precarious residency: the littlest birds

I was sitting on a mattress out on our veranda reading this article about using urine to create bricks for building homes, and occasionally blowing my nose. A genius idea. I yelled for Rebekah to come out of the kitchen and showed her the article.

"Gross," she pronounced, spooning chocolate chip cookie batter onto a pan. "I wonder if your house eventually ends up smelling like pee."

A good question, but: "The article says, 'There were no adverse indicators at all,'" I relayed. It described:

"But the smell? Well this is a problem at first, but open storage allows the ammonia to be chased off and as Professor Till can attest – after separating the urine, a dry composting toilet such as the one he has at the straw bale house, does not smell."

I can't imagine being in any other line of work than this (whatever this is). I'm crap at "development", uncreative in the real world, possessing no interest or self-initiative to develop something new myself, but I am very stimulated by others' ideas.

The reason I am lying on a mattress on our veranda is because I spent yet another weekend in bed. I began sneezing ferociously Thursday evening, and by the time I woke up on Friday, I had a terrible sore throat, coughing, sneezing - just icky sick AGAIN. I've been sick more the last several months than the past couple of years combined. It is frustrating because it seems to come out of nowhere and usually I don't know what is causing it.

We were supposed to travel to Machanga and Muxungue for the weekend. I had planned this trip a long time ago as a way to visit and maintain relationships with a girls' dormitory we support in Machanga. (A church-supported boarding school for secondary school-aged girls coming from very poor, often orphaned backgrounds, giving them a rare opportunity to continue their education.) It was an opportunity for me to do HIV teaching and to show Rebekah Mozambican life out in "the bush". We planned to tent there with them for 2 1/2 days, so I asked Rebekah to prepare a play for the girls to put on; I knew they'd love it. So Rebekah worked hard all week on a sort of Mozambican Cinderella, which we retitled Cinzainha (Little Ashes), which I translated into Portuguese. We even found a fancy glass slipper, of sorts. It was all set to go, until I woke up feeling like death. I cancelled the trip.

By Friday afternoon, something else started happening to my body. First both of my hands became horribly itchy and painful, then they began to balloon up until I couldn't bend them at the knuckles; next, it spread to my ears, then eyelids, and finally, my left foot. I was passed out in bed for most of this Biblical-worthy body drama, but it still hurt like heck and Benadryl was not helping at all.

Saturday afternoon, worried my fingers might soon split open like little sausages, I forced myself to catch a chapa down to the private clinic here in Chimoio, where a kindly Mozambican doctor wearing Zubaz gave me a 50 mg injection of Prednisone ("Make sure you write down the name in case something goes wrong!", Rebekah frantically hissed). He also prescribed two other antihistamines and a topical cream. I was already sleeping a lot before I got the drugs, but after them, I really slept. They worked, beautifully.

Today, day three of this plague, I am officially tired of being sick, of sleeping away the days of my youth, of wasting the jeweled years of my life. In honor of Rebekah's artistic genius left untasted, here is an excerpt of our little play:

C curls up to sleep in a little ball.

Cinzainha had been working for many years as a servant and had grown up into a very beautiful girl, although no on could tell for all her filth and rags. But one day everything changes.

The little C leaves the stage and an older C, with dirt on her face, replaces her—sleeping in the exact same position.

Footman: Open in the name of the King!

A footman is knocking on an imagined door. C wakes up and opens. The footman unrolls a scroll of paper. C stands back in subservient position. The step family (with older stepsisters now) arrives to hear the news.

Footman: The king is hosting a special dance tomorrow night. Every young girl in the kingdom who is not married should attend because the prince has declared he will choose his bride on this night!

Footman leaves.

Stepsister 1: I will need a new dress for the dance! I need to impress the Prince!
Stepsister 2: Me too!
Stepsister 1: And new shoes!
Stepsister 2: Me too!
1: And new jewelry!
2: Me too!
1: And my hair needs to be done! And I need hot water for a bath!
2: Me too!

1: (turns toward C and screams) Cinderella!
2: Cinderella!!

You get it. It is a very gripping tale and all turns out well in the end.

Here are a few pictures and a video from a previous visit to Machanga. They are lovely girls and would have done a fabulous job at Cinzainha, knowing all too well the difficulties which life can bring. And also, I hope, that sometimes miracles come.