sure would help a lot

By far, by far, by FAR the hardest part of living here is loneliness. It's not the seasonal heat, its not food, its not language, its not poverty. It's feeling lonely, the oldest malady in the world.

I am sick with a cold all weekend. Sara is teaching a seminar these days, gone till 9 PM every night, and her absence in the house initiates me for her final leave-taking on Thursday. I lie in bed, sniffly, tired, and again read Wendell Berry, whom I'd set aside these many long months, who much embodies my longings for better living. His unadorned poetry is usually like a sigh of relief. This time, though, he makes me feel lonely, the contrast between his world and my own too great. I take up a reflection on keeping kosher, food as a connection with God, an interesting book; this too makes me feel lonely. I watch an episode of LOST to stop being so damn serious - but... no. The water tank outside our window begins overflowing, the excess water flinging off the carpet of mint growing beneath. It sounds like rain, but isn't, and rain which isn't is a sad lonely sound, especially when it stops.

I don't have any Mozambican friends. Acquaintances, yes; not friends. Those I know best are from work and they're married men, all, except for Elizabeth who is not much older than me in years, but much older than me in feel, a widow, with three sons. She lives 25 km away. I visit sometimes and its nice. It's very much a friendship, but not a friendship. You know. Maybe I'm missing the point, but most female expats here struggle with this. It does seem to make some difference if you live in a big city and, of course, speak excellent Portuguese. I do neither.

Number of girls my age (28) that I have met without children, regardless of marital status: 1. 
Number of times a female from church has invited me to do something (or made eye-contact): 0. (Including the pastor's wife: 2.)
Number of males (married or unmarried, any age) that show intense desires to be my very, very close companion: Sigh. So many.

Sara has a few younger guy friends from her church I feel comfortable around and we laugh and joke when they stop by to use the internet or for a rare birthday party. I will call them if something goes wrong in the house in these coming months and it's reassuring to know I can.

I really love talking to Mozambican women when there's a context for doing so - for example, those who come to the clinic every week for formula. We respect each other, smile, greet, chat. I like women in general, have realized I love women's health, women's issues, women's challenges. What I understand, however, is that for these Mozambican women, I am not really a woman like they are women. I am a de facto man.

To Mozambican men I am WOMAN. Possibly this would be gratifying if it weren't so isolating.

When I am busy with work, no problem. There is plenty to do, plenty to take in, ways to contribute, people around, and the uniqueness of Africa always grabbing you by the hand, whirling you around. It is for this that you attempt to make a life in a foreign land amongst a foreign people. Because when its good, its really good.

It's being alone during the closing of each day, the Sabbath hours, and - as I am shamelessly demonstrating - in times of sickness when the walls really press in. I call them The Lonely Hours. Your spirit falters. You re-realize: I am very far from home.
This is how I described it last January:

"This is all I ever wanted to do. It's how I shaped my life, tried to, so that I could. And I do love it. I love walking out in the fields by myself, seeing the woodsmoke rise up and women carrying their harvests, hearing crickets and singing, the distant drumming, looking up in the sky, endless and blue, and thinking with immense satisfaction: I live in Africa.

It's kind of addicting. But it's also really lonely."

I'm not sure why I hate to say this, but sometimes not even the allure of Africa is enough. Writing for your blog's not enough. You make your choices and live with them, but... sometimes you just want friends.