"I wandered through fiction to look for the truth, buried beneath all the lies
And I stood at a distance to feel who you are, hiding myself in your eyes"
Goo Goo Dolls, "Before It's Too Late"
I read once in a sociology book that different cultures are motivated by different things. For example, Asian cultures by honor. African cultures by power. And you know what Americans are motivated by? Justice.
In America, everything is black and white. Something's either right, or it's wrong.
Here in Mozambique, I'm learning that there is no such clarity. Just...gray.
Honesty isn't the extolled virtue it is in the States.
Students cheat blatantly on exams. Why? Because it's considered selfish to not share your knowledge with a friend. They legitimately do not understand what is wrong with peeking over at the test of a neighbor.
I wrote in my last blog post about my best friend/student/next door neighbor stealing food items from my house. My American indignation kicking in: Why didn't he just ASK??
After further reflection, I guess I can sort of see his point: I obviously have an excess of food lying around, why wouldn't I share it? How would I even notice it's gone?
Hoarding isn't a habit here. What you have, you give. You use it to help your friends and your family. Needless to say, savings accounts aren't all that common at the bank.
My friend Calvino had a cute gray puppy for a while Then one day, the dog disappeared. When I asked the younger sister, she informed me that it had been poisoned and had died (a common occurrence). I mentioned it later to Calvino, who told me that, "Nah, it'd just been given to a friend." So which is true? What's the lie for?- to protect the young sister or to protect me, the dog lover of Chicumbane?
After one of my students spent several hours spilling his guts to me about his girlfriend breaking up with him, I mentioned the incident to his best friend several days later, only to receive a blank look in response. "He hasn't told you anything about what happened with his...girlfriend?" "What, is she pregnant?" He asked. I shook my head and suggested he talk to his friend personally...
Later that evening, he came back and whispered, "He told me his girlfriend is pregnant. What did he tell you?"
So, apparently, it's not as important to tell the truth as it is to tell someone what they want to hear. (By the way, my student later recanted the pregnancy story.)
This week, my coworker told me that one of the wooden doors to the latrine we had built for my organization, had been stolen overnight Doors are expensive, but they're also heavy. So immediately I know that it would have taken more than one person to take it down and carry it or transport it somewhere. While I mull over this turn of events, I find myself at the front steps of my coworker's house later that same day to give him something when... through the open front door, I see something in the house. It's a random wooden door, leaning up against his living room wall.
This is the same coworker, who had earlier this week been planting new packets of seeds in his garden at his house. Coincidental, because at work we are currently doing a gardening project and the organization has just bought a bunch of gardening supplies, including seeds.
So here's what I think is going on. I suspect that materials at work are getting siphoned off the top, like skimming funds in an embezzlement scheme. There's always been a fine line between what belongs to the organization and what belongs to the activists. What if someone really needed a door? But didn't have money to buy one? Would it be wrong to "borrow" it for a time?
{Let me give you an example. If you've got a job that you need to fill, you give it to your good friend. You don't give it to the person who is most qualified. Why would you help that person? }
If I'm right, then I'm pretty sure I'm the only one not in the loop, the only one kept in the dark. I'm the only one who would call then out on this, but does that mean I'm not an ally?
The wrongness of the situation cuts me, and I don't know how I can fight this battle. How could I, alone, hold everyone accountable? How can I claim to be a part of their organization, their community, and their culture and not look out for their "best interests?" Why would I want to "deprive" my friends of something that's available, if it doesn't hurt anyone? It sounds kind of messed up, to straightforward American way of thought, but I don't know. I just don't have the energy to make it "right" because "right"... is relative here, isn't it?
The door was stolen by an unknown thief? Aren't they just telling me what I'd rather hear? Is there a reason that "Wa Hemba" (liar) is the most common phrase in Changana?
The more I immerse myself in my community, the more I realize that there's so much that I'm still learning, or just now learning. That's when I know I'm in way over my head.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Trust
Several weeks ago, I began to notice food items missing from my house. Just small things here and there: a tupperware of garlic, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, a bag of chips, etc. I'd reach for a packet of oatmeal and discover only one left in the box. At first, I thought I was going crazy. Did I eat all the oatmeal and just forget to add it to my grocery list? Strange, because I'm usually very good about buying things before I run out. I considered the possibility of the onset of early Alzheimer's.
This week, when I bought a brand new box of oatmeal, I numbered the packets 1-10. A few days later, I only had 6 left. AHA!! I had eaten two of them (one a day), which left two unaccounted for. I applauded myself for NOT going crazy, while I began to feel the dull pain of trust shattered in my heart.
Only two other people have keys to my house: my empregada, and my 18-year-old next door neighbor who also happens to be one of my theatre kids. Both of these people were specially entrusted with my keys. I had mentioned these strange happenings to my empregada, who claimed to have no knowledge of what was going on (and also is not aware that the neighbor also has a key). As time passed, and things continued to disappear I shifted my doubt to my neighbor, who is the only one who knows of my daily comings and goings.
This frustrated me, because I consider him one of my good friends and I've always played a big-sister role to him. I would trust this kid with my life, but apparently I shouldn't trust him with access to my personal belongings. What makes this situation even more bizarre is what happened earlier this week. He came over to my house one night after his girlfriend of 3 years broke up with him, and literally bawled into my lap for an hour and a half. It was like holding a man-child who has no idea what to do with his emotions. I'd never seen a Mozambican so upset...EVER. Two days later, he still hadn't even mentioned a thing to his best friend. So what does that say about our relationship, that I'm the first and only person he goes to when something tragic happens?
Now, we seem to be closer than ever. Or....so I thought. Before my numbered oatmeal went missing, and the only person who knew for certain I was gone at certain times during the day... was him. It's heartbreaking.
I feel that the things I have, I give freely. Lately, I've been giving out money right and left to help people that I consider friends. Oh, you don't have money to get to work? Here's 100 mts. Oh, the threatre group is participating in a competition and needs money for transport to participate? Here's 500 mts. Especially when it comes to my sweet neighbor/friend, I'm pretty damned generous. An extra blanket because it gets cold, a pillow, a plate of food a couple times a week, candy... So really, all he'd have to do is ASK and I'd probably give it.
While venting my frustrations to other PCV's, I discovered that most of them had also been privy to similar petty thefts (by friends and people they trust!). And so I start to wonder, if I'm reading too much into all this. To me, this is an act of betrayal, a personal affront. But to Mozambicans, I'm not sure it's the same. Could it be that these acts of theft have nothing to do with me, and more to do with the things that I am perceived to have? I obviously have things in "excess" ; I'm always giving away things. Maybe the assumption is, I have so much I won't notice a few things gone. Or I'll just replace it.
So... my definition of friendship obviously isn't quite the same as others'. But I also can't get trapped in these feelings of bitterness that will only continue to taint my relationships with people. It's hard to explain, but I know that despite what's going on, they do care about me. I'm not wrong in saying that my friendship with my neighbor is as authentic as it was before I discovered the food thefts. And hopefully we'll continue to be close for the rest of my service.
But first... I'm going to need my keys back.
This week, when I bought a brand new box of oatmeal, I numbered the packets 1-10. A few days later, I only had 6 left. AHA!! I had eaten two of them (one a day), which left two unaccounted for. I applauded myself for NOT going crazy, while I began to feel the dull pain of trust shattered in my heart.
Only two other people have keys to my house: my empregada, and my 18-year-old next door neighbor who also happens to be one of my theatre kids. Both of these people were specially entrusted with my keys. I had mentioned these strange happenings to my empregada, who claimed to have no knowledge of what was going on (and also is not aware that the neighbor also has a key). As time passed, and things continued to disappear I shifted my doubt to my neighbor, who is the only one who knows of my daily comings and goings.
This frustrated me, because I consider him one of my good friends and I've always played a big-sister role to him. I would trust this kid with my life, but apparently I shouldn't trust him with access to my personal belongings. What makes this situation even more bizarre is what happened earlier this week. He came over to my house one night after his girlfriend of 3 years broke up with him, and literally bawled into my lap for an hour and a half. It was like holding a man-child who has no idea what to do with his emotions. I'd never seen a Mozambican so upset...EVER. Two days later, he still hadn't even mentioned a thing to his best friend. So what does that say about our relationship, that I'm the first and only person he goes to when something tragic happens?
Now, we seem to be closer than ever. Or....so I thought. Before my numbered oatmeal went missing, and the only person who knew for certain I was gone at certain times during the day... was him. It's heartbreaking.
I feel that the things I have, I give freely. Lately, I've been giving out money right and left to help people that I consider friends. Oh, you don't have money to get to work? Here's 100 mts. Oh, the threatre group is participating in a competition and needs money for transport to participate? Here's 500 mts. Especially when it comes to my sweet neighbor/friend, I'm pretty damned generous. An extra blanket because it gets cold, a pillow, a plate of food a couple times a week, candy... So really, all he'd have to do is ASK and I'd probably give it.
While venting my frustrations to other PCV's, I discovered that most of them had also been privy to similar petty thefts (by friends and people they trust!). And so I start to wonder, if I'm reading too much into all this. To me, this is an act of betrayal, a personal affront. But to Mozambicans, I'm not sure it's the same. Could it be that these acts of theft have nothing to do with me, and more to do with the things that I am perceived to have? I obviously have things in "excess" ; I'm always giving away things. Maybe the assumption is, I have so much I won't notice a few things gone. Or I'll just replace it.
So... my definition of friendship obviously isn't quite the same as others'. But I also can't get trapped in these feelings of bitterness that will only continue to taint my relationships with people. It's hard to explain, but I know that despite what's going on, they do care about me. I'm not wrong in saying that my friendship with my neighbor is as authentic as it was before I discovered the food thefts. And hopefully we'll continue to be close for the rest of my service.
But first... I'm going to need my keys back.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
The sights and sounds of africa
By the time you've lived somewhere for 20 months, everything that surrounds you has fallen under the category of "Normalcy." Very few things make you stop and stare. Indeed, very few things that you do make other people stop and stare.
I think that the people of Chicumbane are used to my "white person" quirks- namely the fact that I walk around the neighborhood accompanied by a pack of dogs, or that sometimes I have to chase them home brandishing a stick. After 20 months, these things are just part of the landscape.
---
In the morning, I'm sometimes woken up by the soft scraping sound of my neighbor raking the sand. It's a comforting sound, knowing that somebody's taking care of the yard and it doesn't have to be me. (Hey, I bought the rake- fair exchange, right?) This, accompanied by roosters crowing and shortly after, the sound of speakers being turned on wafts music beats through my window. Sometimes, the music from different houses compete to see who can be heard by the most people, something that used to irritate me but has since become the background noise to everyday life.
By the way, it's getting COLD!!! I sleep with a jacket, sweatpants, socks, and two blankets. The tin roof above my head cools my house in the winter and heats it to sweltering in the summer. The only good thing is that when it rains, the pattering sound can be soothing. Although this, too, was something that I initially found disconcerting.
On my way to the latrine in the morning to dump out my xixi bucket, I pass chickens rummaging through piles of dead leaves, surrounded by peeping chicks I hear my neighbors greeting and talking to each other in local language, and sometimes my crazy misogynist neighbor yelling angrily at someone. If somebody nearby is burning their trash, the air smells of smoke. When I first landed in Africa, it was one of the first things I noticed- the constant faint linger of smoke. People burn their trash, burn firewood to cook, burn their land to clear crops.
After my breakfast and morning coffee (gotta love the French press) I head to work at the hospital, a pleasant 20 minute walk in which I usually pass a herd or two of cows and goats heading to pasture, and multiple fresh cow patties. When I first arrived at site, I complained ferociously about the difficulties of walking through sand and now no longer notice it. I'm hoping this means good things for my calves. Also along the way, I cross paths with students in uniform going to and from school, adults heading to work, women coming back from the field. Some of them greet me with "Bom dia" (good morning) or call me by name:
"Mana Vivana!" At all the houses I pass, people are sitting outside.
In the afternoon, I return home for lunch. This is about the time that children notice my open door and come by asking to color. They stand timidly at my door and call "da licenca!" ("Excuse me!") repeatedly until I tell them to go home and come back on the weekend. It's amazing how many times I turn away the same kids who apparently don't know the days of the week. If my neighbor isn't around to shoo them away, they may decide to hop into my trash pit and collect whatever treasures they find. (It's always kind of awkward when you pass children on the street playing with something that obviously came out of your trash pit. For this reason, all hygiene products and discarded medical supplies go into the latrine.) I think I'll need some time to adjust back to weekly trash pickups and garbage disposals...
Aside from the pounding of music, there's also the sound of chatter in Changana, children wheeling their squeaky wire trucks around or whipping a wooden top through the sand to make a sharp cracking noise and keep it spinning, the bleating of nearby goats or children crying (they sound the same).
In the evenings, I go to work where I inevitably encounter mosquitoes- a lot of them (Chicumbane is right next to the Limpopos River). The phase of the moon makes all the difference between intense darkness or well-lit streets. After it rains, there's the danger of falling into muddy puddles in the middle of the path.
Unless it's the weekend, when music from barracas plays until the wee hours of the morning, the neighborhood quiets down by 9pm or so. In the middle of the night, it is dead silent save for the occasional chorus of dogs barking. And rats running over my tin roof.
---
At this point in my service, all of this is familiar to me. But the thought that in less than 5 months, I'll be leaving all this behind- probably forever- is sobering. It's one of the things that make me stop and just... be. Just soak in a little more of Africa.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Oh baby
Working with girls in Mozambique can be challenging. For one thing, they're so busy. Between school, household chores, babysitting younger relatives, and church, it can be difficult to fit in time to descansar (rest), much less to attend a REDES group meeting. I'll work closely with a promising secondary school girl, only to have her disappear suddenly after several weeks. I find out...her mother is making her run the family vegetable stand at the market. Or she has to stay at home to cook and take care of her siblings. Or she's on the verge of failing a class, and has to spend more time at school studying. Or one of her relatives is very sick and she has to travel to visit them.
Or... she got pregnant. Teen pregnancy is not a novel concept, but here in Africa it is unbelievably common. In my experience, I'd say that the average age that a Mozambican woman has her first child is... between 18 and 20.
One of the most common questions I get asked is, "Do you have children?" (Almost inevitably after "Are you married?") And then comes, "No? Why not?" It seems weird to them that a person could be married but not have kids. It's as if having children validates marriage. My host brother got his girlfriend pregnant about a year ago . After hushed negotiations with the girl's family, she and the baby now live with my host family. They're essentially married. They refer to each other as husband and wife, but I don't think they're actually legally bound.
So even if it's -oops! An accident, usually it turns out okay. Unplanned pregnancies aren't the huge burden they are in the States. There definitely isn't the same stigma and disapproval, or talk of "children having children." At 18, a Mozambican girl is of prime child-bearing age. I explain, "I don't want kids yet, I have plenty of time later." This is usually met with a strange look that says, "Whatever, you crazy white person. You're 24 and you're getting old so you better start popping out those children while you can." I wonder if it has to do with the lower life expectancy in Moz. People die younger, so people procreate younger.
Also, family is such a huge deal in African culture. Having children means more hands to help around the house. Having children means a woman's role of motherhood is fulfilled, and a man's role of proving his virility is accomplished.
Last week, I received a visit from a young girl who introduced herself as Stella's sister. (Stella is a secondary school student who used to be active in REDES and participated in my English Theatre group last year.) I asked how Stella was, mentioning that I hadn't seen her in a long time. "Oh, she's fine. Almost about to have her baby."
...WHAT???!!! If I had a metical for every time I've been surprised to discover that someone I know is pregnant, I'd probably be able to afford a chapa ride to Xai Xai (from Chicumbane to Xai Xai is 10 meticais). For some reason, I'm not very good at picking out pregnant women in Mozambique. One of my coworkers, whom I've known my entire time in Chicumbane, had already given birth by the time I discovered that she was even pregnant.
Maybe it's because a lot of Mozambican women are typically...um, big. Or maybe because no one makes a huge fuss about being pregnant, and it's such a natural thing In America, pregnant women throw elaborate baby showers, post up sonogram photos, complain about morning sickness and cravings and purportedly emit some sort of pregnancy glow. If you're a pregnant Mozambican woman, you don't even get the privilege of knowing if it's a boy or girl before it pops out.
But still. Throughout REDES meetings and events we try to drill in the importance of using protection, family planning, long term decisions, blah blah...It's hard to say how much of it goes in one ear and out the other. Girls see their friends having babies and want one too. They don't ponder the financial drain of having another mouth to feed, or the time commitment that comes with caring for a child, or the impact on their own education (because while they often argue that it is possible to raise a baby and continue going to school, most often they end up dropping out).
Next thing you know, they're knocked up and I'm hearing about it from somebody else. But probably not until 7 or 8 months down the line...
Or... she got pregnant. Teen pregnancy is not a novel concept, but here in Africa it is unbelievably common. In my experience, I'd say that the average age that a Mozambican woman has her first child is... between 18 and 20.
One of the most common questions I get asked is, "Do you have children?" (Almost inevitably after "Are you married?") And then comes, "No? Why not?" It seems weird to them that a person could be married but not have kids. It's as if having children validates marriage. My host brother got his girlfriend pregnant about a year ago . After hushed negotiations with the girl's family, she and the baby now live with my host family. They're essentially married. They refer to each other as husband and wife, but I don't think they're actually legally bound.
So even if it's -oops! An accident, usually it turns out okay. Unplanned pregnancies aren't the huge burden they are in the States. There definitely isn't the same stigma and disapproval, or talk of "children having children." At 18, a Mozambican girl is of prime child-bearing age. I explain, "I don't want kids yet, I have plenty of time later." This is usually met with a strange look that says, "Whatever, you crazy white person. You're 24 and you're getting old so you better start popping out those children while you can." I wonder if it has to do with the lower life expectancy in Moz. People die younger, so people procreate younger.
Also, family is such a huge deal in African culture. Having children means more hands to help around the house. Having children means a woman's role of motherhood is fulfilled, and a man's role of proving his virility is accomplished.
Last week, I received a visit from a young girl who introduced herself as Stella's sister. (Stella is a secondary school student who used to be active in REDES and participated in my English Theatre group last year.) I asked how Stella was, mentioning that I hadn't seen her in a long time. "Oh, she's fine. Almost about to have her baby."
...WHAT???!!! If I had a metical for every time I've been surprised to discover that someone I know is pregnant, I'd probably be able to afford a chapa ride to Xai Xai (from Chicumbane to Xai Xai is 10 meticais). For some reason, I'm not very good at picking out pregnant women in Mozambique. One of my coworkers, whom I've known my entire time in Chicumbane, had already given birth by the time I discovered that she was even pregnant.
Maybe it's because a lot of Mozambican women are typically...um, big. Or maybe because no one makes a huge fuss about being pregnant, and it's such a natural thing In America, pregnant women throw elaborate baby showers, post up sonogram photos, complain about morning sickness and cravings and purportedly emit some sort of pregnancy glow. If you're a pregnant Mozambican woman, you don't even get the privilege of knowing if it's a boy or girl before it pops out.
But still. Throughout REDES meetings and events we try to drill in the importance of using protection, family planning, long term decisions, blah blah...It's hard to say how much of it goes in one ear and out the other. Girls see their friends having babies and want one too. They don't ponder the financial drain of having another mouth to feed, or the time commitment that comes with caring for a child, or the impact on their own education (because while they often argue that it is possible to raise a baby and continue going to school, most often they end up dropping out).
Next thing you know, they're knocked up and I'm hearing about it from somebody else. But probably not until 7 or 8 months down the line...
Saturday, May 19, 2012
A Woman In A Man's World
Before the sun is even up, the African women are out and about. Armed with hoes, they march to the machamba, sometimes many kilometers away, to till their land and sow their crops: cassava root, pumpkin, corn, kidney beans, green beans, potatoes, cacana. Then, once the sun begins to ascend into the sky, the women trudge home, not to rest but to begin their work there.
A Mozambican woman's day is full of housework: sweeping the yard, washing clothes, carting water, taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, washing dishes, cooking. Cooking is an intensive chore in itself, requiring a woman to pilar (pound dried corn with a heavy mortar and pestle), moer (grind the flour against a huge ceramic bowl), and cook the flour with boiling water into xima, the staple carb that accompanies most meals. The division of labor in this culture is apparent from childhood; boys roam freely, wheeling about their wire trucks, while girls are kept close to home to help out. Little girls play "house" and practice balancing things on their heads.
Where is my place in this society? When I'm at work, men eat first and I eat with them. I am the only woman given a chair. The other women bring us plates, cups, hot water, sugar, tea, and bread for us to eat breakfast, and pour warm water for us to wash our hands. Afterwards, the women wash our dishes and eat together, seated on a straw mat.
When I pick up a hoe to dig up some weeds everyone stares and giggles. Within a few minutes, someone comes over to take the hoe from my hands and finishes the job. When I sit next to the women to help shell beans, they marvel, "Wow, you know how to do that?" As if breaking open a bean pod is an exceptionally difficult task. When I get close to the kitchen, the smoke from the firewood burns my eyes and makes me tear up. The women laugh and tell me to go sit down in the shade.
I'm treated simultaneously like a child and like an honored guest. I'm not expected to do anything but that doesn't mean I don't want to do it. Sometimes I want to participate in an activity with the women but I also don't relish the prospect of being laughed at. And almost inevitably, I'll do something "wrong"... Because in this society, domestic things are done only one way. THE way. When I tell the women that I eat potatoes with the skins on, they look at me like I've just turned neon pink and sprouted horns. "I couldn't do that," One woman shudders at the thought.
The other day, I have a conversation with my coworker, Senhor Monjane. He's lamenting the lack of work that's been done on our new office lately. "Those women need a man around to tell them what to do." "Oh?" I reply. "Yes, otherwise they don't have any idea where to start." "Is it because they aren't used to doing construction work and they're not familiar with the process?" I ask. "It's because they can't do it without a man. They won't conseguir (succeed)," He says.
"So, you're saying that physically the women can't do construction work," I respond.
"Construction work is men's work."
I tell him: "Well, in my opinion, there's no such thing as 'men's work' and 'women's work.' Those women seem pretty capable of conseguir-ing, they just need an explanation of what needs to be done. And wouldn't it be better if everyone worked together and got more work done, instead of ONE man doing something and everybody else just sitting around?"
He thinks about it. "Yeah I guess so."
The next day, Sr Monjane, an activist woman named Hortencia, and I pick up spades to cement the office walls. Sr Monjane suggests that maybe I should start off at the far wall (reading between the lines: "In case you mess it up, it won't be noticeable.") Fifteen minutes later, another activist comments, "Mana Viviana is working??" to which Sr Monjane calls back proudly, "And she's conseguir-ing!" Of course I'm succeeding. This is men's work? It involves grabbing a handful of wet cement mixed with dirt and slathering it on the reed walls and then smoothing it down. Meanwhile, the other women are carrying in shovel-fuls of dirt and doing the cement mixing in a wheelbarrow. Everyone's working and we get more done in less time than the previous day.
At the end of the day, I write my name in the cement on my wall: VIVIENNE 2012.
...Because hey, I'm white, I'm a woman, and I can conseguir too.
A Mozambican woman's day is full of housework: sweeping the yard, washing clothes, carting water, taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, washing dishes, cooking. Cooking is an intensive chore in itself, requiring a woman to pilar (pound dried corn with a heavy mortar and pestle), moer (grind the flour against a huge ceramic bowl), and cook the flour with boiling water into xima, the staple carb that accompanies most meals. The division of labor in this culture is apparent from childhood; boys roam freely, wheeling about their wire trucks, while girls are kept close to home to help out. Little girls play "house" and practice balancing things on their heads.
Where is my place in this society? When I'm at work, men eat first and I eat with them. I am the only woman given a chair. The other women bring us plates, cups, hot water, sugar, tea, and bread for us to eat breakfast, and pour warm water for us to wash our hands. Afterwards, the women wash our dishes and eat together, seated on a straw mat.
When I pick up a hoe to dig up some weeds everyone stares and giggles. Within a few minutes, someone comes over to take the hoe from my hands and finishes the job. When I sit next to the women to help shell beans, they marvel, "Wow, you know how to do that?" As if breaking open a bean pod is an exceptionally difficult task. When I get close to the kitchen, the smoke from the firewood burns my eyes and makes me tear up. The women laugh and tell me to go sit down in the shade.
I'm treated simultaneously like a child and like an honored guest. I'm not expected to do anything but that doesn't mean I don't want to do it. Sometimes I want to participate in an activity with the women but I also don't relish the prospect of being laughed at. And almost inevitably, I'll do something "wrong"... Because in this society, domestic things are done only one way. THE way. When I tell the women that I eat potatoes with the skins on, they look at me like I've just turned neon pink and sprouted horns. "I couldn't do that," One woman shudders at the thought.
The other day, I have a conversation with my coworker, Senhor Monjane. He's lamenting the lack of work that's been done on our new office lately. "Those women need a man around to tell them what to do." "Oh?" I reply. "Yes, otherwise they don't have any idea where to start." "Is it because they aren't used to doing construction work and they're not familiar with the process?" I ask. "It's because they can't do it without a man. They won't conseguir (succeed)," He says.
"So, you're saying that physically the women can't do construction work," I respond.
"Construction work is men's work."
I tell him: "Well, in my opinion, there's no such thing as 'men's work' and 'women's work.' Those women seem pretty capable of conseguir-ing, they just need an explanation of what needs to be done. And wouldn't it be better if everyone worked together and got more work done, instead of ONE man doing something and everybody else just sitting around?"
He thinks about it. "Yeah I guess so."
The next day, Sr Monjane, an activist woman named Hortencia, and I pick up spades to cement the office walls. Sr Monjane suggests that maybe I should start off at the far wall (reading between the lines: "In case you mess it up, it won't be noticeable.") Fifteen minutes later, another activist comments, "Mana Viviana is working??" to which Sr Monjane calls back proudly, "And she's conseguir-ing!" Of course I'm succeeding. This is men's work? It involves grabbing a handful of wet cement mixed with dirt and slathering it on the reed walls and then smoothing it down. Meanwhile, the other women are carrying in shovel-fuls of dirt and doing the cement mixing in a wheelbarrow. Everyone's working and we get more done in less time than the previous day.
At the end of the day, I write my name in the cement on my wall: VIVIENNE 2012.
...Because hey, I'm white, I'm a woman, and I can conseguir too.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Going North
I’ve just completed a 2 week trip up to Northern Mozambique. Below is my route and some of the interesting things I noted along the way.
VILANCULOS
Vilanculos is a popular tourist site in Inhambane Province, and also the site of the annual Peace Corps Beer Olympics. Up until my North trip, Vil was the furthest north I’d ever been in Mozambique. This year, I rented a beach chalet for me and my friend Helen because last year we ended up having to sleep on the same tiny mattress in the backpacker dorms…on the top bunk. The Northern volunteers, who usually have a hard time getting all the way to Vil, rented a private chapa this year! So I hopped in with them on their way home.
Vilanculos is a popular tourist site in Inhambane Province, and also the site of the annual Peace Corps Beer Olympics. Up until my North trip, Vil was the furthest north I’d ever been in Mozambique. This year, I rented a beach chalet for me and my friend Helen because last year we ended up having to sleep on the same tiny mattress in the backpacker dorms…on the top bunk. The Northern volunteers, who usually have a hard time getting all the way to Vil, rented a private chapa this year! So I hopped in with them on their way home.
THE ROADS
Traveling in the North SUCKS!! It takes forever to get anywhere, not necessarily because everything is further away (okay, well that too) but also because the roads are terrible. You’re lucky to find paved road, even if it is full of giant potholes and cracks that make the chapa go THWOMP! BOOM! BAM! as you are rudely knocked awake from your nap when your head hits the window. There’s a lot of waking up at 3am to get on buses that leave at 4, and full days spent in vehicles buying fruit, crackers, sodas, hard boiled eggs, and bread from crowds of vendors jostling each other at your window. At one stop, Inchope, the vendors came running with plastic bags of chicken and French fries, what PCV’s call “Happy Meals.”
Traveling in the North SUCKS!! It takes forever to get anywhere, not necessarily because everything is further away (okay, well that too) but also because the roads are terrible. You’re lucky to find paved road, even if it is full of giant potholes and cracks that make the chapa go THWOMP! BOOM! BAM! as you are rudely knocked awake from your nap when your head hits the window. There’s a lot of waking up at 3am to get on buses that leave at 4, and full days spent in vehicles buying fruit, crackers, sodas, hard boiled eggs, and bread from crowds of vendors jostling each other at your window. At one stop, Inchope, the vendors came running with plastic bags of chicken and French fries, what PCV’s call “Happy Meals.”
The EN1 (National Highway) is okay, but unlike the South where you’re constantly passing fields and villages , in the North you can drive for hours and hours with nothing but tall brush on either side. I got very good at peeing in the bush.
In some places, the paved road is blocked off and you have to take a detour on a dirt road that runs parallel to the paved one. Our driver explained that in these areas, the road is unfinished but that the workers have stopped showing up because they haven’t been paid in months. I guess I wouldn’t go to work if I weren’t getting paid, either.
Luckily, I had the foresight to have booked a flight for my return to Southern Mozambique. This flight from Quelimane to Maputo cost me about 5000 MZN (about $150 USD) and spared me another exhausting, multi-day trip overland.
ANGOCHE
Angoche is a lovely, if slightly isolated, beach city in Nampula province. In the days of Portuguese rule, Angoche used to be a bustling trading hub. Now it’s pretty quiet (“Eerily quiet,” Meagan said, but that’s because she’s used to the crowded streets of Quelimane). There’s quite a big Muslim population, which is not something I’m used to because where I live I’d say about 90% are Christian.
Angoche is a lovely, if slightly isolated, beach city in Nampula province. In the days of Portuguese rule, Angoche used to be a bustling trading hub. Now it’s pretty quiet (“Eerily quiet,” Meagan said, but that’s because she’s used to the crowded streets of Quelimane). There’s quite a big Muslim population, which is not something I’m used to because where I live I’d say about 90% are Christian.
The local language is Koti, the only place in the world where it’s spoken. Koti doesn’t have the same harsh vowels that Changana (Gaza’s local language) does. In fact, it kind of sounds like everyone is drunk and slurring their words together (my initial reaction to their Portuguese).
THE BEACH
The beach in Angoche was amazing. We walked out about 15 minutes on a raised dirt road with swampy trees and marshland all around us; this area floods when the tide comes in. Then we took a 10 minute wooden boat ride across the peninsula to the beach side. The water was warm and the sand was white, and the best part- no one even passed by in the several hours we were out there!
The beach in Angoche was amazing. We walked out about 15 minutes on a raised dirt road with swampy trees and marshland all around us; this area floods when the tide comes in. Then we took a 10 minute wooden boat ride across the peninsula to the beach side. The water was warm and the sand was white, and the best part- no one even passed by in the several hours we were out there!
APAS
Apas (Angoche style) are tortillas with a fried egg in between, drizzled with ketchup and mayo. FYI skeptics, they’re delicious. And for only 15 mts each (roughly 50 cents) they are the best lunch deal around! We brought them back to Jordan’s house and added hot sauce and spices. I ate about 12 in the 4 days I was there, and am now kicking myself for not just kidnapping the apa guy and making him live in Chicumbane with me.
Apas (Angoche style) are tortillas with a fried egg in between, drizzled with ketchup and mayo. FYI skeptics, they’re delicious. And for only 15 mts each (roughly 50 cents) they are the best lunch deal around! We brought them back to Jordan’s house and added hot sauce and spices. I ate about 12 in the 4 days I was there, and am now kicking myself for not just kidnapping the apa guy and making him live in Chicumbane with me.
BOLEIAS
Hmm… I wasn’t a huge fan of hitchhiking in the North. It seemed that most cars picked us up with the expectation of money. (Maybe because the distances are longer?) Meagan and I hopped on one chapa, two semi trucks, one private car, and the back of one pickup truck in order to make it from Angoche to Quelimane (Green and red route on map). We started at 1am and arrived at 5pm. Talk about a long day!
Hmm… I wasn’t a huge fan of hitchhiking in the North. It seemed that most cars picked us up with the expectation of money. (Maybe because the distances are longer?) Meagan and I hopped on one chapa, two semi trucks, one private car, and the back of one pickup truck in order to make it from Angoche to Quelimane (Green and red route on map). We started at 1am and arrived at 5pm. Talk about a long day!
CAPULANAS
As everyone knows, I love love love capulanas- the bolts of colorful fabric that Mozambican women tie around their waists. In the North, they have some awesome colorful tie-dye capulanas that you can’t get in the South. So… I bought 7 of them.
As everyone knows, I love love love capulanas- the bolts of colorful fabric that Mozambican women tie around their waists. In the North, they have some awesome colorful tie-dye capulanas that you can’t get in the South. So… I bought 7 of them.
QUELIMANE
Quelimane is a big city, maybe even bigger than Xai Xai. It was kind of crazy, having to constantly watch for oncoming cars and bikes. Meagan has a number of expat friends who have sweet American-style apartments, so we hung out with them quite a bit. One night we went out to a Chinese restaurant, where I impressed the owners with my Mandarin and ordered us a good meal. I also ordered myself a glass of white wine, which apparently they don’t sell. Instead, I was brought a full, freshly-opened bottle of wine that I had no choice but to finish on my own. Tough life, being on vacation.
Quelimane is a big city, maybe even bigger than Xai Xai. It was kind of crazy, having to constantly watch for oncoming cars and bikes. Meagan has a number of expat friends who have sweet American-style apartments, so we hung out with them quite a bit. One night we went out to a Chinese restaurant, where I impressed the owners with my Mandarin and ordered us a good meal. I also ordered myself a glass of white wine, which apparently they don’t sell. Instead, I was brought a full, freshly-opened bottle of wine that I had no choice but to finish on my own. Tough life, being on vacation.
BIKE TAXIS
In Quelimane, bike taxis are everywhere. You get on the back of a bike and pay 5 mts to get peddled around to anywhere in the city. Pretty sweet deal. I only took one during my stay but I found it kind of nerve-wracking. I was very tense during the entire ride because of all the other bike taxis and cars on the road, and because I lacked any control. Also, I had no idea where to put my hands so I just held on to the part of the seat that didn’t have the guy’s butt on it. Other PCV’s reassured me that “you get used to it” and eventually it’s even relaxing.
In Quelimane, bike taxis are everywhere. You get on the back of a bike and pay 5 mts to get peddled around to anywhere in the city. Pretty sweet deal. I only took one during my stay but I found it kind of nerve-wracking. I was very tense during the entire ride because of all the other bike taxis and cars on the road, and because I lacked any control. Also, I had no idea where to put my hands so I just held on to the part of the seat that didn’t have the guy’s butt on it. Other PCV’s reassured me that “you get used to it” and eventually it’s even relaxing.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Donor dependency & lessons in event planning
The REDES Project held its first regional TOT (Training of Trainers) conferences on April 20-23, in 5 locations throughout Mozambique. My friend Megan (also the REDES Curriculum Director) and I were in charge of the Gaza TOT in Macia. Overall, everything went well although the process of planning and executing a 3-day event for 19 Mozambican facilitators and 6 PCV's is not an easy task.
I should give you a brief explanation here. In past years, REDES conferences were always held in super nice resorts with fancy buffet meals, and the participants received absurdly high per diems.
This year, with the challenge of introducing this big event into our currently existing budget and the concept of sustainability in mind, we voted to cut down on event costs in a variety of ways.
First, we booked internatos (school dorms)instead of ritzy hotels. Second, we cut down significantly on the per diem amounts. (At an event in which food and lodging is all provided, the participants really don't need to receive large sums of cash.) Third, we opted to create our own menu instead of using the venues'. This meant we had to find our own cooks and buy all of the food materials in advance.
From a efficiency and cost-cutting standpoint, all of these changes make sense, right?
But from the viewpoint of a Mozambican who has participated in REDES conferences and other I-NGO sponsored events in the past, this was outrageous!!!!
We heard our first complaints almost immediately. "This is nothing like Barra Lodge," A participant complained to another, making reference to last year's beach-side resort venue.
At snack time, one of the older REDES facilitator called me over. "I don't drink tea," she said. "Well, have some coffee," I replied. She said she only drank juice or soda. I responded that each participant was already receiving one soda for lunch and one soda for dinner, and did she really need three sodas a day? She sniffed at my suggestion that she drink some water. Another woman handed me back a package of crackers and asked for a different kind. Megan and I felt like everyone's personal empregadas, to the point that one day we ate alone in the kitchen so we could get some peace.
The biggest uproar came when meal time arrived the second day. "Matapa for lunch?" Some participants griped (Matapa is a standard Mozambican dish, made with greens and coconut milk.) Reading between the lines, this meant: WHERE'S OUR MEAT??? Apparently, it is preposterous to withhold protein (chicken, beef, fish, etc.) at a conference, despite the fact that the dishes we were serving are ones they eat every single day at home. The announcement of beans and rice for dinner was met with indignation. One woman tried to rally up a group to leave and get dinner elsewhere, although their plan was foiled by lack of transport.
The complaints got so bad that at the end of the second day, we had to confront the problem head-on. Megan explained to the group that REDES is currently at the end of the fiscal year and under budget constraints, and asked the participants to be understanding of what we can offer them. Afterwards, we didn't hear that as many complaints- although the participants probably just switched to bitching in Changana. Even so, five out of six of the feedback forms brought up housing, food, per diem, or all three.
You'd think that the opportunity to learn and grow as a facilitator would be enough motivation to be at a conference. But who am I kidding? How does KNOWLEDGE compare to continental buffets and a wallet full of change?
Years and years of outside funding has created a sense of entitlement and donor dependency. How can we ever expect to turn over our programs to host country nationals one day if things don't change?
----
http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1365-3156.2010.02607.x/full (Related reading about per diem dependency)
I should give you a brief explanation here. In past years, REDES conferences were always held in super nice resorts with fancy buffet meals, and the participants received absurdly high per diems.
This year, with the challenge of introducing this big event into our currently existing budget and the concept of sustainability in mind, we voted to cut down on event costs in a variety of ways.
First, we booked internatos (school dorms)instead of ritzy hotels. Second, we cut down significantly on the per diem amounts. (At an event in which food and lodging is all provided, the participants really don't need to receive large sums of cash.) Third, we opted to create our own menu instead of using the venues'. This meant we had to find our own cooks and buy all of the food materials in advance.
From a efficiency and cost-cutting standpoint, all of these changes make sense, right?
But from the viewpoint of a Mozambican who has participated in REDES conferences and other I-NGO sponsored events in the past, this was outrageous!!!!
We heard our first complaints almost immediately. "This is nothing like Barra Lodge," A participant complained to another, making reference to last year's beach-side resort venue.
At snack time, one of the older REDES facilitator called me over. "I don't drink tea," she said. "Well, have some coffee," I replied. She said she only drank juice or soda. I responded that each participant was already receiving one soda for lunch and one soda for dinner, and did she really need three sodas a day? She sniffed at my suggestion that she drink some water. Another woman handed me back a package of crackers and asked for a different kind. Megan and I felt like everyone's personal empregadas, to the point that one day we ate alone in the kitchen so we could get some peace.
The biggest uproar came when meal time arrived the second day. "Matapa for lunch?" Some participants griped (Matapa is a standard Mozambican dish, made with greens and coconut milk.) Reading between the lines, this meant: WHERE'S OUR MEAT??? Apparently, it is preposterous to withhold protein (chicken, beef, fish, etc.) at a conference, despite the fact that the dishes we were serving are ones they eat every single day at home. The announcement of beans and rice for dinner was met with indignation. One woman tried to rally up a group to leave and get dinner elsewhere, although their plan was foiled by lack of transport.
The complaints got so bad that at the end of the second day, we had to confront the problem head-on. Megan explained to the group that REDES is currently at the end of the fiscal year and under budget constraints, and asked the participants to be understanding of what we can offer them. Afterwards, we didn't hear that as many complaints- although the participants probably just switched to bitching in Changana. Even so, five out of six of the feedback forms brought up housing, food, per diem, or all three.
You'd think that the opportunity to learn and grow as a facilitator would be enough motivation to be at a conference. But who am I kidding? How does KNOWLEDGE compare to continental buffets and a wallet full of change?
Years and years of outside funding has created a sense of entitlement and donor dependency. How can we ever expect to turn over our programs to host country nationals one day if things don't change?
----
http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1365-3156.2010.02607.x/full (Related reading about per diem dependency)
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