Navigating the African Bush

27 Dec 2008

After getting lost in the African Bush a few times in hopes of beginning training for a marathon – which as of yet I am not sure I will ever do, but it is one of those ‘accomplish this before I die’ things, I have mentally mapped out a few running routes and am beginning to create a regimen for myself. Now, there are a few wonderful things that I have discovered about running here in Mozambique, which makes it a very different experience than just going out for a nice jog like I would in America. It is also necessary, as my running regimen helps to combat what Moz PCV’s call a “pão belly.” Mozambican cuisine + lots of stress + maybe a little emotional eating (especially after receiving amazing care packages from the fam) = potential/actual weight gain - I don't own a mirror, but my clothes do feel a tad tighter.
Each run involves a lot of waving, children chasing me, and possibly even a few obligatory stop and chat sessions (whereas in America I basically tune out the world with my ipod, and really only react to the jerks that honk/yell out the window of their SUV’s at me.) For example, Mama Laura lives near me. She loves to shout and giggle at me when I run past. She initially introduced herself to me because she wanted to be my embregada (I guess the closest translation is maid or cleaning/carting water lady). But I swear, everytime I see her now she is wearing this one hot pink tank top that has one epic little hole that perfectly situated and just big enough for her left nipple to poke out of it. I swear that thing is staring at me. Maybe she has a small child and just always wants to be ready. Side note – it is funny that in Portuguese, if you pronounce the word wrong, mama means boob instead of mom. I think of this fact every morning when I run past mama laura and her leering mama.
There is also Pascoal, a little African albino boy that I ran with one time, and I now wave to each morning when I pass his house. I have a bit of a love hate relationship with the kid. At first he was so sweet when we ran together the one time. I ran past his house, he yelled “You are training!” at me in Portuguese – which is a common occurrence, because Mozambicans love to just state obvious facts (other examples: you are running, you are sweating, you are getting fat, you have a zit on your face, etc) – and then started chasing after me. Eventually I let him lead seeing as he knows those parts a bit better then I do. Well I immediately regretted surrendering my course to the boy for a few reasons. a) The whole time he was leading his little shorts were falling down, revealing the littlest bit of little albino boy butt cheek. Like the African version of plumbers crack I suppose. And b) he proceeded to lead me up, down, right, left, in, out, over, under, and through these little sort of paths, which he called streets, until he wanted to literally run into this massive thorny hedge. “Pascoal, that is not a street”
“yes it is”
“no it isn’t”
“ok, well I am tired. I am going to go home”
…and then he left me stranded there by the thorny hedge. I eventually found my way home an hour later, after roaming the African bush and asking every person I passed where the secondary school was. They mostly just laughed and said “la” as they pointed in which ever direction (la translates to ‘there’ when you are referring to a place that is far away. However, the market that is ten minutes away is la, as is America from Mozambique. So the term in general is ridiculously vague. Sometimes you can surmise just how ‘la’ ‘la’ is by the person’s intonation. The higher the octave the more ‘la’ the place.)
But all in all, running has been a great stress reliever – My site is ridiculously, overwhelmingly, awe inspiringly, etc. beautiful. I get a sort of hakuna matata zen vibe as I lose my worries amongst the palm trees, mud and reed houses, sandy paths, little lizards with blue heads, and mango trees, and make my way to the beach, around the lakes, or through the estradas do mato (bush paths), under the expansive and absolutely picturesque African sky. That is, except when I come across a pack of wild pigs or this particular herd of cattle that I pass when I run on the path to the beach. One of these days they are so going to stampede my ass.