Day 3

It’s apparently monsoon season. I’ve placed buckets under the appropriate ceiling leaks and have promised myself not to go into the living area again until the rain dies down a little. I plan to buy out some lucky Mozambican hardware store’s supply of sealant and go at my roof sometime soon. I plan to do a lot of things sometime soon, but realistically… I don’t even know where a hardware store is located, or how I would get all of the supplies I need from there (not in Ile) to here (in Ile). Coisa 449 that I took for granted in the States: how damn convenient convenience stores and strip malls are. Goodbye, shopping carts and trunk space; I’ll see you in two years. Hello, open arms and chapa rides.
My windows leak water like blood from the elevator in The Shining. It pools beneath them in the African-red of the clay dirt. There are dark, wet-looking splotches forming near the ceiling that make me think suspicious thoughts about the durability of this house. Yesterday, when the rain hit at a certain angle and flooded my front porch, the walls cradling the porch began to soak up the rust-colored water as if they were a pair of jeans walking through the puddles.
A fellow PCV has been staying with me because there are some issues with his house. He’s been great company, especially now when my freak-out potential is at its height. I’m fairly certain he’s the reason why I haven’t had a break down, about the water that falls from my ceiling, or the rats that crawl over my feet at night, or the roaches that watch me from the rafters, or the lack of a bathing facility. I’m not actually going to tell you any of this until the problems are fixed, and they’re not that bad. They just sound bad when strung together like that.
Really, don’t be concerned for me; I’m just showing off. “Look what I can endure, nya nya.” I’m secretly thrilled to be living with these challenges. It’s like the difference between stick and manual. My PCV friend, Amy, once told me that I am a competitive storyteller. Someone in our group would tell a story about a friend getting in a car crash, and I would follow it with a story about getting lost in the Saharan desert, running out of gas and water miles from the perilous Sudanese border (I’m sure you’ve heard that one before). It’s not one of my most admirable qualities, but it can be an entertaining one, if you’re not too offended by boasters. I am a collector of experiences, which is part of the reason why I joined Peace Corps, and certainly why I’m secretly enjoining running around my house to adjust bacias when the drips shift. There’s a particular pleasure in smacking a roach flat against a wall and observing the white goo that is left on the sole of the shoe/weapon. I am not so callous when it comes to my other roommates. I’ve welcomed the dozens of lizards that sit on my walls. I even invited a rat to stay in my room yesterday when the rain was falling in torrents. I saw his worm-like tail nesting between the beam and the wall. But, I warned him that he should leave when the rain stops, or I would not hesitate to kill him (this was an empty threat). He didn’t bother me last night, crawl over my feet or Bryan’s pillow, so although I’m not going to go as far to say that we’ve reached a truce, I’m going to think it hard and hope that rats have empathy for girls named Jessica.
I’m excited for the day when I can put down my paint brush (a presumptuous statement, I know), walk down the hill that Ile sits on, and see how long it takes me to get to the foot of the mountain in the near distance. My American neighbors have told me that I have the best view around, and if you could see it you would say, “Jessica, take our shopping carts and trunks, and we’ll take your roaches, rats, and roof-leaks.” Except, you probably wouldn’t say it like that, and neither would I. You would say, “Quit your bitching, this is what you signed up for,” and You would say, “You just have to make-do with the cards that you’ve been dealt,” and You would say, “I miss you more than you’ll ever know,” but I would say, “I know, because I miss you that much, too, but I love it here and I wouldn’t move back for all the hot running water in the world.”
Something loud and heavy just fell onto the roof of my house. I hope it was a supermarket.

I’ve been alone all day, sweating, and reading bizarre short stories. Danielle, if you’re reading this, you’re right and I love you. Kelly Link was a good choice. I wish I had a library full of her novels, and you here to discuss them with me.

Thanks to my PCV friend Jon, I am developing an appreciation for Bob Dylan. I knew that if I tried him out enough (in Mozambique we say “experimentar”) – like my determination to enjoy eating oatmeal, I’d eventually discover the right songs and fall in love with him. Jon and I exchanged music the day or two before we left training. I gave him ridiculous indie rock that he’s probably deleting from his PC as you read this, and he gave me lots of good classic stuff and eight cds full of “Atlantic Rhythm & Blues”. If I’m still a sane person after two years, it’ll be due in part to people like Jon who let me steal their playlists.
Tonight, Bryan and I are planning to watch a DVD, cook some Moz-style spaghetti. It’s called “massa” here, and it is generally a delicious combination of tomato, onion, and garlic cooked in a bit of oil mixed into pasta and then mixed with a packet of powdered chicken-flavoring called Benny – which doesn’t taste anything remotely like chicken, and is, in fact, vegetarian-friendly. At least that’s how my Namaachan family prepares it. They called me the other day and passed the phone around so I could say hi to everyone briefly. I am pleased that they like me. I wonder if Alberto will remember me when I visit them in a year. I wonder if he’ll still call me Je-Go, and my siblings will still call me Mana Jessica. Here, the children call me Tia, which doesn’t sound as nice as Mana, but I still find it sweet. The adults call me A Senhora Professora, which is a trip.