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.