As ever, traveling through and around cities, whether on foot, bicycle, or in car, has provided me with an abundance of writing material.
Yesterday, I saw my first African snake. Thankfully, I was propelled by the latter of the aforementioned modes of transport, and therefore couldn’t get a good look at the creature writhing on its slimy back in the middle of the road, noting only that it had a light green stomach and dark back, features fairly common in the Snakes of Southern Africa book I consulted later that evening with my director’s kids. I’m currently staying with them at their house while he’s away on work duties, although they take care of me more than the other way around. The babysitter’s here, and she’s sleeping on a waterbed!
I wouldn’t have expected, or even wished for the driver to slow down for the snake; however, they tend not to slow down for anything – teetering bicycles, semis stopped in the middle of the road – preferring instead a method I have begun to refer to (in my conversations with myself) as “the honk of faith”. It still makes me clench my teeth, ever-gritty no matter how tightly I purse my lips against the sandy, invasive wind.
Also yesterday, we visited one of the junior farmer groups who are preparing a short drama about vegetables for the visiting donor representatives, USAID and the like, who are here this week to observe the project. We were a bit late arriving because of a delay in lunch, which having not eaten anything since a piece of bread in the morning, I insisted we wait for before trudging off into the bush. A little selfish? I dunno, but a girl’s gotta eat! I should have guessed that upon our arrival, I would be invited to speak, to give The Word of the White Woman, although I had planned on simply observing. I’m getting better every day at being put on the spot, so I quickly came up with some encouraging words and fun ideas to contribute to their skit. I just hope they don’t go white with terror, pun intended, when the Caucasian contingent arrives to snap their photos on Thursday.
And last weekend, I took my first bike taxi! It was much more comfortable and much less terrifying than expected. Way to go Quelimane for being so Green!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sim Vergonha
Shameless. That's what this blog entry is, as it designed to do nothing more than provide my mailing address and a list of things I would oh-so-love. So with no further ado...
Mica Jenkins
Visão Mundial
attn: Brian Hilton
CP 474
Quelimane
Mozambique
Things that would put a smile on my sun-burnt face include: letters, pictures, black tea, chocolate, mustard, mustard pretzels, yogurt-covered raisins, dried Italian/Ranch dressing packets (Good Seasons, I think it is), hoisin sauce, nutmeg, rice noodles, sesame oil, travel tissue packs, sunblock (Neutrogena spf30 Ultra Sheer is wonderful), wall putty/sticky hooks and fishing line or similar thin twine (for hanging things), a coffee filtering device, bracelet making thread, washable markers, and YOUR favorite book!
Feel free to add to my list as well. :) Obrigada! (Thank you!)
Mica Jenkins
Visão Mundial
attn: Brian Hilton
CP 474
Quelimane
Mozambique
Things that would put a smile on my sun-burnt face include: letters, pictures, black tea, chocolate, mustard, mustard pretzels, yogurt-covered raisins, dried Italian/Ranch dressing packets (Good Seasons, I think it is), hoisin sauce, nutmeg, rice noodles, sesame oil, travel tissue packs, sunblock (Neutrogena spf30 Ultra Sheer is wonderful), wall putty/sticky hooks and fishing line or similar thin twine (for hanging things), a coffee filtering device, bracelet making thread, washable markers, and YOUR favorite book!
Feel free to add to my list as well. :) Obrigada! (Thank you!)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
A Hard Day's Night
Tired of staring at my unopened bag of Malawian coffee, I made a coffee filter last night by sewing a chopped up piece of clothing to a metal sieve. OK, it was underwear, but they were brand-new, never worn I swear!
Today I made a Mozambican child cry with my white skin and dug a live ant out of my ear canal. All in a days work.
Working in the NGO sphere and seeing that aid, however well-intended, can create dependency among the most impoverished families it is intended to support, you can’t help but sometimes wonder, what would happen if all the organizations just left? I’m beginning to feel that the greatest loss would not be the halt of projects that, admittedly, aren’t always as sustainable as they intend to be, but the loss of jobs for the many Africans who are employed by World Vision, Save the Children, The World Food Program, and similar institutions. Every day that I spend here, it is brought more clearly to my attention that volunteer work is, ironically perhaps, a luxury. Having the time, energy, resources, and support to spend your days traveling around and initiating relief projects, as opposed to feeding your children, is not something most Africans can afford to do, and thus why NGO’s have wisely recruited Africans as salaried employees, however modestly compensated, as opposed to volunteers. Although, according to some wise old philosopher, “comparisons are odious”, when I think of the time I will spend here, my goals for the future, and even potential career paths in development work, it’s hard to imagine anything I could do as being anything but luxurious.
A rough night of sleep (mosquitoes in my net and ducks outside the window) left me ill-prepared to face the blazing sun of the campo today as we set out for yet another garden-prep and compost demonstration. Even after applying sunscreen and borrowing a hat (gotta get one of those), my face broke out in angry red dots and I had to hang back from the group a little to find shade. One of 2 women in the training group (the mother’s weren’t really participating) and one of one white people, I had no hope of integrating anyway, so might as well protect my skin…
Today I made a Mozambican child cry with my white skin and dug a live ant out of my ear canal. All in a days work.
Working in the NGO sphere and seeing that aid, however well-intended, can create dependency among the most impoverished families it is intended to support, you can’t help but sometimes wonder, what would happen if all the organizations just left? I’m beginning to feel that the greatest loss would not be the halt of projects that, admittedly, aren’t always as sustainable as they intend to be, but the loss of jobs for the many Africans who are employed by World Vision, Save the Children, The World Food Program, and similar institutions. Every day that I spend here, it is brought more clearly to my attention that volunteer work is, ironically perhaps, a luxury. Having the time, energy, resources, and support to spend your days traveling around and initiating relief projects, as opposed to feeding your children, is not something most Africans can afford to do, and thus why NGO’s have wisely recruited Africans as salaried employees, however modestly compensated, as opposed to volunteers. Although, according to some wise old philosopher, “comparisons are odious”, when I think of the time I will spend here, my goals for the future, and even potential career paths in development work, it’s hard to imagine anything I could do as being anything but luxurious.
A rough night of sleep (mosquitoes in my net and ducks outside the window) left me ill-prepared to face the blazing sun of the campo today as we set out for yet another garden-prep and compost demonstration. Even after applying sunscreen and borrowing a hat (gotta get one of those), my face broke out in angry red dots and I had to hang back from the group a little to find shade. One of 2 women in the training group (the mother’s weren’t really participating) and one of one white people, I had no hope of integrating anyway, so might as well protect my skin…
Getting to Know You (A Song for Morrumbala)
After a little more practice on my bike today (about 10 km of practice, roundtrip to the office to use the internet), I think the trick to driving in such sandy conditions must be the perfect speed. Too fast, and you lose control. Too slow, and there’s not enough inertia to keep you moving through the really sticky patches. So I’ll just continue to navigate, teeth clenched, toward the most compacted looking spots on the “road”.
Today the cook hard-boiled eggs for my breakfast and made me more grilled chicken, with spaghetti and homemade sauce for lunch. He also informed me that he knows how to make coconut curry and various soups. We’re gonna get along just fine. He’s already my favorite person at the compound, although it’s a close tie with the guy who washed my clothes and fixed the electric water heater in the shower. I’m still surprised by how much of this country’s paid domestic labor is performed by men, but it does seem that every single able-bodied woman has a baby (or two) clamped at all times to her breast.
I finally got taken out to the campo today with some World Vision employees who are working on conservation agriculture projects. We stopped at several farms to see how the owner’s were doing with the new techniques, although on our final visit, I found it difficult to focus on farming. The family we were visiting was quite large, and the smallest baby girl, bouncing on her mother’s hip, was suffering from some terrible rash-like, scabbed over infection on her face, and some notable swelling underneath her chin. When we asked what treatment if any she was getting, they produced a frighteningly grungy bottle of milky penicillin for my observation, injections of which she had been receiving since last Thursday. After firmly stating that I am in no way medically trained, I postured that perhaps the swelling on her throat was an allergy to the medication and that they should mention it to the hospital staff the next time they cover the many dusty kilometers on foot to take the child for an injection. It’s likely that even if it is an allergy, the hospital will have no way of testing it, and nothing else to give her.
Earlier this week, the 15 month old grandchild of a well-known pastor died in the hospital after 2 weeks of diarrhea and vomiting. It’s easy for anyone but a well-trained and well-stocked rural health physician to feel completely useless here.
Today the cook hard-boiled eggs for my breakfast and made me more grilled chicken, with spaghetti and homemade sauce for lunch. He also informed me that he knows how to make coconut curry and various soups. We’re gonna get along just fine. He’s already my favorite person at the compound, although it’s a close tie with the guy who washed my clothes and fixed the electric water heater in the shower. I’m still surprised by how much of this country’s paid domestic labor is performed by men, but it does seem that every single able-bodied woman has a baby (or two) clamped at all times to her breast.
I finally got taken out to the campo today with some World Vision employees who are working on conservation agriculture projects. We stopped at several farms to see how the owner’s were doing with the new techniques, although on our final visit, I found it difficult to focus on farming. The family we were visiting was quite large, and the smallest baby girl, bouncing on her mother’s hip, was suffering from some terrible rash-like, scabbed over infection on her face, and some notable swelling underneath her chin. When we asked what treatment if any she was getting, they produced a frighteningly grungy bottle of milky penicillin for my observation, injections of which she had been receiving since last Thursday. After firmly stating that I am in no way medically trained, I postured that perhaps the swelling on her throat was an allergy to the medication and that they should mention it to the hospital staff the next time they cover the many dusty kilometers on foot to take the child for an injection. It’s likely that even if it is an allergy, the hospital will have no way of testing it, and nothing else to give her.
Earlier this week, the 15 month old grandchild of a well-known pastor died in the hospital after 2 weeks of diarrhea and vomiting. It’s easy for anyone but a well-trained and well-stocked rural health physician to feel completely useless here.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Happiness is a Grilled Frango
Today, the cook arrived and changed my life. A short, round man with a friendly gap-toothed smile, he got here just in the nick of time to jolt me from my subsistence food stupor.
I gave him basic ingredients, and in return, he gave me a delicious meal of grilled chicken, white rice, and garlic tomato sauce, a portion large enough for lunch and dinner. I spent the afternoon sneakily walking by the kitchen and taking huge whiffs of chicken sizzling on the air, ecstatic that it was being made for me.
And after I finished lunch and safely tucked away the leftovers for dinner, I nearly skipped away to my room, belching happily all along the way.
Feeling energized (the miracle of protein!) I went for my first bike ride since arriving to Morrumbala, and quickly learned that dry sandy streets are easily as treacherous as wet rainy ones. The ride to a friend’s house was enough of a constant incline for me to happily exert a little effort. The ride home, during which I rotated my pedals approximately 4 times, was infinitely more challenging as I skidded through inches of sand, even dismounting at one point to walk through a particularly challenging patch as bike taxis swerved around me carrying passengers and bags of charcoal. It was my first time, so I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.
After a satisfying dinner of cold leftovers, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, stepping squarely on a squishy, squeaky toad as I left my room. Lifting my foot, I found that he was not dead, and soon was chasing him back out onto the patio, hoping from a safe distance that I didn’t break any of his tiny toady bones. I guess that’s what you get for lurking in doorways.
To round out a very satisfying day, I gave the cook money to buy me eggs, which he assures me he can find despite my futile and fruitless searches. I have no doubt he knows exactly where to look.
I gave him basic ingredients, and in return, he gave me a delicious meal of grilled chicken, white rice, and garlic tomato sauce, a portion large enough for lunch and dinner. I spent the afternoon sneakily walking by the kitchen and taking huge whiffs of chicken sizzling on the air, ecstatic that it was being made for me.
And after I finished lunch and safely tucked away the leftovers for dinner, I nearly skipped away to my room, belching happily all along the way.
Feeling energized (the miracle of protein!) I went for my first bike ride since arriving to Morrumbala, and quickly learned that dry sandy streets are easily as treacherous as wet rainy ones. The ride to a friend’s house was enough of a constant incline for me to happily exert a little effort. The ride home, during which I rotated my pedals approximately 4 times, was infinitely more challenging as I skidded through inches of sand, even dismounting at one point to walk through a particularly challenging patch as bike taxis swerved around me carrying passengers and bags of charcoal. It was my first time, so I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.
After a satisfying dinner of cold leftovers, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, stepping squarely on a squishy, squeaky toad as I left my room. Lifting my foot, I found that he was not dead, and soon was chasing him back out onto the patio, hoping from a safe distance that I didn’t break any of his tiny toady bones. I guess that’s what you get for lurking in doorways.
To round out a very satisfying day, I gave the cook money to buy me eggs, which he assures me he can find despite my futile and fruitless searches. I have no doubt he knows exactly where to look.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Scrounging
Living in the World Vision compound, where I have my own furnished bedroom and sitting room, and even hot water in the bathroom (no matter that it’s shared), the biggest challenge so far has been food. The grocery and restaurant scene here in Morrumbala is predictably austere, and with no real kitchen to speak of, I’ve had to get creative with my non-cook foods. The malaria-prone cook has yet to appear – maybe he doesn’t work on the weekends even when not bed-ridden with a tropical disease – so the charcoal stove has been out of the question. My original thought was to hard-boil a bunch of eggs to make sure I’m getting protein, but a scan of local stores and markets on Friday revealed that eggs are much more difficult to come by than I would have suspected. I couldn’t find a single one.
Peanut butter and bread and the occasional hot meal at a restaurant, or cooked at a friend’s house, can only take you so far. I have started taking a daily vitamin, and at least being underfed makes for exhaustion and early nights (that’s dark humor you see). But seriously, I need to figure this nutrition situation out as soon as possible. Work starts this week, so I’ll speak to the office staff in the morning and see what system we can come up with.
Peanut butter and bread and the occasional hot meal at a restaurant, or cooked at a friend’s house, can only take you so far. I have started taking a daily vitamin, and at least being underfed makes for exhaustion and early nights (that’s dark humor you see). But seriously, I need to figure this nutrition situation out as soon as possible. Work starts this week, so I’ll speak to the office staff in the morning and see what system we can come up with.
Move-In Day
In spite of the many complex health, education, and socio-political issues that plague Africa, Mozambique actually has got its act together in many unexpected ways. Cell phone coverage is essentially ubiquitous (unfortunately, though, only if you bite the bullet and subscribe to the South African company Vodacom instead of the Mozambican MCell). Electricity is consistent, as opposed to a few spotty hours a day. And water is piped into the cities from large tanks in the rural areas, filled from rivers and lakes, where it is treated and supposedly becomes potable. I think I’ll filter mine anyway. And I found out today that you can buy most of your basic necessities at local markets even in rural areas like Morrumbala, although you must be prepared for them to spontaneously run out of even the most essential items, like eggs.
After waking naturally at 6am (if thousands of tweeting sparrows and a very active and noisy camp staff count as natural), I immediately went about the task of finding food. There is a kitchen at the camp, sort of, but the cook who would normally help me orient myself to the charcoal stove called in sick…with malaria. They say he’ll be back by Monday. I’m momentarily shocked, then sarcastically think “Likely story, on a Friday”. This flippant way of treating a serious tropical illness pervades the country – many World Vision employees have had malaria many times, don’t take any preventive medications or even require their children to take them, and can provide detailed information of which brands of remedies work and which are worthless.
Anyway, with no cook, I decided to head to the market, accompanied by a driver (which I didn’t protest since it was my first time out of the compound – there really is a different weight associated with being a white woman here than in the DR, and this site is far larger than my last community) and stock up on some basic no-cook edibles (powdered milk, bread, veggies, tuna) as well as rice, pasta, and other cook-ables that I eventually hope to use when I learn my way around the place. I envision that peanut butter will play a crucial role throughout my near future. The rest of the afternoon was spent organizing my belongings in my new room, complete with bed, armoire, two tables, 4 chairs, curtains and tapestries. It’s really a nice little space, and even though I may be moving out eventually, I unpacked everything last thing with a sigh of relief after a month of living out of my backpack. This afternoon will be a get-to-know-you walk around town, accompanied by another World Vision volunteer, and then visiting the other Peace Corps volunteer who lives in town. World Vision staff is currently scrambling to turn in annual reports and inventory lists, so it seems for the time being, I am free to wander and get to know my new home.
After waking naturally at 6am (if thousands of tweeting sparrows and a very active and noisy camp staff count as natural), I immediately went about the task of finding food. There is a kitchen at the camp, sort of, but the cook who would normally help me orient myself to the charcoal stove called in sick…with malaria. They say he’ll be back by Monday. I’m momentarily shocked, then sarcastically think “Likely story, on a Friday”. This flippant way of treating a serious tropical illness pervades the country – many World Vision employees have had malaria many times, don’t take any preventive medications or even require their children to take them, and can provide detailed information of which brands of remedies work and which are worthless.
Anyway, with no cook, I decided to head to the market, accompanied by a driver (which I didn’t protest since it was my first time out of the compound – there really is a different weight associated with being a white woman here than in the DR, and this site is far larger than my last community) and stock up on some basic no-cook edibles (powdered milk, bread, veggies, tuna) as well as rice, pasta, and other cook-ables that I eventually hope to use when I learn my way around the place. I envision that peanut butter will play a crucial role throughout my near future. The rest of the afternoon was spent organizing my belongings in my new room, complete with bed, armoire, two tables, 4 chairs, curtains and tapestries. It’s really a nice little space, and even though I may be moving out eventually, I unpacked everything last thing with a sigh of relief after a month of living out of my backpack. This afternoon will be a get-to-know-you walk around town, accompanied by another World Vision volunteer, and then visiting the other Peace Corps volunteer who lives in town. World Vision staff is currently scrambling to turn in annual reports and inventory lists, so it seems for the time being, I am free to wander and get to know my new home.
Arrival
After one month of seemingly endless travel around northern Mozambique, I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the roadside sites of Africa, but so many things still strike me as foreign and beautiful. A girl, not yet school age, pumping water with from a well with a lever she can barely reach, throwing her tiny weight against the job. Everyone everywhere lounging on grass mats. A dog with a collar?? Oh. Nope. Just a tricky ring of white fur. Women carrying 50+ pounds of water, jugs in both hands and balanced effortlessly atop their heads, with a baby strapped to their torso. A man carrying an entire tree on a bicycle, a firewood javelin. People standing on the side of the road, in the pitch black of night that exists only in Nowhere, on the road from Somewhere to Somewhere Else. Just standing.
The driver from Morrumbala finally arrived to pick me up from the Nicoadala camp at 4:15pm. The poor man had been driving all day long on another work errand before coming to get me, but I guess that’s what they’re paid for. I’m still getting used to being important (read helpless) enough to deserve personal drivers. After unloading his very sensible truck-bed cargo of bleating baby goats and bags of charcoal, we hit the old dusty trail at a sprint.
The entire country is on fire. Everywhere you look, the bush is being burned, and although it was not yet 5:00, I could barely see the road ahead. The alarmingly pink sun sat stuck in a white-gray sky, soupy with haze. Between the dust and smoke, and the driver’s yell-speak (an extremely kind man, his average volume hovers somewhere between ear-piercing and earth-shaking), I could barely see straight after half an hour. I finally asked if we could roll up the windows and turn on the AC, fully prepared to flinch involuntarily when he decided to speak again, but happily his words came forth at a relatively normal volume. I guess he had been unable to hear himself over the smoky wind and dust. I’ve begun to notice that all the drivers, while extremely personable and helpful, have their own little quirks. One likes to listen to the same song on repeat. At length. One is very interested in and equally clueless to world geography. And they all slow the car significantly when I take a phone call, as though I may receive news that would necessitate an urgent and immediate change in direction.
After an unexpectedly short trip of just over 2 hours, he informed me we were just 2 kilometers away from Morrumbala, my new home. In the dark of night, unable to see much of the town, I couldn’t have missed the big city lights. All ten of them.
In the words of a kindred wayward spirit, a famously spunky redhead by the name of Annie, “I think I’m gonna like it here!”
The driver from Morrumbala finally arrived to pick me up from the Nicoadala camp at 4:15pm. The poor man had been driving all day long on another work errand before coming to get me, but I guess that’s what they’re paid for. I’m still getting used to being important (read helpless) enough to deserve personal drivers. After unloading his very sensible truck-bed cargo of bleating baby goats and bags of charcoal, we hit the old dusty trail at a sprint.
The entire country is on fire. Everywhere you look, the bush is being burned, and although it was not yet 5:00, I could barely see the road ahead. The alarmingly pink sun sat stuck in a white-gray sky, soupy with haze. Between the dust and smoke, and the driver’s yell-speak (an extremely kind man, his average volume hovers somewhere between ear-piercing and earth-shaking), I could barely see straight after half an hour. I finally asked if we could roll up the windows and turn on the AC, fully prepared to flinch involuntarily when he decided to speak again, but happily his words came forth at a relatively normal volume. I guess he had been unable to hear himself over the smoky wind and dust. I’ve begun to notice that all the drivers, while extremely personable and helpful, have their own little quirks. One likes to listen to the same song on repeat. At length. One is very interested in and equally clueless to world geography. And they all slow the car significantly when I take a phone call, as though I may receive news that would necessitate an urgent and immediate change in direction.
After an unexpectedly short trip of just over 2 hours, he informed me we were just 2 kilometers away from Morrumbala, my new home. In the dark of night, unable to see much of the town, I couldn’t have missed the big city lights. All ten of them.
In the words of a kindred wayward spirit, a famously spunky redhead by the name of Annie, “I think I’m gonna like it here!”
Small Wonders
Our last night in Nicoadala, we watched Who Wants To Be A Millionaire in Portuguese and made banana pudding, which between the coal burning stove and my Brasilian/Portuguese-American/English-Dominican/Spanish accented instruction, was quite an experience. I’ve come to believe you can make banana pudding anywhere in the world, and have in fact made it on several continents now. And after all, who doesn’t love fruit, cookies, and vanilla pudding?
After leaving a remote farm where we spent all morning teaching a group of painfully timid kids how to organize and plan a garden, leaving them with a bag of lettuce plants to transplant at sundown when the days heat dissipates, we finally arrived at the main road. No sooner had I sighed my relief at being back on relatively smooth concrete (it’s all relative…) than one of the coordinators in the car announced that she couldn’t find her cell phone. We stopped the car and she got out, looked all around the floorboards, checked her pockets, and finally concluded that she must have dropped it somewhere on the farm. At this point we were already late for lunch and had a 2:00 appointment with another youth group to keep, so I suggested that we drive a little bit further up the road to where we would have cell phone service and call her phone to see if anyone had found it. In a worried frenzy she decided it would be best if we immediately returned to the farm, a bumpy 40 minutes away, and looked for her phone. So at 12:40, I found myself back at the farm, guarding the truck while they walked back through the bush to look for the phone. On a whim, I decided to get out and have a look under her seat, just in case, and what to my wondering eyes did appear but a little gray Nokia, seated squarely beneath the front seat. In disbelief, I asked a man on a bicycle to ride out to the farm and tell them to end their search because the phone had been here all along. Sigh. Upon their return I didn’t get so much as a thank-you or a sheepish apology, leaving me to consider that maybe she thought I had plotted against her to hide her phone all along. Impossible. Still, it was a rough ride back to the highway.
But, as always, dessert fixes everything. A late dinner of fish and rice (surprise!) followed by heaping platefuls of sweet pudding put everyone at ease, and then it was off to bed for one more night’s sleep in this white-washed cement camp I’ve grown fond of in few days. Today, it’s finally off to Morrumbala, my permanent site, just a few bumpy hours away.
After leaving a remote farm where we spent all morning teaching a group of painfully timid kids how to organize and plan a garden, leaving them with a bag of lettuce plants to transplant at sundown when the days heat dissipates, we finally arrived at the main road. No sooner had I sighed my relief at being back on relatively smooth concrete (it’s all relative…) than one of the coordinators in the car announced that she couldn’t find her cell phone. We stopped the car and she got out, looked all around the floorboards, checked her pockets, and finally concluded that she must have dropped it somewhere on the farm. At this point we were already late for lunch and had a 2:00 appointment with another youth group to keep, so I suggested that we drive a little bit further up the road to where we would have cell phone service and call her phone to see if anyone had found it. In a worried frenzy she decided it would be best if we immediately returned to the farm, a bumpy 40 minutes away, and looked for her phone. So at 12:40, I found myself back at the farm, guarding the truck while they walked back through the bush to look for the phone. On a whim, I decided to get out and have a look under her seat, just in case, and what to my wondering eyes did appear but a little gray Nokia, seated squarely beneath the front seat. In disbelief, I asked a man on a bicycle to ride out to the farm and tell them to end their search because the phone had been here all along. Sigh. Upon their return I didn’t get so much as a thank-you or a sheepish apology, leaving me to consider that maybe she thought I had plotted against her to hide her phone all along. Impossible. Still, it was a rough ride back to the highway.
But, as always, dessert fixes everything. A late dinner of fish and rice (surprise!) followed by heaping platefuls of sweet pudding put everyone at ease, and then it was off to bed for one more night’s sleep in this white-washed cement camp I’ve grown fond of in few days. Today, it’s finally off to Morrumbala, my permanent site, just a few bumpy hours away.
Next Stop, Morrumbala
After 3 weeks of unexpected “training”, a word which is used very loosely and can mean anything from sitting indoors at a center and copying notes from a power-point presentation to walking around a farmer’s fields, bugging him with questions about potatoes, to crashing through the overgrown bush, strategically not in front of the line so as to avoid any disgruntled snakes, I think I’m finally going to site on Thursday. However formal or informal the learning process has been during my time here, the bottom line is I do in fact feel more prepared than when I arrived.
I’m currently spending a few days in Nicoadala, at a sleepy “training center” (again, use this term lightly) with a very small group of people (just me and 6 Mozambicans), talking about conservation agriculture, visiting nearby farmers who are actually implementing NGO-promoted practices, and motivating local youth to organize themselves into groups and begin growing vegetables. That’s where I come in handy – kids the world over generally take a speedy liking to me, and my time in the DR left my head filled with ideas of how to get them excited about things they might usually see as mundane. What. You won’t race to carry 50 gallons of water from the far away stream to irrigate the garden? What if the winner gets to braid my hair? Mmm hmm. That’s what I thought. (OK So this may be a bit of an exaggeration. However, I can only hope that African children will be as susceptible to my mind tricks as Dominicans.)
Driving around is still quite an experience, for everyone involved. Most of the places I’ve been taken recently to see farming operations are far enough off the beaten path that those who catch a glimpse of me as we zip dustily by in our indestructible white pick-up truck don’t even have the forethought to make gestures or comments; they’re too busy being completely shocked to see me that all they can do is stare. The most quick-witted manage to throw a thumbs up my way, and impulsive children chase the truck until their little legs can take them no further. Those that, by some miracle, don’t notice the white woman in the front seat, who could very well be the only one they would ever see, are almost as shocked to see a car at all, and skip out to the path to watch until it’s out of site. It’s the most exciting part of their day, and the smallest jump in place and yell “Carro carro carro!” The rest of the time I spend jolting fearfully out of my strangely involuntary bumpy-car-ride-naps as we come unbelievably close to toppling yet another cyclist or herd of goats.
Each night, we return to a modest dinner, tea if I request it, and refreshingly easy and fluid conversation before we’re accompanied by the tune of crickets to an early bed in our ascetic cement chambers. Up at 6:30 to a breakfast of tea and bread, and a modest lunch of xima (corn-meal boiled to the consistency of play dough) and small bony fish, fried if you’re lucky, boiled if you’re not. There’s something to be said about such a simple lifestyle, and in fact I thought I was getting pretty good at removing the numerous tiny spiny bones of my daily fish, until lunch this afternoon, when I met the ‘Temba’. As opposed to the ‘Carapão’, a common and light-tasting fish of the sea, the Temba tastes like it’s river home, and once boiled, comes off the bone more meal than flake. It was challenging, to say the least.
I’m beginning to see why Peace Corps Mozambique has to be so fundamentally different than Peace Corps Dominican Republic, i.e. why volunteers are brought in to work at specific schools or hospitals and are provided housing by their institutions. It’s not feasible to simply arrive in the Mozambican campo, move in with a host family, try to start projects and eventually find my own house, all things I did in the DR. Poverty is too great here, resources are too few, and although I never actually blended into my site in the DR, I was able to integrate myself into daily life and develop patterns that I feel would be impossible in the most rural areas of Africa. I can only imagine the mental and emotional toll it would take until my hypothetical neighbors developed a semblance of normalcy and casualty around me. My differences here have arrived at a whole new level, and actually that’s ok. That’s good. It makes my interactions fresh and, in the end, makes the experience genuine and memorable.
I’m currently spending a few days in Nicoadala, at a sleepy “training center” (again, use this term lightly) with a very small group of people (just me and 6 Mozambicans), talking about conservation agriculture, visiting nearby farmers who are actually implementing NGO-promoted practices, and motivating local youth to organize themselves into groups and begin growing vegetables. That’s where I come in handy – kids the world over generally take a speedy liking to me, and my time in the DR left my head filled with ideas of how to get them excited about things they might usually see as mundane. What. You won’t race to carry 50 gallons of water from the far away stream to irrigate the garden? What if the winner gets to braid my hair? Mmm hmm. That’s what I thought. (OK So this may be a bit of an exaggeration. However, I can only hope that African children will be as susceptible to my mind tricks as Dominicans.)
Driving around is still quite an experience, for everyone involved. Most of the places I’ve been taken recently to see farming operations are far enough off the beaten path that those who catch a glimpse of me as we zip dustily by in our indestructible white pick-up truck don’t even have the forethought to make gestures or comments; they’re too busy being completely shocked to see me that all they can do is stare. The most quick-witted manage to throw a thumbs up my way, and impulsive children chase the truck until their little legs can take them no further. Those that, by some miracle, don’t notice the white woman in the front seat, who could very well be the only one they would ever see, are almost as shocked to see a car at all, and skip out to the path to watch until it’s out of site. It’s the most exciting part of their day, and the smallest jump in place and yell “Carro carro carro!” The rest of the time I spend jolting fearfully out of my strangely involuntary bumpy-car-ride-naps as we come unbelievably close to toppling yet another cyclist or herd of goats.
Each night, we return to a modest dinner, tea if I request it, and refreshingly easy and fluid conversation before we’re accompanied by the tune of crickets to an early bed in our ascetic cement chambers. Up at 6:30 to a breakfast of tea and bread, and a modest lunch of xima (corn-meal boiled to the consistency of play dough) and small bony fish, fried if you’re lucky, boiled if you’re not. There’s something to be said about such a simple lifestyle, and in fact I thought I was getting pretty good at removing the numerous tiny spiny bones of my daily fish, until lunch this afternoon, when I met the ‘Temba’. As opposed to the ‘Carapão’, a common and light-tasting fish of the sea, the Temba tastes like it’s river home, and once boiled, comes off the bone more meal than flake. It was challenging, to say the least.
I’m beginning to see why Peace Corps Mozambique has to be so fundamentally different than Peace Corps Dominican Republic, i.e. why volunteers are brought in to work at specific schools or hospitals and are provided housing by their institutions. It’s not feasible to simply arrive in the Mozambican campo, move in with a host family, try to start projects and eventually find my own house, all things I did in the DR. Poverty is too great here, resources are too few, and although I never actually blended into my site in the DR, I was able to integrate myself into daily life and develop patterns that I feel would be impossible in the most rural areas of Africa. I can only imagine the mental and emotional toll it would take until my hypothetical neighbors developed a semblance of normalcy and casualty around me. My differences here have arrived at a whole new level, and actually that’s ok. That’s good. It makes my interactions fresh and, in the end, makes the experience genuine and memorable.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Campokids and Citygirls
Also, although I formed very dear friendships with many individuals in my campo in the DR, it was obvious that we had little in common. My closest friends were evangelical Christian girls in their teens, and I’m, well, a pants-wearing, alone-living, female world traveler. We often just talked about the weather. But here, I’m working with a city-based NGO and associating with Mozambicans whose life experiences have, in many ways, reflected my own; college, traveling, privileges that most Africans cannot imagine. For instance, several nights ago, I was invited, along with the other American World Vision volunteers who happened to be in Quelimane at the same time, to a dinner party at the house of a young Mozambican World Vision employee. We arrived to find a buffet of food she had prepared, bottles of wine, and candles on the floor for mood as opposed to necessity, all to a backdrop of trendy music. When I left for my hotel, she and her friends went out dancing. It was about midnight. In other words, it was just like being at a small party at home. I felt immediately comfortable with her friends, and realized even further that this experience is shaping up to be very different from my first 2 years in the Peace Corps.
I’m simultaneously disappointed and excited that the relationships I shape here, even with people in my site should I ever arrive, will be fundamentally different from those I had in the Dominican Republic: instead of forming very close bonds with the same small group of people over a two year period, it seems I will have more occasional contact with a wider group. This week, for instance, I am visiting 3 separate groups of children to talk to them about agriculture and starting a youth group. I won’t be able to follow up with them as I did with my youth group in the DR, but after meeting the men and women in charge of the two groups I spent a collective 3 hours with today, I feel that they’ll be able to get along in their new gardens just fine without me. Their lives are so difficult. Most of them showed up to the meetings barefoot and filthy, flies swarming on their smiling faces, and even though I now realize how unrealistic it is for me to ever expect them to act naturally around me (we’re just too different; I’m too healthy, too white, too accented, too educated, too unable to speak African dialects), I hope they at least enjoyed the time that we spent together today. I imagine I’ll have the chance to form closer bonds with small groups of people once I settle in and stick to one place for a while, and a good place to start will probably be learning basic phrases in the local language: Sena.
I’m simultaneously disappointed and excited that the relationships I shape here, even with people in my site should I ever arrive, will be fundamentally different from those I had in the Dominican Republic: instead of forming very close bonds with the same small group of people over a two year period, it seems I will have more occasional contact with a wider group. This week, for instance, I am visiting 3 separate groups of children to talk to them about agriculture and starting a youth group. I won’t be able to follow up with them as I did with my youth group in the DR, but after meeting the men and women in charge of the two groups I spent a collective 3 hours with today, I feel that they’ll be able to get along in their new gardens just fine without me. Their lives are so difficult. Most of them showed up to the meetings barefoot and filthy, flies swarming on their smiling faces, and even though I now realize how unrealistic it is for me to ever expect them to act naturally around me (we’re just too different; I’m too healthy, too white, too accented, too educated, too unable to speak African dialects), I hope they at least enjoyed the time that we spent together today. I imagine I’ll have the chance to form closer bonds with small groups of people once I settle in and stick to one place for a while, and a good place to start will probably be learning basic phrases in the local language: Sena.
Oriental Express
As soon as the Peace Corps mandated standfast was lifted enough to allow travel, we were on a 4am bus out of Chimoio and headed, yet again, to Quelimane. All other volunteers across the nation have been instructed to travel to their sites and stay there until things have settled back down to normal, but having never in fact been to my site, I instead returned to the city for a meeting tomorrow. As usual, I have no clue as to my role in this meeting, but simply that my presence has been requested.
On the bus, a girl somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12 (malnourishment makes it really difficult to tell) was seated below her mother on the floor in the aisle, either from lack of space or lack of money to pay for it. Several hours after leaving, as we were roused from our half-sleep stupors for a side-of-the-road pee break, we looked down to see her sitting in a puddle of urine. I felt for her, as I had strategically dehydrated myself to a state of pruney-ness in anticipation of this 8 hour minimum bus ride, crossing 600 kilometers of nowhere. No sooner had she changed clothes and re-boarded the bus, did her carsickness kick-in and leave her in an even bigger mess than before. She was such a pitiful little thing, I just wanted to take her home (theoretical, yet nonexistent home) and give her a bucket of hot water and a cup of tea.
Thankfully, there were no mishaps along the way and we arrived at the projected hour of noon. In rolls our big yellow bus, equipped with anime-animals and Chinese characters on the outside, wall-papered with cartoon Chinese babies on the inside. I felt strangely transported from the Orient back to increasingly familiar, curiously smelly, dusty Quelimane.
On the bus, a girl somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12 (malnourishment makes it really difficult to tell) was seated below her mother on the floor in the aisle, either from lack of space or lack of money to pay for it. Several hours after leaving, as we were roused from our half-sleep stupors for a side-of-the-road pee break, we looked down to see her sitting in a puddle of urine. I felt for her, as I had strategically dehydrated myself to a state of pruney-ness in anticipation of this 8 hour minimum bus ride, crossing 600 kilometers of nowhere. No sooner had she changed clothes and re-boarded the bus, did her carsickness kick-in and leave her in an even bigger mess than before. She was such a pitiful little thing, I just wanted to take her home (theoretical, yet nonexistent home) and give her a bucket of hot water and a cup of tea.
Thankfully, there were no mishaps along the way and we arrived at the projected hour of noon. In rolls our big yellow bus, equipped with anime-animals and Chinese characters on the outside, wall-papered with cartoon Chinese babies on the inside. I felt strangely transported from the Orient back to increasingly familiar, curiously smelly, dusty Quelimane.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Expose Yourself
Leaving Zimbabwe, we hear the Zim version of Delila on the radio, speaking in accented English about the importance of loving yourself before you try to love others. We make a stop in town at “OK” grocery store to stock up on things we probably can’t find anywhere in Moz – ground mustard, youngberry jam, celery salt, South African wine, etc. On the road in front of the grocery store, a propped up poster headlines “Man jailed for insulting President Mugabe”, and I feel watched. A taxi company lightens the mood with its scandalous slogan “Expose yourself, get a ride.”
Although the training was run by an organization called Foundations for Farming (formerly known as Farming God’s Way), whose sustainable farming principles are based in a desire to use the planet in its most natural and godlike form, the religious undertones of the sessions had been relatively tame. That is, until I was suddenly and publicly singled out and questioned by the session leader as to whether or not I believe in demons. Apparently they wanted a westerner’s perspective. Unsure of the answer he wanted, and not articulate enough to formulate on the spot an uncontroversial answer re: my belief that “demons” are a metaphorical explanation for the difficult parts of life, like mental illness and disease, natural disasters and accidents, I simply said “No, I don’t believe in demons.” No one seemed shocked, but I still felt type-cast as the Godless westerner from there on out.
I’m torn by the idea emphasized at training of “breaking traditions” in order to encourage behavior change among farmers, even if it means better crop yields. There’s always a fine line where aid and charity end and cultural imperialism begins; however, these farmers had come to learn of their own accord, and maybe their current “traditions” aren’t even based in culture and custom, having no reason or sentimentality, and are simply traditions because they’ve always been done that way. Like plowing the fields. They can’t tell you why they do it, they just do. And as it turns out, plowing in desiccated, flood and drought prone areas often leads to extreme erosion and nutrient lost.
Even through our differing beliefs, the other trainees were extremely kind and energetic, eager to get to know me. The last evening after dinner, I stumbled upon a small group of women singing and dancing lightly under the stars. The song was beautiful, harmonies so easy and natural, and they told me it was their way of worshiping God. I couldn’t understand the words, and I didn’t need to. I tapped along on my orange for a while, and was thankful for the electricity being down, so I could grin ludicrously through my efforts to restrain the quick tears. The next morning, singing their goodbyes, they asked me to film them with my camera, and I couldn’t have been happier. They were thrilled to see themselves played back, and I’ll always have a piece of their beautiful song to carry with me.
Although the training was run by an organization called Foundations for Farming (formerly known as Farming God’s Way), whose sustainable farming principles are based in a desire to use the planet in its most natural and godlike form, the religious undertones of the sessions had been relatively tame. That is, until I was suddenly and publicly singled out and questioned by the session leader as to whether or not I believe in demons. Apparently they wanted a westerner’s perspective. Unsure of the answer he wanted, and not articulate enough to formulate on the spot an uncontroversial answer re: my belief that “demons” are a metaphorical explanation for the difficult parts of life, like mental illness and disease, natural disasters and accidents, I simply said “No, I don’t believe in demons.” No one seemed shocked, but I still felt type-cast as the Godless westerner from there on out.
I’m torn by the idea emphasized at training of “breaking traditions” in order to encourage behavior change among farmers, even if it means better crop yields. There’s always a fine line where aid and charity end and cultural imperialism begins; however, these farmers had come to learn of their own accord, and maybe their current “traditions” aren’t even based in culture and custom, having no reason or sentimentality, and are simply traditions because they’ve always been done that way. Like plowing the fields. They can’t tell you why they do it, they just do. And as it turns out, plowing in desiccated, flood and drought prone areas often leads to extreme erosion and nutrient lost.
Even through our differing beliefs, the other trainees were extremely kind and energetic, eager to get to know me. The last evening after dinner, I stumbled upon a small group of women singing and dancing lightly under the stars. The song was beautiful, harmonies so easy and natural, and they told me it was their way of worshiping God. I couldn’t understand the words, and I didn’t need to. I tapped along on my orange for a while, and was thankful for the electricity being down, so I could grin ludicrously through my efforts to restrain the quick tears. The next morning, singing their goodbyes, they asked me to film them with my camera, and I couldn’t have been happier. They were thrilled to see themselves played back, and I’ll always have a piece of their beautiful song to carry with me.
Zimbabwe
Across the border from Mozambique, Mutare is paved roads and neat rows of old houses with collard greens planted in modest front yard gardens. Here, clean and tidy streets echo of British colonialism, which took a different shape and structure than that of the Portuguese in Mozambique, who took exponentially more than they left behind. And Mutare is also a stunning rocky landscape, dotted with schools and clinics, the fruits of international religion-based development. Decades upon decades of missionaries have certainly left their mark, sometimes in the shape of a fist. In our case, it’s in the shape of a Catholic-run training center for Africans (and two grinning-nervous Americans) who wish to learn about agriculture and small business. A training center faithfully guarded, appropriately enough, by 2 skittish Rhodesian Ridgebacks*.
After thoroughly noisy and purposeful stamping, furtive glances and suspicious questions, we made it through the border crossing, where the throb of tension that runs through the country, constant as a heartbeat, is even stronger. In Africa there is an undercurrent of danger to even the most mundane of everyday activities - going to the store, filling up the car with gas. Crossing the border to Zimbabwe is not an everyday activity.
But we can breathe again, and take in the thick opaque orange river, useful for bathing and disguising hungry crocodiles. Starched navy and blinding-white school uniforms migrating across impossibly red and dusty roads. How-do-they-keep-things-so-clean.
At the training center, I am odd man out. The only other white faces here are those of the family in charge of the ag. training, accustomed to playing “bossman”, descendants of the pre-civil war white Zimbabwean farmers, hard and sun-worn and capable, accustomed to the remnants of colonialism; descent roads, dropped eyes, first to the dinner table. Later, a cracked porcelain mug of red wine under a starry black sky, distant hills periodically ablaze with windy uncontrolled burning, help to alleviate the tension of so many day time eyes. What is the wazunga (white) woman doing in our dorm? As I let myself into my tiny room, equipped with bed for sleeping and sink for washing, the electricity buzzes to life and I blow out my candle with mild disappointment. I meet a girl on the way to the hall bathroom, and because she is the only one who has even half considered returning my maniacal over-compensating grins, I do whatever it takes to make contact: in this case, offering her toilet paper as she enters a stall that I know does not contain any. Politely confused, she says that she only needs to urinate and quickly disappears into the neighboring stall. I gotta get better at drip-drying.
For lack of anything else to do, I smile yet again at the women across the hall from me as I return to my room, and just as I am about to duck in, they invite me to sit with them, and suddenly I am surrounded by a room full of wide-eyed, dark-as-night-skinned Zimbabwean women. Clearly in the time it took for me to get from bathroom to bedroom, word got around that I was not a spy or a cannibal.
As expected, the first morning of our fundamental Christian based conservation agriculture training is kicked off with prayer and song. Although 75% of Zimbabweans claim Christianity as their religion, the music blissfully holds much of its traditional character. Clapping and multiple-part harmonies of African words, in Shona, Dbele, Shangani, Sena, are repeated almost as a chant, making my throat catch and my eyes sting with restrained tears. Everyone knows I’m a sucker for a pretty tune.
I feel inspired to be part of a project that is not just a “band-aid”, i.e. not dumping resources into the country in an unsustainable way, but rather teaching techniques that are meant to improve lives at an individual community based level before resonating outward. The leaders of this training go so far as to emphasize that Africans must summon up the pride to break away from reliance on foreign aid, to refuse to seek handouts; however, there is no talk of past abuse from the international community which actively participated in creating the need for aid, no mention of exploitation that maybe created a sense of guilt and obligation among certain donor communities. Maybe it’s better that way; dwelling on heartache could be counterproductive to creating new partnerships. Either way, the NGO presence in Africa would do well to make a concerted effort to decrease dependence by empowering Africans to change their own lives in ways they see fit.
*Rhodesia was the former name of Zimbabwe before the civil war and consequential independence from the British empire.
After thoroughly noisy and purposeful stamping, furtive glances and suspicious questions, we made it through the border crossing, where the throb of tension that runs through the country, constant as a heartbeat, is even stronger. In Africa there is an undercurrent of danger to even the most mundane of everyday activities - going to the store, filling up the car with gas. Crossing the border to Zimbabwe is not an everyday activity.
But we can breathe again, and take in the thick opaque orange river, useful for bathing and disguising hungry crocodiles. Starched navy and blinding-white school uniforms migrating across impossibly red and dusty roads. How-do-they-keep-things-so-clean.
At the training center, I am odd man out. The only other white faces here are those of the family in charge of the ag. training, accustomed to playing “bossman”, descendants of the pre-civil war white Zimbabwean farmers, hard and sun-worn and capable, accustomed to the remnants of colonialism; descent roads, dropped eyes, first to the dinner table. Later, a cracked porcelain mug of red wine under a starry black sky, distant hills periodically ablaze with windy uncontrolled burning, help to alleviate the tension of so many day time eyes. What is the wazunga (white) woman doing in our dorm? As I let myself into my tiny room, equipped with bed for sleeping and sink for washing, the electricity buzzes to life and I blow out my candle with mild disappointment. I meet a girl on the way to the hall bathroom, and because she is the only one who has even half considered returning my maniacal over-compensating grins, I do whatever it takes to make contact: in this case, offering her toilet paper as she enters a stall that I know does not contain any. Politely confused, she says that she only needs to urinate and quickly disappears into the neighboring stall. I gotta get better at drip-drying.
For lack of anything else to do, I smile yet again at the women across the hall from me as I return to my room, and just as I am about to duck in, they invite me to sit with them, and suddenly I am surrounded by a room full of wide-eyed, dark-as-night-skinned Zimbabwean women. Clearly in the time it took for me to get from bathroom to bedroom, word got around that I was not a spy or a cannibal.
As expected, the first morning of our fundamental Christian based conservation agriculture training is kicked off with prayer and song. Although 75% of Zimbabweans claim Christianity as their religion, the music blissfully holds much of its traditional character. Clapping and multiple-part harmonies of African words, in Shona, Dbele, Shangani, Sena, are repeated almost as a chant, making my throat catch and my eyes sting with restrained tears. Everyone knows I’m a sucker for a pretty tune.
I feel inspired to be part of a project that is not just a “band-aid”, i.e. not dumping resources into the country in an unsustainable way, but rather teaching techniques that are meant to improve lives at an individual community based level before resonating outward. The leaders of this training go so far as to emphasize that Africans must summon up the pride to break away from reliance on foreign aid, to refuse to seek handouts; however, there is no talk of past abuse from the international community which actively participated in creating the need for aid, no mention of exploitation that maybe created a sense of guilt and obligation among certain donor communities. Maybe it’s better that way; dwelling on heartache could be counterproductive to creating new partnerships. Either way, the NGO presence in Africa would do well to make a concerted effort to decrease dependence by empowering Africans to change their own lives in ways they see fit.
*Rhodesia was the former name of Zimbabwe before the civil war and consequential independence from the British empire.
600 km to Chimoio
The sun sets red and fast, like blood on the horizon, pouring over the land, and then it’s cool and immediate dark. We’re mostly alone on the highway from Quelimane to Chimoio, the only light the rusty twinkling brush fires spotting distant hills. Men on bikes and women clutching childrens’ hands appear as apparitions on the roadside, walking hastily to nowhere. No one wants to be out at night.
In the cities, the roads are populated by bicycles and white utility vehicles, driven by NGO and aid workers. Should one of these vehicles take to the highway, the occupants are advised to stock up on food and fuel, because between cities, there’s nothing but bush. Teeth chattering, meteor sized potholes sneak up and give my ever-tightening seatbelt a workout. The occasional chicken vendor waves his squawking, flapping fare high overhead as we barrel past, so close my teeth make involuntary hissing noises. Bridges provide safe pass over long dried up, weed-riddled riverbeds, and road signs give pictorial advice about what travelers may expect to see in the road ahead: cattle, gazelles, bicycles, curves, and men, either belted or cut into two pieces straight across the mid-section. The real bridge, the one built to cross the roaring Zambeze river, is a source of awe and disbelief to all Mozambicans, including our driver who insists we stop at the top of its arch to take photos. A uniformed guard, materializing beside us, chastises at length for the photos we take that could apparently be connected to sabotage, until he gives up on monetary appeasement and begrudgingly sends us on our way.
If you leave late (as we did) without food (also us), you will be forced to stop along the way at the most undesirable of spots, Caia or Inchope, to munch stale bread while keeping wary eyes on your vehicle. You’ll breathe a sigh of relief when you are yet again barreling down the highway, because then at least no one can steal your backpack out of the truck-bed, right in front of your eyes. After all, who would stop them?
After seeing my first wild baboon, lounging lazily on the side of the road like a big dog, distinguishable only when it stood and sauntered off into the bush, 4 foot tail and colorful rump held high, I passed the time by scanning the savannah for other creatures, although I’ve been warned that the wildlife population in Mozambique was decimated after the civil war. All I can see, amid the roaring bush fires meant to startle small edible prey such as duiker, snakes, and rats into a scurrying, huntable frenzy, is a few furious and fumigated fowl.
I turn my attention back to the road just in time to see a sign and make a quick calculation: 300 kilometers to Chimoio.
In the cities, the roads are populated by bicycles and white utility vehicles, driven by NGO and aid workers. Should one of these vehicles take to the highway, the occupants are advised to stock up on food and fuel, because between cities, there’s nothing but bush. Teeth chattering, meteor sized potholes sneak up and give my ever-tightening seatbelt a workout. The occasional chicken vendor waves his squawking, flapping fare high overhead as we barrel past, so close my teeth make involuntary hissing noises. Bridges provide safe pass over long dried up, weed-riddled riverbeds, and road signs give pictorial advice about what travelers may expect to see in the road ahead: cattle, gazelles, bicycles, curves, and men, either belted or cut into two pieces straight across the mid-section. The real bridge, the one built to cross the roaring Zambeze river, is a source of awe and disbelief to all Mozambicans, including our driver who insists we stop at the top of its arch to take photos. A uniformed guard, materializing beside us, chastises at length for the photos we take that could apparently be connected to sabotage, until he gives up on monetary appeasement and begrudgingly sends us on our way.
If you leave late (as we did) without food (also us), you will be forced to stop along the way at the most undesirable of spots, Caia or Inchope, to munch stale bread while keeping wary eyes on your vehicle. You’ll breathe a sigh of relief when you are yet again barreling down the highway, because then at least no one can steal your backpack out of the truck-bed, right in front of your eyes. After all, who would stop them?
After seeing my first wild baboon, lounging lazily on the side of the road like a big dog, distinguishable only when it stood and sauntered off into the bush, 4 foot tail and colorful rump held high, I passed the time by scanning the savannah for other creatures, although I’ve been warned that the wildlife population in Mozambique was decimated after the civil war. All I can see, amid the roaring bush fires meant to startle small edible prey such as duiker, snakes, and rats into a scurrying, huntable frenzy, is a few furious and fumigated fowl.
I turn my attention back to the road just in time to see a sign and make a quick calculation: 300 kilometers to Chimoio.
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