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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
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.
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