Goodbye to you / Goodbye to everything I thought I knew

So here we are. Two years later.

In a way, I thought this day would never come, that I would never cross the finish line, never be on the other side looking back.

Now here it is, I hold my RPCV title like a badge of honor and yet...I feel like I'm mourning. This is it, isn't it? It's the end of an era, the chapter of this book is done, and I know it had to end sometime but that still doesn't make it easy.

I'm not the same girl I was when I arrived in Mozambique two years ago. How could I be? I've experienced so much, learned so much, changed so much,struggled so much, loved so much.

I fly out tomorrow ("Leaving on a jet plane...") and I can't even believe it.  I don't know if I'm ready. It's terrifying, it's overwhelming, it's just a whole mixed bag of emotions. I know that my family and friends are excited to see me. I know that I have so much waiting for me in the U.S. I know that the next phase of my life will be another exciting adventure. (By the way, you can follow my readjustment blog: USAmbique.) I know, I know.
I'm not ready to leave but I know I can't stay.

There are things I won't miss about Mozambique but above all, there are things I will miss because the memories and relationships I've created here are worth a million times the heat, the ATM lines, the public transportation system, the faulty electricity, and all the other mundane frustrations of life in a third world country.

I love you, Mozambique. Thank you for an amazing Peace Corps experience. I hope you bring to other currently serving and future PCV's as much happiness as you've brought me. I'm the luckiest girl in the world to have had the opportunities and experiences I've had. And who knows? Maybe the road will one day lead me back here.

Remember me like I'll always remember you. 

Vivienne

Kanimambo

In the past two years, I've been through so much. As I close out my final day at site, I continue to reflect on my time in Mozambique. Here are some of the things I've learned over the past two years:

- To appreciate a freshly raked quintal. You don't even know how much work goes into raking the sand into pretty patterns at the crack of dawn.
- The art of mandar-ing children to do things I'm too lazy to do, like buy bread at the market.
- That mangoes might just be the fruit from the Garden of Eden. There's nothing more delicious on a hot day.
- That double ply toilet paper is luxurious. Enough said.
- That high speed internet is a blessing, and life is possible without YouTube.
- That patience is indeed a virtue, and a necessity in Africa. I'm talking about meetings, ATM lines, bank trips, ordering food at a restaurant, everything.
- That personal space is a first-world concern and being crammed into a chapa with 20-25 other people is no big deal.
- That standing in the back of a rickety pickup truck with 40 other people, while uncomfortable and terrifying, is sometimes the only way to get where you need to go.
- That African children are so creative despite their lack of resources. Wire trucks and plastic bag kites? Recycling at its best.
- That these children will do anything for the chance to color.
- That anything I don't want to be collected out of my trash pit needs to be burned immediately. (See previous blog post)
- To tolerate or otherwise defeat a variety of pests including lizards, bats, rats, cockroaches, ants, spiders, and scorpions.
- How to get somebody's attention by hissing at them.
- To diffuse the advances of creepy men in Moz.
- That busting out a few phrases of local language at the perfect time, will make people's day.
- That no matter what I do, I'm the crazy mulungu so I might as well take pride in it.
- That I'll never be able to scrub stains out of my clothes as well as my empregada can.
- That it is impossible to keep sand out of my house.
- That African women are amazing! They can carry heavy-ass things on their heads for long distances without even breaking a sweat, and do all the housework while the men sit around.
- That because of these gender inequalities, Mozambican girls have no self esteem and no awareness of their full potential. They don't just have to grow up to be mothers and domestic slaves.
- That the way things should work aren't necessarily the way things do work and that it's not up to me, as an individual, to change things.
- That Mozambicans don't call me Chinese or Japanese to be offensive, they just don't know geography.
- That marriage and fidelity mean nothing in this country.
- That HIV still carries so much stigma, and nobody talks about it.
- That corruption is omnipresent (in schools, in the government, in the workplace...)
- That there is a huge job shortage in Mozambique, and well-qualified, hard-working youth remain unemployed because there is no job turnover.
- That family relations in Africa are complicated.
- That killing, plucking, and preparing a chicken is a lot of work. I'm really going to appreciate being able to buy pre-packaged chicken at the grocery store.
- That Mozambicans are so generous with everything they have even if they don't have much.
- That when somebody offers you a chair and food, it's impolite not to accept.
- That I'll never truly understand what it means to be poor.
-That the color of my skin automatically provides me infinite advantages in life.
- That death is a part of life. Children here die of malaria, malnutrition, so many things that would be unimaginable in a first-world country.
- That when Mozambicans schedule something, they really mean two hours later than what they say.
- That when somebody calls you and then hangs up on the first ring, it's because they're cheap and want you to call them back using your phone credit.
- That sometimes, it's necessary to take more than one bath a day. Or skip work and just sit in front of the fan.
- That "truth" is not always a black and white concept.
- That people will complain about the weather no matter what.
- That I've spent a lot of time stressing about work and "productivity" when I should have been focused on building relationships with people.
- That I may not have changed the world, but I have changed the life of at least one person in my community.
- And that this is enough to make my time in Moz worthwhile.

Thank you, Mozambique, for everything.
I love you.

One week left...

What day is it, and in what month?

This clock never seemed so alive

I can't keep up, and I can't back down

I've been losing so much time...

-- Lifehouse , “You and Me”

One more week left in Chicumbane and I can't even believe it, I don't even know where the past few weeks have gone.

I've been spending my time at home (doing Peace Corps close-out paperwork and reports, cleaning out my house, and dividing up my possessions), and at work (not exactly working, just hanging out with my coworkers.)

My mood changes by the hour, my mindset by the day. Little things will set me into tailspins of joy or fits of depression. Looking at the calendar throws me into a panic. Sometimes I don't know how I could possibly leave Mozambique. Other times I would love nothing more than to hightail it out of here asap.

Example:

Last week, I spent an afternoon cleaning out my room and tossing stacks of old paperwork into the trash pit. Because the day was warm, I decided to hold off on burning the trash (my new hobby, by the way) until the evening. A group of children soon came to my door begging to color but, as I reminded them for the millionth time, coloring days were only Saturday and Sunday and we were still in the middle of the week. I went back in the house, but happened to look out the window just in time to see the oldest of the kids retrieving a giant stack of paper from my trash pit. “Leave that!” I shouted, which startled the group of children and sent them sprinting out of the yard with my papers in hand. I threw on my flipflops and raced after them, only to find the entire street littered with my trash. It appeared to have rained Vivienne personal documents all over the sandy streets of Chicumbane: ATM receipts, shopping receipts, Peace Corps paperwork, basically everything I don't want the entire world to see. So I spent the next half an hour doing a one-woman trash pickup, fuming about the absurdity of having to throw away my trash TWICE. As I lit the trash pit on fire, all I kept thinking about was how much I wanted to be in America, with air conditioning, and a paper shredder.

Example:

Colleen's birthday was last week and we were both convinced that the jovens would try to give her a CACHES “baptism” - a ritual that involves being held down and having a big bucket of cold water poured over your head, and the reason that I've kept my birthday a secret for the past two years (although I fully anticipate receiving one at my goodbye party next Wednesday). Colleen and I spent the evening in a high state of paranoia, because it was clear the jovens were up to something, huddled in the corner whispering to each other. We kept reminding them that they needed to practice their English Theatre piece, which they assured us they would. Finally, three of the boys entered onto the stage but we immediately sensed something was off... It only took Colleen a few seconds before she leaned over and gasped, “I think that's supposed to be you! And that's me!” And indeed, the boys were dressed as us- fake Vivienne had on a short skirt and a bow tied around his head and fake Colleen was wearing a long skirt and had a shoulder bag slung around his arm, from which he kept taking out a water bottle and sipping. The jovens then reenacted Colleen's entire first day at CACHES, mimicking our mannerisms to a frighteningly accurate degree. Colleen's character kept looking around with wide eyes and murmuring, “Que interestante!” (How interesting!), and constantly asking, “O que disse?” (What did he say?- a gentle stab at her Portuguese comprehension skills). Fake Colleen kept leaning over to fake Vivienne (who, by the way, was sitting with legs crossed in a girly manner and kept hugging everyone and exclaiming, “I miss you!!”) to speak in fast garbled English.

The real Colleen and the real Vivienne, meanwhile, had tears rolling down their faces from laughing so hard. At the end the boys sang happy birthday and all of them busted out the “Colleen dance move,” something she had taught them a few weeks back and that they had obviously been practicing.

The entire presentation was of those things in which words could never do full justice. Colleen and I chuckled about it the entire way home, and the entire next day as well. I felt so much love for the jovens for thinking of such a unique and hilarious birthday gift. How could I ever go, knowing that I may never see their beautiful faces again? Sometimes I just want to hug them and never let go.

The roller coaster

It's hard to keep up the semblance of normality when I know I'll be leaving in just a few weeks. But the world keeps turning and all I can do is prepare myself for the changes ahead. People keep asking me what I'm going to do after Peace Corps but I don't even want to think that far. Leaving is the first step and I can only take things one at a time.

I look back on the past two years and I can almost map the roller coaster ride that has been my Peace Corps service.

There were the months I came this close to giving up and going home, there were the days I cried and cried out of frustration and loneliness, and wondered why I even came to Africa. There were the nights I tossed and turned, couldn't sleep for all the muddled thoughts running through my head and all the strange noises overhead. There were the times in which I felt unused, unneeded, unappreciated. There were the days I wanted to hit my head repeatedly against the wall for everything that is wrong with this country.

There, then, were the points in my service in which I picked myself up, grit my teeth, got back in the game. The moments I just had to laugh at myself for being the crazy mulungu, had to accept that I'm the community spectacle no matter what I do. The realization that those infinite small accomplishments are accomplishments just the same. There were definitely the times that I felt welcomed, felt accepted, felt loved, felt needed, and those moments in which the beauty of this country and the heart of its people took my breath away.

And these latter moments, despite sometimes being few and far between, are what have made my entire two years in Mozambique worthwhile.

I know other PCV's in my group who are burnt out, over it, ready to go home. And I'm glad I don't feel that way. It tells me that I haven't been in Mozambique too long, and that I will be look back with fondness on my experience. All of this is not to say that I'm not excited to go home. I haven't stepped on American soil in over two years and I might just step off the plane and kiss the ground out of sheer joy of returning to patria amada, terra minha.

I suppose you could sum it up with this line in a Lady Antebellum song: “She couldn't wait to get out but wasn't quite ready to leave.” I'm as ready as I  ever could be, to leave a place that has claimed a piece of my heart.

Missing

Things I will miss about Mozambique

• Speaking Portuguese
• My dogs Mel and Magorducha
• My theatre group jovens
• Mandaring children to do things for me
• Capulana clothing
• Beach trips whenever I want
• Having a flexible work schedule
• Free time
• The sound of rain on the tin roof
• Hitchhiking everywhere (boleias)
• Getting free veggies from my produce ladies (bacelas)
• Sleeping under a mosquito net and feeling like a princess
• Lighting the trash pit on fire
• Giving people the thumbs up whenever I pass
• Having an empregada to clean up after me

• Wearing flipflops everywhere
• My Peace Corps friends
• Fresh fruit (especially mangoes, papayas, pineapple, tangerines)
• Sitting outside in the shade when it's hot
• Greeting everybody I pass
• My host family in Namaacha
• Getting 9 hours of sleep every day
• Patio time
• Meio frango (Grilled ½ chicken on the bone)

Things I won't miss

• Sweating constantly
• Dirty feet
• SAND. EVERYWHERE.
• Chapas
• Sexual harassment
• Being called “China”
• People hissing at me
• Waiting....
• Work frustrations
• Xima (the food, not the dog)
• Camel spiders and big roaches
• Rodents scuttling overhead
• Lizard poop
• Being the only one at at meeting who doesn't understand Changana
• Being stared at
• People asking me for money
• Loud music coming from every house
• Bucket baths
• Volunteer Report Form (VRF)
• Faulty electricity
• Bank lines
• How there's only “one way” to do things
• Corruption
• Running out of phone credit 
  
• Mosquitoes

Without you

" I can't win, I can't reign
I will never win this game
Without you, without you
I am lost, I am vain
I will never be the same
Without you, without you"
David Guetta ft Usher, "Without You"

I spent most of my service trying to keep up this strict barrier between work and personal life. I never went out in the evenings, never gave any indication that I drink occasionally. I was very careful of presenting myself in a certain way in my community, 24/7.
But the past couple of months, things have been changing. I ran into my supervisor at the club in Zavala and we danced for a while. Afterwards, he said to me in admiration, "I've never seen that side of you before!" I guess I'm generally pretty serious at work.
The previous mantra was: Be responsible, be professional, stay focused. But now that I'm so close to the finish line, it's nice to be able to "let my hair down," so to speak. I don't worry about my reputation; I think the things I have accomplished and the relationships I have cultivated will speak for themselves. And, I know the ones I'm close with will continue to love me despite my flaws.
I've recently started hugging my theatre group jovens hello and goodbye. Having always been a super affectionate person, I am not sure how I went so long without hugging them. (Just another barrier that's melted in the past few months...) I suppose I see them less as students now, and more as friends. More and more, I realize that they will be the ones I miss the most in Chicumbane.
Last weekend, I had the opportunity to watch the jovens in action during a troca that we hosted with another dance/threatre group from Macia. Another PCV and I planned the budget and did the shopping for the food, but the activities were left completely up to my theatre group, Grupo Amizade They did an amazing job hosting debate, icebreakers and games such as musical chairs, a lesson on the rules of theatre. I was so proud of them.
Last week, I taught the group the lyrics to the song "Without You" by David Guetta and Usher. (Oftentimes, the jovens are familiar with American "Top 40" music but comprehend little of what they're actually singing.) Later, one of my jovens, the one I'm closest with, hugged me and told me he felt that I deserved those lyrics."I'm lost without you," He said, and it almost brought me to tears. I feel the same way about each of them. They've been such a huge part of my experience in Mozambique. I'm not just their volunteer; I'm their neighbor, their friend, their sister. Every time I leave Chicumbane, even for just a few days, I think of them constantly .
Leaving is going to be so much harder than I ever imagined.

The troca

"In the end, I want to be standing at the beginning with you." - Donna Lewis / Richard Marx

I've commenced my 50-day countdown which obviously means that I have very little time left in Mozambique and even less time left in Chicumbane. As a result, I am remarkably busy and exceptionally emotional. I'm pretty sure that my replacement Colleen thinks that I'm crazy. I tend to freak out at least once a day, especially when I glance at the calendar. Sometimes I have to stop and catch my breath, realizing that my time here is coming to a close and that soon I'll be leaving all the familiar faces and sights that surround me.
Having a replacement is kind of a strange thing but so far, everything's gone smoothly. Helping Colleen set up her house and get introduced around the community brought back memories of my first few weeks at site. The difference being, I didn't have anyone there with me to help figure things out.
However, there's pros and cons to both. There are so many things that cannot be taught, but must be learned. Well, she has plenty of time ahead of her. (The question is: Where has all my time gone?)
All in all, I'm glad I've been able to get to know her and support her as she begins her two years of PC service. I care so much about my work and my community and I want to set her up for success. Hopefully, our dual presence will give her a head start in the workplace and eliminate the need to "reinvent the wheel," so to speak.
Plus, it's kind of funny to see the differences in the ways we view things, such as showing up to work on time, or the presence of unwanted critters in the house. Last night, she discovered her first rat in the house! One poisoned tomato and two dead rat corpses later, I give her much credit for having passed this Peace Corps rite of passage.
As she says, "we are at two very different places in our service." (By the way, her blog is frecklesoffaith.blogspot.com if you want to follow the experience of a fresh new PCV in Chicumbane.)
This weekend, I traveled to Inhambane province for the annual Timbila Festival in Quissico. (Timbila = Mozambican musical instrument, essentially a wooden xylophone.) Approximately 20 other PCV's were present, and we ran an American cultural booth alongside a Japanese cultural booth run by the Japanese (JICA) volunteers. At our booth, we displayed Peace Corps posters and photos of PCV's working at their schools and organizations, sold jewelry made by REDES groups throughout the country, sold home-made jam and cashews produced by local CBO's, and made fruit smoothies tinged with the "miracle plant" moringa.
The JICA volunteers made delicious Japanese food, sold cool crafts like capulana wallets made out of recycled milk cartons, and taught various Japanese games and crafts like simple origami and noisemakers made out of toilet paper rolls, boxes, and soda caps, to groups of children throughout the day. Some of the female JICA volunteers even wore kimonos. Having been close friends with a Japanese volunteer in Chibuto, I've always respected the JICA program but seeing their volunteers in action this weekend, I was yet again impressed by how organized, friendly, and just all-around awesome the Japanese are. They really brought their A-game.
In the afternoon and then again later in the evening, both groups paused activities to do a trash pick-up around the city (a ton of people + no trash cans + hot day = LOTS of trash) and I was struck by what a strange and beautiful thing this was. American volunteers working side by side with Japanese volunteers in Mozambique, communicating in Portuguese no less, to trocar (exchange) aspects of their culture with Africans and with each other. It's amazing, really.
And isn't this kind of what Peace Corps is all about?

The Adventures of Viv in Swaziland

I guess I had this idea that all of Africa is more or less like Moz, with the exception of a few countries. Boy, was I wrong

My friend Drew and I crossed the Namaacha border into the Kingdom of Swaziland, marveling when the Swazi lady who stamped our passports wished us a lovely day. (In Moz, customer service is non-existent. After two years, I'm pretty used to waiters rolling their eyes at me, shop owners and market ladies acting like they're doing me a favor by selling me something, oftentimes just being plain rude.)

Drew and I then found ourselves on a lovely paved road, in a cushy spacious mini-bus not crammed to the max with sweaty bodies. Even more amazing, was the driver following through on his promise that the chapa would leave right at 4pm, even though the car wasn't full. As we sped along on the wonderfully smooth road, surrounded by beautifully manicured fields of sugar cane, it felt like we were in a whole different world.

Night fell, and we arrived at our destination Ezulwini Valley, a city of glittering lights. Our backpackers lodge was 5k from a shopping mall replete with fancy stores, and even a movie theatre! (Wait, did we somehow teleport ourselves back to America?) We went to see The Dark Knight Rises, my first time at a movie theatre in two years. Drew gorged himself on popcorn and blue raspberry slushies, bought a velcro Avatar wallet and chocolate Rand coins, and otherwise used his credit card with reckless abandon. (You can just call me the babysitter.) We wandered the magical aisles of a Pick N Pay grocery store, and ate a lot of awesome food at the mall restaurants: pizza, chicken fingers, a smoked salmon sandwich. With all the amenities and choices, it really was like being home. We also toured a craft market and I stocked up on cool jewelry made out of beads, straw, and spun paper beads.

We realized we'd been in Moz too long when one night, after taking a cab ride to eat dinner at the mall, we asked the taxi driver to come back and pick us up at 9pm. He agreed, telling us to just borrow a security guard's phone to call him, and he'd be right there. As 9pm approached, Drew and I opted for dessert, absolutely convinced that the taxi driver would not even leave for the mall until he had received our call Around 9:45, we dialed his number from our waitress's phone. "I'm already here," he told us. Oops. We rush out and sure enough, he's been waiting for us promptly since 9. "I drove all over the mall looking for you guys!" He exclaimed. "Some other people wanted to hire me, but I said that I was waiting for some other mulungus" (Apparently, some words are universal in African languages- the one for "white person," for example.) Drew and I felt great shame for our taxi faux pas. Apparently, not all of Africa runs on Mozambican time. We made up for it, however, by leaving a generous American tip.

The next day, we went white water rafting, tubing, and rappelling- all of which were pretty fun. Although Kevin was convinced I would get eaten by a crocodile, we did not see a single one on the calm, shallow river. Drew and I got stuck on the sand bars plenty a time (it's dry season in Africa), and somehow ended up backwards on almost every rapid. Drew fell out of the raft once, but I didn't notice until the guide told me to look behind me (which might say wonders about our friendship... Just kidding.)

On our last day, Drew suggested we head back to Moz a day early, to get a head start on our full traveling day, but I wasn't ready to leave the luxuries of Swaz. We ended up compromising by staying in the city of Manzini, which is closer to the Moz border. The hotel we stayed at was called Moçambique Hotel (coincidence?), although you get an idea of how classy a place is when they have rates for "special room– 2 hours." We left bright and early in the morning, saying our goodbyes to Swaziland and returning to the disarray that is our Mozambique.

Throughout the trip, I thought a lot about Moz (a country I love despite its shortcomings, and feel lucky to have served in) in comparison to neighboring countries like Swaziland and South Africa. From a initial perspective, Mozambique is just way behind in terms of progress and development, despite the fact that there is so much outside money being poured in. Factors such as the protracted civil war that ended in 1992 and the flooding of Southern Moz in February 2000 play a significant part, but cannot account completely for the slow progress of the nation as a whole.

In Swaziland, there were so many positive billboards everywhere about corruption: "YOU can make a difference in stopping corruption!," "Corruption hurts all of us," etc., with whistle-blower hotline numbers. Corruption is so ubiquitous in Mozambique, but you see very little being done about it. One of my Mozambican friends has been looking for a job for some time. He heard of a job opening, interviewed, and when he went back to follow up this week, was told that he had to pay 2000 mets if he wanted his application approved. But there's a huge job shortage in Moz, what can he do?

The tourism industry in Moz has a lot of potential but the cost of development is so high that for example, the price of a hotel room in Maputo is phenomenal in comparison to what you can get in other big cities in neighboring countries like Capetown. Not to mention, the condition of the roads throughout Moz is... in need of improvement, to say the least.

But, of course, these observations and comparisons should be taken with a grain of salt. I don't claim to know much about the economic systems or political structures of Swaziland. I do know that the Kingdom of Swaziland is one of the worst affected by HIV/AIDS, and that the economic margin is pretty wide. The nice areas are really nice, but the rural areas can get very primitive. At least with Mozambique, what you see is what you get. Every 20 km or so, there's a Mozambican village next to the National Highway. In Swazi, I noticed a distinct lack of villages or traditional housing visible from the paved roads we were driving on, which is not to say that they don't exist... but just that they are hidden away from view.

I was a mere tourist in Swaziland, passing from big city to big city, soaking up comforts unavailable in Mozambique. In the end, though, I wouldn't trade my experiences in Moz for anything.

poop

As a Peace Corps volunteer, I talk a lot about my bodily functions. To an inordinate degree. To the point where, I'm not exactly sure what is and what isn't culturally acceptable... in any culture. I think I may need some help readjusting. Someone please write out a list of topics I can talk about with strangers, with acquaintances, and with friends, so that I don't alienate everybody I know. For everything else, I may just need to have a fellow health RPCV on speed dial for. When you've lived in Africa for two years, nothing is spared detailing in a casual "what's the weather like today" tone.

Anyway, all this just means you're in for a treat this blog post!

So I spent the weekend pooping my brains out. As I was sitting on my xixi bucket, I had some time to reflect. First of all, on what a saving grace that xixi bucket has been. While some of you may be horrified that in the evenings I pee in a bucket, I would cordially remind you that my latrine is located outside, in the dark, and I still have an unwieldy fear of big cockroaches. And in case of emergency, such as this past weekend, the xixi bucket is conveniently located next to my bed. The only downfall, is that a xixi bucket cannot dump itself. It must be emptied consistently. (And, in life, if you are blessed enough to find someone who loves you enough to do it for you, you hold on to that person forever and ever because that is the ultimate test of true love. I love you, Kev!)

Secondly, I was told, when I first arrived in Mozambique, "Don't worry. You WILL be sh*tting your pants sometime within your service." Well. Knock on wood, but that has yet to happen. And in that sense, I am incredibly luckily. I am aware of many a peer that has fallen victim to stated prophecy. We all know of PCV's who have had untimely emergencies on the side of the road, on the beach, you name it. I even heard of a PCV in another African country who, before departing for service held an "underwear party" in which guests were asked to bring gifts of underwear, as she had heard she would be going through many pairs.

In 22 months, I have only had to go on the antibiotic Ciprofloxacin twice, while I know of at least one volunteer that has graduated to the next class of antibiotics, because eventually Cipro stopped working for her.

On this note, I am also supremely lucky that I have meds like Cipro on hand. I can even give myself a malaria test, which I did when I developed a fever and stomach cramps on Friday night. Even if I did have malaria, I could immediately start treatment because I have Coartem on stock. As a PCV, I was sent to site with a black briefcase full of meds. I have endless pharmaceutical drugs and packets of Oral Rehydration Salts at home, just waiting for the possibility of diarrhea. All my bases are covered, for whatever health calamity may befall me during my service. The Peace Corps medical office has a 24-hour emergency line so I can always get a hold of someone. Needless to say, all of this is an immense luxury in a country with an existing shortage of doctors.

I will never have to go to a Mozambican hospital and wait for hours, just to see a nurse. In fact, even if I were to need medical attention in Chicumbane, I would likely be given priority just for being white. (And this is not considering the fact that I actually work at the hospital and incidentally, know all of the staff, giving me yet another advantage.) I will never have to worry about my child suffering from malnutrition, dirty water, or dying from malaria or diarrhea. These are, bluntly, third world problems.

I spent a weekend hanging out with my xixi bucket, and that's what it took to make me stop and realize how infinitely blessed I am. You see, the shadow proves the sunshine.

Who knew pooping could be so profound?

Perspective

"It's so easy to get lost inside a problem that seems so big at the time
It's like a river that's so wide it swallows you whole
While you're sitting around thinkin' bout what you can't change
And worrying about all the wrong things
Time's flying by, moving so fast
You better make it count 'cause you can't get it back

Sometimes that mountain you've been climbing is just a grain of sand
And what you've been out there searching for forever, is in your hands
When you figure out love is all that matters after all...
It sure makes everything seem so small"

-Carrie Underwood

In approximately one month, my replacement Colleen will arrive at site. Fortunately, I already know her; she was one of my site visitors. And, she's awesome! But all of it just makes my departure in 80 days seem all the more real. With so little time left in my service, I find my attitude about everything shifting. I spend all the time I can hanging out with my dogs and sitting on my front porch. Things that would usually annoy me or anger me, just don't bother me much these days. I don't have time to be anything but happy.
I spent the past week in Inhambane province, running the provincial REDES conference. It went really well but the entire time, I just was so anxious to get back to Chicumbane. I've never felt that way before; usually, I'm happy to take a break from the "same ol, same ol" at site. But now, my days are numbered and I feel the need to just be at home.
When my bus finally crossed the border from Inhambane into Gaza province, I literally breathed a sigh of relief. I got off the bus in Chicumbane with a smile on my face and a hop in my step, adoring the familiarity of my surroundings and well, the fact that I had come home. If a week-long trip could make me feel so homesick, I cannot even imagine how hard it will be for me to say my final goodbyes.
When people ask me if I'm excited to go back to the States, I don't know how to respond. I am, but it's such a bag of mixed emotions. Being here means being away from my friends, family, and fiance. Being there means leaving forever the people I've come to care about in Mozambique. My friend summed it up perfectly when he said, "Either way, your heart breaks."
I've spent two years trying to "fix" the problems I see in my community and in my workplace. Looking back on my service, I wish I'd spent less time frustrated about things I can't change and spending more time with the people I love.
We come in to Peace Corps with this "Save the world" mentality... But the truth is, we are the ones who leave changed.

Bittersweet

This week, I received a site visit- two MOZ18ers taking a break from training in Namaacha to shadow a currently serving volunteer and see what it’s like out in the “real world.”  Six weeks in, they’re practically “Fresh off the plane.” Their Portuguese is in progress, and they don’t know much about life in Moz outside of the bubble of Namaacha. But they’re bright eyed and eager to learn, and I see in them glimpses of the trainee I once was.  For one thing, they’re still obsessed with the concept of time. “What time does the chapa get here?” “How long will it take?” were questions I responded to with “The chapa gets here when it gets here.” And “It’ll take anywhere between 1 and 3 hours.” You learn quickly that time is a fluid concept in Africa.

            Of course, one of the first things I did was take my trainees to the beach. (Hey, PCVs from other countries don’t call us “Beach Corps” for nothing!) I awed them with my boleia skills, inspired them with my capulana wardrobe, and impressed them with my abundance of dogs and puppies. (I almost even let one of them take one of the puppies back to Namaacha…)  

            We went shopping at the Xai Xai market and stocked up on goodies like chocolate, cheese, tortillas, and cookies. Later, we made quesadillas at home and sent one over to my theatre jovens, who asked, “Is this pizza?”

            The 18ers went to work with me and asked tons of questions about everything.  I had them work with the children at CACHES in order to practice their Portuguese. Limbo, red light / green light, and Pictionary were all big hits.

            But mostly, we spent our afternoons hanging out on my front patio, which is one of my favorite pastimes. It was soooo wonderful to hang out with other Americans at site. I think I’m ready for my replacement to get here (mid August) and to have a “site mate” again. Granted, if we get along. That being said, I wouldn’t mind at all having either of my two site visitors be my replacement. But that’s just wishful thinking. They will, however, find out in less than a week!! Stay tuned for updates on the next PCV coming to Chicumbane.

            I can’t believe I’m leaving Mozambique in less than 90 days!!! As some of you know, I have been approved for early COS and will be leaving Moz on October 11.

As the days fly by, I’m feeling very mixed emotions. I’ve been looking forward to going home and being with Kev, for so long. But Mozambique has been my home for two years and it’ll be so hard to say goodbye. I tear up when I think about leaving my dogs and my friends in Chicumbane.

It’ll be so bittersweet.

The way things work

I used to be confused by all of the unfinished houses I see around the neighborhood, cement and brick frames with gaping holes for windows and no roof. The weeds settle in around them, making them look like ancient ruins. One day I asked,"Why are all these houses left unfinished?" My coworker responded, "The owners ran out of money."
I laugh. "They didn't plan ahead? Just started building and ran out of money for a roof?"
My coworker shrugs. "They're saving up to continue building."
Then it hits me. The owners didn't plan to finish all at once. They took their savings and started the process. Once the money ran out the construction stopped, but it'll continue again one day... hopefully.
This way of doing things seems strange to me. To start something and not finish it. Who's to say it will ever be finished? That my house wouldn't just sit there and rot while I tried to gather another substantial amount of money for construction?
All around, I see my Mozambican friends working to build their own houses. A lot of them have land, possibly passed down to them from their parents, but no house to call their own. A lot of the time, these plots of land are also very far away from where they are currently living.
My empregada has been working on her house for a while now, but she says she's still a ways to go. Another year, she estimates. In Mozambican time, I'm guessing it won't be done for at least five. My next door neighbor Orquidia picked up and left suddenly the moment her house was completed (although I think she mentioned that it still doesn't have glass in the windows). The 350 she was paying a month (~$13 USD) was too hard on her meager salary. Now her daughter Tania has to walk an hour to get to school, but hey. At least their home belongs to them.

I love my house. It's small but quaint, located in a safe and convenient neighborhood. Peace Corps pays 3,000 mts (~$100 USD) a month to rent it. Cheap, right? But not by Mozambican standards. I spoke with a friend and neighbor of mine, Chelsia, who pays 250 a month to rent a small house with a living room and one bedroom. It's fully furnished with a bed, a fridge, two sofas, and a TV. She doesn't pay for water (which she can get from the outdoors faucet) or electricity.
Which kind of means I'm getting ripped off, with my 3,000 mt rent which includes a few measly tables and none of amenities. But that's normal, when I-NGO's show up to rent local houses, suddenly the rent soars. In short, they know we can afford it.
My replacement volunteer will live in Orquidia's old house, paying 1,000 a month instead of 350.The justification falls in the work that needs to be done before it is "fit" for a PCV to live in it: Door grates, window grates, window screens, new locks. I suppose it's funny that while we live and work in the community and try to be as integrated as possible, our houses are upgraded to keep others out.

Police don't get paid very much in Mozambique. Bribes supplement income Traffic stops, especially in Gaza province, can delay a chapa for an hour or more.The police stand in the middle of the road, arbitrarily waving passing cars to stop. (Interesting fact: If you refuse to pull over when the police wave you down, they have a right to shoot at your car. Although I've also heard that the guns they carry are empty. No money to buy bullets.) When the police officer approaches the window, the driver puts a couple of bills in his registration book, hands it to the officer, who subtly takes the money (while pretending to study the registration), and hands the book back. The driver then puts more bills in the book before putting it away, to prepare for the next time.

Here in Moz, not only do people drive on the opposite side of the road that we Americans are used to, but pedestrians most definitely do NOT have the right of way. Sometimes we joke that the chapas actually accelerate when they see white people crossing the road in front of them. Cars will lay on the horn to warn people too close to the road, but won't break their speed. I've seen children and adults scramble to safety as a car whizzes by without a second glace. I've even been the one scrambling to safety.
Pretty frequently, you'll see smashed bodies of cats and dogs on the EN1- the National Highway. I can recall the chapas that I've been in that have hit a bird, a dog, a cat. But I've been lucky; I've never been in a car that has hit a human being.
The other day, on my way to Maputo, I saw the crumpled up body of a male teenager near the opposite side of the asphalt. The chapa slowed down, the driver leaned out the window to get a better look, but to my surprise, we didn't stop. Neither did the three or four other cars going the other direction, although it would've been easy to pull over to the side. This more than anything haunted me for a long time afterwards. How can people just drive by an injured human being and not feel compelled to stop and help? What kind of systems have been created in this country that deter innate human compassion?
Again and again, I've heard hear horror stories of people stopping to help the victim of a hit and a run, and getting arrested by the Mozambican police, who need someone to blame. And if you're a white person, the blame always shifts to you. You are assumed to be the owner of the car. You are assumed to be the reason for the accident.
Another volunteer in my group was in the back of a pickup truck one day when they hit a small girl. The PCV forced the car to stop – although he says they likely would not have-- and literally carried the girl to the hospital. What struck me about his story was the reaction of the driver of the car. No remorse, just... irritation. That a child was playing in the road when she shouldn't have been.
It makes me all the more glad to be from a country that protects its people and actively seeks justice, where hit and runs aren't the norm, where school zones have speed restrictions, where most people will stop to help injured people, and even animals. I recently had a conversation with a few other foreign-born pcvs (one from france and one from ireland) and we all agreed that serving in peace corps has made us feel more american. Maybe its because we have gained more perspective and realized how much we have to be appreciative of.

Justice

"I wandered through fiction to look for the truth, buried beneath all the lies
And I stood at a distance to feel who you are, hiding myself in your eyes"
Goo Goo Dolls, "Before It's Too Late"

I read once in a sociology book that different cultures are motivated by different things. For example, Asian cultures by honor. African cultures by power. And you know what Americans are motivated by? Justice.

In America, everything is black and white. Something's either right, or it's wrong.
Here in Mozambique, I'm learning that there is no such clarity. Just...gray.

Honesty isn't the extolled virtue it is in the States.

Students cheat blatantly on exams. Why? Because it's considered selfish to not share your knowledge with a friend. They legitimately do not understand what is wrong with peeking over at the test of a neighbor.

I wrote in my last blog post about my best friend/student/next door neighbor stealing food items from my house. My American indignation kicking in: Why didn't he just ASK??
After further reflection, I guess I can sort of see his point: I obviously have an excess of food lying around, why wouldn't I share it? How would I even notice it's gone?

Hoarding isn't a habit here. What you have, you give. You use it to help your friends and your family. Needless to say, savings accounts aren't all that common at the bank.

My friend Calvino had a cute gray puppy for a while Then one day, the dog disappeared. When I asked the younger sister, she informed me that it had been poisoned and had died (a common occurrence). I mentioned it later to Calvino, who told me that, "Nah, it'd just been given to a friend." So which is true? What's the lie for?- to protect the young sister or to protect me, the dog lover of Chicumbane?

After one of my students spent several hours spilling his guts to me about his girlfriend breaking up with him, I mentioned the incident to his best friend several days later, only to receive a blank look in response. "He hasn't told you anything about what happened with his...girlfriend?" "What, is she pregnant?" He asked. I shook my head and suggested he talk to his friend personally...
Later that evening, he came back and whispered, "He told me his girlfriend is pregnant. What did he tell you?"

So, apparently, it's not as important to tell the truth as it is to tell someone what they want to hear. (By the way, my student later recanted the pregnancy story.)

This week, my coworker told me that one of the wooden doors to the latrine we had built for my organization, had been stolen overnight Doors are expensive, but they're also heavy. So immediately I know that it would have taken more than one person to take it down and carry it or transport it somewhere. While I mull over this turn of events, I find myself at the front steps of my coworker's house later that same day to give him something when... through the open front door, I see something in the house. It's a random wooden door, leaning up against his living room wall.

This is the same coworker, who had earlier this week been planting new packets of seeds in his garden at his house. Coincidental, because at work we are currently doing a gardening project and the organization has just bought a bunch of gardening supplies, including seeds.

So here's what I think is going on. I suspect that materials at work are getting siphoned off the top, like skimming funds in an embezzlement scheme. There's always been a fine line between what belongs to the organization and what belongs to the activists. What if someone really needed a door? But didn't have money to buy one? Would it be wrong to "borrow" it for a time?

{Let me give you an example. If you've got a job that you need to fill, you give it to your good friend. You don't give it to the person who is most qualified. Why would you help that person? }

If I'm right, then I'm pretty sure I'm the only one not in the loop, the only one kept in the dark. I'm the only one who would call then out on this, but does that mean I'm not an ally?

The wrongness of the situation cuts me, and I don't know how I can fight this battle. How could I, alone, hold everyone accountable? How can I claim to be a part of their organization, their community, and their culture and not look out for their "best interests?" Why would I want to "deprive" my friends of something that's available, if it doesn't hurt anyone? It sounds kind of messed up, to straightforward American way of thought, but I don't know. I just don't have the energy to make it "right" because "right"... is relative here, isn't it?

The door was stolen by an unknown thief? Aren't they just telling me what I'd rather hear? Is there a reason that "Wa Hemba" (liar) is the most common phrase in Changana?

The more I immerse myself in my community, the more I realize that there's so much that I'm still learning, or just now learning. That's when I know I'm in way over my head.

Trust

Several weeks ago, I began to notice food items missing from my house. Just small things here and there: a tupperware of garlic, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, a bag of chips, etc. I'd reach for a packet of oatmeal and discover only one left in the box. At first, I thought I was going crazy. Did I eat all the oatmeal and just forget to add it to my grocery list? Strange, because I'm usually very good about buying things before I run out. I considered the possibility of the onset of early Alzheimer's.
This week, when I bought a brand new box of oatmeal, I numbered the packets 1-10. A few days later, I only had 6 left. AHA!! I had eaten two of them (one a day), which left two unaccounted for. I applauded myself for NOT going crazy, while I began to feel the dull pain of trust shattered in my heart.
Only two other people have keys to my house: my empregada, and my 18-year-old next door neighbor who also happens to be one of my theatre kids. Both of these people were specially entrusted with my keys. I had mentioned these strange happenings to my empregada, who claimed to have no knowledge of what was going on (and also is not aware that the neighbor also has a key). As time passed, and things continued to disappear I shifted my doubt to my neighbor, who is the only one who knows of my daily comings and goings.
This frustrated me, because I consider him one of my good friends and I've always played a big-sister role to him. I would trust this kid with my life, but apparently I shouldn't trust him with access to my personal belongings. What makes this situation even more bizarre is what happened earlier this week. He came over to my house one night after his girlfriend of 3 years broke up with him, and literally bawled into my lap for an hour and a half. It was like holding a man-child who has no idea what to do with his emotions. I'd never seen a Mozambican so upset...EVER. Two days later, he still hadn't even mentioned a thing to his best friend. So what does that say about our relationship, that I'm the first and only person he goes to when something tragic happens?
Now, we seem to be closer than ever. Or....so I thought. Before my numbered oatmeal went missing, and the only person who knew for certain I was gone at certain times during the day... was him. It's heartbreaking.
I feel that the things I have, I give freely. Lately, I've been giving out money right and left to help people that I consider friends. Oh, you don't have money to get to work? Here's 100 mts. Oh, the threatre group is participating in a competition and needs money for transport to participate? Here's 500 mts. Especially when it comes to my sweet neighbor/friend, I'm pretty damned generous. An extra blanket because it gets cold, a pillow, a plate of food a couple times a week, candy... So really, all he'd have to do is ASK and I'd probably give it.
While venting my frustrations to other PCV's, I discovered that most of them had also been privy to similar petty thefts (by friends and people they trust!). And so I start to wonder, if I'm reading too much into all this. To me, this is an act of betrayal, a personal affront. But to Mozambicans, I'm not sure it's the same. Could it be that these acts of theft have nothing to do with me, and more to do with the things that I am perceived to have? I obviously have things in "excess" ; I'm always giving away things. Maybe the assumption is, I have so much I won't notice a few things gone. Or I'll just replace it.
So... my definition of friendship obviously isn't quite the same as others'. But I also can't get trapped in these feelings of bitterness that will only continue to taint my relationships with people. It's hard to explain, but I know that despite what's going on, they do care about me. I'm not wrong in saying that my friendship with my neighbor is as authentic as it was before I discovered the food thefts. And hopefully we'll continue to be close for the rest of my service.
But first... I'm going to need my keys back.

The sights and sounds of africa

By the time you've lived somewhere for 20 months, everything that surrounds you has fallen under the category of "Normalcy." Very few things make you stop and stare. Indeed, very few things that you do make other people stop and stare.
I think that the people of Chicumbane are used to my "white person" quirks- namely the fact that I walk around the neighborhood accompanied by a pack of dogs, or that sometimes I have to chase them home brandishing a stick. After 20 months, these things are just part of the landscape.
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In the morning, I'm sometimes woken up by the soft scraping sound of my neighbor raking the sand. It's a comforting sound, knowing that somebody's taking care of the yard and it doesn't have to be me. (Hey, I bought the rake- fair exchange, right?) This, accompanied by roosters crowing and shortly after, the sound of speakers being turned on wafts music beats through my window. Sometimes, the music from different houses compete to see who can be heard by the most people, something that used to irritate me but has since become the background noise to everyday life.
By the way, it's getting COLD!!! I sleep with a jacket, sweatpants, socks, and two blankets. The tin roof above my head cools my house in the winter and heats it to sweltering in the summer. The only good thing is that when it rains, the pattering sound can be soothing. Although this, too, was something that I initially found disconcerting.
On my way to the latrine in the morning to dump out my xixi bucket, I pass chickens rummaging through piles of dead leaves, surrounded by peeping chicks I hear my neighbors greeting and talking to each other in local language, and sometimes my crazy misogynist neighbor yelling angrily at someone. If somebody nearby is burning their trash, the air smells of smoke. When I first landed in Africa, it was one of the first things I noticed- the constant faint linger of smoke. People burn their trash, burn firewood to cook, burn their land to clear crops.
After my breakfast and morning coffee (gotta love the French press) I head to work at the hospital, a pleasant 20 minute walk in which I usually pass a herd or two of cows and goats heading to pasture, and multiple fresh cow patties. When I first arrived at site, I complained ferociously about the difficulties of walking through sand and now no longer notice it. I'm hoping this means good things for my calves. Also along the way, I cross paths with students in uniform going to and from school, adults heading to work, women coming back from the field. Some of them greet me with "Bom dia" (good morning) or call me by name:
"Mana Vivana!" At all the houses I pass, people are sitting outside.
In the afternoon, I return home for lunch. This is about the time that children notice my open door and come by asking to color. They stand timidly at my door and call "da licenca!" ("Excuse me!") repeatedly until I tell them to go home and come back on the weekend. It's amazing how many times I turn away the same kids who apparently don't know the days of the week. If my neighbor isn't around to shoo them away, they may decide to hop into my trash pit and collect whatever treasures they find. (It's always kind of awkward when you pass children on the street playing with something that obviously came out of your trash pit. For this reason, all hygiene products and discarded medical supplies go into the latrine.) I think I'll need some time to adjust back to weekly trash pickups and garbage disposals...
Aside from the pounding of music, there's also the sound of chatter in Changana, children wheeling their squeaky wire trucks around or whipping a wooden top through the sand to make a sharp cracking noise and keep it spinning, the bleating of nearby goats or children crying (they sound the same).
In the evenings, I go to work where I inevitably encounter mosquitoes- a lot of them (Chicumbane is right next to the Limpopos River). The phase of the moon makes all the difference between intense darkness or well-lit streets. After it rains, there's the danger of falling into muddy puddles in the middle of the path.
Unless it's the weekend, when music from barracas plays until the wee hours of the morning, the neighborhood quiets down by 9pm or so. In the middle of the night, it is dead silent save for the occasional chorus of dogs barking. And rats running over my tin roof.
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At this point in my service, all of this is familiar to me. But the thought that in less than 5 months, I'll be leaving all this behind- probably forever- is sobering. It's one of the things that make me stop and just... be. Just soak in a little more of Africa.

Oh baby

Working with girls in Mozambique can be challenging. For one thing, they're so busy. Between school, household chores, babysitting younger relatives, and church, it can be difficult to fit in time to descansar (rest), much less to attend a REDES group meeting. I'll work closely with a promising secondary school girl, only to have her disappear suddenly after several weeks. I find out...her mother is making her run the family vegetable stand at the market. Or she has to stay at home to cook and take care of her siblings. Or she's on the verge of failing a class, and has to spend more time at school studying. Or one of her relatives is very sick and she has to travel to visit them.
Or... she got pregnant. Teen pregnancy is not a novel concept, but here in Africa it is unbelievably common. In my experience, I'd say that the average age that a Mozambican woman has her first child is... between 18 and 20.
One of the most common questions I get asked is, "Do you have children?" (Almost inevitably after "Are you married?") And then comes, "No? Why not?" It seems weird to them that a person could be married but not have kids. It's as if having children validates marriage. My host brother got his girlfriend pregnant about a year ago . After hushed negotiations with the girl's family, she and the baby now live with my host family. They're essentially married. They refer to each other as husband and wife, but I don't think they're actually legally bound.
So even if it's -oops! An accident, usually it turns out okay. Unplanned pregnancies aren't the huge burden they are in the States. There definitely isn't the same stigma and disapproval, or talk of "children having children." At 18, a Mozambican girl is of prime child-bearing age. I explain, "I don't want kids yet, I have plenty of time later." This is usually met with a strange look that says, "Whatever, you crazy white person. You're 24 and you're getting old so you better start popping out those children while you can." I wonder if it has to do with the lower life expectancy in Moz. People die younger, so people procreate younger.
Also, family is such a huge deal in African culture. Having children means more hands to help around the house. Having children means a woman's role of motherhood is fulfilled, and a man's role of proving his virility is accomplished.
Last week, I received a visit from a young girl who introduced herself as Stella's sister. (Stella is a secondary school student who used to be active in REDES and participated in my English Theatre group last year.) I asked how Stella was, mentioning that I hadn't seen her in a long time. "Oh, she's fine. Almost about to have her baby."
...WHAT???!!! If I had a metical for every time I've been surprised to discover that someone I know is pregnant, I'd probably be able to afford a chapa ride to Xai Xai (from Chicumbane to Xai Xai is 10 meticais). For some reason, I'm not very good at picking out pregnant women in Mozambique. One of my coworkers, whom I've known my entire time in Chicumbane, had already given birth by the time I discovered that she was even pregnant.
Maybe it's because a lot of Mozambican women are typically...um, big. Or maybe because no one makes a huge fuss about being pregnant, and it's such a natural thing In America, pregnant women throw elaborate baby showers, post up sonogram photos, complain about morning sickness and cravings and purportedly emit some sort of pregnancy glow. If you're a pregnant Mozambican woman, you don't even get the privilege of knowing if it's a boy or girl before it pops out.
But still. Throughout REDES meetings and events we try to drill in the importance of using protection, family planning, long term decisions, blah blah...It's hard to say how much of it goes in one ear and out the other. Girls see their friends having babies and want one too. They don't ponder the financial drain of having another mouth to feed, or the time commitment that comes with caring for a child, or the impact on their own education (because while they often argue that it is possible to raise a baby and continue going to school, most often they end up dropping out).
Next thing you know, they're knocked up and I'm hearing about it from somebody else. But probably not until 7 or 8 months down the line...

A Woman In A Man's World

Before the sun is even up, the African women are out and about. Armed with hoes, they march to the machamba, sometimes many kilometers away, to till their land and sow their crops: cassava root, pumpkin, corn, kidney beans, green beans, potatoes, cacana. Then, once the sun begins to ascend into the sky, the women trudge home, not to rest but to begin their work there.
A Mozambican woman's day is full of housework: sweeping the yard, washing clothes, carting water, taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, washing dishes, cooking. Cooking is an intensive chore in itself, requiring a woman to pilar (pound dried corn with a heavy mortar and pestle), moer (grind the flour against a huge ceramic bowl), and cook the flour with boiling water into xima, the staple carb that accompanies most meals. The division of labor in this culture is apparent from childhood; boys roam freely, wheeling about their wire trucks, while girls are kept close to home to help out. Little girls play "house" and practice balancing things on their heads.
Where is my place in this society? When I'm at work, men eat first and I eat with them. I am the only woman given a chair. The other women bring us plates, cups, hot water, sugar, tea, and bread for us to eat breakfast, and pour warm water for us to wash our hands. Afterwards, the women wash our dishes and eat together, seated on a straw mat.
When I pick up a hoe to dig up some weeds everyone stares and giggles. Within a few minutes, someone comes over to take the hoe from my hands and finishes the job. When I sit next to the women to help shell beans, they marvel, "Wow, you know how to do that?" As if breaking open a bean pod is an exceptionally difficult task. When I get close to the kitchen, the smoke from the firewood burns my eyes and makes me tear up. The women laugh and tell me to go sit down in the shade.
I'm treated simultaneously like a child and like an honored guest. I'm not expected to do anything but that doesn't mean I don't want to do it. Sometimes I want to participate in an activity with the women but I also don't relish the prospect of being laughed at. And almost inevitably, I'll do something "wrong"... Because in this society, domestic things are done only one way. THE way. When I tell the women that I eat potatoes with the skins on, they look at me like I've just turned neon pink and sprouted horns. "I couldn't do that," One woman shudders at the thought.
The other day, I have a conversation with my coworker, Senhor Monjane. He's lamenting the lack of work that's been done on our new office lately. "Those women need a man around to tell them what to do." "Oh?" I reply. "Yes, otherwise they don't have any idea where to start." "Is it because they aren't used to doing construction work and they're not familiar with the process?" I ask. "It's because they can't do it without a man. They won't conseguir (succeed)," He says.
"So, you're saying that physically the women can't do construction work," I respond.
"Construction work is men's work."
I tell him: "Well, in my opinion, there's no such thing as 'men's work' and 'women's work.' Those women seem pretty capable of conseguir-ing, they just need an explanation of what needs to be done. And wouldn't it be better if everyone worked together and got more work done, instead of ONE man doing something and everybody else just sitting around?"
He thinks about it. "Yeah I guess so."
The next day, Sr Monjane, an activist woman named Hortencia, and I pick up spades to cement the office walls. Sr Monjane suggests that maybe I should start off at the far wall (reading between the lines: "In case you mess it up, it won't be noticeable.") Fifteen minutes later, another activist comments, "Mana Viviana is working??" to which Sr Monjane calls back proudly, "And she's conseguir-ing!" Of course I'm succeeding. This is men's work? It involves grabbing a handful of wet cement mixed with dirt and slathering it on the reed walls and then smoothing it down. Meanwhile, the other women are carrying in shovel-fuls of dirt and doing the cement mixing in a wheelbarrow. Everyone's working and we get more done in less time than the previous day.
At the end of the day, I write my name in the cement on my wall: VIVIENNE 2012.

...Because hey, I'm white, I'm a woman, and I can conseguir too.

Going North

I’ve just completed a 2 week trip up to Northern Mozambique.  Below is my route and some of the interesting things I noted along the way.

VILANCULOS
Vilanculos is a popular tourist site in Inhambane Province, and also the site of the annual Peace Corps Beer Olympics. Up until my North trip, Vil was the furthest north I’d ever been in Mozambique. This year, I rented a beach chalet for me and my friend Helen because last year we ended up having to sleep on the same tiny mattress in the backpacker dorms…on the top bunk. The Northern volunteers, who usually have a hard time getting all the way to Vil, rented a private chapa this year! So I hopped in with them on their way home.

THE ROADS
Traveling in the North SUCKS!! It takes forever to get anywhere, not necessarily because everything is further away (okay, well that too) but also because the roads are terrible. You’re lucky to find paved road, even if it is full of giant potholes and cracks that make the chapa go THWOMP! BOOM! BAM! as you are rudely knocked awake from your nap when your head hits the window. There’s a lot of waking up at 3am to get on buses that leave at 4, and full days spent in vehicles buying fruit, crackers, sodas, hard boiled eggs, and bread from crowds of vendors jostling each other at your window.  At one stop, Inchope, the vendors came running with plastic bags of chicken and French fries, what PCV’s call “Happy Meals.”

The EN1 (National Highway) is okay, but unlike the South where you’re constantly passing fields and villages , in the North you can drive for hours and hours with nothing but tall brush on either side. I got very good at peeing in the bush.

In some places, the paved road is blocked off and you have to take a detour on a dirt road that runs parallel to the paved one.  Our driver explained that in these areas, the road is unfinished but that the workers have stopped showing up because they haven’t been paid in months. I guess I wouldn’t go to work if I weren’t getting paid, either.

Luckily, I had the foresight to have booked a flight for my return to Southern Mozambique. This flight from Quelimane to Maputo cost me about 5000 MZN (about $150 USD) and spared me another exhausting, multi-day trip overland.

ANGOCHE
Angoche is a lovely, if slightly isolated, beach city in Nampula province. In the days of Portuguese rule, Angoche used to be a bustling trading hub. Now it’s pretty quiet (“Eerily quiet,” Meagan said, but that’s because she’s used to the crowded streets of Quelimane). There’s quite a big Muslim population, which is not something I’m used to because where I live I’d say about 90% are Christian.

The local language  is Koti,  the only place in the world where it’s spoken. Koti  doesn’t have the same harsh vowels that Changana (Gaza’s local language) does. In fact, it kind of sounds like everyone is drunk and slurring their words together (my initial reaction to their Portuguese).

THE BEACH
The beach in Angoche was amazing. We walked out about 15 minutes on a raised dirt road with swampy trees and marshland all around us; this area floods when the tide comes in. Then we took a 10 minute wooden boat ride across the peninsula to the beach side. The water was warm and the sand was white, and the best part- no one even passed by in the several hours we were out there!

APAS
Apas (Angoche style) are tortillas with a fried egg in between, drizzled with ketchup and mayo. FYI skeptics, they’re delicious. And for only 15 mts each (roughly 50 cents) they are the best lunch deal around! We brought them back to Jordan’s house and added hot sauce and spices. I ate about 12 in the 4 days I was there, and am now kicking myself for not just kidnapping the apa guy and making him live in Chicumbane with me.

BOLEIAS
Hmm… I wasn’t a huge fan of hitchhiking in the North. It seemed that most cars picked us up with the expectation of money. (Maybe because the distances are longer?) Meagan and I hopped on one chapa, two semi trucks, one private car, and the back of one pickup truck in order to make it from Angoche to Quelimane (Green and red route on map). We started at 1am and arrived at 5pm. Talk about a long day!

CAPULANAS
As everyone knows, I love love love capulanas- the bolts of colorful fabric that Mozambican women tie around their waists. In the North, they have some awesome colorful tie-dye capulanas that you can’t get in the South. So… I bought 7 of them.

QUELIMANE
Quelimane is a big city, maybe even bigger than Xai Xai. It was kind of crazy, having to constantly watch for oncoming cars and bikes. Meagan has a number of expat friends who have sweet American-style apartments, so we hung out with them quite a bit. One night we went out to a Chinese restaurant, where I impressed the owners with my Mandarin and ordered us a good meal. I also ordered myself a glass of white wine, which apparently they don’t sell. Instead, I was brought a full, freshly-opened bottle of wine that I had no choice but to finish on my own. Tough life, being on vacation.

BIKE TAXIS
In Quelimane, bike taxis are everywhere. You get on the back of a bike and pay 5 mts to get peddled around to anywhere in the city. Pretty sweet deal. I only took one during my stay but I found it kind of nerve-wracking. I was very tense during the entire ride because of all the other bike taxis and cars on the road, and because I lacked any control. Also, I had no idea where to put my hands so I just held on to the part of the seat that didn’t have the guy’s butt on it. Other PCV’s reassured me that “you get used to it” and eventually it’s even relaxing.

Donor dependency & lessons in event planning

The REDES Project held its first regional TOT (Training of Trainers) conferences on April 20-23, in 5 locations throughout Mozambique. My friend Megan (also the REDES Curriculum Director) and I were in charge of the Gaza TOT in Macia. Overall, everything went well although the process of planning and executing a 3-day event for 19 Mozambican facilitators and 6 PCV's is not an easy task.

I should give you a brief explanation here. In past years, REDES conferences were always held in super nice resorts with fancy buffet meals, and the participants received absurdly high per diems.
This year, with the challenge of introducing this big event into our currently existing budget and the concept of sustainability in mind, we voted to cut down on event costs in a variety of ways.

First, we booked internatos (school dorms)instead of ritzy hotels. Second, we cut down significantly on the per diem amounts. (At an event in which food and lodging is all provided, the participants really don't need to receive large sums of cash.) Third, we opted to create our own menu instead of using the venues'. This meant we had to find our own cooks and buy all of the food materials in advance.

From a efficiency and cost-cutting standpoint, all of these changes make sense, right?
But from the viewpoint of a Mozambican who has participated in REDES conferences and other I-NGO sponsored events in the past, this was outrageous!!!!

We heard our first complaints almost immediately. "This is nothing like Barra Lodge," A participant complained to another, making reference to last year's beach-side resort venue.

At snack time, one of the older REDES facilitator called me over. "I don't drink tea," she said. "Well, have some coffee," I replied. She said she only drank juice or soda. I responded that each participant was already receiving one soda for lunch and one soda for dinner, and did she really need three sodas a day? She sniffed at my suggestion that she drink some water. Another woman handed me back a package of crackers and asked for a different kind. Megan and I felt like everyone's personal empregadas, to the point that one day we ate alone in the kitchen so we could get some peace.

The biggest uproar came when meal time arrived the second day. "Matapa for lunch?" Some participants griped (Matapa is a standard Mozambican dish, made with greens and coconut milk.) Reading between the lines, this meant: WHERE'S OUR MEAT??? Apparently, it is preposterous to withhold protein (chicken, beef, fish, etc.) at a conference, despite the fact that the dishes we were serving are ones they eat every single day at home. The announcement of beans and rice for dinner was met with indignation. One woman tried to rally up a group to leave and get dinner elsewhere, although their plan was foiled by lack of transport.

The complaints got so bad that at the end of the second day, we had to confront the problem head-on. Megan explained to the group that REDES is currently at the end of the fiscal year and under budget constraints, and asked the participants to be understanding of what we can offer them. Afterwards, we didn't hear that as many complaints- although the participants probably just switched to bitching in Changana. Even so, five out of six of the feedback forms brought up housing, food, per diem, or all three.

You'd think that the opportunity to learn and grow as a facilitator would be enough motivation to be at a conference. But who am I kidding? How does KNOWLEDGE compare to continental buffets and a wallet full of change?

Years and years of outside funding has created a sense of entitlement and donor dependency. How can we ever expect to turn over our programs to host country nationals one day if things don't change?

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http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1365-3156.2010.02607.x/full (Related reading about per diem dependency)

Blog About Malaria Month (BAMM 2012)

When it rains, the unpaved sandy roads of my community collect pools of water that can be so wide as to make the route impassable. Some evaporate quickly. Others, sheltered by the shade of trees, sit for weeks, are stomped through by cows on their way to pasture, collect black foam and tadpoles at the edges, become foul-smelling swamps before they eventually shrivel into nothing.

Then they come.
The mosquitoes.

There are so many, they are so desperate, they will bite through my shirt and my jeans until I am covered, and I feel like I left the house naked. Being in Mozambique is like camping all the time, even in my own home. My living room wall is dotted with smashed mosquito corpses that I don't bother to wipe off. Some days during the rainy season get to be so bad that I put on bug repellant so I can sit in my house in peace. Or I'll run to the only safe zone- under my mosquito net. A bed with a mosquito net is an amazing luxury, but one that not all people here have.

In Sub-Saharan Africa, malaria is the number one killer of children under 5. It also presents a huge danger to pregnant women, impacting fetal growth and development. It's so prevalent here that people think everything is malaria. There is a running joke among PCV's that you could have a toothache and Mozambicans would tell you it's malaria. It's common for people to say, upon returning to work, "Oh I was at home for the last few days because I wasn't well. I had malaria" and everyone nods and clucks in sympathy. Normal.

A child with a fever is usually assumed to have malaria ("guilty until proven innocent") because it's better to be safe than sorry. Anyone who comes into the hospital complaining of a headache, chills, or fever is immediately sent to take a malaria test, which involves pricking the finger, depositing a drop of blood onto a stick that looks like a pregnancy test, and waiting for a line to form to confirm negative or positive. The malaria-positive patient is sent home with a myriad of pills to take for the next couple of weeks.

So much money is spent annually on malaria treatment But the thing is... Malaria is so easy to prevent! If everyone slept under a treated mosquito net, removed stagnant water around their homes, and sought treatment at the hospital sooner rather than later, malaria wouldn't stand a chance. The problem? Lack of information.

This month, I gave a lesson on malaria at CACHES and was surprised to find that the kids knew very little about it. They didn't know the symptoms, or the groups most vulnerable to getting it, or even where mosquitoes come from. And yet, they all claimed to have been to the hospital to do a malaria test at least once in their lives. They receive tons of information about HIV, but little or none about the most common illness that impacts their community! Using candy as a motivator, I coaxed them through trivia game that taught them the basics about malaria. A week later I gave them a pop quiz on what I'd taught and astonishingly most of them had retained the information. I attribute all my success to tootsie rolls.

April 25 is World Malaria day. That week, I will ask all of my CACHES kids to share with at least one friend or family member what they know about malaria.
Maybe one day, a child won't die every 30 seconds of malaria in Sub-Saharan Africa. Children and adults alike will be able to sit outside under a majestic African night sky free from mosquitoes and malaria. Like that awesome scene from The Lion King, but better.

Terra da Boa Gente

Since being back, I've been busier than ever (excluding the week of post-vacation depression). This week has been the one of the best community integration experiences ever. Nothing like eating xima and greens with a my coworkers for a week straight to convince them that I'm really one of them. I've even started tying capulanas around my waist like the African women do, even if it is because I'm too lazy to put on pants.

On Saturday evening, I was invited to a birthday dinner for a neighbor girl who, to be honest, I'm pretty sure I'd never spoken more than a few words to. But I was flattered to be asked to attend, even if she did also want to borrow my table and two chairs. And, as soon as I agreed to go, she said, "Great! By the way, I'm charging money for food." But all in all, I figured it wouldn't be bad to get to know some of my neighbors. (Considering that my next door neighbor Orquidia and her daughter Tania- my favorite kid and practically my best friend in Moz- suddenly picked up and moved out, leaving me all alone in the quintal.) I was told dinner would be at 8, so I foolishly showed up exactly at 8. I sat with the women cooking around the fire ("We're just finishing up" they told me) until my eyes burned from the smoke and I was banished inside to watch tv (Brazilian soap operas).
At 10pm, I was told that the food was just about ready but that the women were then "all going to bathe and get ready for the party." I must have looked tragic (by the way, my normal schedule includes dinner at 6pm and bed at 8pm) because they thrust a plate of rice at me and told me to eat something for now. I'd made the mistake of brandishing my camera, which meant that I was now officially the party photographer, and I couldn't just quietly escape to go to bed. After much prodding (women are the same everywhere; they take forever to get ready), the women were finally ready for their photographs to be taken- at 10:30pm.
At 10:45 I was happily skipping out the door to go home when I was called back. "We need you to take pictures of the birthday girl cutting the cake." (*Inner groan*) How could I forget the mandatory cutting-the-cake photo? There are certain poses that Mozambicans photograph at ALL parties, and they include: cutting the cake with your partner, feeding each other a piece of cake with your arms intertwined, opening a bottle of champagne after sufficiently shaking it up for effect, and sipping out of each others' champagne glasses with your arms intertwined. Before this all happened, however, there was a huge debate amongst the girls. The birthday girl wanted to wait for her boyfriend to cut the cake with her, but at 11pm he had not yet showed. One of her friends was adamant that the cake be cut anyway, because the photographer was leaving. "How are you going to remember your 20th birthday if you don't take a photo with the cake?" In the end, the cake was cut with the help of the birthday girl's brother and then I was dragged around to take photos of her with all of her guests. I passed out as soon as I got home at 11:15pm. And I didn't even get a decent dinner. But I'd like to think that I made a girl's 20th birthday memorable, by taking the photo of her cutting the cake. Hah.

On Easter Sunday, I went to church with my friend and coworker Antonieta, who lives "lá" in a bairro called Chiconela, which is about 20 minutes behind Chicumbane by car. The Presbyterian church service was about 3 hours, replete with singing in Changana and dancing. Afterwards, Antonieta and I went back to her house for a lunch of mandioca, rice, and chicken curril, which is a real treat. Some random old lady we passed on the road was so pleased to hear that I'd gone to church in her bairro that she bought me a soda. I was loaded up with oranges from Antonieta's yard upon my departure back to Chicumbane. While I was sitting with Antonieta during lunch, a car of relatives arrived for a visit. Antonieta immediately got up and offered them her plate, then went and retrieved two more plates for the others. I suspect she hadn't anticipated feeding this many people, but she freely gave what little she had prepared and ate what was left. (If she ate at all; now that I'm thinking about it, I don't remember seeing her eat after that.)

On my way home, I stopped by to visit a lady by the market who always greets me with "Amiga!" when I walk by. I was immediately offered cake and soda, and because it's rude to refuse food, drank my 3rd coca-cola of the day. My stomach hurt that evening, but I guess there are worse things than being offered too much to eat and drink.

Mozambique has a nickname- "Terra da Boa Gente" (Land of Good People) and the more time I spend with the communities, the more I see this to hold true. Their hospitality and their generosity are really amazing, especially considering how poor they are. It's taken me this long into my service to make friends and really feel like a part of the place I live, but I guess that's the beauty of being in Peace Corps and living within a community for two years. It takes just that long not only for a community to accept and embrace you, but for you to be ready to be accepted and embraced by the community.

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Notable conversations I've had in the past few days:

I'm sitting with a group of women who are cooking. One lady asks me when I go back to my homeland and how long it takes to get there. I tell her two days. "Two days?!" She says incredulously. "By airplane??" Another girl cuts in, speaking very knowledgeably: "Yes, don't you know? Planes have bathrooms and TV's and everything!" I nod my agreement and tell them that two days isn't so bad. Knowledgeable girl chimes in,"Yeah, if I had to be on a plane for two days I would just spend my time hanging out at the pool." Doh. Not so knowledgeable after all.

I'm in the car with one of Antonieta's nieces who asks me if I have a boyfriend.
Me: I'm married.
Niece: Do you have children?
Me: No.
Niece: Why not?
Me: Because I live here and my husband lives in America.
Niece: How can you survive being apart from him?
Me: Well, he's been here a few times to visit.
Niece:And you don't have "relations"with him?
Me: Um, he's my husband so...
Niece: Then why don't you have kids?
Me: Because I don't want any right now!
Niece: You can have mine.
Me: No thank you.
Niece: You don't want him?
Me: I'm going to have my own, eventually.
Niece: You're going to get old.
Me: Not anytime soon, I'm only 23.
Niece: (disgusted) 23 and without kids?
Me: It's not possible right now, since I'm so far away from my husband.
Niece: There are men here.
Me: But...I'm not married to them.
Niece: You can borrow mine.
Me: No...
Niece: Why not? It's all the same.
Me: Not exactly.
Niece: But your husband has a girlfriend in America.
Me: No he doesn't.
Niece: But he sleeps with other women?
Me: No he doesn't.
Niece: ….......
Driver of the car: It's not their tradition.
Me: Exactly! It's not our tradition.

I stop by my neighbor's house one morning and am greeted by a man I've never seen before, some relative that's home for the Easter holidays from South Africa. The following conversation occurs in English.

(After the mandatory greetings and how-are-yous)
Man: So you have a dog.
Me: Yes, two actually.
Man: Your dog, he eat my chicken.
Me: (Thinking: oh no, not again) Oh?
Man: Yes, I bought two chicken and he eat both of them.
Me: Should I pay for it?
Man: No, you won't pay for it. It's too expensive. I will kill that dog.
Man's brother: He's joking.
Man: I will kill that dog.
Me: Please don't do that...
Man: Why? He cause me problem. I will kill him. (pointing at dog in the yard chasing a chicken) You see?
Me: That's not my dog.
Man: I will kill all of them.
Me: Wow. Please don't do that. I'll pay for the chicken
Man: You will pay for it? It is 140.
Me: Yes, I will pay for it.
Man: (bursting out laughing) Okay, I won't kill the dog. It is because you are a good person. I was going to kill the dog. Everything was ready to kill the dog, but I will not do it because you are a good person.
Me: (Relieved and terrified) Oh, well, thank you?
Man: You are good person, not like the last one. She was not friendly, she did not like to be with the people. She was not good in her heart.
Me: Well...okay...thank you... Nice to meet you.....

And from this conversation I walked away with the importance of being nice to your neighbors.