Those Who Can, Teach

I'm tardy with this message for "2011 Teacher Appreciation Day" but, fortunately, late gratitude doesn't result in detention.

I was one of those kids that couldn't wait for the first day of school. Probably because I was fortunate enough to have some great teachers along the way, particularly in second grade. Mrs. Janelle Seaborne gets full credit for my love of monarch butterflies, spelling bees, and, most important, reading. Forty years later, I can name few pleasures that rival losing oneself in the pages of a good book.

Mrs. Nelda Wilbanks gets high marks for emphasizing art. And because she let my 4th-grade class listen to 45s on Fridays after lunch, I can also thank her for my Charley Pride appreciation.

Ms. Diane Locke taught me Algebra I and II, driver's education, and, according to my mother, swimming lessons at the Athens Country Club the summer I was three years old. The fact that I can still solve an algebraic equation, parallel park, and spend hours in the dead man's float proves she could teach just about anything.

I wish I could remember the name of my high school trigonometry and analytic geometry teacher. In the second half of my senior year, she awarded me with my first C+, thus tanking my overall class ranking. She assured me that any college admissions officer would be impressed by the fact that I took analytic geometry as an elective. And while that was a load of bunk, she did teach me that, if I really wanted to master something, I was going to have to work at it.

Dr. William Campion taught the mechanics of writing better than anyone. He was unforgiving when it came to grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, and demanded clear communication delivered with flair. The benefit of this lesson became apparent when one of my English professors correctly wrote "I don't think you actually read this book" across the top of one of my papers, but still gave me a B+ because of its pithiness. I also have Dr. Campion to thank for the fact that I was able to skate through SMU with a decent GPA by purposely choosing classes with final papers counting for more than 75% of one's ultimate grade.

Thank you, Phil Seib, for opening my eyes in your ethics of communication class.

Professor Jim Albright showed me it was possible to monetize my love of writing. He could be ruthless in his copy critiques, but his assessments always made me want to improve.

As I'm not blessed with many innate talents or a mind-blowing IQ, I can credit my successes to someone who was willing to teach me a skill or expose me to a new idea. Nine times out of 10, that person was an educator.

I give this profession an A+.

Goods, Better and Best

I traveled to Cape Town about a month and a half ago to attend Design Indaba (http://www.designindaba.com/) with Astrid Sulger, the jewelry designer I have been working with here in Maputo. Design Indaba hosts an incredibly cool expo each year curated by an advisory panel of top South African designers, stylists, critics, and industry experts. This was the third year that Astrid has been invited to participate, and she asked me to join her to assist with sales and marketing. This event attracts both the public and store buyers, so it's a great trade opportunity, although it does pose the challenge of having to switch between retail and wholesale prices, depending on the individual. The biggest personal difficulty, however, was the fact that it required me to stand around in five-inch heels for 12 hours straight three days in a row, a feat I would have sneered at last year. Manolo and Christian, I'm sorry to have let you down.

The following is lifted straight from the Design Indaba website, and best captures its mission.

A BETTER WORLD THROUGH CREATIVITY

Since 1995, Design Indaba has been committed to a vision that is built on the belief that creativity will fuel an economic revolution in South Africa.

As such, Design Indaba is a celebration of design in a country iconic of the triumph of the human spirit. Proof that even the most intractable problem can be neutralised by the will of the people, resurgent South Africa is a beacon to the world. Design Indaba typifies this can-do spirit through its belief in design and how it can help solve the problems faced by an emerging economy. With the right support, a better future can be designed.

By attracting the world's brightest talent, Design Indaba has become a respected institution on the creative landscape and one of the few global events that celebrates all the creative sectors - graphic design, advertising, film, music, fashion design, industrial design, architecture, craft, visual art, new media, publishing, broadcasting and performing arts sector. Besides the flagship conference and expo, Design Indaba has grown into a multitiered experience that incorporates an extensive range of elements such as events, publications, education, training, business, development and community initiatives.

While I don't have a lot of experience with trade shows, this one blew me away. It's held at the Cape Town Convention Center and features booth after booth of art, furniture, fashion, toys, jewelry, decorative items, and more. Prices range from $3 finger puppets to $50,000 artworks, and include everything else in between. I'm sorry that I can't share photos as cameras were off-limits in an effort to thwart copy cats, but I've attached some links at the end of this blog.

Long before moving to Mozambique, I have had an affinity for the type of design that blends utility, history, and beauty with locally sourced materials. So it's been fun to search for things that meet that criteria here. South African designers, in particular, seem to have more than their fair share of creativity, particularly when it comes to recycling and repurposing objects. Sure, you'll find more than enough stuff unaffectionately referred to as Afri-crap. But for every lizard playing a guitar made out of discarded soda cans, there is something so exquisite it will take your breath away.

Astrid had a teensy booth located in one of the worst possible locations in the Expo Hall, so it was remarkable that anyone ever found us. But if I had a rand for every time I overheard someone say, "This jewelry is beautiful!" I'd still be shopping in Cape Town. Granted, I had absolutely nothing to do with its creation, but I still felt the pride that comes with being associated with something special. That said, I also got to experience the disgruntled shopper who reached out reverently to touch one of the necklaces, then visibly blanched when she saw the price. I went into my spiel of "...every piece of jewelry is made completely by hand by local artisans trained by Astrid, blah, blah, blah..." She looked me dead in the eye and said, "Maybe you should consider using machinery" before stomping away.

I've thought about that comment a lot lately. Although I would probably trample thirty talented African artisans if they were standing between me and, say, some ginger-flavored Altoids about right now, I have gained a tremendous appreciation for handmade goods while living in Mozambique and, in particular, traveling to South Africa and Swaziland.

I'm certainly not anti brand, as witnessed by the Pavlovian shopping response that comes over me every time I browse Taigan (www.taigan.com). And I truly understand the cost benefits of mass production, as I would hate to have to pay for the world's only iPad. But I am currently dwelling amongst the worst of the planet's mass-produced goods. Every time I go to a store (Game and Shoprite, yeah, I'm talking to you), I'm confronted by a hideous array of crappy junk devoid of quality, integrity, and, in some cases, its expiration date. It's infuriating that a manufacturer would think it's acceptable to pawn off its sub-par products to a developing country (China, I'm talking to you) and equally infuriating that this country's leaders would let it happen. The amount of poorly made, over-priced, unintentionally disposable products available here could choke a bottomless landfill. And I realize that's not limited to Mozambique.

So, in addition to grousing via this blog, I will be expressing my outrage via my wallet. If quality is unavailable - wherever I find myself - I will do without. I will consider sustainability before price. I will reward ingenuity. I will support the efforts of those who make their living creating beautiful, delicious, or unique things by hand, particularly if said things are created locally. I'll avoid things that are overly processed and overly packaged. And I'll pass along recommendations whenever I come across something I really, really love.

Here are the aforementioned links to things that qualify. I hope you like them, too!

David West. http://www.davidwest.co.za/ He has a store called "Weekend Special" that changes each season to suit his new collection. The one I saw at DI was best described as Afro-Prep.

Still bitter that this ring was not available for purchase.

http://www.iol.co.za:80/lifestyle/style/fashion/south-africa-s-most-beautiful-things-1.1052962?image=7

Recreate by Katie Thompson - love the chairs made out of vintage leather suitcases!

http://www.recreate.za.net/

Van Der Merwe Miszewski. My kind of architecture. http://www.vdmma.com/

Justin Southey, an illustrator with an awesome sense of humor. http://justinsouthey.blogspot.com/

Blue Collar White Collar. Super shirts. http://www.bluecollarwhitecollar.co.za/

Zenzulu. Great name. Even better home decoratives.

http://www.zenzulu.co.za/index.html

While I'm not sure the world needs yet another good-cause-helpin'-environmentally-friendly tote, the Give It Bag has some of the best silhouettes I've seen.

http://www.give-it-bag.com/

Sootcookie Ceramics (name means "sweet biscuit" in Afrikaans) by Tanya Laing. The creature I wanted sold before I could get back to her booth. Grrrrr. http://sonodesign.wordpress.com/2011/01/27/sootcookie-ceramics/

Also, design-minded folks should subscribe to

http://www.designindaba.com/product/subscription

Anybody got change for a sand dollar?

If asked to choose between Team Beach or Team Mountain, there's no contest: I'd be in a swimsuit faster than you can say SPF 75.

So I'm embarrassed to admit that, until a few weekends ago, I could count the times I'd been to the beach here on one finger. In my defense, it's not particularly inviting at first glance. Maputo is located on a bay, and four different rivers drain into it, thus the water is quite murky. And a boat ride to Xefina Island (site of a former Portuguese prison located about 3 miles offshore) showed me that it's teeming with jellyfish. If that wasn't enough of a deterrent, there are still remnants of giant columns where, during colonial times, the Portuguese strung nets in an effort to keep swimmers safe from sharks. So, yeah, I get my ocean fix a few hours north. Where, by the way, the beaches are absolutely stunning.

But Astrid stressed the importance of timing Maputo beach walks with low tide, so I decided to give it another shot. We went together last Saturday, and now I'm absolutely hooked. It's amazing! You can walk, literally, for miles. And the trash-strewn sand and maladorous air I remembered from my earlier venture were nowhere to be found.

On the weekends, the beach is a bit of a scene with vendors selling food, soccer matches, families on picnics, beach volleyball games, wedding photo shoots, and the occasional religious ceremony. But during the week, it's practically deserted.

Yesterday, I borrowed my friend Joanna's Portuguese Water Dog (hereafter known as The Fabulous Pedro) and went back. It was completely empty, save for the occasional fisherman and a few kite surfers, and the weather was perfect. We are heading into winter here, so the temperature was a breezy 70-something instead of the sweltering 100-plus degrees combined with 80% humidity we've had for last the five months.

I'm still a little leery of venturing too far out by myself, so it was nice to have TFP as company. Of course, in the event that I would actually be accosted by a band of evil-doers, it's unlikely that he would do much more than exhaust them via a relentless game of fetch. Regardless, he is splendid company!

When I was growing up, finding even a fraction of a sand dollar on a Texas beach was cause for great joy. So imagine my delight when happening upon a perfectly intact specimen while casually strolling along the sand on my very first outing. Then spotting an even bigger one a few feet further. And then another. And yet another. My hands became so full that I couldn't carry my sandals, so I started filling my pockets. I also came across a few intense violet sand dollars that I assumed were some exotic variety found only in the Indian Ocean. Turns out, I'm the idiot who didn't recognize what a live sand dollar looked like. I figured it out after my beautiful violet collectibles died a slow, grisly, and slightly smelly death on my balcony.

I now have more sand dollars than I know what to do with, but I still can't resist picking another up whenever I spy a particularly perfect one. The locals see me carrying them back to my car, and look at me like I've spent too much time out in the sun.

Fortunately, TFP doesn't mind.

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.