Coffee and a Sunday Morning Smoke

Serving with the Peace Corps in Mozambique doesn’t allow for the indulgent Sundays that I had become accustomed to while living in the United States.  After finishing my first week of training; intensive Portuguese classes and endless sessions on Peace Corps protocol, I was looking forward to a slow and relaxing Sunday morning.

The struggles of living with a local family had completely extinguished my reserves.  The lack of language was the least of the challenges.  Learning to use the squat toilet, bucket baths in the cold evening air and trying to satisfy my hunger at the end of the day by sucking off tidbits of meat from chicken feet had taken all my stamina and courage.  All I wanted was to sleep until 7or 8 AM, have a cup of coffee and do desperately needed stretching and yoga exercises. 

The early morning started off quietly.  Maybe my host family also enjoyed Sunday mornings as a day of reprieve, I hoped to myself.  The lack of indoor plumbing dictated back breaking work for the women (and girls) of the house. Cooking and cleaning involved lugging pails of water, a chore one would think had disappeared in a past century.

Iconic dirty yellow plastic buckets, seen throughout Africa, move steadily each morning from the pump to the kitchen and back again.  A few buckets strategically placed around the yard to later be employed for washing dishes and clothes.

My dreams of a quiet morning are replaced with ear splitting music.  The volume turned up loud enough to literally shake this mud house served as my social cue to get out of bed and join the family.   Individualism and alone time isn’t really understood by Mozambicans. 

I make my way to the table for the thermos that holds hot water all day long.  My French coffee press is a relic of the past.  I mix up a mug of instant chicory- flavored beverage.  I pretend that this new routine equals the coffee making process I so enjoyed in my own home, theatrically lengthening each step, as if pouring hot water over dried crystals would result in a culinary delight.  My host mom tells me today will be a great day.

In my new life, a great day means that I will learn how to wash clothes by hand and cook lunch on a charcoal fire. Not exactly the plan I had in mind.  And, as I look about, I can see that the family has already eaten and done some laundry, now hanging on the line. The floors have been mopped and the house is in order

A heavy and acrid smoke wafts in the house.  I peer out the window to see a large fire burning on the rocks directly in front of the house.  Coiled wire, plastic and discarded bits of metal are the source of the acrid fumes that not only choke us, but shroud the hanging laundry.  The wisps of smoke curl their way into the house and settle on the walls and furniture.  I am told that the fire will burn away the rock and smooth out the land. 

Doubtful, I think.   Gulping for the few particles of remaining air, I realize that the next two years will be an onslaught of similar thinking.  Some of the ideas, perspectives and customs will seem dubious.  My task will be to sift through it all; knowing when to counter or compliment and when to simply continue to make a cup of instant coffee and carry on on with my morning.


Note:  The fire did in fact break up the rock.  The rock is shale and the heat made it easier to chip at it and remove it bit by bit.  A neighbor agreed to do all the work in  exchange for keeping the rock which he used to build a wall.  Just goes to show you....