Yesterday, in the eight minutes it takes to walk from the main road to my house, I made two kids cry. And these are kids who see me on a daily basis, one is the grandson of my bread lady, the other is my neighbor. Just another day in the life of a PCV.
We are right in the middle of dry season now, and it is DUSTY. I am sure it doesn’t compare to other countries that aren’t blessed with our rainy season in addition to the dry season, but it’s still unpleasant here. All of our green trees and grass are not a little less vibrant in color, having been covered by a layer of brown dust. None of the roads other than the main one are paved, so anytime a car passes people shield their faces from the dust clouds that follow it. You can taste it on your teeth and lighter shades of clothing have to be washed after one wear.
I walked home at about 7:45pm a few nights ago and ran into two little kids (probably 5 and 7 years old) skipping down the street alone. “Hey, go home and eat dinner, I bet your mother is looking for you!” I chided them. “No we already ate!” responded the older one. “Well then what are you doing out?” I asked them. While I think that American kids could benefit from more freedom and less supervision, one thing that bothers me in Mozambique is how often I see (or hear, let’s be honest I’m usually home by then) kids out at night, and I wonder where their parents are and why they aren’t concerned. These two kids had been sent in search of their dad who was presumably at the bar, since he hadn’t come home for dinner.
Nick, our South African friend who lives in Swaziland (we stayed with him during Bushfire this year) came into Maptuo recently to do some banking. He told me that he had Google searched for a BCI bank in Namaacha, in hopes that he wouldn’t have to go all the way into Maputo city, but instead my blog came up.