Mozambique, I can see why Bob Dylan wrote a song about you

Today was the first day in a loooooooong time that I’ve been able to be in one of the communities we work in for most of the day (it was Mbatwe), and it reminded me of most of the things I’ll miss most when I have to leave Beira in less than a month.

Around 1 PM, after spending the morning in Mbatwe and then leaving for a bit to take care of some business downtown, I was walking back when I noticed a very mischievous-looking grade schooler walking the same direction I was. He was walking about the same pace, ambling home with his backpack in his hands and bouncing off his knees. So I took my iPod headphones out and said hi. After five minutes had passed and we were best friends (in that trusting, almost-instantaneous way that grown-ups tragically forget how to do), he took me off the road a bit to show me a monkey that lives with a nearby family. After a few minutes of monkey-bonding, we continued on our way to Mbatwe and ran into another friend of his, coming back from a different school. A few adult folk that we passed on our walk looked at us three chatting and smiled—it felt kinda like being a less-malicious-and-musically-inclined pied piper. In the best of ways.

The classes that Care For Life taught and that I oversaw today had all the prototypical aspects that I’ve grown to love so much—dozens of mothers were listening, with their babies wrapped to their backs and staring at me with their still-bulging baby eyes. Dona Maria was there, an amazing old lady who was still making everyone laugh with her not-quite-old-lady-seeming comments from the back of the grass community center. A few other very strong ladies kept speaking up every few minutes, reminding me of what I love and admire about Mozambican women. A little kid that used to be afraid of me and cry whenever he saw me was holding on to one of the wooden pillars of the building and intently spinning around it with that level of focus that seems to be reserved only for three-year-olds and those boat-in-a-bottle-making guys. Kids outside were playing jump rope and running around with their little cars made out of spare wire. A few others were playing soccer with a ball the size of an apple. All of the meetings and classes began and ended with songs (I love the songs here. Why wasn’t I born with a natural gift for harmony? Not fair, I tell you).

After and before the classes, a lot of kids were hanging around the community center, smiling whenever I would look at them and beckoning for me to come play—I tried to resist interrupting the class while it was going, but it’s tough when there are so many smiling little kids to chase around and play airplane with. I love walking up to each of them to shake their hand and hearing them laugh when I shake their arms all up and down and around. I love being called Tio (literally uncle, but used pretty widely as an affectionate title for an adult that’s not related to you). I loved seeing one kid grab another’s hand and try to shake it, saying, “No no no, the white guy does it like this.”

I love my life.