Email from Cat
Dec. 6th, 2002 09:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violachicCat describing her trip over, and her first impressions of Mozambique. I'm sure she'd love to hear from those of you she knows. If you don't have her email address I'd be happy to pass it on. Be warned, however: She wants substance, and if she thinks you haven't given her enough substance, she will only answer your email in Portugese.
Dear Everyone,
I only have time for a quick letter to tell you that we made it and we’re happily set up in a small house near Maputo. We’ll stay here for a few more days before heading out to Nhamatanda. One of the local dogs has taken it upon himself to guard our house. This morning when we found him sleeping in a corner, Ali was nearly brought to tears when she couldn’t detect any movement, she called us all frantically from the rest of the house to poke the dog and make sure it wasn’t dead.
The trip here was long and despite being basically uneventful, we were all fascinated by everything around us. In Switzerland we spent our two hour layover wandering every hallway of the airport open to us, sniffing the expensive chocolate and in my case, memorizing the more amusing watch ads. “Almost as complicated as a woman. Except on time.”
Lesson number one in Africa, learned outside Johannesburg airport: when you are besieged by a swarm of insistent porters, telling them you do not want help will neither stop them from loading your bags or being very offended when you have no money for them. We finally scraped together two dollars, which did little to pacify them. Next time, we plan to say from the start that we have no money for tipping. Johannesburg is a mess of crumbling brick hemmed in by barbed wire. We spent one night there.
The bus ride to Maputo the next morning included lunch, snacks, nasty unidentifiable juice – gulped down thankfully nonetheless – and a fuzzy movie. It was The Fugitive and I was endlessly amused by the concept of seeing my home town on the screen, then turning my head and being surrounded by Africa. Despite my reproductive system’s sick sense of humor, affinity for public transportation and the discomfort that brought me, the bus ride was fun.
But the trip from the bus stop to ADPP headquarters in Maputo was even better. We loaded all of our 15 heavy bags and boxes into the back of a pickup truck, then climbed on top ourselves. It was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like the homecoming queen, sitting on the mountain of bags. We waved to curious and friendly passers by, grinning like crazy through regular facefulls of grit.
I don’t know how to describe the abject poverty of the tent towns our little float paraded through. One of our bags was more than big enough to carry everything some of these people owned, I’m sure. Even the street side stands we passed offered only a few items, laid out neatly on bright sheets or makeshift tables. Every house was unique in that it was constructed of different assortments of brick, tin and straw, and the church was no different. We identified it by the cardboard sign hung on a pole out front. The women gathered under a tree in the yard giggled and waved sweetly. We waved back.
Most of what we saw was no surprise – there were little group of barefoot children, women wrapped in brightly colored skirts and head scarves, walking steadily under enormous parcels. People lounged under trees on the ground and on mountains of garbage. The most surreal detail that comes to mind was the row of immaculate antique furniture lined up along the road. It was apparently quite old and I would not have been at all surprised to find it in a shop in Evanston selling for hundreds of dollars apiece. Against the backdrop of tarp and tin apartments, it was an odd sight.
One of the DIs here is showing us around. The Colegio is a large dusty compound swarming with young people. The paths are lined with fine sand and my sandals throw up little tufts in front of me as I walk. The water has to be boiled, and the bathroom floor has to be squeegeed after we shower. At night, the local club gets progressively louder and more, shall we say, creative in its musical selections as the night goes on. Tomoko woke to some unidentifyable squalling last night around 4 am. After 3 mostly sleepless nights this was not a problem.
Portuguese continues to be impossible to decipher, and no amount of pleading to speak slowly has so far kept anyone from speaking as quickly as I type. Fortunately, no one expects us to understand everything yet. Our collective mood alternates between elation and near panic. I’ll tell you later how it turns out.
Beijos,
Cat
Dear Everyone,
I only have time for a quick letter to tell you that we made it and we’re happily set up in a small house near Maputo. We’ll stay here for a few more days before heading out to Nhamatanda. One of the local dogs has taken it upon himself to guard our house. This morning when we found him sleeping in a corner, Ali was nearly brought to tears when she couldn’t detect any movement, she called us all frantically from the rest of the house to poke the dog and make sure it wasn’t dead.
The trip here was long and despite being basically uneventful, we were all fascinated by everything around us. In Switzerland we spent our two hour layover wandering every hallway of the airport open to us, sniffing the expensive chocolate and in my case, memorizing the more amusing watch ads. “Almost as complicated as a woman. Except on time.”
Lesson number one in Africa, learned outside Johannesburg airport: when you are besieged by a swarm of insistent porters, telling them you do not want help will neither stop them from loading your bags or being very offended when you have no money for them. We finally scraped together two dollars, which did little to pacify them. Next time, we plan to say from the start that we have no money for tipping. Johannesburg is a mess of crumbling brick hemmed in by barbed wire. We spent one night there.
The bus ride to Maputo the next morning included lunch, snacks, nasty unidentifiable juice – gulped down thankfully nonetheless – and a fuzzy movie. It was The Fugitive and I was endlessly amused by the concept of seeing my home town on the screen, then turning my head and being surrounded by Africa. Despite my reproductive system’s sick sense of humor, affinity for public transportation and the discomfort that brought me, the bus ride was fun.
But the trip from the bus stop to ADPP headquarters in Maputo was even better. We loaded all of our 15 heavy bags and boxes into the back of a pickup truck, then climbed on top ourselves. It was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like the homecoming queen, sitting on the mountain of bags. We waved to curious and friendly passers by, grinning like crazy through regular facefulls of grit.
I don’t know how to describe the abject poverty of the tent towns our little float paraded through. One of our bags was more than big enough to carry everything some of these people owned, I’m sure. Even the street side stands we passed offered only a few items, laid out neatly on bright sheets or makeshift tables. Every house was unique in that it was constructed of different assortments of brick, tin and straw, and the church was no different. We identified it by the cardboard sign hung on a pole out front. The women gathered under a tree in the yard giggled and waved sweetly. We waved back.
Most of what we saw was no surprise – there were little group of barefoot children, women wrapped in brightly colored skirts and head scarves, walking steadily under enormous parcels. People lounged under trees on the ground and on mountains of garbage. The most surreal detail that comes to mind was the row of immaculate antique furniture lined up along the road. It was apparently quite old and I would not have been at all surprised to find it in a shop in Evanston selling for hundreds of dollars apiece. Against the backdrop of tarp and tin apartments, it was an odd sight.
One of the DIs here is showing us around. The Colegio is a large dusty compound swarming with young people. The paths are lined with fine sand and my sandals throw up little tufts in front of me as I walk. The water has to be boiled, and the bathroom floor has to be squeegeed after we shower. At night, the local club gets progressively louder and more, shall we say, creative in its musical selections as the night goes on. Tomoko woke to some unidentifyable squalling last night around 4 am. After 3 mostly sleepless nights this was not a problem.
Portuguese continues to be impossible to decipher, and no amount of pleading to speak slowly has so far kept anyone from speaking as quickly as I type. Fortunately, no one expects us to understand everything yet. Our collective mood alternates between elation and near panic. I’ll tell you later how it turns out.
Beijos,
Cat
