Feliz Natal!

It's 1 p.m. my time on Christmas Eve. And instead of working on a travel article about Cape Town - due to the editor of O Pais Today on Monday morning - I'm procrastinating. In my defense, this is a particularly difficult assignment in that I've never actually been to Cape Town, thus have no first-hand recommendations on lodging, transportation, restaurants, or shopping. Apparently, my ignorance is not considered a hindrance in the world of Mozambican journalism.

In addition to dawdling, I'm disappointed in myself for not making any effort to come up with some sort of special plan for Doug and myself. As this is our first Christmas as a married couple, you would think I could have developed some unexpected take on tradition that might prove memorable and fun or, at the very least, result in an interesting anecdote. (Some of you more enlightened folks might be asking, "Why is planning your holiday celebration entirely your responsibility, Amy?" but anyone who knows my husband well knows his default approach to any special occasion is asking me where I want to go to dinner.)

I think part of the problem is that, truly, I wish I could be home for the holidays. I miss hosting my annual champagne-fueled office party. I miss my family's spell-and-interpret gift exchange. I miss the holiday auction at Neiman Marcus. I miss my sister Julie's cheese grits casserole on Christmas morning. I miss all the beautiful decorations in Dallas. I miss wearing cashmere and fur. I miss my dad. And, rather than dwelling on any of those things, I over-compensated by ignoring the fact that it is Christmas time. Until now.

Before you start feeling too sorry for me, please know that Doug and I have been invited to join two other American couples and their children for Christmas dinner tomorrow. We love hanging out with Kathryn, Andrew, Laura, and Chad (a fellow Texan), and I know it's going to be a great meal made even better by the fact that someone else will be preparing it for me. (I guess me and my non-cooking self managed to uphold one of my family's traditions!) Seriously, I know it's going to be a fabulous time.

So instead of moping around this morning, I braved the heat and humidity here and took some photos so that my friends and family can think of me in context this holiday season.

For starters, the above photo is a laser-cut Christmas tree made out of particle board that is currently sitting on my coffee table. I found it at a cool little design shop in Johannesburg. I simply couldn't make myself buy an artificial tree or one of the weird Charlie-Brown-meets-the-Apocalypse pines being sold on the side of the road.

Truly, there aren't a lot of visual Christmas cues here in Maputo. Granted, some of the local grocery stores have merchandise for sale and there are a few street vendors wearing Santa hats and hawking cheap decorations but, for the most part, that's it. The only places that look Christmas-y are the insides of my friends' houses!

This is where I live. Scaffolding = exterior painting project that has been going on for a month.

These two photos are taken at the jardim across the street. There are giant weddings here every weekend. Mozambicans love a party!

Balcony and view from our balcony. That's Maputo Bay above the trees.

Our living room...yes, I lost the a-giant-television-does-not-qualify-as-home-decor battle.

Entrance. Camera flash has obscured the wood-cut prints from artist Matias Ntundo. I love them!

Dining area. We are still waiting for delivery of our dining room table. But isn't the ebony tree cool? Matumbe, one of the artists at the wood market, made it for me.

Now you've seen where I live and you have no excuse not to visit. I promise to straighten the prints on the wall in the entrance before you arrive.

Merry Christmas!

Still Feeling Thankful

It may not have been celebrated in a Pilgrim-worthy fashion, but my first Thanksgiving here in Mozambique was certainly memorable!

Our friends Andrea and Grant invited Doug and me to Bilene (a beach town about two and a half hours north of Maputo) for the weekend. Since Doug wanted to check out a few potential mobile bank locations en route, he suggested we drive up on Wednesday afternoon. The two of us would stay at a nearby resort for a few nights, then join our friends at their home on Friday.

This seemed like a fine idea until Wednesday morning came along. The weather had turned lousy, and the idea that I would spend the next two days on a beach reading a novel was no longer a reality. Plus, I had just received a writing assignment from a local English-language newspaper that I wanted to work on...and I was going to miss my weekly bridge lesson.

So I broached the sensible idea of me driving up on Friday with the Liversages. Doug, to put it mildly, was not on board with this suggestion. He gave me the big song and dance about all the time he had spent sourcing a great place for us to stay in Bilene. This had its intended effect of making me feel guilty. So, six hours later, we were loading things into our Land Cruiser and hitting the road.

By the time we pulled into Praia do Sol, it was dusk. I was initially suspicious of the resort's rustic appearance, but assumed it would be charming on the inside. We checked in, and followed the porter down a sandy path to a thatched-roof structure. The porter took a key and unlocked a door secured with a padlock. He gestured us inside, where I was hit with the fact that my husband had booked us two nights in Hell.

I was initially too busy registering the hideousness of my surroundings to realize there was something critical missing: a bathroom. At that point, the porter left our room, crossed a small vestibule, and unlocked another door secured with yet another padlock. Voila! Our bathroom, complete with a commode, a sink, and a small depression in the cement floor with a shower nozzle above it.

The only thing that kept me from running back to the car was the look on Doug's face: a previously unseen combination of appalled, horrified, and apologetic. At this point, there was nothing to do but laugh or, in my husband's case, start drinking heavily.

About 3 a.m., however, it was no longer funny. The heat, the swarm of mosquitos safely ensconced INSIDE the mosquito net with me, and the foam pad I was attempting to sleep upon had conspired to turn me into a machete-waving maniac, if only a machete had been handy.

By 6 a.m. the next morning, Doug was in the car and looking for a new place to stay. He secured us a room at The Aquarius (a motel about half a mile away). Under normal circumstances, I might have made fun of the consciousness-expanding mural on its outside wall and the 70s-era furnishings, but these were not normal circumstances. I was just thrilled to be staying in a room with air conditioning and a mattress purchased in the last 40 years.

Doug helped me get settled into our new digs, then hit the road. So now it's Thanksgiving day and I'm all alone. I don't have internet access and, since the weather is lousy, I'm stuck inside a motel room decorated in shades of pistachio green with Portuguese-language music videos playing in the background. And I know my family is in Austin, sitting around my sister Julie's dining room table, eating a Greenberg turkey. It was the first time I've felt homesick since I came back to Mozambique in September.

But within 24 hours, everything changed. The two of us joined Andrea, Grant, their children Raymond and Sophie, plus our friends Kathryn and Andrew and their boys Drew and Bradley for two days of pure bliss. The weather was gorgeous, the house was spectacular, and the beaches in Bilene reminded me of The Caribbean: sugar white sand and crystal clear water in shades of blue, turquoise, aquamarine, jade, and glass green. It was magical!

We spent most of our time in the Liversage's boat. The lagoon in Bilene is perfect for waterskiing and wake boarding, and I can proudly say that I actually got up on skis for the first time in probably 20 years. It wasn't pretty, but it was certainly fun! We all wound up a little sunburned, a little exhausted, and a lot happy.

I had previously wondered how I would handle being away from my friends and family this holiday season. And, let's face it, there are so many things I miss about the US! But even without my mother's inimitable cornbread dressing, I wouldn't change one thing about this past weekend...well, okay, except for my 12 hours at Praia do Sol.

Talking Shop

I've always been a fan of Saturday mornings, and never more so than here in Maputo. There's a craft market next to the Fortaleza (fort built by the Portuguese in the mid-19th century) that I love to explore. It's got that whole seedy carnival vibe - dirt, music, dancing, and hucksters galore.

While I'm certainly not as talented at uncovering flea market treasures as my sister Jill, I do fancy myself skilled in the art of recognizing that which is special. Where I falter, however, is when it comes time to start bargaining.

Dealing in the market is not for the faint of heart. What I've learned the hard way is that you don't casually ask the price of anything you aren't seriously considering buying, you don't smile at anyone unless you are prepared to have them follow you for thirty minutes saying "Senhora! Senhora!" while demonstrating the effectiveness of, say, their refrigerator magnets, and you must be willing to walk away from an item that is exactly and precisely perfect for the empty space in your living room. Your ultimate goal is for the seller to send someone to chase you down the street holding the item you wanted, then offering it for the price that, only minutes ago, was met with a gasp and look that implied you had insulted not only the vendor, but every one of his living relatives and deceased ancestors. (Granted, the aforementioned exchange has only happened to me once, but the memory still fills me with pride. That said, I don't kid myself for a second that I got the better of anyone. To paraphrase Matt Damon in the movie Rounders, if you can't spot the sucker in the first thirty minutes, then you're the sucker.)

You also have to have the patience and persistence to wade through some less-than-desirable items, as witnessed by the five-foot-tall wooden miner, second from left. Does anyone need a gag gift for their upcoming office Christmas party? Seriously, I am considering hosting a Marketing 101 workshop where I explain that if no one is interested in purchasing your hand-painted and -carved sculptures of beer bottles, it is best to stop producing them in bulk. Same with the wood animal sculptures. While I have no problem with hippos per se, being confronted with an entire herd of them makes their appeal wane somewhat. Displaying one or two at a time might up their allure.

Of course, this mass-produced mentality to handmade goods makes the unique easier to spot. I love these dolls! Many of the sellers in the market are simply dealers. But some of the people actually sell their own wares, like this woman here.

I'm also a huge fan of George (see below). He's from Zimbabwe and creates these painstakingly beaded wire sculptures. Can't you just see a bunch of different animals hung on the wall of a child's bedroom? It's definitely a fresh take on taxidermy.

As with many of my experiences here in Mozambique, fun times (a la shopping in the market) are often tinged with sadness. While it is well and good for me to snicker at something I deem tasteless, the reality is that someone has spent a good deal of time making it in hopes that its sale will help them feed, shelter, and clothe their family. I realize that is the objective of practically every business enterprise, but a lack of success seems especially poignant here.

This past Saturday, I was approached by a painfully thin woman with a baby strapped to her back. She was selling moldy peanuts from a basket, and I'm still feeling guilty for shaking my head and walking briskly away from her. The capitalist in me has tried to justify my behavior by telling myself that buying her moldy peanuts would encourage the misguided notion that there is a market for moldy peanuts. The selfish jerk in me believed that slipping her money would make me a prime target for all the panhandlers, peddlers, and pickpockets staked between the market and my car.

But it's the me sitting here in the dark that's having trouble sleeping.

Let The Countdown Begin!

I cannot believe that I'll be boarding a plane and heading back to Texas a week from tomorrow! I've been gone a little over four months, and it seems like it's only been a couple of weeks.

I'm loving it here in Maputo, but I'm totally jazzed at the prospect of seeing my family, friends, and beloved Boxer Kishka. That said, dwelling on the people (and pet) I've missed would make for a fairly emotional blog post, and I think I'm due something superficial.

So, in no particular order, here are a few things I'm most looking forward to experiencing when I get back home.

1. Two words: Tex Mex. I'm craving fajitas, chips and hot sauce, refried beans, and tequila! The beverage that tries to pass itself off as a margarita 'round these parts is an affront to anyone who has ever had a real one. The only thing I haven't missed is guacamole since the avocados here are the size of cantaloupes and beyond delicious.

2. Fret-free mosquitos. Don't get me wrong - I hate those blood-sucking insects! But at least I don't have to schedule a malaria test after getting bit in Texas.

3. Getting my hair cut by Patrick O'Hara.

I am unreasonably particular about who does my tresses, thus I've spent the last four-plus months eschewing salons and watching my hair slowly start to resemble something best described as a rat's nest. There's a hairdresser here that many of my friends recommend, and their hair looks great. But I've long maintained that one should never have their hair cut by a professional with a bad hair cut and, boy, does she qualify. Plus, she's got those magenta highlights that brunettes sometimes get, so I've been afraid to let her try color on me. This means I've had to attempt to pass off the gray follicles glistening across my hairline as highlights, and I don't think Doug is falling for it any more.

4. Stocking up on cinnamon-flavored Crest, the best toothpaste in the history of the world. I just finished my last tube and my overdue shipment containing my replacement stash won't be arriving until mid- to late August.

5. Being someplace where I can make myself understood without having to resort to pantomime. Instead of answering questions with a simple yes or no when I get back home, I plan on crafting long-winded responses simply because I know lots of words in English and want to show them all off. Unlike here when the only time I can correctly answer a question is if someone asks me if I speak Portuguese. (That would be "nao.")

6. Drinking water straight from the tap.

7. Dressing up. Maputo is extremely casual, and there are very few places where you wouldn't be comfortable wearing jeans. (This has been a bit of a godsend, since my wardrobe is limited to the things I brought over in my luggage, which was primarily shorts, jeans, T-shirts, and workout clothes.) That said, I'm looking forward to "making an effort," as my mother would say.

8. Taking yoga classes at all my favorite places: Tsada, Uptown Yoga, and with Bruce Boyd.

9. Voice mail. Seriously! For some reason, no one here - including myself - has access to voice mail on their cell phones. Texts, yes, voice mail, nao. So don't be surprised if I leave you a lengthy voice mail message simply because I can. You better do the same for me.

See you soon!

Finding Myself Amongst Beautiful Things

Leaving my job at Neiman Marcus was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I worked with some of the coolest people on the planet and was responsible for a project that made me proud. Even when the workload got crazy and deadlines felt impossible, I always remained inspired by the beautiful things that surrounded me every time I walked into the store.

That said, after 19 years there, I was looking forward to a new chapter where beautiful things might not be my only catalyst for creativity. But old habits die hard. And when I first arrived in Maputo and everything became too much to bear, I would escape to the Kulungwana Art Gallery. This gallery is located inside the pistachio-green train station downtown, which may or may not have been designed by Gustave Eiffel (of the tower fame), depending on your tour guide. An added plus: If you park outside the station, you can find someone who will wash your car by hand for less than $3.

This gallery changes out its exhibits at a rapid pace. But the one constant was a glassed-in case housing some of the most breathtaking cow horn jewelry I had ever seen–and I've seen some gorgeous jewelry in my time. Just looking at it reassured me that there was beauty to be found amongst the poverty here in Mozambique.

About a month ago, I came to the realization that unemployment doesn't suit me so well. I certainly know how to keep myself busy, but I missed the satisfaction that accompanies a sense of career accomplishment. The problem was that my skill set wasn't much in demand here, and the type of work available didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm. I actually started thinking about returning to The States, looking for a job, and doing the long-distance marriage thing. In the meantime, I began sending out a few half-hearted emails explaining my background and experience to some Maputo-based contacts Doug had given me.

Within 24 hours, I heard from a consultant whose partner was a jewelry designer named Astrid Sulger...the same jewelry designer whose work I so admired!

I quickly contacted her and we made plans to meet for coffee. This meeting went from me commissioning a necklace to me trying to figure out how to work for her. (I'm not sure if it's Astrid's beauty, immense talent, or experiences she's had while living in Africa the last 14 years, but being around this woman makes me feel about as exotic and interesting as a slice of white bread.)

She invited me to her atelier, located in a nearby township. I was happy to have my friend Andrea in the car with me, because I might have been afraid if I had gone alone. The environment wasn't particularly menacing, but the poor conditions were overwhelming. I felt extremely conspicuous as we drove down a narrow, rutted dirt road, parting groups of adults walking to work and young children on their way to school. All looked at us like "What are you doing here?"

We turned right at the grocery store (an old shipping container about the size of a walk-in closet) and pulled into the workshop. At first glance, it was hard to believe that something as beautiful as Astrid's jewelry was created outside a two-room concrete building without running water. But after spending some time amongst the artisans, I began noticing small details such as the way the sun warmed the cement, the soft hum of the workers chatting amongst themselves in Shangaan, the mandevilla climbing up a wire fence, and a man across the path sweeping the dirt smooth outside his front door. Even the pile of cow horn in the corner of the yard looked like an art installation. It wasn't scary at all. It was a neighborhood, and Astrid was part of it.

She's been at this for five years, and employs a team of 15 young men and women that she has trained. Watching her in action, it's apparent that she's equal parts businesswomen and benefactress. Not only does she offer fair wages, she pays the workers' social security and provides meals. And I don't think her generous spirit only applies to her team: I get the sense that anyone in need who knocks outside her gate is offered assistance. Her patience and third-world acumen sets a wonderful example, since something as inconsequential as an hour-long water outage or absence of internet access can still make me froth at the mouth. Somehow, navigating through the labyrinth that is business in Mozambique, she manages to keep her cool. And the jewelry? I've written the words "wearable sculpture" for ads many times in the past, but this may be the only time I felt it really applied. Everything is made entirely by hand, and the attention to detail is so lovingly rendered that it borders on obsession. I may have been a million miles away from my office at NM, but looking at the jewelry while sitting outside on a folding chair, I had never felt closer. The design integrity, coupled with the heart and soul that went into its production, made me feel like I was home. Honestly, these photos don't do it justice.

I went back to my apartment and immediately started working on a sales/marketing plan. From there, Astrid and I met to discuss ways that I could help grow the business. I've never considered myself much of a salesperson but, turns out, when I'm passionate about something I can give Zig Ziglar a run for his money.

I went by the atelier yesterday to check on some additional inventory that Astrid had on hand. On a previous visit, I had seen an adorable little boy pulling a "truck" (an empty plastic carton) by a string. Yesterday, he was running around poking things with a stick. Apparently, this is an activity best done without pants, since he had shucked his someplace and commenced to playing while wearing bright blue underwear. And while I don't understand Shangaan, I'm pretty sure this little imp talked his toddler sister into hopping into a mud puddle. I guess the power of older siblings is universal.

I had placed a large order of jewelry - the company's largest to date! - to promote and sell while I'm back in The States. Since that time, the artisans have been working long days and weekends in order to meet my deadline. So I told Astrid that I wanted to do something special for them before I left for Texas.

Astrid thought for awhile and told me that they would really like some meat. Not more money. Not time off. Meat. As I mentioned before, she provides meals for them during the work day, but an additional piece of meat is a real luxury. I started thinking about how my energy lags and my attitude slips when I skip a single breakfast, and was embarrassed by my insensitivity.

I can't wait to share the efforts of this talented team with my friends, and hopefully some stores, while I'm home. I've spent the last two weeks working on press kits, ordering labels, trying to make store appointments, and planning private trunk shows. I'm confident that others will find this jewelry as compelling as I do.

But my most important assignment now is finding a way to bring chicken and French fries to some men and women who have shown me that beautiful things are everywhere. And when you find them, they can take you home.

Driven to Distraction

Prior to my actual move to Mozambique, I was plagued with insomnia. This sleeplessness wasn't motivated by fear of living in a Third World Country, however. Quite honestly, I didn't give much thought to potential problems associated with, say, lack of quality healthcare, the threat of malaria, crime, the language barrier, or the fact that, aside from my husband, I wouldn't know a soul.

What kept me close to hyperventilation was the thought of driving. And this was extremely out of character because, whether bravado is deserved or not, I have always been an extremely confident driver. But in an effort to prepare me for the worst, Doug had told me way too many scary stories about fatal accidents. Violent car-jackings. Horrific road conditions. Constant police harassment. Incomprehensible traffic laws. And to top it off, instead of the small two-door convertible I was used to driving, I would be navigating a 1980s-era Land Cruiser (with a right-hand steering wheel) down the left-hand side of streets.

Doug has oodles of wonderful qualities, but he is not someone you want to have in the passenger seat while you are attempting to navigate a strange city in an oversized SUV. Thus, upon arrival, I was determined to get a driver. I posted a classified ad, asked every person I encountered for recommendations, and did everything but wear a sandwich board emblazoned with the words, "I will pay a ridiculous sum of $$$ for a driver." Needless to say, I wound up walking lots of places.

Until the day that Doug started experiencing heart problems. The only thing scarier than having my husband checked into the Instituto do Coracao in Maputo was knowing I would have to drive home from the hospital by myself. As I crept along the side of the road, I chanted, "Stay on the left. Stay on the left. Stay on the left." I'm not sure if I exhaled the entire drive, but as I was pulling through the gate into our complex, I was paralyzed by the thought of another hurdle: Our miniscule parking garage. I was now responsible for placing a vehicle the size of a Winnebago into a designated spot that, I kid you not, would be a tight squeeze for a couple of bicycles.

Parking has always been my Achilles' heel. I blame this shortcoming on my poor depth perception, which was also clearly responsible for the C+ I made in Analytic Geometry during high school. I have side-swiped so many poles over the course of my driving career that I have become a family joke. Seriously, the money I've spent repairing the right quarter panel of various cars could pave all of Mozambique.

So, back to my predicament: While I don't generally try to bother a Higher Power with requests of the non-life-threatening variety, I found myself praying that both the neighbor who parks his car in front of ours would be out to dinner. Preferably with the neighbor who parks her car next to ours. And that they had both taken separate vehicles.

No such luck in that regard. But Fortune was definitely smiling down upon me as I bravely put the car into reverse . I've accomplished one or two things over the course of my lifetime but nothing felt quite as momentous as sliding that Land Cruiser between a cement pillar and another car.

Fast forward three months later: Doug now tells me to slow down on the Marginal for fear that I will flip the car while taking a turn. And instead of silent self-monologues reminding myself to breathe and remain on the left hand side of the road, I now find myself giving helpful advice to others such as, "Get those #$% goats out of my way!" or "Pick a lane, you idiot!"

So, yeah, the wise reader knows exactly where all of this is heading...I got pulled over by a cop earlier this week. And unlike two weeks ago, this time there was no good samaritan to run interference for me. I was alone.

According to the unsmiling official with the AK-47 strapped to his back, I made an illegal right-hand turn. Which may or may not be true. Who knows? There was no sign posted nearby, but that doesn't exactly matter here in Maputo. The sign could have been placed one mile up the road. Or it could have been hidden behind foliage. Or maybe I was just a foreigner who unluckily drove by at the same time some guy in a uniform decided he needed some extra cash.

So I smiled. I tried to speak Portuguese. I apologized. I told him I didn't see the sign. I told him I was new to Maputo. I told him I wouldn't do it again. But this guy wasn't having any of it. So I gave up.

Me: "How much is the fine?"

Crooked Cop: "How much do you want to pay?"

Me: "Nothing."

CC (clearly getting mad): "You have to pay something. You made an illegal turn. Give me 300 metical."

Me (fumbling in my handbag and only finding two 1000 met bills and two 50 met bills): "I only have 100 metical."

The CC looked annoyed, then clearly decided that accepting 100 met (less than $3) and getting rid of me was better than wasting valuable time watching me rummage through grocery store receipts, loose Tic-Tacs, and various lipsticks.

As I drove away, I'm not sure which one of us felt luckier at that moment. Him for being able to extort a little extra money. Or me for being able to experience something that I had previously dreaded and feared, and walk away only a teensy bit poorer.

We both probably felt that the other one was the sucker. And I'm okay with that.

So Rite, So Wrong

I realize my life may seem idyllic to the outside observer. I've held hands with a large primate. Started collecting work from local artists. Volunteered at an orphanage. Met some really great people.

But there is a price to pay for all of this fun. And that cost is called ShopRite.

Those who know me well understand that grocery shopping has always fallen somewhere between musical theater and involuntary psychiatric commitment on my list of things to avoid. Thus, the contents of my fridge back home typically contained nothing more than a jar of olives, some soy milk, and a squeeze bottle of French's mustard.

But given the dearth of restaurants and takeaway places that offer healthy choices here, I've started cooking. And I'm learning that most recipes require these pesky little things called ingredients...and said ingredients don't just materialize in one's refrigerator or pantry.

Enter ShopRite, the primary grocery store chain in Mozambique. I didn't burst into tears as some of my friends here admitted to having done the first time they stepped inside, but I did experience a how-quick-can-I-get-a-flight-back-home? moment. At first glance, it appears reminiscent of the typical Albertson's back in the States, complete with linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and sullen check-out clerks. But once you start traveling up and down the aisles, you realize you aren't in Kansas any more. I have seen animal parts encased in plastic wrap that I couldn't identify even with the help of Charles Darwin. Held butter that has melted and then been re-refrigerated about, say, nine times. Smelled vegetables left to decompose in the produce aisle. Touched loaves of bread that could be used to build fortresses.

Before leaving Dallas, I had done a little shopping reconnaissance and uncovered a news story detailing that ShopRite in Africa was exposed for selling expired foods and using past-their-prime ingredients in its bakeries. Unlike America, where such a news story might ultimately cause a food store to shut its doors, ShopRite was fined about $59K (not a lot if you consider the size of this continent) and hasn't skipped a beat. So if you have ever wondered where manufacturers send decades-old potted meat products, you can rest assured that I'm pushing a grocery cart past them each week. Some of everyone's favorite '70s-era beauty products are widely available, too. Last Thursday I came across a shelf full of "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" shampoo. With the original packaging design.

To add insult to injury, the prices are ridiculous. A bag of decent cereal or a small portion of parmesan cheese can cost $25. Hardwood floor cleaner - with about 1/4 of the liquid inside the container missing - averages around $20. Ten flour tortillas are about $15. And just because there are some brands I recognize (like Kellogg's Corn Flakes), I can't assume the quality will be the same. I have a sneaking suspicion manufacturers modify their products specifically for third-world markets. And, let me assure you, they aren't upping the caliber of their formulations.

There are some benefits, however, as my choices have grown exponentially in certain categories. Passion Fruit, Potpourri, Meadow Mist, and Tropical Medley may sound like something out of a Massengill commercial, but those are only a few of my choices for household bleach or soap-scum remover. Seriously, Mozambican shoppers have access to a staggering array of cleaning products infused with scents never found in nature. Granted, none of these products actually WORK, but they could successfully mask the smell of the average city dump.

What I wouldn't do for some Baked Lays about now.

My Fay Wray Moment

Doug set a dangerously high precedent when he took me to Clouds Mountain Gorilla Lodge in Uganda for my birthday this year. It is the kind of place where you are assigned your own butler and, until this week, I didn't realize I'm the kind of person who truly needs her own butler.

Our accommodations were off the charts, but the highlight was a gorilla-trekking expedition in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. We would be spending time with the Nkuringo gorillas, a group that became habituated (the process of making them accustomed to humans) in 2005. This is a particularly large group - 17 in all - with three silverbacks and a newborn set of twins. Our permits meant that we would be allowed to view them in their natural habitat for one hour, an experience closely monitored by the Uganda Wildlife Authority.

After a brief orientation from our local guide Augustine ("...don't leave trash on the mountain, eat something and drink plenty of water, stay with the group at all times, speak softly, turn off your camera flash, remember that these are wild animals...") we headed down the mountain. There were six tourists in the group - including us - plus a host of porters, the aforementioned Augustine, two rangers with guns (not to protect us against the gorillas, but to protect the gorillas from poachers), and two trackers who had left earlier to locate the Nkuringos. It was a beautiful morning, the breeze was blowing, and the scenery was absolutely breathtaking. I couldn't wait!

We hiked down about 1,500 feet before the trackers radioed to say that they had found the gorillas. We then left our gear with the porters, grabbed our cameras, and headed deeper into the jungle.

In no time at all, we walked past a gorilla resting calmly under a tree. While she didn't seem particularly surprised to see humans ten feet away, she didn't seem thrilled that we had interrupted her nap, either. She moved down the mountain and our group followed in her wake. The foliage was quite thick, and I was finding it difficult to keep up with Augustine, maintain my footing, locate the moving gorillas in the dense, thorny brush, and focus my camera in the dim light. I especially wanted photos of the babies, who were playing nearby. But it just wasn't happening. The gorillas were very elusive and I was getting frustrated with my lack of Kodak moments. So I took a deep breath and put my camera away. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I didn't want to blow it with my eye pressed to a view finder. If a great photo presented itself, fine, otherwise I wasn't going to sweat it. So I decided to quietly observe and, sure enough, I spotted a silverback about ten yards away. While the rest of the group positioned themselves to capture the optimum shot, I sat down in a small clearing and watched him eat.

You know that feeling you get right before you catch someone is staring at you? I looked to my left and noticed a large gorilla partially eclipsed by foliage. I snapped a few photos and, within seconds, he jumped up, came bounding through the brush, and sat down a few feet away from me. If it's possible to attribute body language to a gorilla, his said, "Here I am! So happy to meet you!"

At this point, my world slid into slow motion. I mentally re-played Augustine's lecture and realized that at no time did he cover what you are supposed to do when a gorilla touches you. Because that's what this giant ten-year-old blackback gorilla did. He slowly leant over, placed his nose to my fingers, and took a big whiff. Then he literally locked his M&M-brown eyes on mine, gently reached out his hand, and brushed it against the side of my leg. I wish I could say that I didn't hesitate, but I froze. Then I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his open palm. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

I know this description sounds overwrought, and the whole incident lasted less than a minute. But in that moment, I was blown away by this gorilla's humanity. He may have been curious about me and he was probably wondering what I was doing in his home. But he made darn sure that I wasn't scared. There are many humans out there who would have been a lot less gracious under the same circumstances. Call it anthropomorphism if you want, but when I looked in that gorilla's eyes, I saw intelligence. And empathy. And maybe something close to friendship.

After that, he straightened back up, faced the rest of the group who sat gaping at us, stood and pounded his chest in a "look-at-me-aren't-I-cool?" kinda way, touched Augustine on the shoulder, and sat back down so that everyone else could take his picture. I stayed seated, but handed my camera to one of the trackers, inching closer to the gorilla so that I could have proof of my encounter. He realized that I had moved, turned around, reached over to me again, sniffed my shoe, started playing with my shoelace, got bored (or was offended by the fact that I had made a sartorial blunder by tucking my pants leg into my socks to avoid ant bites), and bounded off into the jungle.

Our hour was up.

In spite of the rough terrain and steep incline, I literally floated back to the buffer zone where the porters waited with our food and water. I attempted to maintain a this-was-no-big-deal attitude in front of those who didn't get their very own personal gorilla encounter, but inside I was feeling like the person who wins the jackpot after playing the lottery one time. Special. Lucky. Chosen.

And here's the part where pride goeth before a fall. I had felt quasi-queasy since arriving at the lodge the night before, but attributed it to the excitement of the upcoming trek. But now the encounter was over, and I was still feeling a little, well, off. I'm not an idiot, and I know that keeping one's body hydrated and fueled is critical when exercising. But I just couldn't eat anything more than a few bites of apple. And I could only manage to drink a small bottle of water. But who cares, right? I had just held hands with a gorilla!

This thought sustained me until we started making our way back up the mountain. And I was having a really, really tough time. Dizzy. Out of breath. And extremely nauseated. So I started a constant internal monologue: "You will not throw up. You will walk to that rock/tree/bush and then take a break. One more step. One more step. You will not throw up. No one else is having trouble walking back, and they are all older than you are. Quit being a baby."

This got me pretty far up the mountain. But when I was within 100 yards of our final resting spot, two porters had to pick me up and carry me the rest of the way. I was positively mortified.

Within a few minutes of sitting in the shade and drinking some water, I started feeling 100% better and ready to begin the easy quarter-mile walk back to our starting point. Unfortunately, I made it about fifty feet before dropping to my hands and knees and vomiting off the ridge in a manner not seen since Linda Blair starred in The Exorcist.

Augustine diagnosed me with altitude sickness, and immediately asked if he should send for a stretcher. There was no way in hell I going to be carried off that mountain in a prone position, so I jumped up, smiled brightly, and assured him I felt A-OK. I made it another 15 feet before I was back on my hands and knees. In between dry heaves, I mentally waved goodbye to my pride and croaked, "Can you bring that stretcher?"

Within minutes, six porters arrived, carrying a contraption consisting of a woven mat lashed to a bamboo frame. If I had any presence of mind, I would have propped myself up on one elbow, grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and gave my best homecoming queen wave as they paraded me through the village. Instead, I closed my eyes and concentrated on making my body as flat as possible in hopes that no one would notice the wimpy white chick being hoisted aloft in someone's craft project. This was not necessarily the dumbest strategy I've ever employed, since I had probably left about five pounds back on the ridge, and was feeling positively skeletal.

But if the villagers didn't notice me then, they certainly took note once the porters laid the stretcher on the ground. Instead of standing up and walking the mere six steps into the office, I literally rolled into the dirt, curled into the fetal position, and started a five-minute round of dry heaves even more dramatic than the last. As if from a great distance, I could hear people saying, "Madam, please get into the shade, have something to drink, take this cool rag" and I really, truly wanted to do all of those things. At the very least, I wanted to move for Augustine, since I fully realize that having a grown woman gagging and whimpering in front of your business is not a huge draw for future customers. But I just couldn't budge.

I'm not sure how I got into the Land Cruiser, but our driver Oketch got me back to the lodge, where I threw up some more, then cried a little bit before crawling into bed and sleeping for two hours. Two Stoney Tangawizis (a local ginger soda) later, and I finally was able to sit upright. By the evening, I was okay, and once we returned to Kampala the following day, I felt perfectly fine.

I realize the latter part of my story might eclipse the epic nature of the first, but I didn't want to edit my adventure in the spirit of full disclosure. And, let's face it, I'm going to forget the fact that I barfed off the side of a mountain and had to be carried back on a woven stretcher a lot quicker than I'm going to forget the the fact that I was able to view mountain gorillas in Bwindi.

This experience has created some discord within me. On one hand, I realize that charging tourists $500 a pop for a permit to watch gorillas is what gives various non-profit organizations the ability to purchase the land that keeps them safe and alive. But on the other hand, I also know that when you teach gorillas (or any animal) not to fear humans you make them easy prey for poachers, which is the only enemy of the Bwindi mountain gorillas. And the idea that someone would hurt my new friend (that's him above) - or any of his family - breaks my heart.

I wish I knew the answer to this one. In the meantime, I'll be making a donation to the World Wildlife Fund.

Malawi - Wowee!

Some people push themselves to the limit via extreme sports. I, however, believe that an African border crossing is the truest test of a person's endurance. Because if rampant ineptitude, jostling crowds, and incomprehensible forms don't make you snap, nothing will.

I got another taste of this process as we left Mozambique and entered Malawi last week. While waiting in line, I noticed a piece of paper taped to the wall. It highlighted names of countries whose inhabitants do not receive free passage into Malawi. The lengthy list included a random assortment of places and I couldn't figure out why citizens of certain countries were required to pay $70, while others skated in for free. I also found it strange that US citizens were comped, yet Hawaii residents were placed on the "Fork Over $70!" sheet. Apparently, their 50th state status doesn't hold much weight with the Malawi government.

No matter. Two hours later, we checked into The Sanctuary in Lilongwe and the prior week's head cold, the-wonderful-world-of-maize-and-tobacco tour, and icky lodgings were trumped by a beautiful chalet, sweet-faced monkeys scampering through trees, and a yummy assortment of vegetarian dishes in the restaurant.

Unbelievably, the ante was upped by our weekend stay at Club Makokola on Lake Malawi - breathtaking (the photos were taken there)! While perusing the poolside cocktail menu, I noticed that almost every beverage included an ingredient called Orange Squash. I assumed that it was some sort of third-world cola combination reminiscent of Orange Crush and Squirt. But, no, there is truly a carbonated drink made out of...squash.

Please don't pressure me into bringing you back a bottle, as I will have a limited amount of luggage space when I return. And I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my gag reflex in check during transit.

Where The Wild Things Are

My favorite exhibit - life-sized, no less! - at The Natural History Museum here in Maputo seems to suggest that the biggest threat to African wildlife is not man but the animals' willingness to drink from fluorescent-green watering holes (see photo above).

While I certainly haven't come close to seeing everything the city has to offer, this museum is one of my favorite destinations. The colonial/gothic archictecture, lush grounds, and grand interior staircase are reminiscent of a bygone era. It's nice to have a visual reminder of Maputo's heyday, particularly given the fact that daily rainstorms for the last two weeks have left washed-up piles of trash everywhere else in town.

It costs 50 metical to enter (approximately $1.50) and it's worth every penny. The exhibits are unbelievable and, in some cases, unintentionally funny. Since there is no such thing as central heat/air in Mozambique, the windows are always open, thus many of the featured attractions look a little grimy and worse for the wear. Unlike museums in the States, no one cares if you use flash photography. And there seems to be an equally lackadaisical attitude towards the fact that most of the formaldehyde has leaked out of jars containing specimens in the reptile room.

Some of the taxidermy is quite graphic - lots of guts, gore, and disemboweling. Definitely not suitable for the typical American elementary school field trip! If I saw stuff like this at age 9, I'd still be having nightmares.

.

The exception are the grinning hippos, who look positively tickled to be standing next to the rhinos. Either that, or they were the ones that double-dog dared all the other animals in the central exhibit to try the green water. ("...Go on! I hear it tastes like Midori...")

I wanted to believe I was the kind of person who respected rare artifacts. But, seriously, if there was no glassed-in case, no roped-off area, and no guard on duty, could you resist the temptation to pet a two-headed goat? I think not! Especially when it is the only mammal placed in the aquarium room.

I have not decided if the wall of elephant fetuses is interesting or just plain creepy.

Probably the latter.

Ten Things I've Learned in 24 Hours

1. There are showers in bathrooms so scary that I will elect to stay dirty.

2. Walking through an open-air fish market in the hot afternoon sun kicks my latent vegetarianism into gear.

3. I can get a great night's sleep on sheets that would have made me cringe three weeks ago.

4. Waking up to unidentifiable insect bites around my knees doesn't give me that much pause.

5. Visiting a tobacco buying center is not remotely interesting.

6. Spending seven-plus hours sandwiched between two men in the backseat of a mini-truck will cause me to envy kids we pass on bicycles. Even the ones with 50 pounds of grain/family members/firewood, etc. balanced on their handlebars.

7. Paved roads and Hermés share something in common: Both are luxuries.

8. Third-world facial tissue could be used to strip furniture.

9. After being exposed to all manner of extreme poverty, the image I can't shake is of a young boy standing beside the road, cruelly swinging a leashed monkey upside down.

10. Sentences that I would have previously prefaced with "I would never..." are no longer applicable.

Third World, First Hand

Given that for each action there is an equal and opposite reaction, it stands to reason that last week's meeting at the residence of the German Ambassador in Maputo has been followed by the African equivalent of "Deliverance." Thus, I'm currently grappling with feelings of "how nice that Doug is helping these people" and "get me out of here!"

We traveled with a representative of The Gates Foundation to Chimoio, a town of 250,000 located in the middle of Mozambique, on Tuesday. The latch on Doug's tray table was broken and had been repaired with duct tape, which pretty well sums up everything I've experienced here to date.

We were met on arrival by Sicco, a Dutch-born agricultural consultant, and Andrew, a local man who served as our translator. We drove another two hours to deliver sugar bean seeds to two separate groups of farmers.

The second group was located quite close to the Zimbabwe border. The surroundings were lush thanks to recent rains, but the previous drought had taken its toll on their corn crop. We sat under a thatched structure while Andrew asked the farmers about their banking needs. All were clients of Opportunity International, and I loved how proudly one of the leaders removed his debit card from a plastic bag (his wallet) and demonstrated via pantomime the proper technique for using an ATM. They were all very grateful for access to savings accounts, since the alternative is burying money in their yard or hut. At the conclusion of the meeting, the entire group clapped and cheered to thank us for coming to their village. Doug swears it is sincere, but it makes me uncomfortable, as if they feel they must perform for us.

We then took a brief hike up a hill to see several farms, me kicking armies of ants off my sandaled feet the entire way, wishing I had applied sunscreen, wanting to chug a bottle of water, and worrying about where I would pee if I did. We walked past several huts, and one little boy burst into tears when he saw me. Not sure if it was because of my twitchy, get-these-bugs-off-of-me gait or if I was one of the first white people he had ever seen. The views were spectacular, but it's the poverty that takes your breath away. Seriously. I don't have much basis of comparison yet, but this was tough to witness - and I get the impression that they were some of the luckier ones. While most of these villagers were thin, no one appeared to be starving or ill, aside from one little girl who was crippled - but even she climbed up the hill behind the other children to work in the fields.

The first night Doug and I stayed in the nicest hotel in Chimoio. Aside from the fact that the power went out briefly three times, it was totally consistent with the standards of most mid-range American hotels. The one blip: I ordered a vegetarian omelette for breakfast, struggling with my non-existent Portuguese. The waiter knew quite a bit of English and appeared to understand exactly what I wanted. He proudly brought it to my table and shyly said, "I ordered it special for you." Apparently, "special" means with ham and processed cheese.

After The Gates Foundation representative left, we moved into a local guest house. I should have known what was coming when we crossed a rutted, vacant dirt lot to get here. In principle, I totally agree that donor funds intended for the poor should not be used for accommodations. And I understand that it sends the wrong message to local Opportunity employees when Doug swings into town and stays at the equivalent of The Mansion. But, about right now, I would gladly forego principle for a space that's bigger than my freshman dorm room and an a/c that doesn't automatically shut itself off at 6 a.m.

Then I think about that little crippled girl and feel like an absolute monster for bitching about an ill-prepared omelette and the fact that there's an acrylic blanket on the guest house bed.

Meet Archibald, Hortense, and their son Jarvis

I thought I knew rental furniture.

In college, I lived in an apartment complex called Spanish Steppes. "Early Conquistador" captured its aesthetic - crushed velvet upholstery, a three-ton coffee table festooned with hammered metal studs, and artwork designed to look like relics from the Aztec Empire.

Plus, I cooled my heels in a corporate apartment while waiting for my townhome to be completed. After being surrounded by wood laminate, framed Monet posters, and a silk ficus for three months, I believed I could handle anything.

But nothing could have prepared me for the temporary furnishings in my new home!

I'm currently sharing living space with a matching sofa, love seat, and chair. I have named them Archibald, Hortense, and Jarvis, respectively, as they are stuffy, disagreeable, and one can't wait to get away from them. Each is encased in a poly-blend wide-wale corduroy, and stuffed with discarded kitchen sponges. Their color is best described as "Stale Bread Crumb."

At this point, some of you might be saying, "Stop being so dramatic, Amy! They wouldn't be so bad if you'd only plump the cushions a bit!" And I would love to do so, except they are firmly stitched into place with some sort of industrial-strength thread.

The good news is that - if you don't use your arms - getting up out of them is an exceptional abdominal workout.

While Archibald and his family boast proportions that eclipse just about everything else in the apartment, I would be remiss if I didn't take this opportunity to introduce you to another inhabitant, a three-legged side table named Jiminy Rickets. But don't let his 80-degree leg fool you into thinking he's some sort of delicate antique! You could turn him upside down, twist that leg with all your might, and perhaps even kick it, and that wonky appendage wouldn't budge a millimeter. I've stood on cement slabs less sturdy than ole Jiminy.

If anyone is driving past Public Storage on Swiss Avenue about now, please tell my old furniture I miss it!

Getting There Ain't Half The Fun

I'm still experiencing post-traumatic stress from my journey to Mozambique!

It all started with approximately 400 pounds of luggage and a serious mistake on my part. I didn't alert the American Airlines agent to the fact that my ultimate destination was Maputo, thus, my five bags were only checked through to Johannesburg. I had no idea what kind of havoc this would wreak.

My flight to London was uneventful, aside from the fact that a fellow passenger freaked out and stormed the cockpit prior to our landing. Two Royal Air Force jets were called in for assistance, and she was arrested upon our arrival. Not sure if it was the after-effects of Ambien, the book I was reading (Bloodroot by Amy Greene - highly recommend!), or the fact that I didn't get upgraded and was seated at the back of the plane, but I was completely oblivious to any commotion.

There was no such drama on my British Airways flight to Johannesburg, aside from a one-hour delay at takeoff. This was a source of concern, since the connection was tight and I knew that I would have to collect my luggage, go through customs, and re-check everything/pay the overage. Losing 60 minutes was going to hurt!

Tapping my foot anxiously while waiting at the baggage carousel in Joburg, I realized that there was no way all of my luggage would fit on one cart...and there was not a porter in sight. I heaved my bags onto two carts, and attempted to move the second cart by pushing it with the first one. It took every bit of my strength and effort to move this unwieldy contraption ten feet. I was screwed.

But do not underestimate the power of a woman who hasn't seen her husband in over five months! I shoved this mountain from one end of the airport to the other, my body at a 75 degree angle the entire time as my cute new wedge sandals (with their wildly impractical 4-inch heels) were rubbing blisters on my feet, perspiration pasted my Gaultier T-shirt to my torso, and mascara flowed down my cheeks. It was during this time that I discovered a harsh truth in life: Nobody wants to help a sweaty mess. People were gawking, laughing, and members of an Asian tour group actually stopped to take photos of me. It was awful.

I finally found someone to help me when I got to customs. It took two grown men to move my bags about 25 feet while I stood in line to get my luggage weighed. I then stood in another line for a weight receipt. Stood in a third line to pay the overage charges. Stood in a fourth line to get a boarding pass/claim checks for my bags. And was directed to a fifth line for yet another piece of documentation with an undisclosed purpose. At that point, I whimpered to the agent, "I'm going to miss my flight, right?" He looked up at me, thrust some paperwork in my hand, and said, "Run!"

I hobbled down the terminal, passing departure signs indicating that my flight had already closed. I decided to go to the gate anyway to find out when the next plane was scheduled to leave. Unbelievably, I was allowed to board the plane as it was waiting on the tarmac.

Fifty minutes later, I arrived in Maputo, anxiously trying to catch a glimpse of Doug while standing in line to show my I-have-been-vaccinated-for-yellow-fever card. He had managed to meet me at baggage claim the first time I came to Mozambique, and I assumed he would do the same this trip, too.

Not the case this time around. I got my luggage - no Doug. I go through customs - no Doug. I find two men to wheel my luggage to the street - no Doug. It's hot, I'm exhausted, and the two porters are now wanting to leave. One starts hassling me for a tip, and I don't have any money, aside from the $10K in the bottom of my carry-on...and I know better than to pull that out.

I call Doug's cell and get a "this is not a working number" message - and I have no other way to reach him. I remembered that I had one of his business associate's cards in my wallet, so I call her. Isabel answers and I babble, "I'm at the airport, Doug isn't here, I don't have any money, I don't know what to do!" She must have heard the panic in my voice, so she told me, "Don't move. I'm coming." At that point, one of the porters gestures to something leaking from one of my suitcases. I collapsed on the curb and fought back tears.

About 20 minutes later, Doug arrived and begin apologizing profusely for his tardiness - crisis at the office, traffic jam, blah, blah, blah. I was too numb to even respond.

I'm hoping it was merely a coincidence, but "The Bitch is Back" by Elton John was playing on his iTouch when I crawled into the car. So much for a romantic reunion. It can only get better from here!