Oh no! its happened. My turn at the dreaded daily blog has arrived. My mind harkens back to earliest days as an instructor before a lecture. What will I say. Will I have enough to fill the hour. Then I remember being told: a blog might be only as simple as your memory of the day. All is calm, even a poor memory like mine can do that.
Days have become routine, not at all in bad way. I do not have my watch, not a problem here as things proceed on Mozambique
Breakfast is the usual quiet affair. Singles or pairs drift in, quiet greetings, clink of cups and cutlery, quiet conversation. This morning Maria has returned from an early run to the bakery so we enjoy bakery treats with breakfast. Dennis more officially starts our day with a brief reading of words of wisdom from Mother Teresa and we contemplate the start of our day. Vans arrive and we all pile in, each work group to their respective van. Out of Xai Xai, through the check point and bridge toll and out over the Limpopo delta.
Always different. Today rain waters have dried somewhat and tractors till acres upon acres of black earth. As far as one can see dozens and dozens of women bash the soil with large hoes and groups of young boys herd cattle, keeping them on the grass and reeds between the tilled patches. White egrets abound and strange black look alike cousins wander among them as large hawks swoop above. A peaceful, pastoral sight that disappears in the distance. Then suddenly it changes. We turn left to the real African road. We bump and swerve and rattle the now dry dirt road to our worksite. Past goats, children and adults. Past women in their brightly colored garb, many balancing on their head huge loads of wood or containers that we would have difficulty even lifting as high as our head. The landscape is an endless canopy of mango, cashew, papaya and avocado trees under which are gardens of corn, sweet potato, pineapple, sometimes all neatly contained by bright green hedges.
We lurch to a halt and unfold out of our van at our first site. Children come running greetings fly back and forth. As things quiet we hear the ever present thump of the large wood mortar and pestle being used to crush the days corn into usable pulp. We get our marching orders for the day and group two fades into the landscape for their walk to the other site. For days now our worksite has moved to the beat of our site foreman, Pedro. Block, block, block as he demands a brick from his assistant and leads us in wall construction. The best we manage is about one block to every five of his but the site is alive with activity of mixing, moving and dropping mortar. Masa, masa, more masa has been the cry of the day. Today we plaster walls however and the cry changes to chela, chela, chela (translated from Changana) meaning put it here as Pedro directs his assistant to deliver mortar to the mortar board in his hand. Lunch comes. Hardest time of the day!
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| Talk about having to dig yourself out of a big hole !! |
Twelve or more sets of black eyes surrounded by a ring of white stare silently at us as we consume the customary western lunch. We hear tales of Judy and Joanne attempting to carry containers of water from the local well, ON THEIR HEADS, to the worksite. This act apparently was viewed with great hilarity by the young girls who accomplished the task with somewhat greater efficiency.
Hot afternoon of mixing masa passes slowly, then we pile into the vans and head down the dusty road. I decide to buy cashews and ask Magaia to find bags at the highway. None there so next chance is theLimpopo bridge. None there either but Magaia whistles and shouts for cashews in his native Changana. As if by magic a young man springs from nowhere, chases down the van and delivers two bags of roasted cashews. Quickly home to shower and discover that rabbit ears on the TV are no more. Cable is here! I follow the cable out the door and find the we in Canada
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| The Water Pump |
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| Judy Getting Her 'Water Collection' Badge |
Hot afternoon of mixing masa passes slowly, then we pile into the vans and head down the dusty road. I decide to buy cashews and ask Magaia to find bags at the highway. None there so next chance is the
Market is massive, almost a city block square. Judy heads for wraps, dozens of almostidentical stalls with endless colors and patterns, Black eyes stare curiously at us-two grey haired whites in a narrow alley of stalls. In answer to the inevitable “how much” we get 130 which is instantly retracted and changed to 150. This is followed almost as quickly by much laughter and hilarity and the price drops to 130 Mets. About five dollars. We buy two and move on to repeat the process. Mostly smiles and laughter at the strange tourists. Home to supper, another pleasant routine. Walk the sidewalk after supper. Many elderly women sweep the street and sidewalk with reed brooms, the days detritus is removed, the streets are now ready for the next day. Each day is more comfortable than the previous, one could get used to this pace but we are outsiders. Hard to believe, tomorrow is our last day, today will be but a memory.
