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 are no longer applicable.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!