Cape Town.
It's uncanny that a mere two and a half hours on a plane can take you to a place so exactly opposite from where you've spent the last year. And it was quite an enjoyable journey at that - it's amazing the difference between traveling on Mozambique's single airline to traveling with the world renowned South African Airlines. I usually hate flying, but an essentially empty plane with a steward who is eager to keep the white wine flowing makes for a pleasant trip! And if riding in cars made me pensive, then flying alone to a new country, yet again, is emotionally almost more than I can bear. I see that money buys the same things everywhere. Elaborate bushy sweaters for the cold months in the Cape, little girls in trendy leggings and pigtails, smiling people who can afford this direct flight. And I know that I am once again leaving those I care about behind, off to see new things and new people, all the while thinking of those I love but left back home long ago.
And then Cape Town. The land of traffic lights (called 'robots' by South Africans), bubble baths, 10pm sushi, 7am yoga, health food stores, museums, coffee shops, stainless steel bathroom fixtures that respond precisely to my temperature and pressure needs, zero struggle to make correct change in stores, recycling bins, wheat bread, washer AND dryer, the newest in fashion, and 5 different ethnic cuisine options on every block. I am beside myself, and more than a little ashamed that I have so easily fallen into the lap of exquisite luxury. Is this what I need to truly be happy? I maintain that I do not in fact NEED it, but is it wrong to want it? To just be grateful for my privilege and move forward?
Last night was an invite only Gibson guitar event that I managed to get into with the help of a friend. I'm so lucky to be here as someone's guest; it's enabled me to dive straight into the social scene, meeting musicians and getting to know all the best local spots. And I'm spending my days as a tourist, wandering around trying to keep my eyes in my head, discreetly ducking into a cafe to pull out my map from time to time. But really, it's quite an easy place to get to know. Big, but not confusing, and after yesterday's City Bus Tour (admittedly NOT the most discreet, but very informative and an efficient way to see the whole city in a hurry) I feel like I could walk just about anywhere I want to go. Maybe I'll go back down to the Water Front and have another Milk and Honey beer with a basket of fried seafood. Or cook up another Mexican feast for the neighbors. The possibilities are endless, and for now, I'm busy just trying to soak it all in. I'm almost thankful for this rainy day, to reflect on the past 3, send some emails, and convince myself this isn't all a dream.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Watering the Mambas
People say that Africa gets inside you, grabs a hold of something in you. That for many it’s hard to get away once you’ve lived in this land of red earth and tall grass. I’ve seen so many beautiful and so many terrible things this year, and I’ve often tried to put these experiences into words, perhaps sometimes succeeding in communicating the true sentiment of the moment to a reader.
There are many things I will miss. Fresh tropical fruit, and other foods of the season and region; last week we went to the mountain town of Gurue and came back with beans and sunflower seeds for roasting.
The Francisco family of Nguanje; the many children of this tight knit family make up the membership of one of my favorite (sshh) youth groups. This week we visited their garden together for the last time. Jacama kept running ahead of us, jumping out of each bushy hiding spot when we passed, singing one of our favorite tunes. The girls giggled and held my hands.
Cooking with Mozambican women; I cook with my best friend in her home in Quelimane almost daily. She blames me for making her gain weight, and I accept it. This week, we went to Morrumbala for a ‘Dia de Campo’, or field day, with my kids groups, spending the whole night before preparing vitamin rich foods like sweet potato juice and soy milk to share with the children at the celebration. My neighbors came to help as well, peeling oranges as we patted out sweet potato cakes. It was one of the best nights I’ve had in Morrumbala. And on our last night, we went to my neighbor’s house for a dinner of cow liver, my first, and apparently a Mozambican favorite. It wasn’t terrible, as most Americans might fear, but I was glad I chose this evening to teach them how to make banana pudding. A nice palate cleanser.
Other moments of excitement, shock, awe, anticipation, humility. Playing an extra in a Portuguese film. Near head-on collisions; who would expect another vehicle to come around that grassy middle-of-nowhere curve? An unexpected lunar eclipse viewed from the bush. A gift of a goat valuing 15 dollars, a fortune for this family who doesn’t have electricity or running water. Who live in a mud and grass hut in the middle of the bush. Stopping on the side of the road when you can’t hold it anymore to water the grass, and hopefully not water any mambas. Playing mancala in the dirt with kids who can’t write their own name, but who have mastered this intricate game of counting and strategy.
And also many times I just wanted to shut my eyes, to hold the tears in. Children fighting over the chance to have a small cup of soy milk or sweet potato juice; would this ever happen in America? Pedestrian mortalities. Ubiquitous Catholicism which has taken the place of traditional spiritual rites, the result of years of resource dumping into schools, churches, infrastructure. So much good has been done in the name of a God that was not born on this continent. The many, many, many instances of ‘what have you brought us?’ The culture of receiving has been so ingrained here, perpetuated by a generation of foreigners who wish to atone for the sins of their grandfathers, who often feel helpless to do anything but dump charity onto Africa and its people, who have thus transitioned from “Do what you’re told and you won’t be beaten” to “Do what you’re told and I’ll give you a t-shirt that advertises my organization”.
After our Dia de Campo, I was told that the community was very pleased with the day’s activities, but that they were quite displeased with the snack we brought. “Why?” I asked. They seemed to like the sweet potato juice and soy milk and cookies.“Oh yes, they did like them. But they were expecting a full meal.”
At the end of the day, we brought out a soccer ball and the kids played their hearts out until the setting sun commanded our departure. They would have played all night had we let them, and the next day too until their tired, skinny, dirty little legs would propel them no further and they collapsed to sleep, puppies in the dirt. Sometimes I think I’ll give up on effecting complicated social change and simply distribute soccer balls across Zambezia. But how then would I be any different from any of the other dumpers to whom I condescend? To give or not to give, that is the question. Were it as simple as taking the sweet potato off the plate of an 8 year old American who refuses to eat it and popping it into the mouth of a child in Africa…but we know the redistribution of resources depends on so many political, economic, and social factors. “There are starving kids in Africa” is true enough, but it doesn’t make the food come.
I often marvel at the stark differences between socio-economic classes; how must my Mozambican colleagues feel when they go to the bush and see their countrymen who have so much less than them? When they walk past a barefoot woman in the city streets, carrying all her belongings on her back? What they must feel is this: that could very easily be me, and I categorically refuse.
There are many things I will miss. Fresh tropical fruit, and other foods of the season and region; last week we went to the mountain town of Gurue and came back with beans and sunflower seeds for roasting.
The Francisco family of Nguanje; the many children of this tight knit family make up the membership of one of my favorite (sshh) youth groups. This week we visited their garden together for the last time. Jacama kept running ahead of us, jumping out of each bushy hiding spot when we passed, singing one of our favorite tunes. The girls giggled and held my hands.
Cooking with Mozambican women; I cook with my best friend in her home in Quelimane almost daily. She blames me for making her gain weight, and I accept it. This week, we went to Morrumbala for a ‘Dia de Campo’, or field day, with my kids groups, spending the whole night before preparing vitamin rich foods like sweet potato juice and soy milk to share with the children at the celebration. My neighbors came to help as well, peeling oranges as we patted out sweet potato cakes. It was one of the best nights I’ve had in Morrumbala. And on our last night, we went to my neighbor’s house for a dinner of cow liver, my first, and apparently a Mozambican favorite. It wasn’t terrible, as most Americans might fear, but I was glad I chose this evening to teach them how to make banana pudding. A nice palate cleanser.
Other moments of excitement, shock, awe, anticipation, humility. Playing an extra in a Portuguese film. Near head-on collisions; who would expect another vehicle to come around that grassy middle-of-nowhere curve? An unexpected lunar eclipse viewed from the bush. A gift of a goat valuing 15 dollars, a fortune for this family who doesn’t have electricity or running water. Who live in a mud and grass hut in the middle of the bush. Stopping on the side of the road when you can’t hold it anymore to water the grass, and hopefully not water any mambas. Playing mancala in the dirt with kids who can’t write their own name, but who have mastered this intricate game of counting and strategy.
And also many times I just wanted to shut my eyes, to hold the tears in. Children fighting over the chance to have a small cup of soy milk or sweet potato juice; would this ever happen in America? Pedestrian mortalities. Ubiquitous Catholicism which has taken the place of traditional spiritual rites, the result of years of resource dumping into schools, churches, infrastructure. So much good has been done in the name of a God that was not born on this continent. The many, many, many instances of ‘what have you brought us?’ The culture of receiving has been so ingrained here, perpetuated by a generation of foreigners who wish to atone for the sins of their grandfathers, who often feel helpless to do anything but dump charity onto Africa and its people, who have thus transitioned from “Do what you’re told and you won’t be beaten” to “Do what you’re told and I’ll give you a t-shirt that advertises my organization”.
After our Dia de Campo, I was told that the community was very pleased with the day’s activities, but that they were quite displeased with the snack we brought. “Why?” I asked. They seemed to like the sweet potato juice and soy milk and cookies.“Oh yes, they did like them. But they were expecting a full meal.”
At the end of the day, we brought out a soccer ball and the kids played their hearts out until the setting sun commanded our departure. They would have played all night had we let them, and the next day too until their tired, skinny, dirty little legs would propel them no further and they collapsed to sleep, puppies in the dirt. Sometimes I think I’ll give up on effecting complicated social change and simply distribute soccer balls across Zambezia. But how then would I be any different from any of the other dumpers to whom I condescend? To give or not to give, that is the question. Were it as simple as taking the sweet potato off the plate of an 8 year old American who refuses to eat it and popping it into the mouth of a child in Africa…but we know the redistribution of resources depends on so many political, economic, and social factors. “There are starving kids in Africa” is true enough, but it doesn’t make the food come.
I often marvel at the stark differences between socio-economic classes; how must my Mozambican colleagues feel when they go to the bush and see their countrymen who have so much less than them? When they walk past a barefoot woman in the city streets, carrying all her belongings on her back? What they must feel is this: that could very easily be me, and I categorically refuse.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Speed of Light
I’ve written on this topic several times before, but highway etiquette here never ceases to amaze me and makes for endless amounts of writing material. Nine months in this country and my teeth must be ground to nubs. All drivers are constantly on the offensive, laying on the horn when I, in their place, would reduce my speed significantly, and nary a seatbelt in sight. Both north and southbound travelers treat the same road as though it were one way. And until recently, I maintained hope that all the stories I heard of vehicular homicide involving NGO or government cars and rural pedestrians would remain just that: stories. Unfortunate tales that I could try not to think about. But this week, as I accompanied some colleagues visiting from another district to see the junior farmer groups in our province, we came upon an accident that left me short of breath. The feet of a frail woman, most likely old beyond her years, protruding from a black cloth spread across the center of the road. Lettuce from her basket scattered across the lanes, and a government car pulled off on the side of the road.
The woman who sat in front of me crossed herself, and we traveled on. There was nothing else to do.
Another story, the validity of which I hope to never witness proof of, is that of women who actively shove their children into the road when they see NGO cars coming, hoping to receive handsome compensation for the ensuing injury or death. Absolute desperation does very ugly things to a person, and I thank the heavens and whatever is up there every day that life has handed me such good fortune.
The woman who sat in front of me crossed herself, and we traveled on. There was nothing else to do.
Another story, the validity of which I hope to never witness proof of, is that of women who actively shove their children into the road when they see NGO cars coming, hoping to receive handsome compensation for the ensuing injury or death. Absolute desperation does very ugly things to a person, and I thank the heavens and whatever is up there every day that life has handed me such good fortune.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Crocodile Crossing
Road-signs are a bit different here, most notably the ones framing low bridges that warn passersby to mind the crocodiles. “Cuidado Com Crocodilo”. And people would do well to heed this warning, as I just learned that more deaths are caused by crocodiles than any other animal in Mozambique. Not at all surprising, considering that large animal populations in this country have declined significantly in the past several decades. What was a bit surprising was the information that a crocodile had somehow made its way to Quelimane, a relatively large city, where it promptly took up residence in a canal and began terrorizing the neighborhood. My initial reaction was “Why doesn’t the government get rid of it, even shoot it if necessary? After all, a human life must be more valuable than a crocodile’s” and the unexpected response I received was that the crocodile hasn’t hurt anyone (yet) and they would have animal rights groups all over their case. Animal rights groups? In Mozambique?? Where wildlife populations have been systematically obliterated without the bat of an eye? Huh. Guess it’s never too late to start caring.
The numerical results that foreign donor groups demand from on the ground NGO staff often pose unfortunate limitations on our ability to focus a sufficient amount of attention and resources on projects that have the potential to produce very meaningful results. Instead of consistently supporting a modest number of beneficiaries, we’re often running around trying to start ‘x’ number of groups with ‘x’ number of members receiving ‘x’ number of visits in order for quarterly reports to seem meaty when they reach Washington. Conversely, huge amounts of money and effort are dedicated to one-day events that have no real impact on the people our organization was designed to support and care for.
For so many people, this is just a job. Not one they chose because they want to make a difference, but simply the best option for carving out a lifestyle free from the poverty we would, in theory, alleviate. NGOs are among the most important employers in Africa, making for an interesting dynamic. For me, the machine is often frustrating, and has me longing to belong to a smaller, organic operation, albeit working on the same types of projects. But for many of my colleagues, the largest concern is, naturally, where they will find work when their 2-3 year life-of-project contract is up.
And although that has nothing to do with city-dwelling crocodiles, it leaves me equally riled up.
The numerical results that foreign donor groups demand from on the ground NGO staff often pose unfortunate limitations on our ability to focus a sufficient amount of attention and resources on projects that have the potential to produce very meaningful results. Instead of consistently supporting a modest number of beneficiaries, we’re often running around trying to start ‘x’ number of groups with ‘x’ number of members receiving ‘x’ number of visits in order for quarterly reports to seem meaty when they reach Washington. Conversely, huge amounts of money and effort are dedicated to one-day events that have no real impact on the people our organization was designed to support and care for.
For so many people, this is just a job. Not one they chose because they want to make a difference, but simply the best option for carving out a lifestyle free from the poverty we would, in theory, alleviate. NGOs are among the most important employers in Africa, making for an interesting dynamic. For me, the machine is often frustrating, and has me longing to belong to a smaller, organic operation, albeit working on the same types of projects. But for many of my colleagues, the largest concern is, naturally, where they will find work when their 2-3 year life-of-project contract is up.
And although that has nothing to do with city-dwelling crocodiles, it leaves me equally riled up.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Grasshopper Graveyard
When I leave in July, I will certainly miss the sites that a small Mozambican city has to offer. Young men holding hands in the street. Two women walking side by side in identical wraps. An old man in a black fedora, riding a pink bicycle with a basket on the front.
Other things I won’t miss so much. It seems every time I return home, a different bug has set up camp in my humble abode (and even, at times, inside my humble body, although that’s another story. The one that tells of all the parasites I have had in the past few years). This time, it was the grasshoppers. Brown ones, green ones, fast ones, slow ones, but at least they crunch when you kill them, as opposed to making the much less desirable squish of a big hairy spider.
All creatures great and small are an important part of daily life here. Mozambicans are endlessly entertained by the commentary a passing piglet in the road can inspire. “That one was asking for it! We almost had a barbeque tonight – hahaha!” Every time.
Other things I won’t miss so much. It seems every time I return home, a different bug has set up camp in my humble abode (and even, at times, inside my humble body, although that’s another story. The one that tells of all the parasites I have had in the past few years). This time, it was the grasshoppers. Brown ones, green ones, fast ones, slow ones, but at least they crunch when you kill them, as opposed to making the much less desirable squish of a big hairy spider.
All creatures great and small are an important part of daily life here. Mozambicans are endlessly entertained by the commentary a passing piglet in the road can inspire. “That one was asking for it! We almost had a barbeque tonight – hahaha!” Every time.
A Love Affair With Food
I fell in love with food in Africa. Maybe I also fell in love with Africa through food, but that’s a different story.
Comforts are so few and far between here, so the amount of pleasure a well-thought out and carefully executed meal brings is remarkable. And although it takes a lot of effort and careful planning, I have the resources to frequently create a wide variety of exciting and flavorful meals. This is not the case for most rural Africans, who have experienced significant hunger for so long that food has become the apex of much of their folklore.
“See that mountain over there? With the big white rock on the front of it? That is a door that spirits travel through.”
“Oh? And what do they find when they get inside? Gold? Treasure?”
“No. They find food. Endless quantities of food.”
Comforts are so few and far between here, so the amount of pleasure a well-thought out and carefully executed meal brings is remarkable. And although it takes a lot of effort and careful planning, I have the resources to frequently create a wide variety of exciting and flavorful meals. This is not the case for most rural Africans, who have experienced significant hunger for so long that food has become the apex of much of their folklore.
“See that mountain over there? With the big white rock on the front of it? That is a door that spirits travel through.”
“Oh? And what do they find when they get inside? Gold? Treasure?”
“No. They find food. Endless quantities of food.”
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Six Miles to the End of the World
It’s amazing how far 6 miles can feel when you’re crashing through the bush down rutted dirt roads. Where every bean tree and corn stalk looks like the last and within 5 minutes, you’re hopelessly disoriented.
After finishing up a visit to 2 new and distant groups yesterday, my driver and I got a bit of a late start heading home. I asked before we departed if he knew how to get back – our guides informed us they were staying behind to head to their nearby homes – and he assured me that he did.
About 30 minutes later, we came to a huge puddle (pond really) in the road that we definitely hadn’t crossed on our way there. Questioning a passerby, we found that we had missed our turn by a long shot. But within a minute, the driver had me convinced he had this under control. Even though every road here looks the same to me, he has had a lot of practice orienting himself using mountains and sun position, so even though we were on a different route, he was still confident he could get us home. So we plunged nose first into the pond.
And promptly got stuck.
I must have let out a frustrated (or terrified because oh-my-god-i’m-not-sleeping-in-this-truck-in-the-bush-with-no-cell-service) sigh because he immediately took to reassuring me. ‘Don’t worry! We’ll get out!’ (He starts taking off his shoes) ‘A much bigger truck passed by here not long ago, so we’re just fine!’ (The socks come off). ‘I’ll just step out here and hook up the traction!’ (I have no idea what he’s talking about and am trying to breathe slowly.)
He hopped out of the car, did something to the front wheels, hopped back in, and freed us without much more ado. I relaxed, but would not do so completely until I got home. The quick African night was upon us and we still had to navigate our way around a new bridge not yet equipped for the passing of vehicles.
After finishing up a visit to 2 new and distant groups yesterday, my driver and I got a bit of a late start heading home. I asked before we departed if he knew how to get back – our guides informed us they were staying behind to head to their nearby homes – and he assured me that he did.
About 30 minutes later, we came to a huge puddle (pond really) in the road that we definitely hadn’t crossed on our way there. Questioning a passerby, we found that we had missed our turn by a long shot. But within a minute, the driver had me convinced he had this under control. Even though every road here looks the same to me, he has had a lot of practice orienting himself using mountains and sun position, so even though we were on a different route, he was still confident he could get us home. So we plunged nose first into the pond.
And promptly got stuck.
I must have let out a frustrated (or terrified because oh-my-god-i’m-not-sleeping-in-this-truck-in-the-bush-with-no-cell-service) sigh because he immediately took to reassuring me. ‘Don’t worry! We’ll get out!’ (He starts taking off his shoes) ‘A much bigger truck passed by here not long ago, so we’re just fine!’ (The socks come off). ‘I’ll just step out here and hook up the traction!’ (I have no idea what he’s talking about and am trying to breathe slowly.)
He hopped out of the car, did something to the front wheels, hopped back in, and freed us without much more ado. I relaxed, but would not do so completely until I got home. The quick African night was upon us and we still had to navigate our way around a new bridge not yet equipped for the passing of vehicles.
High Highs and Low Lows
I feel certain that never again in my life will I have a job that is equally heartbreaking as it is rewarding. Yesterday I visited a new group of kids for the first time and was absolutely blown away by them; their attitude, their responsiveness, their vegetable garden – everything was impressive and inspiring. They proudly showed me where they had planted carrots, onions, cabbage, collards and asked that I bring them tomato seeds and a notebook so that they can keep track of their work. Maybe the program can survive when I’m gone after all!
And then today. I visited one of the first groups I started months back and their plots were abominable. Waste high weeds and all their vegetable seedlings had dies from a lack of water and mulching. I didn’t even know what to say, so I sat down on the ground, right where I stood in the vegetable garden, and asked what was going on. They were reluctant to speak at all, and only mumbled that some members weren’t pulling their weight with the watering/weeding schedule and that the sun was very strong.
I remind myself that the new group is just that – a new group. They’re still excited, the magic hasn’t worn off. But if my auxiliaries were doing their jobs (and some are more than others) and integrating work with play and education, I like to think that the kids would stay inspired year round. I can’t be everywhere at once, and come August, I won’t be anywhere near them. So I remind myself (I’m always reminding myself, so as not to slump into hopeless depression) that it doesn’t really matter if none of these groups stick with it and become Mozambique’s best vegetable farmers. What matters is that they gain something, be it emotional, educational, or purely recreational, from the experience.
A recent article from the economist, a special piece on food security, explains just how difficult it is to produce food in Africa, as if I needed any more proof. The soil is exhausted, people can’t afford fertilizers, and perhaps most importantly, water is extremely hard to come by. So the fact that these kids are out there at all has to count for something. And I’ll try not to take it so personally that a lot of them show up simply because they hope to get a ride in the bed of my truck.
And then today. I visited one of the first groups I started months back and their plots were abominable. Waste high weeds and all their vegetable seedlings had dies from a lack of water and mulching. I didn’t even know what to say, so I sat down on the ground, right where I stood in the vegetable garden, and asked what was going on. They were reluctant to speak at all, and only mumbled that some members weren’t pulling their weight with the watering/weeding schedule and that the sun was very strong.
I remind myself that the new group is just that – a new group. They’re still excited, the magic hasn’t worn off. But if my auxiliaries were doing their jobs (and some are more than others) and integrating work with play and education, I like to think that the kids would stay inspired year round. I can’t be everywhere at once, and come August, I won’t be anywhere near them. So I remind myself (I’m always reminding myself, so as not to slump into hopeless depression) that it doesn’t really matter if none of these groups stick with it and become Mozambique’s best vegetable farmers. What matters is that they gain something, be it emotional, educational, or purely recreational, from the experience.
A recent article from the economist, a special piece on food security, explains just how difficult it is to produce food in Africa, as if I needed any more proof. The soil is exhausted, people can’t afford fertilizers, and perhaps most importantly, water is extremely hard to come by. So the fact that these kids are out there at all has to count for something. And I’ll try not to take it so personally that a lot of them show up simply because they hope to get a ride in the bed of my truck.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Black as Night
Simple things give me great pleasure these days. Wearing my socks inside out so the seams don’t bother my toes. Imagining ice cubes made of coffee. A big steaming plate of matapa. A young boy wearing a shirt that says ‘Gimme a kiss’, stuffing his dirty little face with porridge. Naked babies that run dripping from the bath and screaming with laughter, black skin glistening, dark as night. Cool water is everyone’s best friend.
Upon finding out that I’ve been admitted to NYU for Fall 2011, I accidentally stayed at the office way too late using the internet, then realized I would have to bike home in the pitch black. So of course, nervous and blind and riding too fast, I drove over a hole in the road and went tumbling ass over elbow. Luckily the bike was still rideable, and adrenaline kept the pain away until I was safe and sound in my house.
When I got home, I was shocked to realize it was only 6:30. When darkness comes to Africa, it wastes no time. The sun sets and then, black night.
I’ve spent the past few days in Pebane, a tiny coastal town, helping my colleagues prepare for a health and nutrition fair held on April 7th – National Women’s Day in Mozambique. Many organizations prepared displays and activities for the fair; the purpose of our table was to promote the incorporation of highly nutritious and readily available foods, such as soy beans and sweet potatoes, into the diets of rural women and children. We spent the entire day before preparing cakes and fritters, and when night rolled around, as abrupt and dark as ever, we found ourselves preparing juice by headlamp and listening to Justin Bieber on someone’s computer. (A group of 5 or more people together at night always constitutes a music-worthy party, and that little punk sure is popular here!) A black dog that was docile and friendly all day, adorable holding a coconut shell between his paws and scratching out the oily white meat with his teeth, takes up his role as guard as soon as the sun goes down, barking valiantly at anything that moves. How do they know?
Then the fair. I was, as always, the lone white girl in a sea of black eyes, but many more than usual this time. As soon as word got around that we were giving free samples of fresh soy milk – which took all of 5 seconds – we couldn’t keep the crowds back. Piles of hungry kids, arms outstretched, all but jumped over our tables, even as the men in our group physically restrained them. Such a mix of emotions these situations produce: these kids are all malnourished and need soy milk and sweet potatoes every day, but the goal of the fair was for them to learn about the products and be able to make them in their own homes, not just suck down the current stock. In addition, they were wildly disobedient and made for a very stressful environment. Still, we need more events like this in Mozambique, and hopefully some of the women who visited our stand to buy cakes before all hell broke loose will replicate these nutritious recipes in their own homes. We had planned to charge a symbolic price for all items, milk included. But it’s impossible to deny a child a small cup when she has no money, even if you can predict the rioting that it will cause.
And there’s no amount of stress that a freshly caught grilled rock fish and a dip in the Indian Ocean can’t cure.
Upon finding out that I’ve been admitted to NYU for Fall 2011, I accidentally stayed at the office way too late using the internet, then realized I would have to bike home in the pitch black. So of course, nervous and blind and riding too fast, I drove over a hole in the road and went tumbling ass over elbow. Luckily the bike was still rideable, and adrenaline kept the pain away until I was safe and sound in my house.
When I got home, I was shocked to realize it was only 6:30. When darkness comes to Africa, it wastes no time. The sun sets and then, black night.
I’ve spent the past few days in Pebane, a tiny coastal town, helping my colleagues prepare for a health and nutrition fair held on April 7th – National Women’s Day in Mozambique. Many organizations prepared displays and activities for the fair; the purpose of our table was to promote the incorporation of highly nutritious and readily available foods, such as soy beans and sweet potatoes, into the diets of rural women and children. We spent the entire day before preparing cakes and fritters, and when night rolled around, as abrupt and dark as ever, we found ourselves preparing juice by headlamp and listening to Justin Bieber on someone’s computer. (A group of 5 or more people together at night always constitutes a music-worthy party, and that little punk sure is popular here!) A black dog that was docile and friendly all day, adorable holding a coconut shell between his paws and scratching out the oily white meat with his teeth, takes up his role as guard as soon as the sun goes down, barking valiantly at anything that moves. How do they know?
Then the fair. I was, as always, the lone white girl in a sea of black eyes, but many more than usual this time. As soon as word got around that we were giving free samples of fresh soy milk – which took all of 5 seconds – we couldn’t keep the crowds back. Piles of hungry kids, arms outstretched, all but jumped over our tables, even as the men in our group physically restrained them. Such a mix of emotions these situations produce: these kids are all malnourished and need soy milk and sweet potatoes every day, but the goal of the fair was for them to learn about the products and be able to make them in their own homes, not just suck down the current stock. In addition, they were wildly disobedient and made for a very stressful environment. Still, we need more events like this in Mozambique, and hopefully some of the women who visited our stand to buy cakes before all hell broke loose will replicate these nutritious recipes in their own homes. We had planned to charge a symbolic price for all items, milk included. But it’s impossible to deny a child a small cup when she has no money, even if you can predict the rioting that it will cause.
And there’s no amount of stress that a freshly caught grilled rock fish and a dip in the Indian Ocean can’t cure.
Privilege and Motives
Peace Corps volunteers are conditioned to do whatever we can to fit in. To spend 2 years (or more) trying to “integrate”, living on 200-300 dollars a month, having authentic experiences. And it’s an important learning process. But somewhere along the way, about 2 ½ years down the road maybe, you realize you can’t fit in. Not really. That you never will. I never will. And that’s because anyone I work with, given the opportunity, would swap lives with me. Not that they want to leave Mozambique, or be American, but they would take the privileges I grew up with in a heartbeat. Sometimes I worry that that means that the integration I’ve tried to achieve is a mockery of their lives, of a situation that they never chose. At the very least, it’s self-serving, perhaps ironically, perhaps not.
When this is over, I know that I will make a smooth transition back to life in America. Maybe I’ll go to grad school in a big city. I’ll eat junk food for a while, but then I’ll set rules for myself. Maybe I won’t remember all the details of the DR and Mozambique. But I’ll never lose all the things I’ve learned simply by being here.
And not all of those things are beautiful.
Many white South African business owners in Mozambique harbor post-colonial hatred for dark-skinned Mozambicans while simultaneously profiting from the country’s natural resources. They work in the tourism industry, building beautiful hunting and fishing lodges that are meant for foreigners and priced thusly. When Mozambican NGO workers stay at these lodges while traveling for work, the tension becomes palpable. After visiting one such lodge yesterday afternoon, and having a beer with the deceivingly pleasant South African owners, one of our colleagues who had 2 extra beds in her room invited us to come back and sleep at the lodge. But upon our return around 8pm, with another friend in tow who planned to camp on the beach, the owners threw a race-based hissy-fit of historic proportions. To tell us that camping on the beach isn’t allowed is one thing – to storm into our colleague’s room looking for stowaways; to cut my friend off while he’s trying to apologize for assuming camping was allowed by proclaiming ‘I didn’t expect this from a white person’; to demand that we vacate the premises immediately because ‘this is not a South African squatter camp’ – all of that is a whole different story.
I left feeling shocked by some of the blatantly racist comments that these proprietors made, and glad to be on the other side of a war that clearly never ended. Now my Mozambican colleague’s discomfort around the South Africans living and prospering financially in Moz makes more sense; they’ve clearly seen this before.
When this is over, I know that I will make a smooth transition back to life in America. Maybe I’ll go to grad school in a big city. I’ll eat junk food for a while, but then I’ll set rules for myself. Maybe I won’t remember all the details of the DR and Mozambique. But I’ll never lose all the things I’ve learned simply by being here.
And not all of those things are beautiful.
Many white South African business owners in Mozambique harbor post-colonial hatred for dark-skinned Mozambicans while simultaneously profiting from the country’s natural resources. They work in the tourism industry, building beautiful hunting and fishing lodges that are meant for foreigners and priced thusly. When Mozambican NGO workers stay at these lodges while traveling for work, the tension becomes palpable. After visiting one such lodge yesterday afternoon, and having a beer with the deceivingly pleasant South African owners, one of our colleagues who had 2 extra beds in her room invited us to come back and sleep at the lodge. But upon our return around 8pm, with another friend in tow who planned to camp on the beach, the owners threw a race-based hissy-fit of historic proportions. To tell us that camping on the beach isn’t allowed is one thing – to storm into our colleague’s room looking for stowaways; to cut my friend off while he’s trying to apologize for assuming camping was allowed by proclaiming ‘I didn’t expect this from a white person’; to demand that we vacate the premises immediately because ‘this is not a South African squatter camp’ – all of that is a whole different story.
I left feeling shocked by some of the blatantly racist comments that these proprietors made, and glad to be on the other side of a war that clearly never ended. Now my Mozambican colleague’s discomfort around the South Africans living and prospering financially in Moz makes more sense; they’ve clearly seen this before.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Lives We Lead
As the only foreigner working with World Vision in Morrumbala, and a white woman to boot, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my coworkers will always treat me differently. I don’t think it’s really racism; it’s more complicated than that. Even if one was inclined to dislike white people, they know unabashed prejudice is out of style. They’re kind and respectful to me, if reserved, almost as if they originally expected me to act superior (Because so many foreign whites have acted that way. So many still do) and are now reconciling that with the fact that I’m actually friendly, smiley, and look younger than I am. I try to imagine what it would be like if a dark-skinned foreigner entered an all-white work environment in America (do those exist anymore? I’m sure they do), speaking broken English and attempting to integrate into projects. People would smile and be cordial and helpful, especially for the first couple of weeks, maybe even take him or her out for a drink after work. But would they ever really connect?
Every woman we drive past on the road has a baby strapped to her. Every last one. Health organizations proclaim ‘family planning is key!’, but telling people it’s a good idea to limit the number of children they have and handing out birth control pills won’t have any effect on a Mozambican man’s idea of family. He needs to prove that he is virile, and can be the head of a family. He wants dozens of little workers for his fields, even if he can’t feed them. So, every woman on the road has a baby strapped to her. Every last one.
I’m learning that it’s not just me who needs to spend weekends in the city, who feels that there’s no real potential for a social or personal life in Morrumbala. It’s all the rural NGO workers. We lead transitive lives. I heard a Mozambican coworker saying the other day that no one longs to build a life in Morrumbala; you have to go where the work takes you. She said if you stay too long in the campo, the city is shocking upon your return. I was intrigued to find out that Mozambicans who have lived here their whole lives feel the same way that I do. In some ways, we’re not that different after all.
Every woman we drive past on the road has a baby strapped to her. Every last one. Health organizations proclaim ‘family planning is key!’, but telling people it’s a good idea to limit the number of children they have and handing out birth control pills won’t have any effect on a Mozambican man’s idea of family. He needs to prove that he is virile, and can be the head of a family. He wants dozens of little workers for his fields, even if he can’t feed them. So, every woman on the road has a baby strapped to her. Every last one.
I’m learning that it’s not just me who needs to spend weekends in the city, who feels that there’s no real potential for a social or personal life in Morrumbala. It’s all the rural NGO workers. We lead transitive lives. I heard a Mozambican coworker saying the other day that no one longs to build a life in Morrumbala; you have to go where the work takes you. She said if you stay too long in the campo, the city is shocking upon your return. I was intrigued to find out that Mozambicans who have lived here their whole lives feel the same way that I do. In some ways, we’re not that different after all.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Three Years of Heat
After a night of sleep made very rough by intense heat, I awoke wishing more than anything that I was heading to work in a big chilly city. I could stop and grab an enormous coffee, and I wouldn’t even mind being caught in traffic. I could listen to NPR.
Instead, I woke up just as overheated and damp as I had gone to bed the night before. I pulled on my clothes, ate a squishy ripe banana, and slathered my face in sunscreen in the bumpy truck ride to the campo.
I thought the worst of the hottest season was behind us. Think again, loira*.
*loira = blondie
Instead, I woke up just as overheated and damp as I had gone to bed the night before. I pulled on my clothes, ate a squishy ripe banana, and slathered my face in sunscreen in the bumpy truck ride to the campo.
I thought the worst of the hottest season was behind us. Think again, loira*.
*loira = blondie
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A World Map of Scars
My body has become a world map of scars. Everywhere I go, I carry stories with me, some more exciting than others. On my knee, from falling down on a dirt road hill in the Dominican campo, tearing an even bigger hole in my old jeans. A scratch on my stomach from Chinola, in my house in the DR. My foot, from a piece of rebar sticking out of the sidewalk around a baseball stadium in Santo Domingo. The other side of my foot, a spider bite maybe, here in my house in Moz, and another mark reminding me of the Christmas holidays I spent barefoot in Tofu. And now two more bites on my arm and knee that will surely scar. I take the world with me wherever I go.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Buckle Up
Some days I wish I could just take a truck and drive around all day giving lifts to people going here and there with incredible loads, on their heads or balanced on bicycles. Eight bamboo floor mats rolled up and stacked one on top of the other. Ten bags of charcoal. Twenty, forty, sixty liters of water. Other days I’m incredibly frustrated that people seem to have no healthy fear of cars and the road. How is it possible that they are not at all worried about being run over? I’ve asked this question so many times, both in my head and aloud, and a few days ago, my new driver gave a shocking but also credible response: they know that if they get hit by an organization car (very identifiable with our brightly painted logos) then they’re in for a lot of money. So they don’t try that hard to get out of the way. In fact, according to him, they actively WANT to be hit.
But what does he know? He ran over my neighbor’s papaya tree and didn’t even apologize.
But what does he know? He ran over my neighbor’s papaya tree and didn’t even apologize.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Nightlife
I arrived to Quelimane on Friday, looking, to quote a friend, “like an aid worker from the Sudan”. Hair a-tumble, skin caked brown with dust, which could almost be mistaken for a great tan were it not for the sweat streaks running down my neck. Ah yes, this is why I avoid public transport at all costs.
On Sunday, they picked me up in a huge truck to return to Morrumbala. I didn’t even see them waiting on the side of the road at first because I was expecting our usual, an average sized pickup truck. The driver was prepared for the long haul, drinking straight from a sweating 2 liter bottle of Coke. He clearly knew something I did not.
And then it was revealed to me. We would be taking a detour to pick up some bicycles in another quite distant community before returning home. Is that ok with you Mica? Well we’re already on our way, so I suppose so. Never mind that it’s already 4 o’clock. The truck doesn’t even belong to my organization, so I can hardly complain.
When we stop to pick up another passenger, someone who actually belongs to the same organization as the truck but whom the driver didn’t know was coming along when he agreed to take me, the man is startled to see me in his seat. His surprise turns to loathing when he is informed that he will be riding in the bed of the truck all the way to Mopeia. ‘Who is this entitled white woman?’ his face says. ‘It’s not my fault!’ I silently retort. I want to yell it, but instead I just play dumb as I usually do in these situations. And I resist the urge to apologize because that would be admitting that I was privy to this arrangement.
So I try not to think about the angry man bouncing along in the truck bed. Inside the cab the mood is light. (Well, other than the endless close calls with pedestrians and cyclists. Drivers here have such an attitude about those who get in their way, almost as if they wouldn’t mind killing a few if it would teach the others a lesson.) The other person riding along with us is an unusually empowered, forward thinking young woman who spent several years living in the capital city of Maputo, which can make a big difference on a person’s outlook. When the driver received a few phone calls that were obviously from a woman, our car-mate began to chide him shamelessly, asking what he thought he was doing taking on all these girlfriends when he has a wife at home, poor thing washing his clothes and just waiting for her man to come home from work. I couldn’t help but giggle, a bit nervously – everyone knows many Mozambican men are unfaithful to their wives, some openly, others covertly, but hardly anyone talks about it. My poorly concealed amusement only fueled the fire, and soon he was in full-on defense mode, hopelessly negating the obvious. All in all, not your average Mozzie car-talk.
In the late afternoon light, a strange and unnatural red and white light goes streaking through the sky, like a plane crash. Soon it was dark. I was surprised by the first owl, but quickly became accustomed to these huge, graceful creatures decorating the dirt roads we crossed. We don’t travel at night very often. Finally we arrive in Mopeia, where we spend an hour at the office, unloading this, loading that, etc. When we finally take off again, it’s past 8 o’clock and we have many kilometers of dirt road ahead of us.
On this final leg of our nocturnal journey, a single bunny barely escapes the crush of the tires. I think both my travel buddies were hoping for rabbit stew. Then a much more foreboding creature appears: an enormous black snake is crossing the road in front of us. Much too big to be a mamba, but likely still deadly. The driver swerves to miss it, and the other passenger makes me roll up my window lest the creature was able to get a belly-hold onto the truck. “It might have jumped on!” I know this is preposterous, but still feel a little better once the window is closed. Now every gnarled branch in the road poses an imminent threat. I imagine all the snakes and baboons of these forests in their own sinister, evening fight club. I notice too late that I’ve been involuntarily flexing my abs, trying to stay put in my seat as we cross over the bumpiest of terrains. Now my stomach is sore.
When I finally arrive home around 11pm – a ridiculously late hour for me to return to my house at site – I kill a spider-ant that is so fat it spurts brown guts half a foot across the floor as I jump on it. I think he thought I had moved out and the place was up for grabs. Sorry chubby.
And now I’m back to trying to let go of things out of my control, particularly transport troubles. On Monday I was supposed to head out very early in the morning in order to visit 2kids groups. But the car had a flat tire and wasn’t ready until 10 so I only got to visit one group. The others were left waiting. The next day we drove out to see the group that I had missed, fully aware that no one would be around. Fortunately we ran into a few of the kids and I apologized profusely for a situation that was out of my hands. Some days I think, “I could be doing so much more. If I didn’t need time for me, to breathe and take it all in and separate myself from all of it. And if I had the resources to realize all of my ideas: money, cars, fuel, staff, etc. I could really do a lot more.”
Not wanting the day to be a total waste, I decided to do an interview with one of the volunteer midwives who works at the hospital next to the kids’ garden. I had been planning to interview the nurse first but she’s a busy lady, and now she’s on vacation for a whole month in the city. So I sat down with the midwife and one of my coworkers who could translate from her local Sena into Portuguese that I can understand, and we talked about the maternity ward: her work as a midwife, resources the hospital is lacking, etc. The goal of gathering this information, along with photos, is to build a support network between this hospital and potential donors in the United States, namely churches or women’s groups.
Yesterday was also International Women’s Day, a fact I had strangely forgotten when I was conducting the interview. My neighbor had mentioned a party in passing, but I was still startled when, around 6 o’clock, a stunningly beautiful young woman I had never seen before arrived at my house and informed me that she had come to escort me to a party at her house, where I found my neighbor happy-drunk, swaying to the music and reveling in her womanhood. Everyone cheered when I walked in – did they think I wasn’t going to come? How lame do they think I am?? I gotta get out more.
On Sunday, they picked me up in a huge truck to return to Morrumbala. I didn’t even see them waiting on the side of the road at first because I was expecting our usual, an average sized pickup truck. The driver was prepared for the long haul, drinking straight from a sweating 2 liter bottle of Coke. He clearly knew something I did not.
And then it was revealed to me. We would be taking a detour to pick up some bicycles in another quite distant community before returning home. Is that ok with you Mica? Well we’re already on our way, so I suppose so. Never mind that it’s already 4 o’clock. The truck doesn’t even belong to my organization, so I can hardly complain.
When we stop to pick up another passenger, someone who actually belongs to the same organization as the truck but whom the driver didn’t know was coming along when he agreed to take me, the man is startled to see me in his seat. His surprise turns to loathing when he is informed that he will be riding in the bed of the truck all the way to Mopeia. ‘Who is this entitled white woman?’ his face says. ‘It’s not my fault!’ I silently retort. I want to yell it, but instead I just play dumb as I usually do in these situations. And I resist the urge to apologize because that would be admitting that I was privy to this arrangement.
So I try not to think about the angry man bouncing along in the truck bed. Inside the cab the mood is light. (Well, other than the endless close calls with pedestrians and cyclists. Drivers here have such an attitude about those who get in their way, almost as if they wouldn’t mind killing a few if it would teach the others a lesson.) The other person riding along with us is an unusually empowered, forward thinking young woman who spent several years living in the capital city of Maputo, which can make a big difference on a person’s outlook. When the driver received a few phone calls that were obviously from a woman, our car-mate began to chide him shamelessly, asking what he thought he was doing taking on all these girlfriends when he has a wife at home, poor thing washing his clothes and just waiting for her man to come home from work. I couldn’t help but giggle, a bit nervously – everyone knows many Mozambican men are unfaithful to their wives, some openly, others covertly, but hardly anyone talks about it. My poorly concealed amusement only fueled the fire, and soon he was in full-on defense mode, hopelessly negating the obvious. All in all, not your average Mozzie car-talk.
In the late afternoon light, a strange and unnatural red and white light goes streaking through the sky, like a plane crash. Soon it was dark. I was surprised by the first owl, but quickly became accustomed to these huge, graceful creatures decorating the dirt roads we crossed. We don’t travel at night very often. Finally we arrive in Mopeia, where we spend an hour at the office, unloading this, loading that, etc. When we finally take off again, it’s past 8 o’clock and we have many kilometers of dirt road ahead of us.
On this final leg of our nocturnal journey, a single bunny barely escapes the crush of the tires. I think both my travel buddies were hoping for rabbit stew. Then a much more foreboding creature appears: an enormous black snake is crossing the road in front of us. Much too big to be a mamba, but likely still deadly. The driver swerves to miss it, and the other passenger makes me roll up my window lest the creature was able to get a belly-hold onto the truck. “It might have jumped on!” I know this is preposterous, but still feel a little better once the window is closed. Now every gnarled branch in the road poses an imminent threat. I imagine all the snakes and baboons of these forests in their own sinister, evening fight club. I notice too late that I’ve been involuntarily flexing my abs, trying to stay put in my seat as we cross over the bumpiest of terrains. Now my stomach is sore.
When I finally arrive home around 11pm – a ridiculously late hour for me to return to my house at site – I kill a spider-ant that is so fat it spurts brown guts half a foot across the floor as I jump on it. I think he thought I had moved out and the place was up for grabs. Sorry chubby.
And now I’m back to trying to let go of things out of my control, particularly transport troubles. On Monday I was supposed to head out very early in the morning in order to visit 2kids groups. But the car had a flat tire and wasn’t ready until 10 so I only got to visit one group. The others were left waiting. The next day we drove out to see the group that I had missed, fully aware that no one would be around. Fortunately we ran into a few of the kids and I apologized profusely for a situation that was out of my hands. Some days I think, “I could be doing so much more. If I didn’t need time for me, to breathe and take it all in and separate myself from all of it. And if I had the resources to realize all of my ideas: money, cars, fuel, staff, etc. I could really do a lot more.”
Not wanting the day to be a total waste, I decided to do an interview with one of the volunteer midwives who works at the hospital next to the kids’ garden. I had been planning to interview the nurse first but she’s a busy lady, and now she’s on vacation for a whole month in the city. So I sat down with the midwife and one of my coworkers who could translate from her local Sena into Portuguese that I can understand, and we talked about the maternity ward: her work as a midwife, resources the hospital is lacking, etc. The goal of gathering this information, along with photos, is to build a support network between this hospital and potential donors in the United States, namely churches or women’s groups.
Yesterday was also International Women’s Day, a fact I had strangely forgotten when I was conducting the interview. My neighbor had mentioned a party in passing, but I was still startled when, around 6 o’clock, a stunningly beautiful young woman I had never seen before arrived at my house and informed me that she had come to escort me to a party at her house, where I found my neighbor happy-drunk, swaying to the music and reveling in her womanhood. Everyone cheered when I walked in – did they think I wasn’t going to come? How lame do they think I am?? I gotta get out more.
Monday, February 28, 2011
A Sunflowered Middle of Nowhere
Our most recent road trip to a training center in Lioma, about 2 hours past the beautiful tea producing mountain community of Gurué, left lots of time for introspection as these trips always do. Plus there’s always something new to see. This time, I thought a lot about how rural Africans interact with the road itself; why does an African cross the street? It could be to get water. Or maybe they simply forgot the street was there at all. Still unaccustomed to paved highways, people amble across slowly, without looking either way, or even sit in the middle of the road until they see a car – inevitably a white NGO truck – barreling toward them at speeds no amount of last minute brake-slamming could diminish enough to make a difference. A woman with 20 liters of water on her head steps into the road and panics when she sees us coming, genuinely shocked that a car is on the road at all. I grit my teeth and hope that she can maneuver out of the way in time. Eventually, I succumb to highway hypnosis and doze off, only to be jolted awake by a particularly severe brake slam and gasps from my colleagues (which only accompany the closest of calls), my eyes flashing open just in time to see a small child barely escape the crush of our tires. I didn’t sleep much after that.
Then we were in Gurué, indulging ourselves with seasonal avocados at 5 cents a pop before continuing on to Lioma through the sunflowers and towering eucalyptus trees, with thread-like branches of tinkly green leaves gently drooping and swaying around trunks in a constant state of molting. This is the only forest I have seen in Africa. When we finally arrive at the center, in a starry middle of nowhere, the electricity is out and the center has but 6 candles. There will be no bathing tonight. After preparing tuna salad in the dark, the light finally comes back but at this point we don’t miss it so much.
On the trip back, men with shovels are filling holes in the road. They see us coming and toss down their shovels to hold out their hands for an offering. Please, see the work we’ve done? There is no other work, so please pay us for making the road that much safer for you.
Then the black mamba passes in front of our car. So I spend the afternoon in terror as I crash through the bush behind a barefoot farmer who is taking me to see youth group plots. He steps lightly, quickly outpaces me, so I speed up to keep him in my sight. They’ve chosen remote areas, close to water so that vegetable production will be possible, and because this visit was last minute, I am wearing sandals. A bite from a mamba can kill a full grown adult within minutes. I calm myself by insisting that I there’s no use worrying about things out of my control. Mambas generally rest during the day and stay in trees anyway. So why did the mamba cross the street? So much long skinny green grass….and finally we’re in the clear, have arrived at the vegetable plot. And I try not to think about the fact that this is merely one leg of the many visits I have planned for this day.
Then we were in Gurué, indulging ourselves with seasonal avocados at 5 cents a pop before continuing on to Lioma through the sunflowers and towering eucalyptus trees, with thread-like branches of tinkly green leaves gently drooping and swaying around trunks in a constant state of molting. This is the only forest I have seen in Africa. When we finally arrive at the center, in a starry middle of nowhere, the electricity is out and the center has but 6 candles. There will be no bathing tonight. After preparing tuna salad in the dark, the light finally comes back but at this point we don’t miss it so much.
On the trip back, men with shovels are filling holes in the road. They see us coming and toss down their shovels to hold out their hands for an offering. Please, see the work we’ve done? There is no other work, so please pay us for making the road that much safer for you.
Then the black mamba passes in front of our car. So I spend the afternoon in terror as I crash through the bush behind a barefoot farmer who is taking me to see youth group plots. He steps lightly, quickly outpaces me, so I speed up to keep him in my sight. They’ve chosen remote areas, close to water so that vegetable production will be possible, and because this visit was last minute, I am wearing sandals. A bite from a mamba can kill a full grown adult within minutes. I calm myself by insisting that I there’s no use worrying about things out of my control. Mambas generally rest during the day and stay in trees anyway. So why did the mamba cross the street? So much long skinny green grass….and finally we’re in the clear, have arrived at the vegetable plot. And I try not to think about the fact that this is merely one leg of the many visits I have planned for this day.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Cookie Monster
In order to get the kids participating more openly, I sometimes bring cookies with me to use as incentives. Answer a question, get a treat. But what really happens is after we finish with all the questions, I end up giving out cookies anyway to the ones who were too shy or young to respond. I mean damn. They’re hungry. Am I really going to tuck half a pack of cookies back into my Aldo purse? (Which I bought for 40$ in Charleston…jerk.) Nor am I going to keep giving cookie after cookie to the few kids who speak up. Even when I do, they end up giving them to the others who haven’t gotten any, and I have to bite my lip not to smile or burst into tears.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Ole What's-His-Name
Today I had a comic breakthrough with my colleagues. The two men I hired to help with the kids’ groups have always been nothing but respectful and humble with me, too polite almost, pleasant reverent and submissive to the point of making me feel awkward. But today, I got my first genuine laugh out of them. They’ve chuckled and smiled before, but by Mozambican standards, what I coaxed out of them today could be considered a hee-haw. And it was achieved simply by admitting that with all these men running around with ‘A’ names – Armando, Armandinho, Adolfo, Alberto, Albano, Alfredo – I often can’t remember who is who, even the people I work with on a weekly basis. I’m normally so good with names, but this alias alliteration is too much. I was very glad I admitted it, however, because the reaction that it elicited was worth having to ask your own mother a thousand times – “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
Also, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I asked one of my kids’ groups to prepare a drama, and told them that I would come prepared with one as well. Theatre and role-play are extremely useful learning tools here; kids that merely stare at their hands folded in their lap when asked basic questions will take on a whole new persona when it’s their turn to stand in front of the group as an ‘actor’. While my drama was short and agriculturally themed, theirs went on for nearly 8 minutes (doesn’t sound long, but it actually is). Eight minutes of adlibbing about a man who had 3 kids, one boy and two girls. He sent the boy to school to learn and the girls to work as prostitutes. The daughters brought home money, the man drank it away, and all was peaceful on the home front. Until the girls were diagnosed with HIV (communicated by curling up into fetal positions on the ground and whimpering) and the father learned his lesson. Depressing, but relevant, and I certainly couldn’t accuse them of not following the prompt; it’s just that love and sex mean different things to rural African children than they do to American children.
Also, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I asked one of my kids’ groups to prepare a drama, and told them that I would come prepared with one as well. Theatre and role-play are extremely useful learning tools here; kids that merely stare at their hands folded in their lap when asked basic questions will take on a whole new persona when it’s their turn to stand in front of the group as an ‘actor’. While my drama was short and agriculturally themed, theirs went on for nearly 8 minutes (doesn’t sound long, but it actually is). Eight minutes of adlibbing about a man who had 3 kids, one boy and two girls. He sent the boy to school to learn and the girls to work as prostitutes. The daughters brought home money, the man drank it away, and all was peaceful on the home front. Until the girls were diagnosed with HIV (communicated by curling up into fetal positions on the ground and whimpering) and the father learned his lesson. Depressing, but relevant, and I certainly couldn’t accuse them of not following the prompt; it’s just that love and sex mean different things to rural African children than they do to American children.
Some Things I Love About Africa
That I can go over to my neighbor’s house wearing a worn out camisole, a skirt I got at a used clothing store, and a cheap cardigan that doesn’t even match, and be told by the young girls “ooh! You look pretty!”
The sounds – of crickets at night, neighbor kids squealing, pasada music from Cape Verde pumping from the stereos, local dialects. NOT the smells – the people a curry-sweat conglomerate, the streets a raw sewage nightmare…
That despite the hardships, it’s good for my body. A diet consisting mostly of natural foods and daily exercise.
Women and their babies. Swathed tightly in colorful fabrics, so not a moment of workable daylight will be wasted.
Tailors on every corner. Everyone sews, and there is an abundance of material everywhere you turn.
Matapa. Green leaves+garlic+coconut+peanuts boiled into mush = heaven on earth, and nutritious to boot. And if you’re fancy in the city, toss in some shrimp!
I hear there are big animals on this continent. Maybe I’ll see some one day…
When you walk in a house, you take off your shoes. When you sit down at the table, you wash your hands in a basin. What’s simple is true. And cleanliness is next to godliness.
If a child is to wear one and only one article of clothing, it is a t-shirt. Not underwear.
The sounds – of crickets at night, neighbor kids squealing, pasada music from Cape Verde pumping from the stereos, local dialects. NOT the smells – the people a curry-sweat conglomerate, the streets a raw sewage nightmare…
That despite the hardships, it’s good for my body. A diet consisting mostly of natural foods and daily exercise.
Women and their babies. Swathed tightly in colorful fabrics, so not a moment of workable daylight will be wasted.
Tailors on every corner. Everyone sews, and there is an abundance of material everywhere you turn.
Matapa. Green leaves+garlic+coconut+peanuts boiled into mush = heaven on earth, and nutritious to boot. And if you’re fancy in the city, toss in some shrimp!
I hear there are big animals on this continent. Maybe I’ll see some one day…
When you walk in a house, you take off your shoes. When you sit down at the table, you wash your hands in a basin. What’s simple is true. And cleanliness is next to godliness.
If a child is to wear one and only one article of clothing, it is a t-shirt. Not underwear.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The Prophet of Morrumbala
The driver who takes me around from campo to campo has a real talent for taking the most concise piece of basic information and turning it into an epic tale, and never at a volume less than ear-piercing. His favorite themes revolve around family life in Mozambique; conversation starters have been “MEN IN AFRICA LIKE TO HAVE LOTS OF KIDS SO THEY CAN PUT THEM TO WORK IN THEIR FIELDS!” or “WHEN TWO PEOPLE GET MARRIED, THE HUSBAND HAS TO MOVE INTO THE WIFE’S FAMILY’S HOME!” We’re talking about really revolutionary stuff here… Anyway, he means well and is as nice as he can be. But damn man, I’ve got to get me some ear plugs!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The World Is Not My Caribbean
Driving down the road, so many things still remind me of the Dominican Republic. The robust lady swathed in cheap purple fabric, gyrating in the doorway of a hut to music that moves the very soul of her. Mangy dogs. Kids that run after cars and motorcycles, hoping for a lift. And yet, this isn’t the Caribbean. Both do many of the same things, but never with the same intensity. People don’t smile and visit as much here. They can’t afford to. And they certainly don’t give as much, for the same reason. They give everything they can, maybe everything they have. But what they have is significantly less than most other people in the world. They laugh and yell, but more reservedly, less frequently. They trust, but not as blindly. And by doing these things, they survive.
The two auxiliaries that I hired several months ago to work with my youth groups are two of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. For the work they do, they receive 50$ a month. They have families. They live far away. They spend hours every week on their bicycles to earn this money that is vital for their survival. And last weekend, while at church, one of them was robbed. Someone came to his house, took everything of use, which couldn’t have been much in the first place, and then set fire to the mud and grass hut. Now he literally has nothing but the clothes on his back. And when I met him at the office, he smiled and was just as polite as usual, though his face showed exhaustion beyond anything I’ve ever known.
Incidents like this leave me reeling; how could something so devastating happen to someone so good who has so little? It’s more than unfair, worse than unholy. And what can I do, other than fumble around in my purse and awkwardly offer him a few bucks, which he accepted gracefully? And place another call to the city office, where they have yet again forgotten to arrange his monthly salary.
The two auxiliaries that I hired several months ago to work with my youth groups are two of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. For the work they do, they receive 50$ a month. They have families. They live far away. They spend hours every week on their bicycles to earn this money that is vital for their survival. And last weekend, while at church, one of them was robbed. Someone came to his house, took everything of use, which couldn’t have been much in the first place, and then set fire to the mud and grass hut. Now he literally has nothing but the clothes on his back. And when I met him at the office, he smiled and was just as polite as usual, though his face showed exhaustion beyond anything I’ve ever known.
Incidents like this leave me reeling; how could something so devastating happen to someone so good who has so little? It’s more than unfair, worse than unholy. And what can I do, other than fumble around in my purse and awkwardly offer him a few bucks, which he accepted gracefully? And place another call to the city office, where they have yet again forgotten to arrange his monthly salary.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Vida Bonita
‘Bonita’, or beautiful, is a word used much more generally in Portuguese (and Spanish) than in English, often employed where we would say ‘nice’, ‘good’, or simply ‘normal’. So I try not to feel weird when multiple people, such as colleagues or my landlord, tell me “I saw you riding your bicycle and you looked ‘bonita’.” Considering the climate and amount of energy and focus I invest in not tipping over into the sand, I highly doubt that ‘beautiful’ is how I look.
I can now add yet another country to the ever growing list of where-i-have-made-banana-related-desserts. Today my neighbor invited me over to make a cake, so I shared my mom’s banana bread recipe with her. And it came out wonderful, so moist and fluffy – probably because she beat the tar out of the batter with her huge wooden spoon. All in all, a great success and entertaining to boot.
Aaaaand my new guard doesn’t seem to understand much of my Portuguese. Excellent.
I can now add yet another country to the ever growing list of where-i-have-made-banana-related-desserts. Today my neighbor invited me over to make a cake, so I shared my mom’s banana bread recipe with her. And it came out wonderful, so moist and fluffy – probably because she beat the tar out of the batter with her huge wooden spoon. All in all, a great success and entertaining to boot.
Aaaaand my new guard doesn’t seem to understand much of my Portuguese. Excellent.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Green Beetle
On the way back from the campo today, a bright green, metallic beetle flew in the truck window and landed on me. As I squirmed to remove it from my person without touching it – you never know what bites here – the driver sensed my distress (which required minimal powers of perception considering I was doing the hokey-pokey in my seat) and stopped the car. He promptly picked the beetle off the seat where I had managed to corral it and tossed it out the window. When I asked if it was something dangerous, he said no, it just smells weird because “brinca muito com cocó”…
It plays with poop a lot.
It plays with poop a lot.
Ode to Chinese Wal-Mart
(*For any one of several small stores in Quelimane, Moçambique run by enterprising Chinese families)
O Chinese ‘loja’
Tireless importer of all things plastic from the Orient
Countless items in endless quantities, of questionable quality
Without you, my Little House on the Savannah
Would stand empty
No washcloths with 0% absorbency rates
Nary a stainless steel spoon that can prodigiously produce rust overnight
Nor a stick-free pan that loses its ‘teflon’ at the mere mention of utensils
O where would I find nail-polish so tiny, yet so defiant when confronted with nail polish remover?
Even when it comes in the form of oily, orange smelling cotton pads, suggesting not a hint of alcohol in its constitution
Hangers for my clothing, and clothespins too, were merely a dream before you
And so many colors you do offer!
O Chinese ‘loja’, who else can convert 85% of their store front stock to ‘Croc’ sandal knock-offs overnight?
Nevermind that you make me check my bags at the door
Your holdings are much too valuable to risk theft, this we know
Bright lights, clean floors, energizing tunes
Hark! Is that Elton John singing in Mandarin?
You inspire us to fill our lives with shiny necessities
For who could live without a miniature salad dressing bottle?
Or a hat with a double Nike swoosh?
O Chinese ‘loja’
Tireless importer of all things plastic from the Orient
Countless items in endless quantities, of questionable quality
Without you, my Little House on the Savannah
Would stand empty
No washcloths with 0% absorbency rates
Nary a stainless steel spoon that can prodigiously produce rust overnight
Nor a stick-free pan that loses its ‘teflon’ at the mere mention of utensils
O where would I find nail-polish so tiny, yet so defiant when confronted with nail polish remover?
Even when it comes in the form of oily, orange smelling cotton pads, suggesting not a hint of alcohol in its constitution
Hangers for my clothing, and clothespins too, were merely a dream before you
And so many colors you do offer!
O Chinese ‘loja’, who else can convert 85% of their store front stock to ‘Croc’ sandal knock-offs overnight?
Nevermind that you make me check my bags at the door
Your holdings are much too valuable to risk theft, this we know
Bright lights, clean floors, energizing tunes
Hark! Is that Elton John singing in Mandarin?
You inspire us to fill our lives with shiny necessities
For who could live without a miniature salad dressing bottle?
Or a hat with a double Nike swoosh?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Spider Ant
I ate my last mini Hershey’s bar today. That deserves an entry to itself, but I will refrain from moping.
Instead, I will tell of my new arch nemesis, the Spider Ant, apparently also known as the Red Roman, a nasty creature that comes sprinting, not crawling or even creeping, into my house each night just about the time it starts to get dark outside. With the body shape of an ant, but about 90 times bigger, six spider legs and two more in front that it carries aloft like javelins, this creature gives me gooseflesh in the most insufferably hot of climates. Is it a spider? Is it an ant? Who can say? Locals call it “friend of the scorpion” because, they say, it carries a scorpion underneath it, attached to its stomach. Alksjdoihfmzdbvnlkhaf!!!!
After 2 years of stubbornly refusing to become ‘the English teacher’ in the Dominican Republic, my resolve finally crumbled when my neighbor, the cutest 14 year old girl named Delicia, showed up to my house bearing a small notebook and a gorgeous shy smile, and announced that she was there to learn English. No one has ever tried this exact technique before, simply showing up ready to get started. How could I say no? Especially since all I was doing at the moment was watching my 87th episode of Friends for the day. She already knows quite a few nouns and verbs from school, but can’t speak them very well at all, so we’ve started out by expanding her vocabulary and practicing a lot of sentences out loud. It’s really no work for me – she’s happy if I sit with her for 15 minutes and send her on her way with a little homework assignment. I don’t love that she feels the need to become versed in yet another European language that sadly has taken root and displaced (to some extent) many local dialects, but I can choose to be pragmatic about this: it really could help her get a job someday. But only if she figures out how to pronounce the word ‘shirt’ in a way that doesn’t sound quite so…offensive.
Instead, I will tell of my new arch nemesis, the Spider Ant, apparently also known as the Red Roman, a nasty creature that comes sprinting, not crawling or even creeping, into my house each night just about the time it starts to get dark outside. With the body shape of an ant, but about 90 times bigger, six spider legs and two more in front that it carries aloft like javelins, this creature gives me gooseflesh in the most insufferably hot of climates. Is it a spider? Is it an ant? Who can say? Locals call it “friend of the scorpion” because, they say, it carries a scorpion underneath it, attached to its stomach. Alksjdoihfmzdbvnlkhaf!!!!
After 2 years of stubbornly refusing to become ‘the English teacher’ in the Dominican Republic, my resolve finally crumbled when my neighbor, the cutest 14 year old girl named Delicia, showed up to my house bearing a small notebook and a gorgeous shy smile, and announced that she was there to learn English. No one has ever tried this exact technique before, simply showing up ready to get started. How could I say no? Especially since all I was doing at the moment was watching my 87th episode of Friends for the day. She already knows quite a few nouns and verbs from school, but can’t speak them very well at all, so we’ve started out by expanding her vocabulary and practicing a lot of sentences out loud. It’s really no work for me – she’s happy if I sit with her for 15 minutes and send her on her way with a little homework assignment. I don’t love that she feels the need to become versed in yet another European language that sadly has taken root and displaced (to some extent) many local dialects, but I can choose to be pragmatic about this: it really could help her get a job someday. But only if she figures out how to pronounce the word ‘shirt’ in a way that doesn’t sound quite so…offensive.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Mango Madness
It’s mango season, and not a moment too soon. Millions of eager children across the continent have been sinking there solid teeth into green mangos for months, and finally, the fruits have ripened, and their sweet, juicy flesh is a miracle that I can only wonder why the gods saw fit to confine to a few short months out of the year. A delicious treat, straight off the tree or cooled in the fridge for a few hours, mangos offer vitamin A and C, boost the immune system, and protect against infections. I will blame their late arrival in my community for the terrible incident involving my left foot that, thanks to another of nature’s miracles (that of mold growing on another ‘orange’ fruit) has finally healed into an itchy scab. It started out as a little blister on my ankle, could have been a bug or a cut, but I didn’t notice when it happened. Which to me, means it definitely could NOT have been a snake bite, contrary to popular belief. So I did what I’ve been taught – gritted my teeth and scrubbed the fire out of it, hoping that would take care of any potential infection. The next day, it was so painful and swollen I could barely walk, and by the next day, I headed into the city to seek the counsel of a doctor friend. I had to go in for other reasons, but by this point, what my sister has endearingly called my “club foot” was top priority.
Ten days, twenty Co-Trimoxazole tablets and as many Hail Mary’s later, and I am healed! Although I must say, the fact that each pill cost approximately 3 cents was less than reassuring. Seems to have done the trick though, and now it’s just another scar to tell the story of my travels.
Ten days, twenty Co-Trimoxazole tablets and as many Hail Mary’s later, and I am healed! Although I must say, the fact that each pill cost approximately 3 cents was less than reassuring. Seems to have done the trick though, and now it’s just another scar to tell the story of my travels.
Here Comes The Sun
And all of the sudden, quite unexpectedly, my work seems to have come together as a beautiful symphony, each piece seamlessly connecting to the next to form a cohesive whole. Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but lately I feel like things are falling into place. I spent months spreading my energies here and there, and suddenly it all makes sense and seems to have paid off. Due to a miraculous merger of transport (bike and car), cell phone service, and weather, I was able to visit all 4 of my kids groups in my site this week. I was astounded at how well their crops are coming along – in some cases, the corn was taller than most of the group’s members, a fact which inspired lots of giggling once I pointed it out, and they have done a remarkable job of keeping up with the weeding, a constant problem since the rainy season has descended upon us. (Not that I’m complaining! Please keep it coming! My cucumbers have just started to germinate!) And as always, I was touched by their enthusiasm upon my arrival. Are they excited at the potential of getting to ride in the bed of my truck and then tell everyone they know? Well yes, but it’s more than that. They show me how much they missed me with their smiles, holding my hands, and I feel how much I missed them too. And in this moment, it doesn’t matter if the world of development work is dysfunctional at times, that I can think of a hundred ways to put so much of the money funneled into NGO’s to better use, and that observing change is a long and grueling process. All that matters is that we take a few minutes to skip rope before we go check out our peanut plot.
After finishing the junior farmer’s manual last week, a piece of work that took months to finally come together, we had just a few days before training was to begin; a training for rural staff members who will work with junior farmers which I was largely in charge of planning, organizing and facilitating. Arriving at the World Vision Center in Nicoadala Sunday evening – ah yes, fond memories of the week I spent in this strangely pleasing, cement block compound 4 months ago when we were just starting the junior farmer program – I spent the first night tossing and turning in a bed of wooden boards, too distracted by heat and bugs to actually sleep. This morning, somewhat rejuvenated by tea and a piece of bread (breakfast of champions), I set off at a gallop, throwing more energy than I actually had into the sessions in order to set the pace at a jaunty trot. It really paid off. I got satisfactory, enthusiastic responses, and the day flew by practically without a hitch. We somehow were able to get through 7 sessions, visit a nearby youth group, eat multiple meals and snacks, and even have time for discussions all between breakfast and bedtime. I could not be more pleased with how the first day turned out. I was terrified that the participants wouldn’t respond to my questions and discussion topics (after witnessing this exact phenomenon at a training last week, of which I was thankfully only an observer) and that my sessions would run way under time. But thanks to a few key participants who got the ball rolling, most everyone stayed interested and involved the entire day.
Just as we were finishing up the last activity of the day (planning a daily routine for our youth groups and distributing the manuals), eager to head to our rooms for well deserved rest and shower, the sky which had been grumbling threats all afternoon suddenly opened up and caught us under the grass roofed gazebo, where earlier that afternoon, I had a group of 15 adults playing Simon Says, Telephone, and Musical Chairs. Or Africa-appropriate versions of. If they’re going to play with the kids, they need to understand the games themselves! Someone joked that now they were stuck, when just a moment before they were ready to flee from Mica’s presence because “she talks a lot! Haha!” But stuck as we were, there wasn’t much left to do except…talk some more. When I could no longer take sitting and waiting for the rain to pass, I made a dash for my cell, but before I could get to the shower, the lights went out. This doesn’t happen enough here to warrant carrying around a headlamp, and the center didn’t have any candles, so I set about adjusting my eyes like a cat and soon was showering in the dark, freezing cold water tumbling down from the showerhead as well as the dark clouds outside the bathroom window. For a moment, I forgot the feverish night before, and just shivered happily.
Nothing Mother Nature (or Mother-paper-thin-mattress) could throw at me will keep me from sleeping tonight.
After finishing the junior farmer’s manual last week, a piece of work that took months to finally come together, we had just a few days before training was to begin; a training for rural staff members who will work with junior farmers which I was largely in charge of planning, organizing and facilitating. Arriving at the World Vision Center in Nicoadala Sunday evening – ah yes, fond memories of the week I spent in this strangely pleasing, cement block compound 4 months ago when we were just starting the junior farmer program – I spent the first night tossing and turning in a bed of wooden boards, too distracted by heat and bugs to actually sleep. This morning, somewhat rejuvenated by tea and a piece of bread (breakfast of champions), I set off at a gallop, throwing more energy than I actually had into the sessions in order to set the pace at a jaunty trot. It really paid off. I got satisfactory, enthusiastic responses, and the day flew by practically without a hitch. We somehow were able to get through 7 sessions, visit a nearby youth group, eat multiple meals and snacks, and even have time for discussions all between breakfast and bedtime. I could not be more pleased with how the first day turned out. I was terrified that the participants wouldn’t respond to my questions and discussion topics (after witnessing this exact phenomenon at a training last week, of which I was thankfully only an observer) and that my sessions would run way under time. But thanks to a few key participants who got the ball rolling, most everyone stayed interested and involved the entire day.
Just as we were finishing up the last activity of the day (planning a daily routine for our youth groups and distributing the manuals), eager to head to our rooms for well deserved rest and shower, the sky which had been grumbling threats all afternoon suddenly opened up and caught us under the grass roofed gazebo, where earlier that afternoon, I had a group of 15 adults playing Simon Says, Telephone, and Musical Chairs. Or Africa-appropriate versions of. If they’re going to play with the kids, they need to understand the games themselves! Someone joked that now they were stuck, when just a moment before they were ready to flee from Mica’s presence because “she talks a lot! Haha!” But stuck as we were, there wasn’t much left to do except…talk some more. When I could no longer take sitting and waiting for the rain to pass, I made a dash for my cell, but before I could get to the shower, the lights went out. This doesn’t happen enough here to warrant carrying around a headlamp, and the center didn’t have any candles, so I set about adjusting my eyes like a cat and soon was showering in the dark, freezing cold water tumbling down from the showerhead as well as the dark clouds outside the bathroom window. For a moment, I forgot the feverish night before, and just shivered happily.
Nothing Mother Nature (or Mother-paper-thin-mattress) could throw at me will keep me from sleeping tonight.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Peanut Farmers
Due to a miraculous merger of transport (bike and car), cell phone service, and weather, I was able to visit all 4 of my kids groups in my site this week. I was astounded at how well their crops are coming along – in some cases, the corn was taller than most of the group’s members, and they have done a remarkable job of keeping up with the weeding, a constant problem since the rainy season has descended upon us. And as always, I was touched by their enthusiasm upon my arrival. Are they excited at the potential of getting to ride in the bed of my truck? Well yes, but it’s more than that. They show me how much they missed me with their smiles, holding my hands, and I feel how much I missed them too. And in this moment, it doesn’t matter if the world of development work is dysfunctional at times, that I can think of a hundred ways to put the money funneled into NGO’s to better use, and that observing change is a long and grueling process. All that matters is that we take a few minutes to skip rope before we go check-out our peanut plot.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Welcome Home
Last night was the first I spent in my new house. I’ve learned in recent years that so much of learning to be happy in a new place, perhaps very different from any you have ever known, is being able to carve out a place for yourself, your own personal space. I can already feel that things are going to be different from now until I leave. It doesn’t matter that I spent the first night a bit nervous, cat-napping instead of truly sleeping, that my stove doesn’t work yet and I’m once again subsisting on nibble-able foods. I’m happy. And I’m home.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
New Year, New Beginnings
After an encouraging 2 day conference in Maputo, the capital, a week on Tofo beach in the south of the country, and New Years back in Quelimane with friends, I returned to Morrumbala yesterday, if not the starry idealist of years before, at least invigorated, ready to roll up my sleeves and get back to work.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the non-traditional holiday experience I’ve just come away from. First of all, the extreme heat made it difficult to think of the season as ‘Christmasy’; made it difficult to think at all in fact, as we lounged around on the sandy shores like lizards, hustling from one patch of shade to the next and sweating faster than we could rehydrate.
It all began with a conference in Maputo, the capital. I met with the other Peace Corps Response Volunteers, as well as the director for Peace Corps Mozambique, to share our experiences of the first 4 months as well as ideas about the future of the food security sector. At this conference, we were reminded that we are the first group to attempt to work in food security within Peace Corps Mozambique, a fact I had lost sight of recently. Obviously there are a lot of kinks to work out, such as visas and developing a relationship with the ministry of agriculture, and although we didn’t really know what we were getting ourselves into as response volunteers, I’m glad to be part of a team that is solving problems and paving the way for the very timely work of food security.
Then it was on to Bamboozi, a beachside grass-hut establishment in the sandy-white and shimmery-blue coastal community of Tofo, where barefoot international hipsters surf by day, and by night, gather in 3-walled beach bars with lofts, heavy bass music and colorful lighting. While fun and stimulating, these social hotspots at times seem the same around the world…
I had originally intended to go to Barra beach and meet up with some volunteer acquaintances (it would have been presumptuous to call people I had met only once or twice friends), but as the 10 hour bus ride ran its course, I found myself in conversation with several VSO (Volunteer Services Overseas) volunteers and ended up heading to Tofo with them instead, where I spent an eclectic Christmas among South Africans and Brits, Germans and Finnish, Canadians and Dutch. Christmas Day found us grilling fresh fish and shrimp in a hilltop hut overlooking the big blue Indian Ocean, 12 people and 9 nationalities. And a good time was had by all. Here, the moon wanes faster than I imagined possible. We attended a full-moon party on Tuesday evening, and by the time we took a midnight beach stroll on Saturday Christmas night, it was half gone.
Back in Quelimane for New Years, I attended a house party in a sparsely furnished Portuguese colonial with a Mozzie friend, her family, and some other volunteers. A few days of rest in an air-conditioned home (it pays to be a house sitter in an African metropolis!), and it was back to Morrumbala. Upon arriving with a group of USAID representatives to one of the communities in which I have a kids’ group, my trepidation about returning after a 2 week absence gave way to throat-catching joy when I saw their smiling faces. Clearly they were happy to see me, and as they sang and danced as they always do for visitors (well, not for me anymore when I come alone, but I take this level of informality as a compliment), I could hardly hold back the tears. I thought I was past that immediate surge of emotion I used to feel in these situations when I first arrived to the country, but I guess 2 weeks away put more distance between me and the campo than I had imagined.
When we went to see the kids’ plot, they showed me that their peanuts and pigeon peas were growing quite well, although the unexpected halt of the rains resulted in poor germination of their corn crop. I was dazzled by their energy in this heat; we had arrived late because of transport problems, as usual. And yet there they all had been, adults and children alike, huddled into the modest shade of one of the few large mango trees, waiting to sing to their visitors.
I spent today preparing materials for an upcoming training on Junior Farmer initiatives I will be giving to World Vision employees, and being caught up on the progress made with the kids’ groups by my two auxiliaries while I was away. It feels good to be back. Now if I can just wrangle up a truck, I can finally move into my own house…
It’s hard to wrap my head around the non-traditional holiday experience I’ve just come away from. First of all, the extreme heat made it difficult to think of the season as ‘Christmasy’; made it difficult to think at all in fact, as we lounged around on the sandy shores like lizards, hustling from one patch of shade to the next and sweating faster than we could rehydrate.
It all began with a conference in Maputo, the capital. I met with the other Peace Corps Response Volunteers, as well as the director for Peace Corps Mozambique, to share our experiences of the first 4 months as well as ideas about the future of the food security sector. At this conference, we were reminded that we are the first group to attempt to work in food security within Peace Corps Mozambique, a fact I had lost sight of recently. Obviously there are a lot of kinks to work out, such as visas and developing a relationship with the ministry of agriculture, and although we didn’t really know what we were getting ourselves into as response volunteers, I’m glad to be part of a team that is solving problems and paving the way for the very timely work of food security.
Then it was on to Bamboozi, a beachside grass-hut establishment in the sandy-white and shimmery-blue coastal community of Tofo, where barefoot international hipsters surf by day, and by night, gather in 3-walled beach bars with lofts, heavy bass music and colorful lighting. While fun and stimulating, these social hotspots at times seem the same around the world…
I had originally intended to go to Barra beach and meet up with some volunteer acquaintances (it would have been presumptuous to call people I had met only once or twice friends), but as the 10 hour bus ride ran its course, I found myself in conversation with several VSO (Volunteer Services Overseas) volunteers and ended up heading to Tofo with them instead, where I spent an eclectic Christmas among South Africans and Brits, Germans and Finnish, Canadians and Dutch. Christmas Day found us grilling fresh fish and shrimp in a hilltop hut overlooking the big blue Indian Ocean, 12 people and 9 nationalities. And a good time was had by all. Here, the moon wanes faster than I imagined possible. We attended a full-moon party on Tuesday evening, and by the time we took a midnight beach stroll on Saturday Christmas night, it was half gone.
Back in Quelimane for New Years, I attended a house party in a sparsely furnished Portuguese colonial with a Mozzie friend, her family, and some other volunteers. A few days of rest in an air-conditioned home (it pays to be a house sitter in an African metropolis!), and it was back to Morrumbala. Upon arriving with a group of USAID representatives to one of the communities in which I have a kids’ group, my trepidation about returning after a 2 week absence gave way to throat-catching joy when I saw their smiling faces. Clearly they were happy to see me, and as they sang and danced as they always do for visitors (well, not for me anymore when I come alone, but I take this level of informality as a compliment), I could hardly hold back the tears. I thought I was past that immediate surge of emotion I used to feel in these situations when I first arrived to the country, but I guess 2 weeks away put more distance between me and the campo than I had imagined.
When we went to see the kids’ plot, they showed me that their peanuts and pigeon peas were growing quite well, although the unexpected halt of the rains resulted in poor germination of their corn crop. I was dazzled by their energy in this heat; we had arrived late because of transport problems, as usual. And yet there they all had been, adults and children alike, huddled into the modest shade of one of the few large mango trees, waiting to sing to their visitors.
I spent today preparing materials for an upcoming training on Junior Farmer initiatives I will be giving to World Vision employees, and being caught up on the progress made with the kids’ groups by my two auxiliaries while I was away. It feels good to be back. Now if I can just wrangle up a truck, I can finally move into my own house…
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