I have now been here for one month. In the last few weeks I have become
much more familiar with the place and the people. While I have adapted
to a routine and adjusted to the culture, there are still a few things
that continue to intrigue me and spark my curiosity.

I am always outside. While occasionally protected by a small roof above
me, I am always conscious of the infinite continuum of space that
surrounds me; whether from the light breeze that carries the wet dew
through the perforations in my tent or from the ceiling of stars
revealed as the sun disappears behind a wall of trees.

While a few individuals live on the farm, the people who work here come
from the surrounding villages and city: Mezimbite, Mafambisse, Dondo ,
Beira, and others that I do not know. There are a variety of tasks
performed by the workers. A group of women attend to the garden plots
and groups of men work in the woodshops and at the tea tree plantation.
Within these circumstances there is a closely knit community, a family.

While eating breakfast, I hear the women arriving to work in the
gardens. Shortly afterwards, I hear the generator turned on, followed by
the table saw, power tools and lathes. It is 7am and I know it is time
to work.

Lunch begins at noon, and as in the rest of Mozambique, the workers
enjoy a siesta from noon until around two in the afternoon (or "14
hours" as we call it). All the workers assemble to eat at the cozinha,
or kitchen. There are 3 picnic tables and a fire pit at the cozinha.
Everyday a different person is responsible for cooking. I don't usually
cook or eat there; I eat under the pavilion with Allan, George, and a
man named Daniel.

The afternoon is quite short. Work ends at four. While most people go
home, a few people stay on site. As it is winter here, the sun sets
fairly early. Last week was the winter solstice and the sun set just
before six in the evening. It was 90 degrees. Every night, as the sun
sets over the north-western horizon we eat our dinner and read our books
before the mosquitoes come out.

Daniel, a native of Mozambique, lives with us at the camp during the
week. After taking some time off to take care of his sick father during
the first weeks I was at the camp, he returned to work with us about a
week ago. While Daniel speaks mostly Portuguese, we communicate to each
other with words we know in both Portuguese and English. One night,
after dinner, as a few of us at the camp opened our books to read, we
asked Daniel if he wanted to join us. He did not have any books, he
said. It is very hard to find books and not many people read in Beira,
the city where he is from.

Daniel returned home for the weekend. When he returned on Monday, he
left a stack of books on the table. On the top of the books was a big
red book with the picture of a car and a title in Portuguese that
appeared to be about automechanics. After work that day, as we opened
our books, Daniel sat down under the pavilion, too, poured himself a cup
of hot chocolate, put his feet up, and a begin a small book from his
stack. Since, he has read with us every night.

While trying to finish some work I did not finish during the afternoon,
I returned one evening to the woodshop after dinner. While following a
cone of light that chiseled away the black night in front of me, I
encountered a few of the workers who were spending the night on guard
duty cooking dinner around a fire. As I worked, we talked and they
invited me to eat with them. I had just eaten and so I told them that
they could come eat in the shop and talk with me as I worked. A few
minutes later they entered the shop, where I had started work, one man
carrying an extra plate, and another, an extra cup of water. They set
the plate in front of me. I looked down and saw a mountain of rice
topped with four whole dried fish - head, fins, and skin. They said they
were cooked. I tried to tell them I had already eaten and I did not want
to eat their dinner, but they insisted. As I stared at the fish - and
the fish stared back at me - I contemplated what to do. The truth is
that I have never eaten fish like that; I did not even know where to
start. So I poked around at the fish with my fork while eating the rice
and hoped that by slowly doing this the fish would disappear. The fish
was tender and I could take pieces of fish and mix them with the rice.
The hair-like bones got lost in the white rice though and it became a
more difficult endeavor than I anticipated. But I finished the majority
of the plate and, afterwards, I felt accomplished. Then, the guards
asked me if I wanted more. I promptly refused but said I was grateful
for what they'd given me. One plate was more than enough.

The next day I went to work in the shop early. When I returned for lunch
I was told that George, the cook, prepared one of my favorite dishes.
Excited and slightly bewildered, I sat at the table. I lifted the lid of
the serving plate in front of me and found ten grilled dried fish lying
in front of me, the same type as the night before. The guards had told
George. That afternoon, I discovered that the fish are supposed to be
eaten like one might eat a chicken leg. It makes eating them a lot
easier. It turns out that the fish are really quite good.