The Fish Farm @ 6:30am

the power keeps going on and off as i write this. it goes off without my noticing now. it is when i start to sweat that i notice. the air is still and despite being dressed as minimally as possible, i am dripping. and the weather is actually much cooler than it has been. 

it’s been a good week and exciting things are on the horizon. 

i met with the hotel guy this week and the meeting went well. i don’t know much at this point other than it all went well, he wants to work with us and if things go according to plan it could mean great things for my students and the future of the vocational school.

 i also went to a fish farm out in the bay. a South African company is farming “cob” a high dollar fish sold to high end restaurants. it’s an amazing operation. fish farming could have huge potential in this area and we could benefit by farming our own fish to feed our Center. 

the hotel guy wants me to see a saw mill and i want to see it, so i could be doing that this weekend too. i want to get as educated as possible on all the existing resources we have in this area. it is all a lot of unchartered territory with great opportunity. my dream is to see the locals run with these new opportunities and not be overlooked. there is no surprise that international business are coming in and developing for their own benefit, but i want to see Mozambicans seize these opportunities for themselves. 

it all goes back to Kris Vallotton’s analogy of changing the temperature of the refrigerator with a coffee pot. i have to be able to unplug the fridge and and unplug them from their cycle of poverty, poor education and lies. it’s a tiny drop in a huge sea.  but it is great to be here at a time like this as this nation is growing, adapting and coming out of poverty.

Natiti neighbors

I went to Natiti Village this past week for a ceremony for Cesar's father.

waiting for the ceremony to start, i was forced inside with the women. the men got to sit outside in the breeze. but i got to hold her.

outside Cesar's home

baby with her "baby"

entrepreneurs! (and rat proofing the house)

veronica just walked in and ceremoniously dropped 200 mets into her 1000 met loan envelope. she is way ahead of schedule and will have her loan paid off in no time. i don’t know who is more proud.

this past week, amidst the rats and snake, i was up in the middle of the night. earlier that day zito had asked me for money. he saw that i had made copies of their homework assignments and he wanted copies of his documents. this whole “documents” thing is a constant concern. i just “bought” m’faume’s (the little dutton boy) and now zito is wanting copies of his.  the whole system annoys me and sounds rather oppressive if you ask me. you have to have these documents on your person at all times or else you are thrown in jail. sounds corrupt and like the government is paranoid. i digress. zito wants copies of his documents. i think it is a front for something else. i tell him i had the copies made in town and that they are 1.5 mets.  (28 mets=$1USD). he tells me he doesn’t have it. i believe him. i know he came here to attend our bible school and he lives with family here. i know that just a few years ago the majority of this nation had never even seen currency and that this economy is different than the one i know. i know he depends on family for shelter and for food. his cousin, Paul was one of my students. he now sells cement with a guy from Bangladesh. i know he lives with Paul and Paul shares his rice and beans that he buys from the money he makes. it is the African way, you share. it is one of the many beauty’s of this culture. but i am lying awake thinking, “he doesn’t even have 1 single meticais in his pocket? surely that cannot be”? i’m embarrassed to say how many mets i have on my person at all time. i horde money here because it can be hard to get out of the ATM and i get out the maximum i can each time (at $7 a transaction, thank you very much Bank of America). i hide it from myself all over my room. how does the boy walk around with not one met? it’s not just Zito, it’s everyone. it remains day to day survival here. concepts of savings don’t always work. if Paul has money he is obligated to share with Zito, so Paul can’t save. this is all discussed eloquently in the book African Friends and Money Matters. i recommend it if this sort of thing interests you. digressing again. awake thinking of Zito and his empty pockets and how he must have faith and trust on a bigger level than i can know. wondering how often he goes hungry or does he? wondering what i would do if i didn’t have a freezer to stash my prized possessions, Snickers candy bars. i get nervous when the pantry gets bare. and of course, i never have anything to wear. i could open a small pharmacy with my stash of medicines as well as a cosmetics store. selfish me. poor Zito. “God bless Zito”, i pray as i watch the rat dance along my rafters. 

the following day i march to maintenance, as i have so many times before, and Iuculi knows what i want before i speak. he tells me he already has the cement and to wait. wait, wait, wait. it doesn’t bother me anymore. i am so good at waiting. i stand. i sit. i walk around. i sit. i stand. i dig through my bag. i jot down notes. i stand and sit and walk around some more. a guy arrives and we have a conversation about what needs to be done and within minutes i am riding on Gloria behind a motorcycle, carrying two men, one to drive and one to carry the bucket of cement and the ladder. the powdered cement is flying in the air and getting in my eyes. yet, i don’t mind because we are on a mission. he comes inside and i point to every hole in the ceiling with a bamboo stick, per his suggestion, and he slaps them with wet cement. cement goes everywhere but his assistant goes outside and brings back a flattened cardboard box to catch the debris and i am impressed. they patch holes and i beam. all i can think about is 8 hours uninterrupted sleep. i am so happy. i could hug his neck. but i don’t because that would be really inappropriate. even having him in my home alone is apparently not generally socially acceptable. so a big huge hug might give the wrong impression. i thank him profusely and fall asleep lying on my back and wake up just in time for afternoon class.

when i get there Zito walks in wearing a pretty white shell necklace. it is kinda like those ones surfer guys wear or those you get in those tacky beach shops at Panama City, but different. it is longer, not tight around the neck and the flat shells are all different shapes. it is quite pretty. i compliment him. he removes it and hands it to me and essentially tells me i can borrow it. i know he has a plan. i wear it during class and remove it to return to him when class is over. he triumphantly tells me he made it himself and that it is for sale. well, surprise, surprise. i knew where this was going all along. he made it for me. and it going to sell it to me for a good price. i am so proud of him i can barely contain myself. again, i want to hug his neck. i have lectured on this concept a lot, thinking outside the box and trying to be creative and look at the needs around us and to create a business around that need. he tells me how one of the visitors who had spoken in class the day before was wearing a certain necklace and how they had had a conversation about jewelry and local products. it apparently got Zito thinking about tourism and local products and he went to the beach and collected shells and made something beautiful and made himself 100 mets! i didn’t even bargain with the boy. i gave him what he asked for and applauded him for taking initiative and finding a way to make money. i am again, so so so incredibly proud. 

i wore it on Sunday and my friend Marylou bought it right off my neck. so Zito’s jewelry is already in demand. 

Cesar

Early last Sunday morning I got a text from a student, Cesar. His father had died over the weekend. Cesar is 18 years old. I’ve told you about him before. His text said, “I am parentless”. Death is all too common here. Women often wait weeks to name their newborn babies, to make sure they are going to live. Living here has made me a little numb. I put up walls.  I am so far away from my own family and the people that I love. I disconnect myself a little. Of course I have love to give, I hug and laugh and share all day but I keep that deep space for a very few and I keep it roped off. I don’t want to get too close to anyone so I put up walls to protect my heart from hurting when it is broken. Cesar is slowing crawling over. I love this boy. I love his heart and his kindness and his insight and discernment and his patience. He is a beautiful person and I am honored God has brought him into my life. I am heart broken that he feels so alone in this world and no longer has an earthly father to advise him. I see my own earthly father as an absolutely genius who knows everything and is the most wise man on earth. Even though I don’t always seek his counsel, I rest in knowing that he is there. I cannot fathom young Cesar’s loss. On Thursday, I see Cesar walking along the side of the road. I know him by his pink jacket he always wears. It is a knock off Adidas girls track suit jacket, polyester. It is, as always, hot as blue blazes and I never have known why he always wears that, but he does. I screeched to a halt and pull over on the side of the road. Cesar runs and falls into my arms. I hold him for a long time. I am immediately aware of the culture mores of physical affection between a man and woman but I cannot push him away. I cannot side hug or shake hands with a grieving boy. We talk a little and he begins to cry again and buries his face on my shoulder. He doesn’t want to cry and is trying to be strong. Other students of mine walk by and ask what is the matter, I tell them and they all, individually, shake hands with Cesar and express their condolences. I love this about their culture. They all know pain and loss and tragedy and they can all empathize with Cesar on a level I cannot. I put my hand on his chest and pray for him. I pray for him as if he were my own son, faced to live life alone. I pray for protection and favor and comfort and strategy and friends and hope. We part awkwardly and I try not to look back. I do and I see a boy in a girl’s jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, walking along the street. I feel so helpless. I feel his uncertainty and fear of the unknown. I’ve let him over the wall and now I don’t know what to do. I put on my helmet and scoot away and pray another prayer. 

I drive to town twice to try to get money from the ATM. But both times the lines are really long. On the third day, I have no choice and I wait in line for an hour or more. I take my wad of cash and stuff it in my wallet. I pull a few small bills for my pockets. I run into two of my students. We greet and stop and talk. They practice their English and I, my Portuguese. We shake hands and nod heads and all three go our separate ways. I go to the sidewalk where men are selling fruit and vegetables. The yell incessantly and offer up all that they have for my inspection. A good missionary would accept this part of their culture and their way of “advertising”. I tell them in the nicest way I know how to please don’t bombard me with their assortments and selections but simply allow me to peruse and if I see something I want or need I will buy it. I know! I am not a good missionary. It is so rude and I am so Western, but I cannot think straight with bananas and mcel credit and plastic scales and sacks of green vegetables and bags of cashews in my face. Let the woman shop. It’s way worse than the department store perfume counter. Relentless, they are. I tame them down a little with my speech of “let a woman shop” and my pseudo polite requests to back off. I leave with a sack of roma-size tomatoes, three huge avocado, limes and two varieties of greens, all for about $8. 

I was invited to go to one of the islands for the weekend but had made three other commitments that I really didn’t want to break. So I stayed home for the weekend. Saturday I went snorkeling and got bitten all over by jellyfish. It happens most every time and each time I forget what the stings feel like and every time I go again and come back with oozing whelps all over my body. I didn’t sleep Saturday night. The whelps and the barraca music kept me up. Even as I write this the barraca is playing really loud Mexican music, guitar strumming. So so so loud. It’ll drive you crazy. I don’t, for the life of me, understand why they have to play it 24/7 and so loudly. Two new barracas have moved in just outside our bedroom windows, one for me, one for Carola. It is not funny. It used to be a joke but now it is a painful reality of our lives. We have even made them a point of prayer. We pray, “bless them Lord. bless them so much that they have to move to a different location” or “bless them so much they get doors and windows”. 

Easter. A Rat. A Snake. Some Chicken Guards. Oh, and the Visitors.

Sunday I was asked to share my story about Eugenio and going to court with a group of local missionaries as part of their Easter service. It was an honor. I loved being home and getting to speak at LifeSprings, Beulah, Cokesbury and Warm Spring during their Sunday services. Getting to share an Easter message was humbling. I shared the story of being robbed, and paying the prisoner’s fines. I did it only because I trusted God. It was not my incredible kindness or heart of great love, but my simple trust in God and knowing Him. I shared my revelation of all that God and His Son have paid for me and how I want to be a good steward of the freedom He gave me by paying a price for me. It is a lifelong lesson for me. Each day, of course, brings a new mercy and a new revelation and I am only beginning to learn just what freedom in Christ means. 

I was exhausted from the sleepless night and came home to take a nap. I woke up groggy and pulled my laptop in bed with me and watched an ancient episode of “Good Eats”. They were filmed in Atlanta and I think he must be at that Disco Kroger in some of them. This episode he was at The Silver Skillet, making biscuits. As I am watching, I also watch a gecko climb the wall in front of me. I watched him for a little while and lost interest and went back to the biscuit making. I heard another faint noise. Since the previous rat infestation and my squirrel encounter, all noises of any kind get my attention, even tiny ones. This noise is so faint it is almost nothing. I looked up just in time to see a snake fall from my rafters onto the floor and then a rat duck back up into the ceiling. I paused in fear. My door was closed and the snake was between me and the door but I wanted to get out and fast. I threw a pillow at him and it worked, sorta. It put an object between him and me and the door and I bolted. Shivers ran down my spine as I leapt out of the room in pretty much a single bound. I found Carola in the kitchen and I announced, “there’s a snake in my room”. Carola the Doctor, takes action. She instantly put on her shoes so I did too. We stood there with our shoes on and she asked me “What should we do?”. I told her to call the guard. We were both speaking a mix of English and Portuguese. “Chamar a guarda”, I said. She ran outside to call the guard and I stood at attention, staring at the floor in my bedroom, not at the snake of course, but at the general area in front of the snake so that I could point out where he is not rather than where he is. The guards arrived with flashlights and Billy clubs. They walked one in front of the other and at the mention of “cobra” they would not even go into my room. They told us that cobras will bite, they will kill you and you will die. I rolled my eyes as I knew where this is going. They were more afraid than I was.  They were hovered together in the kitchen. I joined them. Quick thinking Carola got on the phone and called the other doctor, the South African male one. He came over and so patiently, with not one ounce of fear or concern, walked into my room, moved the pillow, whacked the snake with a Billy club and walked out of the house. The guards followed him with the snake, triumphantly on a bamboo stick. Carola followed them and beat the snake into a pulp, I assume. I stayed inside until the hebejebe’s allowed me to stand back up. I had given up animal proteins, yeast and sugars for the past month or so. There are some things all the Duty Free Vodka one can stash simply cannot fix and for this I needed one thing, chocolate. Carola had a box of cookies in the refrigerator. We broke them out and ate cookies for an hour. We anointed the house with oil and prayed for those dang barracas again, declared our home to be a sanctuary and not a place for pestilence and reptiles and rodents. Of course, we laughed as we did this and we wielded our swords. I read Psalm 91 and fell into a sugar induced sleep. I awoke to a sugar hangover headache this morning. I am home now for lunch and writing this, glaring at the space from whence the rat and the snake entered last night, praying more. After the snake was dead last night,  the guard came back and asked me for mosquito repellent. I gave it to him. Then he told me that that snake was a baby and there would be “many more”. He told me I need to buy some rubber and burn it and that they don’t like the smell and will leave. He told me I can buy this device for $1 (25 mets). I gave him the money and this morning at 5:30am, he showed up with this:

It’s a broom-like device made from rubber and mecuti and bamboo. When he told Carola it was what the witch doctors used, we opted against it. Plus wise Twyla told us it would make the whole house stink to high heaven (my words, not hers). 

The view from Church on Easter Sunday

We had a visiting team teach in the school this week. It was wonderful for me, because I got to just sit and listen and didn’t have to “perform” all day. My students made me proud by being polite and respectful, for the most part. The team taught on “identity” and knowing who you are in Christ. We made English language lessons out of the new vocabulary they gave us, and the teachings were translated. But the students got 3 days of lessons on knowing who you are in Christ. The visitors spent a great deal of time, each telling their own stories of their lives, once feeling very dejected, abused, many becoming addicted, to now living a life of joy because of their relationships with Christ. It was beautiful to see my students listen to and respond to their stories. The team simply spoke loving words over the students and called them, important, valuable, beautiful, incredible. Their countenance changed as did the atmosphere in the room. One of the muslim boys in the room wanted to argue and the team stayed after class to talk to him and answer his questions. It was great for the students to get the individual attention. They eat that stuff up. They spent a lesson simply drawing pictures for one another. A visitor gave a student a picture of a fish and asked if that meant anything to him. He said that good things in his life are hidden and are deep and you have to go deep to find them but they are there. Our daily conversations in class are so surface level. I give them practical language and we learn about grammar. We don’t talk about “vocabulary of the heart” :) and it was beautiful to do so. 

Team of Visitors from Bethel Church, Redding, CA

I got a sewing machine!!!

I had been wanting a sewing machine for the school for quite some time. I had tried to buy one each time I went through South Africa but it never worked out. I was always at the mercy of strangers, never had a car, never had a place to keep it, never had room in my bags. But finally, a couple coming to visit Iris from South Africa agreed to bring one for me. This sweet couple hand carried the machine for me and now the school owns it’s very own sewing machine! Elated to see what creations will come of it. I can hardly wait to show you! But don’t hold your breath. It could take a really long time. 

Driving into town with Twyla. This isn't me on the scooter but will try to get that shot for you.

The Roundabout

Zito

so on the day that i am mad at my students for behaving badly, here is this one. you know him too, the one that only wants one wife. Zito, totally lost in worship.

photo by Rolland Baker

don't throw the baby out with the bathwater, i need it to flush the toilet!

It is only 5:30 and I am already in my pajamas. I have eaten dinner and am ready for bed. The sun has set. I’m beat. My face is gritty from the sandy roads on G-l-o-r-i-a the Scooter. We still don’t have water. Two weeks now I think. 

Sunday morning I get a text from my student Cesar. His father has died. I’ve told you about Cesar before. His father has been sick and he has often told me, “I’m in a bad way”. His mother died a long time ago. His text said, “I’m parentless”. I can feel the weight of his new responsibilities, doing life alone, in his messages. He says, “I know my life’s gonna be totally different coz none of my parent will be here to tell me what to do”. This scenario is all too common here. With a life expectancy of about 53, so many in his generation are orphaned way too early. So I am carrying Cesar around in my heart all day. I feel helpless in so many ways but also glad that I am here for him. I asked if he needed anything and he said he did not. He will find me when he returns from the village and from burying his father. I have a feeling he is now going to ask ME what to do and I get to tell him. What do I know about raising teenage boys? Henrique first and now Cesar. I hold them at arms length because of my exit strategy and all. But I cannot help but desire to be there for them and offer them good advice and simply encourage them. After all, that is why I am here. Lofty plans mean nothing. Dreams, visions and strategies, numbers and programs aren’t the focus, people are and love is. So this week, already I find myself investing in people and the programs are taking shape too.

You’ve met Veronica, my cleaning lady. She is so incredibly reliable and responsible and hardworking. She is the one who came to work the day after she gave birth! She astounds me. Today she complained to me about how a former missionary had promised her money for a business and then left without giving her any. She told me she wanted to have a business for her children. She even said she wanted to have a business so she would have the money herself and not have to ask me for money to send her children to the hospital. She has no clue about my little loan program. Cesar is also a recipient. I tell her all about it. I sit down with her and show her a calendar and tell her about the payment plan. She says, “let’s do it”. I have a feeling she will pay me back in record time. I just wish I had the time and resources to help really monitor her business and help her get good prices on the goods she wants to buy and help her market and advertise and find a strategic location, but I have to let her run with it and do it in her own way as she knows the culture, the opportunities and demands. 

Iris recently went on a large mission trip to the north with a large medical mission team from the US. They were in need of translators and I offered the opportunity to a few of my students who speak Makonde and English. They told their friends and a few of the students who had no business going went along with the crowd and joined in. They weren’t qualified in having the proper English to do the job, but they heard they would be paid so they signed up. They returned this weekend and I got bad reports on “Grace’s boys”. Sadly it was both groups of those who could have translated well and those who had no business being there. Reports back told me they were lazy, they rebelled, they complained and were up to all sorts of “no good” that I won’t even say. Just think, Junior High Field Trip Unsupervised. They went a little wild. But these are not children, these are 18, 19, and even 20something year old men. I could wring there skinny little necks. I was livid. Today, they got a good talking to and I got a good look at myself as a mother. An angry mother. I almost lost sleep last night over it because I was so mad and rehearsing just what I was going to say and not say. For 20 minutes this morning I lectured them. I started with sharing with the group, the ones who didn’t go, about the opportunity that our students had had this weekend. I told the other students about it being a paid position and how I am daily seeking internships and opportunities for them as well. I was calm and cool and incredibly collected. But then, I let ‘em have it. It reminded me of that childhood experience of when you actually got in the car. All was well. But when you got in the car and doors were closed, Mama let you have it. You had no idea you had misbehaved or even been caught and suddenly you are in the backseat, hot Ford Escort pleather on the back of your thighs and you cannot escape and she is glaring at you in the rear view and then you start crying and...Well, there were no tears. But heads hung low. I gave them a speech about honor and about treating others the way you want to be treated. I announced that they had lost all chances of future jobs with the Clinic or Hospital. I am crushed about that for them. I told them their actions reflected poorly on me and how they had let me down. I told them how sorry I was that life had brought them such insecurities, how they always feel they are the victims and have to retaliate. I belabored the point about treating others the way you want to be treated. I told them how horribly disappointed I was in them. The guilty didn’t make eye contact for the rest of the day. The innocent one came to me and apologized. I am still a little sad about the whole thing. But it was good. We had our first serious Family Meeting. I realized I could be a little harsh and I could discipline lovingly too. I can be a mother to teenagers, I can love and be fuming mad at the same time. I also realized I still have the utmost hope in each of them. 

This weekend I went to the sea with a European friend. I asked her about what she struggles with most in being here. It is always my question. I am seeking survival techniques. She says it is hard, that it is “all hard”. But she finds when she goes home, nothing has changed. Everyone is the same and nothing much changes. She steps right back into her family and friends and their lives are essentially, not drastically any different. Their days remain a cycle of sameness. But she is completely changed, everything about her is now different as a result of being in this place and she gets to share the changed part of her. She gets to share her hard learned lessons to help others in their walk. Some people are starving for the stories, some ambivalent. But most, she says, are impacted by simply the change in her, the new her. I am for certain ever changing. I am not the same person who arrived here a year and a half ago. I’ve grown up. I have become a “mother figure” to Ernest T. Bass AKA the Little Dutton Boy (who I had to stop from getting in a fight today over who had stolen his English worksheet today in class) and a dozen or more just like him. I’ve become a little survivor in my own way. I’ve become tough and resilient but oh so more sensitive. I have fallen more in love with our Savior as I lean on Him for absolutely everything. My life has become an open book for you to come and read. And I pray my change, my constant change, never ending change, and drastic life has changed you too. 

Announcements

I'm out of credit on the Internet and the vender outside doesn't have any either so I am forced to send this update via the phone. Apologies for brevity and typos.

I just returned from the office of Mozambique Airlines to inquire about flights for MY PARENTS!!

They are planning to visit in July. As are Dr Roy and Vicki Morgan and Emmanuel College student, Haleigh Lewis.

It will be surreal to have my parents see this big part of me, my life in Africa and to meet my students. I'm excited to have my father teach them and for them to get to meet "Mr. Davis".

Also today I interviewed our second candidate for our small loan program, a woman!! Of course she was approved because women are naturally more resourceful and dependable. I believe in her and can't wait to see her little business grow!

chicken and change

Mozambican Sky yesterday & a Coca Cola Truck

Today as I left my house after lunch to go back to class, my cleaning lady Veronica was waiting in the outdoor “kitchen” area of our compound. It’s a smelly place.  Twice a day flat bed trucks deliver rice and beans (sometimes matapa, cabbage, spaghetti or chicken) in large plastic containers for us to come with our bowls to fill for lunch and dinner. The rains caused flooding and it is a muddy lake. The kitchen has a filthy wooden table where flies congregate and a wooden bench where are guards rest. The cleaning ladies sit their too and gossip in Makua. Veronica perked up when she saw me and said, “Mana Graca, nos vamos”. She wanted a ride. I told her I had to go buy cashews first, that I was not headed in the direction of her house but she could come along. She jumped on the back of Gloria and off we went. The cashew lady is sometimes on the side of the road at Wimbe Beach near The Dolphin restaurant (any time I have heard of a Westerner getting food poisoning, it is from here. I never go there.). Sure enough, there she is with peanuts and cashews. She sells the cashews in a large straw shallow basket and has tiny class cups for measuring. The larger cup is 15 mets, the smaller 5. I ask for 100 mets ($4) worth and she fills 15, 15, 15, 15, 15, 15, and two 5’s. The last “5” only had 2 nuts in it because she was too busy looking at me and smiling. Veronica told me she knew the lady and that she was her friend so I asked Veronica her name. She didn’t know. :) We all introduced ourselves. I try to never buy myself anything without asking if the person with me wants anything too. Manners. Veronica said she didn’t but I wanted to get her at least something. I told the lady to give her 50 mets worth. Veronica ordered peanuts, “for matapa” she said. Veronica then tells the lady to only give her 20 mets worth and to give her the change. That’s my girl. Smart. Silly me. Amateur. I should have known better. 50 mets is about 4 hours work. Veronica is a survivalist. She can’t know how to just receive the blessing of an abundance of extra peanuts. And I cannot blame her. She has 5 little mouths to feed. But it is my heart for this nation to know that they are not paupers but princes and that God will provide and to learn to receive blessings. I watch my own students take food from the garbage. I try to tell them that that is trash and that there is more. But I have never gone hungry. It is a lesson I continually teach and learn at the same time.

to the Tennis Gang, you are on my bulletin board and in my prayers, Jim & Gene

I had told my afternoon class to take the day off. They came in the rain this week and I wanted to give them, and myself, a break! But I knew there were others that would show up and I didn’t want to disappoint them so I went to class anyway. Sure enough a handful of students showed up. Henrique (one of my favorites and the one I have known since 2007) sat down with me and told me that he had just bought new “Colgate” and two days later it was stolen from his bathroom. For him to even tell me that story I assumed it must have been troubling him. Earlier my student Afonso was upset because his cell phone was dead. He later would not participate in class because he said he was “not able to talk today”. I assume it had to have been more than a cell phone battery bothering him. But he left as soon as class was over and I had students surrounding me and I was not able to find out. The day before The Little Dutton boy wanted money. It was the oldest trick in the book. The “I Need Money for My ID” Trick. It is the “I am in Burma and I need to wire $10 million and I will give you half” email. But I gave him the $8. Simply because I heard God say, “what’s it to you”? In that moment I felt it was not my place to teach him a lesson, to be firm, to encourage him to get a job. I just wanted him to know I care about him and that he is loved. Perhaps it was a mistake. I am confident, like Veronica, he “kept the change”. But, what’s it to me? I won’t miss that $8. I am here to show the Little Dutton Boy I believe in him. And he does have a name. It is something like M’zunya. M’kuna. M’something. So he gets his “documents”. 

And now I must get Henrique toothpaste. He could be a poster boy for the stuff. His smile is big and beautiful. Both of his parents are deceased. He is 17. So off we go.   We hit up the local baraccas that are the tiny “wal-mart’s” of Pemba. We are now blessed to have a nice assortment of barracas that all mostly sell the exact same thing right near my house. For 60 mets we get the boy toothpaste. I want to sit and talk with him. We are in an open field so I let him drive the scooter. He LOVED that. I got off of course. We went to a little bamboo restaurant. The owner was asleep on a lounge chair. We managed to rouse her and she screamed for the cook and 15 minutes later we had cold drinks. Fanta for Henrique. Club Soda for me. The little chalk board boasted a variety of meat dishes for sell. Henrique eyed that and I knew he was no longer a cheap date. He wanted what all Mozambicans absolutely love, chicken. I told him to order the big one. He did. I have been a vegetarian for almost 7 years and recently cut out all animal proteins. Watching this boy suck, gnaw and crunch on chickens bones was delightful and disgusting at the same time. We talk and laugh and I ask him about school. He tells me about his teacher. I saw Henrique in the middle of day leaving school earlier this week. He told me he had gotten kicked out of class essentially, for talking. I have noticed Henrique sings in class and always has to be moving and making noise. I can see how he would be a problem in the classroom. So I think I need to have a parent/teacher conference with this teacher. Henrique has no parents. He was so excited I agreed to meet with his teacher. I've never had a parent/teacher conference. I've been the student in question but never the parent. And now to a 17 year old boy with ADHD. Never in my wildest dreams. I hope I can intercede and help him a little. 
This is where I don't know how to manage it all. I eventually want to go home and have a career and play tennis and read Southern Living. But then there is this boy, with this smile and no parents and no toothpaste and he needs me. And for now, he's got me. This teacher better watch out! You don't mess with my boy.

Henrique and his Colgate Smile

I know this is disgusting and I apologize but you just had to see his plate. Those bones?!

in spite of myself

this week has been rainy which means wet and muddy. we have intermittent water. we are blessed to have it come on just enough to fill our buckets and water filter each time we start to get low. i got drenched today on the way to class. i only had 5 students show up and they were all soaked but none of them even mentioned it. the boys took their shirts off and shook them and put them on again and came inside. 

i met briefly with the guy over the hotel and hope to meet for coffee today to make a plan and see how we can help. 

i’ve been in pain with my right shoulder. it has been hurting me for months. i have officially given up tennis for now. it is just too painful and i don’t want to injure it even more. i think it may be a nerve. mostly just frustrated and so anxious for it to simply just get better. i also feel quite helpless as there is little i can do here for it. i am using my prayer shawl, Morning Glories! 

i am learning to live and love in spite of myself. i once heard a pastor say, don’t pray “more of you, less of me”, pray “more of you and more of me”. because the “me” is needed in the equation. the “me” is needed to be the hands and feet. i see the importance of both prayers. there are many parts to all of us and many opposites co-exist. my unloving self and my loving self. my generous self and my selfish self. i got to have a 6 minute conversation with Carla the other day. i wanted to tell her the funny story of one my students that only she would understand. you see, we used to have this neighbor, The Little Dutton Boy. it would take a good hour for me to write out his story but just envision rural Georgia, small town Faulkneresque family. little smelly barefoot boy in his underwear. part Boo Radley. part Ernest T. Bass. age 5 and there you have him. i now have this student who describes himself as “a street boy”. he says other people call him crazy but he isn’t crazy he just “sings songs that are in (my) his head”. i can see how others would think him a little off. his eyes give him away. he is becoming my favorite. he loves to laugh and his smile is so sweet. he is simply just a really troubled kid who doesn’t feel loved and you can feel it just by looking at him. all i feel when i look at him is sheer compassion. he is so goofy and off and out there and yes, i can see all sorts of anger inside, but i just see a boy needing to be loved. i relayed to Carla how my Little Dutton Boy student is now my favorite. she answered me in tears and told me a similar story of having a boy in one of her classes who no one wanted to teach. she gave him “manly” tasks to do and made him feel valued and he too, became her favorite. as she told her story all i could think about was our Granny Davis, a teacher. she always doted on the down-trodden. she always had such compassion for those experiencing tragedy or less fortunate. the more tragedy in your life, the more sympathy you got from her. as a child, that just made me, the “perfect” kid with the “perfect” family, feel invisible. i saw it as Carla was telling me her story. Carla is a lot like Granny Davis. but then it hit me, i have a little bit of it too. maybe it’s genetic or maybe it’s Jesus. maybe this is just a tiny moment of me being who God really wants me to be. and that it is easy to love the really broken kid and he is teaching me how to love and see the cheeky, bratty ones with the same compassion. he wants me to see that everyone deserves that level of understanding. i always admired my grandmother's
sympathy and look at myself a little bit amazed that i have a sliver of it too. 

every day i learn more lessons than i could ever teach. my fear is not living a life of always learning. 

i’m embarrassed to admit how often i escape this place in my mind. the lack of all things wears on you and i dream about all the excess just lies just that 24 hour plane ride away. i dream a lot about what the future holds and what i would eat and wear. i dream about my career and am seeking God’s advice on what that would look like for me. i laughed the other day when my friend asked when i was coming home and i said, “my sentence is over in October”. she laughed too. but it is a glorious “sentence”. i have been “sentenced” by God to come and help others and He in turn is helping me. He is teaching me to love, in spite of myself. in spite of my oh so selfish self. as a result of my life here, i will never be the same. i never want to want to be complacent, unmoved, by not just the plight of the poor, but by every plight, person, cause, need that He places in front of me. i want to be open to being changed, to becoming better, to giving of myself to help others and a better me. He sees my anger and my frustration and my love of food and fashion and He loves me. He sees my potential and possibilities and my future and career. He doesn’t ask us to take on the world either. i don’t have to take on every plight of every person. it’s all Him and all me. and He knows that i am “dust”. so he just gives me little “manly” tasks to do, to show me that i can do it and that He needs me. 

disclaimer: please know that i referred to my time as a “sentence” with a very close friend who has actually been here before and knows fully about what i do, more than most anyone. it was a joke and in no way meaning to describe how much i adore what i do and what an honor it is to be able to do it. XO

More Market finds

I love this repeat pattern of blue and red chickens and eggs.

i have taken all my baskets home over the last year to give away. replenishing my stash. perfect for the market and the beach. about $4 each.

Sunday in Pictures

i like this quaint and actually quite fancy little place in the Natete market. it seems abandoned. 

Natete Clothier

Seamstress making pleated skirts for school uniforms

clothing auction

clothing auction

coal

market

peanuts

my market find, a shallow basket $2.00

Pemba Shoe Store 

Zito

The afternoon gang

I am headed to school now. Rains yesterday have left everything so muddy. Waiting on the hot African sun to soak it all up.

pictorial this week

Ishmael teaching on Cholera. Later Francisco and 5 other students performed a skit about how it is spread. Candid but good.

The day I got the scooter I drove her out to the beach and watched this electrical storm.

Personalized License Plate

Murreubue

Daydreaming with Emelyn about all that we can do!

Leaving Murreubue

No words.