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Postcards from America: New Hampshire/The Family Table

August 8, 2011 by 14 Comments
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Few traditions are as culturally transcendent as sharing a meal with family. There are a lot of books out there about how to eat and what to eat and the right way to eat, but they all agree on one thing: the profound importance of sharing a meal amongst friends or family. Breaking bread together strengthens relationships, fosters conversation and promotes good will and bonding. It’s no coincidence that a lot of our biggest get togethers are focused around eating. Humans have been doing the same thing for a LONG time, way before late November meant a chemical-laden overgrown turkey and gelatinous cranberry sauce. It’s more important than that.

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On the second stop of my Postcards from America tour (first stop was Portland), we come to the woods of New Hampshire, where I spent the last weekend with 35+ of my family members and relatives.

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We were a bit off the grid—outhouse and no electricity where we were staying, no cell reception—which was better because it was just family, far fewer distractions. And despite recent tragedies, health issues, emotional troubles, and more, the family was able to come together with joy to celebrate one of my aunt’s 50th birthdays.

Trekking out from CA to join the New Englanders left me feeling slightly foreign—especially when trying to go for a six-mile run with my mom and having to deal with these things you call “humidity” and “deer flies.” I went out intending to run 12 and after 3 I thought I might pass out from having sweat out all my water and then some!

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My artistic, zany, and creative family members guarantee that each weekend gathering is filled with everything from sweet music to fireworks to gorgeous decorations, and of course… games. Apples to Apples, bananagrams…

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And then there was the food.

Cooking for DOZENS of people with different dietary preferences—everything from NO VEGETABLES to vegetarian to gluten free—is difficult, but it was done in stride.

In addition to being a celebration of life, the weekend was a communal feast.

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One of my cousins is a chef at a restaurant and whipped up several delicious salads in what seemed like just a moment.

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Beet salad…

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Green bean salad…

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Some sort of soybean/cranberry/cream cheese combo…

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One of the dishes that was far from the prettiest but definitely one of the most unique was my aunt Steph’s tomato cobbler. She clipped the recipe from some magazine, unfortunately I’m not sure which, but I am going to post the variation here. Essentially it was a mix of tomatoes, asiago cheese, and dough—soggy pizza perhaps, but something about it was delicious and I’m glad to come away from this weekend with not only happy memories of my loved ones but also a new dish to try.

New Hampshire Tomato Cobbler Recipe

FOR THE FILLING

  • ¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil
  • 2 medium onions, thinly sliced
  • 4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
  • 3 pounds cherry tomatoes
  • 3T all-purpose flour
  • ¾ t crushed red-pepper flakes
  • Sea salt and fresh ground black pepper

FOR THE BISCUIT TOPPING

  • · 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • · 2 t baking powder
  • · Coarse salt
  • · 1 stick cold unsalted butter, chopped into small pieces
  • · 1 cup Asiago cheese (the original called for gruyere I believe, but she used asiago and it was awesome)
  • · 1 ½ cups heavy cream, plus more for brushing
    DIRECTIONS

1. Make the filling: heat oil in a large high-sided skillet over medium heat. Cook onions, stirring occasionally until caramelized—about 25 minutes. Add garlic, and cook until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Let cool.

2. Toss onion mixture, tomatoes, flour, and red pepper flakes with 1 ½ t salt and some pepper.

3. Preheat oven to 275. Make the biscuit topping: whisk together flour, baking powder, and 1 t salt in a bowl. Cut in butter with a pastry cutter or rub in with your fingers until small clumps form. Stir in cheese, then add cream, stirring with a fork to combine until dough forms (dough will be slightly sticky).

4. Spread tomato mixture into a greased baking dish. Drop spoonfuls of the flour mixture on top of the tomatoes, spreading it evenly with a knife but leaving some gaps to let steam out.

5. Put in oven, bake until tops are browned and biscuit mixture is cooked through, 45-60 minutes.

6. Once removed from oven, brush with butter and sprinkle sea salt and chopped fresh basil on top for garnish.

I had a great time getting back to nature and back in touch with family members. Connecting over a conversation, a piece of cake, a cup of coffee. And I’ll carry that with me back on the road.

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What kind of “food traditions” does your family have?

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    Vacations for Billionaires

    March 3, 2010 by 1 Comment
    Someday. And by someday I mean, probably never.

    Found a fun article online today about Expensive Vacations for Billionaires, a list meant to encompass some of the most lavish, luxurious travel experiences available only for the richest of the rich. From private island rentals to luxury cruises to simply ridiculous hotels, it’s all there for a price tag of… numbers I cannot even begin to conceptualize.

    I am blessed to not have expensive taste, which I am sure will be something I continually am thankful for throughout my attempts to see the world while not going completely broke. These vacations amaze me, although I think for $264,000 I could see much more of the world—AND have a lot more fun doing it—than those in the Grand Suite on a luxury cruise ship.

    Which made me wonder… these luxury vacations are all about traveling in ultimate style and comfort. Which for me begs the question… why do we travel? If I am going to go to India, I am going for the sights, the sounds, the experience of a new culture… not to sit in a hotel room and soak up the spa services for which I am paying more per night than many people make in a year. I want to be out roaming the streets, seeing the sights, immersing myself in the flavors of a new culture. Not everyone wants these experiences, I recognize, but to me that is what travel IS—not leaving your home to go somewhere to sit inside a hotel (no matter how nice it is). I guess if you have that much money it really doesn’t mean so much, but spending a couple months on a boat (which no matter how luxurious it may be, it is still a boat) and hopping out for a few hours in a few exotic locales hardly qualifies as “seeing” the world. More like working on the most expensive tan you’ll ever get.

    Renting an island is cool and all but… it’s a beautiful island with a beautiful beach, won’t a private villa somewhere do? Who needs the WHOLE island? I get this experience every day and I make $2000 a year! I guess the whole Peace Corps thing is cheating, but still.

    And some of the other included luxuries: a spa treatment in which you have a stream of oil dripped onto your head for 20 minutes straight? And I think a private Santana concert would be awkward, personally. Although I do confess that the “pillow menu” at the hotel in Dubai did intrigue me a bit. Sign me up. But not for $14,974 per night.

    The two that did intrigue me were the World Cup—which I am already going to, and spending much less money (duh) and having just as much fun—and the private jet tour. Seeing the sights without spending hours of my life crammed in an airplane seat… I could deal with that. I guess. But if in my life I am able to see the world, even without ever stepping into a private jet, I will consider myself rich beyond measure.

    Someday. And by someday I mean, probably never.

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    Home Recap

    January 7, 2010 by Leave a Comment
    Court39

    Three weeks in America. Not enough. But certainly enough time to have some fun. Some of the highlights were…

    –Eating punch bowls of cereal (honey bunches of oats or honey nut cheerios) every morning.


    –Hang time with my beautiful sister!


    –Seeing some amazing girls…

    –Hot water. Hot water. HOT WATER!!!


    –DOGGIES!!!

    –Keeping my car radio tuned to the new 90′s station because I didn’t recognize anything on the top 40…


    –Lake time

    –Constantly shivering despite wearing two shirts, a scarf and a coat. Hey, I came from African summer and its practically freezing, gimme a break here!


    –SUSHI!!!

    –Wandering the aisles of Raley’s, Whole Foods, and Target for hours and being thoroughly entertained. Unfortunately I am not joking. HOURS.


    –Girl time!

    –Going shopping in my own closet. For anyone who is dissatisfied with their wardrobe, i highly recommend moving to africa and rotating the same three unflattering outfits every day for 15 months. then come home and have your mind be blown by how TOTALLY AWESOME the contents of your closet are. Providing everything still fits…


    –Go Karting. I may or may not have come in last. But at least I looked good doing it.

    –Getting over my slight sense of snobbery when it comes to sophisticated taste in music and busting out GaGa lyrics at dozens of relatively inappropriate times.

    –Tours luvin’ reconnect.


    –Taking lots of pictures of pretty food and drinks to torture myself with back in Moz.

    Speaking of food, I glanced at my blog from before and had a 30-something percent success rate with said food goals. The apparent failure comes from the fast food category (Wendy’s, In-n-Out, Taco Bell, Daphne’s…) because there were just so many BETTER things to eat! But I did hit all of the highlights (SUSHI, chipotle, chocolate milk, sushi…) so in my mind, a success.

    It’s been a great trip. I didn’t get to do everything I wanted to do or see everyone that I would have loved to see, but it won’t be too long until I have another chance.

    I get on the plane in just a few hours. Last time I got on the plane for Africa, nearly 500 days ago, I was feeling all sorts of things. Nervous. Sad to leave my family. So excited for the unknown. Today I am feeling none of those things. I am in a completely different place. Excited and nervous I am not. Rather, going back feels like a duty: not in the sense like it is something I am forced to do, but rather, it was my goal to complete my PC service successfully, and I am returning for a year of working hard to take full advantage of the experience and to make as much of a difference as I can, and help in whatever way I can, why simultaneously continuing to learn and grow, because I realize now that PC is temporary. Getting on that plane in September 2008 felt overwhelmingly impossible, because the time commitment stretched out so long in front of me made it feel like I would never come back. But now, I may be a bit sad to be leaving my family and this amazing place I took for granted for so long (and the hot water and the sushi doesn’t hurt) but I realize now that this time is temporary and I need to take advantage of it. Can’t wait to see where I am at this time next year. Next time I blog it’ll be from my house in Mozambique, God willing. I guess you do always find your way back home.

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    Traveling Mercies, or, “How I (Nearly) Found Myself Stranded Thousands of Kilometers From Home With $4 In My Pocket.”

    September 9, 2009 by Leave a Comment
    2009_08_07 mozambique

    I survived.

    If I had to sum up my adventure in less than three words, it would be this. But perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm and punctuation: I SURVIVED!!!!

    Okay so backing up a bit. I requested two weeks off—my first break this year since starting work at the beginning of January—to trek up to visit one of my closest friends, Michelle, up near Ilha de Mozambique in Nampula. Which is, as we would say in Mozambique, “lá.” (Which is Portuguese for F*@#!ng far away). But I figured it would make for quite the adventure, in addition to getting to take a break and see some more of the country. I had no idea what I was getting into!

    I left on a brisk Saturday morning armed with only my daypack and purse. (At first I was going to brag that I succeeded in packing for a fifteen-day trip in a daypack, but then I realized that is much less a testament to my packing abilities as it is to my acceptance of being dirty and ugly. And the thing was packed to the gills with useful things such as my huge GRE test prep book—you know the sort—which I spent about 15 minutes with over the course of the trip. Thought that counts, right…)

    My first stop was Chimoio, in Manica province not far from the mountain range bridging Mozambique and Zimbabwe. It is technically Mozambique’s fifth-largest city, but you wouldn’t know it—feels like a small town and very safe. And there´s a shoprite that had chocolate milk and cake, so I was happy. I had planned to leave early Monday morning to head north, but it turned out that a bunch of other volunteers who I don’t get to see very often were headed into town the next day and since I was already here, might as well stay and hang out! Only problem was that I had already bought my bus ticket for the next day at the exorbitant price of about… $18. Ouch. I went with a couple friends to get the money back so I could change my ticket for the next day, and the request was of course greeted with a noncommittal shrug and that unfortunately for us, the dude with the money had left. My friend tried in earnest to convince the man of the gravity of my situation. He thought we were lying. So the story turned into that my friend hadn’t washed the veggies well before dinner and now I had horrible diarrhea and was unable to travel. (False. But clever.) This is all in front of a large audience of Mozambicans, probably many of who were traveling on the bus the next morning. Having failed at our mission, I had two choices: wake up at 3:45am to go beg for my money back, probably not succeed, and then have to ride on a ten-hour bus with a bunch of people who think I’m suffering from the runs, OR, sleep in, lose the money and pretend it never happened. I’m on vacation. I chose the latter. Totally worth it.

    I did end up heading north at 4:30am on Tuesday, with no drama to speak of. The highlight of this leg of the journey, for not only me but also for every single Mozambican I was traveling with, was getting to cross the bridge over the Rio Zambeze that marks the border between Sofala and Zambezia provinces. The river is far from formidable, but until just now, the only means of crossing were on a couple of ferries that took ages and were overpriced (and this is on the national highway mind you). Not only did people have to wait for occasionally hours to load their cars on the ferries, but to add insult to injury, while they waited they got to stare at the perfectly completed bridge which sat there unused for months until the president could like, break a bottle of tipo tinto over it or some other unnecessary beauraucratic publicity stunt. But I digress. It is open now, which was greeted by hoots and hollers (and a bunch of camera phones) by my fellow passangeiros.

    THE BRIDGE.

    Upon finally arriving in Quelimane, I quite literally jumped out of the bus and ran across the paragem to attempt to catch the last bus to Mocuba, where I could meet my friend Gabe, versus getting stranded for the evening in Queli. Luck was on my side at the moment and I jumped on the last bus, as it was just about to leave. Only problem was that there were too many people on the bus. But seeing as another one wouldn’t be leaving til the morning, I was not even considering relinquishing my position. Some kindly mozambicans helped me squeeze my body and all my belongings into like, the well where the door opens where I sat, my face right in some guys crotch (great) for the 2 or 3-hour ride. Whatever. I wasn’t complaining. I just wanted to get there. Which I eventually did. I had a great time with Gabe in Mocuba for a day and a half, getting to see his town, eat some of the best chamussas ever and most importantly watch nearly all of LOST season 5. It is always great to take a hit with a fellow addict. Anyway. My next bus, to Nampula city, was comparably painless and I only ended up with one number in my phone saved as “Crpy dude frm bus.” Successos.

    Mocuba!

    Upon arriving at the paragem in Nampula, the first bus to Ilha (my final stop!!) had no one on it and was starting to get nervous that I would be stuck there, but then we got moved into a smaller chapa, which loaded relatively rapidly (aka I was sitting there with my knees in my chest and sweating for only about an hour and a half before the chapa left). One of my favorite things/biggest weaknesses is the assortment of fried goodies being sold at the paragens to feed and energize weary travelers. I blame my weight gain on change of available food and a less active lifestyle, but apparently my inability to say no to cake or fried balls of dough being sold to me through the windows of moving vehicles could have something to do with it. Anyway, the cuisine is a bit different in the north and there is something called an apa which is basically a fluffier, fried tortilla with an egg and ketchup and mayo or something of the sort folded inside. A recipe for a heart attack. I wanted to buy one but couldn’t find any moedas (coins) and the unthinkable happened—the Mozambican man sitting next to me reached over and bought one for me! As a gesture of kindness for the foreigner. I was floored, and we became friends over the journey and I repaid him in kind by buying him a toy for his daughter once I finally found my money. This warm fuzzy moment cancelled out how affronted I felt when another teenage boy asked me to give him all of my money, and when I said no he opened the window and yelled “F*CK YOU!!!” in my face. How sweet.

    Three hours later, I ARRIVED! Yes, I have just now arrived at the part where I actually got to Ilha. So great to see Michelle and finally not be traveling. But then fate intervened… about three whole minutes after arriving I started feeling horrible. And then spent the rest of the evening throwing up, and the next several days extremely sick and miserable. Murphy´s Law, right?

    Beautiful beach, and our boat driver with an octopus. Lunch??

    not a bad place to spend the day.

    Ilha from the water

    Sickness and bad luck aside I had a wonderful time up in Ilha. The North is very different, much more of a Muslim and also a European influence on the culture. Ilha de Moçambique was just beautiful. It felt like walking through a 15th century ghost town… and it kind of is. We went to a beautiful, isolated beach, ate yummy food, and I learned how to cook lula (squid). It was also just a great time catching up with a great friend and enjoying the mental break of my day-to-day back in Vilanculos.

    Squid soup! Yes, this was dinner. Don´t worry, we cooked it...

    Two days before I have to leave and head back, things start getting interesting again. I finally didn´t feel sick and miserable, and then I get a call that night from my dad saying that Fraud Protection keeps calling about my debit card. Warning sign much? After a conference call with Wells Fargo, I find out that someone has made a functioning copy of my card and has tried to use it several times, and thus there is a block on my card. Only problem was that I needed to use this card to book a hotel night or two to get home safely. The man assured me that I could call right before I needed to use the card and they would lift the block and thus permit me to book a hotel/take out money/qualquer coisa, and then would close the account and send a new card immediately to my address in Moz. When I expressed concern over the cost of calling the States from Moz, he assured me that he was taking notes on all of this so whoever I called would know exactly what was going on. Sweet! No big deal.

    However, the next day I went to take out money from the bank with my PC debit card and got rejected. Three times. Okay, now this is a problem. I had three full days of travel ahead of me and only 200 mets (8 bucks) on me, and 2 debit cards that were not functioning. Concerned? Slightly. But it will be okay! It always is. Never mind that all three hotels in Nampula are already full, we have nowhere to stay and I have no money. It´s chill.

    Michelle and I head out to Nampula city at 4am and sat down for a nice coffee (real coffee!! so exciting). Then the excitement starts. I try my PC card again… at 3 ATMs. All reject me. Okay. Call Wells Fargo. I am at the ATM ready to take out enough money to get home. Slight problem is that this lady today, has no idea what I am talking about and… wait… “oops, that account has been closed.” No, it hasn´t, you said you had a block on it and I would call when I needed it lifted. “Um, no, I am sorry, that account is closed and there´s nothing we can do.” Hey, bitch, I am stranded thousands of kilometers from home and I have four dollars on me. “Wow, that´s really rough. I´m sorry. Nothing I can do.” This escalates to a literal screaming match (I made quite the scene, which was embarassing but also kinda fun because I am NOT a person who gets angry. And boy was I angry.) Then I get my parents in on the action, and I am holding back tears trying to figure out how the hell I am actually going to get home, or maybe I am gonna be sleeping on a bench in Nampula city for a few days. About an hour later we realize that my parents can wire money to Michelle and I can take it out of her account and get home to Vil where I can figure out my PC card and get to my credit card. Phew. Talk about your close calls. (Tangent: how is this for insult to injury? When I got home and went to the bank to get a new card for my PC account, I figured I should try it at the ATM first… and it worked. Figures.)

    With my huge wad of cash and slightly extended nerves, we explored Nampula´s attractions (aka, I went to another Shoprite), and ordered chicken burgers (after about fifteen crystal-clear explanations that apparently just did NOT translate) from a stand in the middle of the road, and we drank boxed wine from cups pilfered from the pensão while we waited. I love those moments. Our pensão had hot running water (luxurious), so the last evening in the North was a success!

    The next day I head to the airport for my first in-country flight. Talk about your culture shock. No one looked at my passport or any other form of ID, nor did the metal detector work, nor were my bags scanned or x-rayed or even opened (Security: “What is in here?” Me: “clothes.” Them: “Okay.”) I stared out the window watching bags get loaded–I had to check my backpack, of course–waiting in fear for mine to get lost (this has happened before and I will never check a bag again… except today when they forced me). I do not take my eyes off the baggage dudes, and I don´t see my bag make it onto the plane. Thought one: “OMG.” Thought two: “Figures. Of course.” Thought three: “People are gonna feel pretty bad for me when I write about this on my blog. That might be the only positive to come of this.” Being fatalistic, I spend the flight trying to remember everything I had stuffed into my bag so that I could fight for every penny once I got back, only to have my backpack arrive in more or less one piece in Beira. A little present from above. Thanks.

    My last night is spent in Beira, and alone. Beira is a pretty horrible city in my opinion, only redeemed by two things–shoprite and the chinese restaurant. Determined to make the most of my last evening and the fact that I was flying solo, I end up in one of the nicest rooms at the pensão (AC! Hot running water!!) and take myself out to dinner at the Chinese restaurant, where I enjoyed a cold beer, some of the best hot and sour soup I have had in like, a year (ha, ha) and the amazing Sweet and Sour pork (in a shade of pink so bright it would make even Barbie cry, and enough calories to make ME cry, but totally worth it). Last night: sucess.

    Got back to Vilanculos the next day, sweaty and worn out but extremely happy to be home in one piece and with most of my personal belongings and my dignity. I feel like I aged a bit in the process, but had an amazing time. Hope these stories amused someone out there. Até a próxima…

    I made it to Ilha! I think this was the one day I was not sick and/or panicking.

    boats on ilha

    Goodbye Ilha. See you next time.

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    My Not-So-Glorious Return to Maputo (a.k.a. Some Perils of Traveling in Mozambique)

    July 27, 2009 by Leave a Comment
    Oh Maputo. Always an adventure...

    Hello all. Sorry it’s been a while… I have been a bit overwhelmed as of late to put it mildly. But I figure you are all just dying (ha, ha) to hear more ridiculous accounts of my ridiculous life here in Mozambique. In lieu of recapitulating about the last month or so I want to tell you a story about my viagem (trip) to Maputo last week.

    Life in Mozambique is never boring, but ESPECIALLY not when you are traveling. I was set to head to Maputo for a training in Behavior Change Communication put on by the CDC and GHC in partnership with Peace Corps. I planned on dilly-dallying my way down the country, stretching the 1000-km journey into either two or three days, but I received the exciting news last week that my friend Lis, who was in South Africa, would be able to come and visit me in Mozambique! So I headed down on Sunday with the hopes of meeting up with her when her bus got in around 5PM.

    So these last weeks were school ferias (holidays) and what do you do over the holidays? Go to the beach, right? And I live in the beach site slash Las Vegas of Mozambique, so there was a bevy of volunteers from all over Moz in my town (and my house!) hanging out and enjoying some relaxation. I said my prayers and left my house in the care of a dozen drunk PCVs (I say that lovingly. I was happy to let people stay in my house) to head for the bus to Maputo. Direct bus, Vilanculos to Maputo, no problems. Right? Wrong. I didn’t even make it out of town before the drama started. The Maputo bus goes daily and they usually say it’s at 3:30 or 4. (Last time I took it, I was told to be there at 3:00AM for a 3:30 departure. It left at 5. This is the norm.) So the driver told me to show up at 4 em punto and after about an hour of haphazard and unsatisfying sleep I trucked out with my overpacked backpack, Simba, and two fellow PCVs who were kind enough to walk me out to the bus despite being deliriously sleep-deprived. I reach the corner of the market at about 3:57am… no bus. But not panicking… maybe I just can’t see it? Nope, its not there. We arrive at the corner at 4AM em punto and of course, no bus. A few other locals are standing around there and say that the bus has already left. Great. This leaves me my only option of trying to hitchhike 1000ks in one day before dark by myself with my valuables. Um, no way would I do that outside of a life-or-death situation. Several minutes later some dude (that is the best way I can describe him) tells us the bus is coming back. Sure it is. So I stand there with my confused dog and my two poor friends until about 4:45 when the bus decides to return. Of course now it is pretty much full including the seat I had reserved for myself yesterday. And I did not want to check my backpack with my laptop computer into the bowels of the bus, never to be seen again. The door opens and the cobrador greets me with a snarky “você demorou MUUUUITO” aka I was really late. Um, no. I began an indignant rant in Portuguese about how I was there before and that he was lying and they left early and now my seat was gone. Unfazed, obvi. So I climb onto the bus and get to share a seat with my backpacking bag, a Mozambican woman and her four picnic baskets full of various items, and her two infants. Okay, fine. T.I.A., I am flexible, personal space smershonal space, whatevs. I was singing a different tune about four hours in when the kid who was basically sitting in my lap pooped in his pants… twice. (This was determined by the woman lifting the kid’s crotchal region up towards her nose, pulling down his pants and taking a big sniff. Mmm, fetid odor.)

    Somehow I make it down to Maputo with no passport checks, no blown tires, no baby poo actually on me and a shred of dignity remaining. Oh! But one more thing. One of the best things about travel in Moz is that whenever your bus/chapa stops, millions (okay, dozens) of locals will run up and try to sell you anything imaginable. (Need some clothespins for the road? Actually, with the way that baby smelled, they might have been helpful…) Many places produce honey locally and I was excited when a criança (child) banged on my window with a huge bottle of honey, bees and honeycomb on the top and all. Enthusiastically, I buy it without realizing that I am resigning myself to not only needing to protect a glass bottle of sticky, ant-attracting, viscous liquid for an entire week of traveling, but also that the bottle in question was a familiar brand of Whisky that is about the same color of the honey. No matter…

    I finally arrive in Maputo at the hell on earth we know as Junta and get off and start looking for a chapa to take me into town to a hotel I have never been to before. I am getting quite some looks at this point as a mulungu walking around junta… with what everyone assumes is a huge bottle of whisky in my hand. Great. I get on a chapa and everyone is pointing and laughing and talking in Changana, of which I know none so I just sat there like an idiot. The cobrador kept asking me about the whisky and other nonsense I didn’t actually understand. Yipes. I am the target of many a what I can only assume was a mean joke, me and my whisky and my huge backpack and bad Portuguese. I finally make it to the hostel, The Base, which I really recommend. It is really cute, affordable and a beautiful view, and the guy who works there is super nice (and insisted on speaking to me in Portuguese, which I appreciated after the severe blow to my ego that was my chapa ride). Lis makes it in. Successos! Okay, a few bumps here and there, but otherwise all right.

    I had a day til the BCC training started so I used it catching up with Lis slash dragging her all around Maputo with me, where I succeeded in buying a few of those priceless commodities that only Maputo can really offer (a bagel with cream cheese at Café Sol, tiny hand weights and new cheapo plasticware at Chinese Wal-Mart, and two cans of Nutella at Hiper that were only 40.00 meticais cada… who cares that it expired last week??) and eating falafel and ice cream (YUM! I am with some serious saudades de ice cream) at Maputo Shopping Center. Then came time to check into Cardoso. All I can say is… HOT SHOWERS. I will never ever in the rest of my life take a hot shower for granted. So nice. Rivaling the showers was the unlimited buffet meals I got to eat for four days which resulted in me gaining about five pounds but was totally worth it to have chocolate mousse and a ginormous bowl of fruit at every meal.

    The training was pretty cool, talking about barriers and facilitators of behavior change specifically in the health sector, and some different activities that we can implement with our focus groups. A highlight was a little theater about sex/condoms put on by a group of volunteers that I cant even try to explain, because it won’t actually be funny. Anyway.

    I was able to spend some quality time with some of my closest friends in PC/Moz so that was really fun, and also got to see a bunch of other volunteers who were in town as well. We went out one night and saw some live music. The only big damper on the whole thing was that I came down with the Migraine of Death. I wish I could say I was exaggerating but a partir de Tuesday until pretty much Sunday I felt like I was getting stabbed in the forehead repeatedly. Nothing like taking a couple Advil or Aleve, drinking water, settling down for a long night of rest and feeling WORSE in the morning. So that was pretty miserable and slightly hindered my ability to enjoy Maputo but since I spent a month´s “salary” in the one week I was there, it was probably for the best.

    Friday morning, still feeling horrible, I saddled up with Lis, Amy and her friend to make the trip back to Vilanculos. Traveling hasn’t been the smoothest process lately, so who was I kidding that the trip back would be different? We arrive at Junta about 5:15AM. The direct bus to Vilanculos usually leaves around 530 or 6, but it can leave as early as 5. We get there and of course, “ja saiu.” It already left. AWESOME. Isn’t there another bus? No. Is there an Inhassoro bus? No. Double awesome. Okay, T.I.A., its okay we will get home somehow! Amy and Michael were going to Inhambane City so, let´s just go with the flow, it will be cool for Lis to see I´Bane and then we can ferry/chapa home.

    It was not meant to be.

    We had to wait for the bus to fill up, and after getting on at 5:30 we left a bit after 7. My favorite part of all this is that as we are finally pulling out, I see a Vilanculos bus AND an Inhassoro bus pulling out. Aka, a ride home. Figures. Oh well! Bad weather prolonged our trip, which was made even better by the fact that I was involuntarily crying/shaking half the trip expecting my head to actually explode. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t!) This ends up with us arriving in I´Bane about 3:30PM. Ha. Okay, so we probably aren’t going home. We grab some delicious food and hot chocolate (me)/beers (the others) at Verdinho´s and wander through the Inhambane market, where I at long last spend the 25 meticais (one dollar) on a straw purse to put my whiskey/honey in (yes, I have been carrying it this WHOLE time). We take the new and improved ferry over to Maxixe which was a long shot from sitting on one of those dhow boats that took an hour and a half to fill up and while it went across the bay the engine would die a minimum of six times and it was more likely than not that someone would scoop some water out of the bottom at some point… development IS happening! We hunker down (haha. That phrase) at Campismo for the night, roll out of bed for breakfast (poor Amy had ROUS´s-Princess Bride anyone?-running around her feet… always keeps it exciting) and then start trying to get a ride out. We get into the cab of some semi truck, all four of us, which is slow-moving of course. Get dropped off at Pambarra and get a chapa in with people trying to of course, rip me off and then I yelled at them in Portuguese about not giving me the Mulungu Price and then they laughed about this and (assumedly) made fun of us the entire 15K into town. Just get me home already please.

    Finally, everything got sorted and I was able to hang out with Lis and force her to eat Matapa at Alemanha, went horseback riding on the beach and watched Twilight and laughed at all the brooding… she is back home today, I will miss her terribly but it was so nice to see her and she put up with a lot! I was proud of her. Africa thickens your skin. Its back to the grind for me for three weeks before I take a “vacation” of sorts up to visit a friend. Woohoo!

    This is really long so no one probably read all of it, but all I can say is: I am going to be a much more laid-back person when I go home. And next time you are pulling your hair out while sitting in 405 rush hour traffic or cursing the world when your flight gets delayed AGAIN, just remember: you could be sharing your seat with a backpack, four picnic baskets, a woman and a baby who’s pooping on you. Haha. I love Africa.

    Oh Maputo. Always an adventure...Thanks for visiting, Lis!

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    Culture Shock

    June 29, 2009 by 1 Comment

    Picture this. I am sitting in a chapa. A chapa is a minibus taxi of sorts that Mozambicans use for public transportation, used to link sites anywhere from fifteen minutes to eight hours apart. These are fifteen-passenger vans, but their minimum capacity in Mozambique hovers around 21 and I am fairly sure you can fit thirty poor souls in there at the same time, no problem. So I am sitting in a chapa, bored and frustrated waiting for it to leave. I’m in one of the seats that’s not actually a seat; rather I am sitting in the crack between the actual seat and the one that folds out, uncomfortable to say the least. It is already really hot inside, and reeks of sweat and humanity. In the seat next to me sits a local woman. She has the more comfortable seat, that’s for sure, but seems to be pretty much sitting on my lap. Her hand might even be resting on my knee, because it’s more comfortable there. Our skin is sticking together with sweat, and as much as I squirm away, I cannot even get half an inch of personal space. As if I was not already uncomfortable enough, then she pulls out her breast to start nursing her baby right there in my seat. The heat is scorching, but she is keeping the window closed, keeping me from my precious fresh air. I sit there, squished, sweaty, smelly, feeling just so wronged by this woman in the seat next to me. How dare she be all up in my space like this?? Can she not tell I am uncomfortable?? Why is she keeping the window closed?? My frustration builds and builds until I am almost ready to scream at this complete stranger sitting next to me.

    Then we switch the scene to her perspective. She has climbed into the chapa, ready to go home after shopping for her children. She has her baby with her, which is inevitable but a challenge, constantly crying and demanding her attention, leaving her tired and ready to get home. She climbs into the chapa and sits down next to the window, choosing to leave it closed because the baby seems cold, and to avoid the harassment of the street merchants hawking their goods through the windows. Soon after, a white girl climbs into the chapa and wedges herself into the seat next to her. English, maybe American. The girl doesn’t acknowledge her, doesn’t smile or say hi. How rude. She begins to nurse her baby, which is normal in any situation in Mozambique. The girl looks at her with a death stare, constantly moving and squirming away even though there is no place to go—the chapa is crowded—making the woman feel uncomfortable: she has done nothing wrong. The girl doesn’t acknowledge her, and the woman notices the wrinkles and dirt on the girl’s clothes, a cultural faux pas. She begins to get frustrated with this unaccommodating foreigner next to her, who won’t even give her the time of day.

    This is the kind of thing that happens, albeit unintentionally, every day. And who is right? Who is wrong? No one is. And this is the immense beauty and overpowering frustration of cultural exchange. No matter what you do, no matter how much you learn, there will be things that bother you, things that seem rude or uncalled for when the simple fact of the matter is, they are just different. Every day I find myself frustrated with little things that are normal here, just because they are so far removed from what I have grown used to in my culture. But even worse, is knowing that every day I unwillingly offend, or put off, or simply perplex someone, because of my different cultural behaviors that more often than not I am unaware of.

    Some people begin to assimilate into their host country culture fully; others tend to skim the surface. There is no right or wrong answer. Cultural differences are the things that on good days make you smile big and remark at the wonder of getting to know a land so different than your own… and on bad days, make you want to scream and cry if just ONE more little kid yells “mulungu” at you. Good or bad days, though, it is an interesting ride… and you feel yourself growing and getting stretched in ways you maybe never would have experienced otherwise.

    Besides the personal growth yadda yadda yadda, another good thing to come out of this is appreciation and realization of American culture. I have said many times, that I didn’t think America really had a culture. And being at a school like UCLA where so many people come from all over the world, I often found myself jealous of their cultures and resenting my American-ness. I tried to connect with my Middle Eastern heritage, studying Arabic and specializing in Middle Eastern studies as part of my Development Studies major. But that didn’t really change anything. I was just American. Boring. But America is a country of immigrants, and somehow we have managed to forge our own unique cultural identity in this crazy mash-up of peoples and languages and traditions. But perhaps you need to be removed from America to recognize what our culture is, both the good and the bad. For example, you might not notice Americans´ preoccupation with “personal space” (a foreign concept in many other lands), or the importance of expressing things like “please” and “thank you” verbally. You might not notice that unlike many other places, Americans don’t ask each other how they slept, or (often) ask about each others health and families each time they see each other. It has been fun recognizing what American culture is, and what parts of me have been shaped by living in the States. I am also compiling in my head, a list of things America does really well. This is really fun to bring up when people from other countries are talking crap about America. Here are some of the ones we have so far:

    –customer service
    –free water in restaurants
    –high quality napkins
    –happy hour

    Okay that’s just a few but I would like to hear YOURS. What does America do well?

    Sorry this is a random blog and a bit all over the place, I just wanted to share a little bit about what I am learning about cultural exchange. I guess culture is one of those things like many others where the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know or understand. And perhaps you never will… but that’s okay. You take what lessons you can and keep your eyes open to the intricacy—and the beauty—of our differences. And you may learn that across the world, people are more alike than you thought.

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