Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes...

"Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred moments so dear.

Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,

How do you measure, measure a year?"

The infamous opening lines of one of my favorite musicals, Rent, seems particularly applicable today. On this day, exactly one year ago, I stepped off a plane and set foot in Mozambique for the first time.

And what a year it's been.

At times like these, I inevitably find myself reminiscing -- and I right now, I'm thinking back to the ride from the airport on that first day in Maputo. Driving through run-down outskirts the city, I stared out the window at houses covered in plastic tarp, uncountable barefoot and dirty children staring back at me, and I remember feeling very uneasy.

"What on earth did I just get myself into?" I remember thinking, feeling increasingly panicked as the scenery flew by. "How am I ever going to feel safe here? How am I ever going to feel at home? What am I doing here!?" I had the sneaking suspicion that I had just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

One year later, so much has happened and so much has changed.

I've gotten to know some truly fantastic people that make the good days better and the rough days more bearable -- they may be "government-issued friends," but I don't know what I would do without them. (You know who you are.) Despite extensive reservations at first, and some very bumpy days along the way, I have come to love living in Tete, and can genuinely say that I feel very lucky to live in my little village of Mavudzi-Ponte. I like teaching almost as much as I like my students. Though I may not have assimilated all of it, I have learned to understand Mozambican culture and life here -- those things my neighbors did that I considered strange now make sense to me. Now, I no longer see a run-down shack covered in tarp -- I see a house that someone carefully and deliberately built, using any materials they could find. Sure, there are still dirty children all over the place, but I know their names and they know mine -- and I know that as soon as they go home for the evening their moms will make them take a bath. I feel safer in my village than I ever did living in downtown Houston, because I know my neighbors -- they are my friends, and they watch out for me.

Yesterday was a Mozambican holiday, and to celebrate, the female teachers collectively decided that they wanted to go out for -- gasp! -- a beer. Walking through town, it felt like I was part of a posse -- and in a way, I am. This is who I spend most of my time with. They're my people.

Did I think I'd be where I am now a year ago? Not at all. But I'm glad to be here nonetheless.

Sippin' a cold one with the ladies.

Roomie bonding.