I keep thinking about what the villagers must think of us. They were pleasant and patient with us, but I can't help wondering if they think we are amazingly ignorant and incompetent. Away from our own environment and resources, we lack even the rudimentary skills of survival. We rely on our own bottled water, and the food (not to mention the cook) that we brought with us. We bring tents and sleeping bags, and hand sanitizer and bug repellent. Without our own supplies, and the help of the staff that has brought us here, we would literally not survive.
Different memories from our village outreach keep popping up in my mind. When 'N' gave us our briefing the day before the trip, he asked us to not complain about the food, and to not make a face if we didn't like something. He said "I have noticed with you Americans that if you do not like something, I see it in your face. Me, if I do not like something my face stays the same. You will never know."
Inadvertently, I had a chance to refute that general assumption. I had brought some children's gummy vitamins, and chewable anti-oxidants to Mozambique, figuring that I would use them on my trip, and donate the surplus to the orphanage when I left. I decided to bring the antioxidants on the outreach, figuring that they would be a tasty snack to share - I actually think they taste better than gummy bear candy, since they are a little more flavorful. Anyway, I started handing them out while we were riding on the truck. We had been asked to always remember to share with the local Mozambican pastors and Bible students who were accompanying us, so I passed the bottle first to the front-end of the truck, asking 'T' (the American group leader) to translate to the Mozambicans. I hear him trying to explain in Portuguese: "would you like some children's vitamins?" Anyway, I'm not sure if one of the guys didn't hear him, or didn't speak Portuguese, but when it came to his turn, his face looked like he was being poisoned. My tent-mate couldn't stop laughing -- so much for the impassive African face!
Then again, I probably had a distressed look on my own face when we stopped on the road and some of my fellow travelers bought fried-egg sandwiches from men in the street, holding up trays of food for us to purchase. The idea of eggs sitting in the sun possibly for hours didn't sound like a good idea to me.
While I don't think anyone got sick from the eggs, a couple of people were suffering from motion sickness, so I shared my pills with them (having brought a lovely assortment of first aide in my fanny pack.) That didn't help the guy who ended up with some kind of stomach bug, and huddled miserably in his tent for the next day. We tried to pray for him and were disappointed that the only result was a mad dash into the corn field to throw up. He kept insisting that he felt a little better, but I wasn't quite convinced.
The truck stops again and we are surrounded by guys trying to sell us soda. There is no diet soda. In a country where people die of starvation, there is no market for diet foods. High class hotels and restaurants offer diet coke in order to placate the tourists, but they charge a premium for it -- literally 2 or 3 times the price of regular soda.
I'm not the only one who was taken by surprise in the church service when they took the collection. I'm not sure why I was surprised. After all, we have a collection at home, so why wouldn't a village church also do so? I felt awkward trying to make my way through the packed congregation to the donation basket, but even more awkward at the idea of sitting passively, so I dug into the famous fanny pack to get some local currency to place in the basket, and tried to manuever my way through the crowd without stepping on anyone. I'm wearing hiking shoes and the locals all have bare feet, so it is even more important not to step on anyone!
When we woke up in the morning, and I started getting dressed in the tent, I managed to put on my shirt and capris, but couldn't figure out how to put on my kapulana -- there is something about a long wrap-around skirt and a short tent that just don't work together. I snuck out of the tent and tried to quickly wrap it around as soon as possible. We are guests here, and women are supposed to wear long skirts, but I really needed a 20 second grace period!
We start making jokes about our own incompetency, and we fantasize that the villagers are making mental notes about these peculiar light colored visitors who were grownups but didn't know how to do anything. Although they are unfailingly gracious to us, we imagine them making up songs in Makua that will be handed down for generations:
They did not know how wear a skirt
Sometimes it trailed in the dirt.
Their skin was funny, almost white
It really was an odd, odd sight.
Instead of proper huts of mud
Their homes were tiny, quit a dud.
Some of them were very tall,
And yet they are not strong at all.
They were not even able to talk
Instead they made a funny squawk.
But it was nice they came such a long way
To worship with us, and to pray
While waiting for the water to boil for the morning tea in the village, I heard a guitar, and wandered around the other side of our camp. 'J' was there worshipping. I believe that she actually was raised in the orphanage, and was on our trip as a helper. I listened and it took a few seconds to realize why it sounded familiar. She was singing 'How great is our God' in Portuguese. We tried to join in, but could only catch the key words. Here was our version:
Bla grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla
Grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla bla
Grand bla grand, bla bla Senhor.Pretty soon she had mercy on us, and switched to English. But now that I'm home, I find myself crying when I hear the song, because it carries me back to that remote village. And I sing along in broken Portuguese once again.
My suitcase still smells of bug repellent, and the front cover of my Bible is not just stained, but exudes a noxious reek. I amuse myself by wondering if I have inadvertently invented a Bible that protects the user from Malaria. 
