On Saturday I went with Yoko to a party that took place in a bairro of Chibuto called Samora Machele. I’d never been in that area before, but it’s where Yoko works. She’s pretty well known in that community because she passes by so many houses on the 45-minute walk to and from work and, though she won’t admit it, she’s really good at speaking Changana.
Samora Machele is a bit more rural than my neighborhood, Setenta Casas (70 Houses aka the suburbia of Chimundo). Most of the homes in Samora Machele are made of caniço and fewer people speak Portuguese. Polygamy is also very common.
The party was held in honor of two young widows who had shared the same husband. On this day, one year after his death, they were to shed their black clothes and exit the period of mourning.
The party took all day, as is typical of all Mozambican events, with whole lot of waiting around in between proceedings. The widows had gone to the cemetery in the morning to pay their respects and were returning just as the guests arrived. (Of course, everyone was several hours late, but that’s just Mozambican schedule for ya.) In the meantime, I was watching a group of men carve up the meat of a giant cow that had been slaughtered the night before. I was impressed at how much meat there was, and also very thankful that I’ll never be expected to prepare beef like that, as handling raw meat is just not my cup of tea.
The ceremony began with a quick Mass-like service in which everyone crowded inside the house and sang church songs, before moving outside to sit under the shade of a tree. One common practice I’ve noticed at all Mozambican gatherings I’ve been to, is that women usually sit on straw mats on the ground while men always sit in chairs. Women prepare all the food, but men are served first. Men drink excessive amounts of beer and cheap red wine, but women are typically only served soft drinks. This traditional event was no exception- when we arrived to the party at 10am, many of the men seemed already drunk. Yoko and I sat on straw mats with the other women while a few men preached and gave lengthy speeches in Changana. It reminded me very much of the church services I attended in Namaacha, especially when people started getting up and lining up at the front to offer their presents to the two widows, because they did so in groups while singing.
Meanwhile, the widows sat with their heads bowed and eyes lowered, wearing matching capulanas and looking extremely solemn. If I were to guess, I would have suspected they were at a funeral instead of their “welcome back to normal life” party. I suppose it’s because, like posing for photos, Mozambicans want to express that they are taking the occasion seriously, by putting on their somber faces. Birthday and wedding photos also tend to show Mozambicans looking very gravely at the camera, which seems contradictory in our culture because we consider these such festive events. I was also shocked to see how young the widows are. Yoko told me that they’re my age, in their early or mid 20’s, and the husband was only 24 as well. If Mozambique received as much money for improving roads as they do for HIV/AIDS work, a lot of car accidents and deaths would be prevented.
At this point of the party, everyone took turns presenting their gifts (mostly beautifully colored capulanas) to the girls, who did not look up even once. The gifter would place the capulana around the shoulders of each widow, and a relative on either side would then remove the capulana and fold it up and the next person would go. If the gift was a lenço (and often they came as matching sets), which is a handkerchief-sized piece of capulana that women wrap their head up in, the gifter would place the lenço either folded or unfolded on top of the widow’s head. I thought it was slightly amusing because as the ceremony proceeded and people became less attentive about carefully cloaking the widows in capulanas and lenços, the cloths were practically getting tossed onto the girls and then instantly snatched away by the relatives collecting. Additional gifts included party donations such as crates of soda, ceramic plates and mugs, and a comforter set.
In American culture, it can be rude or awkward to open up gifts in front of everyone. Here, that is definitely not the case. (In Namaacha, I once went to a party with my host family in which our present was some money in an envelope. At my host mom’s urging, I presented the envelope to the host who promptly ripped it open and held up the money for the party to see. I felt rather awkward about it but I could see that they didn’t.)
At the end of this gift-giving session, the relatives tallied up all the gifts and called out the final count. Each widow had received 35 capulanas!! I’m sure I have mentioned, I absolutely love capulanas. I didn’t even hear the rest of the gift count. 35 capulanas!! was what I was thinking. That’s a whole new wardrobe here.
When I met the widows after the ceremony, I was surprised that they talked with me normally considering they seemed so melancholy throughout the thing. “You’re very pretty,” One of them said. “I want to be your friend.” Awesome. They invited me to sit down with them to eat so I did. We had a ton of rice, xima, meat, and beans and it was all very delicious. Afterwards, it was time for tea but it was about 3:30pm by then so Yoko and I bid everyone goodbye and caught a chapa back home. As we left, the widows clutched my hand and demanded, “When will we see you next?” which is always a bit awkward because the answer “I’ll see you when I see you” is apparently not good enough. I mumbled something about “next week” and they seemed satisfied and let me go.
I still can’t really wrap my mind around the whole polygamy thing. It just seems so… foreign and forbidden in our culture. (To be honest, I think I tend to associate it with religious cults.) First of all, sharing my husband with other women sounds absolutely terrible and a recipe for jealous disaster. Here, when men have several wives or lovers, their second is called “Casa Dois” (House #2) and their third “Casa Tres” (House #3), etc. However, I was surprised to see that Casa Um and Casa Dois seemed to get along really well, to be best friends even. They sat together even after the ceremony, whispered to each other, questioned me about America and if I’m single, served each other food.
Yoko tells me that another of her other married coworkers is always insisting, “You should marry my husband.” (Ever heard that one??) So I’m left wondering, what is it like for young women growing up here in this culture? I mean, in America little girls share best friend necklaces but here? Do they grow up wanting to share a husband? I’m half kidding, but the point is, it’s different. There’s no assurance that the one you marry will only be married to you.
I wanted to ask if women are legally or socially allowed to have several husbands. The gender inequality is such that women have to wear black and not take on another lover for one year after their husband’s death but I can’t imagine that it’s the other way around.
I’ve also heard that women wearing black actually attract men like magnets because in this culture it’s such a negative thing to be “alone.” So while technically the widow is not allowed to date or have sexual relations with anyone for a year, this may not be the case.
A lot of Mozambican men work in the mines in South Africa so there is a large population of migrant workers. When, for example, a man has two wives back home and yet another lover while he’s away, this whole Multiple Concurrent Partnership thing is just seething with potential for...well, complications, to say the least.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A dog eat dog world
There are few things more disheartening than coming home from a weeklong conference only to find a giant hole in your backyard fence and your beautiful garden completely destroyed. Half the plant beds are dug up, toys are scattered about, paw prints lead in and out of the enclosed area. The surviving plants are all trampled and sickly, except for the tomato plants that miraculously escaped the massacre and have grown into a jungle in your absence. Oh, and the one basil plant that you have managed to cultivate in the past two months. At least that’s still standing.
All the evidence points to your puppies who, of course, are really no longer puppies, as witnessed by the fact that they can easily leap over the chicken wire you put up to guard the plants. But the moment you glare menacingly at them, they roll over onto their backs with a guilty look that could melt ice. “Sorry mommy,” they whine while pathetically wagging their tails. And the moment you turn your back they shoot out of the backyard like rockets, leaving you to patch up the caniço fence.
So yeah… that was my welcome home. Fortunately, everything else was still intact. Whenever I am away from my house I worry about my things getting stolen, rain leaking inside, when really I should be worried about all the damage my bored dogs will do.
But being home is nice. It rained all day the day after I got back, so I busted out my sweatpants for the first time since being in Africa and worked on my semi-annual Volunteer Report Form (VRF) while drinking tea. It made me nostalgic for coffee shops and my college paper-writing days.
In the evening I went over to Yoko, the Japanese volunteer’s, house and she taught me how to use her sewing machine, which was actually really fun. We are currently making a capulana dress together, with the additional help of a dress pattern. (After coming back from Maputo with two capulana dresses and a capulana purse, I’m beginning to think I have a problem. To curb my spending, I am going to attempt to make my own capulana clothes… But we’ll see how that goes.)
During dinner, which consisted of a delicious Japanese dish made of pork, cabbage, and okra, Yoko and I talked about some of the differences between Peace Corps and JICA. She asked me if Peace Corps has a good reputation in the States and I said oh yes; it’s a very well known and respected program throughout the country. I told her returned volunteers have a lot to boost their resume with and can receive grad school credit for their service. She explained to me that in Japan, JICA does not have a great reputation and that a common criticism of it is that young people go abroad to just waste time and dick around when they can’t find real jobs back home (and it’s actually HARDER for them to find jobs when they go back!). Also, JICA volunteers, like Peace Corps volunteers, receive a monthly living allowance from the government; critics of JICA say that the money could be better spent elsewhere. After the earthquake disaster and resulting chaos, JICA volunteers were essentially prohibited from keeping a blog because the government was afraid of further backlash against JICA.
All of this is extremely interesting to me because I couldn’t imagine serving here for two years without the unanimous support I have received from family, friends, and even strangers. In fact, before I left I never heard a single word of discouragement when I said I wanted to join Peace Corps. (Well, except for one girl I met in Vegas who told me her brother had served in the Peace Corps in Mozambique and then said, “When I went to visit him I stayed at the beach resorts, and those are pretty nice, but most places in Mozambique don’t have air conditioning or electricity or anything. You are going to want to kill yourself. There is like nothing there.”)
The spirit of volunteerism is very much nurtured and encouraged in American culture, but this is not the case in all countries. A third world country like Mozambique, for example, is often on the receiving end of volunteer and funding services, a “donor dependent country,” if you will. They have been receiving foreign aid for so long that it’s become ingrained in many of the systems that run the country. Organizations, my little escolinha included, would collapse without the help of outside money because there isn’t much set up for sustainability. When I first arrived at site, I asked Erica and Alycia’s empregada what she thought of Americans in general. She responded, “I think it’s good that you guys come and give us employment.” I asked her what would happen if one day Peace Corps volunteers were no longer sent to Chimundo. She said she didn’t know… And then she said, half jokingly, “I’d probably starve.”
Volunteerism itself is somewhat of a strange concept to Mozambicans. Even when I explain that I am a volunteer, people still comment, “You must make a lot of money.” When I tell them that no, I receive just enough to live on, they insist, “But you’ll get a lot of money when you go back to America, right?” It’s quite a challenge to overcome these preconceptions.
---
Erica and Alycia are still in Maputo until Wednesday so my aggregate number of mouths to feed (excluding my own) is currently totaling SEVEN: five dogs and two cats. I may have forgotten to mention that Erica and Alycia have been housing a new dog, a shiny black puppy named Mulandi (which means “black person” in Changana). Mulandi is actually extremely wary of humans and has not even warmed up to my, or Erica and Alycia’s presence, although she has somewhat gotten used to us. It’s an interesting situation because E/A have attempted to give her away several times, but she always finds her way back to their house.
I mentioned before that both our households have sort of a reputation for adopting unwanted puppies in the neighborhood. (It’s how I ended up with XimaXima, and how E/A got their dog Bop.) But I’m not sure that I’ve really explained Mozambicans’ attitudes towards dogs, or animals in general.
A few months ago, the neighborhood children showed up with three adorable puppies from the same litter and asked us to take care of them, which we refused. I was very adamant about not letting any of them enter my house or eat my dogs’ food, but E/A did not take the same preventative measures and eventually all three pups ended up living in their veranda. Meanwhile, we would occasionally take them back to their rightful families and ask the parents to please take care of their own dogs, but to no avail. The dogs would follow us right back to Erica/ Alycia’s. Our next tactic, after this went on for a few weeks, was to try to give the dogs away to our friends and acquaintances in other communities. I successfully gave one to a shop owner in Chibuto, and the other two were supposedly to be picked up the following day by someone else. When the next morning arrived, the puppies were nowhere to be found, and they did not return the following day.
What we found out later, was that a neighbor had taken the two puppies and killed them because they had been eating her chickens. We were horrified. How could someone kill two innocent puppies? And without saying anything to us? They would have been placed in good homes if she had only waited another day. And besides, they wouldn’t have had to eat chickens had they been getting fed by their owners.
The child who we heard this from, the “owner” of one of the murdered puppies, told it to us as if he were commenting on the weather, matter-of-factly and without reaction. The neighbor had asked him to pay for the chickens his dog had eaten. He, being just a child, was unable to do so and thus gave the woman permission to take his dog and get rid of it. It’s a sad, sad story. Any American child would cry endlessly about losing a pet. But here, that’s just life. Animals are kept to serve a purpose, be it to provide milk or food, to chase away rodents, or to guard the house.
All the evidence points to your puppies who, of course, are really no longer puppies, as witnessed by the fact that they can easily leap over the chicken wire you put up to guard the plants. But the moment you glare menacingly at them, they roll over onto their backs with a guilty look that could melt ice. “Sorry mommy,” they whine while pathetically wagging their tails. And the moment you turn your back they shoot out of the backyard like rockets, leaving you to patch up the caniço fence.
So yeah… that was my welcome home. Fortunately, everything else was still intact. Whenever I am away from my house I worry about my things getting stolen, rain leaking inside, when really I should be worried about all the damage my bored dogs will do.
But being home is nice. It rained all day the day after I got back, so I busted out my sweatpants for the first time since being in Africa and worked on my semi-annual Volunteer Report Form (VRF) while drinking tea. It made me nostalgic for coffee shops and my college paper-writing days.
In the evening I went over to Yoko, the Japanese volunteer’s, house and she taught me how to use her sewing machine, which was actually really fun. We are currently making a capulana dress together, with the additional help of a dress pattern. (After coming back from Maputo with two capulana dresses and a capulana purse, I’m beginning to think I have a problem. To curb my spending, I am going to attempt to make my own capulana clothes… But we’ll see how that goes.)
During dinner, which consisted of a delicious Japanese dish made of pork, cabbage, and okra, Yoko and I talked about some of the differences between Peace Corps and JICA. She asked me if Peace Corps has a good reputation in the States and I said oh yes; it’s a very well known and respected program throughout the country. I told her returned volunteers have a lot to boost their resume with and can receive grad school credit for their service. She explained to me that in Japan, JICA does not have a great reputation and that a common criticism of it is that young people go abroad to just waste time and dick around when they can’t find real jobs back home (and it’s actually HARDER for them to find jobs when they go back!). Also, JICA volunteers, like Peace Corps volunteers, receive a monthly living allowance from the government; critics of JICA say that the money could be better spent elsewhere. After the earthquake disaster and resulting chaos, JICA volunteers were essentially prohibited from keeping a blog because the government was afraid of further backlash against JICA.
All of this is extremely interesting to me because I couldn’t imagine serving here for two years without the unanimous support I have received from family, friends, and even strangers. In fact, before I left I never heard a single word of discouragement when I said I wanted to join Peace Corps. (Well, except for one girl I met in Vegas who told me her brother had served in the Peace Corps in Mozambique and then said, “When I went to visit him I stayed at the beach resorts, and those are pretty nice, but most places in Mozambique don’t have air conditioning or electricity or anything. You are going to want to kill yourself. There is like nothing there.”)
The spirit of volunteerism is very much nurtured and encouraged in American culture, but this is not the case in all countries. A third world country like Mozambique, for example, is often on the receiving end of volunteer and funding services, a “donor dependent country,” if you will. They have been receiving foreign aid for so long that it’s become ingrained in many of the systems that run the country. Organizations, my little escolinha included, would collapse without the help of outside money because there isn’t much set up for sustainability. When I first arrived at site, I asked Erica and Alycia’s empregada what she thought of Americans in general. She responded, “I think it’s good that you guys come and give us employment.” I asked her what would happen if one day Peace Corps volunteers were no longer sent to Chimundo. She said she didn’t know… And then she said, half jokingly, “I’d probably starve.”
Volunteerism itself is somewhat of a strange concept to Mozambicans. Even when I explain that I am a volunteer, people still comment, “You must make a lot of money.” When I tell them that no, I receive just enough to live on, they insist, “But you’ll get a lot of money when you go back to America, right?” It’s quite a challenge to overcome these preconceptions.
---
Erica and Alycia are still in Maputo until Wednesday so my aggregate number of mouths to feed (excluding my own) is currently totaling SEVEN: five dogs and two cats. I may have forgotten to mention that Erica and Alycia have been housing a new dog, a shiny black puppy named Mulandi (which means “black person” in Changana). Mulandi is actually extremely wary of humans and has not even warmed up to my, or Erica and Alycia’s presence, although she has somewhat gotten used to us. It’s an interesting situation because E/A have attempted to give her away several times, but she always finds her way back to their house.
I mentioned before that both our households have sort of a reputation for adopting unwanted puppies in the neighborhood. (It’s how I ended up with XimaXima, and how E/A got their dog Bop.) But I’m not sure that I’ve really explained Mozambicans’ attitudes towards dogs, or animals in general.
A few months ago, the neighborhood children showed up with three adorable puppies from the same litter and asked us to take care of them, which we refused. I was very adamant about not letting any of them enter my house or eat my dogs’ food, but E/A did not take the same preventative measures and eventually all three pups ended up living in their veranda. Meanwhile, we would occasionally take them back to their rightful families and ask the parents to please take care of their own dogs, but to no avail. The dogs would follow us right back to Erica/ Alycia’s. Our next tactic, after this went on for a few weeks, was to try to give the dogs away to our friends and acquaintances in other communities. I successfully gave one to a shop owner in Chibuto, and the other two were supposedly to be picked up the following day by someone else. When the next morning arrived, the puppies were nowhere to be found, and they did not return the following day.
What we found out later, was that a neighbor had taken the two puppies and killed them because they had been eating her chickens. We were horrified. How could someone kill two innocent puppies? And without saying anything to us? They would have been placed in good homes if she had only waited another day. And besides, they wouldn’t have had to eat chickens had they been getting fed by their owners.
The child who we heard this from, the “owner” of one of the murdered puppies, told it to us as if he were commenting on the weather, matter-of-factly and without reaction. The neighbor had asked him to pay for the chickens his dog had eaten. He, being just a child, was unable to do so and thus gave the woman permission to take his dog and get rid of it. It’s a sad, sad story. Any American child would cry endlessly about losing a pet. But here, that’s just life. Animals are kept to serve a purpose, be it to provide milk or food, to chase away rodents, or to guard the house.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Reconnected
April 12, 2011
Hello from Maputo! I am currently at Reconnect conference with the other 22 MOZ15 Health volunteers. We are staying at Kaya Kwanga, the hotel where we spent our very first week in Mozambique. Last time we were confined within the hotel due to our lack of language skills, so it wasn’t until Jess and I arrived this Sunday that I realized that Kaya Kwanga is right next to the beach! I can’t believe that escaped my notice last time.
Then again, my first memories in Mozambique were kind of a blur. As Jess and I traveled through the city this weekend, we talked about all the things we missed the first time around: murals, statues, significant buildings and landmarks. With the help of a basic tourist map, I’m finally beginning to feel somewhat oriented in the big city.
Jess and I had an overall great Sunday together. We left Chibuto at 6am and got into Maputo at 9:30am, making good time and beating the Sunday traffic. We checked into the hotel, found out we were the first ones of MOZ 15 to arrive, and promptly left on a search for Thai food. The restaurant was closed, so we settled for pizza and hamburgers (YUM). Afterwards, we visited the Craft Fair, which was both amazing and dangerous …for someone who likes to shop. The government has set aside this park for all the street vendors and artisans to sell their wares, so once you walk in you’re greeted by rows and rows of flashy boutiks and paintings, colorful capulana clothes and bags, and intricate wood carvings and jewelry. It’s a little overwhelming because while there’s so much to look at, many of the vendors are selling the same (or similar) things. I bought two small boutiks, a beautiful (and expensive) floor-length capulana dress, and some wood earrings/ accessories.
Afterwards, Jess and I walked along the Marginal (the path parallel to the beach) and checked out even more capulana wares on the side of the road. I bought a coconut for 15 mets (approx. 50 cents) and drank the juice through a straw. Then the kid who was selling them hacked open the coconut with a machete and I sat on the beach eating the white coconut flesh inside. Tough life.
Seeing all the other volunteers after four months, was of course very exciting. There was a lot of hugging and exclaims of “How ARE you?? How is site?” Together we reminisced about our previous experience at Kaya Kwanga, and oohed and aahed over the buffets of food set before us as if we haven’t had a full meal in months. (Being at an all-expenses paid for conference means three meals a day plus two teatime/snacks!)
The conference itself, not so thrilling. To transition from life at site, to 8am-5:30pm days full of Peace Corps policy, Monitoring & Evaluation, Volunteer Report Forms… Exhausting. But I won’t go into the boring stuff.
The second night, we all got to attend the Peace Corps 50th Anniversary celebration at the Ambassador’s house. We dressed up and took a private chapa (not quite a limo, but hey!) to her beautiful house, mingled, listened to several speeches, and took advantage of the free wine. (I personally love white wine, which is hard to find in Mozambique and even harder to find chilled.) I had three glasses but several of my rowdier peers were guzzling theirs down like water. I know of at least one volunteer who had 8 or 9 glasses. As poor Peace Corps volunteers in the company of wealthy ex-pats, we were also the only ones crowding around the appetizer plates being passed around, unabashedly taking two or three vegetable skewers or carne asada bites at a time. Very classy.
A few days into the conference, Peace Corps discovered that they were being charged money for the Internet that we were using in the conference room, so they cut that off really quick, without giving us advance notice. Many of us had set Skype dates with friends and family back home and were forced to scramble throughout the hotel looking for a connection. The network closest to my room works only on the other side of the building, so I have spent my past couple mornings and evenings outside with my computer. I get eaten alive by mosquitoes (Maputo has a LOT) but it’s worth it to chat.
We were told that Peace Corps funding has been on a slippery slope lately, so I guess for future conferences I can look forward to more sagging bunk beds, 4 to a room, and sitting outside on the ground to use the web.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Six months
I’m 6 months into this and I can barely believe it. Some days it feels like I’ve been here in Mozambique, in Africa, forever. I wake up to the crowing of roosters or neighbors blaring loud Mozambican reggaton-like music, I get shoved into a 30-person chapa that was meant to hold less than 20, goats and chickens cross my path even in the marketplace, that’s all normal. America seems like a dream… something about shiny cars speeding on paved highways and gleaming porcelain toilet bowls that flush themselves at the push of a button.
Other days, it seems like I just got here. I’m still a stranger; I always will be. The day after Kevin left, I went to the Chibuto market to buy groceries, and there I was hounded by calls of “Ching chang chong!” and “Chinesa! Japonesa!” until I almost lost it and confronted some unlucky Mozambican man. I decided it wouldn’t be worth it after all; my Portuguese falters when I’m upset and Mozambicans don’t understand sarcasm anyway. Yes, there are definitely days when 21 more months of this seems impossible and my mind whines to me, “Are we going hoooome yet?”
Six months in is a solid stretch of time though, a milestone if you will. So now I’d like to stop and reflect on my time here so far, keeping in mind the three bullet points of The Peace Corps Mission:
Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women
Helping to promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served
Helping to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans
Number One: Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
In the past month, my interest in the escolinha began to wane immensely. Part of this was because Kevin was here and I would have chosen, hands down, to spend time with him rather than sing silly children’s songs with toddlers all morning. The other reason was because… well, all I really do at the escolinha IS sing silly children’s songs with toddlers all morning. Hardly edifying, all day every day. (Now, I’m not saying that working with children isn’t rewarding- it certainly is. Friday, for example, I gave my usual weekly English lesson, half expecting the kids to lose interest in two seconds. Some did, of course- Having gotten to know and observe them every day, I suspect a few of them have ADD or ADHD or other learning and behavioral disorders, none of which would ever be diagnosed here. “When I say ‘Good morning students,’” I said, referring to what I taught them in a previous lesson, “What do you say?” It was a stretch; I expected them to have completely forgotten. After a silence, one boy said very quietly, “Good morning teacher.” … Except they always pronounce it as “Goo Mawning Teacha” which I find slightly comical. So there. Someone’s learning! I then taught them to greet one another (“Hello! Goodbye!”), and “Jump!” which they loved.)
Back to the point. As much as I love the escolinha kids, I didn’t expect to come all the way to Africa to play with children all day. During my first few months at site, I completed an organizational analysis that I meant to present to the escolinha before the Reconnect Conference (April 11-15 in Maputo). As time has progressed, and the escolinha has experienced some drastic changes in management, I have become discouraged from doing so. Irma Monica and her all-business attitude are doing some really good things for the escolinha and I respect her a lot, but to be honest I don’t think either of us really know what to do with each other. Irma Catarina, the previous escolinha director who has now been transferred, was the one who requested a Peace Corps volunteer. In my short time with her, she was very open to my questions and my presence. Irma Daulisa, my counterpart, was so excited to have me there but then she also was recently transferred.
I work now on a day-to-day basis with a woman named Angelica and the escolinha cook Amiselia (sp?). Irma Monica supervises all activities with a critical eye but is often busy with other things, making her not the most approachable person. The only time she asks anything of me, is when she wants something typed and printed. I find my place at the escolinha floating somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy: Irma Monica sees me as another employee that answers to her (but doesn’t scold me like the others), and Angelica and Amiselia work alongside me but treat me with a formal respect.
I am not integral to my organization’s daily functions, which is GOOD, but it also makes me wonder if they really need me. One success I have met, is getting roll call to be implemented in the daily schedule. For a while, I was the only one doing it and the days I was absent were obvious because on the sheet those days would be completely blank. Now, about 75% of the time, someone else takes care of it when I’m gone. It’s a small success, but hey. Small steps. Behavioral change is hard; you can’t just waltz into a country and expect everyone to drop their methods to accommodate what you think is right.
I am a health volunteer but I feel I have done very little measurable work in the health arena. The reason I was placed at this organization is because it supports Orphans and Vulnerable Children. I’ve taught the escolinha children a hand-washing song, which they are a fan of and we sing every morning. I’ve done a hand-washing activity using glitter, with the neighborhood kids. I’d still like to eventually partner with the Chibuto hospital to do some health palestras (classes) or such, but that takes a whole lot of initiative and I have on my hands a whole lot of laziness. The rest of the week after Kevin left, I locked myself in the house and watched episode after episode of “The Office” and read a book a day.
I’ve heard it said that it’s common for health volunteers to become quickly disillusioned or unmotivated. Unlike education volunteers, our work is often unstructured and depends heavily on the type of organization we are paired with. Beyond that, we are supposed to work within the community, promoting health and whatnot. But it’s not that easy. This is where community integration plays a big role. I guess this leads to…
Number Two: Helping to promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served
My first day in Chibuto, I left the house ready to conquer the community. I met a handful of people, spent time with them, conversed with them and ended the day glowing with optimism and a sense of accomplishment. Now, looking back on the past months, I see that I burned out of that rather quickly.
Sure, people know who I am. I’m one of only four mulungus (white people) in the community. I can’t walk from my house to Erica/Alycia’s house two streets over without at least a few people greeting me. “Boa tarde, Mana Vivienne!” (Good afternoon!) Even so, I haven’t managed to make any close friends in Mozambique. Er, I mean, I haven’t managed to make any close Mozambican friends. I sure do hang out with the other mulungus a lot. (One of the neighborhood kids asked me one day, “Mana Vivienne, why do you only like to play with the white people?”)
I see that as one of the definite weaknesses of my time spent here so far. It’s easier to hang out with those you are similar to. I am bound to Erica and Alycia because they are also American, also Peace Corps volunteers, and also speak English. I gravitate towards Yoko because although our only common language is Portuguese, we are both volunteers, both Asian, and both love learning languages. (By the way, learning Changana has been a flop. We successfully had two or three classes with Professor Raymundo over the course of four or five weeks- class getting canceled constantly- and then he stopped showing up altogether. Rather typical, actually. We haven’t figured out a game plan since.)
It just seems easier to hang out in the comfort zone. Erica and Alycia, both education volunteers, both Science professors, both blonde and laid back, spend all their free time together. They’re best friends and I envy them that. But as a health volunteer living alone, it’s hard to be exclusive AND not get lonely.
Well… but then there’s the constant heat. Then there’s the fact that I’m crabby and tired after work. Then sometimes I’m not feeling well. Then there are the mosquitoes in the evening. Excuses keep me inside more often than not. (Wait, don’t judge me. You REALLY don’t know how hot it gets here. And the electricity has been going out every single night for about a week.)
The month that Kevin was here, I practically ran home from work to be with him. I would scurry past the neighbors, hoping they wouldn’t see me because then they’d try to engage me in conversation. “Mana Vivienne,” the women would all say slyly, grinning like schoolgirls. “How’s your husband?” “Good!” I’d call back over my shoulder without breaking pace. “We’re good!”
At the end of the month the neighbors began to chide me, “You don’t come around to visit anymore!” I shrugged apologetically and told them I would. But then there was the heat, and then Kevin’s departure and then my depression at his absence, etc, etc. I don’t know when I would have made the time to go visit any of my neighbors had a group of them not called me over insistently yesterday as I was walking home from work.
“You don’t like to leave your house,” One woman observed. “Mana Vivienne, did you cry the day your husband left?” “Your husband is so strong,” Another woman said. “He likes to work. And to clean. He helps out a lot, doesn’t he?” I agreed proudly. “Who is going to wash clothes and dishes and sweep the house now that he’s gone?” I was a bit offended at that one. “Well, I am… Like I always have. I’ll be fine.”
It wasn’t until about the fourth casual reference to my helpful husband that I began to suspect they were either completely impressed by the fact that he does housework at all (unlike your typical Mozambican man) or else they were hinting that I was a bad housewife. It probably didn’t help, Kevin later mused on the phone, that whenever we did laundry, I would do the scrubbing inside the veranda while he would walk outside to hang up the wet clothes. The neighbors probably thought he was a clothes washing ninja master. I explained that in America, it’s not just women that do housework and men that go to work and bring home the bacon. Men cook and clean too… the good ones, that is.
Later on, another neighbor came up and greeted me in Changana. I responded hesitantly, uncomfortable with my extremely limited knowledge. All the women began nagging me to learn Changana. “Have Mana Yoko teach you,” they suggested. “Mana Yoko doesn’t know that much,” I responded, a little bit miffed. “Well, she knows how to say Good morning and greet people at least.” “I know how to do that too,” I said. They were all interested then. “Oh yeah? How do you say good morning?” they challenged me. “Li xile.” I replied and they all grinned at each other like Chesire cats. “Good afternoon.” “Ilhnikane.” (This is the hardeset one to pronounce) They broke out into hoots and cheers, even more so when I correctly translated Good night as “Le pelile.” So there I was, getting laughed at by a group of Mozambican women but it gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. This is where I’m supposed to be, getting to know these women and letting them get to know me.
One of the women came by later to say hi, and she admired my little garden. “What are you planting?” she asked, and I pointed out the tomato and okra, but I’m pretty sure Mozambicans don’t know basil, parsley, and watermelon. I promised her I would make some American food with my harvest and bring it over to her to try. I think I’m going to make some brownies next week to bring over to all the neighbors. It’ll be the start of my renewed effort to get to know the community I live in.
(On a side note, I have spent a lot of time with my little Art Club. If anything, I have met some success with Goal number two, by hanging out and talking to these kids.)
Number Three: Helping to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.
I’d say, of all three Peace Corps Mission points, I’ve done this the best. I blog and post pictures regularly (you lucky dogs, you! ;P) and it’s nice to have a reason to write. Some days, (especially after I’ve just finished a good book) I think to myself that during these two years in Mozambique, I should write a novel. I certainly have the time. Just… not the topic. Blogging will have to do. One day, though, look for a published book by me; it’s one of my lifetime goals.
Not only have I conveyed some of my experiences in print via blog and facebook, I’ve convinced another American, Kevin, to come see this country for himself. I’m willing to bet good money that he never would have stepped foot in Mozambique, and maybe not even in Africa, had it not been for me. True, he would have followed me anywhere, but still.
While he was here, he was constantly asking questions about the things he observed. “Why do they do this?” “What is that?” “How do they…?” To the point I’d snap, “How should I know?” He stayed a full month and saw more than just the touristy aspect of Mozambique; he actually lived here with me, in my little bairro of Chimundo. Now that’s worth more than a thousand words. Or a hundred thousand. Or more.
I am hoping to convince my dad and my sister to come visit me this Christmas. Aside from that, my calendar’s free and my guest room is set up. Doesn’t anyone else want to come see Mozambique??
My updated wish list:
More pesto and sauce mixes
Caramel sauce
Dog flea drops
Dog treats
Ground coffee
Worcestershire sauce
Other days, it seems like I just got here. I’m still a stranger; I always will be. The day after Kevin left, I went to the Chibuto market to buy groceries, and there I was hounded by calls of “Ching chang chong!” and “Chinesa! Japonesa!” until I almost lost it and confronted some unlucky Mozambican man. I decided it wouldn’t be worth it after all; my Portuguese falters when I’m upset and Mozambicans don’t understand sarcasm anyway. Yes, there are definitely days when 21 more months of this seems impossible and my mind whines to me, “Are we going hoooome yet?”
Six months in is a solid stretch of time though, a milestone if you will. So now I’d like to stop and reflect on my time here so far, keeping in mind the three bullet points of The Peace Corps Mission:
Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women
Helping to promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served
Helping to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans
Number One: Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
In the past month, my interest in the escolinha began to wane immensely. Part of this was because Kevin was here and I would have chosen, hands down, to spend time with him rather than sing silly children’s songs with toddlers all morning. The other reason was because… well, all I really do at the escolinha IS sing silly children’s songs with toddlers all morning. Hardly edifying, all day every day. (Now, I’m not saying that working with children isn’t rewarding- it certainly is. Friday, for example, I gave my usual weekly English lesson, half expecting the kids to lose interest in two seconds. Some did, of course- Having gotten to know and observe them every day, I suspect a few of them have ADD or ADHD or other learning and behavioral disorders, none of which would ever be diagnosed here. “When I say ‘Good morning students,’” I said, referring to what I taught them in a previous lesson, “What do you say?” It was a stretch; I expected them to have completely forgotten. After a silence, one boy said very quietly, “Good morning teacher.” … Except they always pronounce it as “Goo Mawning Teacha” which I find slightly comical. So there. Someone’s learning! I then taught them to greet one another (“Hello! Goodbye!”), and “Jump!” which they loved.)
Back to the point. As much as I love the escolinha kids, I didn’t expect to come all the way to Africa to play with children all day. During my first few months at site, I completed an organizational analysis that I meant to present to the escolinha before the Reconnect Conference (April 11-15 in Maputo). As time has progressed, and the escolinha has experienced some drastic changes in management, I have become discouraged from doing so. Irma Monica and her all-business attitude are doing some really good things for the escolinha and I respect her a lot, but to be honest I don’t think either of us really know what to do with each other. Irma Catarina, the previous escolinha director who has now been transferred, was the one who requested a Peace Corps volunteer. In my short time with her, she was very open to my questions and my presence. Irma Daulisa, my counterpart, was so excited to have me there but then she also was recently transferred.
I work now on a day-to-day basis with a woman named Angelica and the escolinha cook Amiselia (sp?). Irma Monica supervises all activities with a critical eye but is often busy with other things, making her not the most approachable person. The only time she asks anything of me, is when she wants something typed and printed. I find my place at the escolinha floating somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy: Irma Monica sees me as another employee that answers to her (but doesn’t scold me like the others), and Angelica and Amiselia work alongside me but treat me with a formal respect.
I am not integral to my organization’s daily functions, which is GOOD, but it also makes me wonder if they really need me. One success I have met, is getting roll call to be implemented in the daily schedule. For a while, I was the only one doing it and the days I was absent were obvious because on the sheet those days would be completely blank. Now, about 75% of the time, someone else takes care of it when I’m gone. It’s a small success, but hey. Small steps. Behavioral change is hard; you can’t just waltz into a country and expect everyone to drop their methods to accommodate what you think is right.
I am a health volunteer but I feel I have done very little measurable work in the health arena. The reason I was placed at this organization is because it supports Orphans and Vulnerable Children. I’ve taught the escolinha children a hand-washing song, which they are a fan of and we sing every morning. I’ve done a hand-washing activity using glitter, with the neighborhood kids. I’d still like to eventually partner with the Chibuto hospital to do some health palestras (classes) or such, but that takes a whole lot of initiative and I have on my hands a whole lot of laziness. The rest of the week after Kevin left, I locked myself in the house and watched episode after episode of “The Office” and read a book a day.
I’ve heard it said that it’s common for health volunteers to become quickly disillusioned or unmotivated. Unlike education volunteers, our work is often unstructured and depends heavily on the type of organization we are paired with. Beyond that, we are supposed to work within the community, promoting health and whatnot. But it’s not that easy. This is where community integration plays a big role. I guess this leads to…
Number Two: Helping to promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served
My first day in Chibuto, I left the house ready to conquer the community. I met a handful of people, spent time with them, conversed with them and ended the day glowing with optimism and a sense of accomplishment. Now, looking back on the past months, I see that I burned out of that rather quickly.
Sure, people know who I am. I’m one of only four mulungus (white people) in the community. I can’t walk from my house to Erica/Alycia’s house two streets over without at least a few people greeting me. “Boa tarde, Mana Vivienne!” (Good afternoon!) Even so, I haven’t managed to make any close friends in Mozambique. Er, I mean, I haven’t managed to make any close Mozambican friends. I sure do hang out with the other mulungus a lot. (One of the neighborhood kids asked me one day, “Mana Vivienne, why do you only like to play with the white people?”)
I see that as one of the definite weaknesses of my time spent here so far. It’s easier to hang out with those you are similar to. I am bound to Erica and Alycia because they are also American, also Peace Corps volunteers, and also speak English. I gravitate towards Yoko because although our only common language is Portuguese, we are both volunteers, both Asian, and both love learning languages. (By the way, learning Changana has been a flop. We successfully had two or three classes with Professor Raymundo over the course of four or five weeks- class getting canceled constantly- and then he stopped showing up altogether. Rather typical, actually. We haven’t figured out a game plan since.)
It just seems easier to hang out in the comfort zone. Erica and Alycia, both education volunteers, both Science professors, both blonde and laid back, spend all their free time together. They’re best friends and I envy them that. But as a health volunteer living alone, it’s hard to be exclusive AND not get lonely.
Well… but then there’s the constant heat. Then there’s the fact that I’m crabby and tired after work. Then sometimes I’m not feeling well. Then there are the mosquitoes in the evening. Excuses keep me inside more often than not. (Wait, don’t judge me. You REALLY don’t know how hot it gets here. And the electricity has been going out every single night for about a week.)
The month that Kevin was here, I practically ran home from work to be with him. I would scurry past the neighbors, hoping they wouldn’t see me because then they’d try to engage me in conversation. “Mana Vivienne,” the women would all say slyly, grinning like schoolgirls. “How’s your husband?” “Good!” I’d call back over my shoulder without breaking pace. “We’re good!”
At the end of the month the neighbors began to chide me, “You don’t come around to visit anymore!” I shrugged apologetically and told them I would. But then there was the heat, and then Kevin’s departure and then my depression at his absence, etc, etc. I don’t know when I would have made the time to go visit any of my neighbors had a group of them not called me over insistently yesterday as I was walking home from work.
“You don’t like to leave your house,” One woman observed. “Mana Vivienne, did you cry the day your husband left?” “Your husband is so strong,” Another woman said. “He likes to work. And to clean. He helps out a lot, doesn’t he?” I agreed proudly. “Who is going to wash clothes and dishes and sweep the house now that he’s gone?” I was a bit offended at that one. “Well, I am… Like I always have. I’ll be fine.”
It wasn’t until about the fourth casual reference to my helpful husband that I began to suspect they were either completely impressed by the fact that he does housework at all (unlike your typical Mozambican man) or else they were hinting that I was a bad housewife. It probably didn’t help, Kevin later mused on the phone, that whenever we did laundry, I would do the scrubbing inside the veranda while he would walk outside to hang up the wet clothes. The neighbors probably thought he was a clothes washing ninja master. I explained that in America, it’s not just women that do housework and men that go to work and bring home the bacon. Men cook and clean too… the good ones, that is.
Later on, another neighbor came up and greeted me in Changana. I responded hesitantly, uncomfortable with my extremely limited knowledge. All the women began nagging me to learn Changana. “Have Mana Yoko teach you,” they suggested. “Mana Yoko doesn’t know that much,” I responded, a little bit miffed. “Well, she knows how to say Good morning and greet people at least.” “I know how to do that too,” I said. They were all interested then. “Oh yeah? How do you say good morning?” they challenged me. “Li xile.” I replied and they all grinned at each other like Chesire cats. “Good afternoon.” “Ilhnikane.” (This is the hardeset one to pronounce) They broke out into hoots and cheers, even more so when I correctly translated Good night as “Le pelile.” So there I was, getting laughed at by a group of Mozambican women but it gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. This is where I’m supposed to be, getting to know these women and letting them get to know me.
One of the women came by later to say hi, and she admired my little garden. “What are you planting?” she asked, and I pointed out the tomato and okra, but I’m pretty sure Mozambicans don’t know basil, parsley, and watermelon. I promised her I would make some American food with my harvest and bring it over to her to try. I think I’m going to make some brownies next week to bring over to all the neighbors. It’ll be the start of my renewed effort to get to know the community I live in.
(On a side note, I have spent a lot of time with my little Art Club. If anything, I have met some success with Goal number two, by hanging out and talking to these kids.)
Number Three: Helping to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.
I’d say, of all three Peace Corps Mission points, I’ve done this the best. I blog and post pictures regularly (you lucky dogs, you! ;P) and it’s nice to have a reason to write. Some days, (especially after I’ve just finished a good book) I think to myself that during these two years in Mozambique, I should write a novel. I certainly have the time. Just… not the topic. Blogging will have to do. One day, though, look for a published book by me; it’s one of my lifetime goals.
Not only have I conveyed some of my experiences in print via blog and facebook, I’ve convinced another American, Kevin, to come see this country for himself. I’m willing to bet good money that he never would have stepped foot in Mozambique, and maybe not even in Africa, had it not been for me. True, he would have followed me anywhere, but still.
While he was here, he was constantly asking questions about the things he observed. “Why do they do this?” “What is that?” “How do they…?” To the point I’d snap, “How should I know?” He stayed a full month and saw more than just the touristy aspect of Mozambique; he actually lived here with me, in my little bairro of Chimundo. Now that’s worth more than a thousand words. Or a hundred thousand. Or more.
I am hoping to convince my dad and my sister to come visit me this Christmas. Aside from that, my calendar’s free and my guest room is set up. Doesn’t anyone else want to come see Mozambique??
My updated wish list:
More pesto and sauce mixes
Caramel sauce
Dog flea drops
Dog treats
Ground coffee
Worcestershire sauce
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