My salute to you, those who have came here to check on my Blog and, perhaps, leave some sort of comment. Since the fad started, I must say that it pretty much caught my eye and interest.
Those who know me often catch me scribing something on my notepads. That bunch of illegible words, in time, became illegible even to me, and so I decided not just to write them on the computer but also to share them with everybody, especially with those who can now better read them.
Another reason for building this Blog is that I find myself outside my country, and so not to simply email everyone my stories, I write them down and keep them as memoirs.
And so you might ask... What did those words made up to? Well, that’s what this Blog is all about and what it stands for: simply everything...
The country where I'm presently at is one of the southeasts of Africa: Mozambique. Once one of Portugal's colonies, it now strives as an independent nation. Made up of (somewhat) different cultures, among them are the former colonists, whose culture is, how can I put it? Surreal. Pretty much like bizarro world.
The reason I got stranded in this country relies solely with my employers. After college, an international internship at a multi-national company sounded like a prolonging of my previous experiences abroad: meeting different people, sight-seeing, touring, and interacting with the local culture, hearing and trying to speak different languages, and so and so forth.
Since I arrived here a little over 2 months ago, I’ll transcribe one of my early notations from my notepads:
“Arriving at the airport became a trip into a parallel dimension. The tremendous heat and the smells awakened by it quickly filled my nostrils. I was becoming possessed with the African spirit. The bureaucracy at the customs booth looked like something of from a Nazi concentration camp film. At least it looked like it. The delay, the search for illegal goods (or ready-to-sell), the trying to rip off some bribe with the threat of a fine, people offering their services by pushing the baggage cart through the crowd, and what seemed thousands of street kids asking for money with nothing more than an excessively worn-out t-shirt with a pair of old shorts, and no shoes to match…
I hope in time I’ll understand this through their point of view…
The people who were supposed to meet us at the gate had the same skin color as mine and looked like messiahs. Helping with the bags and keeping us up to date with our jobs, they gave us a crash-course on living in Africa and what to expect… From pestering beggars to street hustlers, we were instructed to be very, very careful… But still, to make the best out of the entire experience.
The trip to hotel, as always, is never an easy path. I just can’t seem to remember which turns to make. The only things I remember are the innumerous shacks and huts by the roads, the poverty of the people and the kids, those parentless kids who just play with anything they can find, from cans to rocks, aside from some toys.
Apparently, during the independence war with Portugal and the civil war that followed it, many people came to the capital to seek refuge. It has been only 12 years since... Few things were accomplished and built. One thing seems to remain: the African culture.
The ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ question was going through my mind just as I arrived at the hotel. What an oasis of security! Outside was the unknown, ready for the taking… I quickly unpacked, showered, and headed off to a meal, guided by those who met us at the airport. The country’s special: seafood. And plenty of it! With the local brew of beer, I enjoyed every mouthful… Of course, the conversation HAD to be about the country. The home-brought questions got their answers. Some quite different than expected, but still, answered… Paring up were the sight-seeing itineraries. One cannot arrive at a different country and not see it fully. One question remains: where are the locals I can meet?...”
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