Impetuous Translations

On my nightstand table

The chaos of my three bookshelves in the living room has gotten so distracting as of late that my friends are starting to remark on it as soon as they walk through the door. Because the shelves are so chock-full with binded written words, the books can no longer be neatly shelved side by side in the coveys. As a consequence, horizontal stacks have formed on top of the normal rows, forcing me into playing a game of Jenga every time I try to remove a book.

Despite my overflowing shelves, not all of the books in my house are sitting on them. Starting a few weeks ago, I’ve been trying to do a better job at turning off the TV and reading before I go to bed instead. This week, I've returned to an oldy but goody - Richard Power's Prisoner's Dilemma.

Since I’m eternally nosy about what other people are reading, I narcissistically assume that other people must be as as nosy as me. So, in addition to my alarm clock, a lamp from the States that I tried to adapt with a Mozambican plug (shockingly unsuccessful, I might add), and a set of smelly, unburned candles, I am offering a list of books that really are on my nightstand table in the new section entitled ‘On my nightstand table’ to the left. These are my favorite reads right now but the books there won’t always fall under the category of recommendations. One of the best things about being an adult with a real job as opposed to a student is that if you really don’t like a book you are reading, you don’t have to finish it.

To sleep, perchance to dream

Last night was one of the most miserable nights of sleep I’ve had since arriving in Maputo, if not ever. I went to bed late after coming back from my book group and trying to wrap up some work that was due today. Even though I worked well into the morning, I didn’t manage to finish so I set my alarm for a 5:00 a.m. wake-up call. Here’s a chronology of my night after turning out the light at 1:00 am:

Sometime from 1:30 to 3:03 a.m. - The result of leaving my work unfinished was that I had two of my usual panic dreams in a bizarre combination. First, I was trapped in the underground tunnel between Johns Hopkins University Hospital and the School of Public Health and I desperately had to pee. Second, while I contemplated just how to get out and whether it was okay to pee in the corner, I kept trying to call my colleague to tell him I was going to be late. As I mistyped his phone number into the phone over and over again, the pressure in my bladder and my overall level of panic continued to rise. When I finally woke up with a start, I trundled to the bathroom then slipped back into bed in hope of better dreams.

3:38 a.m. – Laying awake at 3:38 in the morning, one thing seemed very clear. It had become uncharacteristically cold in my room thanks to plummeting temperatures outside and a chilly sprint a half hour before to the bathroom. In my stupor of working so late, I realized I had also neglected to turn off the air conditioning. Finally, I convinced myself to crawl out from under the covers to shut off the air conditioning. After searching in vain for the remote control to turn it off for at least ten minutes, I resigned myself to piling extra covers on the bed before crawling back in.

3:53 a.m. - As I started to develop a cold sweat under the extra covers, my feet began to go numb with cold. Under these severe circumstances, I decided it was finally time to violate my number one sleeping rule that nothing, including socks, sheets, and other people’s feet, should be touching my feet when I’m trying to go to sleep. So, I stumbled out of bed, opened my dresser drawer, and put on my heaviest pair of wool socks before climbing back into bed. Under the heaviness of the bed covers on my feet, I poked my big toe through the loose weave of the sock while I waited to fall asleep.

4:07 a.m. – After finally drifting off, I woke up at 4:07 to the second most annoying sound in the world - a buzzing mosquito in my ear (the first most annoying sound of course being the man who falls asleep before me and snores loudly while the third most annoying sound being the thump of bass from a party you’re not invited to next door.) By the time I had smashed the mosquito, I had two bites on my left arm and the itchiest one on the knuckle of my middle finger. I marked the puffy bump with fingernail x’s until the indentations seemed visible in the dark. I don’t remember the time on the clock when I finally fell back asleep.

5:00 a.m. – When the alarm went off, I became semi-conscious that the air was cold, I was covered in sweat, and I desperately had to go to the bathroom again. With the first step out of bed, the slipperiness of my wool socks met the freshly waxed hardwood floors, my feet went out from underneath me and I landed on the floor in a muddle of decorative pillows. Next to my right foot, the air conditioning remote control seemed to taunt me as it peeked out from underneath the nightstand table. In my sprawled state, I desperately hoped that tonight would be a better night: to sleep, perchance to dream.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today, I made the subtle transition from 32 to 33 years old. I was appropriately sung to, presented with beautiful and practical gifts that I'm using already, and talked to lots of friends and family who wished me a great day. I also had my cake and ate it too.

As the folks in my office were helping me to parcel out cake this afternoon, I asked about birthday traditions in Mozambique.  Seems that there are no traditions for people turning 33, but like in the States, 21 is a special year here too.

According to my colleagues, on their 21st birthdays, Mozambique young people crack an egg on their head and throw flour on top for good luck. With a little bit of sugar and butter added in, a ride up and down any road in Maputo and then an hour in the scorching sun, I imagine those 21 year olds could bake themselves quite a nice little birthday cake.

Even though I had to make do with a beautiful and yummy cake from Polana Hotel (such a sacrifice) maybe next year I'll look for some raw eggs instead for good luck. In the mean time, thanks to all who made my birthday so happy.

What I miss most of all

*****

When I lived in Atlanta, I had the most perfect Sunday morning spring rituals. On slightly chilly Sunday mornings, I’d wake up around 6:30 and in less than ten minutes I could be out the door on my morning run in a blind trot along a familiar city path. After an hour and a half or so later of measured breathing, I’d be back at home and standing under the hot water of my shower until the water would start to run lukewarm. Only then would I hobble out of the tub, stretch my rubbery legs as I threw on jeans and a sweater, and then make my way toward my local coffee shop. By nine o’clock I’d be seated round the table with at least four of my friends arguing over the New York Times’ headlines while sipping rich Mexican hot chocolate and picking at maple syrup and walnut scones.

*****

When I wake up on Sunday mornings here in Maputo, I look forward in my groggy state to my spring ritual before the reality of where I live hits home. By 6:30 in this city, I’m crawling onto my stationary bike instead of running through cool morning air because running requires too much attention to uneven pavement and sketchy drivers. In the morning, coffee shops here seem too empty to bear without my friends and Mexican hot chocolate so I’ve accepted that my living room with lichi juice and tart apples are the next best things. And no matter how quick I pull up the New York Times front page on my wireless internet, the touch of the mouse is an incomplete substitute for the heady feel of newsprint between your fingers.

*****

When people who come to visit me ask me what I miss most about the States (and they inevitably do), my stock answer is that I have everything here I could possibly ever need and by in large that is entirely true. But on Sunday mornings while I struggle to wake up, the answer to their question seems suddenly too clear. What I miss the most are my Sunday morning rituals: the mindless jogs through small historic Atlanta neighborhoods on cool spring days, my coffee shop friends in deep discussion huddled over hot chocolate, and the thumping sound that the New York Times makes when I drop it on our coffee shop’s crowded table.

My absence explained

I wrote my last post a few days ago, and so like a bad friend who doesn’t respond to e-mails, I feel like I need to apologize upon finally reappearing.

The truth is though that I’ve spent the last four nights (and five mornings too) engrossed in Lionel Shriver’s hauntingly brilliant novel We Need to Talk About Kevin. This is the rare book that makes you forgo what you consider to be necessities in order to read just a few more pages. For example, Tuesday I went to work for the first time in years without my morning shower just to make it to the end of a chapter. I also came straight home after work to pick up where I had left off.

When I first cracked opened Kevin, I initially accused Shriver of being trite. The book jacket references no fewer than three potentially yawn-inducing themes: previously interesting people who lose themselves to their children, the materialistic emptiness of life in the wealthy suburbs, and marital relationships between people heading in opposite directions. Note that I chose a job overseas and have stayed single all this time largely to avoid exposing myself to these situations. You can imagine the book wasn’t exactly a draw for me.

But from Shriver’s point of view and upon unanimous recommendations from my book group members, it is clear that even potentially trite story lines can be revived with careful prose and sufficient plot twists. To the familiar suburbia landscape, Shriver adds a grotesque landmark in the form of the main characters Eva and her son Kevin. Before his sixteenth birthday, he becomes one more in a trend of sensationalized killers, along the lines of the Columbine massacre. Since I was never good at book reports in middle school, I’ll leave a description of the rest of plot to better writers here.

Having extolled my fascination with this book though, it is important to say that We Need to Talk About Kevin is not for everyone. For example, women who can barely read for the distraction of their ticking biological clock might not be so eager to hear what Shriver has to say. Mothers considering if they shouldn’t have just one more child might also be suddenly convinced that they should stop while they are still ahead. And finally, parents who believe their children are perfect will curse Shriver every time they feel compelled to look over their shoulders.

As for me and my read on Shriver’s book, I’m personally relieved that my mom had me thirty-some years before Kevin made its appearance.

Waiting for dinner to be served

Last night when a friend and I decided we weren't up for the usual hour long wait to get served dinner at a local restaurant, we opted to make some risotto from leftovers in my fridge. We combined sun-dried tomatoes, roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, and pan-fried garlic with toasted arborio rice. During a slow simmer, she added vegetables, I stirred in broth, and we discussed the future of our careers, past and present relationships, and the mistakes neither of us were anxious to repeat in either of these domains. Girl talk at its best. When the risotto was perfectly creamy but still al dente two quick hours from when we first started, we shredded Parmesan on top and sat down to a phenomenal dinner.

No matter how great the food is and how long it takes to make it, the best part of a home-cooked meal is making it with friends.

Maputo: King of the World

When I first moved to Mozambique, I had to constantly tell people where it was. Not true these days, it seems like the country is on everyone’s radar. A few months ago, the NYTimes featured an article about Mozambique, calling it an undiscovered gem. On a leading South African TV variety show in January, our local chef from the Polana Hotel was showcasing the yummier aspects of Maputo like its lobster-sized prawns and coconut milk-basted chicken. And just last month, South Africa’s premier travel dossier Getaway Magazine featured coastal resorts of Bazaruto Island on its cover.

All of this publicity means that sooner or later, our small town of approximately three million people was bound to be discovered. Little did I expect though that international exposure would come not from hordes of tourists but as a result of a film scout from Warner Brothers Studio. Apparently, after looking at the city and its beaches, he decided our Maputo would be a great location for the action movie “The Blood Diamond” about the 1990s civil war in Sierra Leone. And so from that singular decision, Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Connelly, resident stars during the filming, will undoubtedly shine an ever brighter light on Africa’s “undiscovered gem.”

Serious preparations for the movie, which started here in earnest last week, have really got the city buzzing. Hotel rooms are at a premium and restaurants are packed with the obvious and less-obvious Hollywood types. Even routine tourists are getting the royal treatment on the off-chance that they might be stars in disguise. Everyone has got the inside scoop so it seems, and the scoop is that Maputo is the hip place to be.

The upside of all of this chaos is that, eventually, our stars will return home and Maputo’s 15 minutes of fame will hopefully run out. And if that never happens, I can at least say I knew it when - before the city was king of the world.

March Madness

Alas, it is March and the only madness here is that this is the month when mango season ends. Ripe-for-the-picking mango-eating season in Mozambique begins in mid-December and by early January, there are mangos for sale in every buraca. You can even buy them from the kids on street corners as you make your way home – pushers for the mango-addicts willing to pay a little extra for the convenience of scoring their drug without even having to leave the car.

The first year I was here I naively assumed that all mangos were the same. Since then, I’ve become a connoisseur. Mangos during late December through February are small, yellowish-orange and are either juicy and perfect or too stringy depending on their ripeness. By late February to March though, bigger becomes best. Reddish-green mangos the size of nerf footballs are guaranteed to be better than anything you’ve ever tasted.

Just when you think they can’t get any better, you know the end of mango season is near. How maddeningly sweet life can be in Mozambique.

Letter to my security guard who will take his first driving lesson today

Dear Moises,

When I first arrived in Mozambique, I was nervous about driving in the country. The fact is that I’m not the most careful motorist, and I’ve had a few fender-benders to show for my attention deficit. But once I started driving in the city, I found the experience not all that rough. In fact, in comparison to driving in the States, it seems much easier and safer here. I chalk this up to some simple advice that I have labeled under the simple heading of NEVER, NEVER, which I am offering to you here.

My first piece of advice in the NEVER, NEVER category is to never, never assume that you or other drivers will be able to follow conventional driving rules. Of course this is what we tell our new teenage drivers in the States, but here it takes on new meaning.  For example, in Mozambique, two lane streets become four with a fifth passing lane down the middle. Streets labeled as one way are really just suggestions. Sometimes, the best way to drive is like everyone else drives - never exceed 20 miles per hour so that when you hit someone, the damage is minimal and you are safe.

The second piece of advice is to NEVER, NEVER assume that the roads are the best place to drive. Most recently because of the rains, trees have toppled across the roads and sinkholes that can swallow cars are on nearly every street. Utility poles lean across the road and drooping wires will cross your path. Sometimes, the best place to drive is really the sidewalk.  People walking on the street will be expecting you to park there anyways so there’s plenty of open space.

Finally, my third piece of NEVER, NEVER advice (based on my own experience today) is to never, never assume that you’ve been lucky enough to arrive just in time for the stoplight to turn green. Failure to assume that the lights are all green at the same time is akin to accepting that your driving days are done. Thank god Lucinda is tough, and I was going 20 miles per hour like the driver that bumped into me.

May you always be so lucky.

Yours truly,

Kim

Reality Check

Boy, oh, boy. Trader Joe’s. That’s where my mom was yesterday picking up my favorite multigrain pita chips to send to me while we chatted long-distance on our cheap call-back cell phone service. As she shopped, I was in the process of browsing on the Internet’s Sundance Catalogue site from the comforts of my home in Mozambique. With a single click and a two week wait, I will be wearing my new shirt while munching pita chips in my house, most likely in front of my cable TV. While the job may be tough, living overseas these days under the auspices of the American Embassy is not exactly an arduous chore.

I’ll leave all the heavy discussion off for now about the guilt that may come from careful examination of my living conditions in a context where my job is to respond to an ongoing public health disaster in a third-world country. The mixed feelings are always present and there are no easy answers that I have been able to discern.

But to the lady on the phone to whom I spoke about paying my homeowners insurance in Atlanta (after hanging up with my mom) and upon being informed that I was calling from my home in Africa: no, I do not live in a mud hut with chickens and cows; I have never attended ritual ceremonies where the natives eat monkeys and sacrifice goats; and I will definitely not be interested in additional life insurance should I find myself in a situation of becoming wife number three to the local tribal leader. [Our conversation, almost exactly.]

After making sure my house insurance had been paid up, I suggested not entirely with sarcasm to this woman that she might want to let go of the phone and get a grip on reality.  Really, where do they find these people?