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.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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.
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