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.