the other day

i wake up to the sauna that is my bedroom. i pull my heavy body from the bed, the ill-fitted sheet sticks to me, a wrinkled moist clump underneath me. there are no covers. i lift up the netting and place both feet on the dusty floor and shuffle to the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face and apply the mornings’ sunscreen. there is no water coming from the tap. i pull a cup from a large plastic bin of water in the shower and use it for washing. i stand at the fan, lift my shirt and cool by belly. i pour a variety of pills into my hands, vitamins, doxycycline, a probiotic and take them all in one gulp of warm filtered water. 

the sun is always up way before me. i feel like i am sleeping the day away. it is 7am. 

i have errands to run and need cash from town, to go down to the school, and items from the barraca. i dress in a tank top, my rusty watch from wal-mart, linen pants, havaianas and a leather bracelet. i don’t comb my hair. i gather all my things for going in to town. i need my international drivers license, my mozambican scooter registration and license and receipt of purchase, which are all stuffed in a pink silk wallet i got in vietnam. it is now tattered and falling apart. i have a wad of mozambican meticais in a yellow and red zippered cloth wallet dominique gave me. i toss those in my oversized 75% off straw bag i bought at target with shannon. i grab the wad of keys on the ring on the back of the door, my freshly charged ereader and start the sun scorched walk down the hill. the scooter awaits me inside the gates of the mission compound. her black seat is hot. she starts on the second try. i forgo the helmet. it is hot and obstructs my view. i plan to take the scenic route. (i will take it next time, mom). the road into town is still under construction but workers have placed a scrap of wood along the edge of a concrete slab that sort of allows passage. i have to get off the scooter and push. a man comes along to help. i knew someone would. mozambicans are very helpful and courteous. sometimes they want money for their helpfulness and sometimes they don’t. all the workers greet me loudly in their Makua greeting, “Salaama”. i repeat the greeting and they talk about me. i have no clue what they say but i know from their unabashed stares that it is all about me, the white girl. i smile and wave and try with body language and my face to say, “i am no different”. children come to the side of the road to wave to the white girl on the red scooter. i slow down to see their faces and to show them mine and to wave back. i honk. they giggle. i see 9 different men along my journey peeing on the side of the road. but who’s counting? it catches me off guard all 9 times and i flinch and turn my head. i ride over literal mounds of garbage. i slow down when i approach a little village where the garbage has grown from a large mound on the sides of the road into both lanes. boxes and bottles and paper and trash. children in rags. boys with handmade toys. the indian ocean in her vast turquoise blue Tuesday best takes my breath away. i smell her and the trash. the sea breeze still feels amazing despite the smell of rubbish. breakfast has worn off and i feel hunger not too far away. i am hot and thirsty. i follow the coast line into Old Town, my favorite part of the city. it looks ever bit like the abandoned Portugese port city it once was. architectural structures left behind to tell the story, fading in color. there is a large hill and the scooter whines. i get off and push. she really is just a toy after all. a China toy that runs off gas. my rubber flip flops pound the hot pavement. “a back pack would be more practical” i think. but the straw bag goes with my outfit. i wipe sweat from my upper lip and forehead. there is a large ugly turkey with little baby turkeys following close behind. a few shops are open. they are hot and dark inside. they all sell a smattering of things; fabric, batteries, milk, cooking oil, hair oils, soaps, chocolate, candy, laundry powder. they all smell funny. they all depress me a little. each time i hunt for something pretty, something recognizable, something different. everything is a necessity. the luxuries are cheap plastic bracelets made in China. the fabrics are fun to look at, colorful and vibrant. but i don’t need that.   i need toilet paper and dishwashing liquid and laundry detergent. there are boxes of cookies. but they are not any good. i have tried them all. the artificial flavored and colored filling is pea sized and they are flavorless. plus i don’t need cookies. my pants are tight. i wind down the hill and turn left at the sign for the gas company. i didn’t pack water and my forehead is burning from the sun. we drive on the left side of the road here but here the road is full of holes and sand and i wind and dodge and create a path of my own along the flat spots. i think even the scooter is ready for a break. i pull her in front of a brick building with a proper sign and new Toyota pickup trucks and Land Rovers parked out front. it seems like a mirage. there is a market inside. a proper market with little straw baskets for your goods. a glass case with cheese inside. a small refrigerated section with yogurt and other dairy products. there is a huge jar of Hellman’s. it is $18. everything is shipped up from South Africa. there is bulgar wheat and dried fruit and crackers and jam. i throw stuff in my basket as if it might disappear. i get less than 10 things. i spend $60. later i took my findings home and set them all out to look at them. i have rationed them all and am making them last. the market is inside a larger building that houses a restaurant. the chef greets me in full chef regalia. black double breasted cotton, banded collar. he is large and white and South African and flamboyant. have i teleported? there is air-conditioning but it is weak. i find a seat in the corner and interrupt three flies from a water glass at my place setting. i am still in Africa.

a waitress greets me and i order coffee. despite the heat, coffee remains a delicacy plus i saw an espresso and cappuccino machine when i walked in. i am excited. real coffee. i unzip my ereader and return to my book. a depressing New York Times Bestseller that came highly recommended and which i hoped would get a little happier with each heart wrenching chapter. but not all things are happy and the novel set in the middle east during a war in which i was alive and well and thriving in Hart County High School and girls my age in Afghanstan were not playing tennis and driving around a small innocent town in a Peugeot with heat seats. i order a salad, another luxury. it is made with ginger. my tastebuds have conformed to rice and beans, spaghetti and bread rolls. there are white people, assumed workers with the oil companies, coming in and out but i am consumed with my honey ginger salad, the view out the window and the war in Afghanistan.  the yacht, my yacht, is resting outside the window, rocking back and forth. the flies still dance around my water glass and i shoo them the entire time. the waitress comes along and opens the window and shoos them too. i finish the book there. as i click to the last page and read the last sad paragraph i think about my sister. she told me she remembered finishing Old Yeller in the pink and orange booth of the Dairy Queen in Hartwell, or was it Where the Red Fern Grows? i wonder if i will remember this, the flies, the sea and the cappuccino, the really good smelling bathroom hand soap and the completion of A Thousand Splendid Suns.

i think of her always. she is always within milliseconds of my thoughts. my father is in every bald head, and every constellation in the sky. my mother, in my own voice every time i console a child or give them instruction in the form of a Disney song. 

i scooter back along the sea. among the rubbish and then men with their backs to me. women with baskets on their heads collecting fish and mussels in the tide pools and men casting nets. i open my bedroom door and rush to the fan and bare my midriff. then rotate. anselmo and topa have seen me come home and knock at the door. i pull out the picture dictionaries from my bookshelf and we lie on our stomachs, prop up on our elbows and point to objects, they pronounce and i try to retain. i say in english and they repeat. the game continues. they could play for hours. i last about 5 minutes. they pore over the books. they inform me they are hungry. they are always hungry. but so am i. i give them each a handful of almonds from my rations. they leave satisfied with the entertainment and snack. 

i sit on the wrinkled bed amongst the netting, fan on my face. my forehead is sunburned. and shoulders are pink. the brief escape into a moment of my own culture was nice, even fun. an unplanned part of my day that just happened. who knew that in the middle of this poverty there would be such a spot?

 the electricity goes off and my fan slowly dies. 180 children. no parents. no mother to wake them every morning in song and lay out their clothes and untie their double knots. no dad to point out constellations in the sky, resting on the warm hood of a worn out pickup truck. no mom to help you pack up everything you own and clean your bathroom. no dad to look out to in a congregation as you share your heart and he holds back tears. i want them to know i am proud of them. i want to teach them something. 180 children. the job will be all day. every day. my Portuguese is rubbish. i have so much to organize. nothing goes according to plan. the sun is hot. some days it drains me. everything drains me. i find i have no energy and i used to think i knew what that felt like. i feel my age and then some. i need another cappuccino. i have instant coffee and stale almonds. i sigh a deep sigh and on the outward breath pray for energy, answers, help, schedules, curriculum, students, teachers, language help and more hours in the day. i thank Him for lunch and imported cappuccino machines and all of you...

ps. after writing this, i witnessed a motorcycle accident. i will always wear my helmet mom. i promise. the strap is broken and will not fasten, but i will wear it.