Pedir-ing, and all the things that suck about it.

So I says, “Nyembe, are you really asking me for money to help feed your struggling family?  You literally just gave me a tour of your house where you showed off all your nice toys.  Dude, you have not one, but THREE working computers.  And you use them to run a freaking internet café; the only internet café that I’ve seen in all of Montepuez!  On top of that, you’re the only guy on the block with a copy machine.  You’d have a fucking monopoly with that too if your drunk ass stopped drinking for like two weeks, saved the money, bought the expensive piece you needed to make the damn thing work, and then opened up shop for the world to see.  You literally are the only guy who has the ability utilize the functions of a copy machine.  And with school starting up again, it’s pretty much hunting season for you.  You could make a killing, bro.  Get it together!”

Well, I didn’t really says that, but he did ask me for money.  And he does have the only internet café I’ve come across here in Montepuez. Not sure if it’s functioning right now, but still, it’s the principle of the matter!

If you haven’t noticed, all this pedir-ing is starting to get to me.  To “pedir” means to ask for in Portuguese, and people here love to pedir.  I’m still not sure if it’s cultural, or if it’s just because I’m white (I’m thinking it’s the later…), but not a day goes by where I don’t get 5 or 6 requests for various things.  Usually it’s just money, and people will say “Da-me Cinco,” or “Da-me Dez.”  But sometimes people are more specific and will ask for bread or cigarettes: “Da-me Pao,”  or “Da-me cigarillo.”  No greeting, no superfluous conversation, not even a please. Nada.  Just a “Give me this,” or “Give me that.” 

I have a feeling that it’s cultural things like this that make the first three months the hardest (at least that’s what they tell you…about the first three months that is).  Some days it really starts to wear on me so much so that I don’t want to leave my house.  But, I know better, and I have yet to let it get me to the point where I want to lock myself in the house, close all the curtains, get in bed and tuck in the mosquito net.  I won’t lie, I’ve definitely thought about it though…

UPDATE:  I wrote the previous section two weeks ago, but have waited a while to post it.  I usually like to do this so I can post a bunch of things at once.  Either way, it’s funny to look back on this know and think about how frustrated I actually was.  Things have changed drastically since then, and I think I can credit it to taking a new approach towards combating what is by far my east favorite aspect of Mozambican culture.  Now a days, when I get asked for something, I usually reply that I’m a professor and can give classes, not money.  Then, I’ll ask the pedir-er if they’d like to learn some physics. 

Usually people hate the idea of school, so they’ll decline with an irritated tone and let me go on my merry way.  If they say yes though, that’s when the fun begins.  If they accept my offer, I then try and whip out a quick and dirty summary of one of the lessons I’ve been preparing, or one I gave earlier in the week.  On-the-fly lessons I’ve given so far have included demonstrations of gravity, an introduction to waves, a discussion of thermodynamics, and a disgusting attempt at describing Schrodinger’s Box in Portuguese.  Sometimes though, if they are drunk and persistent or just really being a pain, I’ll start lecturing them in English about a variety of topics.  Most of the time it’s themed around how ridiculous it is that they are asking me to give them money so that they can get drunk. It not the nicest thing to say, but I’m comforted by the fact that they really can’t understand it anyway.  Also, it’s really therapeutic.  Like venting to someone.  

Either way, my new method has been working.  I’m happy, and most of the time, they seem to be happy too.  Pedir-ing will be something I’ll continue to have to deal with throughout my time here.  I can accept that.  Even though I don’t look forward to being asked for things continuously, I do look forward to coming up with new, creative ways to change the topic or say no.  Or to just have a little therapy time and get something of my chest.

Dear Drunk Guy.

Dear Drunk Guy pedir-ing me for money while offering a sob story about your sick sister-in-law and problems with unemployment,

 

I’m sorry about the current adversity you’re facing.  It sounds like you and your family are really struggling.  It’s a terrible thing having to bear witness to a family member dying a slow and painful death from Malaria right in front of your eyes.  Additionally, I’m terribly sorry that you’ve been unable to find a job since graduating from Secondary School.  It really is an incredible achievement, but I can’t even begin to imagine the frustration you must be feeling after working so hard for so long, for what now seems like something that wasn’t worth the effort.  I can assure you that in the long run, it will pay off. Try to keep your head up, but more importantly, stay active and keep looking for work.  In this country, work isn’t going to find you.

All that said, no I will not be giving you any money to “help your sister-in-law.”  Aside from the fact that I am 115% sure that when you say you want to buy medicine for your sister-in-law and that you actually mean you want money so you can to buy more shitty plastic-bottle gin for yourself, I am not here to give handouts.  I’m here to give lessons.  I’m here to build the latent capacity of you and some of your fellow countrymen currently being misappropriated.  What I’m not here to do is give you money and continue to reinforce any sort of dependency on the wallets of the white man, a humiliating and detrimental repercussion of 400 years of colonial enslavement and more contemporary bunk financial aid. I don’t expect you to understand, it’s nearly impossible for you to comprehend.  After all, you are completely wasted and as a result your brain is only able to function at a fraction of its normal rate. 

It’s not your fault, you didn’t write this whole history fiasco and you certainly aren’t responsible for the cultural shit-storm left behind by a horrific civil war that followed an extensive period of colonization which lasted 400 years too long.  But unfortunately you and I are here now, the by-products of choices that we and our ancestors made long ago, and we have to play the hands that we’ve been dealt.  Yours is certainly much tougher than mine, I’ll give you that.  You’re an unemployed and living in a third world country.  You have no money, a sick family, and an unrecognized problem with alcohol.  The struggles you face that result from just those few conditions far outweigh the struggles I’m currently faced with: trying to learn a new language, adapt to a new culture, and get over the shock of not having unrestricted access to Chipotle.  As I said, my hand is different than yours. 

To say I’ve been fortunate would be an understatement.  If you could see the life I left behind in Bethesda, you’d probably defecate in your pants out of shear shock that I left such a paradisiac lifestyle.  Still, I’m not here to give you money, and I’m sorry if that makes me seem like an asshole. I refuse to conform to the expectation that you and many others have for white men being cash cows, and therefore you will have to struggle with me as I work to adjust this seemingly engrained perception of the white man.  I’m a volunteer, and just because I’m white, it does not mean that I have money. 

Again, I’m sorry for your struggles and hope that once you are sober, maybe we can be friends. 

Until then,

Will

A Potential Spontaneous Purchase

According to my sisters, there’s no better way to reward yourself for a job well done, than by doing a little impulsive shopping. But, I think that they were referring to clothing, not a pet monkey.  Today, I was about 500 mets away from buying my first monkey.

Don’t worry, I didn’t end up going through with it…Yet.

I guess word got around the neighborhood that I was in the market for a monkey, and some guy stopped by my house today to tell me that he heard I was looking and had one he was willing to sell.  I was speechless, totally caught off guard.  I was only half-kidding when I had mentioned it to my neighbor a few weeks ago. But, as I’ve had more time to process it, I’ve come to realize the distinct possibility that I may never have this opportunity again. It’s hard to not let that influence my thought process.  I want a monkey.  And I want to be best friends with him.

At first I thought the guy was only calling me over to ask for something (a common occurrence, multiple times each day), so I tried to play dumb and pretend like I didn’t understand what he was saying to me.  But he was persistent, and I’m actually pretty glad he was. When I figured out he was talking about monkeys, he rightfully earned my full attention and understanding (however little understanding that may actually have been). 

I’ve never fought so hard to contain a serious rush of excitement propagating through my body.  Throughout our conversation, I kept drifting off into a day-dream where I was feeding bananas to a cute little monkey that lived in a small house I made for him in the cashew tree behind my house. Must…get…a…grip. 

Those fantasies only got worse when we went to go see him.  Followed by my Army of Criancas, the kids that were hanging out at my house when Tudu the Monkey Guy arrived, we all left and went over to Tudu’s house to inspect his monkey.  He’s cute…sort of.  But, it’s a monkey, and that’s what Important.  As he ran around the guy’s yard, he became a whole lot cuter. Also, his was pretty funny too.  Along the walk, he told me that he named the beast Godzilla, “…like the monkey in that movie that takes the woman.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was confusing a rampaging monkey for a rampaging giant, radioactive lizard.  At least her got the rampaging part right.

Even knowing I have a history of making reckless decisions when it comes to pets (i.e. Mox the cat, Turtle the turtle), I wanted nothing more than to shove money in this guy’s pockets for his monkey.  But I couldn’t do it.  I managed to defeat my inner child and stand my ground, perhaps proving to myself for the first time that I have the ability to be an adult and make mature decisions.  There comes a point in time when you have to start learning from the mistakes you’ve made in the past.  After all, as my good buddy George Santayana once said, “Those that forget the past, are doomed to repeat it.” That wouldn’t be so bad in this case (Meghan now has the cat and treats him like a prince, while my parents are enjoying the presence of a turtle in their house), but I’m quickly running out of people to just unload my pets onto, and there’s that whole morality thing too.

So, I’m gonna think this one through.  I told him give me four weeks to think about.  I need to keep settling in, I told him; I need to do some research.  First and foremost, I need to make sure I’m not going to be arrested, thrown in Mozambican prison, and featured on locked up abroad just for having this monkey.  He told me that he bought it in the bush, which probably means he caught it one day when he was out there doing whatever it is Mozambican’s do in the bush.  I have no idea what the legal repercussions are for owning a monkey in Mozambique, so that’s first on the list of things to do.  And, on the off chance that he’s part of some endangered species…well, that’s another thing I need to look into. Other things I need to research: what ype of monkey he is, what he eats, how long does he live, is there a doctor I can take him to around here if he gets sick, what type of environment does he like, how much can I expect to spend, can I actually afford to have a monkey, do I have someone that can take care of him when I’m gone (on trips and after I COS in two years…assuming he doesn’t run away to the bush or monkey heaven). There’s a lot I need to do.

I don’t think I’ll end up buying him , but you really never know.  I am kinda of thinking that if it’s only taken me four weeks at site to find a guy willing to sell his monkey, I imagine I’ll have other offers down the road.

Peanuts

I have this memory of my niece, Bailey that I absolutely cherish.  She was just learning how to speak, and Brandy had tried teaching her the word for fork.  Unfortunately, my once-adorable and innocent niece had some trouble pronouncing her R’s.  Instead, she would usually just leave out the R and change the O to a U. Once my sisters and I found this out, it took a lot of effort not to show Bailey a fork and ask her what it was.  It’s really hard not to take advantage of a toddler’s speech impediment when it involves being cussed-out by a one-year old.

The reason I bring this up is because recently, I’ve been having some flashbacks to that moment (come to think of it, I guess I’ve been having a lot of flashbacks recently with all the reminiscing of home…such is life when you are away from it I guess).  Mozambicans just can’t seem to say the word Peanuts.  Instead, without fail, even if someone has never heard another person make the mistake before, their first, second and at least third attempts at saying this word always come out as the world “Penis.”  And it’s freakin’ awesome.

Many of my neighbors like to try to get me to teach them English.  For the record, I hate the idea of teaching English. Like a lot.  The thought of having to teach English makes me want to rip out my fingers one by one and then eat them.  I understand that it’s sort of unavoidable when you are in a foreign country, but still, it doesn’t mean I like having to do it.

Anyways, I’ve tried to find a number of ways to avoid sitting them down and giving classes.  Instead, I prefer to just teach people words on the fly.  For example, if we’re working in the macahamba, I’ll tell them the names of some of the natural features in English: tree, corn, hoe, dirt, etc.  Or, if we’re cooking, I’ll name off some of the things we’re using: fire, stove, pan, water, etc.  Usually, people around here have a lot of difficultly pronouncing things.

Oddly, this makes a lot of sense when you think about the fact that the physical structure of the local languages here are an amalgamation of a completely different set of sounds (that’s not to say there aren’t some similarities).  A classic example is the language that involves the tongue clicking.  I think it’s Swahili, but I’m not totally sure.  In any case, it’s really hard, but not impossible, to learn how to speak this way.  It just takes practice.  Native speakers have no trouble with these sounds, kind of like how a native English speaker has no trouble pronouncing the words old, hold, or near.  Not the case here though.  When someone who has no experience with a language composed of sounds that are unique to them, they are unable to pronounce words in the correct manner.  And sometimes, this leads to fantastic mistakes.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder if that’s why people are always laughing at me here when I try to speak Macua.  Maybe every time I reply to something, I’m really just saying the Macua word for some ridiculous body part.  I hope not, I’ve been trying to talk with a lot of respected community members.

(All of a sudden I really miss that Tibetan Take-Out place on the corner of Folsom and Arapahoe in Boulder.  Maybe it’s because I always tried to order my food using the name of the dish on the menu and they’d always laugh at me when I tried.)

Mosquito Season

I can’t figure out why, but I’m feeling a bit off this morning.  I’m tired, feeling a little depressed, completely unmotivated to do anything, and all I want right now is some chocolate.  It’s a good thing I have a humongous can of Milo (South African Hot Chocolate) to hold me over, otherwise we’d have a sarcastic disaster on our hands.

 

It’s possible that I’m a little sick. Maybe I picked something up from one of the 14,000 mosquitoes have conveniently decided to move into my house and begun feasting on my body.  But I guess it’s better having to deal with them than the guy who was bathing in the sink outside my house last night (the light bulb out back burned out, so it’s dark out there…I really need to find a replacement). 

I’m covered in bites.  Not everywhere, mostly just in locations where I don’t have any body hair.  My ankles and knee caps are taking the most significant amount of damage.  It looks like a scene taken straight out of a war movie.  Ranges of small red peaks dot my barren, fleshy landscape.  Some of the bites have been torn open by the consequential incessant need to relieve the itch with a nice hard scratch. At one point I tried to count, but I had to stop after twenty-three. As the number kept growing, so too did my fear as I quickly realized that the probability that I’m already carrying the malaria virus in my blood stream is quite high. The incubation period for Malaria can be a surprisingly long time, but aside from being a little tired, I haven’t shown and physical symptoms yet.  Maybe I have the Malaria Prophylaxis to thank for that.

Jokes and sarcasm aside, Malaria is a serious issue ‘round these parts.  This week, the reality of how dangerous and fatal this disease is became apparent not once, but twice.  A few days ago I was walking to school and happened to pass by two of my colleagues.  Lucas, an animated and friendly secretary who has become one of my favorite Mozambicans thus far, was not acting his typically dynamic self.  His mood, as well as the demeanor of my other colleague, was somber.  The hung their heads as they slowly walked towards me.  After greeting them, they told me how they were heading to the home of a extended family member whose husband and son died of Malaria that same week.  Two full grown, bread winning men from the same family, both dead from the same disease in the same week.  I didn’t know the deceased men, but the way Lucas delivered the news, and the thought of how significant these loses were to the family made it feel like someone had just dropped na anvil on my head.  

While my second encounter with Malaria this week was a lot less depressing, it still had an impact.  My Zimbabwean friend, a guy named Musiiwa, has been fighting malaria for about a week now.  He wasn’t able to afford to go to the hospital, and was trying his best to recover at home. Probably wouldn’t have mattered if he had gone to the doctor anyway.  The hospital has a tendency to run out of the medication he needs to cure himself early in the day, and the fact that he’s a foreigner would mean he’s the lowest priority on a list that already packed with Mozambicans. 

It took a long time, but he was finally on the up.  He showed up at my house the other day when he was in the neighborhood and we sat and talked for a while.  We talked about what he was going through, what it felt like, his inability to afford medication, and the recovery process.  He was weak, dehydrated, tired, and discolored.  On his face, just above the up left-hand corner of his mouth was a humongous, inflamed red sore.  It had popped up along with his other symptoms.  “This is nothing,” he told me in English, “You should have seen this thing a few days ago.”  It looked like a cold sore had been injected with steroids mated with an equally mutated cold sore and had freak cold sore babies on his face.  If this was recovering, I don’t want to find out what sick looks like.

It’s odd how the threat of Malaria doesn’t even cross the minds of many Americans. Makes sense, as it’s not a problem we have to deal with.  We used to.  In fact, a hundred or so year ago, the US used to be faced with the very same predicament that many developing countries like Mozambique are facing right now.  I won’t go into the details of how exactly we solved our Malaria problem – mostly because I don’t know the intricacies of how exactly we solved our Malaria problem) – but by working together, and putting in a whole lot of effort, we did.  And now, Americans can go about their lives without having to cover themselves in bug spray between the hours of 6pm and 6am, commit nightly mass-mosquito genocide with a rolled up magazine, or sleep under a chemically-treated mosquito net every single night. 

Simply put, Malaria sucks. It’s a debilitating disease that is paralyzing developing countries, and preventing this country, and many others, from reaching its full potential.  Depending on who you talk to, the prospects of a  vaccine appearing on the market any time soon  range from incredibly optimistic to exceedingly hopeless, and back again.  After seeing how deep the lose cut these families and how much of an impact being sick has, I’m really hoping that a vaccine is on the way.

I’m sure that over the course of the next 23 months, there will be a number of other revelations in which I discover just how much our cultures and lifestyles differ.  I love these happenings, but it’s also very bittersweet.  It’s not always the most positive things that come to light.  I guess that’s part of the experience though.

Today was weird.

Today was weird.  It’s Sunday, so it’s common to see most people (read: men) of age getting drunk or already hammered. What was uncommon, was that fact that everyone seemed to be drunk and caked in an odd looking white powder, kinda like Pablo Escobar came back to life and decided to dump his stache on everyone in Montepuez. In reality, it was probably like flour or something, but it’s more fun to think otherwise.

I still don’t really know what was going on.  I heard a word that I think sounded like Ncoma, but I can’t be totally sure.  Doesn’t matter though, cause I really have no idea what that means anyways.  I think this weekend had something to do with initiation rites though, because I’ve been hearing drums beating all night long.  This is a huge cultural event across Mozambique that I’m still learning about.  Apparently, word on the street is that unless you’ve been through it, you aren’t allowed to know what goes on.  For males, it definitely involves circumcision.  For females…well I really, really hope it doesn’t involve circumcision. I’ll let you know when I learn more.

Today was also special though.  Today, I planted a banana tree.  Over the last four week I’ve been pretending to be a farmer.  I think I’m actually doing a good job.  I planted corn a while back, and wouldn’t you know it but it’s starting to sprout!  In a few months, I should be able to harvest something.  Other than my new baby, I’ve got six struggling basil plants that I transplanted into my plot, a future pineapple bush (bush?) growing roots in a glass of water, mango seeds being sundried out back, a half-assed compost pile (it’s a work in progress), plans to lay out a perma-garden, and some grass growing in my front yard (round two, the first round was not successful).  I also bought a ton of seeds in the market the other day (I’ve got a seed guy now named Chaban…he’s my hook, yo), and am excited to plant them too when the time is right.  Problem is, I just don’t know when the time is right.  Maybe now?  Maybe later?  Meh, guess I’ll have to ask my Zimbabwean friend.

In other news, school starts in a week.  Electrified and panicked; both are how I’m feeling.  I can’t wait to get started, but as always, I’m freaking out about my language skills.  Also, with as busy as I’ve been, I’m not sure I’ll have time for work here.  There are too many other things to do.  I guess that sacrifices will have to be made.  Sorry kids, looks like Physics will have to wait…

PS – Dear sisters, My supply of that provocative concoction you call Justin’s Chocolate Hazelnut Butter is acabo.  Thanks for the addiction, so I’ll need more, stat.  This is a life or death matter. I’m not sure I’m patient enough to wait for a package to arrive though, so can an adequate and equally appetizing alternative be fabricated, or am I going to die of a hazelnut butter insufficiency?

I’m not doing that again…

Well that’s the last time I ever follow a 15 year-old into the African Bush…

I remember one summer a few years ago, I was still living in Colorado and drove up to Frisco to hang out with my mom.  She was in town doing her thing, and wanted to go hiking.  I’ll take any opportunity I can get to explore anything and everything Colorado, and was excited to hear see what she had in mind.  It wasn’t a particularly unique hike on the way up, but it’s what happened on the way down that made it memorable. Both of us were itching for an adventure, and thought it might be nice to try and take a different way do the mountain side.  We split off from the path (sorry Colorado, I know you don’t like that) and started to do a little trailblazing.  It was a huge open field down to a stream that then ran down the valley towards our car, so we didn’t think it would be all that hard to traverse.  Big mistake; We soon learned that paths exist for a reason.  The field ended, and the stream began.  And so did a seemingly endless patch of thorn-covered flora.   To make matters worse, I had also been wearing shorts and forgotten (read: carelessly made the decision not to use) sunscreen.

At least this time I was wearing sunscreen. 

What started out as a trip to the Carpenter with one of my neighbors (I’m trying to make some shelves for my closet), turned into a bushwhacking trek up and down the miniature mountain behind my house. During our visit with the Carpenter, we learned about a path that went up through a few machambas, almost to the top.  I’ve been desperately trying to find some time to go hiking outside of town recently, so when Orlando, my neighbor, turned to me after the Carpenter described the camino and asked “Queres ir?” (Do you want to go?), it took me all of two milliseconds to enthusiastically say yes.  And just like that, our adventure began.  We said our goodbyes to the Carpenter, thanked him, and went on our merry way walking along.  Worn down by the bare-feet of the people who have used it for years, the rugged, dirt path easy to follow. 

As we started to gain some elevation, I turned around to examine the view.  Wow.  We weren’t even up that high, but what I was able to see what nothing short of fantastic.  Rolling Plains painted in massive forests of medium size trees. They engulf intermittent inselbrooks (I think that’s the word, it’s a type of rock formation they have here but I can’t remember how to spell it) that seem to pop up out of nowhere, for no reason at all. The mountains here just happen, there’s really no other way to put it. Massive monolithic pieces of rock hundreds of feet high shoot out of the earth sporadically and look fresh, as though they breached the crust just days before. We're it not for the jungles of trees and moss that covers them, it would actually be hard to believe otherwise. Every so often you can see the humongous bodies of Baobab trees (your classic example for an African tree; like the tree where Mustafa lives in the Lion King) breaking through the canopy, as if it were trying to one-up what the mountains they share the land with.  They are everywhere and it’s a good thing too, because their massive limbs extends out past their even more massive trunks to produce enough shade for two or three chapas full of people to comfortably descancar under after the inevitable breakdown of their minibus.

I could spend all day in this one spot looking out, analyzing the scene.  I’ve never seen anything like it before, and even though I’m here for two more years and know that I’ll have plenty of additional opportunities to sit and stare, I can’t seem to force my eyes away from the view.  Orlando has to literally pull me in the right direction in order to bring me back to reality.

When we’re almost to the top, we find ourselves out the beaten path (literally) and sitting in the middle  of someone’s mountain-side machamba.  Although we’re only a hundred vertical feet from the top, the rest of the way up is impassible and shrouded in an impenetrable forest of trees, plants, bushes and vines.  Also, probably snakes.  Big ones.  We can go no further.  Our path has ended, but the fun has just begun.

Orlando points out Montepuez’s new Universidade Pedogogico at the bottom of our hill, not too far in the distance and asks if I want to go.  It’s starting to get a little late (probably 4pm or so) and I can already see that the sun starting to make it rounds.  But, it doesn’t seem like too far of a trek, so I happily consent making the assumption that he knows some path to get us down there and back home in time for dinner.  Nope.

Five minutes later, I find myself having flashbacks to the hike I went on with my mom in Colorado, wandering through a thick field of tall grass, fighting thorns, stickers, and the various cousins of American poison ivy, all the while praying that this isn’t the point in time that I spot my first Black Mamba or Mozambican Spitting Cobra.  Or any other snake for that matter.  If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not a huge fan of snakes.

Orlando doesn’t seem to know where he’s going.  He knows our destination, but doesn’t seem to have any knowledge about a path we can take to get there.  That doesn’t to matter to him though, as in Africa, paths aren’t necessary.  You just walk. 

My mind starts to race through all the possible scenarios that could happen.  We have no food, no water, and no path.  Soon, we’ll have no light either.  What we do have though is a whole lot of bush and a general sense of direction.  Even though my mind is starting to race through all the horrific scenarios that could potentially happen (most of which involve getting being slowly eaten alive by a family of black mambas), I take comfort in the fact that he’s hiking in shorts and sandals, and seems o be carrying an uncanny confidence all the while walking through the bush. He’s not even sweating.

After jumping across a small gorge, we find ourselves walking through a machamba where someone’s recently planted peanuts.  Good, I think to myself, at least we are somewhere where someone else has been too.  There’s got to be a path out of here somewhere.  We walk to one end, only to run into another impenetrable wall of forest.  At this point, I decide to take charge.  My adrenaline is pumping, and I’m not willing to bushwhack again if we don’t absolutely have too.  Orlando is still cool as a cucumber. 

We follow the border of the machamba for a little while, when we finally see it: an outlet.  There, wedged between two trees, is a small path heading down the hillside.  Hallelujah, I think to myself and crack a small joke about how we’re still alive. I look over at Orlando.  He’s void of any emotion.

So maybe my emotions got the best of me.  Maybe we weren’t in as much trouble as I thought.  Maybe I just need to get more used to this carefree African lifestyle.  Or maybe I just shouldn’t ever follow a 15 year old into the African Bush.