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?
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