Cupboard Surprise Cooking

Questions keep coming up as to what I'm eating here in Mozambique so I thought I would share a bit about my culinary experiences thus far.  Keep in mind I'm not a food critic, but if anything it is nice to tackle something lighter.  

The food in Beira is generally nutritious and savory.  Sure, you have to wash vegetables in a bleach solution and many are unfortunately imported from South Africa, but I can buy 2+ pounds each of potatoes, green beans, onions and tomatoes for under $10 USD.  Mango pits - sucked completely clean of their yellow-orange perfection - litter all of the streets.  We just bought 3 kilos (~6.6 pounds) of the biggest shrimp I've ever seen for $8 USD.  And the lulas (grilled squid) turned this calamari hater into a true believer.   And contrary to all stereotypes, estou a engordar (I'm gaining weight).  Fresh, warm bread is as readily available as a Starbuck's drive-thru in Washington state and I cannot resist this most basic staple of life.  

My only real complaints with the food in Beira are the lack of edible meats available outside of restaurants and my self-diagnosed Vitamin B deficiency.  Packaged beef patties are adulterated with corn.  Store-bought chicken usually smells rancid (the power has a tendency to go out here).  And even when you have the luxury of dining out on a succulent, quarter-Frango with fries at a restaurant you know it was feeding on trash just minutes before it was cooked (sorry Maker's Diet fans, chicken is a bottom feeder here).  So I've been searching my cupboards for some sense of truth or divine epicurean intervention. What is the perfect food?  

The answer came to me a few weeks ago when we saw a small bag of legumes at the vegetable market and decided we needed more variety in our diets.  In enters the green lentil. Little did I know that this little sprouted seed packs in a high amount of protein, fiber, Vitamin B and is low in fat.  The answer to my anaemic prayers.  

I've modified a few Turkish recipes to give the below a Mozambican kick.  Can't wait to come home and eat a cheeseburger - but in the meantime this is my hearty meal of choice.  

Spicy Lentil Stew

• 3 cups of water*
  
• 1 package of chicken or vegetable bouillon seasoning
  
• 1 cup of dried green lentils 
  
• 4 garlic cloves (2 finely chopped or minced, 2 whole)
  
• 1 small yellow onion, chopped
  
• 1 tbs of extra virgin olive oil
  
• 2 tbs tomato paste
  
• 3-4 roma tomatoes, peeled with juices/seeds retained (leave whole)
  
• 1 large yellow potato cut in 1/2 inch cubes
  
• 1 tsp red wine vinegar
  
• dash of salt and pepper to taste
  
• splash of Piri-Piri sauce 

(Piri-Piri is a spicy Portuguese pepper sauce very popular in Mozambique.)  It's easy to make (see below) but you could also substitute by squeezing in a quarter of a lemon, and adding a pinch of red pepper flakes or a finely chopped hot red pepper, and a tsp of oil and salt)

• Cover lentils with warm water and let sit for several hours in a warm place  (some recipes say 7, I just say do what you can).  You can skip this step but you may have a few crunchy lentils to contend with after you're done cooking.
• Rinse lentils.  Add 3 cups of water, stock, and 2 whole garlic cloves.  Bring water to a boil, reduce heat and let simmer for 30 minutes uncovered (or until the lentils are barely tender). 
• As water is coming to a boil, saute the chopped onions and remaining garlic.  Add to lentil mixture when browned.    
• After lentils are slightly tender, add remaining remaining ingredients and simmer for an additional 30-45 minutes.  Make sure to keep the ratio of water to lentils approximately 3 cups (you may add more water).
• Season with salt & pepper.  Serve hot.

Piri-Piri:

2-6 chili peppers depending on hot you like things
1 cup olive oil
1 tsp kosher salt
1/3 cup cider vinegar

1 tbs fresh lemon juice (optional)

• stem peppers and chop coarsely, retaining the seeds
• place in a shaker jar along with the remaining ingredients
• shake & serve
• it keeps for about a month, you should always store at room temperature

Cyclones

There is a tropical cyclone ("Gael") off the eastern coast of Madagascar and despite the fact that we are over 500 miles away on the opposite, western side of said country, we can feel it.  

Two days ago I awoke to the sound of wind gusts running between the flailing arms of palm trees screaming for mercy.  The wind, with its unfettered velocity, gained its momentum over the vast Indian Ocean and our vacant bay.  It punched through cracks surrounding our A/C unit and barged through the open 4-story staircase like an underground explosion dislodging a manhole cover (can that really happen or is that just in the movies?).  Our living room became home to small pools of bug water collecting under soggy towels.  The rain penetrated the spaces in our porch door where the wood once expanded in the heat but since retreated as the humidity was pushed to the interior of the country by a white capped, brown sea and colliding pressure systems.

I was reminded of living on Cape Cod during Hurricane Bob in the summer of 1991.  Power out, oak trees laying across r

oads, the sound of chainsaws and stories of small tornadoes skimming the ground.  Something about that storm - and this one - felt primordial.  You find comfort and a bit of boredom in the simplistic form your existence takes.  Do we have duct tape? Candles? Matches? Food we can cook on a wood or coal burning stove?  We retreat to the depths of ourselves and seek womb-like warmth as we curl up with books, starchy foods and conversation.  

Some days my eyes feel open, as they do in a storm, to what is pure and beautiful.  I find brilliance in the sea-stained, faded yellow and peach stucco and cement houses.  I see hand-made intricate patterns of flower petals in the sidewalk tiles of a decaying colonial avenue that I missed countless times before.  The shattered cerulean glass of a squatter's house reminds me of a cathedral on the upper west side of Manhattan.  The Padaria (bread shop/bakery) seems to capture - with its smell - all that is sumptuously nourishing about the heat-soaked earth.

But most days my eyes feel closed - blinded by a white light that is only magnified (never absorbed) by a monotonous azure sky.  The squatter's house becomes infested by decay.  My emotions tune-out the incessant reality of children, covered in dirt and hunger, begging for food or change.  The streets become trash receptacles filled with grape and orange Fanta cans, white-plastic salt bottles and discarded flip flops.  

These scenes bring up questions of survival.  The act of living today seems overly harsh for many and sadly dismissed by most (including myself).  On days when I cannot find serenity my mind wearily travels a torturous path of questions.  Why do so few people smile here?  What are the social community rules of squatting (e.g. how do you cope when you're living with strangers you may not even like?)?  What are the ethics of water availability?  Is it our (Joe & I) responsibility to provide endless gallons to our neighbors because they asked nicely?  Is it fair that they can depend on us when there are children living in twiggy shacks infested with malaria-carrying mosquitoes who cannot afford a mosquito net?  What about the emaciated blind woman who has syphilis?  Should she have water?  What of the children dying of diarrhea; can you imagine how dehumanizing that must be?

I am trying to reconcile these observations of Beira with the current state of the US economy. Everyday I seem to be hearing of job losses, foreclosures, decimated investments and health care concerns.  On the one hand, I have hope for the short-term and fear of the long-term impact of the stimulus package.  On the other hand, I forget about the US crisis when I walk out the door and into the streets of Ponta Gea.  When I think of the US I ask myself, "What can I sacrifice and what can I save?" and when I am immersed in Mozambique I continually come back to questions on the boundaries of my dignity.  Would I beg if I had to?  I'm sure I'll never know.  

Today I thought I would begin to research some of these questions, which led the geek in me to seek out stats on comparative poverty levels between the US and Mozambique.  The figures are staggering in both contexts.  

• MZ: 50% of the adult population and 58% of the child population live in poverty, making it country number 168 out of 177 according to Unicef reports.
• US:  12.7% of the population lives in poverty.  35% of those individuals are children and 24.5% are black according to the US Census Bureau in 2007.  
• The number of people living in poverty within the US is greater than the entire population of Mozambique.
• The US poverty index hovers around $10,000 for a single person according to the Census Bureau. 
• Income per capita in Mozambique is $310 USD/year (Unicef).  
• In general, life expectancy in the US is over 75 years old with obvious variances among socioeconomic status'.  Some reports say this is decreasing due to a rise in the number of uninsured.
• Life expectancy in Mozambique is approximately 37 years old and is expected to drop to 35.9 by 2010 (Unicef).  

I did not share this under the pretext of "you should be thankful for what you have because children are starving in sub-Saharan Africa".  Rather, I'm trying to raise my own consciousness of the issues that surround me here as they relate to the issues back home in the US.  It's not necessarily fair to compare a country of 20M with a $3 Billion GDP (half of it coming from foreign aid) to a country of over 300M on the verge of passing an $800+ Billion economic stimulus package. Especially since the former somewhat depends on the latter.  But, I'm sincerely interested in hearing if your view of your own survival or viability is changing in relation to the US economy.  What are you discovering you can live without?  What are the boundaries that you will or won't cross?  

 

A Week Alone

For those of you begging for exotic stories of a new life in Africa, I'm sorry to disappoint.  I watched 8 episodes of Dave Chappelle Season 1 between Monday and Tuesday of last week.  I had a visitor on Wednesday night, Ralph the Gecko, who is protecting me from mosquitoes.  I started then finished reading the Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific, which is just as self-absorbed as this blog and has nothing to do with consuming human flesh (and I emphatically suggest you do not read it).  And today I'm here with Americo, our Empregado, waiting for the landlord (Dono?) to bring a wrench so they can trouble shoot our lack of running water.

I spent most of last week alone in Beira.  My activities, besides the above, consisted of: 

• staring at our offensive peach walls
• moping about my house-bound status
• wondering where I could find some protein that didn't include chopping off a fish head
• lamenting my scarcity of friends
• dreaming of the day when Shoprite will carry edible chicken breasts
• venturing to the vegetable market
• and conjugating various forms of the verb 'to be' in Portuguese 

All told it was a good but boring week.  I watched the inauguration - which filled my spirit with a sense of lightness but simultaneously gave me insight into a few foreigners' negative views of the US (more on that later).  I began my Portuguese classes with an intelligent and patient Professora, Albertina, at the Catholic University.  (She has given me an immense sense of respect for anyone speaking more than one language fluently.  Who would have thought learning to explain "the notebook is under the teacher's desk" would be so difficult?).  Finally, I enjoyed a pleasant 3-hour ride in an air-conditioned truck through the verdant hills of Chimoio, escaping the fecal humidity of Beira and reuniting with Joe.  We celebrated with a tasty chorizo pizza, deep friend Chamussas and a few bottles of 2M beer - which broke my pattern of pasta, potatoes and undercooked green lentils.

Still, I woke on Friday feeling abnormally agitated.  My therapist had visited me in my dreams (never a good sign) - driving my sister's first car, a maroon Chevy Chevette.  He offered to give me a lift to an underground pharmacy and when I declined the dream morphed into the chaos of car chase scenes involving Volkswagen Cabriolets and vintage Beetles.  Luckily I found safety in a shopping mall Starbucks, where my entire family awaited my arrival as they comfortably sipped lattes and had a good laugh.  Analyze that.  

Dreams are obviously a manifestation of the day's happenings, worries and wants.  My sleep is constantly disrupted by a longing to connect with others.  The malaria pills don't help with this anxiety.  I'm frustrated with my isolation here.  I realize my situation will improve as a I begin to gain confidence and knowledge of Portuguese, but as of today I cannot communicate with many people.  And I don't have a job (that teaching English gig did not work out).  Not speaking, not working and depending on others for simple life tasks such as calling a taxi, ordering food or buying paint can really make you feel useless.  

There are many European and American ex-pats in the NGO realm here in Beira, but I've had a difficult go at developing a genuine rapport with most of them.  I'm disgusted with my self-pity, but I'm still going to take a moment to whine.  At times I feel as if my unemployed, ex-corporate drone, grad school applicant status makes me a leper in their eyes.  I admire their dedication to their various causes (women's health, HIV/AIDS, etc.) but oddly they are an obnoxiously self-consumed bunch.  (The fact that I am being a judgmental hypocrite is not lost on me).  I've been so bored at times that I find myself over-analyzing their righteousness.  Perhaps it's an attempt at self-preservation.  Perhaps they struggle daily with conflicting thoughts of guilt and hope.  Or maybe it is difficult to reconcile their status and wonderful quality of life with the lives of the populations they serve.   

I was hopeful that inauguration night would be my chance to foster some new relationships - around a common purpose - since I was attending a party with many NGO people I had not met.  But for all of the evening's obvious inspiration it was equally infuriating.  I found myself offended by generalizations about Americans that forced me into 'me vs. them' conversations, such as:

• ITALIAN HOST:  "The entire US is to blame for Bush" 
• ME:  "Hey, did anyone watch the coverage of the 2000 election?  Did you know that we didn't elect Bush?"
• ITALIAN HOST:  "Everyone in the US is ethnocentric, war mongering and ignorant" (ok, so I did put 'mongering' in there)
• ME:  "Did anyone see coverage of citizen war protests?  Or hear about the recanting of support for the Iraq War by several members of Congress?  Or note that Bush's approval ratings plummeted?"
• COLUMBIAN-AMERICAN:  "No one in Generation X in the US cares about anything but materialism and self-interest.  When I was getting my citizenship I was ashamed to be American.  I just took my papers and ran out of the office.  Only now will I call myself an American."  
• ME (internally):  "Didn't you tell me two days ago that you were lucky to live in the US because of the great, free education you were granted.  And weren't you just extolling the State of Massachusetts for fostering your personal development as a Latina through after school programs and Affirmative Action?"
• ME (externally):  "Don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?  Would you agree that many industrialized nations have the same type of problem across generations?  We're raised to be consumers, but I'm not sure that makes us evil."
• COLUMBIAN-AMERICAN:  blank stare
• ME (what I wish I had said after discussing this with someone else, and I'll admit I'm regurgitating a great point he made):  "Do you really think you get to choose when to be a citizen and when not to be when it's convenient for you?"

And so it went.  

Let's be honest, we have had a problem with our national education standards as it relates to US and World History as well as global current events.  Standards in US education seem to focus more on math and english (which are clearly important) but not so much on creating a standard of critical thinking skills.  I personally recall 4 years of high school history beginning with the Ottoman Empire, breezing past Napoleon, diving into the Civil War, and then skimming the surface of World War II. 

If I had one wish it would be for a healthy dialog with the foreigners and locals here in Mozambique.   Rather than reciting a dissertation on the generic reasons the US is inherently evil, tell me about the state of your public education and health care systems and how we may learn from you.  Why are they succeeding politically, socially, and economically?  Give me a detailed example of how US economic policy has negatively impacted your economy and how citizens are reacting today (I know we're guilty of cruel economic injustices and sanctions).  Explain to me how your country's global funding strategies to fight poverty and disease are different or better than US policies.  Don't personally attack me as an American with a 10 minute diatribe on the problems with PEPFAR when you know I'm not an HIV/AIDS expert. Tell me what you would change and how you are becoming part of a new solution.  Finally, consider seeking opinions other than your own.  They may be wrong or not as informed as yours, but it's nice to have a balance.  

The Road to Zimbabwe

If you can find it in the US, Baygon is great at killing all things creepy crawly. Take it from me and the white guy from the 929 Bar who was kicked out of Zimbabwe and now runs an exterminating business in Beira (read: front for something illegal).   Well, on second thought, I'm not sure you want to wholeheartedly trust a man that says "Rhodesia was the greatest country that ever existed in the 60s and 70s", likening it to apparent utopia of the Southern US pre-Civil War. 

I know people like Mr. Exterminator exist, but to meet one in the flesh shocked me.  Back in the States, most people I know generally try to mask any racial prejudice by either avoiding the topic, using their upbringing as an excuse, or relying on the tried and true American dream, melting pot modus operandi ("we all have equal opportunity to succeed - it's just a matter of how hard you try").  So I wonder which is worse - being upfront about your appalling ideology or passively approving with your avoidance of the issue?   

Now, I'm not an expert on Rhodesian-Zimbabwean history or current events but it doesn't take the enlightenment of a spiritual leader to know that white minority rule over a black majority population (who, mind you, didn't have suffrage until 1979) was immoral.   Yet, what scares me more is that Mr. Exterminator was actually right about one thing.  The consequences of Mugabe's rule over Zimbabwe in the past 10+ years have amounted to a base, humanitarian tragedy of excruciating proportions.  It doesn't take much piety to feel pain in your heart when you realize people are dying from contaminated water, lack of food, or for opposing Mugabe's rule.

So, all of this is to say that I, with my princessa tendencies, was less than ecstatic when, halfway on our journey to sort our Visas at the Mozambican embassy in Malawi, we were diverted to Zimbabwe.

To go from speaking of oppression or death by cholera to telling you that the drive from Chimoio, Mozambique to Mutare, Zimbabwe was 

gorgeous may seem insanely insensitive.  But, I want to believe it's important for people to get a glimpse (because that's about all I had) into the truly stunning western Manica province and Zimbabwean landscape.    

The agricultural fields of corn and leafy vegetables in Manica province are sprinkled with clusters of round, thatched roofed huts.  Women sell mangos on the sidewalk, men sell flip flops and shoes.  I will keep saying this - but the grasslands are otherworldly and perfect in their kaleidoscope of greens.  Streams and knobby hills turn into rivers and granite monoliths.  I was reminded of the rainforest mountains of Hawaii and Nicaragua on the one hand and Half Dome on the other (unfortunately these pictures did not come out because we were traveling at about 120km/hr).

As we approached the border crossing pavement turned into dirt roads lined with dozens of Mac trucks.  Zimbabwe imports much of its food - and depends on food aid - despite its agricultural past and potential.  Though the move from their agrarian roots to industrialization certainly would impact food availability, the cause of shortages seems more tightly linked to political control.  Our "long live Rhodesia" exterminator was once a farmer in Mutare, kicked off his land by Mugabe supporters.  A sadly ironic and tyrannical response to past oppression by whites.

The experience of crossing was a bit disconcerting.  Our evil eyed border guard demanded a $60 USD bribe (inflation is so rampant that the US Dollar is the preferred currency.  According to yesterday's Business Standard, "Zimbabwe's Central Bank is releasing a new 50 billion dollar note -- enough to buy three newspapers") .  Self proclaimed Road Runners lobbied to help you bypass the chaotic customs line for a fee and even demanded payment for giving Joe advice on picture taking (aka: don't do it unless you want people to suspect you of working for a foreign news agency).  Wealthy whites returned from vacation with their boats in tow as others headed home on foot, carrying heavy sacks of rice on their heads.  

When we arrived at the embassy the rain was fierce.  The Zimbabwean guard, a sweet faced young man, was melancholic.  He immediately made reference to the strife that is his reality - factory closures due to people fleeing the country, disease, food shortages.  Joe wondered aloud why more people - the one's who can afford to - are not leaving the country immediately.    

After an hour of paperwork, graciously handled by Joe's colleagues, our visas were renewed and we headed home.  Upon recrossing we had to wash our hands with a bleach solution and step on a carpet soaked in the same - minor measures to prevent cholera from spreading into Mozambique.  

We've left behind the barbed wire of borders and returned to Beira, but Zimbabwe still lingers. I'm wondering what role the UN will continue to play (or not play) in restoring balance and decency to the lives, health, and economy of Zimbabwe.  I'm trying to make sense of this against the broad spectrum of catastrophes and crises plaguing other parts of the world.  And I'm wondering where my own boundaries are - between action, education, sympathy, and the ugly guilt I feel at wanting to return for my own tourism purposes when the risks abate.   

Hello Africa!

I wanted to share a few snippets from my trip thus far but I'm having a difficult time being cohesive and concise - the heat is killing my ability to think.

When Flight 48 from London was descending into Johannesburg, the captain came on the intercom to announce a "beautiful sunrise over Africa".  I looked out the east facing window at an endless horizon of red and orange and a brief sense of a romanticized Africa - something from a Hemingway novel - came over me...

We're living in a 4-story walk up with a view of the Baia (bay).  The stairwell is precarious - no lighting at night and crumbling steps.  Still, the numerous children in the building manage to spend the day sitting on the landings playing cards, painting their nails, or just talking.  Women seem to be constantly sweeping or cooking meals on small coal stoves in the hallway.  A variety of smells are carried into our living room on densely humid sea breezes - spicy foods, moldy clothes, feces.  I sleep under a mosquito net, take malaria pills, and obsess about bug spray.  I have already grown used to the army of ants that seem be on a perpetual offensive in our kitchen.  I have not quite mastered the double pad locked iron gate outside our front door.  By US standards, we're living in the slums.  By Beira standards, we're in one of the nicest (Porta Gea) neighborhoods.

My first week here was technically a vacation.  We traveled over 10 hours south on a bus to Maxixe where we then boarded a wooden skiff taxi to the Inhambane peninsula.   The streets of this sleepy town were lined with lush trees and faded colonial houses.   The white sand beaches and grassy dunes of Tofo, Tofinho, and Barra were just an hour's drive away on dirt roads.   And finally, blue seas (the bay in Beira is brown).  

After meeting up with friends, we headed to the local market to buy bacon, fruit and vegetables for our Carbonara New Year's dinner (cooked by an Italian, nonetheless) where I was surprised at the number of Arab Muslims.  Apparently, Arabic traders had been coming to the region since the 11th century or possibly earlier.  You can actually hear the praying at a local Beira mosque if you are awake before dawn.  

After gorging ourselves on pasta, we headed to Ge's friend's house. Ge is a Mozambican M.D that Joe recently met - a gracious, intelligent and thoughtful host.  And though his friend's shared similar attributes, their music taste was questionable.  Yes, we rang in the new year drinking warmish sparkling wine while standing on the sidewalk, in the rain, listening to Mozambican Disco (read: obnoxious, night club house music).   Who would have thought you could stand so close to a sub woofer and actually live to tell about it.

Overall, my first week gave me an initial sense of the expansive beauty of Mozambique.  But it is not romantic.  Yes, the city gives rise to wetlands which are dotted with mangroves and bushes of a vibrant green I have never seen.   And yes, these landscapes seemingly melt into the red-brown clay dirt which in turn becomes cashew and pineapple fields.   But nature's charm does not equate to a charmed reality.  Slums of corrugated tin-roofed wooden shacks line the streets leaving the city.  25-30% of the Beira population is living with HIV or AIDS.  25% !!  Not to mention the water is contaminated to the degree that we have to boil it and then filter it - and we must wash all vegetables in a bleach solution (minor inconveniences in the bigger picture).  I'm constantly worried about malaria during the nights.  And apparently Joe's MD friend's are concerned about a Cholera outbreak migrating from Zimbabwe (which likely won't impact us since we can afford the water filtering system).    

I can't really comment on the bucolic communities to any depth.  I wasn't surprised by the intricately thatched huts or the women hard at work in the garden pastures.  However, I only saw two medical outposts and one school in nearly a week of driving 800+ miles on main streets and back village roads.  It causes me to question my desire to work within the an urban educational policy setting in the US over the developing world.  

OK - better sign off.  We're heading to Malawi today and hope to be back late this weekend.  

new year's, mexico

I'm lounging on a faux white leather cushioned beach bed in Cabo San Lucas - the craggy rock & sand encased tip of the Baja peninsula that sits at the convergence of the Pacific Ocean & the Sea of Cortez. At 7 am there is actually a sense of calm nurturing the shore. Creamiscle and peach-stucco opulent hotels sit like pedicured toenails on the dried foothills. The growing warmth gives me a sense of security and I feel, for a moment, a comfort in the familiar smells of salt and seaweed.

But then the pollution seeps in. Barrels of trash in the lunch-box shape of Norwegian and Carnival cruise ships. Plastic flotsam in the form of jet skis. The noise of dull, mechanical, gurgling fishing boat engines. The self-consumed, self-adoring, gluttonous groanings of the rich.

A certain producer and his entourage of 22 guests shuffle in from the Me-Cabo veranda and lay claim to a stretch of roped off beach in front of me. Does throwing an 8 x 3 hotel-issued beach towel in the sand constitute property rights? I can't help but think their sense of entitlement to these cotton boundaries symbolizes a greater tendency we have towards seeking ownership.
---
The notion of beauty interrupted by obnoxious Americans (of the US variety) isn't a foreign concept to me. Having lived on Cape Cod until I was 18, I've seen my share of reprehensible elitism, much of which centered on ownership of beaches.

The Cape is essentially a barrier beach system - constantly fluctuating in shape based on tides depositing, and storms eroding, the coastline. Despite the ever-morphing natural boundaries of the seashore, many wealthy beachfront landowners have laid claim to the sand and water adjacent to their homes.

I’ve always thought of the ocean and its beaches as property of the public – a space for common use and common responsibility (e.g. protection from preventable environmental threats such as pollution). But in Massachusetts, courts have ruled that those with coastal property have title to the land down to the "wet sand area" – that is - land that sits between the low and high tide marks. Unlike most states that own the inter-tidal zone land and ocean “in trust for (their) citizens”, Massachusetts has a common law interpretation of a statute, passed in the 1640s, allowing for “private ownership of ocean flats”. [McMahon, Boston College Environmental Affairs Law Review, 2004].

It's astonishing to me (and possibly naïve) that oceanfront property owners have been fighting the public for 370 years over the use of these beaches. Laws do exist to protect the right of the Massachusetts public, but only to a certain extent. For example, you can fish, “fowl”, navigate or swim in the inter-tidal zone waters but if your feet touch the bottom you’d technically be trespassing.

I'm not suggesting that all private beach “owners” are plotting the demise or drowning of the general public. Nor am I implying that all movie producers' wives feel they are entitled to own an already privately owned piece of sand because they spent over $3000 on their hotel room. What I am suggesting is that we begin to rethink the implications of private ownership of land that would, by common sense, seem common (or public).

Privatization of natural resources and the dream of a home with an acre of waterfront property may both feel as old as antiquity. But does value exist in transcending the boundaries (and arguments) we construct in terms of our right to title? Is it my right to bare the burden of pollution to our sound, our ocean, or the watershed from which I drink & bathe if you dump oil, gas, trash, paint, etc. on “your private” property? I’ve certainly been witness to these offenses throughout my youth. Do I now inherit the responsibility of ensuring their eradication?

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I’m back at the Me Cabo Hotel feeling hypocritical (what am I doing here in the first place?), vengeful, and wrapped up in my tendencies towards exaggeration. A young boy in an all white uniform is sweeping the sand off a wood-planked walkway on the beach. It's as if the very nature of the sand were a nuisance. The comfort and calm I was feeling earlier are replaced by a sense of fabrication and my experience seems inauthentic.

Perhaps it is our personal desire to create control and order for our individual lives that stimulates a need for ownership. Perhaps our self worth is wrapped up in our ability to have dominion over as much as we can. I don’t know. But I can’t help but wonder what I would and wouldn’t be willing to give up to the common ownership of all. Not that I own a beach or anything.