long lost brother

Besides grumpiness, the latest news is my mysterious "friend".

Sometime about a month or so ago, I started receiving "admiring" text messages from an unknown number. It's clearly a dude who lives in my neighborhood, near to my house, because he usually offers a play-by-play of my movements. For example, a few days ago he recounted that when I'd rode by on my bicycle that morning, I'd lifted my hand and he saw I was looking so happy and he was very pleased about that and very soon he will muster the courage to talk to me.

Last night he helpfully informed me that I'd just rode by in a taxi.

I can't imagine where he got my number. Initially I received messages twice a week. The last couple of weeks, this has increased to twice a day. He bids me good morning, inquires about work, and rarely fails to wish me sweet dreams. He muses about the inconvenience of his timidity and says that that VERY SOON he will approach me in person. He is most curious about how I am doing and why, incidentally, I took that road instead of this road yesterday? (Answer: to avoid my stalker.)

I have never replied to any of his texts. When, for example, I have just clicked off my living room lamp and thirty seconds later the text comes in telling me good-night, I am sorely tempted to yell back: PLEASE STOP TEXTING ME! But I never have. I keep thinking he'll give up from lack of encouragement, but he doesn't. I'm not scared, he's never said anything overtly creepy; but I have noticed that I take especial care to dress appropriately when I'm in any part of the house other than my bedroom, just in case. Which, hey man, is kind of freaky!

This is what he said today:

Brooke, sonhaste com os anjos? Uma mulher bonita como voce so pode sonhar com os anjos. Mando imenso carrinho para ti. Agradecia se le se com todo carrinho do mundo.

Which means:

Brooke, did you dream with the angels? A pretty woman like yourself can only dream with the angels. I send lots of tenderness. I would be grateful if you read this with all the care in the world.

Well. As far as anonymous stalkers go, I guess I can't complain too much about that.

My British friend Marina also gets declarations of love from time to time: "Don't let absence be part of your life. Summarize me in your mind so my love and tenderness can be with you all your life!" But nothing as consistent as my stalker.

Syrupy love is pretty typical of Mozambicans. Aside from spontaneous marriage proposals on the bus, or bizarre episodes where men pull condoms out of their pocket and flash them at me when I mention I do AIDS-related work (all I can do is affirm them for being prepared) - men here are rarely crude or grossly inappropriate. They are definitely more forward than Western men. 

Mostly they are kind and helpful. For example:

Everyday when I go to and from work, I bike on a busy dirt thoroughfare behind our building. A lot of people loiter there: women sitting on capulanas selling fruits and vegetables, people buying things, young men working at the lumberyard. It's like walking through a construction site everyday.

I used to be self-conscious, because everyone stared at me. Sometimes the guys sitting on the giant piles of sawed wood would call out to me things I couldn't understand, kinda like "hey baby" I think. (Occasionally: "Take me to church with you!") It wasn't too bad. Then they got used to me, because I just kept coming through, and it's been fine. I wave at a few I've talked to in the past, greet the ladies busy with their covey and papayas, but mostly, I'm running late and just cruise on by. Polite, but not buddy-buddy.

Today I was going through on my bicycle like every other day for the past six months, except I was an hour earlier because I didn't sleep well last night. There weren't many people around. I was carefully peddling around a muddy trash puddle when a older gentleman boldly stepped right in front of my bike and motioned for me to stop. I braked quickly and actually giggled outloud because it was so weird of him to do that. I thought he was going to tell me something off-the-wall in English as people sometimes do ('HelloHowareyouIlikeAmericanRapMusicOkaythankyouverymuch').

I was wrong. He was a police officer not in uniform. He flashed his badge. I dug in my backpack and handed over my bike license (yes, you need a bike license in formerly-socialist Mozambique). He inspected it with a furrowed brow. I realized, sympathetically but mostly with alarm, that he was grumpy. Curious bystanders began to gather around us. The officer sternly announced that, although I had a license as required, I'd been riding recklessly. My timid attempt at apologizing went nowhere. Us grumps don't go for that sort of thing anyway. With a flourish of his pen, he began writing me a ticket.

Okay, not a huge deal, the fine is probably 2 bucks or something, but the clincher is, first they confiscate your bicycle. Then you have to go to the municipal office, wait around, pay your fine, and eventually you can get it back. It's a giant pain.

BUT THEN... in a unscripted but intensely movie-like moment, one of the young Mozambican guys from the lumberyard pushed past everyone and stepped up to Crabby Cop. He laid his arm across his shoulder and began speaking softly to him, politely but persuasively.

This is what he said:

"Please don't do this. Just let her go. Please. She is our sister. She is family. C'mon, now, don't write her a ticket. Please. She's our sister.

You could see the policeman's defenses relax. His brow unfurrowed. He glanced uncertainly over at the small crowd that had gathered. He looked up at me. My eyes pleaded for mercy. He half-turned to my defender and quietly murmured: 'Sister?'

"Yes," the young man pronounced, looking him in the eye. And just like that, the cop flipped his ticket-book shut and took a step backward to let me by.

[Cue Vienna Boys Choir]

It truly felt like a profound moment. I timidly stepped past the cop. The crowd dispersed. My hero was already heading back to his regular perch on the lumber; but as I went by, I caught his eye. I mouthed "obrigada", but I think my face really said it all, namely: 'Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I love you! You saved me!'

He just smiled and gave me a thumbs up.

Okay. That's beautiful. I don't care who you are - that's beautiful.

I'm really glad I live in Mozambique. I do love it here, love the millions of shooting-star tidbits that keep me going: glistening kids shrieking and getting bathed outside their mud houses, a knight in flipflops at a lumberyard, all the radiant church matriarchs wearing matching skirts and headscarves on Sunday - the things that make me finally break into a smile, laugh, even dance. I'm unhappy and lonely much of the time. I'm still adjusting. I have a lot of personal life stuff and work challenges that threaten to overtake me. Sometimes I want to sock unpleasant Mozambicans in the eye. Sometimes I want to sock myself in the eye.

But it's a blessed country, like they all are, I guess, isn't it?

I don't know how long my secret admirer will keep the faith. I don't know if he'll ever muster the courage, step up and approach me in person. All he's trying to do, in the end, is get to the place we're all really trying to get to with every act and word and ounce of desperation within us: to bridge the divide that separates us from each other, to shed "absence from our lives", to find that "love and tenderness can be with us all our lives" - to simply know each other.

I'll let you know how it pans out.