I am thankful for…
•The Indian Ocean
•Suncreen
•NGO friends with real jobs and cars, who take pity on volunteers, low men on the totem pole
•Frango Zambeziano (the grilled chicken for which the province in which I live is famous)
•Grilled grouper
•My very capable tailor
•Internet on my phone (and therefore, constant contact with supportive friends and family)
•Packages sent from home
•African music
•Rain
There is so much more I have to be thankful for this year, as every year, but these are a few of the things at the front of my mind. Hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
A Beautiful Black Friday
After an arduous 3 day journey (with a stop off in Nampula for an eclectic Thanksgiving meal), made less so by a ride from a friend, we are finally at Chocas, um fim do mundo – an end of the world.
The cutest thatch-roofed bamboo hut, complete with outdoor shower for post-ocean rinsing, a late afternoon swim in the calm blue Indian Ocean (she’s definitely a woman, perhaps a mother even), a dinner of fresh clams and cold beer, then music back at the hut, swaying barefoot in the sand. A sandy scorpion joins in the dance, raises his tail, but I believe he means no harm. After, a moonlit walk on an expansive white sand beach. The tide is out, so we run around like children, and when I fall asleep in the sand, my friends line my spine with seashells. They tinkle to the ground when I rise. This is the best Black Friday ever.
And this morning, the sound of the ocean and a billowing white mosquito net. Sitting on the back porch under the coconut trees, hammock gently swaying to and fro. I could stay at Chocas for many lifetimes.
The Last Supper
Today I found myself at the head of the lunch table, staring down the corridor of 25+ hungry men (a double dose of disciples), mounds of rice, and a fish bigger than any I’ve ever seen, marveling at the urgency and efficiency with which they tucked into their meal. These are not starving people, at least not currently, although I can’t speak to their childhoods. Yet they must realize how easily they could be, how little distance there is between them and hunger, and therefore they eat with a purpose, like I’ve seen only Africans do. As I wasn’t standing in wait by the door for the lunch table to be set, I was one of the last people to arrive to the table, and found myself picking through the dishes to put together a full meal. The food culture that exists here doesn’t seem to be greed exactly – if you show up at lunchtime at the home of a Mozambican, they will insist that you eat. Yet when everyone has their plates in front of them, it’s every man for himself on a mission of nutrition. Not having suffered through years of famine and civil war in the not-so-distant past, I can’t personally feel where it is they’re coming from.
The reason for this gathering of 30 people (3 of which are women) is a week-long training in construction of water tanks for rural areas where water catchment and conservation is tricky. The trainer arrived from Bali, and as he speaks English but no Portuguese, I quickly became the impromptu translator. That was yesterday’s task, and I was treated very professionally as such. Today, however, the manual labor began, and try as I might to shrink myself and blend in by doing little tasks, there are a few men in this group who insist upon calling attention to my womanness. (In general, I have found the men here to be very respectful of me as a professional, but once we break down initial barriers and they learn I’m not a white ice-queen, some of them step beyond the line I appreciate.)
No matter what I did today, I couldn’t escape it. “Hey Mica, why don’t you try to saw? Haha! Or you could dig, heh.” And yet had I picked up the saw, everyone else’s work would have come to a screeching halt and I would have been, to borrow a friend’s phrasing, like a polar bear in a cage. So I ignored their urgings as long as I could before finally asking “Why is the idea of me sawing so entertaining to you? Is it because I’m a woman?” Now obviously, we all knew the answer to that question, but it was the best way to bring attention to their passive harassment, however harmless they assumed it to be. They answered yes, that’s why, and I responded tartly that where I come from, being a woman doesn’t make that much of a difference in such matters – another half truth, but it gets the point across: don’t belittle me and I will participate as an equal. It doesn’t help that I am half the size of most of these men, another reason that their face-stuffing is so curious… Anyway, in response to my comment, one of the 2 other foreigners present at this training announced, to my satisfaction “It’s just because they’re not educated on gender matters” and their giggling trailed off as they looked down at their feet and mumbled something about being educated, perhaps slightly embarrassed or maybe I just imagined it. Either way, I felt like somehow I won this, one of the battles I had chosen. And I do pick them. Every day. As wisely as I can.
The reason for this gathering of 30 people (3 of which are women) is a week-long training in construction of water tanks for rural areas where water catchment and conservation is tricky. The trainer arrived from Bali, and as he speaks English but no Portuguese, I quickly became the impromptu translator. That was yesterday’s task, and I was treated very professionally as such. Today, however, the manual labor began, and try as I might to shrink myself and blend in by doing little tasks, there are a few men in this group who insist upon calling attention to my womanness. (In general, I have found the men here to be very respectful of me as a professional, but once we break down initial barriers and they learn I’m not a white ice-queen, some of them step beyond the line I appreciate.)
No matter what I did today, I couldn’t escape it. “Hey Mica, why don’t you try to saw? Haha! Or you could dig, heh.” And yet had I picked up the saw, everyone else’s work would have come to a screeching halt and I would have been, to borrow a friend’s phrasing, like a polar bear in a cage. So I ignored their urgings as long as I could before finally asking “Why is the idea of me sawing so entertaining to you? Is it because I’m a woman?” Now obviously, we all knew the answer to that question, but it was the best way to bring attention to their passive harassment, however harmless they assumed it to be. They answered yes, that’s why, and I responded tartly that where I come from, being a woman doesn’t make that much of a difference in such matters – another half truth, but it gets the point across: don’t belittle me and I will participate as an equal. It doesn’t help that I am half the size of most of these men, another reason that their face-stuffing is so curious… Anyway, in response to my comment, one of the 2 other foreigners present at this training announced, to my satisfaction “It’s just because they’re not educated on gender matters” and their giggling trailed off as they looked down at their feet and mumbled something about being educated, perhaps slightly embarrassed or maybe I just imagined it. Either way, I felt like somehow I won this, one of the battles I had chosen. And I do pick them. Every day. As wisely as I can.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Beloved
Today, we said goodbye to a compassionate field-worker, a gentle and dedicated man who suffered a fatal heart attack at 48 years old. Ernesto Amado, a last name that means ‘beloved’, was in fact just that, not only by his colleagues at World Vision, but by the community and church of which he was a leader, the soccer league in which he was a referee, and his large, loving family.
The funeral began at his home, a small mud-covered structure in an urban neighborhood of Quelimane, where we gathered to hear a sermon and listen to farewell songs in Chuabo, one of the local languages. As we left the house, the wailing began. Women in brightly colored capulanas needed much support to stand as they cried out their pain, but I was most affected by his children, in their 20s and 30s, dressed all in black and staring out at nothing, leaning on one another, eyes glossy and distant.
At the cemetery, we gathered in patches under shade trees, the sun already burning my arms at 9:30am, and watched as the gravediggers finished their job. The women continued to sing, “we’ve arrived at the resting place”. After eulogies were spoken and the casket lowered, we stepped forward to toss handfuls of earth into the grave, then covered it with cut flowers. The women sang “all is calm, we’ve said goodbye to our father”.
Back at his family’s home, everyone must wash their hands. It’s the custom here, to wash away what might have come with you from the grave, the resting place. And after everything, what’s left is the memory of a man beloved for his kindness and dedication to making Mozambique a better, more balanced place, and a lingering tune of pure harmonies in a sandy African cemetery.
The funeral began at his home, a small mud-covered structure in an urban neighborhood of Quelimane, where we gathered to hear a sermon and listen to farewell songs in Chuabo, one of the local languages. As we left the house, the wailing began. Women in brightly colored capulanas needed much support to stand as they cried out their pain, but I was most affected by his children, in their 20s and 30s, dressed all in black and staring out at nothing, leaning on one another, eyes glossy and distant.
At the cemetery, we gathered in patches under shade trees, the sun already burning my arms at 9:30am, and watched as the gravediggers finished their job. The women continued to sing, “we’ve arrived at the resting place”. After eulogies were spoken and the casket lowered, we stepped forward to toss handfuls of earth into the grave, then covered it with cut flowers. The women sang “all is calm, we’ve said goodbye to our father”.
Back at his family’s home, everyone must wash their hands. It’s the custom here, to wash away what might have come with you from the grave, the resting place. And after everything, what’s left is the memory of a man beloved for his kindness and dedication to making Mozambique a better, more balanced place, and a lingering tune of pure harmonies in a sandy African cemetery.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Of Goats and Thieves
The goat tied up outside of my room, destined to be somebody’s lunch, is terrified of me. She jumps up and trips over her rope each time I emerge. I want to tell her, “If you think I’m scary, you’ve got another think coming”, but instead I just feed her moldy bread.
Spent a long but satisfying week in the campo with my four youth groups, all of which now have several plots prepared for corn, peanuts, and pigeon peas. It’s exhausting keeping them entertained, but this week I found a stalwart ally in the form of cookies. As they kneel down and reach up their dirty little hands to receive a meager treat, I wish I had 10 pounds of cookies for each of them, and can’t shake the feeling of a priest at communion.
In anticipation of my trip to the city this weekend, a much needed couple days of socializing with people who don’t require that I sing them silly songs, I went to the salon to have my fingers and toes painted. (Some Peace Corps girl customs are the same everywhere I suppose…) Salons are always a good place to sit and listen, to absorb the culture as a passive observer, and as I was watching my nails go from grungy to shiny chocolate brown, a large group of kids stormed by the salon, urging forward a single young boy. The woman painting my nails gave a one word explanation: thief. Apparently he was being escorted to a central location where onlookers could observe a public beating. I had read about this custom of civilians enforcing order with violence in other African countries, but this was the first time I had seen it in action, and guiltily, couldn’t help but feel a bit safer for it. Then again, maybe stealing from a white woman is an honorable deed. Hopefully I’ll never know for sure.
Spent a long but satisfying week in the campo with my four youth groups, all of which now have several plots prepared for corn, peanuts, and pigeon peas. It’s exhausting keeping them entertained, but this week I found a stalwart ally in the form of cookies. As they kneel down and reach up their dirty little hands to receive a meager treat, I wish I had 10 pounds of cookies for each of them, and can’t shake the feeling of a priest at communion.
In anticipation of my trip to the city this weekend, a much needed couple days of socializing with people who don’t require that I sing them silly songs, I went to the salon to have my fingers and toes painted. (Some Peace Corps girl customs are the same everywhere I suppose…) Salons are always a good place to sit and listen, to absorb the culture as a passive observer, and as I was watching my nails go from grungy to shiny chocolate brown, a large group of kids stormed by the salon, urging forward a single young boy. The woman painting my nails gave a one word explanation: thief. Apparently he was being escorted to a central location where onlookers could observe a public beating. I had read about this custom of civilians enforcing order with violence in other African countries, but this was the first time I had seen it in action, and guiltily, couldn’t help but feel a bit safer for it. Then again, maybe stealing from a white woman is an honorable deed. Hopefully I’ll never know for sure.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Just Say No
A group of rural health workers showed up at the compound today with the intention of vaccinating everyone in sight, particularly the suspicious white woman holed up in the corner room. I informed them, to the best of my ability considering my discomfort (there were 6 of them with very untrusting faces) that as a government employee, I get all my vaccines from Peace Corps doctors stationed in Nampula and Maputo, both very far from Morrumbala where I live. They said no, these are just pills, apparently with the power to prevent everything from malaria to pregnancy to other things I’ve never heard of. Afraid of being scruffed like a belligerent cat, I declined a little more forcefully and planned my retreat. They think I’m a weirdo, but there’s no way I was ingesting anything that came out of that box.
With the imminent promise of rain, noticeably closer each day as the sky turns gray and the wind picks up, we’ve had to step it up with our farmers and junior farmers. We spent yesterday morning preparing a 7x7 meter peanut plot
with one group of kids, but learned our lesson the hard way, as by 10 o’clock it was too hot to work anymore. So last night I went to bed at 8:30, got up before 5:00 and by 6:00 was out in the fields again, preparing corn plots under a much more friendly sky. By 8:15 we were done; rather, there was more work to be done but we had to give up our measuring tape (essential for a well-planned garden) to the adult group. So we spent the next hour or so talking about manure as fertilizer, the water cycle, and playing duck-duck-goose. Or in Portuguese galinha, galinha, frango. Or in Cena cuco, cuco, sato. Or something like that.
On our way out to the campo this morning, several squealing piglets darted across the road in front of us, which prompted the driver to ask me if I eat ‘leiton’ (the root word of which is ‘leite’, or milk). After a few questions, my suspicions were confirmed. She wasn’t asking if I eat some breed of pig that is smaller than the others even when fully mature. She was asking if I eat piglet, called ‘leiton’ because it’s not even old enough to be weaned yet. I didn’t even know how to go about answering this, and think my only response was hmmm.
Just say no to: suspicious vaccines and baby animal slaughtering.
With the imminent promise of rain, noticeably closer each day as the sky turns gray and the wind picks up, we’ve had to step it up with our farmers and junior farmers. We spent yesterday morning preparing a 7x7 meter peanut plot
with one group of kids, but learned our lesson the hard way, as by 10 o’clock it was too hot to work anymore. So last night I went to bed at 8:30, got up before 5:00 and by 6:00 was out in the fields again, preparing corn plots under a much more friendly sky. By 8:15 we were done; rather, there was more work to be done but we had to give up our measuring tape (essential for a well-planned garden) to the adult group. So we spent the next hour or so talking about manure as fertilizer, the water cycle, and playing duck-duck-goose. Or in Portuguese galinha, galinha, frango. Or in Cena cuco, cuco, sato. Or something like that.
On our way out to the campo this morning, several squealing piglets darted across the road in front of us, which prompted the driver to ask me if I eat ‘leiton’ (the root word of which is ‘leite’, or milk). After a few questions, my suspicions were confirmed. She wasn’t asking if I eat some breed of pig that is smaller than the others even when fully mature. She was asking if I eat piglet, called ‘leiton’ because it’s not even old enough to be weaned yet. I didn’t even know how to go about answering this, and think my only response was hmmm.
Just say no to: suspicious vaccines and baby animal slaughtering.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Frog Princess
Everything seems to be picking up at once. Work, the heat, the quantity of noisy toads living in and around the guest center…
Ever since I emerged from my room several weeks ago and stepped squarely on a squeaky frog – thank god for flip-flops! – I have been very cautious about where my feet land from about 6:00 onward.
As for the heat, it is reaching critical levels as we wait with dusty, baited breath for the summer’s first rains. Riding my bicycle to and from the office, an unintimidating 8 kilometers round-trip, I arrive home covered from head to toe in dirt thrown up by passing trucks desperate to get to and from the farms at this, the end of bean season. I wait as late as I possibly can to leave the office without letting darkness overcome my ride; the magic time seems to be 5:30. The sun sets and rises so early here, even in the summer, which suits those who choose to awake at 4am to begin the day’s work before the heat becomes unbearable.
After much struggle to understand the dynamics of the World Vision team in Morrumbala, I finally gave up trying to maneuver my plans around my co-workers, and began scheduling meetings with my 4 youth groups at times that suit me and the kids. This seems to be what everyone wanted all along, and as a result, my schedule is beginning to resemble something of a real job. When I’m not traveling to and from the city for meetings, I spend 2-3 days a week in the office and the other days in the fields with the kids, which is less like pulling teeth each time we meet (they’re really starting to like me and look forward to our visits, and clearly enjoy the activities and games I bring). After preparing a 15x20 meter plot for corn and reviewing the water cycle with one group several days ago, I inquired whether they wouldn’t accompany me to a nearby Catholic mission, an enormous, beautiful old building that has stood abandoned ever since the civil war.
We walked around, careful not to step in piles of excrement (fowl and human alike…) and marveled at the immense structure, lamenting that no one has taken the initiative to repair and clean it up. After a lengthy and unnecessarily complicated debate about when we would next meet, I left feeling very satisfied with the day’s work, despite the many scratches on my hands and arms from mulching with 8 month dry grass.
Ever since I emerged from my room several weeks ago and stepped squarely on a squeaky frog – thank god for flip-flops! – I have been very cautious about where my feet land from about 6:00 onward.
As for the heat, it is reaching critical levels as we wait with dusty, baited breath for the summer’s first rains. Riding my bicycle to and from the office, an unintimidating 8 kilometers round-trip, I arrive home covered from head to toe in dirt thrown up by passing trucks desperate to get to and from the farms at this, the end of bean season. I wait as late as I possibly can to leave the office without letting darkness overcome my ride; the magic time seems to be 5:30. The sun sets and rises so early here, even in the summer, which suits those who choose to awake at 4am to begin the day’s work before the heat becomes unbearable.
After much struggle to understand the dynamics of the World Vision team in Morrumbala, I finally gave up trying to maneuver my plans around my co-workers, and began scheduling meetings with my 4 youth groups at times that suit me and the kids. This seems to be what everyone wanted all along, and as a result, my schedule is beginning to resemble something of a real job. When I’m not traveling to and from the city for meetings, I spend 2-3 days a week in the office and the other days in the fields with the kids, which is less like pulling teeth each time we meet (they’re really starting to like me and look forward to our visits, and clearly enjoy the activities and games I bring). After preparing a 15x20 meter plot for corn and reviewing the water cycle with one group several days ago, I inquired whether they wouldn’t accompany me to a nearby Catholic mission, an enormous, beautiful old building that has stood abandoned ever since the civil war.
We walked around, careful not to step in piles of excrement (fowl and human alike…) and marveled at the immense structure, lamenting that no one has taken the initiative to repair and clean it up. After a lengthy and unnecessarily complicated debate about when we would next meet, I left feeling very satisfied with the day’s work, despite the many scratches on my hands and arms from mulching with 8 month dry grass.
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