My Last Post

When I first arrived here I had just gotten to know most everybody's names. The girls were the easy part, each one with her own distinct haircut, height, and manner of dress. The boys all wore the same three t-shirts that had been donated in mass along with the same navy blue trousers and all had the same height. After I had finally mastered most of their names they all went one day and got haircuts. I couldn't tell the difference between thirty boys all wearing the same three t-shirts, navy blue trousers and freshly shaved heads.

Now, after first showing up almost four years ago I can recognize as somebody walks into the dining hall just by hearing their footsteps. There are the fast, long paces of Victor, he knows where he wants to go and isn't wasting any time. That's the slow shuffle of Samito, never walking in straight line, always glancing around from left to right as if he was daydreaming. There is the thumping of Virginia, wanting everybody to know that she has arrived. There are the quick, light steps of Ofeita running away from the dragging feet of Jose. I have to replace Jose's sandals every month because he can't walk heel-to-toe. He just shuffles around driving his toes into the ground.

But, after first showing up almost four years ago, after knowing these kids just like my own family, it's time for me to leave. This is the last post I'll put up here, the last story to tell.

There are a myriad of things I could reflect on, a millions different experiences, thousands of stories, hundreds of people. But if there is one thing I wish I could transmit to you for you to fully grasp the entirety of my time at the orphanage, the thing that will stay with me the most, it would be the smells. Stay with me for a second here. Smell is a terribly powerful memory indicator. I think it's because for most of us, scent works in a more subconscious level than sight or sounds. I've discovered this more and more especially as I am removed from things that are brought to mind by certain scents. One day I may be reminded of the scent of the hand soap from my grade school, another day the interior the truck I used to drive, perhaps the food concessions at a little league game.

Other scents conjure memories and emotions far more specific and vivid and evocative than simple time or place, memories that move me for no discernible reason. All of a sudden my nose catches a scent so distinct for some unknown reason from the millions of other scents I've sniffed in my lifetime that and I'm transported to the dinner table at my grandparents, sharing a meal as we did oh so many times. Another occurs while driving on the road as the breeze comes through the cabin carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and suddenly I'm not driving across African grassland but am transported on a road trip across the great American West with friends. Walking through the market and catching a waft of a vendor frying eggs for sale and suddenly being thrown in the kitchen as dad prepares breakfast on a Saturday morning before starting the day's sundry chores.

The memories, the ones that give me pause and transport me to a time and a place so foreign to this one that I've inhabited for nearly four years, the ones that without warning or explanation move me to tears of both unexplainable sadness and indescribable joy are not focused on the scents themselves, nor an activity or place, but the memories associated with them. The ones that grip the core of my being are the ones where I'm surrounding the people I love, I miss dearly, and care about deeply.

I know that soon those scents and those unfathomable pauses will come not because I'm overcome by things and people which are once again familiar, but by those I am leaving behind here. The scent of fresh cookies being sold to the kids at elementary school as I am returning home for the day hand-in-hand with the kids. The hint of thyme on the evening breeze, sitting around complaining about how late the rains are. Grilling chicken inside of a broken down wheelbarrow. The dust settling in the evening as I lay out staring at the milky way, sitting with kids who are constantly puzzled at the joy it gives me admiring God's creation.

One evening I found myself sitting around rather melancholy in such a moment as I contemplated that I live a very long way from all my family and friends and everyone I'd ever loved when one of the little girls we have here came over to sit with me. She could tell I was a little out of sorts and asked what I was thinking about. I said I was thinking about my family and that is what was was making me said. Without missing a beat, she just said, "Hmm, I don't know why you're sad. I'm your family, and you're my family, and here we are together." I then had to explain to her that my tears were not because she made me sadder but in fact the opposite. Then she asked me to stop hugging her so tight.

The memories I take with me are of teaching and coaching little Victor to pass 7^th grade. Spending hours with him studying and then hours more praying and fasting and interceding while he was taking the exams. The memories I take with me are of putting out kitchen fires and killing snakes. The memories I take with me are of sitting around with my battery powered radio one evening when the power was out and the dining hall was lit up by candles. The radio then started a program of only Glenn Miller songs (remember, the radio is weird). That night I taught the kids swing dancing till the batteries died. The memories I'll take with me are the first day we sent kids off to stay with their relatives for Christmas and only about eight kids stayed behind, including three little girls that had no family to go to. I spent the evening with sitting with them and holding them while they cried themselves to sleep having no family to go and visit.

Like the memories, the photos are of the things I'll remember. They are not of the imposing mountains, the sunny beaches, the starry skies, the building we built, the events and activities, but of people.

I know you're not supposed to have favorites, but I do. It's also hard not to be impartial when you have certain kids that are always setting things on fire and other that aren't. The one's I'm drawn to are not because of anything they've done. The thing is, as I've explained before, nobody is without anybody. Everyone has an uncle, and grandparent, a mom, and older brother or sister who has left the orphanage, a cousin that goes to the same school. There are only a small handful of kids that have absolutely nobody to rely on. In part, it's because they completely realize that they are forever dependent on God. One such family is Jose, Jordao and Dorcas, who have absolutely nobody to rely on other than their senile Grandma—Jordao said one day, "I think Jesus is calling her because she has got to be getting close to going." The ones without family are the ones looking for it, for care and a connection, for protection and love.

Just as I have long known and only more fully realized here, my relationship with God is also fully realized when I am truly dependent on Him. Not just dependent for happiness, peace, forgiveness, and spiritual niceties, but for food, water, health, life. In the same way, I feel the kids here who grasp and have the simplest, purest picture of what Jesus does for them are the kids that have nobody to run to when it gets hard. As difficult as it is to imagine, we are not the first place the kids run to with problems. But for some there is nowhere to run. Little Victor has nobody to help him. Victor has a testimony that will break your heart, and his mom lives shouting distance from the orphanage. Victor is the kind of kid that come Friday I'll give him some spare change to get a pop after school or some fresh sugar cane and he instead offers the money to his mom, not out of fear or obligation, but because he knows that it truly better to give than receive.

In line with the immeasurable joy that comes from seeing a life transformed by Jesus also is the ache and frustration of those that don't accept the truth. For every Little Victor that has not only been spiritually changed by Jesus, but his entire destiny rewritten there are countless more that end in tragedy. People that make tragic decisions and set their lives on a tragic path and you spend you time trying to speak to them and reason to them for them to see that the decisions they are making are taking themselves on a path they can't come back from. It is the absolute definition of tragedy, in which their decisions seal their fate. I have written about so many kids that we have sent off to jobs and training and schooling. How many times have I written about when they came back?

People that come here and experience a family that loves them and treats them as equals. And when it comes time for them to make their own life, for some that is the last we hear of them. One boy still has a horde of younger siblings here in the orphanage and almost three years after for a job in another city and he has never looked back, come to visit, or even check in. If I call, he will eventually pick up on maybe the second day of me trying. Always cordial and polite, as soon as I tell him I'm standing right next to his younger sister who would love nothing more than to hear from him the line goes dead.

You can even say that it's like the prodigal son. They are people that, in some respects, the best parts of their lives have come from the orphanage—the first place where they weren't always sick, the first place where they didn't have to go labor everyday, the first place where they weren't shuffled around between relatives, always a burden and unwanted, the first place they knew they wouldn't have to fight for food, the first place they knew they had a bed to go to at the end of the night and wouldn't be living in abandoned houses, the first place their relatives didn't lock them out of the house at night, burn them with coals for not returning with enough money after a day of begging on the street. It's like the prodigal son, except they haven't come back yet.

One thing that has deeply encouraged me is 10%. That's where the bar was set. In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus encountered ten lepers who cried out to him from a distance. Jesus told them to go find a priest and they were healed as they went. The, only one came back to thank him. You think receiving a sentence like leprosy—destined to die a slow and painful death over many years, possibly decades, cast out from society—to have that erased, your destiny changed by God himself would merit the lepers going back to Jesus. But only one did. If Jesus only got ten percent, how much can we hope for?

And that probably sounds like a real drag. I've only invested in these kids from three or four years and I am distraught knowing that some of them will leave and never look back. Like the multitude that followed Jesus after he gave them all bread and fish, he told them to all go back home because they were only in it for the food.

I know that part of it is my maturing process, but this is the first thing I've done where you don't get to say that the payoff just at the end of the year. It's not cramming for tests at the end of the quarter and then you're done. It's not doing development on a project and then passing it off another group for the next stage of development and testing, finishing a remodel, completing a roof. It's not even like working on a car, because while things here are clearly breaking down all the time, my cars never improve, they just stave off death for another day. It's not even like prepping for a concert and then there is a big performance, or leading new Christians through discipleship where you see the growth and struggles in vivid leaps and bounds. This is the long approach, the realistic approach. Only a fool goes to a third grader and says, "You are going to learn everything you need to now right now. Recall these lessons later as you may need it."

One of the most vivid experiences of my entire life was a certain trip to the toy store with my dad. Normally they were great occasions. A new whiffleball bat, a puzzle, a board game. It was near Christmas and I was in second grade. As we walked in the door my dad said you can have up to fifty dollars total. It was amazing. There was no Christmas list and then hoping and praying you got what you wanted. It was cutting out the middleman. I got vetoed on a Nerf gun, but got a board game and set of Legos. It was turning out to be the best Christmas ever.

And then the happiest Christmas ever turned in to the worst Christmas ever. As I carried the bags to head out the door, my dad asked me to hand it over to the marine that was at the Toys For Tots donation table. I was speechless, dumbstruck, did as I was told, and I went home empty-handed. In the car ride home I must have gone through all twelve stages and grief and then looped right back around whichever stage is responsible for being just plain pissed off. I got home, was sat down, and explained that while I was having the worst Christmas ever, it meant that another young boy that ordinarily wouldn't get anything would be unwrapping the toys that I donated. I was assured that one day I will understand that, just as Jesus said, it is better to give than receive.

I understand now.

Those are the lessons I'm hoping stay with the kids. Not painful lessons that they will carry with them until one day they realize it was true all along, but that one day when they need to call on it, they'll know the right thing to do and the way to act and how to please God. That is the long approach. Whenever there was something (usually work) I didn't want to do I was told by my dad the reason to work was that it would put hair on your chest (my dad had it easy only having sons, because that motivation is clearly not universal to both genders). I try to get the kids to realize that when we have work and chores that the purpose is to prepare them for everything to come. Sometimes, work is its' own reward. When you are faced with a tough choice, it's always better to follow Jesus, even if it means life will get harder, because that's the great paradox we follow, that to live your life is to lose it. And those things I picked out at the toy store, I ended up unwrapping them at Christmas several days later.

When Peter is out fishing, Jesus calls to him, "Follow me." He doesn't say, "Let's go to Starbucks and have a chat," or even come right out and say, "Hang out with me for three years before everybody I know turns their back on me, including you, and I die a horrible death." Even after Jesus is resurrected, he asks Peter to follow him again. This is right before Jesus ascends into heaven. Peter obviously didn't know where to go, but he agreed to follow.

And now it's time for me to follow Jesus somewhere else. In some respects it will be easier. I'll get a job (Lord willing), find a place to live, and look for that special someone. I believe the common term used to describe it is "settling down". I would like to know what part of it is settling down. I went from bouncing around during college, never having to do maintenance and home repairs. I went from not having kids to taking care of fifty of them. I got to skip the newborn phase but got them as they were colicky 4 year-old, ten year-old boys running around breaking bones, filthy teenage boys that you wonder if he is going to wear that t-shirt till it falls off his body or if he's going to shower sometime, and moody teenage girls that you just have no idea what is upsetting them (answer: nothing, and yet everything).

Settling down is the scary part. I came to Mozambique knowing at the deepest part of my being that it what God made me to do. And I leave with that same trust. It does not mean that either decision is any less scary. It doesn't mean I have an idea what I'm to do any more than I had absolutely no idea what what to do when I came to Nampula. I just know that it was needs to be done and I am thrilled by just knowing that much.

I was talking with a group of friends before I left to come here way back in 2010. They were mentioning all the exciting happenings I'd miss by not being in Seattle. One friend was joking and had asked just why I had to go to Mozambique. My answer was, "I have to. It's what God made me to do." The answer caught them off guard for its simplicity and unexpected profundity and halted the lighthearted mood of the conversation. There was then about a minute of silence and staring off into the abyss, each one wonder for him or herself, "Wow. Then what did God make me to do?"

This is not my sunset, this is not the close of my book. It is the close of one chapter, the end to one part of the story. Better parts are coming, and worse part are coming too. Happier and sadder and fuller and richer and more fulfilling and challenging. Yes, even more challenging than life in Nampula. This is not the cliffhanger where it looks like all is lost for our hero—stay tuned till next week to find out if he makes it! I'll make it. Because I know what I was made to do.

I enjoy weaving stories. I can't say that there is a defining thread or current that courses from one episode to the next. I don't even know that many of the stories are that coherent on their own. But I do love telling the stories. There are plenty more stories to be told here, but they're not for me to tell. They will left to tell for someone else. As the children here that I've come alongside with have grown, are growing, and will be writing their own stories someday. They will be nurses, lawyers, farmers, engineers, mechanics, chefs, policemen, carpenters, teachers, pastors, fathers, and mothers. They will struggle mightily, fail spectacularly, and succeed monumentally. I won't be here to see their story unfold. I won't be here to participate in it, to help it, to mold it, to encourage and chastise and correct and encourage and celebrate in it. But he story will be written because I am not The One writing it.

The scary thing is that I don't know what I'm going to do. Much like coming here. That's why it is fun and crazy. I believed that if God was truly calling me to Mozambique than he would also provide for me after I got back. I still believe that. It's hard and scary to trust, but I do.

There are many things that I will remember from my time in the orphanage, but there is one set of memories I'll keep with me the most. Not of chasing after bandits, nor going to the beach with the kids, nor coaching basketball, sneaking into the high school and substitute teaching, attending feasts, watching movies projected on the wall, staying up past midnight huddled around the radio listening to soccer games. The things I remember the most are entirely different. Sitting around chatting in the evening.

 

Planting and gardening with the boys.

Playing soccer on Saturdays.

 

Doing homework, teaching multiplication tables, having spelling bees.

Laughing at absolutely nothing over dinner.

The movie Up, aside from being the only movie I've ever seen that made me weep within the first five minutes, features the most unassuming, profound, life altering quote I've heard from any movie.

When the old man Carl sets off on his adventure and his house floats away tied to a thousand balloons, he is joined by a young tag-along named Russell. One day, Russell was reminiscing about his dad: "And afterwords we'd go get ice cream at Fenton's. I always get chocolate and he gets butter-brickle. Then we'd sit on this one curb, right outside, and I'll count all the blue cars and he counts all the red ones, and whoever gets the most, wins. I like that curb.

"That might sound boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most."

The Sniffles

Call me crazy, but it just takes a long time to heal in Mozambique. I got the sniffles a week ago. I still have the sniffles. I also had a fever and headaches sore throat and everything else in between, but it's been over a week.

This is all purely anecdotal but everybody I've talked to seems to confirm it. I've have scabs and scars on my hand from two months ago, the equivalent of road rash. It was two months ago. I still have them. They just won't go away. Everybody I know that gets a cut or a scrape, even a simple one, will have it for at least a month. They are the type of cuts that after a week in the US you wouldn't even know I had it.

Even simple little things that you would never notice are different. I would have never thought of it had someone else not mentioned it, but when I'm in the U.S., even for my brief visit last year, if I go two days or so without shaving people start giving me glances telling me to clean up. Here I could go for about a week without even looking like I've stopped caring. It just doesn't grow the same. The same go for healing from sickness or wounds.

It seems every time I get sick it just never goes away. There is a difference between a scratchy throat that hangs on for a week and spending three days with a splitting headache and a fever. The latter is what I did. Luckily for me, I maintain my unquenchable foolishness optimism in the face of adversity. A group of kids came to visit me one day when I was pretty much out of it. I don't remember them coming to see me. When asked how my fever was I apparently replied, "It's not so bad. In fact, I'm thinking of asking it out on a second date."

I shut myself in for three days just trying to avoid moving any part of my body, bright sunlight (is there any other kind) and getting anybody else sick along with me. So how did I pass my time? The same way I always pass my time when I'm sick: Watching Star Wars. All of them. In french. That last part is kind of new thing because the copy of Star Wars I got my hands on is only in French. "Louis, je suis ton père," needs no translation.

Now I'm pretty much left with a dripping nose and a sore throat. The only advantage is that I'm able to sing along with all my Johnny Cash records now. Even the bottom register of "I Walk The Line".

Life on the farm

This is Dionisio. He is our resident green thumb. The last year or so he and a handful of other boys have turned into quite the entrepreneurs. Here he is pictured in his “garden”.

He and the other boys, taking small plastic bags, have been growing trees and selling the saplings. The have quite a collection of lemon, orange, papaya, banana, passion fruit, and tangerine trees. They have a little sign out front saying “plants sold here” or something of the sort. But unfortunately as the orphage is on a quiet and lonely street, nobody over comes by so the plants have just been slowly growing on their own here.

Dionisio and the others have diligently been watering and caring for their trees for about a year, and their patience has finally paid off as last week they landed whale of a customer that bought over two hundred of his plants: Victor.

The plants are to put all around our farmland we recently just bought that's about 20 minutes away from where the orphanage it. Dionisio and all the other kids spent days out there last week as we transplanted all the pants into the ground all throughout the land.

And Dionisio is learning a lot about entrepreneurship. Namely, negotiating before you perform a service or provide goods (of which he did both). Now, instead of him receiving the market price for his plants, Victor has given himself a volume discount,AND the friends-and-family discount, AND opted to not charge him for the water he used nor rent for the space on the orphanage where his garden sits, AND rang up the account on store credit.

The second lesson he is learning is to not forget your investors. You see, as the boys have been doing their project here, the person that has diligently been buying oranges and tangerines and the like and giving all the seeds to them has been me. Now that they've hit pay-dirt, I've come knocking wanting a return on my venture capital that was so earnestly invested in their enterprise.

This is all tongue-in-cheek of course. When we started purchasing the farmland last year (with the goal of becoming a source of income for the orphanage) we had asked the boys to start germinating plants to eventually put them in the ground. I think Victor promised them a couple of bicycles as a reward. And as the farm project has been taking longer than anticipated, they've enjoyed selling some plants on the side.

As the boys have seen his success after this last week when all his stock got bot basically with a standing request to buy anything and everything else to put in our farm, the other boys have been getting in on the gig too. Jordao staked out a section of the garden but is frustrated that the chicken bones he planted haven't sprouted yet and Jose has been religiously watering the salt he planted in his section. One of these days I will sit them down to explain how plants work, but I kind of want to see what else they'll plant first—pens, pencils, soccer balls, spoons, there really is no way to tell without waiting to find out.

The Tragedy Of Our Commons

or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Start Eating Mangoes

In relating the story of the mangoes, there was one glaring omission in the tale: the reason for people to eat unripened mangoes and get self-inflicted diarrhea.

If you haven't read it go back and take a look first. We here have all tried to wrap our heads around it and have come up with little in terms of motivation or desire to eat this hard, bitter fruit. Several people I talked to even compared the kids to drug addicts—for instance let's say a habitual meth user—whose practice is particularly destructive. Others bristled at the idea of comparing the kids eating unripened mangoes to hardened meth user, so we searched for another explanation.

The explanation I like is referred to as the Tragedy of the commons. It comes from early 19th century economics, and the parable states the following: Imagine there is a community where each member of the community raise his or her own cows. The cows all graze together in a large commons (a tract without an owner). Eventually, one of the herders decided that his situation would improve if he had more heads cattle to herd, and thus more milk/meat/income and he sets about increasing his herd. Say for example instead of having fifteen heads he now has twenty.

A second herdsman, seeing that his situation too may be improved also decides to increase his herd as well. Say that he goes from five to twenty. Eventually more herdsmen, seeing that their individual wealth may also be improved, set about buying more cattle and put the cattle out to graze in the commons.

Eventually, the herdsmen see that the cattle are consuming the food in the tract at an increasing rate. However, seeing that his individual wealth would be reduced by decreasing the size of his heard, he opts instead to continue with the present level (or even increasing the number) of cattle. Eventually, instead of the commons providing sustenance for, say, ten years, it only provides the cattle for two years, after which the farmers are without recourse and the cattle die.

It is tragic in the classical sense that the decisions of the herdsmen directly lead to their demise and ability to make a living. The idea is that each herdsmen made what was individually a logical decision to improve his economics, but that collectively the sum of their decisions was illogical and destructive to the whole of the farmers because the commons was depleted of grass sooner rather than later. This dilemma is also often referred to the shared resource problem, or the finite resource problem, among many other derivations of the same name. The idea is that there is a finite, shared natural resource (the commons) and if each takes the group into account the resource will survive, but each making an individual (and rational) decision to increase his personal holdings will invite the completion of the resource.

In the real world, the herdsmen would innovate and move to a different tract of land, or find a different source of food. An example is to think about how many whale farmers you know. You don't know any?. That's because there are no whale farmers

This doesn't count.

In the 18th and early 19th century there was an insatiable appetite for whale oil the world over. Companies and nations hunted as many whales as possible to feed the demand, however, hundreds and thousands that were also hunting and killing as many whales as possible. Whales practically disappeared. 

But when they almost went extinct, people innovated and developed substitutes for whale oil. That guy who invested in whale farms lost everything because the only people hunting whales these days are the Japanese.

And everyone knows the Japanese do not want to be fed, they want to hunt.

And how's that for an introduction?! If you're not already bored after more than six-hundred words, we're getting to the payoff pretty soon here.

So I began to think of the kids eating mangoes like this, as people competing to utilize a shared resource. But unfortunately for this explanation, the Tragedy of the Commons is very clear in stating that individuals make a decision which is in their best interest, but when everybody makes the decision, it is detrimental to the whole of the community. How is getting diarrhea from eating unripe mangoes in anybody's best interest?

But behaviorally, there is much more depth to this story. Think of it like this: How many of you grew up in a home with a cookie jar (I see the light bulbs going off in your head). Mom makes cookies, and when you were too short to reach the cookie jar (or granola if you're from a weird healthy household) she would dutifully dispense the cookies snack-appropriate intervals. You would notice that if you grew up with siblings, you would normally all receive the same amount of cookies. [Ed. Note: Mom loved me more and I got more cookies. Sorry to break it to you, brothers.]

However, when you were tall enough to reach the cookie jar, you found it in your best interest to eat a cookie whenever you darn well pleased. And you did as you pleased even though with your siblings doing the same thing it meant that the cookie jar would be emptied in a matter days—or in our household, a matter of hours—leaving the family without cookies.

How many of you, seeing the cookie jar with only two cookies left in it, would not race and cram those cookies in you mouth faster than you can say “diabetes”? All of you would, unless you're a saint, but we'll talk about saints later. In that moment you were individually putting your goals ahead of the families and you just depleted your shared resource. I would sarcastically congratulate you, but then I would remember you are pleased with yourself for eating the last two cookies.

Digging deeper, however, what you your fear is not that the cookie jar will eventually run out, but your fear is that your sibling* will eat half the cookie jar in the middle of the night and you will be left with nothing. Your desire to eat cookies is two-fold. 1) You wish to fill your tummy, and 2) you wish to prevent your brothers from eating a larger share of cookies, so you eat them first, thereby preventing him from doing the same to you.

*For those of you not understanding the cookie metaphor—say you grew up in a house full of health-conscious sisters—you can substitute sharing of shoes or clothes or shampoo or something. If that still doesn't hit home, imagine using all the gas in the family sedan. Who hasn't had their sibling return from his/her joyride as you wait to use the car only to find it has no gas. And if your parents were rich and the gas tank never hit the E, I'm out of examples. You're on your own.

Now lets bring our discourse back home. Remember, our motivation was to talk about my kids eating mangoes from the trees before they ripen, at great risk to their own health.

It is clearly in nobody's self-interest to get diarrhea. It is also not in the greater interest of the group to over indulge in mangoes. However, it is in the selfish interests of the each kid to insure the somebody else is not eating all the mangoes when she is not getting any. That is selfishness. That is sin.

You see, for me, I see this as a behavioral problem (duh) and not only as an economics problem. I see it as the inability of the kids to make a wise decision that will benefit both themselves and everybody around them. Adam Smith, widely considered the first economist, has said making a moral judgment relies on the ability of the first person to put himself in the position of the second person and, from that perspective, make a decision that is beneficial to both of them. But here's the rub: Adam Smith didn't say that first. Jesus did.

As is often the case, the mangoes did just fine staying put on the trees, but then one person decided to start eating mangoes and slowly the dominoes cascaded and a huge portion of the kids are now eating mangoes and giving themselves diarrhea. You may argue that they are only kids unable to make a clear judgment decision regarding mangoes. I argue that this orphanage is full of fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen year old boys and girls that have been complaining of diarrhea for over a month, not because they want the mangoes for themselves, but because they are afraid of the mangoes ripening and another person eating more mangoes than herself.

The depletion of our mangoes is because the kids are more concerned with preventing their neighbor from eating ripened mangoes than they are concerned with loving their neighbor as themselves!

As some of the kids have bluntly told me, they continue frustrated because they know that if they change, and are the only person to change, the situation is not improved and individually they are worse off. The only way to improve is if everybody can multilaterally make the decision to lay off the mangoes. But if not everybody does, those that do are going to “lose”. While this situation is fairly anecdotal, it does fit in to the larger lack of altruism that is a hallmark of the culture at large.

The situation with the mangoes is hard to understand because it goes against conventional wisdom—kids intentionally over-indulging in mangoes and getting crazy diarrhea. But I would also posit that the phrase “conventional wisdom” is itself a misnomer because it wisdom was conventional, it would be cheaply gained it would not be valued as true wisdom.

So if you can't quite it out, know that we are right there with you. And if you've got a better explanation other than than selfishness and sin, please contribute, because after seventeen-hundred words I've got no more ideas on this end.

Have a Coke and a Frown

If this country were to ever revolt and overthrow the gov't, I would completely understand. You see, here in Mozambique, we don't have stock tickers and 401k's and 18 month t-bonds and Standard and Poor ratings to gauge our economic strength, we have prices. Prices are so fixed on a vast majority of goods that when they are raised it usually makes the national news for days at a time. In 2010, the gov't attempted to raise the price of bread. It would have made a hoagie-sized loaf go from 5 mets to 7.5 mets. The city responded with four days of rioting. People died and the gov't nixed the price hike.

Here in Nampula, on January 1st the price of a bus ride across town went from 5 mets to 10 mets. IT DOUBLED! The effect, lots of angry people pleading to ride for only 5 mets and in about 8 trips this year, not once have I been on a full bus. This is vastly different from before when I don't think I ever rode on an empty bus. Ridership is way down.

But that I could deal with. For me, it is the difference in paying 20 cents or 40 cents for a bus ride. The thing I could not put up with is my coca-cola.

I love coke, and I'm so glad that it's the only thing available here (and Fanta orange). There are only two choices for pop here. It's incredible simple. Coke or Fanta. And a year ago at this time, a case of 24 bottles of coke (trading in your old bottles) cost me 180 mets.

This price increased little by little until coke plaster official signs and billboards across the country saying the official price is 205 mets. I was fine with that, actually. It was an increase, but a standard one. And then everybody knew the price was always the same because it was plastered all over the city.

Then last week I went to buy a couple cases of coke for the kids. To my surprise, a case of coke now costs 250 mets. For those of you keeping track at home, thats just shy of $10. After being steady for about six months, the price of coke just jumped by 22%. It also means that in a year's time, coke has increased by almost 40%. And, just to rub it in the nose of doubters like me, the new price is actually printed on the bottle cap. It adds insult to my already injured wallet.

Not that this is really hurting my wallet, because I don't often buy coke, and I can always not buy coke, this could start hurting my wallet. So now when you read the news about the coca-cola riots in Mozambique and don't hear anything on this site for a week or two, I hope you'll be smart enough to figure out where I am.

In Which We Talk On Phones

Communication happens at the speed of technology. (I should totally trademark that as a slogan.) Throughout history, technology has taken various forms: letters, telegraph, fax, email, whatever they're going to be using tomorrow. Maybe after the coming war with China we'll be reduced to sending messages by falcons.

Modern communication takes place, essentially, instantly. That's part of why they call it “modern”. You call somebody and can talk in real time. You can play video games and pretend to kill the Russians in Call of Duty and actually be playing against real Russians trying to kill the Americans. You can sit in the same room as somebody else and text back and forth instantly, and repeatedly, instead of walking over and actually talking to them. (Oooh that's right, 14 year-old girl demographic. You just got burned. I still love y'all, though.)

In Mozambique, communication happens at a different pace. Yes, there are cell phones galore here. No, it is not stapling a message onto a zebra and sending into the neighboring village. Infrastructure in Nampula largely skipped over installing land lines and just went straight to cellphones. That's actually pretty common in most of the third-world. Still, just because people carry cellphones doesn't mean they work. Also pretty common in most of the third-world.

The phones themselves, Chinese and hastily put together, have a short shelf life if any at all. It's not uncommon for people to buy phones and a month or three later have them stop working. But finding a good phone isn't the only difficulty you'll encounter if you want to talk here in Nampula.

The other difficulty is the networks. There are just two of them here, so there's not a lot of options for service. Reliability is non-existent for being able to send/receive calls as well as text messages. The trouble is there exists a paradox in how people view the reliability of the network. Even when the signal is strong and your meter is full of bars, you are no more likely to get service. Often times with a weaker signal the call goes without any problems. Lets throw some examples from just the last seven days.

Calls: Really, to be honest, they just don't go through all the time. When they don't go through phone will just ring and ring as if nobody is picking up, but in reality it can't find the other phone. Other times when you try to place a call it just goes dead and flashes a warning that network is not responding. Even though you have full bars there is no network. And yesterday, twice, I was sitting when my phone beeped and alerted me I missed a call. The call supposedly came five minutes earlier but my phone never rang. Than later in the day my phone beeped to tell me I missed a call. The only confusing part was it said the call came two days ago. I believe it.

Texts: Here, we call them messages, and they have a much higher chance of going through into the network. They also have a much higher chance of never making it to the recipient and getting stuck inside the network. Several days ago some visitors came by late in the afternoon to check out the orphanage. While we were talking my phone rang receiving a text. It was a message from these visitors, sent that morning, saying they were going to arrive at 3:30. I got the message after they had already been there for an hour. Later, I was in a staff meeting with Victor and Marta here. Then I got a text from Victor saying the meeting was going to start. “Pretty quick message, got here only a few minutes late,” I said to the others. Then Victor read the message and assured me that it was not a quick one. He sent it for the meeting that took place the day before.

Text are sometimes so notoriously slow that, after the events of the last week, I've started putting my own time-stamp on them. My time says when I sent it and differs from the one in the phone that says when it was received. This saves on the confusion when I get a text telling me to go somewhere in the truck to meet somebody, only to find out I'm three hours late.

And that is what its like to use a phone in Mozambique: Slow, spotty, inconsistent, unreliable. You may all now commence your AT&T and iPhone tethering complaints in the comments section below.

Giving Thanks with Our Crazy Family

I have two crazy families. One is back in Seattle and I was thrilled and overjoyed to wake up in the middle of the night and Skype with them for a little bit as they were all together to celebrate Thanksgiving.

The other family is crazy too, and they number as almost fifty of the best kids you can find in Mozambique. I mean that very sincerely and tell them that quite often. We also, like any family, have a healthy amount of, hmmm, how should I put this...

...friction?

Even the best of families get under one another's skin every once in a while. Its just a part of being human. And no matter how well the wheels are spinning, there's just something magical about the holidays and everybody getting together that just seems to suck all the grease right out of those bearings. In truth, there's no such thing as Thanksgiving here because there is no commemoration of the Pilgrims fleeing England and arriving on the shores of Mozambique and giving thanks to God while sharing a meal with the Indians. That never happened. Because we're in Africa. Not Massachusetts. Still, I thought it'd be fun to do a little something for thanksgiving by having the kids thank each other.

After breakfast I gave each of the kids a note card and asked them to write the name of somebody they wanted to thank and the reason why they wanted to thank or recognize them. They stressed that they didn't have to recognize or acknowledge only something that a person did for you directly, but it could be things that people do that benefited another person or even everybody in general. I also stressed that we were not voting for anybody, we just wanted to take some time to thank people.

After everybody sat around for about five minutes thinking of things (during which I encouraged people to be more aware when folks are helping and being selfless if it takes five minutes to find just one example) they actually wrote some really nice things about one another. Most of the things were actions not benefiting the writer directly. They were things like helping in the kitchen during the weeks that I was sick and the rest of the staff were in Zimbabwe, or how certain kids had taken an extra effort to help with construction, or kids that have been helping the younger students learn to read and prepare for exams at the end of the year, or people showing up early at church to help clean and prepare it for Sunday services. I'd say close to 75% were incidences of people doing things to help in general around the orphanage and with the day-to-day of life. I told the kids I was really happy hearing all the things they had to say.

Then, because the kids should know the nice thing others see in them, I gave all the cards to their respective kids so they could have them and know that the things they do are known and appreciated. The kids that got cards were really happy to receive them and read them.

The kids that didn't get cards? Not so happy.

While all of the kids filled out a card, the ones that got noticed were only about ten kids or so, with each receiving multiple thanks. Those kids all rightly deserved the nice things said about them. The problem is, there are also a lot more kids that do nice things and deserved to get a card and just plain didn't. I made a point of going to the six or eight kids I though really deserved a card but didn't get one to tell them how thankful I was for specific things they do, even if they didn't get a card. The problem is there are only about five kids who are completely selfish and don't deserve cards. That means about twenty kids got left out in the cold.

This was the scene I noticed at lunch. A kid finishes his food, stands up to walk his plate up to the counter and put it in the pan to be washed. The kid passes another who has also finished eating and motions to the one walking to take the plate with him the way. The one walking says to the one sitting, “Why should I bother taking your plate if you're not going to vote for me? Take it yourself.”

Ummm...

Later, a kid asking to borrow the cup of another to go get a glass of water. The one with the cup says, “And when was the last time you lent me your cup? Only if you promise to write a card to me next time.”

We might...

A kid carrying a bucket of water to go use in the construction of the girls dormitory asks another to help him carry it. The other responds, “No way! I work in the construction too and nobody ever thanked ME for it.”

...have...

A kid is pulling clothes in from the line and the wind picks up and blows a shirt off the line. As the shirt rolls like a tumbleweed it passes a kid playing in the shade. The one taking down clothes shouts, “Hey, quick. Grab my shirt fast.” The child in the shade doesn't even look up and drolls, “I helped you clean the bathroom yesterday when it wasn't my turn and you can't even vote for me with your card.”

...a problem.

Little did I know that a fun activity meant to thank and encourage folks was going to turn into a day of envy and folks that were not thanked were taking it out on their fellow kids here by flat-out refusing to help so they could spite people. Thankfully by dinner, most of the angst had worked itself out and people were back to their normal, helpful self. I made sure to explain that night at Bible study that the activity was not meant for “voting” the winner or most helpful, nor to discourage people from helping, only to thank and recognize people well deserving of it. I also tried to bandage the wound a little bit and tell them they all help a lot and, if it wouldn't take two days, I'd write a card thanking each of them.

But still, I kind of liked the activity, and the kids that got cards sure loved it, so maybe we'll try this again in a month or so and let kids write an unlimited number of cards and hope that nobody's feelings get hurt at the end of the day.

As for us, our dysfunctional family here is back to its old, normal, non-spiteful, crazy self. For that, I am very thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

In Which Everybody Knows TJ

It turns out that not everybody is famous in a small town. I, however,am probably the exception. It is sometimes scary how popular I am. I mean, no complaints, but everybody here knows me. And when I say everybody I mean EVERYBODY. I made a list of all the some reasons why and examples of how I'm so well known.

• I'm white. Lets just face it, I'm not hard to miss in a sea of black people. And albinos. They're not hard to miss either.

• I'm tall. Even by U.S. standards I'm tall. And everybody here is much, much shorter on account of just being that way and receiving much, much worse nutrition during those first, oh, 18 years or so when nutrition is important to growing. I'm at least a head taller than everyone in our neighborhood. Combine that with the whole being white thing and it's pretty hard to miss me.

• I take the bus. Seems innocuous enough, but the only other missionaries I bump into on the bus are nuns. The others all have cars. There's about 6 termini (end-of-lines) on the loosely organized bus routs here in Nampula, and I'm about a ten minute walk away from the end of one of those lines. And often, the buses won't go all the way to the end, they'll stop short and turn around depending on how well comported the driver is. It has gotten so that---I stopped wondering a long time ago---that all the bus drivers know where I live and won't slow down to pick me up. They'll just yell out the window and shout, “We don't stop [in my neighborhood].” It's not like I live in Compton or Detroit or Mexico, some place that everybody is afraid to go. They're just being courteous of telling me to wait for a bus that will take me all the way to where I want to go.

• I'm fairly routine. I'm not nerdy or OCD, I just get habits that work. I do my grocery shopping on Fridays and stock up for the week. How consistent am I? So consistent that one week when I didn't go somebody from the small street market about a 5 minute walk from the orphanage sent somebody to see if I was alright!

• Everybody in our neighborhood knows my name. Again, I'm not sure how and I stopped wondering a long time ago. But they also think I'm Christina's brother, so they're not all-knowing or anything. I try not to say much other than greeting and niceties to most the vendors because they all want to know way too much personal information. I noticed someone building a new market stand last week and so I stopped by. It turns out it is “owned” by somebody from my church. I stopped by and started talking to him and then all the other vendors looked at us rather shocked until someone finally blurted out, “We didn't actually think you spoke anything other than English.” Now everybody want to bend my ear about everything when I pass by the market, which is every time I need to catch the bus. (The guy from our church is too much of a goof to accurately describe with a few short words. The easiest think I can say is he doesn't know that he's a goof. We was super proud to show me his fruit stand and what it's going to look like when he finishes. When I asked him what he plans on selling he responded, completely serious, “I don't know yet. I want to finish this first then I'll start planting fruit.”)

• I'll often walk the kids to school. Mainly its just fun for them to get dropped off for second grade and then wave bye to me in front of all their friends. Some of their friends will say thinks like, “Neato, isn't it just something that you've got a white guy walking you to school?!” I've been temped to respond with something like, “Golly, isn't it swell how you have parents?!” buts there's no way of doing that which doesn't make me sound like the biggest jerk this side I've the equator. Plus, it doesn't translate that well.

• Somewhat startling, and this one puzzles me more than the others, is that their teachers know me too. I went to the primary school last month to do parent-teacher conferences from the second trimester. We have 20 kids that study at the primary school, where they are with the same teacher through the whole day. Half of their teachers didn't show up for the conferences, one of them showed up drunk (at 9am) and doesn't count, but the rest of their teachers that were there that morning (and not inebriated) greeted me with, “Hi, you must be TJ.”

And thankfully none of these peoples have Facebook and want to be my friend. If they did, I'd be getting tons of updates reading, “Alguem vi o meu cabrito? Ele ja me fugio pela quinta vez este semana.” and be taggig in photo albums titled, “Aniversario de Marere – Festa no cajuelo 2011” and having five-hundred people recommend that I “like” kabanga.

In Which it's tooooo quiet...

It's been quiet around here. Almost tooo quiet. But for once in my life, I think I'll take it over the alternative. What's the alternative? Things catching fire!

Victor and the rest of the staff have been at a conference all week, thus leaving the orphanage in my very capable yet flammable hands. This means that the only responsible (haha) people at the orphanage are me and Mama Maria. She is very good at what she does (cooking all our food) but not so good at other things (example: saying, "Here, go clean this" as she gives a 3 year-old a butcher's knife). She's also very funny in a cantankerous sort of way.

With a grandmother's smile that says, "I love you," followed by, "but if you don't hold that chicken still I'm gonna cut of your head instead if his."

I like to think that we've been left in charge because we're the two most capable people here. The last line of defense, if you will. Like when President Lincoln finally sent in Gen Sherman to get the job done right. Or the Rebel Alliance sending on Luke Skywalker to take out the Death Star. Or.the Greeks calling on Archimides to invent a Death Ray.

OK, so maybe all those examples involve destroying things, but I chose them for a reason. That's because every time I'm left alone here things end up getting destroyed. More specifically, they catch on fire (Atlanta, Death Star, Roman ships). Disclaimer: Marrerre's roof burning down last week was totally coincidental because I was not left alone in charge.

So, three days into the week, things have so far been relatively peaceful. Food shortages were averted, as were power outages, wild animal attacks, and several mutinies. The animal attacks were our kids chasing  wild animals, and the munities were too poorly organized to ever gain any real traction with the rest of the proletariat the kids.

But because of that, I've been a little pressed for time. It's really just the same stuff I've always been doing, it just feels more daunting now that I'm the only one around. I'm still trying to shuffle of 40+ kids to school on time, prepping meals, doing teaching and homework help, and doing bible-study/chapel daily and nightly (and ever so rightly). And when you throw on the burden of getting a soccer game or two in during the day, oh the stress...

I worried the week was going to be bad after an ominous start after I spent last Saturday night in clinic with one of our little girls here who came down with malaria. (On a side note: it's really really hard seeing your kids suffer and be sick when there's nothing you can do for them*.) And just this morning the sound of the batukis (drums) started up next door as Marrerre was finally, officially getting recognized as the chief. I was worried that is would then morph into a raging party with enough alcohol, music, and women to make a Miami U football player jealous, but as of press time nothing has materialized.

*What every real parent already knows.

So here's hoping that your week is full of excitement and my week stays so lame that I will have no choice but to make Friday's post about all the different types of spinach we use in our spinach stew (or something totally not exciting like that).