It's been a long time since I've written. I've been busy for the last months – but, that doesn't excuse being so long out of communication. Really, I haven't written for a while because I haven't been able to articulate well where I am and what I am doing.
“Do it right, or don't do it at all.” Mom used to tell me that when I'd make a mess in the kitchen and sweep only half the crumbs off of our linoleum floor. The hardest part about writing about my life here is that my explanations seem only half there.
It's easy for me to fall back on cliché descriptions of Africa. When I talk to my family on the phone, I want to make some traditions and aspects of the culture more exotic than they really are. Drums, dancing, monkeys and witchdoctors are small parts of the whole. I also often find myself unintentionally drawing attention to what is lacking here, that we don't have running water or dependable electricity, for instance. Minor details take precedence over the whole picture, like a pimple on a pretty face.
I came to Africa with expectations, many of them false, and I still sometimes carry them with me. As a kid, I'd seen The Lion King probably 20 times. I came to Africa expecting elephants and lions and, although they weren't in those movies, tigers (which don't even live on this continent, only in Asia). A friend told me before I left that he imagined me huddled in a tiny tent on a grassy savannah during sunset, waiting for a herd of elephants to stampede by my tent-home.
I knew intellectually that it couldn't be true, but for some reason, I carried images of abject poverty exhibiting itself as emaciated children on gravel roads with glorious helicopters blowing down the bush and kicking up dust, dropping sacks of rice and huge cans of pinto beans with “U.S.A.” in bold across their sides.
I gave up on writing for a while. The experiences that I found in my new home (which I should point out, is not so much Africa - which is the size of North America, Alaska to Honduras, and is home to all sorts of experiences - but is Mozambique, and not only that, but a small village in the center of Mozambique) were different from what I had expected, and from anything else that I'd experienced, and I wanted to show my loved ones this. I tried a few times, and couldn't do it - or do it right, at least. I found myself at a loss for words.
“Words are a dull tool,” I wrote to a friend. “To convey the experiences that I have had, words don't cut it.” Nothing short of experience could, I decided.
Mary's long trip from Iowa ended in Mozambique on July 4th. For the last three weeks, I've been able to show her where I live and what I do. She was able to share in some of my experiences. She slept in the block and mortar house and woke to the pigeons dancing on the metal roof in the early morning. She sat on bamboo chairs in the yard with my students. For the first time since I arrived, I feel satisfied in having conveyed to someone my life here.
Yesterday, she started her job in the south, where we had traveled together, and I left her and took the bus back home to my village. We had many good conversations during our time together. One, in particular, she reminded me of how important it is to communicate my experiences in writing in order to break those broad stereotypes of impoverished, exotic Africa, and, more importantly, show my loved ones that I am doing well. Words may be a dull tool, but they are a tool nonetheless.
I recently acquired an internet connection through my cellphone (mCel, the national carrier upgraded their system to carry GPRS capabilities and, using a Bluetooth connection, I can link the phone to my laptop). I now have access to the internet in my home, and regular communications home are no longer difficult logistically. If I can find the words, I can write more often.
