seething

So yesterday I came home from the market a little disheveled and...well..."seething" I think would be the appropriate term.

Every Sunday Nampula has a "feira" or an open-air market that is well-stocked with everything from local hand-made housewares and furniture to piles upon piles of second-hand shoes and clothes. It also has quite a lot of artifacts made by local artisans and yesterday, I decided I would go and browse for a few items I had been needing. Like all markets, it is noisy and packed with people trying to get you to sell you their products and the hundreds of people shopping. Despite the chaos that accompanies shopping at the feira, I usually really enjoy it--there is something refreshing about leaving the kids at home with Stefan and having an hour to myself to walk, do some shopping, and just participate in part of the experience of living in Africa. However, although refreshing, going to the feira isn't really relaxing as you spend a lot of your time being shoved and hassled and pursued by vendors--not to mention petty thieves.

Yesterday I was particularly hounded by a few vendors and at one point a man started following me and grabbed hold of my arm. I tried to shake him off but he was persistent and I had to put up quite a little scuffle to finally get him to let go of me--raising my voice and elbowing him(meanwhile the guys in the stand right in front of me watched with a smirk and did nothing to help). A little while later, I felt someone grabbing my arm again and realized it was that same man--but I noticed he really wasn't trying to sell anything. Walking back up that same isle, a man started yelling at me saying I had stepped on his fabric that he had displayed on the ground. Then someone else from behind me started yelling and saying that I should just apologise. But something didn't feel right about it because I was pretty sure I hadn't stepped anywhere near the fabric and even if I had, they seemed to be making a big deal about it--abnormally so--so I kept walking...and when I looked back, I saw that the man who claimed I had stepped on his fabric was walking away--it wasn't even his stand!

At that point that point I should have realized that I was being targeted and should have just left--but I had a few more purchases to make and after each incident, I had grabbed my bag and felt to be sure I had everything. I felt pretty on edge for the rest of my shopping and finally just decided to go home. As I was walking away from the market, someone let out a yell that I had stepped on their foot! (Incidentally, this was a little odd because in a market like that everyone is constantly shoving and hassling to get by--so no one says anything like that). I looked down to see where I had stepped and then looked up and realized it was that SAME MAN who had grabbed me twice before! I rushed out of the market and got on the first "chapa" (transport van) I could find to go home.

On the chapa ride back to my house I was starting to calm down a bit and was wondering why I was targeted repeatedly--especially since I was so clearly hanging on to my bag and they weren't being successful. As I climbed out of the chapa to walk the rest of the way home, I clutched my bag....and felt the empty pocket where my phone had been! I was SEETHING. I was already stressed and pumped with adrenaline for having been grabbed twice and then publicly yelled at twice by strangers. And then to realize that they had been successful....!

Later when I got home, the men in the family listened as I told my story...and sobbed (crying being the only outlet for my fear, wounded pride, and anger since yelling up a storm would have been highly inappropriate in front of the two youngest little men). Christian and Cohen asked unending questions as they tried to wrap their little innocent minds around what had happened. At one point Christian looked at me skeptically and asked if the man had pulled my hair--apparently he thought I looked a little disheveled! He then promptly offered to find the man and stab him with his fork--the object he happened to have in his hand at that moment since we were sitting down to lunch. Of course I told him that would be inappropriate...(but thanks for the thought, sweetie!) Cohen, after listening to the story to his satisfaction indicated that he had something to say... "Well, I guess you should NOT have taken your phone with you, Mom." !!!!!!

The older and more experienced male in the family wisely refrained from offering comments on my appearance, proposing reckless revenge or giving counsel on what I should or should not have done. He simply hugged me.

Christian and Cohen think that the next time I go to the market they should go with me for protection.

Little Miss

This past weekend we packed the kids in the car and drove to the ocean for three wonderful days on the beach. Of course all the preparation and packing required for three days away with little kids leaves a person in need of vacation if one didn't already. In all the last minute shuffle, Wesley was somewhat ignored (compared to her defalt as center of attention) and at one point I found her rummaging through our food basket and finally finding and helping herself to a banana. Little Miss Independent apparently didn't realize she needed to peel the banana before she ate it.


She's been trying to walk on her own recently, too! Someone needs to remind her she is only ten months old!

We always find the ocean so calming and relaxing. The kids are so easily entertained by the waves and ocean creatures and endless stretch of sand.

Little Miss did not want to be held while near the water. She wiggled and complained extensively until we finally just let her eat sand to her hearts content and crawl head on into the waves.

What we don't have pictures for but also contributed to our special weekend: Mommy getting stung by a jelly fish. A green snake outside our cabin. Falling asleep waiting to roast marshmallows. And searching for crabs on the beach at night with flashlights.

why I find myself staring at jars of yogurt

Recently I’ve been finding something so cheering in looking at a clothes line pinned with row after row of clean white diapers. Or, at the end of the day when the kids have been tucked in bed, I find myself taking a moment to just stare contentedly at my counter lined with jars of fresh yogurt that after a day of incubating are ready to be put in the fridge.

It probably has something to do with my longing, like that of every mother of young children, to have something to show for all my effort at the end of the day. Because most days, allthough I’ve been working from 5:00 am until long after dark, I find it hard to point back to any physical evidence of the things I’ve poured myself into.

How do I measure what I do every day? If I spend an hour making “cakes” and pizzas” with my boys, in the end we squish it all up and put the play dough back in their tubs. And although you can’t tell when you walk in the door, I actually did spend an hour picking up toys and strewn laundry and even did a spot of cleaning today! I made three square meals from “scratch” and even a batch of cookies but you won’t find the results stacked in my fridge, freezer, or pantry. Somehow… mysteriously…they are already gone! And how do you really measure all the patience it took to brush the teeth of a two-year-old who thinks he can do everything himself, or answer a four-year-old’s question (for the fifth time that day) about why it rains, or spoon feed a babbling, daydreaming ten-month-old baby a mashed banana as she occasionally swats at the food?

Having children and moving to Africa has required a huge shift in how I define my “accomplishments”. As a missionary I long to spend more time in concentrated language and culture study and would love to spend an hour reading the Bible with my friend who is so eager to hear the words of God. But I’m learning to be content with spending a few moments laughing with my neighbor over my sons’s attempt to communicate in Portuguese and appreciating the teachable moment with my house helper when we talk about life while we wash the clothes. Even the simple act of being a gracious host looks different now—sometimes I wistfully remember putting together a five course meal, lighting candles, and inviting some friends over for a relaxing evening…but I’m learning to be content with serving a cup of tea to a Mozambican friend who unexpectedly stops by while I’m in the middle of cooking dinner and as our kids run circles around us. And slowly, I’m learning to not place so much stock in checking off the items on my (according to my husband) “never ending” To Do List; rather, to be more in tune to the Spirit’s whisper to set down my bucket and pick up my baby and kiss her…to stop writing that e-mail and give my son my full attention while I explain to him ONE MORE TIME why it’s raining…or to run shrieking around the house as a little “crocodile” chases me.

None of that can really be measured and sometimes I don’t think I’ll see the results for literally years. And some days, although I’m becoming less and less focused on "accomplishments”, I’d still like to see something finished by the time a climb into bed. That’s where those (admittedly odd, but) peaceful moments of staring at yogurt jars in the quiet of the day come in. In a few short hours, the diapers will be dirty again and filling up the buckets. And the yogurt will be in little tummies with the dirty jars waiting to be washed. But for a few sweet and cheering moments, I see the evidence of my work.

crocodile pond (?)

A few weeks ago we went with some friends out to Mts. Nairuco--the place about 45 minutes away that has a small lake, some orchards, and a restaurant.

It is always so fun to see the boys explore and be with other kids their age and just...be boys. Wesley and I always enjoy taking a quite walk when we are out there and soaking in the beauty of all things green and living...and especially the unique rock "mountains" that are typical of this area of Mozambique.

Well, just after we got back from our outing, we heard that (gulp) the owners of the place had recently discoverd that a crocodile had somehow found its way through the streams that feed the lake and had taken up residence there.

(Incidentally, I do NOT have a picture of the crocodile).

But you can imagine how we felt in retrospect--reliving all our fun memories and looking at the pictures of the kids splashing around in the water! Granted, I spent a good chunk of my childhood playing in rivers in the middle of the jungle that had plenty of camen (South American aligators)...and Stefan spent most of his childhood swimming in the Amazon River on a daily basis...But somehow, inexplicably, it is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT when I imagine that crocodile in that pond watching my sweeties swim.

That is not to say we feel it necessary to avoid the place altogether. In fact, we just went out a few days ago with some of our colleagues over the holidays. But this time the kids stayed OUT of the water. And stuck to fishing.