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.

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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!