Out of Touch

For some mysterious reason, my Skype has decided to stop working today.

It's been funky for the last several days, dropping calls and flat-out refusing to connect half the time, but today it simply won't work at all.

Not seeing the little "connected" icon at the bottom right of my screen makes me feel so incredibly lonely. This is ridiculous, really, because I never actually put my status as Online, rather I lurk as Invisible day after day so that nobody will call me and I won't feel the guilt of being Online and not making a call myself.

I don't really like talking on the phone, and find it even more overwhelming to speak to people now that I've been living in Mozambique for 2.5 years. How do I begin to have a conversation with someone? How do we catch up without the usual difficulties of such interactions. The questions I get are usually all the same, and the answers I give, no matter how much I might downplay certain aspects of my life, make me feel marginally guilty, as if I shouldn't be entitled to such a good hand when everyone else is just plodding along for the most part at their regular jobs in their regular towns.

Actually, I'm generalizing quite a bit here. I have lots of friends that lead similar lives to mine, traveling the world and always having something new and exciting to report about in a mass e-mail.

Funny, it's the friends that I identify with the most, the ones with whom I am capable of speaking for hours and hours on the phone and truly enjoying myself, that I don't feel at all compelled to talk to on a regular basis. We always seem to pick up just where we left off with no problem.

It's the acquaintance-type friends that I have a hard time with. The old classmates or neighbors or simply nice people I met at whatever point in the past that I feel quite guilty about not holding up my end of the friendship bargain. These people are *nice*, and I genuinely enjoy their company in person. But I find it so difficult to maintain the relationship over the phone, or even over e-mail. It is overwhelming, really.

Moments like these I realize what an introvert I am.

Still, the possibility of connectivity is comforting, despite the fact that I seldom actually "reach out". Just knowing that I have a list of contacts that I can click on and instantly be speaking with a long-lost friend or family member makes it seem that I'm not at all alone in the world, no matter how far I manage to travel.

I suppose I don't quite realize how reassuring it is to have the ability to call anyone at anytime (for free!) until it is temporarily suspended.

And, even after this, you can be certain that once Skype returns to its normal funcioning, I won't make any calls other than to say hi to my mom, my dad and Ricardo, as I do every single day. For all the other friendships and relationships that I neglect, at least I am really good about keeping up ties with my nuclear family.

Edited to update:

1. Skpye is apparently having global problems. Such is technology...we complain about its inconveniences when it's available, then absolutely are beside ourselves when it's not.

2. I got an e-mail from a very good friend alerting me to the fact that I might be interpreted as arrogant in this post, and not to discredit the lives of those people that do not travel and move through international circles as I do.

I'm so glad he wrote, because as I don't edit my posts, sometimes I'll write on the blog and then leave the house (as was the case tonight) without re-reading what I've just published. Perhaps if I'd edited a bit, I'd have added a disclaimer of sorts to leave my readers clearer about what I'm trying to express.

I certainly don't think another's life is less fulfilling for them if not lived according to my tastes, or that someone can't be happy just because they prefer a life that doesn't involve the things I appreciate (i.e. travel).

I just look at my dad as an example - he doesn't travel much, has a life completely different than mine in terms of lifestyle/rhythm, and yet is absolutely content with his decisions as far as I know. I have many friends like this as well - blog friends, even - so I hope that it is clear that I'm not trying to put down any other lifestyles here...

What I am trying to say is that sometimes - often times - it is hard for me to relate, and that makes keeping in touch a challenge for multiple reasons, many of which are obviously my issues to work on. :)

Resentment, Retribution, Respect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, fucking hilarious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The events of the weekend left me with several thoughts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Negotiations

I finally had THE meeting with the consulting firm that has been giving me the brush-off for the last 9 months. I showed up and the first thing the principal partner said was, "Epa, Ali, we weren't able to come up with a concrete proposal for you. Perhaps you could make an offer of what your salary expectations are."

What? Excuse me? You weren't able to come up with an offer for me? After me submitting not one but two financial proposals, only to have them poo-pooed for upsetting the "delicate salary structure" of the firm? After the e-mail the day before assuring me that you'd have a concrete proposal ready at the meeting?

You've got to be kidding.

My patience wore thin, and I gave the two partners in the meeting with me a giant piece of my mind (in a lovely, professional manner, of course, though what I wanted to do was scream at them and storm out of the office).

I also told them I'd been forced to accept another project in the time they spent dillying around and not giving me any feedback on our employment talks. Instead of 01 September, I am now available only after 10 October. And that I refused to sign anything but a 2-month contract at 75% time, because of the red flags I'd seen thus far in the process.

I think they were a bit blown away by my willingness to be candid. I suspect it may have a lot to do with the fact that I am a woman, and a young one at that. At present there are 10 men working in that office, and no women aside from the secretary. I believe I may be breaking down some stereotypes for the boys.

And, regardless of how they may have perceived my feedback, it felt GOOD to stand up for myself.

Anyhow, to make what could be a long story somewhat shorter, suffice to say that once I expressed my frustrations, the principal partner started apologizing up one side and down the other, trying to convince me that their flakiness was not at all a reflection of how much they wanted - no, needed me to work with them.

Then they gave me their concrete offer. They'd had one all along. They were just testing me to see how far I would hold out.

The strategy of negotiations can be such bullshit, always waiting for the other party to make the first offer no matter what. Granted, that can be an advantageous approach if both parties are equally interested in and in need of the deal. However, when it is an unequal situation - as is the case with this firm being understaffed and faced with the reality that there is a very small pool of available, qualified people to work in management consulting in Maputo - sometimes holding out until the last possible minute can backfire, driving away the very person you need to hire.

So now I know what they are offering. It is low, almost offensively so. But I will make a counter-offer and we'll see what happens.

Given my experience with this firm thus far, I honestly don't have interest in getting into a long-term professional relationship with them. If my experiences weren't frustrating enough, I heard similar stories from two other people here in Maputo, which tells me that this is more the norm of their operations as opposed to an exception.

However, I do want some spare cash for the end of the year. And I figure that I can do anything for 2 months, no matter how trying. Plus, this firm works a lot with the public sector here, and I have little experience working with the government, so I'm set to learn quite a bit.

I know what I'm getting myself into. I have no illusions that it will be easy to work with these people, or that their attitude will suddenly change once I sign on the dotted line.

On the contrary - I expect this to be a very trying experience. I'm sure I will play the Reality TV game nonstop, and that I will have to bribe myself through difficult workdays by thinking of my wedding dress in California, how much I want to see my parents, and how I will buy myself some hot new outfit and a ton of jewelry supplies with the extra cash. Oh, and a couple of plane tickets, as Rico and I want to go to the US for the holidays.

Also, part of me feels that this trial by fire that I'm expecting will actually be a very good thing. You see, I've grown quite comfortable in my professional position. Sure, there are some drawbacks that come with working as a self-employed, independent consultant. I get stressed out by the uncertainty of my cash flow and the inconvenience of not having a back-office. However, it is overwhelmingly pleasant. I get up in the morning when I feel like it, break up my workday with a trip to the gym, wear pajamas all day if it pleases me, have a leisurely lunch, set my own hours, and get to say "no" to any potential jobs that I don't want.

Sometimes a tough period - where one is forced to deal with difficult people, work outside one's comfort zone, dedicate one's self to a project that is a challenge to become interested in - can be the perfect prescription for professional and personal growth by leaps and bounds.

I feel in need of such a period, if nothing else to remind me why I've chosen to work independently, and why I fundamentally do not want the corporate life, no matter how strong the allure of steady money and a status-inducing title.

Distance

I'm okay being alone, and even cherish it. I need my space and private time to be a happy person.

But I miss Ricardo. He's been away for just over a week, already, and I feel his absence here in the house, in our life.

I also miss my family. And friends.

I feel like this most of the time, but never take the time to explicitly say it.

Living abroad seems to be the way my life will go; I am satisfied and excited with the situation I currently have, but it doesn't change the fact that I always long for those I have left behind.

I especially miss my parents. Some days I wonder if I am crazy spending all this time away, despite what I feel is my "life path". Two of the few people in this world that truly, unconditionally love me - and vice versa - and here I am half a world away. It's not like any of us are getting any younger...am I out of my mind to be so far from my mom and dad?

I guess not, because I am really happy here and don't know if I would be were I living in the US in a different situation right now. Not that we couldn't be happy in the US...but at the moment, we've got a unique and good situation here in Moz that isn't very sustainable in other, more developed economies.

Meh.

Perhaps this saudades is brought on by the fact that I dreamt in vivid detail of a terrorist attack on the US last night. Damn subconscious.

Typical

Guess who failed to meet with me yesterday as promised in order to give me a financial proposal?

That's right...our old friend the consulting company.

I wouldn't really mind so much that they keep flaking out if only they'd let me know ahead of time that they can't make the meeting they scheduled. I mean, is it that hard to send an e-mail or a text to say it's off and we'll do it another day?

Instead, I sat all afternoon anticipating their call, which never came. As you know, this is far from the first time this sort of thing has happened.

I vented my frustrations with a few people yesterday, and a couple of them suggested that perhpas the partners from this consulting firm perceive time in a radically different, more fluid way than I do.

I'm familiar with the whole idea, that certain cultures operate on very fixed, rigid schedules when it comes to time, while others - stereotypically Africans, Latin Americans, etc. - don't operate on the "time is money" principle and have no problem showing up for appointments or parties 1 or 2 hours late. I've been living abroad long enough that this is one of the first possibilities I consider when I become irritated because someone (in my opinion) has disrespected me and wasted my time.

This would be a plausible explanation for the way the consulting firm has treated me...if only I'd never seen how they work with their clients. When it comes to the people paying their hourly fees, they are always on time if not early to meetings, respect deadlines, show up to the office on Sundays to finish a project if necessary, and generally bend over backwards to promote a professional image and keep the client happy.

With me, however, it's been a totally different story. The way the've given me the brush-off leads me to think that I'm not a priority for the firm. That would be a fine and logical explanation, except for the fact that they keep running back to me, saying how they are so desperate for qualified people, how they are understaffed and overworked, and want to get me on board immediately. Figure it out, people!

Regardless of any cultural or time-perception differences, one thing is clear: I see a red flag. Perhaps it's a very good thing that I've seen this side of the firm before signing on the dotted line.

Satisfaction

Despite the fact that I started my morning feeling sleep-deprived and in an awful mood (thanks to Pria opening the bathroom door about 400 times last night and causing havoc with the toilet paper), my day turned out to be quite wonderful.

I got an early start and managed to accomplish loads of work on a fundraising proposal by 11am. I suppose this is the benfit of being a procrastinator - sometimes I amazed at the sheer amount of work I am able to get done when I really sit down and go for it with no distractions. Then, of course, comes the question, "Why can't I just work at half this pace with some regularity and avoid the stress of having to rush at the last minute to meet a deadline?"

Anyhow, the feeling of accomplishment was nice.

I had lunch with Tracy and Sophia at Piri-Piri. As the name suggests, their piri-piri sauce is killer, perhaps the spiciest in the entire city. I have a high tolerance for heat, but felt my tongue on fire after just a few drops. So we had a couple of beers. That helped.

Sophia and I then took a walk and went to my favorite place, the Núcleo de Arte, then to the bank, and finally to the butcher's. I bought fresh local cheese and guava jam, along with some meat for meals this week (meat is something I don't usually buy, but I am in a food rut and need to change things up a bit).

I made a yummy spinach and ground beef lasagna for dinner. I used the fresh cheese in lieu of ricotta, and made 2 liters of homemade tomato sauce for the filling. As I cooked, I snuck spoonfulls of the guava jam, and somehow found the restraint necessary not to eat the entire jar for dinner instead of a proper meal.

Jenny and F. came over for dinner and it was a nice, laid-back girl's night. We gossipped and had some interesting conversations about our respective experiences here, the various perspectives one can have on corruption, the process of making Mozambican friends, the places we want to travel...It's good to have girlfriends, particularly when you consider that I was friend-less and lonely this time last year.

I also received an e-mail regarding my jewelry creations that has me quite excited, and admired a pair of earrings I made that Jenny ways happily wearing.

But the best part of my day happened in the space of about 2 minutes.

I don't have the details yet, but I received an offer this evening that made my entire month. Professionally speaking, it may have made my year. I have butterflies in my stomach and can't wait to find out more information about this opportunity.

I shall share more as things shape up.

In somewhat related news, tomorrow I supposedly have a meeting with the partners of a consulting firm to discuss the possibility of me working for them in a more "regular relationship." I'm not interested in full-time work for several reasons, but I am open to considering a Monday-Wednesday stint in their office or something similar.

This firm has been talking with me about how they need additional help and want me to work for them since November of last year. Each time we have a discussion of the sort, they promise to get back to me with a concrete financial proposal the next day or the next week. Inevitably, our negotiating process has stalled each time (because they've not given me a proposal, not because I've rejected their offer) and I've felt a bit as if they are stringing me along. We've been at this for 9 months, people, and I am tired of the runaround.

Tomorrow afternoon, theoretically, I will receive the long-awaited proposal. I must confess, regardless of whatever salary they might offer, I have mixed feelings about the whole deal. It's hard for me to forget what this drawn-out process has been like, and I question whether I want to get involved with a company that has such a difficult time doing follow-up.

Who knows. Perhaps I will accept the offer and subsequently edit this post to paint a prettier picture of how it all went down. More likely, I won't. Edit the post, that is. I'm at the point now where I'd be happy to spell out my grievances for all the partners instead of pretending like I'm completely satisfied with how I've been treated thus far.

However, the cool piece of news I referred to earlier makes the pending meeting with the consulting firm that much sweeter. You see, unless I'm hugely mistaken, I have a better offer coming my way. One in which I'd work with a person who I admire immensely, who makes me feel valued and competent as a professional. Best of all, I believe it's a situation in which I'd still retain my freedom to travel and to work from home part of the time.

I'd jump at this opportunity any day of the week, and it will be a satifying end to this drawn-out negotiation process to be able to tell the consulting partners, "So sorry, boys. In the time you took to get back to me, I've accepted a position elsewhere."

I'll keep you posted on how it all develops.

Alexandra Amaro Fusion

Over the past year, I have become increasingly serious about my jewelry-making obsession, taking it from a hobby to a fledgling business. I've been selling at local crafts fairs in Mozambique each month, and finally opened an Etsy site to try my hand at e-commerce.

In all, my experiences designing and making jewelry have been overwhelmingly positive. I have learned an immense amount about both the business and design aspects of the work. I have even developed a small reputation around Maputo as the person to see for higher-end jewels.

However, throughout the past year, I have been plagued by the disconnect between the images and inspirations for my pieces I had in my mind, and the final product. Part of the problem has been the lack of access to materials and inputs for my jewelry, as Mozambique doesn't have anything resembling a bead shop at this point. There are fabulous gems mined in the country, but they are next to impossible to get your hands on, and it is even harder to find someone capable of doing lapidary work. In all, I've been limited to what I can fit in my suitcase and informally import from the US and Brazil.

My problem hasn't only been with materials, though. I suppose this is a natural part of any artist's journey, but I'd been struggling to find my "voice", my preferred style, my unique signature look that defines my jewelry and makes it stand out in such a saturated market.

It's been a long time coming, but this past week, I finally nailed it. I've managed to reproduce the image that's been in my mind the entire past year. My work finally fits with my inspiration - fusion jewelry inspired by Mozambique, Brazil and New Mexico.

I found some local artisans (one in Manica Province, the other in Nampula) that could provide me with Mozambican materials - precious hardwood beads, soapstone components, and trade beads from Ilha de Moçambique. It was a great process to do business with these guys, who are still at a very simply level of commercialization, yet are able to use e-mail and text messages to process an order. It was a fascinating experience to go to the cargo sector of the Maputo airport and collect 2 boxes containing jewelry supplies made specially for me by local artisans.

The products I received were gorgeous, especially the wood (blackwood and rosewood). I sat down to make a few pieces, and I was on a roll. The fusion designs started flowing, and I've spent each night this week furiously bending silver wire, wrapping gemstones, and digging through bags of trade beads to find matches.

It is a nearly intoxicating feeling to have this coming together - and with fortuitous timing. At the end of the month I will be participating in a national crafts fair, to be held at the historic fort here in Maputo. It was a juried selection process, so I feel especially honored to be showing my work at the event. It will be 5 days: 30 August to 04 September. I can't wait!

Here are a few examples of the pieces I've created this week. The main materials are pau preto (blackwood), pau rosa (rosewood), trade beads found in the sand on Mozambique Island, mother of pearl, silver wire, pearls and gemstones.

I hope you like them as much as I do!

The Angels

Or so you'd think after seeing these photos...

What they don't capture is the "other side" of the boys, including Pria's incessant attempts to open all of the doors in our flat starting at 5am (she does it by jumping on the doorhandles, and is increasingly efficient), Parceiro's habit of climbing up our new bedroom curtains and tearing them off the hooks because of his weight (thus letting the full sun shine in the window at an ungodly hour), and both of the boys' fascination with the trash can (as in diving head-first into the bin to retrieve any piece of crumpled paper we may have tossed away).

Our little anjinhos...

Meta Blog

This evening I went out with friends F. and D. to have some dinner and a beer at a nice snack shop with an outdoor patio. F. is working here doing research in public health and trying - without much support from her organization - to do an internship. I met her through our housemate, who is also interning at the same place.

D. is a geologist working with a titanium project north of Maputo. I met him on my flight from Joburg to Maptuo last month when, coincidentally, we sat next to each other. I have good plane karma. I think each of the 25 or so flights I've taken in the last 2 years I've had lovely seat companions.

So we went out for some food and had a nice time chatting, catching up in general on the latest events in each other's lives. At the end of the meal, I ordered a last beer, the famous saideira in Brazilian Portuguese. My friend F. declined a last drink, so I offered to share my beer with her.

F. looked at me with a puzzled face. "I thought you didn't like to share drinks with people."

"Oh. You read my blog," I said.

"Yeah," she responded, "you know, the whole list of random things."

"Well, I don't mind sharing all the time. I wouldn't have offered to share my beer with you if I wasn't truly okay with it. Honestly."

Despite my insistence that I wasn't grossed out by sharing a glass, F. declined the offer and I sipped my last beer alone. Sometimes keeping a blog can backfire on you.

I am reminded of this post from last year, when shortly after writing my friend Jenny came over for dinner and was slightly, shall we say, apprehensive about the hygeine in my kitchen.

At the mention of my random list post, F., D. and I got into a conversation about why I chose to start a blog, the surprising impact it's had on my life here in Mozambique - especially in terms of meeting new friends - and the concept of blogging in general.

D. asked if I've ever written something and then regretted it, to the point of deleting the post from the public eye of the internet. It made me think. I've certainly written some spill-all posts, in particular last year when I shared a flood of carefully harbored secrets seemingly out of the blue, but I can honestly say that I don't regret anything I've written about in this venue.

Certainly, in moments of self-doubt, I've been tempted to retract some of the more intimate posts I've put on my blog, but the responses I received from family, friends (real-life and virtual), and complete strangers did away with any regrets I might have felt. If anything, it's been quite a liberating process to put myself out on the internet, with very few things held back.

I am mindful of the fact that my grandmother, Rico's mom, my parents, and a slew of other people upon whom I want to make a good impression read this blog. The fact that they have read about some of my darker, more scandalous times and still love and respect me is, in my opinion, a giant step toward self-accpetance and healing.

Regardless, there are a few subjects that I won't touch in public form - sex, the nitty-gritty of my relationship, a couple of very personal issues, and my opinions of other people's drama. But beyond these few self-imposed restrictions, I can honestly say that what you see here is a pretty close representation of who I am in non-virtual life.

At dinner, I asked F. and D. if they would ever consider keeping a blog. Both gave a resounding "no". I asked if they would be more open to the idea if they could write anonymously, with the assurance that nobody would ever connect their writings back to them in real life. Interestingly, both said that they'd rather write candidly, without a pseudonym or fabricated persona, or not write at all. And for now, the decision remains not to write at all. I respect that. Blogging isn't for everyone, I fully recognize this.

Not everyone can be a nerd like me!

That said, I do miss paper journaling. I used to write every single day from the time I was 15 to when I was about 22. I've talked about this before, but sometimes I worry that the more intimate details of my life in the years since I stopped journaling will slip away, be contorted or simply ommitted by the unfaithful nature of my memory. I've tried before to rekindle my journaling habit, unsuccessfully. Writing on the blog has become my new habit; I suppose I just need to have faith that the deeply personal details that I omit from my virtual audience will be there when I need to recall them.

Cross-Border Adventures

Rico and I went to Nelspruit on Saturday because I needed to cross the border and get the new visa in my passport stamped. I am in the process of getting my Mozambican residency permit (DIRE), and this is the second-to-last step to actually getting the appropriate identity document issued. It's been somewhat of a complicated process, in that I had to present loads of paperwork (including my MBA diploma, which has a gigantic water stain on it from the time back in Austin when, unframed and nestled in a manilla envelope, I mistook it for papers I no longer needed and used the entire thing to rest a potted begonia on, concerned that the water would seep into my carpet) but overall it's gone well considering the amount of bureaucracy involved.

Rico and I caught the Cheetah Express van that goes from Maputo to Nelspruit daily. The vehicle was new and clean, equipped with a sound system and a 15" dvd player, and the driver was well-trained and courteous. Our destination was the Riverside Mall, weekend playground for about 75% of Maputo's "elite", and the source of endless entertainment for those of us who like to compare and contrast various cultures. (See Bizarre-o World post from last year). It seemed we were in for an enjoyable trip.

Of course, by simply thinking that it would be an uneventful journey, we guaranteed that something would go wrong along the way. After all, Murphy* is Mozambican.

The adventures started in Matola, Maputo's industrial sister city. The driver pulled over at the main bus stop, along the N4 highway, where all vehicles going to South Africa collect passengers in Matola. A woman got on the van, and we were about to be on our merry way, when the police tapped on the driver's window. As Rico and I were near the front of the van, I could clearly hear the conversation that took place.

Driver: What seems to be the problem, sir?

Policeman: You can't stop here to pick up passengers. You don't have a license to stop at this spot. Let me see your license and registration.

(driver provides all requested documents, which policeman peruses with a disgusted look on his face)

Driver: You'll excuse me, sir, but this is an informal bus point. Everyone stops here, even the Greyhound bus, and none have a license. I've never even heard of a license for stopping in Matola.

Policeman: Grmph. You must have a license. Pull your van up here. No, come further. Keep coming.

(van driver pulls up exactly where cop indicates, on the shoulder just past the bus stop)

Policeman: You can't park your van here! You are on top of the sidewalk! You are blocking the way for the pedestrians! This is grounds for a multa.

Driver: But sir, I just moved the van to the place you indicated! How can you give me a multa for following your orders?

Policeman: Don't invent things. You parked on top of the sidewalk and you have no license to pick up passengers in Matola. I must impound your vehicle. You will follow me to the parking lot of the Municipal Council.

So, with no further argument to give and unwilling to pay a bribe, the driver followed the police pickup truck through the back roads of Matola to the Municipal Council parking lot, which, though it may sound official, was simply a parcel of untended land with a run-down building on one side and several idle-looking men sitting on the stoop. The Cheetah Express showing up was certainly the highlight of the month for them, and the men stared slack-jawed at us, unsure what to make of the commotion.

The driver parked the van in the spot indicated by the policeman (between a tractor and a pickup truck with no wheels, suspended on 4 concrete blocks), then got out of the vehicle to begin the ardous discussion process over the supposed infraction. Thankfully, he left the key in the ignition so we could continue to watch "Die Hard 4" on the dvd. It was nice to have the entertainment, as we sat in the parking lot for nearly an hour; unfortunately, since the key was in the ignition, it made that maddening ding-ding-ding-ding noise the entire time. For each pleasure there is a sacrifice...

Sufficient time passed, and the police grew weary of accusing the driver of one thing after another without receiving money for a refresco. With no further explanation, they returned all of the driver's documents and sent us on our way, no multa to speak of.

The delay in Matola meant that we hit the border crossing at Ressano Garcia at the absolute peak crossing time. I have never, in my entire life, seen a line so long and stagnant as the one on the Mozambican side of the border. With a deep sigh, we all got in line and mentally prepared for what was sure to be a 2-hour-plus wait.

Rico and I chatted with a fellow passenger who, coincidentally, lives in the flat across the hallway in our building. We've seen her in the hallways all of 4 times in the 1.5 years we've lived in this flat, so it was quite a surprise to meet her on the way to Nelspruit.

The line crept along, and soon an hour had passed. At this rate, we were going to make it to the mall just in time to spend 20 minutes shopping and get back on the van to return to Maputo. As our sole purpose for the trip was to get my passport stamped, we were not overly concerned. Still, it would be a shame to make it all the way to Nelspruit and not be able to enjoy the day a bit.

After a while, our driver went for a chat with the immigration officials stamping passports in a significantly shorter, separate line from the one we were standing in. Apparently the chat was successful, because minutes later the driver whistled and motioned for us to join him. As we got organized in the new line, I looked up at a sign on the wall above our heads: MINERS ONLY.

When it was finally my turn at the front of the line, the immigration official thankfully didn't question whether the cute white girl in front of him was going to work at the diamond mines at Kimberly or the gold mines at Barberton. Unfortunately, he did have some issues with my visas, specifically trying to tell me that I had overstayed my legal stay and that I would be in for a multa. Stupid multas.

Thankfully Rico, the master negotiator, was by my side and took over the conversation with the immigration official. He explained that the immigration agency in Maputo had issued me a new visa before the expiry of the one the official was having issues with, and therefore I was legal in Mozambique and didn't have to pay a fine. We went back and forth, discussing the details of the immigration law for foreigners, trying to convince the man that he should simply stamp my passport and let us go. It took some hard negotiating, our Brazilian Portuguese and outgoing attitudes definitely helping our case, but in the end we finally managed to get the all-important stamp. Mission accomplished.

After making it through the border in *only* 1.5 hours, we were back in the Cheetah Express and speeding past lush fields of cane, citrus and bananas. It is always shocking to me to see how the Mozambican side of the border is somewhat barren and covered in scrub acacia and thornbushes, whereas the South African side is immediately divided into organized, irrigated fields, with expanses of green as far as the eye can see.

The Riverside Mall was exciting, in the way that people from small towns in the interior get a rush from visiting the big commercial center in the district capital. Nothing is particularly special - it's just a typical expanse of clothing shops and department stores and a food court - but the simple fact that it's different from Maputo and involves a cross-border trip is enough for me. We bought curtains for our bedroom, a terracotta-colored lamp for the living room, soap and face creams from The Body Shop, and canned asparagus, tuna in brine, and chocolate from the supermarket. Didn't I tell you it was exciting stuff?

The drive back to Maputo was actually quite pleasant. There was a swollen, amber-hued full moon in the sky and we could smell the distinctly African air ripe with wood smoke as it permeated the interior of the van. Rico and I both slept nearly the entire way home, then walked the 3 blocks from the dropoff point back to our flat with our newly acquainted neighbor, shopping bags in hand, satisfied with yet another adventure.

* of Murphy's Law fame. You know, if something can possibly go wrong...

Random Meme

I was going to tell you about the second round of police adventures we had this weekend (thankfully no shots fired), and about our trip to Nelspruit, and about the fact that Rico leaves tomorrow, but that will involve a semi-long blog post. Right now I have to finish a proposal for a client. However, as I love a good procrastinating spell, I couldn't pass up this meme tag from Karen.

The rules:

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts. 2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves. 3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules. 4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.

Here goes!

1. I read celebrity gossip every single day. My favorite is Perez Hilton. Before moving to Mozambique, I never used to read celebrity dirt on the internet or buy gossip magazines. Now it's an addictive habit, one that I'm not sure how to explain. Perhaps because the celebrity world is so far-removed from my own reality here that it's a surefire way for me to zone out and relax. Plus, who doesn't love a good scandal?

2. I am very picky about sharing drinks and utensils with people, even Rico and my family. If someone takes a slurp out of my coke, or takes a bite out of my sandwich, I find it very hard to keep eating/drinking. I kiss these people without a problem, but the idea of foreign saliva on something I'm consuming is slightly repulsive.

3. I've talked about my closet before. It's color-coordinated, with the clothes organized by season within each category. My shoes are organized by style. My necklaces hang on the closet door, also organized by color. I hate when someone messes with my closet!

4. I am not usually a lucky person when it comes to winning lotteries and raffles. I did win big once, though, when I was 10 years old. We had a raffle at my school and I won a flying lesson. I got to go up in a little plane and act as "co-pilot". With the help of my friend's dad (the main pilot), I flew over our house, the school and other landmarks in Albuquerque. It was very cool, but I guess used up all of my lottery karma.

5. I love colored walls. Every single place I've lived where I've had the ability to paint the walls, I've gone for it. I like really bright colors, not some washed-out safe pastels. There is a giant red wall in our living room in Rio, the kitchen is bright yellow, and the wall in the entryway is an orange/ochre color. Here in Maputo, our living room wall is a terracotta/pink color, and we have plans to paint our bedroom wall the color of coffee with milk.

6. I am obsessed with a certain smell that I find addictive, but that I recognize is actually pretty gross. I have 6 piercings in my ears, and always wear little studs in them. I also used to have a belly ring (it fell out last year, but the hole is still open). I love to take out my earrings and smell them. Strange, I know, but there is this vinegar-y stench that comes off the silver posts that I find irresistible. If I take an earring or a pin and put it through the hole above my navel, then take it out and get a whiff, the smell is the same as from my ears.

7. I love going to the beach, but am really bothered by having sand on my body. I tend to get coated in sand (like a bife à milanesa) because of my hyperhydrosis, in particular on my hands and feet. It drives me crazy.

8. I laugh in my sleep. According to my mom, I have done this since I was a little girl. It only happens on occasion, but sometimes I laugh so hard that I wake myself (and others!) up in the middle of the night. I seldom remember what makes me laugh, but it is always a lot of fun in the moment.

So now, for the tagging bit:

Lacithecat, El Erik, Jenna, Marcia, Safiya, Alina, Alphawoman and Masd.

Sights and Sounds of 24 de Julho

Seen Recently Out and About in Maputo:

A car painted bright yellow, outfitted with rooftop loudspeakers, driving down Avenida 24 de Julho at 20 km/hr blaring out the following message for all to hear: "Participate in the National Census. You count! Census equals citizenship."

It seems the Government has pulled out all the stops to ensure that the upcoming census will be a success. I participated in the Pilot census last year where they were training their enumerators, field-testing the survey forms, and familiarizing the public with the whole process. I found some of the questions to be quite intriguing, the highlights I remember being:

• "How many hoes are owned by your household?"
• "Do you own a tractor?"
• "Do you own a bicycle?"
• "What is the language you speak at home with your family?"
• "Do you own a computer?"
• "How many times did you access the internet in the past year?"

I was happy to participate in the Pilot census, and look forward to the real thing later this year. I also look forward to accessing the results, as reliable, recent statistics about Mozambique are sorely lacking.

As we sat eating shwarmas at the sidewalk cafe where we saw the Census Mobile drive by, Rico and I played a little game I like to call The Fascinating World of Ambulatory Sales.

Walking salesmen are ubiquitous in Mozambique's cities as they are, I imagine, throughout the rest of Africa. Men usually have these jobs (women, it seems, tend to stick with selling fruits and vegetables at corner stands), which consist basically of holding out an assortment of items and literally walking all over the city trying to rustle up interested consumers. You may see men holding out 5 pairs of used shoes, or perhaps a package of clothes hangers, or a display board full of costume jewelry. The point is, these salesmen are everwhere, and the assortment of their goods is nothing short of fascinating.

In the 15 minutes or so that Rico and I concentrated on the salesmen walking past the Lebanese cafe, we observed the following goods for sale:

• used clothing
• used women's high heels
• extension cords and plug adaptors
• nail polish and other cheap-looking makeup
• hair extensions
• batiks
• a giant rug, rolled up and balanced on a guy's head, easily extending 5 feet in either direction
• carved wooden masks
• clothes hangers
• plastic buckets
• straw brooms
• batteries
• cell phones and cell phone accessories
• cigarettes and lighters
• toy cars
• stacks of pirated DVDs
• a Mont Blanc pen (surely authentic)
• a digital camera (result of an assault on a tourist, most likely)
• a gold bracelet (probably same as above)
• fresh brown eggs, stacked in a pyramid inside a plastic basin
• fried sweet biscuits
• pre-paid cell phone cards

15 minutes, people! I think you get the picture. Basically, if you sit long enough in a Maputo sidewalk cafe, all of the knick-knacks you could possibly desire will eventually pass in front of you, being hawked enthusiastically by a walking vendor.

A word to the wise: Don't make eye contact with said vendor unless you a) plan on purchasing whatever he is selling, or b) enjoy the fine art of convincing someone you really, really, really don't want to buy anything, no matter how "Good price, Boss!" it may be.

Frustration

Typepad friends: you may have noticed I've been absent from the comments lately. Ever since buying a new laptop, Typepad has decided to reject all my attempts at leaving feedback on your blogs. I don't know what is going on.

I am going to try and create a Typepad account for myself. Perhaps that will fix things. Until then, know that I am still reading and enjoying in silence.

The Night Ended with a Bang

Last night we went to Coconuts for a concert (after a nice, long nap, mind you - Maputo's nightlife starts ridiculously late and we can't deal with the 3am start times without some rest beforehand). We had a great group of people that included Brazilians, Americans, Italians, a Welsh guy and a Dane, all of us living and working in some spot in Mozambique. The evening started out with a dj, and we danced like mad to his eclectic mix of music.

The concert was supposed to start at 11pm, the headlining artist being Dama do Bling. She is one of Mozambique's top hip-hop artists and has her videos shown regularly on Channel O, South Africa's main music channel. Recently, the Dama do Bling came under harsh criticism from the moral crusaders of Maputo because she continues to dance her provocative, sexy moves even now that she is a couple months pregnant and starting to show. Apparently it's okay for a non-mother to gyrate and bump on the stage, but it's offensive to the good values of society if she is expecting a child. These criticisms caused a lot of discussion between people here in Mozambique, with many people praising Dama do Bling for being herself and not conforming to the traditional expectations of how a woman should behave.

We were all excited for the show, if nothing else because the environment inside Coconuts was contagious. It was packed full of Mozambicans and you could feel the energy as they waited for the Dama do Bling to come on.

Midnight passed, then 1am. We danced and drank. 2am came around, and no sign of a concert. Finally, at the fashionably late hour of 2:30, a full 3 1/2 hours after the posted start of the show, the dj announced the opening act.

Some girls came on the stage and did some dancing, then were followed by some guy doing R&B. Then the dj announced a true legend of Mozambican music, and an older man whose name unfortunately I was unable to catch came on stage, decked out in a white suit with a matching fedora. He sang beautiful music (all on playback, unfortunately, as was the case with all the other artists) and made the crowd go crazy. Then the dj announced yet another opening act, a rapper called Deny OG. Next came Lizha James, the self-titled "rainha do ragga", queen of a style that is a derivative of reggae. Lizha James and Deny OG are pretty big names in Mozambican popular music, equivalent to the Dama do Bling herself. We were pretty surprised that there were so many opening acts, and with so many "big" names.

By this time it was nearly 4am and we were certain that at any moment the main artist would come on and put on a killer show. The dj called all the opening artists to the stage. An announcement was made. "We would like to apologize to the audience and fans of the Dama do Bling, but she will not be able to perform tonight." We looked at each other somewhat shocked. The man continued, "she was feeling bad last night and went to South Africa to see the doctor. Earlier today, the Dama do Bling had a miscarriage and lost her baby."

We were shocked and saddened, and honestly a bit annoyed that they hadn't had the decency to make this announcement before everyone paid for tickets and waited around the entire night for a concert that never happened. Then we understood why the had called in so many artists for the pre-show - they were trying to make it up to the audience.

Tired and ready to go home, we called a taxi and all piled into the vehicle. There were 6 of us packed in there, since we all were going to within 3 blocks of each other, and it can be difficult to get cabs that late at night. Of course, while driving down the main seaside road, we got stopped at a police roadblock.

This is quite common in Maputo. The police are constantly pulling over drivers to hassle them about one thing or another, hoping to find some minor irregularity with the registration papers, or a car that isn't equipped with an orange safety triangle, or a driver with a license not translated into Portuguese. Any minor problem allows the police to threaten a multa, a fine which they always say will be extremely expensive. Usually encounters with the police end without incident. Some people willingly pay them off, giving "a little something for a soda", the preferred euphemism here for a bribe. Others, in posession of an official UN id card or a diplomatic passport, only need to flash their international heavyweight papers and they usually face no problems.

Last night, the police made us get out of the car and stand on the side of the highway. This is a bit uncommon, but they have been cracking down more at checkpoints because of a recent crime wave in Maputo. We obliged, and showed them our id cards. They hassled us because of the number of passengers in the car, and rightfully so. While one cop was talking with us, our taxi driver was busy paying off the other one. It took 150 meticais (about $6) to solve the problem, plus an extra 20 ($1) for the infamous soda.

As we were about to get back into the car, a shot rang out. Startled, we all looked at each other. "What was that?" I asked Rico.

"An AK-47," he replied.

The policeman looked at us with an intimidating face and explained that a car had failed to pull over at the checkpoint. In retalliation, the police SHOT AT THE CAR. Not a shot in the air, not a shot with a rubber bullet, but an honest-to-god, flesh and metal destroying AK-47 bullet. We were shocked, and hurried back into our taxi before anything else went down at the checkpoint.

I think I'm still processing the fact that police here willingly shoot at cars that ignore their waving roadside flashlights. What if that bullet had hit one of the occupants in the vehicle that continued down the highway? What if someone walking along the road had been in the way?

Add another one to the list of things I will never forget about my Mozambican experience...an AK-47 fired not 20 feet from where I was standing.

Great Weekend

The Codeine isn't as fun as I'd thought it might be. I just feel generally groggy, as if life were in slow motion. But it is certainly working against my cough. I'm now able to go out in public and not fear that people will think I have some sort of seriously contagious illness like Tuberculosis.

We've been hanging out with this friend the last few days, as he is in the big city for a bit before returning to the little village up north where he is working. It's always nice to catch up, especially for Rico, as he has only 1 or 2 guy friends here and usually ends up hanging with a bunch of girls.

Our houseguest S. is back in town, too, after a week in Sofala Province working on an HIV prevention project. She is incredibly fun to hang out with, always up for whatever might be going on. It's nice to have her back.

We all ate lunch at the fish market this afternoon, which is always an experience. You purchase your fish/squid/prawns/etc. in bulk at market stalls, then take it all to a series of little kiosk-type restaurants behind the vendors. The restaurants will cook up your meal the way you like best, and it is usually delicious and fresh for a pretty good price. The only problem is that it takes for-e-ver for the food to be prepared.

After lunch we came back home and all had a nap. The plan is to go to Coconuts tonight, the big nightclub here in Maputo, for a concert by a woman called Dama do Bling. Her style is basically hip-hop, but with a Mozambican flavor. Should be lots of fun, and great for dancing, something I've been missing these last couple of weeks.

Thanks for all the well-wishes for my health. I am definitely feeling much better.

Bring on the Legal Drugs

I saw a great Cuban doctor this afternoon at the clinic. He determined that my laryngitis was complicated by a severely irritated trachea and my stupid, ever-present allergies. I had somewhat of a coughing fit in his office, so he got to hear what I sound like as I hack away and gasp for air. I think he may have even felt sorry for me, because he got down to business with the old prescription pad and said he was giving me what people with tuberculosis take for their coughs.

Friends, after trying 5 different pharmacies to no avail, Rico and I finally found the medicines the good doctor recommended. In addition to a bad-ass looking inhaler and some allergy pills, I am now in posession of enough Codeine to get me arrested and heavily fined in several countries. I am a bit nervous to take the stuff after reading about it on the internet, but honestly this cough is at the point where I am willing to try anything.

Rico was kind enough to put together a medicine schedule for me, including a plan to wean me off the Codeine after 7 days so that I don't experience, as one site put it, "uncomfortable and potentially disturbing withdrawal symptoms."

Should be a fun week, y'all. I just hope I'm not completely out of it, as I have to actually get some work done and not just sit like a drugged lump on the guest bed watching nature documentaries from the 1980's on the Angolan public TV channel.

The Hacking Continues

After a week of antibiotics and anti-inflammatory pills, I feel better, but certainly not 100%. I've scheduled a visit to a throat specialist this afternoon because I still have some symptoms that I'm concerned will not go away on their own.

I continue to cough so much that the other day I "popped" something out of place in my windpipe and now have a clicking sensation every time I swallow. That, and it still burns in my chest when I try to take anything but a shallow little breath. Beyond these annoying symptoms, I generally still feel unwell, out of energy.

My mom reminded me that I've had antibiotic resistance in the past, so I did a little digging in my old journals to see if I could find the medicine that caused me trouble. Wouldn't you know it's the exact same one the doctor at the clinic here put me on last week? Sigh...

So I'm off to the Sommerschield Clinic where hopefully Dr. Jorge will find a solution for this persistent laryngitis, if that is indeed what I have.

Worth 1,000 Words

I'm supposed to let my voice rest in "real life", so I suppose I'll do the same thing on the blog, at least for today. Enjoy these wordless images from Mozambique, South Africa and Botswana, and please send some soothing, honey-coated thoughts this way for my poor larynx.

Without Water, Day 6

We are still without water in our flat. Time to go to the gym again, even though I'm not 100% back up to health. Ah, the sacrifices I make for a shower.

I've been busy with work, and it doesn't seem the rhythm will let up over the next 2 months. I'm working with an NGO that supports the crafts sector in Mozambique, putting together several fundraising proposals for them. It's hard work, and they have a limited budget, but at least it's an area that I am personally interested in. I'd much rather work with them and make less money than work analyzing some cement company's HR and accounting structures (or something equally uninteresting to me) all while making the big bucks.

There is the possibility I will sell out short-term, though. I have a meeting on Thursday with a local consulting firm that does more of the latter-type projects. They are in desperate need of help, and have been trying to talk to me about signing a full-time contract for quite a while now. I refuse to sign away my independence like that, but I am willing to explore a short-term contract, say for 3 months. Especially since I want extra cash for the end of the year so that Rico and I can visit my family for the holidays.

At least I'll be busy... Ricardo is getting ready to go to Brazil again for an extended period and I am facing the hard reality of being alone in Moz. It's always easier if I can maintain myself occupied for the duration of his absence.

The Burning Questions Meme

My lovely, very pregnant blog friend Jenica sent me this list of interview questions as part of a personalized meme. If you want to play along and have me send you a list of questions to answer on your blog, let me know in the comments. Enjoy!

1. Do you floss? Increasingly, yes. I confess it's been a difficult habit for me to pick up. I'd say I'm at 70% flossing regularity right now, but definitely shooting for every day.

2. How has living in Mozambique changed you as a person? I realize what a tendency to be impatient I have. I use all of the salvageable parts of fruits and vegetables now, instead of tossing an entire tomato because it's partly rotten. I am seriously committed to being a jewelry artist. I realize the value my trash and cast-off items have to other people. I am a more confident professional. I am no longer shocked by extreme poverty. I have become very cynical and very hopeful at the same time, though not always in equal doses...I could go on for ages.

3. Name 2 moments or experiences in your life that *defined you*. This one is difficult. I guess the decision to move to Mozambique is one. I was on the phone with my friend B., who was already living here. He asked if I was interested in working with him and Rico. I thought for a second, then said yes. I said I'd leave my job and move in 4 months. The decision to leave everything and embark on a new adventure halfway across the world, full of risk and with nothing guaranteed (not even a salary!) was, I suppose, pretty typical of my personality. Certainly the decision to come to Mozambique defined a big part of me - my personal life, my professional ambitions... The other moment would be, for similar reasons, my decision at 15 to do a student exchange in Brazil. I am still feeling the impact of that experience to this day.

4. Go to www.thecolorcode.com, take the test and list what color you are. Do you feel that you can identify with this color? I am Red, motivated by power. I agree, especially after seeing the other 3 color choices which are not me at all. Maybe I am becoming more White as the years go by, but the core description of the Red type is definitely closest to me.

5. Name 3 pet peeves of yours, however neurotic they may seem. I hate when someone leaves the windshield wipers on when it's already stopped raining, even if for 30 seconds. I hate when my running shoes are tied unequally, so that one foot is tighter than the other. I hate when my closet is out of it's perfect color-coordinated order. Yes, I believe all of these qualify as neurotic.

6. And finally, name your favorite breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. Breakfast is waffles with fruit, butter and real maple syrup. Lunch is green chile chicken enchiladas with rice, beans and sopapillas. Dinner is classic American Thanksgiving - roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries and green beans. Dessert is tough. I love marzipan, peanut butter cookies, cheesecake, brownies and lemon tarts. I am unable to choose just one.

Thanks, Jenica! This was fun, and a good distraction from all the work I need to do today. :)

Crabby and Hoarse

Friday I felt so much better, thanks to my super horse pill-sized antibiotics and a good shower at the gym. Then I went and spoiled all of my recovery progress yesterday. Unintentionally, but still...the end result is the same. I feel like crap again.

The day started out fine enough. We still had problems with the water in the flat so I decided to have a bath, something I am motivated enough to do about 3 times a year here in Maputo because it's so much work. The bath tap doesn't work in our shower, so in order to fill the tub (even when there is sufficient water flow in the apartment), one must do it manually. I boiled 5 kettles of hot water from the storage jugs we had in the kitchen, then added a couple full of cold for good measure. The bath was lovely. I even lit a candle in the corner of the tub.

Later in the day we went out to lunch at Costa do Sol with our friend Marcos. I thought it would be a good idea to get some fresh air and have a proper meal. Unfortunately, the only seating available was inside the covered portion of the restaurant, where the acoustics are terrible. It was only at the end of lunch that I realized I'd just spent the entire 1.5 hour meal practically shouting at the top of my lungs to have a proper conversation with the guys.

I guess I really did a number on the old vocal chords, because now my cough is the worst one I've possibly ever had in my life. Unproductive and hacking, one of those coughs that you can't avoid or supress no matter what kind of honey/medicine/lozenge you coat your throat with. Last night Rico and I took it easy and watched "Chocolat" on dvd; I easily coughed through 80% of the movie, no exaggeration.

Also, I ate too much crab. I had 2 giant boiled ones, and spent most of lunch wrestling with their shells and sucking the meat out of crevices. I didn't realize it as I ate, because the process was so distracting and drawn out, but I ate way too much of a rich food that I'm not used to, right on the heels of a week practically without solid meals.

So today my voice is shot, I'm still hacking away, and my chest and back muscles are sore from all the effort. And I feel like I have a hangover from all that damn crab. I suppose I've learned my lesson, at a price, as always. Today I am eating fruits and veggies again, drinking tea, and avoiding speaking as much as possible. Good thing I have tons of work to do...

Relief

On a positive note, I am happy to report that, after the 5th consecutive night of waking up in a literal pool of my own sweat, I feel enormously better. Antibiotics - when needed, mind you - work miracles.

On a less pleasant note, this is Day 2 without water in our flat. Although inconvenient and uncomfortable, Rico and I are old hands at this. We take flushing the toilet with a bucket and boiling a kettle of water for a sponge bath in stride. I feel bad for our houseguest, S., who is actually sub-letting one of our rooms. What a drag to pay rent for a place and have no water (although this is the exact situation Rico and I are in, so I don't know why I feel bad for S. more than us). I must say that she is being very understanding about it, making do just like the rest of us.

I suppose this is just part of the package of apartment living in Maptuo. On Wednesday, our friends Jenny and P. didn't have any water at their respective places and had to come over here to have a shower.

Good thing Rico and I recently re-joined the gym at chic Hotel Avenida, just 2 blocks from our house. I plan on doing 15 minutes slow walking on the treadmill, then hopping in the locker room for a nice, long, steamy shower!

Diagnosis: Laryngitis

I finally sucked it up and went to the clinic. I had a very sweet, young female doctor which made the whole experience less bad. On another good note, my throat was so inflammed they didn't have to draw any blood, the preferred way of diagnosing an infection around these parts. Well, I suppose it's not good that my throat is this irritated, but I was happy not to get the old syringe. I am a giant baby when it comes to needles.

So now I am on antibiotics and will hopefully feel better soon.

Kudos to my mom, who took one listen to my dry, hacking cough over our Skype connection and wondered out loud if I didn't have laryngitis.

I admit, I am a bit surprised. I always thought laryngitis was not that bad, basically a convenient excuse for singers not to perform when they've been boozing it up a little too much the night before and are unable to give a decent concert. I thought laryngitis was for sissies.*

Let me tell you, I was wrong. I feel like shit squared.

The doctor told me that I may feel as if my voice is disappearing over the next few days, but not to worry. It will come back. Now that's something to contemplate...me unable to make a sound. Never happened in my entire life.

I suppose I'll have another item to add to my "first experiences in Africa" list should it happen.



*Yes, I do realize that I qualify as one by my own admission when it comes to medical procedures. Still...

I'm Ready to Feel Well Again, Thank You

Friends, I am going on Day 6 of being a miserable, feverish lump on the guest bed watching reruns of Law and Order. I could feel I was getting sick on Saturday - I always get a feeling like I have Chap-Stik (lip balm) coating my throat anytime I'm about to come down with a cold - and decided to take it easy. Later that afternoon, a severe allergy attack made sure that I wasn't just taking it easy, I was unable to get up from the bed.

Sunday the allergies were gone, but not the mysterious bug that was making my throat sore, causing a dry cough and pulling a disappearing act on my appetite. While sleeping that night, I woke up literally drenched in a pool of my own sweat. It was as if I'd jumped into a swimming pool, then rushed to get under the covers before even a drop of moisture had dried. With this lovely experience, I knew I had a fever as well.

Until Tuesday, my fever was low-grade, around 37.5. I thought it best to rest it out and let this bug run its course. Then, as the day progressed, my fever began to spike. When it reached 39 (about 102), I caved and started taking Tylenol and considered a visit to the clinic. The fever went down, but I still felt like absolute shit. I stayed in bed all day, then sweat copiously again at night.

Yesterday I woke up without a fever. Yay! Or so I thought. All I had to do was get out of a horizontal position, and the fever was back with a vengeance. I had a 1 hour meeting with a client, and while in his office I could feel my temperature going up drastically. When I arrived back home, my face was flushed red and all I could do was collapse in bed in front of the tv. Back to the usual pattern. Fever was back up around 39. Sigh. I promised Rico that if I still had a fever today, I'd go to the clinic.

Did I mention I hate, absolutely hate going to the doctor? The stress that I feel by having someone mess with my body, and honestly just by being in a hospital/clinic environment, is enough that it makes me even sicker. How ironic. So naturally I avoid the doctor until I am convinced that I am ill enough that I need antibiotics or a malaria test or something that home remedies just won't cut. Here I am mindful of my reluctance to get medical attention, as I know there are some endemic diseases that, if not treated promptly, can have serious complications.

So today I woke up without fever. Yay! Although I'm afraid I may jinx myself because I've just taken my temperature and it is at 37.2 (99F). Low enough that I'm even reluctant to call it a fever. But certainly an upwards trend. Merda. I don't want to go to the doctor, but I will if it goes higher.

Last night I freaked myself out by googling the symptoms of Tuberculosis. I don't think I have it, but it was certainly motivation to go to the clinic if this thing persists...

Edited to add:

I have given in. I am going to the clinic. Sigh.

Here's hoping I feel better tomorrow.

Feverish Questions

It was bound to happen after all the time I spent breathing recirculated airplane air over the last 2 months. I've caught a bug that I can't seem to kick. My throat is sore, I'm coughing nonstop and I have a low-grade fever. Nothing super serious, but a real pain nonetheless. I hate being sick.

I started reading "Guns, Germs and Steel" by Jared Diamond while on my trip to the US. Although I admit to be struggling significantly with his heavy, textbook style of writing, the content is certainly interesting.

One of the things that struck me was his discussion of fever. Our bodies are so smart! When we are affected by a microbe or virus that makes us sick, something clicks in the brain to elevate body temperature a few degrees. The extra heat won't harm us, but in many cases the foreign element can't survive the slight increase in temperature and dies off, leaving us to recover naturally. What an amazing strategy.

It makes me think, however, that it is probably counter-productive for us to take Tylenol or Aspirin when we are suffering from a fever. In bringing the body temperature back down to normal levels, wouldn't that just allow the germs to stay alive and keep making us sick? Shouldn't the best option be to let a slight fever run its course without medication to bring it down, thus respecting our body's natural healing strategy?

Why are we encouraged by doctors to take fever-reducers when we run a temperature? (Obviously one must make a distinction between a high, potentially health-threatening fever and one that is less severe.) The more I think about it, the less it makes sense...