I guess I had this idea that all of Africa is more or less like Moz, with the exception of a few countries. Boy, was I wrong
My friend Drew and I crossed the Namaacha border into the Kingdom of Swaziland, marveling when the Swazi lady who stamped our passports wished us a lovely day. (In Moz, customer service is non-existent. After two years, I'm pretty used to waiters rolling their eyes at me, shop owners and market ladies acting like they're doing me a favor by selling me something, oftentimes just being plain rude.)
Drew and I then found ourselves on a lovely paved road, in a cushy spacious mini-bus not crammed to the max with sweaty bodies. Even more amazing, was the driver following through on his promise that the chapa would leave right at 4pm, even though the car wasn't full. As we sped along on the wonderfully smooth road, surrounded by beautifully manicured fields of sugar cane, it felt like we were in a whole different world.
Night fell, and we arrived at our destination Ezulwini Valley, a city of glittering lights. Our backpackers lodge was 5k from a shopping mall replete with fancy stores, and even a movie theatre! (Wait, did we somehow teleport ourselves back to America?) We went to see The Dark Knight Rises, my first time at a movie theatre in two years. Drew gorged himself on popcorn and blue raspberry slushies, bought a velcro Avatar wallet and chocolate Rand coins, and otherwise used his credit card with reckless abandon. (You can just call me the babysitter.) We wandered the magical aisles of a Pick N Pay grocery store, and ate a lot of awesome food at the mall restaurants: pizza, chicken fingers, a smoked salmon sandwich. With all the amenities and choices, it really was like being home. We also toured a craft market and I stocked up on cool jewelry made out of beads, straw, and spun paper beads.
We realized we'd been in Moz too long when one night, after taking a cab ride to eat dinner at the mall, we asked the taxi driver to come back and pick us up at 9pm. He agreed, telling us to just borrow a security guard's phone to call him, and he'd be right there. As 9pm approached, Drew and I opted for dessert, absolutely convinced that the taxi driver would not even leave for the mall until he had received our call Around 9:45, we dialed his number from our waitress's phone. "I'm already here," he told us. Oops. We rush out and sure enough, he's been waiting for us promptly since 9. "I drove all over the mall looking for you guys!" He exclaimed. "Some other people wanted to hire me, but I said that I was waiting for some other mulungus" (Apparently, some words are universal in African languages- the one for "white person," for example.) Drew and I felt great shame for our taxi faux pas. Apparently, not all of Africa runs on Mozambican time. We made up for it, however, by leaving a generous American tip.
The next day, we went white water rafting, tubing, and rappelling- all of which were pretty fun. Although Kevin was convinced I would get eaten by a crocodile, we did not see a single one on the calm, shallow river. Drew and I got stuck on the sand bars plenty a time (it's dry season in Africa), and somehow ended up backwards on almost every rapid. Drew fell out of the raft once, but I didn't notice until the guide told me to look behind me (which might say wonders about our friendship... Just kidding.)
On our last day, Drew suggested we head back to Moz a day early, to get a head start on our full traveling day, but I wasn't ready to leave the luxuries of Swaz. We ended up compromising by staying in the city of Manzini, which is closer to the Moz border. The hotel we stayed at was called Moçambique Hotel (coincidence?), although you get an idea of how classy a place is when they have rates for "special room– 2 hours." We left bright and early in the morning, saying our goodbyes to Swaziland and returning to the disarray that is our Mozambique.
Throughout the trip, I thought a lot about Moz (a country I love despite its shortcomings, and feel lucky to have served in) in comparison to neighboring countries like Swaziland and South Africa. From a initial perspective, Mozambique is just way behind in terms of progress and development, despite the fact that there is so much outside money being poured in. Factors such as the protracted civil war that ended in 1992 and the flooding of Southern Moz in February 2000 play a significant part, but cannot account completely for the slow progress of the nation as a whole.
In Swaziland, there were so many positive billboards everywhere about corruption: "YOU can make a difference in stopping corruption!," "Corruption hurts all of us," etc., with whistle-blower hotline numbers. Corruption is so ubiquitous in Mozambique, but you see very little being done about it. One of my Mozambican friends has been looking for a job for some time. He heard of a job opening, interviewed, and when he went back to follow up this week, was told that he had to pay 2000 mets if he wanted his application approved. But there's a huge job shortage in Moz, what can he do?
The tourism industry in Moz has a lot of potential but the cost of development is so high that for example, the price of a hotel room in Maputo is phenomenal in comparison to what you can get in other big cities in neighboring countries like Capetown. Not to mention, the condition of the roads throughout Moz is... in need of improvement, to say the least.
But, of course, these observations and comparisons should be taken with a grain of salt. I don't claim to know much about the economic systems or political structures of Swaziland. I do know that the Kingdom of Swaziland is one of the worst affected by HIV/AIDS, and that the economic margin is pretty wide. The nice areas are really nice, but the rural areas can get very primitive. At least with Mozambique, what you see is what you get. Every 20 km or so, there's a Mozambican village next to the National Highway. In Swazi, I noticed a distinct lack of villages or traditional housing visible from the paved roads we were driving on, which is not to say that they don't exist... but just that they are hidden away from view.
I was a mere tourist in Swaziland, passing from big city to big city, soaking up comforts unavailable in Mozambique. In the end, though, I wouldn't trade my experiences in Moz for anything.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
poop
As a Peace Corps volunteer, I talk a lot about my bodily functions. To an inordinate degree. To the point where, I'm not exactly sure what is and what isn't culturally acceptable... in any culture. I think I may need some help readjusting. Someone please write out a list of topics I can talk about with strangers, with acquaintances, and with friends, so that I don't alienate everybody I know. For everything else, I may just need to have a fellow health RPCV on speed dial for. When you've lived in Africa for two years, nothing is spared detailing in a casual "what's the weather like today" tone.
Anyway, all this just means you're in for a treat this blog post!
So I spent the weekend pooping my brains out. As I was sitting on my xixi bucket, I had some time to reflect. First of all, on what a saving grace that xixi bucket has been. While some of you may be horrified that in the evenings I pee in a bucket, I would cordially remind you that my latrine is located outside, in the dark, and I still have an unwieldy fear of big cockroaches. And in case of emergency, such as this past weekend, the xixi bucket is conveniently located next to my bed. The only downfall, is that a xixi bucket cannot dump itself. It must be emptied consistently. (And, in life, if you are blessed enough to find someone who loves you enough to do it for you, you hold on to that person forever and ever because that is the ultimate test of true love. I love you, Kev!)
Secondly, I was told, when I first arrived in Mozambique, "Don't worry. You WILL be sh*tting your pants sometime within your service." Well. Knock on wood, but that has yet to happen. And in that sense, I am incredibly luckily. I am aware of many a peer that has fallen victim to stated prophecy. We all know of PCV's who have had untimely emergencies on the side of the road, on the beach, you name it. I even heard of a PCV in another African country who, before departing for service held an "underwear party" in which guests were asked to bring gifts of underwear, as she had heard she would be going through many pairs.
In 22 months, I have only had to go on the antibiotic Ciprofloxacin twice, while I know of at least one volunteer that has graduated to the next class of antibiotics, because eventually Cipro stopped working for her.
On this note, I am also supremely lucky that I have meds like Cipro on hand. I can even give myself a malaria test, which I did when I developed a fever and stomach cramps on Friday night. Even if I did have malaria, I could immediately start treatment because I have Coartem on stock. As a PCV, I was sent to site with a black briefcase full of meds. I have endless pharmaceutical drugs and packets of Oral Rehydration Salts at home, just waiting for the possibility of diarrhea. All my bases are covered, for whatever health calamity may befall me during my service. The Peace Corps medical office has a 24-hour emergency line so I can always get a hold of someone. Needless to say, all of this is an immense luxury in a country with an existing shortage of doctors.
I will never have to go to a Mozambican hospital and wait for hours, just to see a nurse. In fact, even if I were to need medical attention in Chicumbane, I would likely be given priority just for being white. (And this is not considering the fact that I actually work at the hospital and incidentally, know all of the staff, giving me yet another advantage.) I will never have to worry about my child suffering from malnutrition, dirty water, or dying from malaria or diarrhea. These are, bluntly, third world problems.
I spent a weekend hanging out with my xixi bucket, and that's what it took to make me stop and realize how infinitely blessed I am. You see, the shadow proves the sunshine.
Who knew pooping could be so profound?
Anyway, all this just means you're in for a treat this blog post!
So I spent the weekend pooping my brains out. As I was sitting on my xixi bucket, I had some time to reflect. First of all, on what a saving grace that xixi bucket has been. While some of you may be horrified that in the evenings I pee in a bucket, I would cordially remind you that my latrine is located outside, in the dark, and I still have an unwieldy fear of big cockroaches. And in case of emergency, such as this past weekend, the xixi bucket is conveniently located next to my bed. The only downfall, is that a xixi bucket cannot dump itself. It must be emptied consistently. (And, in life, if you are blessed enough to find someone who loves you enough to do it for you, you hold on to that person forever and ever because that is the ultimate test of true love. I love you, Kev!)
Secondly, I was told, when I first arrived in Mozambique, "Don't worry. You WILL be sh*tting your pants sometime within your service." Well. Knock on wood, but that has yet to happen. And in that sense, I am incredibly luckily. I am aware of many a peer that has fallen victim to stated prophecy. We all know of PCV's who have had untimely emergencies on the side of the road, on the beach, you name it. I even heard of a PCV in another African country who, before departing for service held an "underwear party" in which guests were asked to bring gifts of underwear, as she had heard she would be going through many pairs.
In 22 months, I have only had to go on the antibiotic Ciprofloxacin twice, while I know of at least one volunteer that has graduated to the next class of antibiotics, because eventually Cipro stopped working for her.
On this note, I am also supremely lucky that I have meds like Cipro on hand. I can even give myself a malaria test, which I did when I developed a fever and stomach cramps on Friday night. Even if I did have malaria, I could immediately start treatment because I have Coartem on stock. As a PCV, I was sent to site with a black briefcase full of meds. I have endless pharmaceutical drugs and packets of Oral Rehydration Salts at home, just waiting for the possibility of diarrhea. All my bases are covered, for whatever health calamity may befall me during my service. The Peace Corps medical office has a 24-hour emergency line so I can always get a hold of someone. Needless to say, all of this is an immense luxury in a country with an existing shortage of doctors.
I will never have to go to a Mozambican hospital and wait for hours, just to see a nurse. In fact, even if I were to need medical attention in Chicumbane, I would likely be given priority just for being white. (And this is not considering the fact that I actually work at the hospital and incidentally, know all of the staff, giving me yet another advantage.) I will never have to worry about my child suffering from malnutrition, dirty water, or dying from malaria or diarrhea. These are, bluntly, third world problems.
I spent a weekend hanging out with my xixi bucket, and that's what it took to make me stop and realize how infinitely blessed I am. You see, the shadow proves the sunshine.
Who knew pooping could be so profound?
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Perspective
"It's so easy to get lost inside a problem that seems so big at the time
It's like a river that's so wide it swallows you whole
While you're sitting around thinkin' bout what you can't change
And worrying about all the wrong things
Time's flying by, moving so fast
You better make it count 'cause you can't get it back
Sometimes that mountain you've been climbing is just a grain of sand
And what you've been out there searching for forever, is in your hands
When you figure out love is all that matters after all...
It sure makes everything seem so small"
-Carrie Underwood
In approximately one month, my replacement Colleen will arrive at site. Fortunately, I already know her; she was one of my site visitors. And, she's awesome! But all of it just makes my departure in 80 days seem all the more real. With so little time left in my service, I find my attitude about everything shifting. I spend all the time I can hanging out with my dogs and sitting on my front porch. Things that would usually annoy me or anger me, just don't bother me much these days. I don't have time to be anything but happy.
I spent the past week in Inhambane province, running the provincial REDES conference. It went really well but the entire time, I just was so anxious to get back to Chicumbane. I've never felt that way before; usually, I'm happy to take a break from the "same ol, same ol" at site. But now, my days are numbered and I feel the need to just be at home.
When my bus finally crossed the border from Inhambane into Gaza province, I literally breathed a sigh of relief. I got off the bus in Chicumbane with a smile on my face and a hop in my step, adoring the familiarity of my surroundings and well, the fact that I had come home. If a week-long trip could make me feel so homesick, I cannot even imagine how hard it will be for me to say my final goodbyes.
When people ask me if I'm excited to go back to the States, I don't know how to respond. I am, but it's such a bag of mixed emotions. Being here means being away from my friends, family, and fiance. Being there means leaving forever the people I've come to care about in Mozambique. My friend summed it up perfectly when he said, "Either way, your heart breaks."
I've spent two years trying to "fix" the problems I see in my community and in my workplace. Looking back on my service, I wish I'd spent less time frustrated about things I can't change and spending more time with the people I love.
We come in to Peace Corps with this "Save the world" mentality... But the truth is, we are the ones who leave changed.
It's like a river that's so wide it swallows you whole
While you're sitting around thinkin' bout what you can't change
And worrying about all the wrong things
Time's flying by, moving so fast
You better make it count 'cause you can't get it back
Sometimes that mountain you've been climbing is just a grain of sand
And what you've been out there searching for forever, is in your hands
When you figure out love is all that matters after all...
It sure makes everything seem so small"
-Carrie Underwood
In approximately one month, my replacement Colleen will arrive at site. Fortunately, I already know her; she was one of my site visitors. And, she's awesome! But all of it just makes my departure in 80 days seem all the more real. With so little time left in my service, I find my attitude about everything shifting. I spend all the time I can hanging out with my dogs and sitting on my front porch. Things that would usually annoy me or anger me, just don't bother me much these days. I don't have time to be anything but happy.
I spent the past week in Inhambane province, running the provincial REDES conference. It went really well but the entire time, I just was so anxious to get back to Chicumbane. I've never felt that way before; usually, I'm happy to take a break from the "same ol, same ol" at site. But now, my days are numbered and I feel the need to just be at home.
When my bus finally crossed the border from Inhambane into Gaza province, I literally breathed a sigh of relief. I got off the bus in Chicumbane with a smile on my face and a hop in my step, adoring the familiarity of my surroundings and well, the fact that I had come home. If a week-long trip could make me feel so homesick, I cannot even imagine how hard it will be for me to say my final goodbyes.
When people ask me if I'm excited to go back to the States, I don't know how to respond. I am, but it's such a bag of mixed emotions. Being here means being away from my friends, family, and fiance. Being there means leaving forever the people I've come to care about in Mozambique. My friend summed it up perfectly when he said, "Either way, your heart breaks."
I've spent two years trying to "fix" the problems I see in my community and in my workplace. Looking back on my service, I wish I'd spent less time frustrated about things I can't change and spending more time with the people I love.
We come in to Peace Corps with this "Save the world" mentality... But the truth is, we are the ones who leave changed.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Bittersweet
This week, I received a site visit- two MOZ18ers taking a
break from training in Namaacha to shadow a currently serving volunteer and see
what it’s like out in the “real world.” Six weeks in, they’re practically “Fresh off the plane.”
Their Portuguese is in progress, and they don’t know much about life in Moz
outside of the bubble of Namaacha. But they’re bright eyed and eager to learn,
and I see in them glimpses of the trainee I once was. For one thing, they’re still obsessed with the concept of
time. “What time does the chapa get here?” “How long will it take?” were
questions I responded to with “The chapa gets here when it gets here.” And
“It’ll take anywhere between 1 and 3 hours.” You learn quickly that time is a
fluid concept in Africa.
Of
course, one of the first things I did was take my trainees to the beach. (Hey,
PCVs from other countries don’t call us “Beach Corps” for nothing!) I awed them
with my boleia skills, inspired them with my capulana wardrobe, and impressed
them with my abundance of dogs and puppies. (I almost even let one of them take
one of the puppies back to Namaacha…)
We
went shopping at the Xai Xai market and stocked up on goodies like chocolate,
cheese, tortillas, and cookies. Later, we made quesadillas at home and sent one
over to my theatre jovens, who asked, “Is this pizza?”
The
18ers went to work with me and asked tons of questions about everything. I had them work with the children at
CACHES in order to practice their Portuguese. Limbo, red light / green light,
and Pictionary were all big hits.
But
mostly, we spent our afternoons hanging out on my front patio, which is one of
my favorite pastimes. It was soooo wonderful to hang out with other Americans
at site. I think I’m ready for my replacement to get here (mid August) and to
have a “site mate” again. Granted, if we get along. That being said, I wouldn’t
mind at all having either of my two site visitors be my replacement. But that’s
just wishful thinking. They will, however, find out in less than a week!! Stay
tuned for updates on the next PCV coming to Chicumbane.
I
can’t believe I’m leaving Mozambique in less than 90 days!!! As some of you
know, I have been approved for early COS and will be leaving Moz on October 11.
As the days fly by, I’m feeling very mixed emotions. I’ve
been looking forward to going home and being with Kev, for so long. But
Mozambique has been my home for two years and it’ll be so hard to say goodbye. I
tear up when I think about leaving my dogs and my friends in Chicumbane.
It’ll be so bittersweet.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The way things work
I used to be confused by all of the unfinished houses I see around the neighborhood, cement and brick frames with gaping holes for windows and no roof. The weeds settle in around them, making them look like ancient ruins. One day I asked,"Why are all these houses left unfinished?" My coworker responded, "The owners ran out of money."
I laugh. "They didn't plan ahead? Just started building and ran out of money for a roof?"
My coworker shrugs. "They're saving up to continue building."
Then it hits me. The owners didn't plan to finish all at once. They took their savings and started the process. Once the money ran out the construction stopped, but it'll continue again one day... hopefully.
This way of doing things seems strange to me. To start something and not finish it. Who's to say it will ever be finished? That my house wouldn't just sit there and rot while I tried to gather another substantial amount of money for construction?
All around, I see my Mozambican friends working to build their own houses. A lot of them have land, possibly passed down to them from their parents, but no house to call their own. A lot of the time, these plots of land are also very far away from where they are currently living.
My empregada has been working on her house for a while now, but she says she's still a ways to go. Another year, she estimates. In Mozambican time, I'm guessing it won't be done for at least five. My next door neighbor Orquidia picked up and left suddenly the moment her house was completed (although I think she mentioned that it still doesn't have glass in the windows). The 350 she was paying a month (~$13 USD) was too hard on her meager salary. Now her daughter Tania has to walk an hour to get to school, but hey. At least their home belongs to them.
I love my house. It's small but quaint, located in a safe and convenient neighborhood. Peace Corps pays 3,000 mts (~$100 USD) a month to rent it. Cheap, right? But not by Mozambican standards. I spoke with a friend and neighbor of mine, Chelsia, who pays 250 a month to rent a small house with a living room and one bedroom. It's fully furnished with a bed, a fridge, two sofas, and a TV. She doesn't pay for water (which she can get from the outdoors faucet) or electricity.
Which kind of means I'm getting ripped off, with my 3,000 mt rent which includes a few measly tables and none of amenities. But that's normal, when I-NGO's show up to rent local houses, suddenly the rent soars. In short, they know we can afford it.
My replacement volunteer will live in Orquidia's old house, paying 1,000 a month instead of 350.The justification falls in the work that needs to be done before it is "fit" for a PCV to live in it: Door grates, window grates, window screens, new locks. I suppose it's funny that while we live and work in the community and try to be as integrated as possible, our houses are upgraded to keep others out.
Police don't get paid very much in Mozambique. Bribes supplement income Traffic stops, especially in Gaza province, can delay a chapa for an hour or more.The police stand in the middle of the road, arbitrarily waving passing cars to stop. (Interesting fact: If you refuse to pull over when the police wave you down, they have a right to shoot at your car. Although I've also heard that the guns they carry are empty. No money to buy bullets.) When the police officer approaches the window, the driver puts a couple of bills in his registration book, hands it to the officer, who subtly takes the money (while pretending to study the registration), and hands the book back. The driver then puts more bills in the book before putting it away, to prepare for the next time.
Here in Moz, not only do people drive on the opposite side of the road that we Americans are used to, but pedestrians most definitely do NOT have the right of way. Sometimes we joke that the chapas actually accelerate when they see white people crossing the road in front of them. Cars will lay on the horn to warn people too close to the road, but won't break their speed. I've seen children and adults scramble to safety as a car whizzes by without a second glace. I've even been the one scrambling to safety.
Pretty frequently, you'll see smashed bodies of cats and dogs on the EN1- the National Highway. I can recall the chapas that I've been in that have hit a bird, a dog, a cat. But I've been lucky; I've never been in a car that has hit a human being.
The other day, on my way to Maputo, I saw the crumpled up body of a male teenager near the opposite side of the asphalt. The chapa slowed down, the driver leaned out the window to get a better look, but to my surprise, we didn't stop. Neither did the three or four other cars going the other direction, although it would've been easy to pull over to the side. This more than anything haunted me for a long time afterwards. How can people just drive by an injured human being and not feel compelled to stop and help? What kind of systems have been created in this country that deter innate human compassion?
Again and again, I've heard hear horror stories of people stopping to help the victim of a hit and a run, and getting arrested by the Mozambican police, who need someone to blame. And if you're a white person, the blame always shifts to you. You are assumed to be the owner of the car. You are assumed to be the reason for the accident.
Another volunteer in my group was in the back of a pickup truck one day when they hit a small girl. The PCV forced the car to stop – although he says they likely would not have-- and literally carried the girl to the hospital. What struck me about his story was the reaction of the driver of the car. No remorse, just... irritation. That a child was playing in the road when she shouldn't have been.
It makes me all the more glad to be from a country that protects its people and actively seeks justice, where hit and runs aren't the norm, where school zones have speed restrictions, where most people will stop to help injured people, and even animals. I recently had a conversation with a few other foreign-born pcvs (one from france and one from ireland) and we all agreed that serving in peace corps has made us feel more american. Maybe its because we have gained more perspective and realized how much we have to be appreciative of.
I laugh. "They didn't plan ahead? Just started building and ran out of money for a roof?"
My coworker shrugs. "They're saving up to continue building."
Then it hits me. The owners didn't plan to finish all at once. They took their savings and started the process. Once the money ran out the construction stopped, but it'll continue again one day... hopefully.
This way of doing things seems strange to me. To start something and not finish it. Who's to say it will ever be finished? That my house wouldn't just sit there and rot while I tried to gather another substantial amount of money for construction?
All around, I see my Mozambican friends working to build their own houses. A lot of them have land, possibly passed down to them from their parents, but no house to call their own. A lot of the time, these plots of land are also very far away from where they are currently living.
My empregada has been working on her house for a while now, but she says she's still a ways to go. Another year, she estimates. In Mozambican time, I'm guessing it won't be done for at least five. My next door neighbor Orquidia picked up and left suddenly the moment her house was completed (although I think she mentioned that it still doesn't have glass in the windows). The 350 she was paying a month (~$13 USD) was too hard on her meager salary. Now her daughter Tania has to walk an hour to get to school, but hey. At least their home belongs to them.
I love my house. It's small but quaint, located in a safe and convenient neighborhood. Peace Corps pays 3,000 mts (~$100 USD) a month to rent it. Cheap, right? But not by Mozambican standards. I spoke with a friend and neighbor of mine, Chelsia, who pays 250 a month to rent a small house with a living room and one bedroom. It's fully furnished with a bed, a fridge, two sofas, and a TV. She doesn't pay for water (which she can get from the outdoors faucet) or electricity.
Which kind of means I'm getting ripped off, with my 3,000 mt rent which includes a few measly tables and none of amenities. But that's normal, when I-NGO's show up to rent local houses, suddenly the rent soars. In short, they know we can afford it.
My replacement volunteer will live in Orquidia's old house, paying 1,000 a month instead of 350.The justification falls in the work that needs to be done before it is "fit" for a PCV to live in it: Door grates, window grates, window screens, new locks. I suppose it's funny that while we live and work in the community and try to be as integrated as possible, our houses are upgraded to keep others out.
Police don't get paid very much in Mozambique. Bribes supplement income Traffic stops, especially in Gaza province, can delay a chapa for an hour or more.The police stand in the middle of the road, arbitrarily waving passing cars to stop. (Interesting fact: If you refuse to pull over when the police wave you down, they have a right to shoot at your car. Although I've also heard that the guns they carry are empty. No money to buy bullets.) When the police officer approaches the window, the driver puts a couple of bills in his registration book, hands it to the officer, who subtly takes the money (while pretending to study the registration), and hands the book back. The driver then puts more bills in the book before putting it away, to prepare for the next time.
Here in Moz, not only do people drive on the opposite side of the road that we Americans are used to, but pedestrians most definitely do NOT have the right of way. Sometimes we joke that the chapas actually accelerate when they see white people crossing the road in front of them. Cars will lay on the horn to warn people too close to the road, but won't break their speed. I've seen children and adults scramble to safety as a car whizzes by without a second glace. I've even been the one scrambling to safety.
Pretty frequently, you'll see smashed bodies of cats and dogs on the EN1- the National Highway. I can recall the chapas that I've been in that have hit a bird, a dog, a cat. But I've been lucky; I've never been in a car that has hit a human being.
The other day, on my way to Maputo, I saw the crumpled up body of a male teenager near the opposite side of the asphalt. The chapa slowed down, the driver leaned out the window to get a better look, but to my surprise, we didn't stop. Neither did the three or four other cars going the other direction, although it would've been easy to pull over to the side. This more than anything haunted me for a long time afterwards. How can people just drive by an injured human being and not feel compelled to stop and help? What kind of systems have been created in this country that deter innate human compassion?
Again and again, I've heard hear horror stories of people stopping to help the victim of a hit and a run, and getting arrested by the Mozambican police, who need someone to blame. And if you're a white person, the blame always shifts to you. You are assumed to be the owner of the car. You are assumed to be the reason for the accident.
Another volunteer in my group was in the back of a pickup truck one day when they hit a small girl. The PCV forced the car to stop – although he says they likely would not have-- and literally carried the girl to the hospital. What struck me about his story was the reaction of the driver of the car. No remorse, just... irritation. That a child was playing in the road when she shouldn't have been.
It makes me all the more glad to be from a country that protects its people and actively seeks justice, where hit and runs aren't the norm, where school zones have speed restrictions, where most people will stop to help injured people, and even animals. I recently had a conversation with a few other foreign-born pcvs (one from france and one from ireland) and we all agreed that serving in peace corps has made us feel more american. Maybe its because we have gained more perspective and realized how much we have to be appreciative of.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Justice
"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.
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.
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.
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