Creativity Lives

Africa is like the Dominican Republic in some ways – dirt swept yards, half finished homes left to sprout weeds when the money runs out, drivers honking instead of slowing to warn passersby of danger barreling their way at unregulated speeds, grassy expanses punctuated with towering palm and coconut trees, stray and starving animals. But other things stand out. Like grown men embracing and holding hands in the street, fearless of accusation of the hyper-taboo homosexuality. Instead of 5 people to a motorcycle, it’s the same number on bikes. A man pedals along with one woman perched on the front of his bike, and one on the back, both of whom have infants lashed to their torsos. Driving down the road past one of the many roadside markets, where you may buy shiny, cheap imported flashlights and old baggy clothing among other necessities, a man scuttles along in a chair somehow integrated with an inverted bicycle frame, hand-powered by the gear and pedals he has set up as a crank at eye level. And the houses are ingenious. Lincoln log structures stuffed with rocks and covered with a cementing mixture of muddy sand, these little grass-roofed huts don’t let much in or out. Bricks are made from dirt and fired in even the most remote of settings, resulting in compact little cookie-cutter dwellings that speckle the bush in between cities. Pop music in English, most of which never made it to any radios in the U.S. (except Rhiana, of course), blares from every stereo. Four young boys dress in matching t-shirts advertising “Klin” (clean) laundry soap and dance at the farmers market. We walk by a church called “Jesus es o Senhor” – Jesus is the Man. Can’t argue with that!

On our way to a 3 day conservation agriculture training, we stopped off to observe a small farming operation. Almost immediately upon our arrival, I was presented to a group of 30 or more dark and solemn faced farmers and prompted to introduce myself as a new addition to World Vision’s food security initiative. After smiling my way through a few sentences that could have been more more Brasilian than African Portuguese, more Spanish than anything else, it was back on the road to Mocuba, where we would stay with another volunteer each night after training. Come 5:30 in the morning, it was tea and a mouthful of moldy bread, then 50 kilometers down a bumpy dirt road in a pickup truck with no seatbelt and a driver more coldly cautious of potholes than pedestrians, impressively unmoved by the erratic behavior of distended belly children on the roadside. Clouds of red dust left in our wake swallowed whole the charcoal transferring men and boys on bikes. I was by turns bounced to sleep and carsick (at nights, there’s nothing to hold the eye except the rapidly passing cassava plants and the quickly moving, red compacted road, layers of sandy dirt and dirty sand) throughout the 6 trips we made in 3 days down this road. Shockingly, this is the main road to reach neighboring Malawi.

We arrived at Namanjavira, an animal traction (cows ‘n plows) training center, where a group of farmers from throughout the region had been assembled to receive training in conservation farming: simple techniques, such as mulching and crop rotation, to replace time honored practices that are no longer sufficient for large numbers of people living in resource deficient and flood/drought prone areas. Some of these same farmers had participated in a 2 month long animal traction training course, expensive by Mozambican standards (325$ US), at the end of which they received a cart, a plow and 2 cows. Throughout the training, as I learned about conservation farming alongside these old farmers, I became more comfortable with the idea of my role here as a development worker. Because I received an education that encouraged me to think critically and analytically, the concepts are not difficult to learn. The difficulty in such a position comes in trying to demonstrate the benefits of behavior change to individuals who have been using the same farming techniques for centuries, and in encouraging them to share those techniques with others. But however persistent and determined my job might require me to be, I am glad to be working at the community level with a project that has such great potential to resonate change. The need here is great, and I have access to certain resources to address that need.

On our final bumpy, dusty trip away from the center, a farming trainer from Zimbabwe who had been very helpful to World Vision workers and famers alike throughout the sessions, pointed to a tree and asked us to identify it. It was a coconut tree. I was astonished that he didn’t recognize it, but apparently they don’t exist in Zimbabwe and he’s never tasted any coconut product. Small wonders.

On the next leg of our journey, headed to Gurue to learn about farming youth groups, I looked down in my purse and realized I hadn’t opened my wallet for several days. There’s really not that much to buy when you’re this far out. Occasional trading posts and a pink setting sun over dry, flat expanses and sudden mountains marked our journey into the higher elevations, and then we were in cool Gurue, a quiet town known for its tea plantations. Tomorrow we’ll see what the local youth know about farming, and decide how to apply their experiences in our sites.