In the classic Nintendo game Mario Kart, the player speeds around in a little car, racing other players to the finish line while simultaneously trying to avoid obstacles such as bombs and banana peels on the road. To the Mario Kart makers, I say: That's silly. First of all, who slips on banana peels? Never in my life have I witnessed somebody actually slip and fall on a banana peel. Everyone knows that the real danger lies not in the overrated fruit called a banana but in the tropical, much more hazardous MANGO.
Duh.
Imagine, if you will, a video game set on the lovely continent of Africa. More specifically, in a little country called Mozambique. (The entire game is in Portuguese, of course, but you can put on English subtitles if you wish.) You're driving- no wait- you're walking down a sandy path dotted with mangoes. Here, there, everywhere a mango. There they are, standing in the road... Dee dee dee. Green ones, red ones, some as big as your head! (If you didn't catch that reference you could try watching the Lion King.)
You're trying to make it to the finish line, but you have to avoid the slimy mangoes on the ground. (That are, incidentally, also falling from the mango trees above you, ready to knock you out and delay your from reaching your destination. If you hear rustling right above your head, you can press Ctrl+D, which makes your character duck to avoid getting hit.) The rotting mangoes will make you slip and fall, ultimately deducting points from your final score.
Where are you going in this video game, you ask? Oh, I don't know... Maybe the market, where you'll have the added challenges of avoiding the creepy men and the little kids who ask you for money and the cars that come barreling down the road too fast... Maybe your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to rescue a poor dog who is getting pelted with rocks by children. Different destinations could come in the form of different levels, with specific obstacles for each. The possibilities are endless!
Along the way, you may be rewarded with extra points in the form of a refreshing can of soda, a cold bucket bath, or a free ride from a stranger. At some point, you must get on a chapa along with approximately a million other people. To do this, you must kick (CTRL+K), punch (CTRL+P), shove (CTRL+S), and otherwise fight your way on to a seat. If you are stuck standing hunched over on the chapa, you still get points, just not as many. Also, if you aren't careful, someone in the crowd may pickpocket your wallet out of your purse, in which case you lose A LOT of points, and a lot of money, something like 1000 mets ($30 USD) and your Peace Corps ID and your damn bank card for the 3rd time in three months. But this is all hypothetical, of course. Just a silly video game that's kind of like a cross between Mario Kart and Oregon Trail and a Boxing/ fighting game and... umm... my life.
The good part is I think I'm still winning.
Happy holidays!!!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
In the Time of the Festas
The holidays are coming up, which means FESTAS!!! Parties are in abundance, as are the mangoes littering the ground. (Children were collecting mangoes for me in exchange for coloring supplies, until my kitchen became flooded with ripe mangoes faster than I could eat them, and my house became flooded with children calling at all hours of the day- even at 6am. Needless to say, coloring days at Mana Vivienne's house are now Mondays and Wednesdays ONLY. Although that generally doesn't stop them from stopping by and asking anyway in the hopes I'll change my mind.)
This weekend, Helen and I attended a Lobolo, an engagement party, at my empregada's house. I was glad for the presence of another American to navigate the social awkwardness and play the "what's going on now?" game as the entire ceremony went on in Changana, and most of our time was spent trying to identify the people taking party in the ceremony. The only person we were certain of was the bride, who wore pearls in her hair and only smiled once. (Note: Mozambicans always pose very seriously for photos, because they want to show they are taking the situation seriously. So photos for generally festive events such as birthdays and weddings often reveal extremely somber expressions more apt for a funeral.)
First, the husband's family presented the bride's family with gifts and money. Not in the discreet, embarrassed way that we give and receive gifts, but with a flashy display of each item and checking off the list of accounted for presents. Capulanas and matching head scarves were distributed round to every female family member, pants and dress shirts for the males. Money (10,000 mt! Or the rough equivalent of $300) was counted out and finally, the bride was able to make her grand appearance with her bridesmaids, all of them wearing shimmery tulle dresses. Then, the bride... burst into tears?? (This part was especially puzzling to me and Helen, also because my empregada was still urging me to take photos.)
The bride just sat there and looked at all the presents while tears streamed down her face. Pretty soon, a bunch of the other women were also tearing up while others talked angrily amongst themselves. Turns out, the husband's family hadn't brought all the money they had promised. "The money to open the negotiations is missing," was the way my empregada explained to me. The bride and bridesmaids went back inside.
I don't know how the situation was resolved, but eventually the party went on. The bride came back out (dry-eyed this time) holding hands with her fiance (or so we thought at the time), accompanied by a singing train of guests and family members. They sat down, and guests presented them with gifts, also by making a big show of singing and dancing in small groups. The couple received things like capulanas, pots and pans, a big blanket (which they placed around their shoulders for a cute photo opp), kitchen utensils, plates and cup sets.
Next, lunch time, which consisted of grilled chicken, rice/ xima, goat meat (ah, I forgot to mention that in another corner of the yard, two men were killing and skinning a goat. The poor little goat was hung up, still alive, by its hind legs over a bucket to catch blood and had its throat cut by a dull knife. It took about five minutes for the guy to stop sawing at the neck, and for the legs to stop kicking. The men cut off the testicles first, although I still don't know why, and put them in a bowl before skinning the rest of the goat and cutting it up to be cooked or refridgerated.), soggy french fries the way they always come, vegetable salad, and potato salad literally covered with a layer of mayonnaise. I noticed that all of the women were served sodas, while all of the men were immediately given beer. Several men offered us beer as well, which we declined. I had a small glass of red wine, in contrast to some of the men throwing back full glasses and refilling again to the top.
As we were all eating, a car suddenly pulled up and everyone got up. The bride came back holding the hand of another man and leading the crowd of singing (Mozambicans sing at every opportunity) guests. Seats at the table were rearranged. The man originally sitting next to the bride during the before-lunch ceremony was displaced and relocated to the end of the table, where we were.
Later, someone explained to me that the groom is not supposed to arrive until after the "negotiations" are finished, so until his arrival a confidante, in this case a cousin, takes his place next to the bride. "What happens if the families can't come to an agreement?" I asked. "That's never happened," my host father said firmly, so that was that.
Helen and I were ready to duck out after lunch, but the party wasn't over yet. Everyone sat in a circle and was introduced (in Changana, which didn't appease our confusion). A fancy cake was presented and cut ceremoniously by the godmother of the groom, and the groom then went around and spoon-fed every guest a bite of cake.
Later that evening, Helen and I headed home and, over cups of tea and a jigsaw puzzle, puzzled over the event we had just witnessed.
The next day, we trekked to Namaacha to see our host families. Turns out, my neighbor's next door neighbor was throwing a joint birthday party for her kids so I got to attend my 2nd party of the weekend. This party was also replete with singing and dancing, twice as much so for twice the birthdays being celebrated. I was surprised that, besides hosting the party, the parents of the girls did very little at the ceremony. The girls' godparents were the ones who arrived with showers of gifts, and sat as the guests of honor next to their respective goddaughters. For three hours, guests and family members sang as they presented clothes, shoes, plates of food, and money. At one point, the younger girl who was about 5 years old, ran inside and refused to come back out because she was hungry. The godparents shuffled inside and came back out singing and holding her hand. They set up a chair in the middle of the awning and presented her with a plate with a little bit of every dish and the happy kid just sat there eating while adults behind her sang and danced. (Did I mention there was a LOT of singing?) The older birthday girl, about 7 or 8, was invited to sit with her sister and the photographer made them feed each other forkfuls of food, which I'd say is all Mozambicans' favorite photo pose. After dinner, someone from the family came around to feed all the guests a bite of cake and then people started leaving, or dancing.
All in all, I'd say I have a love-hate relationship with Mozambican parties. On the one hand, I appreciate being invited to participate in these culturally-rich events and feeling more integrated into the community, but on the other, there's always so much waiting around and not fully understanding what's going on. Even when I ask questions like "Who is that guy that just showed up?" I'll always get incomplete answers like "Oh that's a cousin" and I'll want to continue asking more things like "The cousin of who?" I don't truly understand the dynamics of family relations in Africa, or the formality of symbolic actions like feeding each other cake, that I personally find rather cliché. Also, Mozambicans have mastered the trick of going hours upon hours without eating, while I, by the end of every party, am counting down the minutes until food is ready. When Helen and I arrived at the Lobolo at 11am, we guessed that we wouldn't be eating until 2:30, which is already a late lunch for us. We ate at 4 and didn't leave until 6:30. Parties are so draining, and I'm not even the one preparing the food early in the morning until late afternoon, or singing song after song in Changana and dancing with gifts of heavy pots on my head. I'm just the one sitting in the shade wondering what's going on.
This weekend, Helen and I attended a Lobolo, an engagement party, at my empregada's house. I was glad for the presence of another American to navigate the social awkwardness and play the "what's going on now?" game as the entire ceremony went on in Changana, and most of our time was spent trying to identify the people taking party in the ceremony. The only person we were certain of was the bride, who wore pearls in her hair and only smiled once. (Note: Mozambicans always pose very seriously for photos, because they want to show they are taking the situation seriously. So photos for generally festive events such as birthdays and weddings often reveal extremely somber expressions more apt for a funeral.)
First, the husband's family presented the bride's family with gifts and money. Not in the discreet, embarrassed way that we give and receive gifts, but with a flashy display of each item and checking off the list of accounted for presents. Capulanas and matching head scarves were distributed round to every female family member, pants and dress shirts for the males. Money (10,000 mt! Or the rough equivalent of $300) was counted out and finally, the bride was able to make her grand appearance with her bridesmaids, all of them wearing shimmery tulle dresses. Then, the bride... burst into tears?? (This part was especially puzzling to me and Helen, also because my empregada was still urging me to take photos.)
The bride just sat there and looked at all the presents while tears streamed down her face. Pretty soon, a bunch of the other women were also tearing up while others talked angrily amongst themselves. Turns out, the husband's family hadn't brought all the money they had promised. "The money to open the negotiations is missing," was the way my empregada explained to me. The bride and bridesmaids went back inside.
I don't know how the situation was resolved, but eventually the party went on. The bride came back out (dry-eyed this time) holding hands with her fiance (or so we thought at the time), accompanied by a singing train of guests and family members. They sat down, and guests presented them with gifts, also by making a big show of singing and dancing in small groups. The couple received things like capulanas, pots and pans, a big blanket (which they placed around their shoulders for a cute photo opp), kitchen utensils, plates and cup sets.
Next, lunch time, which consisted of grilled chicken, rice/ xima, goat meat (ah, I forgot to mention that in another corner of the yard, two men were killing and skinning a goat. The poor little goat was hung up, still alive, by its hind legs over a bucket to catch blood and had its throat cut by a dull knife. It took about five minutes for the guy to stop sawing at the neck, and for the legs to stop kicking. The men cut off the testicles first, although I still don't know why, and put them in a bowl before skinning the rest of the goat and cutting it up to be cooked or refridgerated.), soggy french fries the way they always come, vegetable salad, and potato salad literally covered with a layer of mayonnaise. I noticed that all of the women were served sodas, while all of the men were immediately given beer. Several men offered us beer as well, which we declined. I had a small glass of red wine, in contrast to some of the men throwing back full glasses and refilling again to the top.
As we were all eating, a car suddenly pulled up and everyone got up. The bride came back holding the hand of another man and leading the crowd of singing (Mozambicans sing at every opportunity) guests. Seats at the table were rearranged. The man originally sitting next to the bride during the before-lunch ceremony was displaced and relocated to the end of the table, where we were.
Later, someone explained to me that the groom is not supposed to arrive until after the "negotiations" are finished, so until his arrival a confidante, in this case a cousin, takes his place next to the bride. "What happens if the families can't come to an agreement?" I asked. "That's never happened," my host father said firmly, so that was that.
Helen and I were ready to duck out after lunch, but the party wasn't over yet. Everyone sat in a circle and was introduced (in Changana, which didn't appease our confusion). A fancy cake was presented and cut ceremoniously by the godmother of the groom, and the groom then went around and spoon-fed every guest a bite of cake.
Later that evening, Helen and I headed home and, over cups of tea and a jigsaw puzzle, puzzled over the event we had just witnessed.
The next day, we trekked to Namaacha to see our host families. Turns out, my neighbor's next door neighbor was throwing a joint birthday party for her kids so I got to attend my 2nd party of the weekend. This party was also replete with singing and dancing, twice as much so for twice the birthdays being celebrated. I was surprised that, besides hosting the party, the parents of the girls did very little at the ceremony. The girls' godparents were the ones who arrived with showers of gifts, and sat as the guests of honor next to their respective goddaughters. For three hours, guests and family members sang as they presented clothes, shoes, plates of food, and money. At one point, the younger girl who was about 5 years old, ran inside and refused to come back out because she was hungry. The godparents shuffled inside and came back out singing and holding her hand. They set up a chair in the middle of the awning and presented her with a plate with a little bit of every dish and the happy kid just sat there eating while adults behind her sang and danced. (Did I mention there was a LOT of singing?) The older birthday girl, about 7 or 8, was invited to sit with her sister and the photographer made them feed each other forkfuls of food, which I'd say is all Mozambicans' favorite photo pose. After dinner, someone from the family came around to feed all the guests a bite of cake and then people started leaving, or dancing.
All in all, I'd say I have a love-hate relationship with Mozambican parties. On the one hand, I appreciate being invited to participate in these culturally-rich events and feeling more integrated into the community, but on the other, there's always so much waiting around and not fully understanding what's going on. Even when I ask questions like "Who is that guy that just showed up?" I'll always get incomplete answers like "Oh that's a cousin" and I'll want to continue asking more things like "The cousin of who?" I don't truly understand the dynamics of family relations in Africa, or the formality of symbolic actions like feeding each other cake, that I personally find rather cliché. Also, Mozambicans have mastered the trick of going hours upon hours without eating, while I, by the end of every party, am counting down the minutes until food is ready. When Helen and I arrived at the Lobolo at 11am, we guessed that we wouldn't be eating until 2:30, which is already a late lunch for us. We ate at 4 and didn't leave until 6:30. Parties are so draining, and I'm not even the one preparing the food early in the morning until late afternoon, or singing song after song in Changana and dancing with gifts of heavy pots on my head. I'm just the one sitting in the shade wondering what's going on.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
The (Very) Busy Bee
If I ever become successful enough to have a personal assistant or secretary to make my schedule, that would eliminate one of the major personal stresses of my life. I love filling up my calendar with appointments and activities, but sometimes- usually- things come up and then I'm suddenly thrown into a panic of indecisiveness and event rearranging. It's like lining up a perfect row of bottles when out of nowhere- BAM!!- someone throws something and knocks one over. My once empty calendar is now riddled with scribbles and cross-outs. But, besides its ugliness, it is at least still one thing- full.
This week, for example, I've got two PCV house visitors coming in. One of them, my good friend Helen, lives all the up in Tete province so I haven't seen her in over a year. We had planned a short trip to visit our host families in Namaacha but then Curve Ball #1: My empregada invited me to a party at her house over the weekend. Not just any party, but a Lobolo, which is a Mozambican engagement party. I've never attended one, and have been wanting to because I think it'd be such a cool cultural experience. The fact that Helen has also never been to one meant that we of course would have to rearrange our Namaacha trip to be able to attend the Lobolo. (By the way, this is probably the 4th time in a row I've bailed on my Namaacha family. They probably don't even believe me anymore when I say I'm coming to visit.)
All's well until one day before Helen arrives and two days before Namaacha. Boom. Curve Ball #2, and it's a good one. My APCD calls and she wants to know if I'll be around on Thursday to meet Ambassador Goosby, the U.S. Global AIDS Coordinator. Basically in charge of all PEPFAR money and straight up appointed by Obama. He's visiting Mozambique and stopping by, of all places, the health center in Chicumbane. Of course I want to meet him, even if it means digging through the bottom of my wardrobe to find the professional work clothes that have been in hiding since Training.
So as I'm mentally running through new potential slots for a short Namaacha trip, I'm also informed of Curve Ball #3: The new country director of the Elizabeth Glasier Pediatric AIDS Foundation (EGPAF) is requesting a meeting with all PCV's paired with EGPAF funded organizations That would be me. And that would be Thursday, the same day. So suddenly my schedule is looking twice as full, with visitors, meetings, appointments, Namaacha trips, and parties all colliding in the same time frame. (Not to mention, I just got back from a trip to Maputo for REDES bank errands and a meeting at the Embassy last Friday, helped out at the CACHES World AIDS Day community festival Saturday, am leaving for Taiwan on the 21st, AND am working on a 20-page REDES 2012 grant proposal of $99,999US to be turned in by the end of January.)
I think I'm losing my mind, but here's a secret:
I like it!!!
This week, for example, I've got two PCV house visitors coming in. One of them, my good friend Helen, lives all the up in Tete province so I haven't seen her in over a year. We had planned a short trip to visit our host families in Namaacha but then Curve Ball #1: My empregada invited me to a party at her house over the weekend. Not just any party, but a Lobolo, which is a Mozambican engagement party. I've never attended one, and have been wanting to because I think it'd be such a cool cultural experience. The fact that Helen has also never been to one meant that we of course would have to rearrange our Namaacha trip to be able to attend the Lobolo. (By the way, this is probably the 4th time in a row I've bailed on my Namaacha family. They probably don't even believe me anymore when I say I'm coming to visit.)
All's well until one day before Helen arrives and two days before Namaacha. Boom. Curve Ball #2, and it's a good one. My APCD calls and she wants to know if I'll be around on Thursday to meet Ambassador Goosby, the U.S. Global AIDS Coordinator. Basically in charge of all PEPFAR money and straight up appointed by Obama. He's visiting Mozambique and stopping by, of all places, the health center in Chicumbane. Of course I want to meet him, even if it means digging through the bottom of my wardrobe to find the professional work clothes that have been in hiding since Training.
So as I'm mentally running through new potential slots for a short Namaacha trip, I'm also informed of Curve Ball #3: The new country director of the Elizabeth Glasier Pediatric AIDS Foundation (EGPAF) is requesting a meeting with all PCV's paired with EGPAF funded organizations That would be me. And that would be Thursday, the same day. So suddenly my schedule is looking twice as full, with visitors, meetings, appointments, Namaacha trips, and parties all colliding in the same time frame. (Not to mention, I just got back from a trip to Maputo for REDES bank errands and a meeting at the Embassy last Friday, helped out at the CACHES World AIDS Day community festival Saturday, am leaving for Taiwan on the 21st, AND am working on a 20-page REDES 2012 grant proposal of $99,999US to be turned in by the end of January.)
I think I'm losing my mind, but here's a secret:
I like it!!!
Monday, November 28, 2011
Legacy
I recently had a conversation with another volunteer who told me that when she arrived at site, all of her neighbors and coworkers were pleasantly surprised to find that "all Americans aren't lazy and rude" like the previous volunteer had made them believe. "Oh. You like to work?" They said, "Your predecessor only liked to drink and have lovers." Yikes.
This conversation made me think a lot about the kind of legacy I'd like to leave in Mozambique. Like my friend, I am also replacing another PCV. In fact, I'm just the most recent in a long string of PCV's in Chicumbane. But unlike my friend, the previous volunteer(s) in my place weren't lazy and useless. On the contrary, my main problem when I got to this site was, "What do I do that the previous volunteers haven't already done?" How do I, in essence, reinvent the wheel?
This, for me, is still a constant source of insecurity. I probably won't be loved by all the kids in the neighborhood like "Mana Meggy" was. I probably won't write a big grant for my organization like Emily did. But I'd like to think that I have something to contribute, even if I don't exactly know what yet. At the end of two years, I don't want my community to say, "Vivienne who?"
This conversation made me think a lot about the kind of legacy I'd like to leave in Mozambique. Like my friend, I am also replacing another PCV. In fact, I'm just the most recent in a long string of PCV's in Chicumbane. But unlike my friend, the previous volunteer(s) in my place weren't lazy and useless. On the contrary, my main problem when I got to this site was, "What do I do that the previous volunteers haven't already done?" How do I, in essence, reinvent the wheel?
This, for me, is still a constant source of insecurity. I probably won't be loved by all the kids in the neighborhood like "Mana Meggy" was. I probably won't write a big grant for my organization like Emily did. But I'd like to think that I have something to contribute, even if I don't exactly know what yet. At the end of two years, I don't want my community to say, "Vivienne who?"
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving was a quiet affair, spent in Chowke with seven other volunteers. Barbara, the oldest volunteer in Moz15 and our “mother” figure, made sure (as she did last year) that we had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce. This year, no oven meant that the turkey was bought pre-packaged (instead of alive, like the previous year) and stewed. The electricity decided to go out for an entire day so everything, amazingly, was cooked over a charcoal stove. (Propane gas crisis in all of Africa = no gas for anyone, including me.) I showed up late for “dinner,” having lingered too long visiting my fiend Megan in Macia, but there was still plenty of food and I didn't mind eating alone. Afterwards, we all had charcoal-baked pumpkin pie made from real pumpkin and played Apples to Apples, Uno, and Bananagrams. This year, I'm thankful for other Americans (relatively) close by to celebrate with, and for Kevin's second visit. Next year, with any luck, I'll be HOME for Thanksgiving!
Aside from that, it's been kind of a tough week for me as an animal lover. I've lamented time and time again about the disregard for animals here in Mozambique, but this time takes the cake.
I stopped by to visit one of the 8 puppies I'd given away. (Note: Out of eight puppies, two had already been stolen, and another had already been re-gifted to a relative. One of the stolen puppies- mine!- was recovered when I came back from South Africa. Having received a tip from one of the neighborhood kids, I visited a house several streets down from mine and found my puppy tied up in their yard. A teenager claimed to have “found” it wandering around. I considered asking him if he “found” it in my yard with a collar on. Apparently, it's acceptable to keep any puppy you come across.)
So I'd gone to see “Kelvin,” a female black puppy that had been given to my coworker, who had then named the dog after Kevin, my boyfriend. As I opened the gate to the big walled-off yard, Kelvin came bounding up and immediately I noticed something wasn't right. My first thought was “she's got huge paws!”As she got closer, I noticed something protruding out of the side of her jaw, what looked like a huge tumor covered with white pus openings. I gasped, and realized that the same thing was going on with her enlarged paws too; they were 
swollen and obviously infected. When I picked her up, I could see she had sores all over her body.
I ran back to the front of the house to confront my coworker. “What happened to your dog?” I asked. “What do you mean?” was my coworker's response. “She's got sores all over her body!” I exclaimed incredulously. “I don't know, I haven't seen them,” he replied, shrugging. After a few minutes, in which I fumed and tapped my foot impatiently, he got up and followed me out to the yard.
“Oh shit!” was his reaction to Kelvin, who was whining and looking at us with sad, pained eyes. “Oh shit oh shit!” Uh...yeah.
“I'm sorry, I didn't know this was happening. My cousin [another coworker who had received a puppy] traded me his and we gave the other one to my aunt. The dog's only been here at this house a couple of days and every time I've been in to give it food, she's been hiding in her dog house.”
“Well, what is it?” I asked, pointing at Kelvin's wounds. My coworker squeezed one of the pus bubbles and A HUGE WHITE MAGGOTY WORM slid out like toothpaste from a tube. I was horrified. It was probably one of the most disturbing things I'd ever seen in my life.
It was obvious that Kelvin was covered with these worms living under her skin, with at least two or three in her jaw causing it to swell up like that. My coworker promised to talk to a vet and get Kelvin treatment.
Later, I saw the other coworker who had originally been taking care of Kelvin. “What happened to your dog?” I demanded. He looked, at least, sheepish. “That's what I'd been meaning to tell you...” He said. “The dog is sick.” “She's more than sick!” I snapped at him, “She needs treatment! Why didn't you tell your cousin about it when you dropped the dog off?” He didn't say anything. I couldn't believe it.
“I'm mad at you,” I told him finally. He looks shocked. “Why? It's not my fault!” “I left you with the dog,” I explained, “And expected you to take care of it. How did it end up looking like that? None of the other puppies I gave away have that problem. How is it that yours is the only one? You should've taken care of it better.” I left him standing there arguing “But I didn't do it!”
To give him some credit, the next day he sat down with the dog and pulled all the worms out one by one. (Having, of course, been guilted into doing something about the puppy's situation.) I asked him how many he had found. “There must have been over 50,” He said. Gross. I'd like to add that this year, I'm also thankful that my dogs are healthy and happy.
On a different level of animal woes, I'm beginning to realize that I've adopted the most annoying kitten on the planet. Ten times more obnoxious than any other kitten I've lived with or come across, and that's saying a lot. Mazambane (which means “potato” in Changana), while small and cute and cuddly, has no meowing OFF button. That's what I get for adopting a kitten who comes from a mother just as loud. I like Mazambane the best when he's sleeping, actually, because that's probably the only time he isn't crying to me about something. At 7am sharp, meow meow meow MEOWMEOW FEED ME MEOW outside my bedroom door. Even when I give him food, meow meow meow meow I don't like this crap meow. When he wants attention, meow MEOW meow PET ME meow meow, When I don't let him outside, meowmeowmeowmeow... you get the picture. It is, however, nice to have company in the house when it storms like the apocalypse in the evenings and the power goes out. This year, I'm thankful that I have had no security incidents in Moz and that I have an ipod and headphones to drown out constantly mewling kittens.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Granola
Life goes on, even after you're whisked away from the love of your life and dumped back into sandy, arid third world country It's taken about a week and numerous Glee episodes to get back in gear, although with the stifling heat and upcoming holidays, not much is going on anywhere anyway in terms of work. Only now do I understand what people meant when they warned me that work comes to a grinding halt over the summer months.
Children are out of school until January, which means every day gaggles of children appear at my front door and ask to color. I throw coloring book pages at them and they entertain themselves for a while on my shaded front veranda while I sit inside and read in front of the fan. The only problems arise when I'm trying to nap and they're making a lot of noise, or all the kids show up at different times and keep making me get up from my comfy wicker chair. Sometimes, they'll finish quickly and demand something else to color, but I usually deny them round two because it only encourages them to rush.
The Mozambican education process has drilled in them such that it's all about the product, not the process. I'll give a bright 8-year old girl a simple maze book and once she discovers the answers in the back, she'll keep flipping back and copying the solution until I literally have to ask for the book back so I can cut out the answer pages. The sentence I probably hear the most from children in Mozambique (other than "estou a pedir..." : I'm asking for... ) is "Nao estou a conseguir": I'm not succeeding or, in essence, "I can't do it." I hear this after every time I present them with a new activity that requires critical thinking. Obviously, Mozambican kids don't get read books like "The Little Engine That Could." Instead, adults tend to condescendingly remind children that they don't know anything. One time, while tutoring young Rosthilo in Chibuto, a neighbor (an old woman) came up, smacked him on the head, and told me not to waste my time because "this kid's stupid. Doesn't know anything." She then proceeded to ridicule him for not doing multiplication correctly, and gave him the answer for the problem When I checked it, it was wrong. So apparently adults don't know anything either.
The bane of every Peace Corps Education volunteer in Moz is... cheating. A friend of mine once made 15 different versions of his test just to prevent it from occurring. And yet, it still went on; students still copied answers straight off of their neighbor with a different test. How unintuitive can you get? What's worse, students don't understand that it's wrong to cheat. They only care about the product, which is the grade, and not the process of learning. The education system in Moz is set up so that simple skills that should be the foundation of further learning, such as simple multiplication, are rushed through, leaving little to build on in advanced stages.
Ah, despite the tediousness of being a Health volunteer, I still would not trade anything to be an Education volunteer. I will take my free time and flexible schedule, thank you very much. In my boredom, I read, sew, bathe Magorducha the puppy, play with Mazambane the kitten (two new additions to my family), write, nap, cook, and play computer games. Tough life.
Today, I decided to make some granola since I recently went to Xai Xai and picked up a box of oatmeal and Kev brought me dried berries. All starts off well. I melt the butter, sugar, and honey together in a pan, pour it over the oatmeal, yada yada. Finally it comes time to put in the dried berries and oh look! Here's a bag of unfinished almonds that have been sitting around forever, I'll put those in too. As I dump the contents of the bag into my granola, it takes me a second to notice that one of the almonds is moving. My eyes focus in on a cockroach- the same size, shape, and color of an almond. I yelp and fling it out of the pan with a fork and immediately spot another one twitching in the hot granola pan. That one goes flying out too. They're still alive and scuttle off probably to invade more of my beloved food stash, but I'm too busy examining my granola for more intruders to care. Ruined. Ruined. Ruined. But wait.. this is Africa. I weigh my options, which are: throwing out the whole pan, or keeping the cockroach tainted granola and possibly crunching into another one. I meditate the cost of butter and oatmeal. I think about the lonely yogurt in the fridge. I shrug, and take a big bite of granola.
Children are out of school until January, which means every day gaggles of children appear at my front door and ask to color. I throw coloring book pages at them and they entertain themselves for a while on my shaded front veranda while I sit inside and read in front of the fan. The only problems arise when I'm trying to nap and they're making a lot of noise, or all the kids show up at different times and keep making me get up from my comfy wicker chair. Sometimes, they'll finish quickly and demand something else to color, but I usually deny them round two because it only encourages them to rush.
The Mozambican education process has drilled in them such that it's all about the product, not the process. I'll give a bright 8-year old girl a simple maze book and once she discovers the answers in the back, she'll keep flipping back and copying the solution until I literally have to ask for the book back so I can cut out the answer pages. The sentence I probably hear the most from children in Mozambique (other than "estou a pedir..." : I'm asking for... ) is "Nao estou a conseguir": I'm not succeeding or, in essence, "I can't do it." I hear this after every time I present them with a new activity that requires critical thinking. Obviously, Mozambican kids don't get read books like "The Little Engine That Could." Instead, adults tend to condescendingly remind children that they don't know anything. One time, while tutoring young Rosthilo in Chibuto, a neighbor (an old woman) came up, smacked him on the head, and told me not to waste my time because "this kid's stupid. Doesn't know anything." She then proceeded to ridicule him for not doing multiplication correctly, and gave him the answer for the problem When I checked it, it was wrong. So apparently adults don't know anything either.
The bane of every Peace Corps Education volunteer in Moz is... cheating. A friend of mine once made 15 different versions of his test just to prevent it from occurring. And yet, it still went on; students still copied answers straight off of their neighbor with a different test. How unintuitive can you get? What's worse, students don't understand that it's wrong to cheat. They only care about the product, which is the grade, and not the process of learning. The education system in Moz is set up so that simple skills that should be the foundation of further learning, such as simple multiplication, are rushed through, leaving little to build on in advanced stages.
Ah, despite the tediousness of being a Health volunteer, I still would not trade anything to be an Education volunteer. I will take my free time and flexible schedule, thank you very much. In my boredom, I read, sew, bathe Magorducha the puppy, play with Mazambane the kitten (two new additions to my family), write, nap, cook, and play computer games. Tough life.
Today, I decided to make some granola since I recently went to Xai Xai and picked up a box of oatmeal and Kev brought me dried berries. All starts off well. I melt the butter, sugar, and honey together in a pan, pour it over the oatmeal, yada yada. Finally it comes time to put in the dried berries and oh look! Here's a bag of unfinished almonds that have been sitting around forever, I'll put those in too. As I dump the contents of the bag into my granola, it takes me a second to notice that one of the almonds is moving. My eyes focus in on a cockroach- the same size, shape, and color of an almond. I yelp and fling it out of the pan with a fork and immediately spot another one twitching in the hot granola pan. That one goes flying out too. They're still alive and scuttle off probably to invade more of my beloved food stash, but I'm too busy examining my granola for more intruders to care. Ruined. Ruined. Ruined. But wait.. this is Africa. I weigh my options, which are: throwing out the whole pan, or keeping the cockroach tainted granola and possibly crunching into another one. I meditate the cost of butter and oatmeal. I think about the lonely yogurt in the fridge. I shrug, and take a big bite of granola.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Safari Time
Pre-safari:
Kevin's first experience driving on the left side of the road was incredibly stressful. Within the first 30 minutes of getting behind the wheel, we had stalled out multiple times, almost turned onto the wrong side of the road, and gotten ourselves lost while trying to find our way to the hotel. For someone who is generally very even-keeled, Kev was obviously frustrated and showing it by cursing up a storm. “This is so wrong!” He kept muttering. Every few minutes, he would accidentally turn on the windshield wiper instead of the turn signal and while I found this funny, he did not. We might as well have had RECENTLY ARRIVED TOURISTS emblazoned on the hood of our car. At some point, a car whizzed past us on the highway and motioned out the window for us to move into the left slow lane.
The next day, after a restful night's sleep and a delicious breakfast (with bacon!), we headed into Kruger Park (getting lost on the way yet again). We spent the following four days and three nights touring the park and seeing animals galore: zebra, elephant, giraffe, lion, leopard, warthog, hippo, crocodile, wildebeest, buffalo, impala, steenbok, rhino, waterbuck, monkey, other antelope, and a stunning variety of colorful birds. Everywhere we went, animals casually crossed the road in front and behind us. And, of course, they always had the right of way.
1st day safari:
Our first day in the park, we came face to face twice with two massive rhinos right next to the car, one of them so close that my long distance camera lens couldn't focus properly on it. Kev kept the car in gear in case we needed to gun it out of there, but the rhinos just stared back at us and then lumbered away. It wasn't until the final day that we saw another rhino.
On one of our drives, a car passed us coming the opposite way and flagged us to stop. The young couple in the car, obviously shaken, warned us not to keep going down that road, as they had just been chased by a herd of elephants. “There are hundreds of them!” They informed us. Not to be deterred, we continued down the same road, as it was the only one that would lead us to our rest camp in time for check-in. While we did see numerous elephants standing by the side of the road, we were very cautious about driving past them and provoking them. This drive ended up being the best of our entire trip.
One of the most fantastic sights of the day was of a male lion resting next to the fresh carcass of a large buffalo, right by the side of the road. A few vultures were hanging out nearby, waiting for a chance to eat. (The next day we passed by again and found the carcass covered with vultures, also an interesting sight to see.) However, the entire site was surrounded by other stopped cars and we were unable to get good photographs of the lion.
Zebras, giraffes, elephants, and impala became such a common sight on our outings, that by the 2nd day we had stopped caring to take photos every time we passed by. In our 1st day, we had seen four of the Big Five.
2nd day safari:
We saw seven lions (1 male, 6 females hanging out in pairs), and two leopards chilling in the same tree as we headed up to the northern part of Kruger. Leopards are the most elusive of the Big Five, and we were lucky to see two of them at once, although they were pretty far away and we had to battle with a ton of other cars for good angles. We kept scanning the trees afterwards, but never did see another leopard.
3rd day safari:
It drizzled all day as we headed back South to Satara camp. We spotted few animals but got some good shots of wading hippos, muddy crocodiles, and wet impala as they huddled under trees waiting for the rain to pass. As we continued bouncing along the rocky road, Kev's window began making a rattling noise and then refused to roll back up. We drove the rest of the day with an open window, paranoid that some animal would decide to jump in. In the evening, we bought some wildebeest steak from the store and grilled it up for dinner. Yum. The Mopani camp, in our opinion, was the nicest of the three we stayed at.
4th day safari:
The roads were still a bit muddy from the previous day rain. We took a animal-dense but less popular dirt path south, where we managed to spot our first lion! (The previous ones were spotted by other people, and surrounded by other cars) A majestic male lion standing in the tall sandy grass that we were very fortunate to have seen it before it laid back down. We watched it for about 15 minutes, undisturbed by other cars or people. In that time, we also spotted our first jackal trotting by.
Post-safari:
The night before we were to fly out of Nelspruit and back to Johannesburg, I discovered my passport missing. We turned our luggage and the hotel room inside out looking for it, but did not find it. We spent the evening and following morning calling all four of the places we had stayed at in the Kruger, unsuccessfully. We became resigned to the idea that we would have to drive to the American Embassy in Jo-burg, and would miss our Jo-burg flight if not our flights to Mozambique and the U.S. (And Peace Corps would probably never let me leave Moz again if they had to get me a new visa.)
Kev and I returned our extremely muddied car to the airport, and trudged to and from several airport kiosks in search of the Lost and Found. At the airline kiosk, I explained my situation again. The lady behind the counter smiled at me, asked if I had been on a flight from Cape Town, and to our immense and infinite relief, produced an envelope with my passport in it. It had fallen out of my purse on the plane.
What's a vacation without a little drama, anyway?
Thursday, October 27, 2011
All of the Lights
Turn up the lights in here, baby
Extra bright, I want ya'll to see this
You know what I need, want you to see everything,
Want you to see all of the lights
Fast cars, shooting stars
Until it's Vegas everywhere we go
All of the lights
-Kanye West
I feel like a little girl lost in a big city. Even Maputo, the big capitol city of Moz, is nothing like this. Instead of muted buildings, uneven roads, faded traffic lights, I see tall shiny buildings, sleek paved roads, blinking pedestrian walkways, vibrant colors. I'm in Cape Town, South Africa! From third world to first world... and what a world of difference, indeed.
At the airport, I stare in awe at the glass elevator. I squeal “smoothies!” as we pass by a smoothie booth. I am bewildered by all of the white people surrounding me. I'm overstimulated- my attention is being pulled in too many directions all at once and I feel like a bunny on crack. A moth attracted to light. A child unsupervised in a candy shop. It's all so overwhelming.
We head up to our terminal on the 3rd floor but on the 2nd floor I absentmindedly step off the escalator and without thinking, advance towards the glowing shops and restaurants while bewildered Kevin calls after me, asking me where I'm going. While passing through customs, I sidle up right behind the guy standing at the counter before Kev draws my attention to the yellow tape that marks where the line forms and where I should be waiting. While going through security, I get flustered because I can't remember what items I'm supposed to take out of my bag before putting it on the conveyor belt. Little signs here and there remind me that I've been gone from this high-tech world for over a year.
I've talked about food- steak, sushi, burgers, cheese, mashed potatoes- for so long, it seems amazing that when the time comes, I have three bites of my thick cheese-laden hamburger and feel full, even slightly sick. I guess you can't go from eggs eggs eggs to real meat, just like that. I drink a cream-topped Irish coffee and a cream- blended pina colada that give me diarrhea and terrible stomach cramps for a whole afternoon, and give me the realization that I have become at least partially lactose-intolerant.
Kev and I stay at a quaint Bed & Breakfast that has high-tech sensor gate keys, fast wireless internet, and a glorious view of Table Mountain. I'm in love with the wide silver shower head that blesses me at least twice a day with hot rain; I don't know if I can go back to bucket bathing for another year. Breakfast consists of poached eggs and arugula, honeyed granola, plain yogurt, fresh fruit medley (banana, strawberry, papaya, passion fruit, Cape gooseberry- which looks like a yellow cherry tomato with a sweet tarty flavor), wheat toast, real butter, brewed coffee. I'm in heaven. The only problem- it's a litter colder than I envisioned, and I've only got capulana dresses to wear. I've brought all of the halter and strapless tops and above-the-knee skirts to wear in South Africa, where I won't be rudely gawked at.
We tour the city on an open-top bus, hopping on and off wherever we like. We pass by mountain, city, beach, all intertwined. Everywhere we go, my bulky camera goes click click click, and Kevin laughs at me because he can tell I've missed having it. We stroll through the craft market square, where we mentally convert prices back and forth from Rand, Dollar, and Metical, and I make him buy me two necklaces. We have all-you-can-eat sushi for dinner and drink our bottle of white port back at the hotel.
Tomorrow: penguins, cable car to the top of Table Mountain, beach, more shopping- who knows? We're in a world of infinite possibilities.
Extra bright, I want ya'll to see this
You know what I need, want you to see everything,
Want you to see all of the lights
Fast cars, shooting stars
Until it's Vegas everywhere we go
All of the lights
-Kanye West
I feel like a little girl lost in a big city. Even Maputo, the big capitol city of Moz, is nothing like this. Instead of muted buildings, uneven roads, faded traffic lights, I see tall shiny buildings, sleek paved roads, blinking pedestrian walkways, vibrant colors. I'm in Cape Town, South Africa! From third world to first world... and what a world of difference, indeed.
At the airport, I stare in awe at the glass elevator. I squeal “smoothies!” as we pass by a smoothie booth. I am bewildered by all of the white people surrounding me. I'm overstimulated- my attention is being pulled in too many directions all at once and I feel like a bunny on crack. A moth attracted to light. A child unsupervised in a candy shop. It's all so overwhelming.
We head up to our terminal on the 3rd floor but on the 2nd floor I absentmindedly step off the escalator and without thinking, advance towards the glowing shops and restaurants while bewildered Kevin calls after me, asking me where I'm going. While passing through customs, I sidle up right behind the guy standing at the counter before Kev draws my attention to the yellow tape that marks where the line forms and where I should be waiting. While going through security, I get flustered because I can't remember what items I'm supposed to take out of my bag before putting it on the conveyor belt. Little signs here and there remind me that I've been gone from this high-tech world for over a year.
I've talked about food- steak, sushi, burgers, cheese, mashed potatoes- for so long, it seems amazing that when the time comes, I have three bites of my thick cheese-laden hamburger and feel full, even slightly sick. I guess you can't go from eggs eggs eggs to real meat, just like that. I drink a cream-topped Irish coffee and a cream- blended pina colada that give me diarrhea and terrible stomach cramps for a whole afternoon, and give me the realization that I have become at least partially lactose-intolerant.
Kev and I stay at a quaint Bed & Breakfast that has high-tech sensor gate keys, fast wireless internet, and a glorious view of Table Mountain. I'm in love with the wide silver shower head that blesses me at least twice a day with hot rain; I don't know if I can go back to bucket bathing for another year. Breakfast consists of poached eggs and arugula, honeyed granola, plain yogurt, fresh fruit medley (banana, strawberry, papaya, passion fruit, Cape gooseberry- which looks like a yellow cherry tomato with a sweet tarty flavor), wheat toast, real butter, brewed coffee. I'm in heaven. The only problem- it's a litter colder than I envisioned, and I've only got capulana dresses to wear. I've brought all of the halter and strapless tops and above-the-knee skirts to wear in South Africa, where I won't be rudely gawked at.
We tour the city on an open-top bus, hopping on and off wherever we like. We pass by mountain, city, beach, all intertwined. Everywhere we go, my bulky camera goes click click click, and Kevin laughs at me because he can tell I've missed having it. We stroll through the craft market square, where we mentally convert prices back and forth from Rand, Dollar, and Metical, and I make him buy me two necklaces. We have all-you-can-eat sushi for dinner and drink our bottle of white port back at the hotel.
Tomorrow: penguins, cable car to the top of Table Mountain, beach, more shopping- who knows? We're in a world of infinite possibilities.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Velocity
Of all the things in Mozambique, Kevin dreads chapas the most. For his first ever chapa ride in March, he had to climb in through the window. For his first chapa ride the second time around... all of our luggage fell out of the back of the car. One minute it's all there, piled behind our seat, tied down by rope and the next, the rope snaps and the back of the van flips open and our suitcase and duffel bags tumble out of the moving car like vigorously rolled dice. Kevin and I curse and stare helplessly at our vanishing belongings, and the chapa keeps moving. "Are you going to stop?!" I finally demand hysterically. The car does pull over, eventually, where the road is wide enough for other cars to pass and our baggage is just a speck on the pavement behind us. The cobrador and several men jump out and run back to pick up our stuff, while Kevin and I are trapped in the back seat wondering if the oncoming giant semi-truck is going to smash our things flat. I'm especially desolate- gone are the maple syrup, the macaroni and cheese, all the delicious and valuable goodies I requested from America! But no, the cobrador runs straight at the truck waving his arms and fortunately, it slows down. It even gives the cobrador a ride back to the car, with all of our luggage. The cobrador piles everything back in the chapa, announcing to me, "See look, the rope broke" as if this absolves him of all blame. This time, he ties the baggage to our seat. "So next time, we fall out too..." I say to Kevin jokingly. But not really jokingly at all.
Aside from that, Kevin also thinks we're going to die in a head on collision every time we get in a chapa. "I liked that guy, he went nice and slow," He tells me after we get out of another one. (Says the guy I'm always reminding to STOP SPEEDING when we're in the States.) "Look! Seatbelts!" He exclaims. Then, five seconds later, "Oh. They're broken."
We made it all in one piece to Chicumbane. Miraculously, everything in the suitcase was undamaged save for the little animal figurines we had just bought in Maputo. (Nothing a little glue can't fix.) Kevin commented that my house was small (it is) and cleared the two month old dead spider carcass off of my mosquito net. He met the little puppies and greeted Mel and Xima- the former remembered him while the latter did not.
The following day, we went to the English Theatre competition in Macia with my theatre group Amizade, where Kevin was asked to be a guest judge after one of the original judges on the panel failed to show up. "Does he have any experience?" The English Theatre coordinator asked me. "Other than being a native English speaker? No." I answered. Good enough. My group came in 3rd place, and I was extremely proud of them.
The next two days will just be us hanging out at home and winding down, before our big South Africa trip. Can't wait!!!
Aside from that, Kevin also thinks we're going to die in a head on collision every time we get in a chapa. "I liked that guy, he went nice and slow," He tells me after we get out of another one. (Says the guy I'm always reminding to STOP SPEEDING when we're in the States.) "Look! Seatbelts!" He exclaims. Then, five seconds later, "Oh. They're broken."
We made it all in one piece to Chicumbane. Miraculously, everything in the suitcase was undamaged save for the little animal figurines we had just bought in Maputo. (Nothing a little glue can't fix.) Kevin commented that my house was small (it is) and cleared the two month old dead spider carcass off of my mosquito net. He met the little puppies and greeted Mel and Xima- the former remembered him while the latter did not.
The following day, we went to the English Theatre competition in Macia with my theatre group Amizade, where Kevin was asked to be a guest judge after one of the original judges on the panel failed to show up. "Does he have any experience?" The English Theatre coordinator asked me. "Other than being a native English speaker? No." I answered. Good enough. My group came in 3rd place, and I was extremely proud of them.
The next two days will just be us hanging out at home and winding down, before our big South Africa trip. Can't wait!!!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
All in a day's work
Back in Maputo again, this time saying final goodbyes to previous sitemates Erica and Alycia, and picking up my boyfriend Kevin from the airport. Funny enough, it looks like Erica and Alycia are leaving on the same plane that Kevin is getting in on- What are the chances?
Life has been crazy busy at site, less so with my primary project (Tsembeka and CACHES) and more with my secondary projects (REDES and English Theatre). Saturday the 15th, 70 girls showed up at the Secondary School of Chicumbane for an inter-group exchange, where they learned to make capulana flowers and peanut butter, did an activity regarding gender in contemporary music, and interacted with a panel of HIV+ activists. I've realized that being the financial director for the program is a lot of work! I felt like a chicken with its head cut off, scribbling receipts right and left, and double checking our budget. Two hours after the event ended, I was still organizing receipts and filling out excel sheets. It's great though. I love it.
The English Theatre group is busy preparing for the upcoming competition, which means long nights of sitting through rehearsals for me. The piece that they are doing is pretty heavy, involving themes such as prostitution, multiple concurrent partners, sex before marriage, HIV, and the importance of education. I laugh, finding myself constantly correcting students on the pronunciation of interesting words like "virginity", "whore",and "ultimatum."
The puppies are doing well, still living in my latrine but not so content to stay there all the time now that they can walk and see and play. Mel seems to have little interest in feeding them anymore, so they swarm me and try to jump on my legs anytime I'm near and especially when I'm going to the bathroom. Heather, another PCV, came by to claim the first, who she named Solzinho (Alone) because of his tendency to wander around and explore by himself. I've fallen in love with one of the other puppies, a big fat brown one that the kids have named Magorducha. I don't need a third dog, but I am still reluctant to give this one away. Fortunately, all the people I have promised puppies to live close by and I can always visit. (As long as no one steals any while I'm out of town.)
Several days ago, I was sitting in my house drawing with some of the kids when a girl showed up at my front door saying that someone had taken two of the puppies. I leapt out of my seat and ran to check. Sure enough, two puppies were missing. Some kid down the street had up and decided to take two to his house, without saying a thing to me. The other kids called him back, and as he was putting the dogs back in the latrine I yelled at him that he had no right to take them out of my yard, but he didn't seem fazed in the least. When I went to his house to speak with his aunt, she explained that the kid is raised by his grandparents, who never discipline him. Because of this, he tends to steal things and do whatever he wants. I returned home very disturbed by the situation, and paranoid about the safety of the puppies.
I have also currently banned XimaXima and Mel from the house, after finding fleas in my bed. My new kitten Mazambane ("potato" in Changana) should be ready to leave from my friend Megan's house soon, so pretty soon we'll just be one big happy family.
Aside from work work work, I've been really looking forward to play play play- Kevin's whisking me off to South Africa in a few days!!! I'll be sure to take lots of pictures.
Life has been crazy busy at site, less so with my primary project (Tsembeka and CACHES) and more with my secondary projects (REDES and English Theatre). Saturday the 15th, 70 girls showed up at the Secondary School of Chicumbane for an inter-group exchange, where they learned to make capulana flowers and peanut butter, did an activity regarding gender in contemporary music, and interacted with a panel of HIV+ activists. I've realized that being the financial director for the program is a lot of work! I felt like a chicken with its head cut off, scribbling receipts right and left, and double checking our budget. Two hours after the event ended, I was still organizing receipts and filling out excel sheets. It's great though. I love it.
The English Theatre group is busy preparing for the upcoming competition, which means long nights of sitting through rehearsals for me. The piece that they are doing is pretty heavy, involving themes such as prostitution, multiple concurrent partners, sex before marriage, HIV, and the importance of education. I laugh, finding myself constantly correcting students on the pronunciation of interesting words like "virginity", "whore",and "ultimatum."
The puppies are doing well, still living in my latrine but not so content to stay there all the time now that they can walk and see and play. Mel seems to have little interest in feeding them anymore, so they swarm me and try to jump on my legs anytime I'm near and especially when I'm going to the bathroom. Heather, another PCV, came by to claim the first, who she named Solzinho (Alone) because of his tendency to wander around and explore by himself. I've fallen in love with one of the other puppies, a big fat brown one that the kids have named Magorducha. I don't need a third dog, but I am still reluctant to give this one away. Fortunately, all the people I have promised puppies to live close by and I can always visit. (As long as no one steals any while I'm out of town.)
Several days ago, I was sitting in my house drawing with some of the kids when a girl showed up at my front door saying that someone had taken two of the puppies. I leapt out of my seat and ran to check. Sure enough, two puppies were missing. Some kid down the street had up and decided to take two to his house, without saying a thing to me. The other kids called him back, and as he was putting the dogs back in the latrine I yelled at him that he had no right to take them out of my yard, but he didn't seem fazed in the least. When I went to his house to speak with his aunt, she explained that the kid is raised by his grandparents, who never discipline him. Because of this, he tends to steal things and do whatever he wants. I returned home very disturbed by the situation, and paranoid about the safety of the puppies.
I have also currently banned XimaXima and Mel from the house, after finding fleas in my bed. My new kitten Mazambane ("potato" in Changana) should be ready to leave from my friend Megan's house soon, so pretty soon we'll just be one big happy family.
Aside from work work work, I've been really looking forward to play play play- Kevin's whisking me off to South Africa in a few days!!! I'll be sure to take lots of pictures.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Candyland
I love Mozambique's capitol city, Maputo. It's a land of many wonders for this Peace Corps volunteer: Thai food buffets, real hamburgers (ie. cheese jalapeno) and pizza (ie. gorgonzola, pecans, caramelized onions), numerous and efficient banks, African crafts, capulanas galore!! My most recent shopping conquest resulted in the acquisition of a wooden crocodile, wooden kissing giraffes (see photo) that would love fabulous on top of my wedding cake, and a necklace made of bone.
In other exciting news, I am officially the new National Financial Coordinator for the REDES program and...Kevin will be here in 10 days!!!!!!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
One year
On the eve that marked the completion of my first year in Mozambique, there were no fireworks, no champagne, no clanging bells that marked the momentous occasion. A sleepy glance at the calendar "September 28- 12 months!" on my way to the fridge reminded me of the day, but other than that, things went normally.
The high pitched whining of crying puppies woke me up in the middle of the night and persisted until I got up to see what was wrong. Mel was sitting by the front door expectantly, having decided that waiting for me to let her out was more important than attending to her children. When it took longer than five minutes for her to come back, I shut the door again and crawled back into bed, only to be awakened half an hour later by the sound of Mel's flurried digging of a cavernous hideout inconveniently next to (and under) my house.
In the morning, I filled the hole with sand and cement blocks before my first REDES meeting at 8. Working with a group of secondary school girls is difficult because they go to school at different times. In order to accelerate our income generation earrings project, I've been meeting with them during the week and not just on Saturdays. They come to my house to sew on Wednesdays and Thursdays during three different time slots. As the project continues and some the girls discover that they like doing crafts, they've asked for even more informal sessions during the week which means this week, I'll have held six REDES meetings in total. Also, as I've gotten to know the girls better, I've begun to identify several I see a lot of potential in and would like to work with one on one. One girl, Eliza, for example, told me that she doesn't have any close girl friends because none of her peers like to do the things she does, which include reading and studying. She wants to be a journalist and go to college in Maputo, so I invited her to come over on Sundays to learn how to type and use a computer.
After REDES in the afternoon, it's time to go to CACHES. In a way, I still don't feel completely integrated in the organization yet. It seems that all the other staff members have their niches: Sam does art with the kids, Lastimoso does theatre, Professor Mario does music and dance, etc. And I usually just watch or participate with the kids. Several times, when the staff member in charge of the lesson for the day has failed to arrive on time or at all, I've done impromptu sessions with the kids. Simple stuff, like icebreakers and games, or exercises and stretches around the building.
These days, I stick around until long past dark. The JOMA theatre group (composed largely of the CACHES staff members) that meets after CACHES sessions is participating in an English Theatre competition at the end of October and I am helping them translate their play. This, I feel, will help them immensely in learning English, as opposed to throwing everything in an internet translator as they originally tried to do. The other day they asked me, "Mana Vivienne, what does 'yezzir' mean? Lil Wayne says it all the time in his music." Afterwards, the conversation expanded to other (and more vulgar) English slang, all words they gleaned from listening to rap music. After we finish working, the boys that live closest to me walk me home, which makes me feel much safer than navigating the dark paths by myself.
And this, my friends, is what my life has become, one year since stepping off that plane and touching foot on African soil for the first time in my life. All in all, I'm really enjoying myself and I can't wait to see what the next year holds.
The high pitched whining of crying puppies woke me up in the middle of the night and persisted until I got up to see what was wrong. Mel was sitting by the front door expectantly, having decided that waiting for me to let her out was more important than attending to her children. When it took longer than five minutes for her to come back, I shut the door again and crawled back into bed, only to be awakened half an hour later by the sound of Mel's flurried digging of a cavernous hideout inconveniently next to (and under) my house.
In the morning, I filled the hole with sand and cement blocks before my first REDES meeting at 8. Working with a group of secondary school girls is difficult because they go to school at different times. In order to accelerate our income generation earrings project, I've been meeting with them during the week and not just on Saturdays. They come to my house to sew on Wednesdays and Thursdays during three different time slots. As the project continues and some the girls discover that they like doing crafts, they've asked for even more informal sessions during the week which means this week, I'll have held six REDES meetings in total. Also, as I've gotten to know the girls better, I've begun to identify several I see a lot of potential in and would like to work with one on one. One girl, Eliza, for example, told me that she doesn't have any close girl friends because none of her peers like to do the things she does, which include reading and studying. She wants to be a journalist and go to college in Maputo, so I invited her to come over on Sundays to learn how to type and use a computer.
After REDES in the afternoon, it's time to go to CACHES. In a way, I still don't feel completely integrated in the organization yet. It seems that all the other staff members have their niches: Sam does art with the kids, Lastimoso does theatre, Professor Mario does music and dance, etc. And I usually just watch or participate with the kids. Several times, when the staff member in charge of the lesson for the day has failed to arrive on time or at all, I've done impromptu sessions with the kids. Simple stuff, like icebreakers and games, or exercises and stretches around the building.
These days, I stick around until long past dark. The JOMA theatre group (composed largely of the CACHES staff members) that meets after CACHES sessions is participating in an English Theatre competition at the end of October and I am helping them translate their play. This, I feel, will help them immensely in learning English, as opposed to throwing everything in an internet translator as they originally tried to do. The other day they asked me, "Mana Vivienne, what does 'yezzir' mean? Lil Wayne says it all the time in his music." Afterwards, the conversation expanded to other (and more vulgar) English slang, all words they gleaned from listening to rap music. After we finish working, the boys that live closest to me walk me home, which makes me feel much safer than navigating the dark paths by myself.
And this, my friends, is what my life has become, one year since stepping off that plane and touching foot on African soil for the first time in my life. All in all, I'm really enjoying myself and I can't wait to see what the next year holds.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Puppies, banking, and men- oh my!!
When my APCD came by last week for a site visit, she remarked, "Wow, your dog looks like a goat!" Poor pregnant Mel just gets no love. I left for a beach weekend in Tofo with Erica and Alycia and when I came back, I did a double take upon seeing skinny Mel. "Where's your BELLY??" I exclaimed, touching her underside just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. I followed her out of the house where, under the bushes behind my neighbor's outdoor kitchen, she plopped down proudly next to a pile of rats- er, puppies. I'm a grandma!!!
I threw all eight squirming pups (I found a 9th puppy dead at the bottom of the dogpile) into a basket and carried them into my house, where I let mom and babies set up camp under my living room table. (Until their constant squeaking and crying throughout the night forced me to move them into the kitchen, further away from my bedroom. The puppies are still blind and can't walk well, so they'll often roll away from the pack and then cry when they can't find their way back. So pathetic.) Their father must have been that one black and white dog that came by in the evening a few times, because four of the puppies are dark, dark black with white bellies, and the other four are brown like mom. It's been an exciting week for our family!
Work has slowed down… if not skidded to a complete halt. Tsembeka hasn't received funding from EGPAF in a few months so some people, including my main counterpart the coordinator, don't even have money to get to work. Which means I usually just sit around for an hour, listening to the activists chatter away in Changana, until I decide to go home. "You're leaving?? So soon?" They ask when they see me stand up, as if they're surprised that being ignored is not my idea of a good time. Once they asked, "What do you do when you go home? Just…sit?" I could see they were mystified by my desire to sit at home and do nothing, versus sitting at the office and doing nothing. "Well, I'm in the middle of a lot of projects right now," I explain, and it's true.
My REDES girls haven begun their capulana earrings project, and it's going well. They come in small groups to my house and we sit under the shade of a mango tree and sew. They're all eager to learn, but less patient to get it right. "The quality of the product that we're selling needs to be consistent," I tell them when they turn in one neatly sewn, and its identical pair hastily and messily finished. For some reason, the first of the pair always turns out nicer than the second.
I'm also planning a REDES exchange with three other groups in Gaza Province. Planning a full day event for about 80 people (including girls, facilitators, volunteers, government officials and misc visitors) is a lot of work! I've been scurrying back and forth from Xai Xai to run errands and to meet with the other volunteers.
After spending 3 ½ hours at the bank on Thursday to get a new bank card, I decided that Internet Banking is the way to go. (Especially next year, when I am Financial Coordinator for the REDES program and will constantly need to make transfers and deposits.) You'd be surprised at how INefficient banking can be in Mozambique.
As I stood in a line that seemed to be getting longer ahead of me the longer I stood there, I felt a sharp nostalgia for my bank back home. Ah, clean, air conditioned, efficient Wells Fargo with friendly bankers that know what they're doing… How I miss thee. Weird, right? Of all the things to miss.
But really, it wasn't my imagination that was fluctuating the line at Barclays Mozambique. People walk in the door, get in line to grab a form from the bankers behind the desk (because the forms need to be regulated so that people don't grab multiple forms and don't start a new form every time they mess up), sit down to fill out the form (and believe me, it takes forever for them to do even a simple one), and then get back in line in their previous spot. At any time, people are stepping out and getting back in line at arbitrary spots. I snapped at a man who tried to slide in front of me, and he protested, "But I was here behind this guy!" "What, forty minutes ago?" I asked, and made him get behind me.
Once you get to the front and are standing before the counter, the banker will help you when he/she is good and ready. So you could, for example, be standing there helplessly for a good ten minutes before they even so much as look at you. "You didn't write out the amount in words," The banker grumbled at me the first time I filled out a withdrawal form. I asked for a pen. "You need to step out of line and fill it out and then come back," He grouched I took two steps to the right, scribbled the amount, and slammed the form on his desk again four seconds later. Did I mention that I hate going to the bank in Mozambique?
Fortunately, Mozambique hasn't taken any of the sassiness out of me. The other day while I was sitting in the front seat of a chapa (my favorite seat, because I get to open my window and no one can complain), a man knocked on the window and wanted to get in. Instead of scooting over to the middle seat (which, to be honest, isn't a seat at all. It's the middle armrest with a cushion on top and no backrest so essentially, the bitch seat of all bitch seats.) I started to get out of the car so he could get in first. "They say the woman always sits in the middle, and the man next to the window," He said sullenly. "The man can sit in the middle too," I responded as I motioned for him to enter. "Me?? A man? Sit in the middle?" He protested. "Yup. Get in." He climbed in and for a sec I thought he was going to be an asshole and refuse to move from the window seat, but he kept going and sat in the middle, even though he was practically pouting. "Who's going to catch you from falling out the window if the chapa gets in an accident?" He asked, and the thing that most made me want to laugh was the fact that he was actually being serious. "I don't need the help of any man," I informed him, as I got into the passenger seat after him and slammed the door shut.
I threw all eight squirming pups (I found a 9th puppy dead at the bottom of the dogpile) into a basket and carried them into my house, where I let mom and babies set up camp under my living room table. (Until their constant squeaking and crying throughout the night forced me to move them into the kitchen, further away from my bedroom. The puppies are still blind and can't walk well, so they'll often roll away from the pack and then cry when they can't find their way back. So pathetic.) Their father must have been that one black and white dog that came by in the evening a few times, because four of the puppies are dark, dark black with white bellies, and the other four are brown like mom. It's been an exciting week for our family!
Work has slowed down… if not skidded to a complete halt. Tsembeka hasn't received funding from EGPAF in a few months so some people, including my main counterpart the coordinator, don't even have money to get to work. Which means I usually just sit around for an hour, listening to the activists chatter away in Changana, until I decide to go home. "You're leaving?? So soon?" They ask when they see me stand up, as if they're surprised that being ignored is not my idea of a good time. Once they asked, "What do you do when you go home? Just…sit?" I could see they were mystified by my desire to sit at home and do nothing, versus sitting at the office and doing nothing. "Well, I'm in the middle of a lot of projects right now," I explain, and it's true.
My REDES girls haven begun their capulana earrings project, and it's going well. They come in small groups to my house and we sit under the shade of a mango tree and sew. They're all eager to learn, but less patient to get it right. "The quality of the product that we're selling needs to be consistent," I tell them when they turn in one neatly sewn, and its identical pair hastily and messily finished. For some reason, the first of the pair always turns out nicer than the second.
I'm also planning a REDES exchange with three other groups in Gaza Province. Planning a full day event for about 80 people (including girls, facilitators, volunteers, government officials and misc visitors) is a lot of work! I've been scurrying back and forth from Xai Xai to run errands and to meet with the other volunteers.
After spending 3 ½ hours at the bank on Thursday to get a new bank card, I decided that Internet Banking is the way to go. (Especially next year, when I am Financial Coordinator for the REDES program and will constantly need to make transfers and deposits.) You'd be surprised at how INefficient banking can be in Mozambique.
As I stood in a line that seemed to be getting longer ahead of me the longer I stood there, I felt a sharp nostalgia for my bank back home. Ah, clean, air conditioned, efficient Wells Fargo with friendly bankers that know what they're doing… How I miss thee. Weird, right? Of all the things to miss.
But really, it wasn't my imagination that was fluctuating the line at Barclays Mozambique. People walk in the door, get in line to grab a form from the bankers behind the desk (because the forms need to be regulated so that people don't grab multiple forms and don't start a new form every time they mess up), sit down to fill out the form (and believe me, it takes forever for them to do even a simple one), and then get back in line in their previous spot. At any time, people are stepping out and getting back in line at arbitrary spots. I snapped at a man who tried to slide in front of me, and he protested, "But I was here behind this guy!" "What, forty minutes ago?" I asked, and made him get behind me.
Once you get to the front and are standing before the counter, the banker will help you when he/she is good and ready. So you could, for example, be standing there helplessly for a good ten minutes before they even so much as look at you. "You didn't write out the amount in words," The banker grumbled at me the first time I filled out a withdrawal form. I asked for a pen. "You need to step out of line and fill it out and then come back," He grouched I took two steps to the right, scribbled the amount, and slammed the form on his desk again four seconds later. Did I mention that I hate going to the bank in Mozambique?
Fortunately, Mozambique hasn't taken any of the sassiness out of me. The other day while I was sitting in the front seat of a chapa (my favorite seat, because I get to open my window and no one can complain), a man knocked on the window and wanted to get in. Instead of scooting over to the middle seat (which, to be honest, isn't a seat at all. It's the middle armrest with a cushion on top and no backrest so essentially, the bitch seat of all bitch seats.) I started to get out of the car so he could get in first. "They say the woman always sits in the middle, and the man next to the window," He said sullenly. "The man can sit in the middle too," I responded as I motioned for him to enter. "Me?? A man? Sit in the middle?" He protested. "Yup. Get in." He climbed in and for a sec I thought he was going to be an asshole and refuse to move from the window seat, but he kept going and sat in the middle, even though he was practically pouting. "Who's going to catch you from falling out the window if the chapa gets in an accident?" He asked, and the thing that most made me want to laugh was the fact that he was actually being serious. "I don't need the help of any man," I informed him, as I got into the passenger seat after him and slammed the door shut.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Girl power
Materials needed to paint a mural in Mozambique:
- Bottle caps to chip away old layers of paint
- A large machete, also to accomplish the above
- Empty plastic liquor bottles and soda cans to cut in half and use as cups for paint
- A Frisbee, as a palette for mixing colors
- A rickety ladder that needs to be held steady by someone at the bottom
- A string attached to a pencil, to use as a compass when drawing large circles
- A water jug to stand on
- SUNSCREEN
With six people, our Peace Corps 50th anniversary mural was finished in four days and, not to brag, but it turned out great! I'm very happy about it. It was, however, quite a feat working in the scorching morning/mid-afternoon sun. The last few days, we worked two shifts- the first from 7-11 am when the sun became unbearable, and then resumed at 2pm when the area was shaded I'm not gonna lie, painting is not my preferred art form. It requires too much patience. I'd say 75% of the time I spent "fixing" letters and lines done by those with less of an eye for detail. By the end of the week, I was definitely cheiga (full of/enough) of mural painting.
I traveled up to Inharrime for the weekend for a giant REDES troca (exchange). With 130 girls, it was practically a conference! The night before the troca was spent making /writing/ decorating nametags until I thought my eyes would fall out. The girls showed up at 8am and spent the day rotating through stations: Cha cha slide, soccer, jump rope, capulana flower sewing, thank you card writing to donors, transition from primary to secondary school, nutrition/ peanut butter making, and mural painting (which I was put in charge of supervising until I decided, after watching primary school students paint a sloppy pink, yellow, and blue blob of a globe, that the perfectionist in me could not handle more wobbly lines, more paint, or more sun exposure).
Halfway through the day, a group of men wearing soccer uniforms showed up on the field and informed us that they had a game scheduled in approximately 15 minutes. When the Inharrime PCVs explained that we had the field reserved until 4pm, the men became very indignant and insisted that we take the children off the field so they could play. When it became apparent that we were not packing up, the guys started setting up on the field anyway. One man stood in the middle of the field and began blowing his whistle authoritatively. When the girls hesitantly started moving off the field, we ordered them to stay and continue their activities. At the point, a small crowd had gathered at the entrance of the field (game spectators? Or maybe drawn by all the yelling going on…) and the Inharrime volunteers had called the police and city administrators to come because the troca had been cleared with them in advance.
In the meantime, all 130 girls were sent onto the field to take up space and otherwise make it impossible for the men to play. With no PCV direction whatsoever, the girls immediately ran out and held hands in the middle of the field, singing REDES songs. When the guys began kicking around the soccer ball, primary school students swarmed them like a giant bees nest and took the ball down the other end of the field, kicking it between the opposite goal posts and cheering like a victory at the World Cup. "We are REDES girls and we want to play too!" They chanted.
The men were absolutely livid. One guy got so angry at the children chanting and dancing in circles around him that he petulantly whipped a young boy (the brother of one of the REDES girls) with his t-shirt. Later, this same man was literally chased down the street by the boy's mom, who had been called about the incident. Dressed in an elegant white sun hat and a capulana skirt, she (followed by a trail of hooting REDES girls) ran after the guy all the way to his house, where he hid and she promised to come back and let him have it.
Eventually, the city admin showed up, waving the letter that stated that REDES had the field until 4pm. As we watched the men leave (after more yelling from all sides and the feistier PCVs escorting them out) one of the girls at my side scoffed, "Those goats. No grass to eat today! Go on home," which I found hilarious. Of course, the men came back promptly at 4 with their vuvuzelas.
Throughout the day, the girls showed such spunk and strength. I was so proud of them. (Nevermind the later drama about girls taking t-shirts that they weren't supposed to…)
I came back from the troca inspired to do Income Generation projects with my REDES groups. Capulana jewelry is so fun and unique. Bottle cap earrings, flower hairpins and bows are so easy to make and easy to sell. Stay posted for more info this month about supporting my group!
XOXO-
- Bottle caps to chip away old layers of paint
- A large machete, also to accomplish the above
- Empty plastic liquor bottles and soda cans to cut in half and use as cups for paint
- A Frisbee, as a palette for mixing colors
- A rickety ladder that needs to be held steady by someone at the bottom
- A string attached to a pencil, to use as a compass when drawing large circles
- A water jug to stand on
- SUNSCREEN
With six people, our Peace Corps 50th anniversary mural was finished in four days and, not to brag, but it turned out great! I'm very happy about it. It was, however, quite a feat working in the scorching morning/mid-afternoon sun. The last few days, we worked two shifts- the first from 7-11 am when the sun became unbearable, and then resumed at 2pm when the area was shaded I'm not gonna lie, painting is not my preferred art form. It requires too much patience. I'd say 75% of the time I spent "fixing" letters and lines done by those with less of an eye for detail. By the end of the week, I was definitely cheiga (full of/enough) of mural painting.
I traveled up to Inharrime for the weekend for a giant REDES troca (exchange). With 130 girls, it was practically a conference! The night before the troca was spent making /writing/ decorating nametags until I thought my eyes would fall out. The girls showed up at 8am and spent the day rotating through stations: Cha cha slide, soccer, jump rope, capulana flower sewing, thank you card writing to donors, transition from primary to secondary school, nutrition/ peanut butter making, and mural painting (which I was put in charge of supervising until I decided, after watching primary school students paint a sloppy pink, yellow, and blue blob of a globe, that the perfectionist in me could not handle more wobbly lines, more paint, or more sun exposure).
Halfway through the day, a group of men wearing soccer uniforms showed up on the field and informed us that they had a game scheduled in approximately 15 minutes. When the Inharrime PCVs explained that we had the field reserved until 4pm, the men became very indignant and insisted that we take the children off the field so they could play. When it became apparent that we were not packing up, the guys started setting up on the field anyway. One man stood in the middle of the field and began blowing his whistle authoritatively. When the girls hesitantly started moving off the field, we ordered them to stay and continue their activities. At the point, a small crowd had gathered at the entrance of the field (game spectators? Or maybe drawn by all the yelling going on…) and the Inharrime volunteers had called the police and city administrators to come because the troca had been cleared with them in advance.
In the meantime, all 130 girls were sent onto the field to take up space and otherwise make it impossible for the men to play. With no PCV direction whatsoever, the girls immediately ran out and held hands in the middle of the field, singing REDES songs. When the guys began kicking around the soccer ball, primary school students swarmed them like a giant bees nest and took the ball down the other end of the field, kicking it between the opposite goal posts and cheering like a victory at the World Cup. "We are REDES girls and we want to play too!" They chanted.
The men were absolutely livid. One guy got so angry at the children chanting and dancing in circles around him that he petulantly whipped a young boy (the brother of one of the REDES girls) with his t-shirt. Later, this same man was literally chased down the street by the boy's mom, who had been called about the incident. Dressed in an elegant white sun hat and a capulana skirt, she (followed by a trail of hooting REDES girls) ran after the guy all the way to his house, where he hid and she promised to come back and let him have it.
Eventually, the city admin showed up, waving the letter that stated that REDES had the field until 4pm. As we watched the men leave (after more yelling from all sides and the feistier PCVs escorting them out) one of the girls at my side scoffed, "Those goats. No grass to eat today! Go on home," which I found hilarious. Of course, the men came back promptly at 4 with their vuvuzelas.
Throughout the day, the girls showed such spunk and strength. I was so proud of them. (Nevermind the later drama about girls taking t-shirts that they weren't supposed to…)
I came back from the troca inspired to do Income Generation projects with my REDES groups. Capulana jewelry is so fun and unique. Bottle cap earrings, flower hairpins and bows are so easy to make and easy to sell. Stay posted for more info this month about supporting my group!
XOXO-
Friday, September 2, 2011
If my heart was a house, you'd be home
It's interesting how the concept of "home" is constantly in flux. As I walked through the streets of Chibuto again this week, I didn't feel the twinge of nostalgia that I did last time. In fact, all I felt was an incredible detachment from my surroundings. Even when my Art Club boys Vasco and Rosthilo stopped by Erica and Alycia's house, all I did was wave from inside the house. I just don't know what to say to them. I don't belong there anymore.
Perhaps I felt this way because I was coming off of a 3 hour chapa ride that should have been no more than 1.5 hours (it's unfathomable to me how a short trip can take so long), or because people kept yelling racist unintelligable "Chinese" at me and making karate chop moves. You should know that I've developed quite a significant amount of patience for harrassment in my time here in Moz. These days, the hissing of men I pass on the street just sounds like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear, irritating but unavoidable. However, the "CHING CHANG CHONG CHONG CHOONG" comments and especially the accompanied laughter (because apparently insensitivity is hilarious), still gets to me. It doesn't make me angry so much anymore, as much as it just hurts my feelings. I'm a person,I want to say, not a stereotype.
(The other day, during a meeting with another organization, someone referred to me as "guaranteed money." So apparently, I'm just a big fat dollar sign. These types of comments are hard not to take personally even if they are based on ignorance, because they really devalue the work I'm doing. If I'm only here to give money, then I'm wasting two years of my time.)
By the time I got off the chapa in Chicumbane (another 4 hours later. HOW??) I was almost in tears. Too many racist and insensitive comments, or otherwise incidences of being completely ignored, for a 12 hour span. But as I walked from the paragem to my house, I passed three separate people who called me by name. "Mana Vivienne!" They greeted me, and each time I felt as if a tiny burden lifted off my shoulders.
By the time I opened the door of my house, greeted by my pups, I was human again. This community of Chicumbane, where I am recognized as a person, where I am doing so many things and getting to know so many people, had somehow become my home.
Perhaps I felt this way because I was coming off of a 3 hour chapa ride that should have been no more than 1.5 hours (it's unfathomable to me how a short trip can take so long), or because people kept yelling racist unintelligable "Chinese" at me and making karate chop moves. You should know that I've developed quite a significant amount of patience for harrassment in my time here in Moz. These days, the hissing of men I pass on the street just sounds like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear, irritating but unavoidable. However, the "CHING CHANG CHONG CHONG CHOONG" comments and especially the accompanied laughter (because apparently insensitivity is hilarious), still gets to me. It doesn't make me angry so much anymore, as much as it just hurts my feelings. I'm a person,I want to say, not a stereotype.
(The other day, during a meeting with another organization, someone referred to me as "guaranteed money." So apparently, I'm just a big fat dollar sign. These types of comments are hard not to take personally even if they are based on ignorance, because they really devalue the work I'm doing. If I'm only here to give money, then I'm wasting two years of my time.)
By the time I got off the chapa in Chicumbane (another 4 hours later. HOW??) I was almost in tears. Too many racist and insensitive comments, or otherwise incidences of being completely ignored, for a 12 hour span. But as I walked from the paragem to my house, I passed three separate people who called me by name. "Mana Vivienne!" They greeted me, and each time I felt as if a tiny burden lifted off my shoulders.
By the time I opened the door of my house, greeted by my pups, I was human again. This community of Chicumbane, where I am recognized as a person, where I am doing so many things and getting to know so many people, had somehow become my home.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Life is a Cookie
I'm asking my coworker for the 50th time whether we have a space locked down for the Peace Corps 50th Anniversary mural we are set to start work on next week, and if he has started working on the design. "Yeah, I'm working on it," He says, "No problem." "I'd like a design completed by this Friday," I say. "No problem" Is his response. I'm exasperated. "You always say no problem to everything," I chide. He looks at me with a wide, toothy grin and says, "With me, there's never a problem. The day I say there is a problem, then you know we really have a problem on our hands. For me, life is a cookie. Simple. Never loses its flavor, even in the middle."
I'm not exactly sure what that all means, but I like cookies. And I like life. So… Sounds good to me.
For a while, I had a phantom chicken living in my latrine. I would notice three-pronged prints in the sand, but never so much as a feather. Then one day, I discovered a small white egg in the corner of the latrine. I picked it up but then laden with guilt, and unsure of what to do with it, I put it back. The next day, still no mama chicken. I began to fear that a snake might find the egg, and that suddenly I'd have to deal with a serpent living in my latrine, so I gave the egg to my neighbor. Two days later, I opened my latrine door in the morning to find a disgruntled white chicken, just as startled as I was. It flew out in a whirlwind of feathers, exciting my dogs, who chased the poor distressed hen down the street squawking the entire way. Regardless, my latrine must be an appealing place to give birth, because later in the afternoon I found egg #2. I considered hatching it, but could think of no way to raise it outside of the house without my dogs eating it. So… I ate it for breakfast. I felt extremely guilty as I cracked it open over a hot pan, like I was aborting a baby chicken. I was also terrified a fetus would plop out, which would have undoubtedly made me puke. It was fine though, tasted normal. (Why wouldn't it?) I admit, I still feel pangs of guilt. Poor fluffy white chick that never was….
Also, the egg probably wasn't mine to eat. The mama chicken DID use my latrine as a birthing spot… TWICE. But I really don't know how fowl ownership works around here, especially since chickens roam freely. Sometimes they will have ribbons tied on their wings or legs, but the majority don't have any visible marking. And who owns the baby chicks? I assume the owner of the hen? All I know is, my stomach now owns the egg that I found in my latrine. Sorry, neighbor. (Ps. No new eggs since. The chicken must have abandoned my bathroom. Lately, though, with Mel pregnant I've been wondering how viable it would be for me to set up her birthing nest there, for shade and privacy.)
These days, work is going fantastically well. My knowledge and expertise seems to be in high demand. The activistas from Tsembeka raved about my first HIV training, and began insisting that I accompany them to their weekly childrens support groups to teach the kids. Which means, of course, that I have to continue insisting right back that I am not here to do things for them, I am here to do things with them and to teach them to be self-sufficient. "Oh but Mana Vivienne," They whine, "We're busy right now You're so much better at it. We haven't practiced. We don't remember how to do it. We're going to mess up the game." A million and one excused later, I'm still refusing to be the one to carry out the activity. I've set them up for complete success, with facilitator guides, visuals, props. (For our recent event for children, I created an entire Nutrition game with 40 cards of different kinds of food- drawn by hand, colored, labeled, cut out, ready to be categorized by food group.) I've spent hours sitting outside with Tsembeka activists, doing icebreaker activities, running over instructions on how to implement these things I'm teaching them. I guess now what I need to do, is work on their confidence in facilitating.
The other day, though, I sat in on one of Tsembeka's prayer meetings (It is, after all, a religious organization) and was a little surprised at some of the things I observed. Activists who I've always considered reserved or quiet, transformed into fiery orators when it comes to the word of God.
I'm always a bit taken aback by how vocal religion in Africa is, and how communal even. For example, we began and ended the meeting by praying. Normal, right? But unlike in the States, where usually one person prays for everyone or everyone prays silently to themselves, Mozambicans all start praying loudly at the same time and there's quite a chatter in the room for about five minutes and then suddenly it just dies down. I kept opening my eyes to observe everything, but everyone else seemed completely absorbed in their prayers. One lady kept sobbing "Yesu!" (Jesus) and the woman to my right kept spontaneously clapping her hands, a thunderous and unexpected clap that always made me jump. The coordinator (the only man at the meeting), next to me, was the only one praying in Portuguese, and his usual mild voice had transformed into the booming emphatic voice of a preacher.
After praying, the meeting commenced with every person standing up and saying something (in Changana, but translated to me by the coordinator) about how good God has been to the organization, and how we must ask His blessing and His help to continue forward in our mission, and how we must continue to listen and to serve Him. In between speakers, everyone would sing a church song (also in Changana). All in all, the meeting lasted about two hours and would probably have continued had the coordinator asked to wrap up because of another meeting. Near the end, the women sang a song and began dancing vigorously, grabbing objects (purses, notebooks, chairs) and placing them on their heads as they shimmied and swayed around the room. I must have looked confused, because the coordinator leaned over to explain to me that the song asks "How are you going to enter Heaven with that burden that you carry?"
It's getting hotter by the day. I am not looking forward to the upcoming months of intense heat. I survived one year already, so this will be my last of cruel African summer. Mosquitoes are multiplying, attracted to the lights I keep on. My white walls are dotted with smashed mosquito corpses, a disgusting "mural" of sorts that I'm too lazy to clean. The emergence of more bugs (increasing number of dead cockroaches I'm finding around the house too) means… GIANT SPIDERS. I'm not even kidding. They're the size of my hand, and I find one or two a day. (I have an idea for the title of a novel, set in Africa: 'In the Time of the Overgrown Spiders.' Would you read it?) I try living harmoniously with them, as Yoko does, (I scream whenever I see one in her house, she comes shoos it back into its hiding space, and informs me, "I just had a talk with him. We agreed he wouldn't come back out until our visitor Vivienne leaves.") but sometimes they make me so uncomfortable that I grab my Baygone (insect killer) can and go to town. Spiders need more Baygone to kill, and they take longer to die. One I sprayed in the kitchen crawled into my room and onto my mosquito net, so now when I'm laying in bed I have to look up at the body of a big dead spider. I'd rather not touch it, even still, so when Kevin arrives in a few months I'll ask him to dispose of the skeleton. That's what boyfriends are for, right?
I'm not exactly sure what that all means, but I like cookies. And I like life. So… Sounds good to me.
For a while, I had a phantom chicken living in my latrine. I would notice three-pronged prints in the sand, but never so much as a feather. Then one day, I discovered a small white egg in the corner of the latrine. I picked it up but then laden with guilt, and unsure of what to do with it, I put it back. The next day, still no mama chicken. I began to fear that a snake might find the egg, and that suddenly I'd have to deal with a serpent living in my latrine, so I gave the egg to my neighbor. Two days later, I opened my latrine door in the morning to find a disgruntled white chicken, just as startled as I was. It flew out in a whirlwind of feathers, exciting my dogs, who chased the poor distressed hen down the street squawking the entire way. Regardless, my latrine must be an appealing place to give birth, because later in the afternoon I found egg #2. I considered hatching it, but could think of no way to raise it outside of the house without my dogs eating it. So… I ate it for breakfast. I felt extremely guilty as I cracked it open over a hot pan, like I was aborting a baby chicken. I was also terrified a fetus would plop out, which would have undoubtedly made me puke. It was fine though, tasted normal. (Why wouldn't it?) I admit, I still feel pangs of guilt. Poor fluffy white chick that never was….
Also, the egg probably wasn't mine to eat. The mama chicken DID use my latrine as a birthing spot… TWICE. But I really don't know how fowl ownership works around here, especially since chickens roam freely. Sometimes they will have ribbons tied on their wings or legs, but the majority don't have any visible marking. And who owns the baby chicks? I assume the owner of the hen? All I know is, my stomach now owns the egg that I found in my latrine. Sorry, neighbor. (Ps. No new eggs since. The chicken must have abandoned my bathroom. Lately, though, with Mel pregnant I've been wondering how viable it would be for me to set up her birthing nest there, for shade and privacy.)
These days, work is going fantastically well. My knowledge and expertise seems to be in high demand. The activistas from Tsembeka raved about my first HIV training, and began insisting that I accompany them to their weekly childrens support groups to teach the kids. Which means, of course, that I have to continue insisting right back that I am not here to do things for them, I am here to do things with them and to teach them to be self-sufficient. "Oh but Mana Vivienne," They whine, "We're busy right now You're so much better at it. We haven't practiced. We don't remember how to do it. We're going to mess up the game." A million and one excused later, I'm still refusing to be the one to carry out the activity. I've set them up for complete success, with facilitator guides, visuals, props. (For our recent event for children, I created an entire Nutrition game with 40 cards of different kinds of food- drawn by hand, colored, labeled, cut out, ready to be categorized by food group.) I've spent hours sitting outside with Tsembeka activists, doing icebreaker activities, running over instructions on how to implement these things I'm teaching them. I guess now what I need to do, is work on their confidence in facilitating.
The other day, though, I sat in on one of Tsembeka's prayer meetings (It is, after all, a religious organization) and was a little surprised at some of the things I observed. Activists who I've always considered reserved or quiet, transformed into fiery orators when it comes to the word of God.
I'm always a bit taken aback by how vocal religion in Africa is, and how communal even. For example, we began and ended the meeting by praying. Normal, right? But unlike in the States, where usually one person prays for everyone or everyone prays silently to themselves, Mozambicans all start praying loudly at the same time and there's quite a chatter in the room for about five minutes and then suddenly it just dies down. I kept opening my eyes to observe everything, but everyone else seemed completely absorbed in their prayers. One lady kept sobbing "Yesu!" (Jesus) and the woman to my right kept spontaneously clapping her hands, a thunderous and unexpected clap that always made me jump. The coordinator (the only man at the meeting), next to me, was the only one praying in Portuguese, and his usual mild voice had transformed into the booming emphatic voice of a preacher.
After praying, the meeting commenced with every person standing up and saying something (in Changana, but translated to me by the coordinator) about how good God has been to the organization, and how we must ask His blessing and His help to continue forward in our mission, and how we must continue to listen and to serve Him. In between speakers, everyone would sing a church song (also in Changana). All in all, the meeting lasted about two hours and would probably have continued had the coordinator asked to wrap up because of another meeting. Near the end, the women sang a song and began dancing vigorously, grabbing objects (purses, notebooks, chairs) and placing them on their heads as they shimmied and swayed around the room. I must have looked confused, because the coordinator leaned over to explain to me that the song asks "How are you going to enter Heaven with that burden that you carry?"
It's getting hotter by the day. I am not looking forward to the upcoming months of intense heat. I survived one year already, so this will be my last of cruel African summer. Mosquitoes are multiplying, attracted to the lights I keep on. My white walls are dotted with smashed mosquito corpses, a disgusting "mural" of sorts that I'm too lazy to clean. The emergence of more bugs (increasing number of dead cockroaches I'm finding around the house too) means… GIANT SPIDERS. I'm not even kidding. They're the size of my hand, and I find one or two a day. (I have an idea for the title of a novel, set in Africa: 'In the Time of the Overgrown Spiders.' Would you read it?) I try living harmoniously with them, as Yoko does, (I scream whenever I see one in her house, she comes shoos it back into its hiding space, and informs me, "I just had a talk with him. We agreed he wouldn't come back out until our visitor Vivienne leaves.") but sometimes they make me so uncomfortable that I grab my Baygone (insect killer) can and go to town. Spiders need more Baygone to kill, and they take longer to die. One I sprayed in the kitchen crawled into my room and onto my mosquito net, so now when I'm laying in bed I have to look up at the body of a big dead spider. I'd rather not touch it, even still, so when Kevin arrives in a few months I'll ask him to dispose of the skeleton. That's what boyfriends are for, right?
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Communicating in Moz
In a society that emphasizes community over the individual, I am the weirdo who sits alone in her house all day, coddles dogs as if they were human beings, doesn't eat xima, and can't speak local language. I don't sit on the straw mat with the other women (if you're not used to it, it's really uncomfortable after a while!). People always get up to offer me a chair. No one challenges me if I get in the front seat of the chapa (I've heard, sometimes reserved for men). And seriously, why would I choose to be squished under the deodorant-less armpits of a million other people in the back?
Out in the field, on the way to another neighborhood of Chicumbane (every time Habitat for Humanity builds a new house in the community, Tsembeka gets to lay down the first cement block- it's symbolic, I think), the activist I'm with stops to ask for directions. "Good morning," She calls out (in Changana) as we approach a house with three old women wrapped in capulanas sitting in the front. "Good morning," They respond, coming to greet us. I kiss three sets of papery cheeks and shake three sets of wrinkly hands, holding my left wrist under my right elbow as we shake, a sign of respect. The ladies do the same.
"How are you?" Luisa the activist asks. The women respond, exchange more pleasantries. I may not speak Changana, but I know small talk when I see it. Several minutes later, Luisa asks the target question: "Where is the house of ____?" And we're finally on our way. As we start walking again, I muse about the differences in societal norms when it comes to communication. In my eyes, a quick "Good morning, where is this house?" would have done it, minus all the time wasted on questions like "How did you sleep?" I probably get asked that question more than any other.
Luisa continues greeting everyone we pass. At one house, she calls out a greeting but receives no reply from the lady in the doorway. Luisa calls again, louder, waving emphatically. No response. Lusia shakes her head, miffed. "That's so rude to just stare at someone when they say hi. Such ugly behavior."
I cringe a little when I think about a couple months ago, when I went with my guard to the electricity office in Xai Xai to demand some answers about my terrible electricity. As we sit down with the boss in his office, he asks us, "Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm not good." I respond angrily, and begin ranting about my electricity issues at house, and how ridiculous it all is. In the States, the angry customer gets anything. In Mozambique, the angry customer gets nothing but a surprised stare. My guard jumps in to try to save the day. "The lady is just upset because she has had a problem with her electricity for several weeks and she can't cook at home because of her electric stove." So obviously I'm only so upset because I'm hungry. Later on, my guard sits me down for a talk. "Some people say you have an unusual way of greeting people," He says, very nervously. "I just want you to know, that doesn't mean we don't appreciate that you're here helping our country."
A few days ago, my next door neighbor Orquidia found a snake in her house. Mozambicans are terrified of snakes, sometimes even believing that they are sent by evil witches or wizards to harm them. When she called the neighbors to come kill it (the appropriate manner for dealing with a snake here, is bludgeoning it to death with machetes and shovels, cutting its head off, and then burning it), the snake escaped into a hole under the house. I'd never seen Orquidia so upset. "If I had money," she kept saying, "I'd move out of this house. I'd leave this place. I'm not safe here. My daughter can't stay here. We can't sleep in the house. There's a snake lurking around!"
Let me tell you, Mozambicans rarely get perturbed by anything. I think that Americans, in relation, are highly emotional. Or at least, visibly emotional. In Moz, most things are dealt with in a platonic, "This is a part of life. These things happen and it's out of my hands." (difference in locus of control) It's frustrating, sometimes, to get them to care about the same things I do. ("I couldn't sleep last night, the wind blowing against the roof made it sound like someone was trying to break into my house!" "HAHAHA, no one is going to break in to your house." "Really? Tell that to all the volunteers who've had their houses broken into, then.")
Interestingly enough, Orquidia's reaction to the snake was the second time this week I've seen a Mozambican woman get worked up. On a chapa to Xai Xai the other day, a woman in the back declared that she had forgotten something at home, and asked to get off the chapa. We were about two minutes in to the 10 minute ride. The driver pulled over, but as the woman stood up to get out, he told her that she still had to pay. They began arguing in Changana and (I assume) she said that we hadn't even arrived yet. At this point, the chapa driver pulled back onto the road and began driving again, as the woman continued hollering at him in Changana. (I was sitting in the seat behind the driver, so I got an earful.) He turned up the music to drown her out but she kept right on going. Yelling and screaming and waving and pointing her finger accusingly the entire way to Xai Xai. What surprised me the most, however, was the man in the front seat. I've ranted multiple times about how no one will ever step in and defend me, even if I'm obviously getting harassed. For the first time ever, I saw someone intervene in a conflict. The guy in the front told the driver that the lady deserved an apology for being disrespected (which of course, the driver did not give). I got off at the first stop so was unable to see how the rest of the situation resolved, but it was all so fascinating to me.
Almost one year into service (HAH Kevin and Devin, I'm still here! You didn't think I'd make it this far!), I'm still learning to communicate in this culture I live in, and my Portuguese skills have nothing to do with it.
Out in the field, on the way to another neighborhood of Chicumbane (every time Habitat for Humanity builds a new house in the community, Tsembeka gets to lay down the first cement block- it's symbolic, I think), the activist I'm with stops to ask for directions. "Good morning," She calls out (in Changana) as we approach a house with three old women wrapped in capulanas sitting in the front. "Good morning," They respond, coming to greet us. I kiss three sets of papery cheeks and shake three sets of wrinkly hands, holding my left wrist under my right elbow as we shake, a sign of respect. The ladies do the same.
"How are you?" Luisa the activist asks. The women respond, exchange more pleasantries. I may not speak Changana, but I know small talk when I see it. Several minutes later, Luisa asks the target question: "Where is the house of ____?" And we're finally on our way. As we start walking again, I muse about the differences in societal norms when it comes to communication. In my eyes, a quick "Good morning, where is this house?" would have done it, minus all the time wasted on questions like "How did you sleep?" I probably get asked that question more than any other.
Luisa continues greeting everyone we pass. At one house, she calls out a greeting but receives no reply from the lady in the doorway. Luisa calls again, louder, waving emphatically. No response. Lusia shakes her head, miffed. "That's so rude to just stare at someone when they say hi. Such ugly behavior."
I cringe a little when I think about a couple months ago, when I went with my guard to the electricity office in Xai Xai to demand some answers about my terrible electricity. As we sit down with the boss in his office, he asks us, "Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm not good." I respond angrily, and begin ranting about my electricity issues at house, and how ridiculous it all is. In the States, the angry customer gets anything. In Mozambique, the angry customer gets nothing but a surprised stare. My guard jumps in to try to save the day. "The lady is just upset because she has had a problem with her electricity for several weeks and she can't cook at home because of her electric stove." So obviously I'm only so upset because I'm hungry. Later on, my guard sits me down for a talk. "Some people say you have an unusual way of greeting people," He says, very nervously. "I just want you to know, that doesn't mean we don't appreciate that you're here helping our country."
A few days ago, my next door neighbor Orquidia found a snake in her house. Mozambicans are terrified of snakes, sometimes even believing that they are sent by evil witches or wizards to harm them. When she called the neighbors to come kill it (the appropriate manner for dealing with a snake here, is bludgeoning it to death with machetes and shovels, cutting its head off, and then burning it), the snake escaped into a hole under the house. I'd never seen Orquidia so upset. "If I had money," she kept saying, "I'd move out of this house. I'd leave this place. I'm not safe here. My daughter can't stay here. We can't sleep in the house. There's a snake lurking around!"
Let me tell you, Mozambicans rarely get perturbed by anything. I think that Americans, in relation, are highly emotional. Or at least, visibly emotional. In Moz, most things are dealt with in a platonic, "This is a part of life. These things happen and it's out of my hands." (difference in locus of control) It's frustrating, sometimes, to get them to care about the same things I do. ("I couldn't sleep last night, the wind blowing against the roof made it sound like someone was trying to break into my house!" "HAHAHA, no one is going to break in to your house." "Really? Tell that to all the volunteers who've had their houses broken into, then.")
Interestingly enough, Orquidia's reaction to the snake was the second time this week I've seen a Mozambican woman get worked up. On a chapa to Xai Xai the other day, a woman in the back declared that she had forgotten something at home, and asked to get off the chapa. We were about two minutes in to the 10 minute ride. The driver pulled over, but as the woman stood up to get out, he told her that she still had to pay. They began arguing in Changana and (I assume) she said that we hadn't even arrived yet. At this point, the chapa driver pulled back onto the road and began driving again, as the woman continued hollering at him in Changana. (I was sitting in the seat behind the driver, so I got an earful.) He turned up the music to drown her out but she kept right on going. Yelling and screaming and waving and pointing her finger accusingly the entire way to Xai Xai. What surprised me the most, however, was the man in the front seat. I've ranted multiple times about how no one will ever step in and defend me, even if I'm obviously getting harassed. For the first time ever, I saw someone intervene in a conflict. The guy in the front told the driver that the lady deserved an apology for being disrespected (which of course, the driver did not give). I got off at the first stop so was unable to see how the rest of the situation resolved, but it was all so fascinating to me.
Almost one year into service (HAH Kevin and Devin, I'm still here! You didn't think I'd make it this far!), I'm still learning to communicate in this culture I live in, and my Portuguese skills have nothing to do with it.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sometimes time has wings
Another volunteer once wrote, “Mozambique is where all clothes come to die.” This is true; the worn clothing you carelessly throw into a donation bin will probably eventually make it to Africa, where it will be bargained and bartered for in a hectic market, exposed to excessive sweat and dirt stains, scrubbed with harsh soaps until finally, reduced to holes and tatters, even Mozambicans will demote it to floor rag.
My clothes have certainly suffered during my time here. I don’t know, maybe life is just more… hazardous here. While riding a chapa the other day, I ripped a hole in the knee and in the butt of my jeans. Two holes, one chapa? The math still doesn’t make sense to me. Just yesterday, I tore my shirt when it got caught on a piece of my door grate. Good thing is, I can just go to Xai Xai and hunt through endless mounds of used clothes to restock my wardrobe. Thrift store shopping at its best.
However, clothes are not the only thing that Mozambique is known for killing. Electronics probably survive half their typical lifespan here, due to inconsistent electricity and constant outages. Even with my voltage regulator, my computer died last week and I’m back at square one. Quite inconvenient too, considering all the work I’m starting involving grants and trainings. I guess there really is no convenient time for a computer to crash.
But around the same time this tragedy occurred, a sewing machine floated into my life. It belongs to my organization CACHES but it’s keeping me company at home for a while, and it’s such a great time waster that I hardly miss watching Glee and chick flicks on a computer. Eventually, though, I’ve got to figure out what to do about this computer situation. Kevin might have to bring me yet another one in October. Poor guy… He is my luggage mule.
Anyway, things have been going great here! After the REDES conference (I'll figure out a way to post up my pictures soon, but in the meantime you can check out the REDES blog @ http://theredesproject.wordpress.com/) , I was so pumped and excited about the REDES project and having new ideas for activities and trainings that I talked to both my orgs about it. In the next few weeks I will be giving several HIV/AIDS trainings to my org facilitators and activists that will enable them to engage and work with children in a more informally educative (yet effective) manner.
I’m also going to be painting a mural in Xai Xai for Peace Corps 50th anniversary project. I’ve been wanting to do a mural during my time here and this opportunity just kind of dropped into my lap. So needless to say, I have been and will continue to be busy in the upcoming weeks.
I am currently sitting in my friend Yoko’s house, that’s right- in Chibuto! I finally made it back to visit. Things have not changed much, but I feel that I have. I think I will always look back on this place fondly, but not regretfully. Chibuto was a part of my service (6 months!) but I definitely made the right decision in moving. Within five minutes of my arrival, somehow word had spread among the children that I was back and they arrived at Yoko’s house calling my name. My boys Vasco and Rostilho are getting so tall! They asked me, “Mana Vivienne, in Chicumbane do you have children to play with?” I miss them so much. It’s also interesting, in Chibuto I worked mainly with young boys but in Chicumbane I’m working largely with older girls (through REDES).
At the end of the month, I am planning on going to a Timbila festival at my friend Angela’s site (Zafala, Inhambane). Timbilas are like wood xylophones, so I guess there’s going to be a lot of drumming and music. Pretty cool.
REDES conference red group
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