Dropkicked by Mr. Crazy

So Mr. Crazy is old news for many of you, but I have been planning resiliency sessions for the new group of trainees here in Namaacha, and, in order to describe how I have been able to bounce back and survive 3 years here, I have had to revisit my low moments in Mozambique.

Rather than just a walk down memory lane, I have taken an ocular perusal (does that even make sense? I don’t speak English very well anymore these days) through my virtual journal aka the blog.

The blog has always been a crowd pleaser and really my therapy outlet. There was the first month at site, where I made a not so PC list of things I hate about Mozambique. As you might notice I do, in fact have a dramatic bone in my body (but hopefully not a smelly bone). There was my 1 year marker meditation on my efficacy or lack thereof as a volunteer. My downright rage against the bique. And general, I have noticed that curse words were often and not so gracefully involved, feces was often a major stress provoker and, more often than not, my rocky bottoms were accompanied by some sort of random inexplicable illness and enumerations on the loathsomeness of my roommate.

The thing is, as you might hope after 2 years, I no longer really need my blog’s cathartic comedy to get me back up from the downer moments. Also, I have reached such a level of normalcy in my life here that the dramatic, crowd-pleasing posts now seem a tad forced, culturally insensitive, and mis-representative of Mozambique and Mozambicans…

Well, that WAS true, until about a month ago, when I got drop-kicked by Mr. Crazy, and hit the bottom of the bucket yet again. So now I am re-embracing virtual catharsis.

Side note: I have used a form of the word catharsis at least twice in this post already. It may or may not be my favorite word at the moment. I just picture someone violently vomiting up emotion and that image in itself is therapeutic to me.

So, here goes…catharsis, catharsis, catharsis

I was dropkicked and punched in the face by a crazy homeless man on the street in Maputo.

I don’t actually know what a drop kick is. So if, when I say I was dropkicked, I am implying that a man actually picked me up and punted me, then I am afraid I have misled you, it was not nearly so street-fighter-esque. (Though I am learning some great moves through my new obsession with P90X. One of which involves leaping into the air, kicking forward and then, as I land in a sort of spider-man position, vigorously punching at the floor like a badass video game character… which I practically am).

So here is a minute by minute 3rd person description of what actually happened:

• Caitlin is in Maputo to meet the new trainee group at the airport and get them prepped for Pre-Service Training and their move to Namaacha.

• Caitlin decides to go for a run in the morning.

• At about 7am, in the bright light of day, Caitlin runs past the American Embassy, the French embassy, and turns the corner onto a busy and normally safe street.

• At about 7:01am, just as Caitlin comes around the corner, Mr. Crazy simultaneously screams, kicks Caitlin in the stomach (his boot hit her arm which was bent in normal running fashion) and punched her in the face, before gleefully skipping off and loudly muttering gibberish to himself and passersby.

• At about 7:02am Caitlin thinks to herself, “What the fuck just happened?” as surrounding pedestrians look at the little confused white girl and the crazy man skipping down the street and also think to themselves, “What the fuck just happened?”



And so, trying to hold back tears, I just kept running. What else could I do? I had to make my way back to the hotel. Once back, I burst into the hotel room and broke down in tears to my roommate Abby, explaining, “A homeless man just dropkicked me on the street.”

“WTF?” responded Abby. Exactly, my friend, exactly.

And so the event spun me into a down in the dumps moment…

I am a volunteer; I am trying to help Mozambique; I work so hard; I love this country; I don’t do anything to hurt you; I don’t kick people; this is what I get; is this karma; what have I done; this is how I am repaid; WTF; crazy people; Ahhhh; I can’t handle this; LAST STRAW; what if I have a black eye; actually that would be kind of badass; but the new trainees will be so scared of Mozambique; well maybe they should be because crazy people attack you on the street; seriously Mozambique; WTF?

And then my head exploded.

Not really. My moment of explosive tearfulness passed and I quickly called Iraque for further comforting.

“What the fuck baby?” He responded in a sort of bewildered gasp after I recounted the tale. Exactly my dear, exactly. And then he forbid me to ever run again. Not realistic, but I appreciate the concern.

Unfortunately, no black eye. And though I had resolved to not tell the new trainees for fear of scaring them right back to America, when asked later that day at their orientation about the big bruise on my arm, I caved and recounted the epic moment. They might have been scared, but they didn’t go home. Phew. But most of all, they just remarked how ok I seemed about it.

Well let me just confess, my ok-ness was a lie. I was shaking inside and rolling around my rock bottom for about 3 days after experiencing such a violent disregard for my personal space.

But it passed. I mean, it was nothing personal. He didnt want to rob me, or even really hurt me. I suspect that the little white girl running down the street towards him just startled him. However, I still have anxiety about running. Just this morning, as I trotted down the street in Namaacha, I had a flashback to the moment in question and had to do a quick look around to make sure no crazies were coming out of the woodworks and barreling towards me. All clear.

So, here is what it all boils down to, the wisdom, or as Jerry Springer would say, the final thought:

If you buck up and bear it the bad stuff will pass.

Not so inspiring… but true.

Oh, and lesson #2: Crazy Happens.