A brief history of Viv's electronics in Mozambique:
Oct 2010: Viv foolishly arrives in Africa without a computer and immediately asks Kevin to send one
March 2011: Kevin brings an iBook laptop
Aug 2011: iBook hard drive dies
Oct 2011: Kev brings an external hard drive for the iBook / Viv inherits a brand new REDES program laptop
Jan 2012: On a crowded train, the REDES LCD screen is cracked, rendering laptop unusable
Feb 2012: Fortunately, REDES computer is able to be sent through the diplomatic pouch to be fixed in the U.S.
Meanwhile, Moz claims the life of the 2nd iBook hard drive. Cause of death? Overheating. Burn/ melt marks in the center. *
March 2012: Kev delivers fixed REDES computer and 3rd iBook drive to Germany. Viv loves Kev forever.
*Common occurrence in Mozambique. When a friend took her drive to be fixed in the States over the holidays, she was asked "Did you put this in the oven?"
I took a final trip to Chimundo to say goodbye to my good friend and old neighbor Yoko, the Japanese volunteer. She's leaving for home in 2 weeks, lucky duck. We killed one of the fat chickens from her coop (since I left in June, she's built a fancy chicken coop and sells eggs and chickens in the community, except she saves the really big ones for herself and guests) and ate a delicious dinner of grilled chicken, xima, and cacana (a bitter vegetable prepared with peanuts and coconut milk).
I was feeling a little dejected because I had yet to come across other familiar faces in Chimundo, until we crossed the threshold of Yoko's backyard and a group of children came running at me screaming "Mana Viviana! Mana Viviana!" (At this point, Yoko visibly cringed and walked away. Poor girl. I think the unruly children of Chibuto have permanently traumatized her, because she got a dog to keep the kids away and when I left practically begged me to take away all of the toys and art supplies in her house.) "Is that Mana Viviana?" I heard someone excitedly whisper and then I saw my two Art Club boys Vasco and Rostilho a few yards away, grinning from ear to ear. The moment I held out my arms, they came running, almost slow motion like the movies. The other kids joined, and suddenly I was being group hugged by a herd of dirty children, which made me happy but might be Yoko's worst nightmare.
Vasco didn't look very different but Rostilho looked like a gangster with his shirt partially unbuttoned and a big silver cross hanging around his neck. "Mana Viviana, we've made a lot of money off the fish!" Rostilho told me. I was confused, until he reminded me that I'd given them a game before I'd left- Players try to pick up fish using magnetized fishing poles while they rotate around on a battery-run wheel. "People play for money now, and I've won a lot!" Rostilho informed me proudly. So… Years from now, we'll be able to trace his gambling problem back to me.
Other than that, they were my same silly boys. I gave them a set of face paint markers and they came back later with their faces painted like Halloween ghouls, wielding a cell phone and asking me for my phone number. "Are you going to call me every day?" I teased, and they nodded solemnly. That night they sent me a text message: "Good night Mana Viviana" and the next morning "Hi Mana Viviana, how is it going? What did you dream of last night? Vasco. Rostilho." At which point they probably ran out of phone credit because I haven't heard from them since.
The next day I visited my old workplace, the escolinha, which seems to be doing very well. They are currently constructing a new classroom and all of the kids have nice plaid uniforms. I recognized only a handful of tm, but the few that I knew still recognized me and kept giggling "Mana Vivienne" while ducking shyly behind each other. Two little girls ran up to me singing "knees and toes, knees and toes!" remnants of "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes" that I taught while I was working there. I was impressed that they even remembered any at all. Those two learned their first English words from me. It's kind of a nice feeling.
Afterwards I stopped by the Chibuto market to say hellos/ goodbyes to people I used to know. My friend Lee, who owns the Chinese shop, was so excited to see me and have somebody to speak Mandarin with that he invited me to lunch at his house, where he made me a delicious meal of Chinese food: rice, stir fried onion and pork, stir fried ginger and shrimp, and a garlic and fish meatball soup. He piled all sorts of Chinese food goodies on me to take home: egg noodles, seaweed, and… Chinese garlic bulbs. "It's different than Mozambican garlic" he assured me, which I was dubious about until he started cooking. And yes, actually, Asian garlic is a bit stronger than African garlic, and smells a little differently. Who knew?
The way back to Chicumbane was less eventful than the way there (which included me getting stuck in the middle of nowhere while trying to take a shortcut, after my neighbor assured me that there were plenty of cars even on Sunday- there aren't- and waiting 2 hours on the side of the road to get a boleia. Kev suggested that if worse comes to worst, I could eat t little lizard that I found crawling around inside my bag. When I finally got in a car, the two men turned out to be super creeps who spent the entire time telling me that by not giving them my number, I was a selfish person and not here to help the people of Mozambique.
My electricity at home is steadily getting worse, shifting back to the same exact problem I had when I first moved in- no electricity between the hours of 7 and 9pm. (Except this time, I've got a gas stove not electric, so thank God for that.) After consulting with my pseudo-electrician friend, we came to the conclusion that there are just too many houses that leech off the electrical post attached to my house, and there isn't enough electricity to go around so I get the short end of the stick and sit in the dark while everyone else watches their nighttime soap operas. My friend will help me talk to the Xai Xai electricians about it when I get back from my travels. Until then, it's dinner by candlelight! Minus all romantic connotations.
Ah yes, Germany can't come fast enough.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Welcome to the Jungle
I was not initially thrilled to receive the third assignment of working at the Chicumbane hospital when I already have my hands full with CBO's CACHES and Tsembeka and secondary projects REDES and JUNTOS. I have a full plate and Peace Corps is asking me to take on another course. Okay then, bring it.
Working at the biggest health center in the Xai Xai district can be kind of overwhelming. There are a million new faces and names for me to learn. From the outside, the hospital looks like a simple arrangement of round cement huts with thatched roofs. It's not There's the pediatric ward (by the way, "ward" sounds fancy. Don't think fancy, think as I said, about identical huts), the maternity ward, the pharmacy, the TB ward, etc, etc. And everywhere, there are patients (mostly women, and a good majority with babies slung on their backs) waiting around outside.
You'd think that I'd be great at the integration process by now (remember: escolinha, Chibuto, CACHES, Tsembeka, Chicumbane) but I dread it. The awkward questions about who I am and what I do. "Should we call you Doctor Vivienne, or Nurse Vivienne, or…?" "Just call me Vivienn," I say, because I'm not qualified for a pretentious title. It's hard to explain because as a Community Health Promoter and a volunteer, I don't fit into any of the very specific health roles that can be found at the hospital. And I'm not here to give money. And I'm not Chinese. And I speak Portuguese. And I don't have a car. And I'm married, thank you very much.
The first day, I show up (15-20 minute walk to the hospital from my house) sweating profusely at the hospital director's door. He takes one look at me and laughs, ushering me into his nicely air conditioned office so that I can "refresh myself." He comes back with three hospital staff members: Patricia, in charge of the HIV/AIDS department, Luis, in charge of Community Health Interventions, and Ricardo, nurse and head of the GAAC program in Chicumbane. (GAAC is an interesting initiative in Mozambique, currently being pilot tested in Gaza province. HIV+ patients form small groups in the community of 6 or less, and every month they take turns going to the hospital to pick up meds for the group.) These are my new counterparts at the hospital.
My first day "on the job" I shadow Ricardo while he does consultations in his hut for a variety of sick people. Despite the small crowd of people waiting outside his door, he spends the first 20 minutes chatting with me about the challenges of his job. Mainly, the lack of resources. The photocopier has been out of toner for a few weeks so no one can make the necessary copies of forms. "Who's in charge of fixing the copy machine?" I ask. Ricardo sighs, and launches into an explanation of how in the past, the I-NGO's (in this case, EGPAF) were the ones who bought and donated materials. Now, I suspect in some crazy launch for more sustainability, the I-NGO's give money and the hospitals themselves are in charge of the annual budget. Which means that no one's buying more toner because someone probably spent money on something that the hospital didn't really need. (Ahem, air conditioning?) "Things were perfect when you guys were in charge of your own money," Ricardo says sadly. I have no idea what to say.
Eventually, patients are ushered in to the hut and Ricardo speaks with them in Changana or Portuguese. He has no problem having lengthy side conversations with me, though, which makes me feel bad but the patients don't say anything about it. They just sit and wait. They're obviously used to it. At some point, a man barges in to the hut to talk to Ricardo and, ignoring the patient sitting in the chair, apologizes to me for the interruption.
Other patients come in with their chest X-Rays rolled up inside another piece of paper, which Ricardo unrolls and holds up to the window. Very technical. He writes prescriptions out on pieces of scrap paper folded in half with carbon paper in between.
After the first couple of patients, Ricardo looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "Do you think you can fix all these problems we have?" He asks slyly. "No. Definitely not." is the truth and my response.
"What should we do about the AIDS situation?" I respond that if there were a simple answer to that question, Africa wouldn't be in the state that it's in.
A pretty young girl walks in for her consultation. Her blood tests show that she has malaria and HIV and now we've got to break the news to her.
She's in 10th grade and she's very informed about HIV, as shown by her answers to Ricardo's pop quiz about transmission of HIV. She's very quiet though, in the manner of most Mozambican children and women when spoken to.
"How many partners do you have?" Ricardo asks. "One," she says. "Who?" He asks (nosily, in my opinion). She gives his name (apparently, he is a friend of Ricardo's).
Ricardo: "Have you ever taken an HIV test before?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: "Would you be willing to take one?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "Would you want to know the results, regardless of whether the news is good or bad?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "What would you do if it came back positive?"
Girl: "I would start treatment."
Ricardo: "Would you tell your family and your partner?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "Are you sure? You wouldn't go home and commit suicide or anything, would you?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: (Sighing heavily) "Can you read this piece of paper for me?" (slides over her test results, written in sloppy handwriting on a piece of scrap paper)
Girl: "I…can't read the handwriting."
Ricardo: "R-E-A-C-T-I-V-E. What does that spell?
Girl: "Reactive."
Ricardo: "Do you know what reactive means?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: "What does non-reactive mean?"
Girl: "I don't know."
Ricardo: "Okay….. It means that when someone takes a test for an illness, like malaria or HIV, they either come back with the results reactive or non-reactive. In your case, it looks like you came back positive for malaria and…HIV."
Girl: (no reaction) "Okay."
(Vivienne, with the sudden urge to hold the girl's hand, watches a white gecko stalk a spider across the cement walls of the hut.)
Ricardo: "So… here is your prescription. You can take this to other hospitals in Xai Xai as well. You don't have to come to this hospital if you don't want to."
Girl: "It's fine. I'll just come here."
Ricardo: "Are you sure? You're going to tell your partner, right?"
Girl: "Yes."
About 20 minutes after the girl leaves, her boyfriend pops in to the hut with her prescription of pills. He is… much older than she is. He asks Ricardo to repeat instructions on how to take them, and Ricardo explains. As the man turns to leave, Ricardo says, "Has she talked to you yet?" The guy shakes his head. "I don't think she'll tell me what's wrong." "Oh she will," Ricardo says mysteriously, "She promised she would. She has a lot to talk to you about."
For me, the whole experience was astounding, no less because when the girl found out she had HIV, she didn't physically react at all. Although she must have been freaking out inside, her expression didn't change. Whereas I'm sure that most American patients would immediately collapse in tears, or panic, or immediately call somebody up on the phone and break down. The Mozambican girl, a secondary school student!, got up and left with the same quiet dignity that she came in with. It really hit me then… the reality of HIV in Africa. Working at a hospital in Mozambique is going to bring me a number of new perspectives and experiences in the upcoming weeks.
Working at the biggest health center in the Xai Xai district can be kind of overwhelming. There are a million new faces and names for me to learn. From the outside, the hospital looks like a simple arrangement of round cement huts with thatched roofs. It's not There's the pediatric ward (by the way, "ward" sounds fancy. Don't think fancy, think as I said, about identical huts), the maternity ward, the pharmacy, the TB ward, etc, etc. And everywhere, there are patients (mostly women, and a good majority with babies slung on their backs) waiting around outside.
You'd think that I'd be great at the integration process by now (remember: escolinha, Chibuto, CACHES, Tsembeka, Chicumbane) but I dread it. The awkward questions about who I am and what I do. "Should we call you Doctor Vivienne, or Nurse Vivienne, or…?" "Just call me Vivienn," I say, because I'm not qualified for a pretentious title. It's hard to explain because as a Community Health Promoter and a volunteer, I don't fit into any of the very specific health roles that can be found at the hospital. And I'm not here to give money. And I'm not Chinese. And I speak Portuguese. And I don't have a car. And I'm married, thank you very much.
The first day, I show up (15-20 minute walk to the hospital from my house) sweating profusely at the hospital director's door. He takes one look at me and laughs, ushering me into his nicely air conditioned office so that I can "refresh myself." He comes back with three hospital staff members: Patricia, in charge of the HIV/AIDS department, Luis, in charge of Community Health Interventions, and Ricardo, nurse and head of the GAAC program in Chicumbane. (GAAC is an interesting initiative in Mozambique, currently being pilot tested in Gaza province. HIV+ patients form small groups in the community of 6 or less, and every month they take turns going to the hospital to pick up meds for the group.) These are my new counterparts at the hospital.
My first day "on the job" I shadow Ricardo while he does consultations in his hut for a variety of sick people. Despite the small crowd of people waiting outside his door, he spends the first 20 minutes chatting with me about the challenges of his job. Mainly, the lack of resources. The photocopier has been out of toner for a few weeks so no one can make the necessary copies of forms. "Who's in charge of fixing the copy machine?" I ask. Ricardo sighs, and launches into an explanation of how in the past, the I-NGO's (in this case, EGPAF) were the ones who bought and donated materials. Now, I suspect in some crazy launch for more sustainability, the I-NGO's give money and the hospitals themselves are in charge of the annual budget. Which means that no one's buying more toner because someone probably spent money on something that the hospital didn't really need. (Ahem, air conditioning?) "Things were perfect when you guys were in charge of your own money," Ricardo says sadly. I have no idea what to say.
Eventually, patients are ushered in to the hut and Ricardo speaks with them in Changana or Portuguese. He has no problem having lengthy side conversations with me, though, which makes me feel bad but the patients don't say anything about it. They just sit and wait. They're obviously used to it. At some point, a man barges in to the hut to talk to Ricardo and, ignoring the patient sitting in the chair, apologizes to me for the interruption.
Other patients come in with their chest X-Rays rolled up inside another piece of paper, which Ricardo unrolls and holds up to the window. Very technical. He writes prescriptions out on pieces of scrap paper folded in half with carbon paper in between.
After the first couple of patients, Ricardo looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "Do you think you can fix all these problems we have?" He asks slyly. "No. Definitely not." is the truth and my response.
"What should we do about the AIDS situation?" I respond that if there were a simple answer to that question, Africa wouldn't be in the state that it's in.
A pretty young girl walks in for her consultation. Her blood tests show that she has malaria and HIV and now we've got to break the news to her.
She's in 10th grade and she's very informed about HIV, as shown by her answers to Ricardo's pop quiz about transmission of HIV. She's very quiet though, in the manner of most Mozambican children and women when spoken to.
"How many partners do you have?" Ricardo asks. "One," she says. "Who?" He asks (nosily, in my opinion). She gives his name (apparently, he is a friend of Ricardo's).
Ricardo: "Have you ever taken an HIV test before?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: "Would you be willing to take one?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "Would you want to know the results, regardless of whether the news is good or bad?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "What would you do if it came back positive?"
Girl: "I would start treatment."
Ricardo: "Would you tell your family and your partner?"
Girl: "Yes."
Ricardo: "Are you sure? You wouldn't go home and commit suicide or anything, would you?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: (Sighing heavily) "Can you read this piece of paper for me?" (slides over her test results, written in sloppy handwriting on a piece of scrap paper)
Girl: "I…can't read the handwriting."
Ricardo: "R-E-A-C-T-I-V-E. What does that spell?
Girl: "Reactive."
Ricardo: "Do you know what reactive means?"
Girl: "No."
Ricardo: "What does non-reactive mean?"
Girl: "I don't know."
Ricardo: "Okay….. It means that when someone takes a test for an illness, like malaria or HIV, they either come back with the results reactive or non-reactive. In your case, it looks like you came back positive for malaria and…HIV."
Girl: (no reaction) "Okay."
(Vivienne, with the sudden urge to hold the girl's hand, watches a white gecko stalk a spider across the cement walls of the hut.)
Ricardo: "So… here is your prescription. You can take this to other hospitals in Xai Xai as well. You don't have to come to this hospital if you don't want to."
Girl: "It's fine. I'll just come here."
Ricardo: "Are you sure? You're going to tell your partner, right?"
Girl: "Yes."
About 20 minutes after the girl leaves, her boyfriend pops in to the hut with her prescription of pills. He is… much older than she is. He asks Ricardo to repeat instructions on how to take them, and Ricardo explains. As the man turns to leave, Ricardo says, "Has she talked to you yet?" The guy shakes his head. "I don't think she'll tell me what's wrong." "Oh she will," Ricardo says mysteriously, "She promised she would. She has a lot to talk to you about."
For me, the whole experience was astounding, no less because when the girl found out she had HIV, she didn't physically react at all. Although she must have been freaking out inside, her expression didn't change. Whereas I'm sure that most American patients would immediately collapse in tears, or panic, or immediately call somebody up on the phone and break down. The Mozambican girl, a secondary school student!, got up and left with the same quiet dignity that she came in with. It really hit me then… the reality of HIV in Africa. Working at a hospital in Mozambique is going to bring me a number of new perspectives and experiences in the upcoming weeks.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Lookin' ahead
In one month I'll be in Germany with Kevin and his family...
In four months I'll be turning 24...
In more or less eight months I'll be going home...
Plans upon return:
Get a haircut and pedicure immediately
Move back to San Diego (at least for a while)
Look for a job
Study for and take the Foreign Service Officer Test
Eat lots of food, including but not limited to smoked salmon, steak, and sushi
In the meantime:
Finish up trainings and projects at CACHES
Plan a trip up to north Moz
Defeat the rat that is determined to enter my house by breaking through the cement floor under my bed
Enjoy the final stretch of my Peace Corps service
In four months I'll be turning 24...
In more or less eight months I'll be going home...
Plans upon return:
Get a haircut and pedicure immediately
Move back to San Diego (at least for a while)
Look for a job
Study for and take the Foreign Service Officer Test
Eat lots of food, including but not limited to smoked salmon, steak, and sushi
In the meantime:
Finish up trainings and projects at CACHES
Plan a trip up to north Moz
Defeat the rat that is determined to enter my house by breaking through the cement floor under my bed
Enjoy the final stretch of my Peace Corps service
Friday, February 3, 2012
“My English is bad, but my life is good”
(Quote above attributed to one of my English theatre students)
My friend Meagan from Zambezia province came to visit me in Chicumbane for a few days after Midservice Conference (highlights of which, by the way, included all 62 of us Moz15-ers being together again for the first time since we left training, bumper cars in Maputo, Korean BBQ where Helen the legit Korean sweet-talked the restaurant owner into giving us free drinks, a mock burlesque show in honor of another PCV's birthday, a Superlative event in which I was voted Moz 15's "Most Likely to Reject You at a Bar," Thai food, pizza, and sangria with good friends). Being around so many people, after leading a solitary lifestyle for so long, was a bit exhausting and made me aware of some of the ways I have changed since being in Peace Corps. While others were fueled by the nightlife allures of drinking, dancing, and socializing, I yearned for my quiet town and my movie-before-bed-at-10pm routine.
Meagan lives in Quelimane, a big city in northern Mozambique, and it was interesting to discover just how different her Peace Corps experience has been from mine although we are both female health volunteers. She has hot running water at her house, so needless to say bucket bathing is not the norm for her. In Quelimane, she hangs out a lot with expats instead of Mozambicans, so she hears mainly English and Portuguese while I am constantly inundated with Changana. (She was completely bewildered when she got in a chapa with me. "What is this that they're speaking?" She asked.) Her organization has a private car so usually she doesn't even have to take public transportation, and the few times we had to get in super crowded chapas where people were crouched all over each other, she got a little upset. My site is a cattle town, and everywhere you go you find cows strolling around in packs, or sometimes even wandering around alone (and a few times, into my yard). Meagan's reaction: "I've never seen so many cows in my life!!" At her site, she has a guard while I just have my dogs to protect the house. I think she found it odd that I talk to them a lot, although she did agree that Magorducha my puppy is super cute. People pass through her site a lot, and her house has a constant stream of visitors but since I'm a smaller site and only a few hours from Maputo, I tend to be a rest stop only for friends passing through to the capitol city. I am not fazed by the presence of cockroaches, big or small, in my house, but I could tell that Meagan was disturbed, and I can guarantee she has never had to beat a rat to death. (Another PCV once told me that when it comes to bugs and critters that I'm "stronger than most," but I really think it comes with the territory. When you live in a part canico (reed) house and have a latrine in the back, it's inevitable, and if you want to survive for two years you just gotta do what you gotta do- right?)
One giant overlap between me and Meagan, however, is our work. We both work with youth- Meag is paired with a girls' education program much like REDES, and she does activities similar to the ones I do at CACHES. While she was here, we would go to CACHES in the evenings and she taught my kids hopscotch, hokey pokey, pass the orange, and other games and team building activities. One game in particular was a huge hit with both my coworkers and the children: two teams raced to successfully throw crumpled up pieces of paper into a box, which was supposed to get them used to throwing away trash properly. Meag deemed her team "Uva" (Grape) and my team "Manga" (Mango) and we all cheered and screamed for our teams while they competed. Of course, there was some definite cheating going on, but all in all things went really well and Meag and I had a lot of fun with the kids.
Another defining aspect of our experience in Mozambique for us, as women, has been sexual harassment. One day while we were walking around together in Xai Xai, we counted 15 times that men tried to hiss, holler, or otherwise attempt conversation with us. In Chicumbane, where the people are more or less used to my presence, we rarely got harassed but we definitely still got stared at. Meagan used to have a male sitemate (who has since left) and so she didn't really experience the sexual harassment until later on in her service. I've noticed too that when I'm with another male PCV or with Kevin, no one tries to talk to me; if anything, they'll greet the male instead.
After three days, Meagan left to go visit another PCV in Macia, but I suspect that she'll be back next week because she has some time to kill before going back to Maputo to take the GRE. In the meantime, I'm enjoying having quiet time and making conversation with my dogs :)
My friend Meagan from Zambezia province came to visit me in Chicumbane for a few days after Midservice Conference (highlights of which, by the way, included all 62 of us Moz15-ers being together again for the first time since we left training, bumper cars in Maputo, Korean BBQ where Helen the legit Korean sweet-talked the restaurant owner into giving us free drinks, a mock burlesque show in honor of another PCV's birthday, a Superlative event in which I was voted Moz 15's "Most Likely to Reject You at a Bar," Thai food, pizza, and sangria with good friends). Being around so many people, after leading a solitary lifestyle for so long, was a bit exhausting and made me aware of some of the ways I have changed since being in Peace Corps. While others were fueled by the nightlife allures of drinking, dancing, and socializing, I yearned for my quiet town and my movie-before-bed-at-10pm routine.
Meagan lives in Quelimane, a big city in northern Mozambique, and it was interesting to discover just how different her Peace Corps experience has been from mine although we are both female health volunteers. She has hot running water at her house, so needless to say bucket bathing is not the norm for her. In Quelimane, she hangs out a lot with expats instead of Mozambicans, so she hears mainly English and Portuguese while I am constantly inundated with Changana. (She was completely bewildered when she got in a chapa with me. "What is this that they're speaking?" She asked.) Her organization has a private car so usually she doesn't even have to take public transportation, and the few times we had to get in super crowded chapas where people were crouched all over each other, she got a little upset. My site is a cattle town, and everywhere you go you find cows strolling around in packs, or sometimes even wandering around alone (and a few times, into my yard). Meagan's reaction: "I've never seen so many cows in my life!!" At her site, she has a guard while I just have my dogs to protect the house. I think she found it odd that I talk to them a lot, although she did agree that Magorducha my puppy is super cute. People pass through her site a lot, and her house has a constant stream of visitors but since I'm a smaller site and only a few hours from Maputo, I tend to be a rest stop only for friends passing through to the capitol city. I am not fazed by the presence of cockroaches, big or small, in my house, but I could tell that Meagan was disturbed, and I can guarantee she has never had to beat a rat to death. (Another PCV once told me that when it comes to bugs and critters that I'm "stronger than most," but I really think it comes with the territory. When you live in a part canico (reed) house and have a latrine in the back, it's inevitable, and if you want to survive for two years you just gotta do what you gotta do- right?)
One giant overlap between me and Meagan, however, is our work. We both work with youth- Meag is paired with a girls' education program much like REDES, and she does activities similar to the ones I do at CACHES. While she was here, we would go to CACHES in the evenings and she taught my kids hopscotch, hokey pokey, pass the orange, and other games and team building activities. One game in particular was a huge hit with both my coworkers and the children: two teams raced to successfully throw crumpled up pieces of paper into a box, which was supposed to get them used to throwing away trash properly. Meag deemed her team "Uva" (Grape) and my team "Manga" (Mango) and we all cheered and screamed for our teams while they competed. Of course, there was some definite cheating going on, but all in all things went really well and Meag and I had a lot of fun with the kids.
Another defining aspect of our experience in Mozambique for us, as women, has been sexual harassment. One day while we were walking around together in Xai Xai, we counted 15 times that men tried to hiss, holler, or otherwise attempt conversation with us. In Chicumbane, where the people are more or less used to my presence, we rarely got harassed but we definitely still got stared at. Meagan used to have a male sitemate (who has since left) and so she didn't really experience the sexual harassment until later on in her service. I've noticed too that when I'm with another male PCV or with Kevin, no one tries to talk to me; if anything, they'll greet the male instead.
After three days, Meagan left to go visit another PCV in Macia, but I suspect that she'll be back next week because she has some time to kill before going back to Maputo to take the GRE. In the meantime, I'm enjoying having quiet time and making conversation with my dogs :)
Monday, January 23, 2012
Not in Kansas anymore
It's been hands down the craziest week of my Peace Corps experience, and I think that's saying something.
PART I: THE STORM
Tropical storm Dando bore down on the coast of Mozambique on Monday, wreaking havoc and destruction in the provinces of Maputo, Gaza, and Inhambane. I woke up to a text from the Peace Corps Safety and Security officer, warning us of heavy wind and rain, and reminding us to lock windows and doors and "secure any flying objects in the yard." I found this rather funny until several hours later, as the wind threatened to tear off my roof and bring trees crashing over my head, it suddenly didn't seem so funny anymore. In my 15 months+ in Mozambique, I've experienced rainy season... But not like this. I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and wondered if my shaking house might be pulled up entirely by its roots.
The rain was slanted almost horizontal by the wind, coming down from unusual directions and angles. I had to put out two basins to catch water leaking from the roof. My front veranda was soaked, so for the first time in many months I let my whining wet dogs inside. It was nice to have their company later in the evening though when the power didn't come back on and I could hear rats, also driven inside by the weather, scuttling around in my kitchen. I slept with a candle lit most of the evening.
In the morning, the rain had subsided but I found the two basins almost full of water. My neighbor's kitchen had not fared so well. The roof had come off and the cement fortifying the reed had crumbled. All over Chicumbane, trees and branches had fallen. The avocado tree in the yard had surrendered all 40 or so of its fist-sized, not yet ripened avocados. The mango trees were similarly bare. The power didn't come back at my house for over three days.
On the second night, afraid of the pitch black and the rats, I locked myself in my bedroom, only to discover one of the rats residing there with me. It kept scurrying around the room and trying to climb the window behind my bed (right next to my head), so I slept with a flashlight in one hand and a tinfoil roll in the other (This wouldn't be the first time I've beaten a rat to death in Mozambique) It was, however, too quick for me and I got up in the morning deprived of sleep and defeated by a tiny rodent.
On the third day, I sent my empregada in search of charcoal to cook with, as I had run out of food for the dogs. She was sweet enough to cook me two eggs as well, because I hadn't had a hot meal in days.
My phone had run out of battery completely, so when Peace Corps tried to call to check in with me, they were unable to reach me. Fortunately, I was with my counterpart Sam when they called him next, and I was able to assure them that nothing terrible had happened.
The final night before electricity returned, I discovered a nest of squeaking baby rats in one of my kitchen cupboards, each one of which was about an inch long, bald and disgustingly gummy, like some kind of grotesque plastic toy you'd put a quarter into a gumball machine for. I swept them outside for my dogs to eat.
When the power finally came back on, I could feel the electric current running through my walls in the form of little shocks every time I touched or leaned against them. The next day, my neighbors ran over to tell me that my electrical wires were burning. When I went outside, I could see that indeed, the wires above my house were smoking. I called my landlord, who called the electricians, who never showed up. Having dealt with the Chicumbane electricians before, I wasted no time in also calling my friend Calvino, who is just as knowledgeable and far more dependable. He came over with a group of boys and they set about cutting and rearranging the electricity lines while standing on my roof. Their work also included having to trim down some overgrown tree branches in the way of the lines, which they hacked down with a machete. (Note: This is the equivalent of calling your neighbor during a power outage, and having him come over with rubber gloves, a pair of pliers, a machete, and flip flops, and mess around with a power line. Only in Mozambique.)
Furthermore, Saturday, the day before all of Moz15 was supposed to travel to our Midservice conference, the road to Maputo flooded. I repeat: the ONE route to the national capitol became completely impassable. Which leads to...
PART II: THE RESCUE
The conference was to begin Monday. Most volunteers were flown to Maputo on Sunday while we, the Gaza volunteers, were expected to travel overland. With the National Highway washed out, we were suddenly faced with a big dilemma: How to get to Maputo?
Peace Corps came up with an emergency plan. On Sunday, all 10 or so of us were consolidated at two provincial points: Xai Xai and Macia, and Peace Corps sent three cars into the great Mozambican wilderness to try to reach us by alternative route. (Note: There is no established alternate route. Basically, the drivers went off-roading for over six hours in "bush country.") My group met at KFC in Xai Xai to take advantage of the air conditioning and wait for the car to show up. By 5pm, our hopes had been ignited and doused several times. We received sporadic communication from Peace Corps but no confirmation one way or another. One text message we received from one of the drivers said: "Dear volunteers, please hold on. We are still fighting to get to you. It is not easy but we are fighting." The whole situation seemed surreal, straight out of an action movie. We joked about how ironic it was that we, the closest volunteers to Maputo, were suddenly stranded with no way of getting out and had to be rescured.
As we waited and waited, the other five volunteers and I began discussing alternate ways for us to get to Midservice (including raft, boat, airplane, and helicopter... although our ideas became more and more outlandish as time progressed) and taking bets on what time the car would arrive. Finally, we got another text from the drivers: "Mission Impossible 4 has become impossible." The final attempt to reach us had culminated in the car driving into a forest. We went home incredibly disappointed.
The next day we received new instructions: Get to the train station in Chowke. And off we went, on Mission Get To Maputo day 2. Getting to Chokwe took 2 hours, and then another 5 hours before the train actually arrived. We hung out in front of the ticket counter waiting for it to open, and succeeded in buying our tickets. When the train arrived, however, it was madness. All hell broke loose as people rushed to climb aboard. We had to fight out way on with our big bags, elbowing and jostling other people and getting elbowed and jostled ourselves. Half the people on board had seats, the other half had to stand. A good majority didn't even have tickets- but the fine is only twice the price of a ticket, and still barely more than a regular chapa fare.. well worth it to get to Maputo during a time in which 12 kilometers of cars are backed up at the flood area, and people are sleeping on the side of the road waiting for an illegal boat or for the bridge to be fixed.
The train ride itself has taken about four hours, and we're still not there yet (as of 7pm Jan 23) but we should, finally finally finally, be getting to our destination soon.
PART III: THE CYCLONE
Cyclone Funso, currently in the central regions of Mozambique, is expected to head down South this week. As if our region hasn't been battered enough, we're going to deal with another crazy ridiculous storm that may not spare my house this time. As it stands, I expect to be stuck in Maputo for quite a while.
To be continued...
PART I: THE STORM
Tropical storm Dando bore down on the coast of Mozambique on Monday, wreaking havoc and destruction in the provinces of Maputo, Gaza, and Inhambane. I woke up to a text from the Peace Corps Safety and Security officer, warning us of heavy wind and rain, and reminding us to lock windows and doors and "secure any flying objects in the yard." I found this rather funny until several hours later, as the wind threatened to tear off my roof and bring trees crashing over my head, it suddenly didn't seem so funny anymore. In my 15 months+ in Mozambique, I've experienced rainy season... But not like this. I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and wondered if my shaking house might be pulled up entirely by its roots.
The rain was slanted almost horizontal by the wind, coming down from unusual directions and angles. I had to put out two basins to catch water leaking from the roof. My front veranda was soaked, so for the first time in many months I let my whining wet dogs inside. It was nice to have their company later in the evening though when the power didn't come back on and I could hear rats, also driven inside by the weather, scuttling around in my kitchen. I slept with a candle lit most of the evening.
In the morning, the rain had subsided but I found the two basins almost full of water. My neighbor's kitchen had not fared so well. The roof had come off and the cement fortifying the reed had crumbled. All over Chicumbane, trees and branches had fallen. The avocado tree in the yard had surrendered all 40 or so of its fist-sized, not yet ripened avocados. The mango trees were similarly bare. The power didn't come back at my house for over three days.
On the second night, afraid of the pitch black and the rats, I locked myself in my bedroom, only to discover one of the rats residing there with me. It kept scurrying around the room and trying to climb the window behind my bed (right next to my head), so I slept with a flashlight in one hand and a tinfoil roll in the other (This wouldn't be the first time I've beaten a rat to death in Mozambique) It was, however, too quick for me and I got up in the morning deprived of sleep and defeated by a tiny rodent.
On the third day, I sent my empregada in search of charcoal to cook with, as I had run out of food for the dogs. She was sweet enough to cook me two eggs as well, because I hadn't had a hot meal in days.
My phone had run out of battery completely, so when Peace Corps tried to call to check in with me, they were unable to reach me. Fortunately, I was with my counterpart Sam when they called him next, and I was able to assure them that nothing terrible had happened.
The final night before electricity returned, I discovered a nest of squeaking baby rats in one of my kitchen cupboards, each one of which was about an inch long, bald and disgustingly gummy, like some kind of grotesque plastic toy you'd put a quarter into a gumball machine for. I swept them outside for my dogs to eat.
When the power finally came back on, I could feel the electric current running through my walls in the form of little shocks every time I touched or leaned against them. The next day, my neighbors ran over to tell me that my electrical wires were burning. When I went outside, I could see that indeed, the wires above my house were smoking. I called my landlord, who called the electricians, who never showed up. Having dealt with the Chicumbane electricians before, I wasted no time in also calling my friend Calvino, who is just as knowledgeable and far more dependable. He came over with a group of boys and they set about cutting and rearranging the electricity lines while standing on my roof. Their work also included having to trim down some overgrown tree branches in the way of the lines, which they hacked down with a machete. (Note: This is the equivalent of calling your neighbor during a power outage, and having him come over with rubber gloves, a pair of pliers, a machete, and flip flops, and mess around with a power line. Only in Mozambique.)
Furthermore, Saturday, the day before all of Moz15 was supposed to travel to our Midservice conference, the road to Maputo flooded. I repeat: the ONE route to the national capitol became completely impassable. Which leads to...
PART II: THE RESCUE
The conference was to begin Monday. Most volunteers were flown to Maputo on Sunday while we, the Gaza volunteers, were expected to travel overland. With the National Highway washed out, we were suddenly faced with a big dilemma: How to get to Maputo?
Peace Corps came up with an emergency plan. On Sunday, all 10 or so of us were consolidated at two provincial points: Xai Xai and Macia, and Peace Corps sent three cars into the great Mozambican wilderness to try to reach us by alternative route. (Note: There is no established alternate route. Basically, the drivers went off-roading for over six hours in "bush country.") My group met at KFC in Xai Xai to take advantage of the air conditioning and wait for the car to show up. By 5pm, our hopes had been ignited and doused several times. We received sporadic communication from Peace Corps but no confirmation one way or another. One text message we received from one of the drivers said: "Dear volunteers, please hold on. We are still fighting to get to you. It is not easy but we are fighting." The whole situation seemed surreal, straight out of an action movie. We joked about how ironic it was that we, the closest volunteers to Maputo, were suddenly stranded with no way of getting out and had to be rescured.
As we waited and waited, the other five volunteers and I began discussing alternate ways for us to get to Midservice (including raft, boat, airplane, and helicopter... although our ideas became more and more outlandish as time progressed) and taking bets on what time the car would arrive. Finally, we got another text from the drivers: "Mission Impossible 4 has become impossible." The final attempt to reach us had culminated in the car driving into a forest. We went home incredibly disappointed.
The next day we received new instructions: Get to the train station in Chowke. And off we went, on Mission Get To Maputo day 2. Getting to Chokwe took 2 hours, and then another 5 hours before the train actually arrived. We hung out in front of the ticket counter waiting for it to open, and succeeded in buying our tickets. When the train arrived, however, it was madness. All hell broke loose as people rushed to climb aboard. We had to fight out way on with our big bags, elbowing and jostling other people and getting elbowed and jostled ourselves. Half the people on board had seats, the other half had to stand. A good majority didn't even have tickets- but the fine is only twice the price of a ticket, and still barely more than a regular chapa fare.. well worth it to get to Maputo during a time in which 12 kilometers of cars are backed up at the flood area, and people are sleeping on the side of the road waiting for an illegal boat or for the bridge to be fixed.
The train ride itself has taken about four hours, and we're still not there yet (as of 7pm Jan 23) but we should, finally finally finally, be getting to our destination soon.
PART III: THE CYCLONE
Cyclone Funso, currently in the central regions of Mozambique, is expected to head down South this week. As if our region hasn't been battered enough, we're going to deal with another crazy ridiculous storm that may not spare my house this time. As it stands, I expect to be stuck in Maputo for quite a while.
To be continued...
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Summer thievery
Ah, summer. That time of year in Africa when the heat drags you out of bed at 8am (why did you sleep in so late anyway, you lazyass? Oh, probably because you got up to turn on and off the fan about five times throughout the night, waking up alternately sweating and shivering), makes you want to lay down on the cool cement floor in the afternoon despite the sand and the ants, leads you to take multiple cold baths a day, brings overripe mangoes crashing down onto your tin roof with a gunshot bang Ah, summer. Only a few more sweaty months to go.
This morning, I cracked open my morning egg only to have something solid plop into the skillet. It was white and I didn't look at it too closely because it would have discouraged me from still eating the egg. (Why waste a perfectly good egg?) I scooped out the fetus with a spoon and deposited it into my dog's food bowl, and went right back to making my scrambled eggs. (By the way, I should add that while I was cracking the egg over the pan, the pan was not sitting on my stove. It was on my kitchen counter because I've learned that otherwise, I'll get a nasty electric shock from my stove. Apparently, eggs conduct electricity. Every time I touch a pan on my stove, it's with wooden chopsticks or a thick cloth. So ghetto.)
After my eggs and coffee, I decided to cut open a big green mango that had been sitting in my kitchen for a few days. It was a beautiful golden yellow inside, except for a little part near the top that was bruised and a little brown. Whatever. It was sweet and delicious. (The maggots squirming their way out of the brown portion seemed to think so too.) I cut around them and finished the rest of the mango, despite the fact that the small holes here and there hinted that my little wormy friends didn't only reside in the brown part....
No big deal. I'm a Peace Corps volunteer, right? Just as I was sitting down to write this blog, I happened to notice to the left of my bed, the wall was entirely covered with ants. Covered. With. Ants. Grabbed my can of Baygon and went to town, waited til the plink plink plink of ants raining down stopped, and then swept out the pile of ant corpses. I don't find these things horrifying as I do irritating. "Seriously?" I said to the maggoty mango. "You've got to be kidding me," I told the mass ants.
Okay, so things like that don't bother me anymore. What does get me worked up is when I let neighborhood kids color at my front door, and they repay me by reaching in my windows and stealing stuff from inside my house. Yeah.
Earlier this week, I happened to notice that one of my "artwork displays" in the window was missing, a painting that I did of an American flag and a Mozambican flag. I asked all the children, who I have recently been making tissue paper window star and rosettes with, and narrowed it down to two suspects, two neighbor boys I was already not a fan of. These are two 6 year old boys who can barely speak Portuguese, come at 6am to ask to color even when my front door is still closed, and call my name through every window in the house when I don't answer. They climb up my mango tree to take the big mangoes that aren't even ripe, and when I yell at them to stop, they wait until I go back inside my house and try to sneak up the tree again.
So I'm not surprised everyone is saying they took my drawing. In fact, when I ask them, each of them blames the other. I tell them that until I get my drawing back, they aren't welcome to come color at my house. The next day, they're waiting outside my house when I come home. I'm on the phone but it doesn't stop them from interrupting my conversation to say, "Mana Vivienne, estamos a pedir pintar." We're asking to color.
Are you serious? I snap at them that they can't color until they return my drawing. In faulty Portuguese, they tell me that their friend already tore it up. So... they stole my drawing and then ripped it up. That makes a lot of sense. Then they ask to color again. I slam the door in their faces.
When I go talk to the moms, of course, they don't really do anything. "It's just a drawing?" They say, and I can tell they're baffled that I'm so upset. But I'm not really mad over the fact that their kids took a piece of paper, I'm mad that these brats that I let hang out at my house are taking things – anything- of mine without permission. "Okay, we'll talk to them about it" they say unconvincingly, making me feel like a jerk. "Oh, kids will be kids," they sigh, as if thievery is inevitably ingrained in every child. I'm super frustrated.
I get a knock on my door a little bit later, and it's the sister of one of the boys with two pieces of blank white paper in her hands. "I'd like to apologize on my behalf of my brother," she says, holding out the paper. The kid won't even come apologize himself. I tell her to take the paper home, it's not about the paper, I have plenty of paper in my house.
I can ignore chicken babies that fall out of my eggs. I can eat mangoes full of maggots. I can destroy an army of ants. But I can't discipline someone else's kids. (I'm pretty sure my puppy has better manners.) When it comes to that, I can't do a single damn thing.. except withhold the coloring supplies.
This morning, I cracked open my morning egg only to have something solid plop into the skillet. It was white and I didn't look at it too closely because it would have discouraged me from still eating the egg. (Why waste a perfectly good egg?) I scooped out the fetus with a spoon and deposited it into my dog's food bowl, and went right back to making my scrambled eggs. (By the way, I should add that while I was cracking the egg over the pan, the pan was not sitting on my stove. It was on my kitchen counter because I've learned that otherwise, I'll get a nasty electric shock from my stove. Apparently, eggs conduct electricity. Every time I touch a pan on my stove, it's with wooden chopsticks or a thick cloth. So ghetto.)
After my eggs and coffee, I decided to cut open a big green mango that had been sitting in my kitchen for a few days. It was a beautiful golden yellow inside, except for a little part near the top that was bruised and a little brown. Whatever. It was sweet and delicious. (The maggots squirming their way out of the brown portion seemed to think so too.) I cut around them and finished the rest of the mango, despite the fact that the small holes here and there hinted that my little wormy friends didn't only reside in the brown part....
No big deal. I'm a Peace Corps volunteer, right? Just as I was sitting down to write this blog, I happened to notice to the left of my bed, the wall was entirely covered with ants. Covered. With. Ants. Grabbed my can of Baygon and went to town, waited til the plink plink plink of ants raining down stopped, and then swept out the pile of ant corpses. I don't find these things horrifying as I do irritating. "Seriously?" I said to the maggoty mango. "You've got to be kidding me," I told the mass ants.
Okay, so things like that don't bother me anymore. What does get me worked up is when I let neighborhood kids color at my front door, and they repay me by reaching in my windows and stealing stuff from inside my house. Yeah.
Earlier this week, I happened to notice that one of my "artwork displays" in the window was missing, a painting that I did of an American flag and a Mozambican flag. I asked all the children, who I have recently been making tissue paper window star and rosettes with, and narrowed it down to two suspects, two neighbor boys I was already not a fan of. These are two 6 year old boys who can barely speak Portuguese, come at 6am to ask to color even when my front door is still closed, and call my name through every window in the house when I don't answer. They climb up my mango tree to take the big mangoes that aren't even ripe, and when I yell at them to stop, they wait until I go back inside my house and try to sneak up the tree again.
So I'm not surprised everyone is saying they took my drawing. In fact, when I ask them, each of them blames the other. I tell them that until I get my drawing back, they aren't welcome to come color at my house. The next day, they're waiting outside my house when I come home. I'm on the phone but it doesn't stop them from interrupting my conversation to say, "Mana Vivienne, estamos a pedir pintar." We're asking to color.
Are you serious? I snap at them that they can't color until they return my drawing. In faulty Portuguese, they tell me that their friend already tore it up. So... they stole my drawing and then ripped it up. That makes a lot of sense. Then they ask to color again. I slam the door in their faces.
When I go talk to the moms, of course, they don't really do anything. "It's just a drawing?" They say, and I can tell they're baffled that I'm so upset. But I'm not really mad over the fact that their kids took a piece of paper, I'm mad that these brats that I let hang out at my house are taking things – anything- of mine without permission. "Okay, we'll talk to them about it" they say unconvincingly, making me feel like a jerk. "Oh, kids will be kids," they sigh, as if thievery is inevitably ingrained in every child. I'm super frustrated.
I get a knock on my door a little bit later, and it's the sister of one of the boys with two pieces of blank white paper in her hands. "I'd like to apologize on my behalf of my brother," she says, holding out the paper. The kid won't even come apologize himself. I tell her to take the paper home, it's not about the paper, I have plenty of paper in my house.
I can ignore chicken babies that fall out of my eggs. I can eat mangoes full of maggots. I can destroy an army of ants. But I can't discipline someone else's kids. (I'm pretty sure my puppy has better manners.) When it comes to that, I can't do a single damn thing.. except withhold the coloring supplies.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Estamos juntos
I apologize for not having updated in a few weeks. Things have been hectic, what with the holidays, my trip to Taiwan, and the tragic accident involving 5 of my Peace Corps colleagues and friends. When I sit down to write, I’m overwhelmed by all the words and sentiment swirling around inside me.
As many of you know, on Dec 20, 2011 two volunteers were killed in a car accident in Macia, a town just 50k away from me. Three volunteers, one from my group Moz15, survived and are still in the recovery phase.
Despite the fact that the Moz17 volunteers had just arrived at site, I considered all of them friends and I felt tied to them in a special way. Alden was the closest volunteer in proximity to me, in Chissano. Mary and Lena had just replaced my old sitemates Erica and Alycia in Chibuto. I was so looking forward to getting to know them better in the coming months. Indeed, I had just gone to the beach with that same group several days before and we’d all been laughing and joking and swimming in the Indian Ocean together. How could something like this happen? It seems almost unreal.
Yesterday, Jan 8, I attended the final memorial service for Lena and Alden in Maputo. (I was unable to attend the previous services throughout the country because I was in Taiwan.) The service was held at the Ambassador’s house on a hot sunny day. All Moz 17ers were present, as were several members of Moz 14, 15, and 16, and many other RPCV’s. It was a beautiful ceremony filled with laughter and tears and I like to think that Lena and Alden were probably smiling down on us from heaven, seeing how their deaths have united our Peace Corps family in the last couple of weeks.
Life’s short. Live it fully. As we often say here, “Estamos juntos.” We are together.
As many of you know, on Dec 20, 2011 two volunteers were killed in a car accident in Macia, a town just 50k away from me. Three volunteers, one from my group Moz15, survived and are still in the recovery phase.
Despite the fact that the Moz17 volunteers had just arrived at site, I considered all of them friends and I felt tied to them in a special way. Alden was the closest volunteer in proximity to me, in Chissano. Mary and Lena had just replaced my old sitemates Erica and Alycia in Chibuto. I was so looking forward to getting to know them better in the coming months. Indeed, I had just gone to the beach with that same group several days before and we’d all been laughing and joking and swimming in the Indian Ocean together. How could something like this happen? It seems almost unreal.
Yesterday, Jan 8, I attended the final memorial service for Lena and Alden in Maputo. (I was unable to attend the previous services throughout the country because I was in Taiwan.) The service was held at the Ambassador’s house on a hot sunny day. All Moz 17ers were present, as were several members of Moz 14, 15, and 16, and many other RPCV’s. It was a beautiful ceremony filled with laughter and tears and I like to think that Lena and Alden were probably smiling down on us from heaven, seeing how their deaths have united our Peace Corps family in the last couple of weeks.
Life’s short. Live it fully. As we often say here, “Estamos juntos.” We are together.
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