electricity.

The last few weeks have been pretty eventful, but this blog is dedicated to today: the day I got energy!

When I first moved into my cute yellow house (pale yellow with deep red trim, pictures to come), I was told within a few days I should have electricity. That was three weeks ago.

In the past three weeks, I have waited on my landlord who demorar-ed beyond belied and taken matters into my own hands. Last week, I showed up at the electricity agency, asked where the director’s office was, and walked right in. This is a very gouch move, as usually to talk to a chefe, you must go through all the necessary means. I was counting on my clear difference in appearance to get me into his office. I was totally right, and he promised me energy that day.

Of course, that did not happen.

I left the next day to spend Christmas with some friends in Gorongosa (where there is a national park that is closed, but I got to see my first mountains in Mozambique, my heart lit up and I cannot wait to get back), and asked my house-keeper to stay at my house while I was gone. She told me she would wait for the electricity men to come.

I came back to site on Monday only to find (not at all surprisingly) that my prematurely purchased rotating fan was still just sitting collecting dust. This morning, I hopped on my bike and braved the chefe’s office again. He took one look at me, apologized, and told me to go home and someone would be there this morning. Around 1:00 pm, a truck pulled into my yard.

I am now sitting, computer and cell phone charging (the number of batches of cookies I need to make for my neighbors who have graciously charged my phone over the last few weeks will keep me busy until about February), and fan blowing right on my bed.

My bed is, you should know, my favorite place. My first night in my house, I did not have a bed. I put my trusty purple thurmarest on the floor, set up my mosquito net, and was ready to go to sleep after a long day of meeting various important people and repeating my name over and over (Naomi, to Mozambicans is very similar to the word “nome” and people often think I am just saying “name” in response to their asking mine; it gets very tiring). After a few horizontal minutes, I heard the sound that I know all too well from my apartment in DC.

I had a mouse problem.

I grabbed my can of bygone, which I had used before I snuggled onto my thermarest, to kill all of the cockroaches I could find invading my space. I proceeded to spray the area where I heard the mouse (which was all of 5 inches from where my head had beed). The rest of the night was much the same. I sat under my mosquito net, spray can in hand, with my head-lamp on, ready to attack.

The next day my supervisor called me to see how I had slept. I told him about my mouse problem. He apologized, and later that day showed up with the tiniest kitten I have ever seen. Ghandi, as I quickly named her, was so cute. An added bonus, that night I did not hear a single mouse.

I have grown to love Ghandi. The neighbors think I am crazy because I give her baths and cuddle with her. I call her my fliha (daughter) and tell people that I live with my one child, not alone.

Yesterday, however, when I came back from Gorongosa, Ghandi was no where to be found. I asked my neighbors if they had seen her, and no one had. I went to bed, and the next morning my house-keeper told me that on Monday as she was cleaning, she thought Ghandi had wondered out of the house (which she does but has never gone beyond my yard), and my house-keeper thought that since she was so pretty someone probably put her in their pocket. Ghandi was beautiful, tan with bright blue eyes. Like a doting mother I had shown pictures of her to all my friends in Gorongosa.

My housekeeper has offered me one of her kittens (which are white and not cute and older by about nine months) and though I do not want them because there is no replacement for Ghandi (and because I am naively expected the darn thing to show up at my door right now), I do not want my mouse problem to continue.

I suppose I can decide in a few days. I have asked all of the neighborhood kids to keep an eye out for Ghandi, and if they can't find her, no one can. In the meantime, as I mourn and call Ghandi and make kissy noises, attracting even more attention to myself, I plan to spend my vacation getting the rest of my house ready. I want to paint the inside (obnoxious, bright colors) and I want to dig up a good garden in the back.

And tomorrow, I want to buy some appliances. You know the kind, the ones that plug in.

move in day.

I figured moving into a house in Mozambique would be trickier than moving into my last apartment in Boston.

I think, probably, had my mom offered to help move me into Dondo it would still have been smoother than the move into Roxbury.

The process started about two weeks ago. Peace Corps gave us each a big cardboard box, which was ours to fill up in whatever way we felt best. The next day, a Peace Corps car came to each of our houses in Namaacha and picked up said boxes. A few days later, the cars returned to Namaacha to pick up our big bags that would meet us the next day in Namaacha.

Excited about the “Swearing in” ceremony, I went to get my shampoo out of my bag once we were in Maputo. After trying twice to open the zipper, I realized I was fighting a losing fight and borrowed my roommate’s shampoo. The next day, however, I really needed to change out of the hideous capulana dress I wore to swear in (which you should look at pictures of, the dresses are terrible, though mine has become maybe my favorite article of clothing and I refer to it as my moo-moo), so I tried the zipper again. Miraculously, it opened and I was able to pack myself a bag for the next few days. I closed the suitcase thinking I would not have to open it until I was in the comfort of my new home.

But I am a risk taker. Last night, in my hotel in Beira, I decided it would really be nice to change my running socks (yes, Dena, I am back to re-using my running socks, and I am not ashamed – you try washing those things by hand). Upon the first try, the zipper came off the teeth of itself and I knew I was now left with an unopenable, unclosable suitcase. Annoyed I used my dirty socks and went on with my morning. When I came back to my room after breakfast to pack my stuff up and head to Dondo, my suitcase had decided to open. So now I had an over packed, open suitcase.

I have forgotten to mention that at some point in this process, one of my friends, Autumn, decided it would be a good idea to tape up the broken part of the zipper. We were all given red duct tape to close our boxes, and Autumn had been smart enough to rip off a little extra which she kindly shared with me. To give you an appropriate picture, my suitcase now was broken completely with a couple of small pieces of bright red duct tape keeping it together. Having packed my duct tape in my box, I was left with rope (because you should never travel without rope and I don’t). I tied the bright green p-cord around the suitcase and hoped that Gimo, my advisor, was picking me up in a car, not a public chapa.

Luckily, Gimo came in a standard NGO 4-wheel drive vehicle. I was able to slide the suitcase in and just needed it to make it to my house.

When I arrived in Dondo, Gimo said it would be better to go right to the office to take care of a few things. Nervous about an open suitcase holding basically all my possessions in Mozambique (except of course those dirty gym socks), I agreed and hoped whatever we had to do would not take too long.

We pulled up to the office of ASVIMO to about sixty people singing and dancing. I got out of the car and was immediately wrapped in a maroon capulana with pineapples on it and given a matching headscarf. The next two hours consisted of different groups of people presenting dances and theater and songs in my honor. The teenage activistas sang a song about how “Tia Naomi” was now part of their family. It was a beautiful party, and I felt so welcomed. After the presentations, we had a great lunch with all of the members of ASVIMO.

ASVIMO, to clear up for everyone, is the organization with which I will be working for the next two years. Their work focuses on orphans and vulnerable children, widows, and the elderly. ASVIMO works throughout Sofala province in the areas of health, education, income generation, and food security. I will be working with the activistas (community health workers) on nutrition projects and helping to build capacity on monitoring and evaluation of the many programs of ASVIMO. ASVIMO also has a “centro abero” (open center) for the orphans in the area. Hundreds of kids come to the center each day for lunch and also receive professional training and work on income generation projects. I will be working with these kids a lot, and I am so excited. There is also a huge well at the ASVIMO office, and people come throughout Dondo to get water because it is so clean.

Anyway, after lunch, I was anxious to see my house. Gimo told me I couldn’t stay in it tonight because it was cleaned yet. I explained it did not really have to be that clean for me, and it would be fine. I walked in and was just in a bit of shock.

First, about ten lovely women were scrubbing the house from top to bottom. I was so humbled and thanked them for the hard work. Unfortunately, in the process of cleaning, the women had decided to take off the door. A dirty house I can stay in. A house with no door, harder.

My house is totally lovely, but completely empty. In the states, an empty house means cabinets and closets to fill. In Mozambique, an empty house means an empty house. There was not one single surface to put a cup, a key, or a lamp. The owners had apparently gotten bored of painting and stopped after one wall. There is not yet a meter to count electricity, nor are there any light bulbs.

Finally understanding the work I had ahead of me and mentally making a list of necessities (door, bed, locks, table, bowl, knife, etc), I looked around the house and found that I have two huge mango trees and a huge yard that will be great for a garden! I also had two neighborhood goats roaming around, which I intend to quickly train not to eat my garden. I was excited about my house and ready to start buying little things in town, but Gimo insisted I talk with the landlord right away.

The landlord, stereotypically, was very concerned about his money. He informed me that he had worked out with Gimo that I was to pay three months at a time. No one had told me about this agreement and three months rent is basically my entire move-in allowance. Plus I never carried that much cash on me. I gave him one month and told him I would get him the rest the next day (before which I intended to talk to my director to see what I should do). That was not an acceptable plan for this man, and he decided to accompany me to the bank to retrieve the rest of the money. Gimo said it would be fine, I was set to stay in a hotel in Beira again, and we could stop at the bank on our way.

Annoyed, I went to the bank to withdrawal basically every dime I had (quickly vanished my mental pictures of a beautiful, comfortable bed, a stove, and a refrigerator, and I just hoped that my box with my thermarest would be delivered soon and that I could buy a cheap hot water heater). Unfortunately (or possibly fortunately), Barclay’s denied my withdrawal and froze my account. Confused, and it being 5:30, I knocked on the door to the bank. The nice bank teller had no idea what happened, but also had no intention of helping me until the next day. I told my landlord he was out of luck, but he told me to try again.

I went back to the ATM, did a balance inquiry, and found that though the bank had not given me my money, it had deducted the money from the account. Frustrated, and without the language capabilities to handle the situation, I told the landlord he was not getting his money. I then told Gimo I did not know what else I really could do at that point. Gimo, though slow on picking up my frustration, could hear my voice crack, and decided since I now had all of 20 mets to my name (equivalent to about 80 cents), there was no reason for me to return to Beira to try to buy stuff for my house the next day. He put me up in a little hostel in Dondo, and told me not to worry, that it would be worked out. I tried to explain I was not worried just annoyed (still not knowing the word for annoying, I described it like when a little kid pokes you over and over), but he had no clue what I was talking about and I think he actually thought I went completely crazy during the entire bank situation.

Luckily, throughout this entire ordeal, one of my new co-workers, Adelina was with me. Adelina is completely adorable and the perfect person to balance Gimo’s apathy. After Gimo dropped me off with my still broken, duct taped, roped together suitcase at my hotel, Adelina said I could walk with her to her house. She lived in a great house with her four year old son. On our way back to the hostel, she bought me a Fanta and talked to me a little about her life. 22, years old, she is still finishing school and dating a boy who lives in Beira. We bonded about long distance relationships and talked about what she wanted to do when she was done with school. She laughed when I told her I get nervous in big cities and did not believe me when I told her how expensive mangos are in the US.

I think I have my first friend in Dondo.

No home yet. But a house. And a friend.