This morning, I went to the market to find rope, clothespins, soap, and buckets to do my laundry, and envisioned having to spend the afternoon carting water from the pump to my house. On the way back from the market, I met my neighbor, Eliza, who offered to take me to the river to show me how to clean my clothes there, and ultimately save time and energy. I was pretty tired from pumping my water earlier – you need to really work the pump to get it going - so I was grateful for her offer.
I am an official unofficial Mozambican now. I have washed my laundry in river water. There were naked Mozambican women using the same trickle of water to bathe, and across the valley I watched people exit and enter their red mud brick, thatched roof houses. Eliza had scarification marks (scars… I guess) on her lower belly. I asked her about them, and she told me that they’d hurt a lot, and that they’d bled quite a bit, too. She’d done them herself. I told her that they were pretty, which I’m not sure what was the right thing to say. She was curious about my under-wire bra. She asked if it hurt to wear. I thought it was kind of ironic.
I think we’re friends now, because she came over tonight and showed me how to eat mandioca with coconut. It was interesting; mandioca is a soft, white, chalky root that doesn’t have much flavor beyond its texture. I like to buy coconuts, suck out the water and eat the meat. It’s barbaric. The Mozambicans that I’ve meet think it’s strange to eat the meat raw, and it may be, but it’s delicious and it’s a good source of fiber. Eliza plans to teach me how to be a Mozambican. Fatima, my director’s wife, was highly amused when I came over to their house wearing a capulana. She invited me to dinner, and when I refused, she said, “You don’t want to eat with your family?” It’s nice that I have a little community of Mozambicans here already.
The rat is getting ballsy. I’ve seen him three times already tonight. He knows that Bryan has left. Everyone else seems to, as well. I’ve had a few visitors tonight. And, I just had a one-sided conversation with a rat.
“Hey. I see you,” I said. The rat retreated.
“Just stay out of my stuff,” I said. The rat did not respond.
He ran out of my room again. He is big, but skinny. There’s nothing here for him to eat. Now he’s making a lot of noise out in the living room. I think I need to make some house rules, if he’s planning to be my roommate. The little shit. If he were a human he’d listen to punk music.
I wish Mussa would come back. I like his name, and he likes to do things for me. I bet he’d kill the rat if I asked him to. I don’t think I would, though.