in the Castro for a period of time, how all of the particpants' lives are forever changed from the experience.
There is a Tribalistas song called "Ja Sei Namorar" that perfectly expresses what I feel, albeit in reference to a different concept. The chorus goes:
"Eu sou de ninguem, eu sou de todo mundo e todo mundo me quer bem,
Eu sou de ninguem, eu sou de todo mundo e todo mundo eh meu tambem."
(sorry for lack of accents) Translated, it is basically:
"I belong to nobody, I belong to everybody and everybody wishes me well,
I belong to nobody, I belong to everybody and everybody belongs to me, too."
Somehow, the larger my community becomes and the more extensive my experiences are in life, the lonelier I feel...
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