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."

In which TJ gets to play dentist

Well, after having made it back safely, I can say that I'm super happy I've found nothing burned down. But as I've found out, they usually wait for me to be alone till things burn down (true story). Needless to say, I'm overjoyed to be back with my kids. Any body that bumped in to me the last couple weeks of my time in the states knew I was having a thrill but was getting pretty anxious to get back. I found them in good health, but on short supply of soccer balls. That got fixed right away (thanks to you, donors).

But seriously, as much I expected them to be asking all about how I was and how my family was, all they had to say was that I missed maybe the most exciting two months in the history of everything, ever. There was the visit of a businessman who has dealing in Nampula and who prominently supports the orphanage, accompanied by a giant feast in his honor (which I new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a visit by the Peace Corps as “half of America came and visit us and played games and brought snacks and treats (which I also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a big party and feast for Mozambican independence day (which I also also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was a visit from Regina during the school break. She is one of the girls from here and was on break during her first year of teaching out near the coast. She came back for the first time to see everybody and to throw a giant feast for the kids, replete with giant chickens, french fries, pop, salad, and cake for desert (which I also also also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a week-long, National culture and music festival at the soccer field half a click from the orphanage that resulting in school being shut down for a week and the bairro teeming with people and noise and distractions till all hours of the night (which I new about and was actually thrilled that I was not here for any of the madness).

They were assuming I'd be jealous about hearing about all the awesomeness, and I kinda was. Especially because I had talked to the Peace Corps people so many times about coming out to see the orphanage, and because I missed Regina coming back.

And I knew telling them about all the times I ate at Red Robin just wouldn't translate, and if I told them about my trip to Disneyland they just wouldn't understand. Nor to they comprehend us celebreating my grandparent's fiftieth anniversary. “You mean they're both turning fifty at the same time? Oh, you say they've been married fifty years? The whole time? To each other? I don't believe you.”

There is much more to tell, but in the meantime, here's some of those lovely faces I was so anxious to see.

Dorca finally found a productive way to help me with my laundry. Recall that previously, she would take all my freshly washed clothes and then dump them in the dirty water and pretend to wash them for me. Now, when I bring my clothes in off the line I found a way for her to carry the pins.

Ofeita found a way to help also. I just slipped about seven t-shirts over her head to carry them back to my house. Afterwards she asked if she could keep one of them to use a dress, it almost made it down to her toes.

Some people fashion me as the dad that plays cruel tricks on his kids. I like to think of myself as that crazy uncle that keep kids on their toes. Mena, 8, came home from school yesterday walking gingerly and refusing to talk to anyone. The others said she had a loose tooth ready to come out. I, like any generous person, offered to buy here sugar cane (which would have about the same effect as taffy, ripping that tooth right out of there). After refusing me offer, I made another. I told here if she left me see her tooth, I could tell her exactly how long until it would come out.

After about five minutes of getting her to go along with it, she finally relented. I took a look and she was a little apprehensive when I stuck my hand near her mouth. She asked how long it would be. I replied, "Right... about... now." And held her tooth in my hand.

The shocked look on her face was a mix between, "Oh no you didn't?!" and "I can't believe it was that easy."

That was the easy part. Getting the money from the tooth fairy under he pillow  was the hard part...

Graduation Day

I'm back in Seattle now for a short time before returning to Mozambique, but that doesn't mean there sill aren't stories to tell, and I've got plenty of them, so I figure I'll just keep on telling.

Making up stuff to write here has its own kind of flow to it. Sometimes inspirations strikes and I'll come up with three or four posts in a day. Other times, life drags on a little bit and there is just not much of note. Sometimes, like this time, stuff happens. After that stuff happens I immediately start thinking, "How can I let everybody know about all that in a way they won't fall asleep reading." Then I think about how many times I can break the fourth wall. Is there a fourth wall in writing? Or do things jump off the page. Or jump out of the screen. If you had one of those 3D computers they'd jump out of the page. I bet that spinning tag globe on the right would look pretty crazy in 3D.

Sometimes, there's just no way to tell what happened other than to start at the beginning and finish at the end. For some reason, everybody has decided this is the proper way to tell a story and so I'm going to give in to pressure and tell the story that way.
 
I recently went down to Beira as part of making my way out of the country. Beira is a good day's drive away. I took a bus that left at 1am and got in that night after it was dark. Actually, it was two buses. But the trip went smooth and it didn't break down in the middle of the jungle. Breaking down in the jungle is bad.

The point of the trip was to get out and visit some of our kids that are down there studying. Just a friendly visit to see how they're living and adjusting and getting along down in their new confines.

I know not everyone, or anyone, remembers that we have kids that have "graduated" from the orphanage. Every now you get reminders, like when I told you about the two boys that threw a dinner party for us one day. 'Dinner party' is probably not the best thing to say, but it was a party, and dinner was involved. So there. But for us still in Nampula, we are constantly reminded and constantly praying for them, so I had been looking forward to getting out and visiting them.

The ones that are down there this year have joined and are living with Lazaro, one of our kids who is studying at a university down there in his second year. They are all living together in a rented house. Gizela, who went down at the same time, is living in a dormitory at the vocational school. They're all studying things like refrigeration and air conditioning repair, auto mechanics, cooking, electricity.

It was just a trip to go down and see them and spend a few days visiting. I wasn't "being nosy" or "checking in on them", it was just a visit to see them and they were thrilled to have me. I spent the first day just telling them all that's new back at the orphanage and how everybody is doing. They were full of questions how everybody is doing and wanted to hear everything that has been going on back at the orphanage.

The second day they took me to see their trade school. They had just finished an exam day so they had a day off of lessons so I just got to see their classrooms, meet their instructors, see all their friends. And unlike a similar American experience they were thrilled to see me and wanted to show me everything and meet all their friends.

Some of the boys took me out around the town to look at some of the projects they had done as part of their training. Zaqueio showed me construction sites where he had installed the electrical box going in the office complex. Albertino showed me a bank of air-conditioners he tuned up and got in working order at a flour factory. They were all proud and couldn't stop telling me about all they've done and are learning.

The trip to visit our students was one of the most fulfilling and encouraging things I've gotten to do in my nearly two years so far in Mozambique. The boys (and girls) were truly thriving, learning well in their school, and appreciating and valuing the education they were receiving. They are participating in church as often as there is a chance to. They are valued in their neighborhood, which was initially skeptical of 7 young guys moving in to rent a house together, but soon realized that they are respectful, play great with kids, and are there to learn and to improve their live and not just fun and games (there are still plenty of fun and games though). Their once skeptical neighbors now thank them for watching their kids and providing protection, "because no thief would dare come here during the middle of the night knowing there are seven strong men right next door. A couple of the boys go down to a nearby orphanage when they have a weekend free to socialize and play with the kids there because they know how important things like that are.

Well, yesterday they graduated their job training program to much fanfare. Here are some pictures I got a hold of.

Here is (back) Albertino, Gracio, Isaty, (front) Zaqueio, and Lazaro. Albertino and Isaty finished their training in refrigeration and AC repair, and Zaqueio completed his in electricity installation and repair. Gracio and Lazaro have got a ways to go and are in year two of university. Albertino and Gracio are friends of our that we are helping/scholarshiping while the other boys are from the orphanage.

Here is Claudia (who went down to Beira last year to study), Lazaro, Gracio, Gizela, Isaty, and Zaqueio. Gizela studied culinary and was full of stories of all the things she's learned to cook and all the work she's done. The director of the dormitory at the school also sought me out when I was there to praise here and tell me how she has such a great character and is a pleasure to have in the dorm. I didn't get sent a picture with Gabriel, the last boy we sent down, but his mechanics course is a full year and won't finish till December.

Perhaps one of the most encouraging moments of my trip was getting to really hear from the heart of our kids there how much they've grown up in such a short time and how much they value what they are learning. As I talked to them, it was clear how hard they are working. Isaty was particularly emotional, tearing up as he told me, "My whole life I never understood school. But here, I'm working with my hand, getting the best marks in my class, and enjoying it so much. This is exactly what I want to do in my life."

As the ones that graduated Young Africa Trade School get ready to move on, keep praying for their hunt for jobs and apprenticeships. The climate for work is extremely challenging, but they are all going to work hard to find opportunities, so pray with us that God rewards their efforts and blesses their knowledge and that they would find stable and healthy jobs.

Rest and Relaxation

I'm a creature of habit, as I think I've mentioned before. Part of that is we've got a pretty good set schedule at the orphanage and so I need to plan things out otherwise nothing gets done. There are normal things that just get pushed into the routine. Church is on Sundays, I do my shopping on Fridays, most days I'm teaching lessons in the afternoon, I've got my carpool, nightly bible study with the kids, Saturdays are yardwork and trashday. In the midst of all that I've got to try to find time for laundry and soccer, two things that are hard this time of year because of the frequent rain.

Things just happen. But in the middle of it all, I like to find time for a little R&R. Just something out-of-the-ordinary, unusual, surprising, refreshing is what I need to get a pick-me-up during the week. Most the time it ends up being a nap, which is neither extraordinary nor surprising, but amazingly effective. Other times it will be going into the markets to wander around and just shoot the breeze with people. Much of the time, its just going somewhere to relax and get a snack.

My new favorite spot for just getting a snack and chilling out is this place; The Hotel Milenio.

There's only like two really swanky places here in Nampula, and this has to be one of them. The newly remodeled hotel is the last place in Nampula that makes you feel like you're still in Mozambique. Let me show you.

Here's a coffe shop, cafe area where I tend to frequent every other week or so for some air-conditioning, a pop, and a choice between a good book, soccer, or cricket on the 50" flatscreen TVs.

Today was a cooking show. Ummm.... I choose BOOK!

The thing is this place is so weird and uniquely modern. I've heard it described as an up-scale cafeteria, a hospital, an up-scale hospital cafeteria, and, as Victor said, Dubai. I assume he meant the entire state. Just the whole Emirates feel, I guess.

Nothing says obscene oil-wealth like a four-storey piece of "art"...

...pictures of rocks on the wall...

 

...or whatever this is. Indoor plants inspired by "The Jetsons"?

The best thing about this place is not the overpriced food.

Watery coffee and the other half of my grilled-cheese sandwich are not what keep me coming back. The thing that keeps me coming back is the fact that they pipe in a combination of music that makes me absolutely homesick.

The first time I went was shorty after the hotel remodeled in last October. It was over a 100 degrees that day (or 38 degrees for the rest of the world) and I needed to find some AC to escape the humid torturous hell that the weather often is. After getting myself to the hotel I bumped in to Christina. (We live 15 feet apart and yet neither knew the other was going there. We have awesome communication.) The first thing I noticed and commented on was how great the music is. They were playing a shuffled mix of Dave Matthews Band.

The next time I came back, the musical awesomeness continued. The ambient music was just obviously hooked up to somebody's iPod and this day they had put U2's "The Joshua Tree" album on repeat. I listened to it two full times through. I had the almost Pavlovian response of every time it came back around to "Where the Streets Have No Name" I ordered another coke.

In subsequent trips, the music is always usually the same combination of an album or artist just repeating through. I've come back to Soundgarden, Oasis, and Pearl Jam, Radiohead, and Weezer. It's like whoever is picking the music was my musical soul-mate: from Seattle and stopped discovering new music after 1999.

When I finally asked who on earth is picking this music, they told me the manager does. The manager, as I know, is some middle-aged surly Portuguese lady that always gives me the stink eye because I only order cheap things like pops instead of paying $5 for coffee or $8 for an onion and carrot omelet.

Surly  manager or not, they have my business until they change out the playlist for something like Nickleback or American Idol Greatest Hits.

One More (Late) Christmas Gift

Because getting the Bibles left a lot of kids gift-less, I wanted to do  something for the rest of the kids. I also wanted to do something that would last a little longer than getting them all candy bards (lifespan: 4 minutes) mirrors (by June, half were broken) or soccer balls (average lifespan: 3 weeks before popping).

In keeping with my cheesy theme, "the gift of knowledge" (which I made up just know) I spent a long day scouring the street and markets and back alleys for schoolbooks. Yes, their textbooks for school.

You see, starting in eighth grade, books aren't provided. You have to buy them yourselves. And with teachers assigning homework directly out of the book, you're pretty much screwed if you don't have a copy or know somebody who has one.

Kids in primary school (supposedly) get free books every year. Their books are more along the lines of workbooks and are provided (supposedly) free by the World Bank and UNICEF. However, what happens is books are printed every year and given out in the south of the country in and around the capitol. Then, if books are left over, they make it up here sometimes around April. I've seen kids here in three different grades and they have never received more than one subject (math, social studies, portuguese, etc.) a year.

This year, the kids in primary school have yet to receive books. And buying or selling these books is a crime. Out where we are, people pretty much don't care and police look the other way as long as you cut them in on your sales. Kids have come home to show me their homework and announcements from the teacher. Announcements include, "There are no books this year, go buy one," and, "I received your textbooks but there are only 10 so tell your parents to come to my house after work to bid on them." Undoubtedly unscrupulous, but par for the course here in Mozambique.

Since we collect and save the primary school workbooks, there's not too much of a need to go into the underbelly of Nampula to buy them. I only needed to go into the underbelly to buy the high school books.

We've never had a full set of high school books. In fact we still don't have a complete set. I decided based on availability (of the books) and cost (money people sent me around Nov/Dec/Christmas) that I would be looking for books only for 8th and 9th grade. This was also strategic, because the number of kids in those two grades are 15 and the number in the rest of high school is five scattered around grades 10-12. And this way, the older grades can also use the books as resources if they need to.

Armed with my list of school subjects (Portuguese, History, Geography, English, Math, Biology, Chemistry, Physics, and Agriculture) I went with Felex. He was usually about 25 yards ahead of me, looking in street corners, alleys, markets, anywhere there is a makeshift market and people are selling the school books. He'd usually get a ball park price and then I'd show up and the negotiations would start. One place in particulary, I bought about 8 (no one place every has a complete range of grades or subjects) or subjects and after 50 minutes of talking I finally got him down to a price I liked.

When I finished and went to call the kids, most of them did the kind of, "Oh, gee. Thanks." And rolled their eyes. But the books are kept in my house and its usually full of people coming in to do their homework or study for a test. They are getting used really heavily and are a great help to the kids.

Victor and Martinho thumbing throug the books for the first time.

Mauricio checking out the 8th grade book, wishing he had it last year.

Even with the books here, the girls still don't use them that often and, much to my dismay, still just wait for the boys to finish their homework before copying it.

Manuel after school is usually first to come by and pick up book and start on his homework.

A (Late) Christmas Gift

First, I would be remiss if I didn't take a chance to wish a happy birthday to my Grandma. An avid reader of this site, she is one sweet gal and doesn't look a day over 93. That's good, because she's nowhere close in age to being 93. Fun Fact #1: Grandma shares a birthday with baseball great Honus Wagner and famous actor Abe Vigoda. Fun Fact #2: Of the three of them, only one is still alive. (Abe Vigoda is still totally dead, right?)

Moving on, I'd like to take another chance to thank those of you that help to contribute to my/our ministry here. Its thanks to you guys that I get to fun stuff like Christmas presents for the kids. This year, instead of getting soccer balls for the boys and mirrors for the girls, I decided to give the gift of reading. No, I'm not one of those horrible parents that buys a dictionary for his kid and then forces him to read it, but close.

The last two years the kids have been asking for new Bibles and told they'd eventually get them. Seeing that day not coming any closer, I took it upon myself to go out and make it a Christmas present for every kid that A) didn't have a Bible and B) knows how to read. I kind of expected them to be disappointed finding out it was their Christmas gift, asking instead to replenish the soccer ball supply or a new package of hair extensions, but you know what?

THEY TOTALLY LOVED IT!

 

Belson and Victor with their new Bibles.

Francisco and Riquito trying not to look awkward together.

Atija and Ofeita like the fact that these are hard-covered.

Estela and Ronilda asked to make sure they are in Portuguese. Yes, they are.

Dionisio and Celso prefer them to what was their previous Bible, a shared, pocket-sized, Gideons, New-Testament-only Bible that fell apart, leaving him with Matthew, Mark, and part of Luke.

And Ganito is just happy that he finally learned to read last year. Samito celebrates with him.

These dozen kids just received their first Bible, courtesy of all you out there helping to support me. From myself, and them, a BIG thanks.

Just like the rains down in Africa

Thanks for those of you that have been praying for Mama Maria. She left the cholera ward on Monday night and is staying with her daughter trying to rest and get her strength back. Part of the reason why she  got sick (and everybody else gets sick this time of the year) is because of the rains. They were the most consistent during January, but as soon as we hit February they turned destructive.

Two weeks ago a storm came through on Sunday and destroyed hundreds of homes and washed out countless roads. One more came through on Thursday and Saturday that week much to the same effect. Mud houses just can't stand up to the weight of rain that is falling. Ground gives way at the absolute quantity of water falling.

Here's some pictures I took after the Saturday storm.

This is the corner where about half the orphanage drains out. The drain partially collapsed and impeded much of the water from leaving. This is Mama Maria's house. But don't worry. This all happened while she was visiting her brother in another city.

The water backed up and was touching the steps at Victor's house at one point. And keep in mind these pictures are about an hour after it stopped raining.

Of course, for the boys, it turns into fun and games climbing on chairns to traverse our... um... pool, or lake, or pond? Whatever you call it, Belson and Muaparato were traversing it.

You have to traverse it. It's very dangerous to walk through puddles or wade in the water because you can get m'tawi-tawi. Its just a horrible fungus all over your foot that is really painful. Never gotten it, but usually somebody will pick some up during the rainy season.

The rain also makes our road nearly impassable. There reason is up at the power station at the top of the hill, this nice little pond all collects and drains down our street.

This is the view up the street. At the lake, I figured out it was running at about 1.5 liters/second. Keep in minnd that this water in our street you see here is not standing water, it's running down our road. Here there is probably more from the water that has been collecting as it runs down the hill.

The view looking down from our gate shows more water running. Any spot where a hole has opened up people fill with branches and leaves to warn people that its a giant hole and not a little puddle. Those are the leaves you see in the middle of the road. Where the road bends downhill in the picture is about as far as you can pass.

The rain rushing down our road creates problems with holes and ditches and erosion. There are about 5 spots that I counted where the road has eroded away and exposed water pipes connecting our bairro. This is as far as I dared pass with the camera because more and more  water collected the further down the hill you went. About 50 yards/meters past the orphanage the road becomes impassable as it has eroded into a ditch/gulley/canyon about 5 feet (1.5m) deep and about 4 feet (1.2m) deep. And from what I could guess had collected all the water and was flowing at about 8 liters (2gallons) per second. That is A LOT OF WATER.

Jose standing with our neighbor Celso. Jose, as you well know, has major developmental problems and problems hearing and speaking. Celso, our neighbor, has a surprisingly common birth defect here and was born without ear canals, so is very limited in communication. Imagine cupping your hands around your ears. All the time. They both need to rely on a lot of non-verbal social skills to interact and because of that play really well with eachother. In the bottom corner is the drain from the orphanage. Given the water above it should be full of rushing water, but since it collapsed inside the water is trickling out.