Holidays in Mozambique

I wake up and brush away my mosquito net. I walk outside feeling refreshed after a full night's sleep. It's seven am, I've woken up late by Mozambican standards. The Indian Ocean is just a block away. I look out over the endless bluegreen water. I feel the soft white sand under my feet. As the warm breeze passes over me I feel a stirring deep inside me…

Diarrhea, I tell myself, is normal.

I walk resignedly back to the bathroom to give my daily offering. The food, the transition, is doing a number on my intestines. But by this time the number is a familiar one, however that sounds. A wasp flies into my bathroom and I leap up from the toilet in a panic with my shorts still around my ankles. Unfortunately that's normal too.

My house is concrete with a metal roof, I have a sink, and outside a bathroom. I have running cold water and a little electricity. The walls are hideously painted by the former volunteer who lived here, but I can fix that. I live on a Catholic mission. My neighbors are two priests, a couple of seminarians, a few nuns…sounds like high school.

I have to remind myself constantly that what I am going through is normal. I'm in a brand new place on the other side of the world. My Portuguese gradually improves, but much to my dismay in the streets here they speak Shi-tswa, the local Bantu language. In some moments I feel like I can speak great, and others I feel discouraged and worried that I'll never really catch up. But that's normal.

I take a barefoot run along the beach. The sand is soft and perfect for jogging. As I run down the beach I hit the point where I feel invincible and pick up the pace. A gaggle of Mozambican boys stares at me as I run past. I give them a big thumbs up and a smile, and I am happy to see them laugh and wave. Taking my eyes off the beach causes me to trip on a mound of sand and I fall flat on my face with a WUMP. I stand up dazed, trying to figure out what the hell just happened, covered in sand. The boys are laughing to tears. Seeing no alternative I give them another thumbs up and keep going. Two years, I remind myself, I have two years to get this right.

I sit down after my run and enjoy the endorphin high. I take deep breaths and let my mind wander. I smile to myself remembering a joke my little brother made (one of those ridiculously innappropriate ones that I will take to my grave). I tell everyone I meet that he's the funniest person I know.

I worry a little about Christmas. I know that I won't be opening presents in my living room surrounded by my family, anxiously awaiting my turn to tear the wrapping to shreds in anticipation. It won't be cold, there will be no lights and no ornamented trees--but I do have a solid collection of Bing Crosby's Christmas on my ipod (Hawain Christmas!). It might be a lonely night, but hey, that's normal. And I'll be fine.

The beans are almost done. I decide to take a shower before I take them off the heat. I remind myself that living on the beach, thousands of miles from home, amongst total strangers, for two years, is not normal. I feel good about what I am doing, though I am confused as to how exactly I should do it at this point. While I was an orientation counselor one of my freshman described me as one of the most "adventurous men she had ever known". Say that in my eulogy, baby, and my family will laugh you out of the building.

I look over the Indian Ocean and remember how far away I am. I miss my father's voice, I miss my mom. I look around and try to think about what my brother would think about all this. My longing for my family and for my home is too normal to wax poetic. Thinking of them every day is too predictable to be interesting. But I miss them just the same.

Normal? HA!

PS I have a mailing address now! I can't post it online due to Peace Corps regulations, but email me and I'll send it no problem. And then you'll send me candy!

PPS I saw Courtney today! I'll post her guest appearance...