I’d been up since 2 am, and had just climbed off the bus after sitting for over ten hours.  I was ready for a good meal and a cold shower.  Josiah’s welcome caught me off guard, “Hello, Miss Jennifer!  Can we start school now?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it would be over a week until he could start school.  My original plan to begin school with Micah and Krista on August 30, and then start Josiah and Aby the following Monday.   Aby wouldn’t be back from Kenya until Friday, and it seemed wise to wait until all of my first grade class was present.

But what teacher can bear to tell her enthusiastic student not to come to school?  So, yes, Josiah, come to school on Monday.

He did.  Woke up at 5 am, according to his parents.  Walked in the schoolhouse door with the older kids at 8 am.  Now, normally Micah and Krista start school at 8 am, but the younger kids don’t come until 8:30 am.  But once again it would have been too heartbreaking to curb that enthusiasm.

Josiah’s arms were full when he walked in that door, but he did manage to hand me an apple without dropping it.  I know the apple for the teacher tradition has been around for a long time, but when you are in northern Mozambique, far from the land of apples, an apple for the teacher will really make your teacher’s day!  The fact that Krista also handed me an apple made my grin even bigger.

So I began the 2010-2011 school year with Micah, Krista, and Josiah sitting on the mat as I read Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.  And was sorely tempted to laugh at this informal and flexible start of school compared with last year’s start…last year it was one nervous teacher facing her five students, wondering if she could actually teach her own school.  (This year Katie is on home assignment for the first few months of school, so I’ll just have four students.)

And so we are off to a flying start.  Josiah’s reading has only gotten better over the summer; Micah has informed me that Wednesdays are his best days (so since today was a good day and it was a Tuesday I have very high hopes for tomorrow!); and Krista is as neat with her work as ever.  I can’t wait for Aby to join our schoolroom, and then we’ll really be on our way.

Oh, it’s fun to teach school, especially when it’s your second year teaching!

Gene Stratton Porter’s Her Father’s Daughter. Alex & Brett Harris’ Do Hard Things. Harold Bell Wright’s The Winning of Barbara Worth & The Shepherd of the Hills. Frances Burnett’s T. Tembarom. The list goes on.  Some of them old friends.  Some new. But each one enjoyed immensely.

I woke up before 5 am the morning after my Kindle (Amazon.com’s electronic reading device) arrived.   I decided that the excitement precipitated by Dad and Matthew’s landing in Mozambique would not allow me to go back to sleep, so I promptly began reading Dear Enemy (Jean Webster).

When one has 264 new books rationing them is preposterous.  So I finished Dear Enemy by the next day.  And had a delightful time browsing my “bookshelves,” choosing which book I would read next (Clover by Susan Coolidge).

I don’t know how many books I’ve read in the last three months, but my Kindle is definitely earning its keep.  I’ve only had to charge it a few times, I’ve taken it on several bus rides (one’s suitcase is a lot lighter when one doesn’t have five or six books inside!), and I’ve highlighted numerous favorite quotes.

Browsing through my Kindle’s “bookshelves” is almost as much fun as walking between the library’s ceiling-high bookshelves.  Shall I read a classic, a Christian romance, a kids’ book, or a thought-provoker?

And to my great surprise, I don’t really miss the feel of a real book in my hands (Emma & Gretchen, this is still Jennifer…don’t shoot me!).  Perhaps it is the intense excitement of having so many books within my reach that overwhelms the slight feeling of disappointment that I don’t really have these books in my hands.   But I will continue to call my Kindle “my book,” because “I’m going to go read my electronic reading device” just doesn’t have a very nice ring to it.

Using a flashlight to read late at night.  Sticking my book in my purse so I have it whenever I need it.  Knowing that I won’t run out of books before this sojourn in Africa is over.  Life as a booklover in remote Mocimboa really isn’t all that bad.

There one moment, gone the next.  I stared open-mouthed down the street after the guy in the green and white shirt, “I can’t believe it!” and “That didn’t really just happen to me, did it?” running through my mind.

I’d just stepped off the bus in Nampula, glad to have finally arrived almost twelve hours after leaving my house.  I was tired and dirty, and hoped the person picking me up would arrive quickly.  I positioned myself and my stuff against a building, and waited about three minutes before pulling out my cell phone.

As I began texting I gave myself a mental pep talk.   Be careful. You are in the big, crime- filled city of Nampula.   Keep an eye on your surroundings, and hold on to all your valuables.

I glanced around, taking in the fact that the sidewalk near me was fairly deserted.  Looked down at my cell phone, and then up again in amazement as a man grabbed the cell phone out of my hand as he ran past me.   I think I hollered, “Thief!” as he raced down the sidewalk, but I wasn’t about to take off after him.

Three ladies standing near me made gestures of sympathy as I stood there flabbergasted, unsure of what to do.   Here I was in a big city, unable to speak the local language, waiting to be picked up by someone I’d never met before, and now my only communication with anyone who could speak English was gone.

Thankfully, within moments my ride showed up, and I eagerly left the crowd that had gathered around me for the safety of the pickup.  My suitcase, backpack, and purse were safe.   I was unharmed.  Yes, shocked and appalled at sinful human nature, but unharmed.

Less than a half hour later I was talking on my friend’s phone to the person in possession of my cell phone.  My friend had called my phone, which was answered by a Mozambican, who claimed he had “found this phone” and wanted a “finder’s fee.”  A finder’s fee seemed like it would only encourage the system, but I wanted my cell phone back.

I bargained back and forth with the fellow, assuring him that I was not going to give him one thousand metacias ($27) to get my phone back.  He refused to move below six hundred mets ($16) and I stubbornly stopped at ($11).   When he hung up on me I was frustrated and unsure what to do.  I had two cell phones sitting in my room in Mocimboa, left from Dad and Matthew’s visit.  So I wouldn’t have to purchase a new cell phone, and it would be possible to get my old number back from the cell provider.  But all my numbers were gone, and now I couldn’t text Steve to tell him I was enjoying ice cream or a big steak (texting back and forth to tease each other is just one mode of encouragement among the members of my team!).

So for this week I’m unconnected from the world.  Upon my return to Mocimboa I’ll have a cell phone again.  And somewhere in Nampula, there is a cell phone for sale with a tiny star sticker on it.  I’m sure it is my sinful nature, but I sincerely hope that whoever buys it doesn’t pay more than four hundred mets.

Never, in all of history, has there been one welcomed and enjoyed like this one.   It was one of a kind, an unexpected blessing.  With the promise of more blessings.  That zucchini was the high point in my week.

On Sunday evening two of the neighbor kids were helping me water plants in my backyard.   Momade called me over to the garden; as he pushed back the leaves of the zucchini plant I almost starting dancing.  There, growing on my zucchini plant, were five zucchinis.  One of which was almost picking size. And, on the pattypan squash plant, there were two more squashes.

In order to sufficiently appreciate this zucchini, you must listen to the prequel.  Last year I arrived in Mocimboa to a backyard that was brown with sand, dead leaves, and a few sprigs of random grass.  Ok, there were also two banana trees, a lime tree, and an ox-heart tree.   But the point is, the backyard was pitiful.

I planned flower beds, agonized over tiny plants that wilted in the hot sun, and wondered if anything could ever be grown successfully in sand.  I hoed up a garden patch, rejoiced when two tomato plants, one chive, and four zucchini plants finally showed themselves.   Then, week after week, I felt like crying as yellow zucchini flowers brightened the garden before shriveling into nothingness, leaving no zucchini fruit behind them.  Even Mom’s idea of helping the pollination with a paintbrush didn’t work.  (And my neighbors wonder about my sanity?)

The zucchini plants died, having produced absolutely no fruit.  It had been an activity in futility.   My dreams of zucchini bread, zucchini pie, and baked zucchini were simply that, dreams.

But when Matthew fixed up my garden, hauling dirt bucket-load by bucket-load on the back of the motorcycle, I decided that the beautiful new garden area had promise.  So, along with the dill, peppers, and cucumbers, I planted one zucchini plant.  I mean, no need to have four plants sitting there doing nothing.

And that, my dear readers, is the prequel to the amazingly tasty zucchini that I picked today.  Part of it became zucchini bread for team day.  The rest of it was boiled and eaten with salt and pepper for supper.  And if the four zucchini on the plant are any indication of the future, there will be much more zucchini on the menu in Mocimboa.

It's a zucchini!

(I’m off to Nampula for a week…am in charge of the kids’ program at a homeschooling conference.  Hopefully I won’t have too many crazy bus adventures to report upon my return!)

The picture you’ve all been waiting for…

sporting my nose ring while waiting outside the airport

catching glimpses of Dad and Matthew through the window

trying to contain myself

and doing a very bad job

It’s not every day your dad and brother visits you

(Yes, I know you can hardly see the thing in this picture.

I’m sorry.

Next time I’ll wear a bigger one.)

Saturday night I was awakened by horrible, agonizing screams.  I had never heard such a horrendous noise.  I lay in bed shivering, wondering who was going through utter torment.  Feeling glad I was inside, protected from the horror.

It was two of our neighbor ladies, on their way back from the hospital.  Assineto, almost 3 years old, died in the hospital.  Now his mother, Agatha, and his grandmother, Veronica, were arriving home.  As they came closer the screams got louder and more terrible.

By this time Ana, my housemate, had gone to the front door to investigate.  Veronica rushed over to the front of our house, wailing over and over, “Assani’s dead, Ana!  Assani’s dead!”  Ana went home with Veronica, while I stayed in bed (still recovering from a bad fever) trying to pray, with those wretched screams echoing in my head.  Every so often I heard more shrieking, and then the dark night would be filled with silence again.  It was almost three am when Ana returned home.

Early Sunday morning I joined the group of ten or twelve women in Veronica’s yard.  Ana sat inside with Agatha and Veronica, while inside another building some men prepared Assineto’s body for burial.  Islmic protocol does not allow women to see a man’s dead body, so Agatha was not allowed to see her tiny son’s body.  The women are also excluded from the burial, so later a group of men took the body to the cemetery.

Agatha can’t be more than twenty years old, but she has just buried her only son.  She is not married, and lives with her mother and three younger brothers (ages 15-ish, 9-ish, & 4-ish).   Last November Agatha’s boyfriend, Nuru, died.  Now her world has crumbled again.

Little Syidi, Agatha’s 4 year old brother, keeps asking, “Where’s Assineto?  Where’s Assani gone?”  They have no good answer.   The hopelessness of Islm is overwhelming.  May the Truth of Jesus Christ penetrate as Agatha strives to go on living without her baby.

At that time porcupine sent his arm hairs to proclaim fighting on earth.

Or, said slightly differently, at that time God sent His angels to proclaim peace on earth.

If you heard the above two sentences in Kimwani, they would sound almost identical.  Actually, to your untrained ears, they would sound identical.  But they aren’t.  And just like in English, the meaning is very different.

The word Nlungu means either God or porcupine, depending on your intonation (actually, it has a third meaning, too = bellybutton).  The word malaika is both angels and arm hairs, once again, depending on your intonation.  And finally, the word imani means peace, while the word umani means fight.

So next time you hear a sermon in which angels or God or peace is mentioned, be glad you are hearing about angels and not arm hairs.   Be glad you are listening to a sermon in your own language, and don’t have to struggle to decipher if the preacher is speaking of God or porcupines (or even bellybuttons)!

(I love Africa.  I love my team and my neighbors.  But that doesn’t mean that every moment of every day is fun and happiness.  As you read the following please keep in mind that I am not trying to complain, but rather to give you a taste of the flip side of life in Mocimboa.)

Sometimes…

~the motorcycle dies every time you try to shift into first gear.

~your neighbors and random people in the market place tell you how to drive said motorcycle.

~your neighbors and random people laugh as you repeatedly start your motorcycle and shift into first gear…start your motorcycle and shift into first gear…start your motorcycle and shift into first gear…

~your itchy feet wake you up in the middle of the night, which means you have worms in your feet.

~you feel horribly disconnected from all happenings in America, because your friends don’t email you (hint, hint!).

~your neighbors ask for rice or soap or beans or peanuts…again…yesterday, today, and forever.

~your chickens stop laying for no apparent reason.

~the neighbor baby wanders into the street right in front of your motorcycle, and his sisters think it is funny to let him keep you from going anywhere…so you sit on your bike and insist that they take him to safety.

~men in the market make lewd comments.

~a rat dies on top of your kitchen ceiling, causing your whole house to smell bad…and meaning you have to transport said rat to the trash pit.

~your chickens are stolen while you are away on a two day trip.

~things are just too much, and you would gladly take the next plane bound for America.

But then you are reminded that you didn’t come to Africa for an easy, comfortable, stress-free life.  In fact, you came to Africa to share the greatest news ever with those neighbors who sometimes get on your nerves.  And you know you will only survive another year in Africa interspersed with those “sometimes” days if you depend solely on Christ Jesus.

“Do you want to eat fish tonight?”  Agatha popped out her question moments after I’d sat down on their cement porch.   Actually, fish did sound good.  “Let’s go to the market!”

I explained to Agatha that I also wanted to buy that thingamajig (tendeko in Kimwani) to use on rats.  The days of that smart rat who pushes the closed soap dish into the sink to open it are numbered.  Agatha informed me that the tendeko is called teba, and that she wanted some, too.

Our fifteen minute walk to the market was interrupted by a torrential downpour.  As the rain began Agatha pulled her capalona (fabric piece used as an extra skirt) up over our heads; we walked in step, using the capalona as a poncho.  But the fabric was quickly soaked through with no sign of the rain stopping, so we sought cover at the primary school.   Two boys and a man selling clothes also stood under overhang; the Africans accepting the interruption as a matter of course while I inwardly wished I was home with a cup of tea and a book.

Once the rain had stopped we picked our way around mud puddles, being occasionally dripped on by trees.  The beachside market was just as busy as usual; at least ten sails could be spotted on the horizon as the fishing boats made their way in.

Agatha stopped by one fishseller, on his tarp spread out on the sand he had a piles of small fish. But that fish didn’t appeal to her so we moved on.  We stopped at several more tarps, evaluating the prices and condition of numerous different kinds of fish.  The sword-like spike protruding from the heads of some of the fish, the squid strung on reeds, and the rainbow colors of other fish were captivating to me, but apparently not satisfying to Agatha.

Eventually we crowded into one group that stood staring out to sea.   As another fishing boat came close to shore numerous young boys waded out and climbed abroad.  Soon they brought their buckets and basins back to the beach, this time full of fish.  We clustered around one fellow as he separated the fish into seven piles, carefully doling out the fish so that each pile would be worth the same amount.

Agatha handed over the cinquenta metacais (50 mets = $1.34).   The group around us shifted, some deciding the price was right while others moved on.  Agatha visited with the fishseller, both seemingly oblivious to any thought of hurry with this transaction.   Eventually our fishseller hollered at a friend to bring him some plastic bags, but the first bag for our fish ripped.   The fishseller stood a moment, then moved off to track down more bags.

As we exited the market, Agatha asked if I wanted some doci.  The soft peanut brittle-like pieces are very tasty, and I quickly agreed.  I handed over the needed 5 metacias, and held the doci in my hand as we headed out of the market.  Agatha glanced at me with a puzzled look on her face, “Put the doci in your bag.” she told me.  I gently placed the unwrapped doci in my purse, glad that I’d just washed the said purse, but wondering how it would mix with money residing there.

After buying two green peppers, some rat poison, and a coconut we tramped home, snacking on the doci as we walked.  I contemplated the market that is literally a window into the world of these people.  And the fact that an afternoon outing could demonstrate so many differences between my culture and their culture.  And finally, the fact that a trip to the market with Agatha is something I should do more often.

Salama.  It was nerve-wracking the first time I used that standard Kimwani greeting.

But my smiling neighbor, who introduced herself as Fatima, was not going to be critical with my pronunciation.  She sat at the edge of the sandy street outside her house, holding a tiny baby.  Over the next minutes we did a lot of smiling at each other.  When you don’t know the same language there is not much more you can do.  That was a year ago.

Today Madu runs to greet me when he hears my voice.   He’s not a baby anymore, and he’s definitely my most favorite little person in all of Mocimboa.  Today I can communicate with his mother using more than a smile.  Fatima taught me more Kimwani than anyone else, and is still patiently teaching me new words every week.

Today I had the words to tell her that one year ago I arrived in Mocimboa.  That a year ago I was looking everywhere, seeing my house, seeing her, seeing baby Madu.  She flashed her huge smile, and reached out her right hand to slap my hand.  A year ago that would have confused me; today I know that such a gesture is one of pleasure, enjoyment, or teasing.

Together, we rejoiced that I’ve lived in Mocimboa a year.