Africa. No sooner had we touched down in Johannesburg than I felt her buzzing throughout my entire self. Some call it “depressurizing-the-airplane-cabin”. But I think there was more to it than that.
An unexpected delay in the flight leaving Atlanta (a 16 hour flight, half of which I was able to sleep through having lost every ounce of dignity associated with the use of neck pillows) found us (me, two other volunteers, and another young woman we befriended enroute) in a bed and breakfast which turned out to be a wing off of someone’s private home in a walled compound otherwise surrounded by a desiccated landscape. At night, it could have been any highway. By day, it was a burnt, flat landscape pock-marked with industry and bundled up morning walkers with mysterious destinations. Of course, we didn’t notice any of this at night, and weren’t fully aware of anything until we had a few hours of sleep, a shower to expunge the old plastic/BO smell that has apparently settled into my backpack straps over the years, and a power-protein breakfast cooked by – you guessed it – the grade-school-age daughter of the house. Sausage, ham, fish cakes and eggs all in one meal, and then it was back to the airport for the final leg of the flight which would take us to Maputo, capital of Mozambique.
We were received, with significantly less pomp and circumstance than my arrival to the DR, by one man from the office holding a Peace Corps sign who was incredibly kind and made me feel very at ease flexing my ultra-flabby Portuguese. He took us to the office – a humble affair overlooking the ocean, similar to the DR office in many ways, but with no frills in operation or accommodation, and zero sunburned volunteers hanging around and soaking up all the bandwidth. We even have our very own Alfredo! In the DR, this was the man who always had a smile on, knew everyone’s name, and whose job title you were never quite sure of because he will do anything for anyone at anytime. Turns out the man who picked us up in the airport kind of fills that same roll in Moz.
After a brief meeting with the country director, who actually worked for TVA for 25 years as tiny world fate would have it, we enjoyed the gorgeous temperate weather on a walk over to the embassy for lunch – curried lamb and coca-cola made with pure sugar. Apparently it will soon be summer, meaning it will be light outside starting at 4:30 and in my particularly muggy province, unbearably humid. But for today, we welcomed the moderate weather, and strolled back to the office with full bellies.
The rest of the day was spent hammering out details regarding our posts, where we will be headed on Thursday. I will be in Alto-Molocue, a town whose population no one seems to know, but whose size can generally be gauged by the fact that there is a bank and a gas station. There are also other volunteers nearby, which is always comforting. It seems that we Peace Corps Response Volunteers have been brought to Mozambique to begin conversations between farmers, organizations, and government agencies regarding how they can all work together to insure the future of food security for Mozambicans. We’re essentially mediators, brain-stormers, and have a lot of say on where this project can go, and if it’s even viable considering the ministry of agriculture hesitance to look outside of the government to achieve these goals. It’s a little intimidating to be assigned to such an abstract, conceptual project after doing so much hands on work, but I look forward to seeing where our conversations will lead us. Well, that is, after I remember how to have a conversation in Portuguese. But really, after just 2 days, I can feel it coming back, starting to stew with my Spanish and give it an African flavor.
After a quick nap at the hotel, which left me feeling off kilter and more jet-lagged than I had before, we were off to the director’s house for wine, a home-cooked dinner of shepherd’s pie, coleslaw, and brownies and espresso for dessert, and our turn to use his international phone to touch base with home. So far so good; I am shocked at how un-shocking everything has been up until now. But we’re still in the capital, and I’m sure the real differences in Africa and my previous experiences remain to be seen. After walking around town today and seeing the local artisan work and clothing, I know one thing is for sure; I’m going to need a bigger suitcase when I come home from Africa.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Home Sings Me of Sweet Things
Having been home for almost 2 weeks now, gaining several pounds after eating the necessaries, taking many hot showers, and sleeping in a dream-cloud of a bed, I can safely say that I think I'm past the danger of reverse culture shock. So many people say that the adjustment associated with coming back is even worse than when you arrive in the host country, but I feel nothing but content and blessed to have and do all that I have had and done in just 2 weeks. Maybe it's because I know I'm leaving again (to Mozambique for a year with Peace Corps Response in August - blog lovers, hold on to your britches!), maybe it's because it's summer, or maybe it's just because I have incredible friends and family. Either way, it's oh so good to be home.
The “Swape” Swapper (written 4.13.10)
We inaugurated our Community Library on Sunday, with a ceremony and lunch for a hundred, followed by a cutting of the ribbon ceremony at the library and a long night of drinking and dancing. A typical campo party, but having traveled all week before (Tour de Sur!), my final energy reserves were depleted. So today I awoke leisurely for the first time in a while. I stretched, yawned, and wandered out onto my porch, where I did my morning surveillance. Porch decorations seemed to be in their normal places. Gate still locked, as I left it the night before. Trees, normal. Road, dusty. And my swape (pronounced “swa-pay”), or mop, was in the exact place I left it to dry after cleaning the day before. But somehow, it looked different. Closer observation revealed it to be not my mop at all, but in fact an older, mangled version of mine. It was missing many strands, which appeared to have been chopped off, and had a random number “90” painted on the handle. My detective skills led me to believe that one of the following occurred in the less than 24 hour period since I had last used my mop:
1) The residual Clorox and floor cleanser left on the mop after I was too lazy to rinse it in fresh water after cleaning ate away half of the mop strands overnight. As for the mysterious number “90”, maybe I just didn’t notice it before?
2) Someone snuck up to my porch while I was napping after vigorously mopping and snipped off half of the mop strands. They also happened to have a sharpie and left their numeral signature on the mop handle.
3) A really tacaño, or cheap, and sneaky individual switched my relatively new mop out for their gnarled one, and as I refuse to believe it was any of my immediate neighbors, must have planned this out and walked a considerable distance each way with mop in hand.
4) A dog ate half of my swape.
All of these explanations seem ridiculous, and are considerably amusing to consider. Maybe I’m just too easily entertained these days, but will continue to ponder until the matter is resolved to my satisfaction.
1) The residual Clorox and floor cleanser left on the mop after I was too lazy to rinse it in fresh water after cleaning ate away half of the mop strands overnight. As for the mysterious number “90”, maybe I just didn’t notice it before?
2) Someone snuck up to my porch while I was napping after vigorously mopping and snipped off half of the mop strands. They also happened to have a sharpie and left their numeral signature on the mop handle.
3) A really tacaño, or cheap, and sneaky individual switched my relatively new mop out for their gnarled one, and as I refuse to believe it was any of my immediate neighbors, must have planned this out and walked a considerable distance each way with mop in hand.
4) A dog ate half of my swape.
All of these explanations seem ridiculous, and are considerably amusing to consider. Maybe I’m just too easily entertained these days, but will continue to ponder until the matter is resolved to my satisfaction.
The Daily Grind (written 3.30.10)
Once a place becomes home, it’s difficult to continue writing stories about it as if it were unique, although I recognize that new and exciting experiences still characterize my daily life. After living on a small island for 2 years, going many of the same places countless times, you really begin to cherish seeing new places for the first time. After throwing a St. Patrick’s Day party at my house, complete with 20 guests, 20 pounds of “asopao” (Dominican stew), and live music, I received a visit from a brand new volunteer, who had been in the country less than a month and had yet to venture out of the capital. After sitting on my porch with 2 other volunteers for 9 hours straight – after all, she needs to get used to a slower lifestyle – we ambitiously decided to hitchhike to Maimon, a roadside town not far from my community and famous countrywide for its fried fish. We picked from the 8 or so restaurants one that provides clients with the opportunity to choose their own fish. Hungrily, we chose a giant red snapper and an equally impressive groupers (totally over 7 pounds of fish) which were quickly stuffed with copious amounts of seasoning and sent off to the deep fryer – vats of boiling oil over open fire. Pair this miracle-on-a-plate with several cold beers and French fries, and you’ve never spent a better 8 dollars in your life.
When my volunteer packed up to head back to the dusty capital, I joined her and proceeded to my medical clearance – 4 days of poking and prodding to make sure I leave as healthy as I came in, followed by interviews with my bosses. After receiving a clean bill of health, it was back to the campo…
Where I spent a mere two days just breathing in my house, and then off to another campo where two new-ish volunteers had invited me to teach them how to build one of the fuel-efficient cook stoves that were a big part of my service here. I arrived in Yasica with another stove builder friend who will also be leaving in May, and as we didn’t have anything to do until the next morning, we all settled in for a few drinks and street meat. One would think that after 2 years, my stomach would be so steely as to weather even the fattiest of “chicharrones” (real pork rinds), but this is apparently not the case. I can’t remember losing as many fluids as quickly as I did the next morning, and thank goodness for the friend that came with me and was able to take charge of the stove-teach. I was basically worthless until noon, and even then couldn’t move around much without almost blacking out. All things considered, the trip was well worth it as the motorcycle ride up to this mountain-top site was absolutely breath-taking. Even as I was stumbling into the woods to share the contents of my stomach with Mother Nature, I marveled at the beautiful sunrise and the view of the ocean over the mountains miles and miles away.
Back at home now, I finally have a moment to think, which these days, inevitably leads me to realize for everything I won’t miss about this unorganized armpit of an island, there are 2 things I will miss even more. Tonight, it’s being able to hear the exact moment when the rain starts on the roof, and listening to it drip off the leaves long after it has subsided.
When my volunteer packed up to head back to the dusty capital, I joined her and proceeded to my medical clearance – 4 days of poking and prodding to make sure I leave as healthy as I came in, followed by interviews with my bosses. After receiving a clean bill of health, it was back to the campo…
Where I spent a mere two days just breathing in my house, and then off to another campo where two new-ish volunteers had invited me to teach them how to build one of the fuel-efficient cook stoves that were a big part of my service here. I arrived in Yasica with another stove builder friend who will also be leaving in May, and as we didn’t have anything to do until the next morning, we all settled in for a few drinks and street meat. One would think that after 2 years, my stomach would be so steely as to weather even the fattiest of “chicharrones” (real pork rinds), but this is apparently not the case. I can’t remember losing as many fluids as quickly as I did the next morning, and thank goodness for the friend that came with me and was able to take charge of the stove-teach. I was basically worthless until noon, and even then couldn’t move around much without almost blacking out. All things considered, the trip was well worth it as the motorcycle ride up to this mountain-top site was absolutely breath-taking. Even as I was stumbling into the woods to share the contents of my stomach with Mother Nature, I marveled at the beautiful sunrise and the view of the ocean over the mountains miles and miles away.
Back at home now, I finally have a moment to think, which these days, inevitably leads me to realize for everything I won’t miss about this unorganized armpit of an island, there are 2 things I will miss even more. Tonight, it’s being able to hear the exact moment when the rain starts on the roof, and listening to it drip off the leaves long after it has subsided.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A strange character from Jersey (written 2.10.10)
It seems the only non-Peace Corps foreigners that show up in the campos fit into one of two categories: religious enthusiasts, and enthusiasts of a more corporeal sway – i.e., they like-a da Dominican girls! I’ve seen discouragingly few white, foreign males in this country, even in the cities, and especially near the beaches, who don’t seem to be on some sort of shady sexual mission. So when I heard that Juanita from my community had an American male visitor – her novio, or “boyfriend”, everyone was calling him – I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone arranged for him to meet the only other American in the community, and I was more than a little suspicious of what I might discover in his character.
I was at my neighbor’s house, borrowing a pot in which to fry chicken – a skill I’ve finally mastered! Apparently the missing link was an extra 15 cups of oil – when I spotted someone I didn’t recognize coming down the hill, accompanied by a Dominican boy. I wasn’t sure if this was the visitor, because he looked Latino (Puerto Rican, I later found out, but nevertheless unable to speak Spanish) and certainly was dressed like a Dominican, in a tight white tank-top and colorful athletic shorts nearly falling off his body. His dress was not surprising, considering the gifts he had brought a bunch of the kids – colorful New York Yankees baseball caps entirely too big for their young heads, and an Ipod for his “girlfriend” in a community where she can’t even charge the thing regularly, let alone change the music on it. Practical, if nothing else.
The Dominican boy brought the visitor up to me and said he wanted to “practice” English, which further convinced me this must not be the guy. But after a few confused moments, he switched to English and I discovered he didn’t want to “practice” it, but rather communicate in English as this is his first language – this undesirable fellow was, indeed, the visiting American boyfriend. What follows is a sample of our uncomfortable conversation:
Ghetto beau: So, you live here?
Me: Yes. You must be Juanita’s boyfriend.
Ghetto beau: (genuinely surprised) Whoa, how’d you know?
Me: Um, everyone knows everything about everyone here. How’d you guys meet?
Ghetto beau: Yea, I was on vacation in Sosua (in my head: shady beach town) last year and there was all these girls and then I saw her and I was like whoa, I gotta talk to her.
Me: (blank stare, probably)
Ghetto beau: Huh. So, yea, they were like ‘there’s another American here’ and I was like no way, I haven’t seen nobody.
Me: Yes, I’ve been here 2 years working with the Peace Corps. (short description of what I do)
Ghetto beau: Oh, how can I get in to that?
Me: (quick recovery from absolute shock and disbelief) Well, you can apply online at peacecorps.gov, but you have to be ready for a 2 year commitment, and you should know you don’t get to pick where you go (in my head: in case you just wanted to move here and be “the American that sleeps around and buys people things”)
Ghetto beau: Cool, so what’s the website? P-E-A-C-E-C-O-R-E?
Me: No, it’s C-O-R-P-S
Ghetto beau: Ah, Peace Corpse.
Me: (nod of the head)
Me: So, they said you were working on some paperwork to take Juanita to the states?
Ghetto beau: (more exclamations of how it’s funny that I already know that) Yea, I mean, my Spanish is bad, so I’ve been trying to tell her it takes a while. But yea, we gotta go to the consulate and have an interview. They ask questions like “what side of the bed does she sleep on” and stuff, ya know, to know if it’s for real. But like, I’m not worried, cause this is for real. They say there are girls who just get married to get to the states and then leave the guy, but I don’t think that will happen. I mean, I really don’t want that to happen.
Me: Yea. OK, well…I can explain to her that it will take a while, if you want.
Ghetto beau: Yea, I think she gets it.
Me: OK
Both: awkward nice to meet you’s and such
It was truly horrifying dialogue, and everything I had expected. Where do they get these people?
I was at my neighbor’s house, borrowing a pot in which to fry chicken – a skill I’ve finally mastered! Apparently the missing link was an extra 15 cups of oil – when I spotted someone I didn’t recognize coming down the hill, accompanied by a Dominican boy. I wasn’t sure if this was the visitor, because he looked Latino (Puerto Rican, I later found out, but nevertheless unable to speak Spanish) and certainly was dressed like a Dominican, in a tight white tank-top and colorful athletic shorts nearly falling off his body. His dress was not surprising, considering the gifts he had brought a bunch of the kids – colorful New York Yankees baseball caps entirely too big for their young heads, and an Ipod for his “girlfriend” in a community where she can’t even charge the thing regularly, let alone change the music on it. Practical, if nothing else.
The Dominican boy brought the visitor up to me and said he wanted to “practice” English, which further convinced me this must not be the guy. But after a few confused moments, he switched to English and I discovered he didn’t want to “practice” it, but rather communicate in English as this is his first language – this undesirable fellow was, indeed, the visiting American boyfriend. What follows is a sample of our uncomfortable conversation:
Ghetto beau: So, you live here?
Me: Yes. You must be Juanita’s boyfriend.
Ghetto beau: (genuinely surprised) Whoa, how’d you know?
Me: Um, everyone knows everything about everyone here. How’d you guys meet?
Ghetto beau: Yea, I was on vacation in Sosua (in my head: shady beach town) last year and there was all these girls and then I saw her and I was like whoa, I gotta talk to her.
Me: (blank stare, probably)
Ghetto beau: Huh. So, yea, they were like ‘there’s another American here’ and I was like no way, I haven’t seen nobody.
Me: Yes, I’ve been here 2 years working with the Peace Corps. (short description of what I do)
Ghetto beau: Oh, how can I get in to that?
Me: (quick recovery from absolute shock and disbelief) Well, you can apply online at peacecorps.gov, but you have to be ready for a 2 year commitment, and you should know you don’t get to pick where you go (in my head: in case you just wanted to move here and be “the American that sleeps around and buys people things”)
Ghetto beau: Cool, so what’s the website? P-E-A-C-E-C-O-R-E?
Me: No, it’s C-O-R-P-S
Ghetto beau: Ah, Peace Corpse.
Me: (nod of the head)
Me: So, they said you were working on some paperwork to take Juanita to the states?
Ghetto beau: (more exclamations of how it’s funny that I already know that) Yea, I mean, my Spanish is bad, so I’ve been trying to tell her it takes a while. But yea, we gotta go to the consulate and have an interview. They ask questions like “what side of the bed does she sleep on” and stuff, ya know, to know if it’s for real. But like, I’m not worried, cause this is for real. They say there are girls who just get married to get to the states and then leave the guy, but I don’t think that will happen. I mean, I really don’t want that to happen.
Me: Yea. OK, well…I can explain to her that it will take a while, if you want.
Ghetto beau: Yea, I think she gets it.
Me: OK
Both: awkward nice to meet you’s and such
It was truly horrifying dialogue, and everything I had expected. Where do they get these people?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Feeling the Spirits (written 1.17.10)
It seems I picked the right day to go to church. I’ve only been to the Catholic church in my site a handful of times, but due to the unexpected absence of the girl who paints my nails, I decided to drop in on the mass, which turned out to be a memorial service in honor of an important community elder who passed away 4 months ago. Although everyone was dressed in black and white, as customs dictate, I decided they would rather have me in my blue skirt and orange t-shirt than not have me at all. I blended right in with the kids in their colorful outfits that state “we’re not old enough to know any better”. That’ll teach ‘em that I’m not as young as they assume!
By the time the out of town preacher (pastor? Father? I’m not really up on my Catholic lingo) arrived, the little church was pretty full. It’s an important week religiously speaking, what we call Patronales, and several of the kids will be taking their first communion soon. As the preacher started warming up to his sermon, we here a loud cry from the back of the church. Heads turn just in time to see an extremely drunken man, someone visiting from outside the community, stumbling down the aisle, on an unmistakable path to the altar, where he interrupts the preacher with an inebriated salutation and proceeds to place the preacher’s hands on his head. Ostensibly, they had healing powers and the man could wait not a moment longer to have them laid upon his lowly noggin. The preacher asked him to sit, which he did, but momentarily was at it again, and the sermon swayed accordingly from the real topic of the service – parting with loved ones – to the ways of the sinner.
Throughout this scene, I stifled giggles with the kids, exchanged knowing glances with the adults, and was generally satisfied that I had chosen to stop in on such a lively event. I usually struggle to pay attention during foreign language, religiously themed diatribes, but I was wide awake this day, and silently thanking God that I’ve never felt the Spirit(s) quite as much as this man.
By the time the out of town preacher (pastor? Father? I’m not really up on my Catholic lingo) arrived, the little church was pretty full. It’s an important week religiously speaking, what we call Patronales, and several of the kids will be taking their first communion soon. As the preacher started warming up to his sermon, we here a loud cry from the back of the church. Heads turn just in time to see an extremely drunken man, someone visiting from outside the community, stumbling down the aisle, on an unmistakable path to the altar, where he interrupts the preacher with an inebriated salutation and proceeds to place the preacher’s hands on his head. Ostensibly, they had healing powers and the man could wait not a moment longer to have them laid upon his lowly noggin. The preacher asked him to sit, which he did, but momentarily was at it again, and the sermon swayed accordingly from the real topic of the service – parting with loved ones – to the ways of the sinner.
Throughout this scene, I stifled giggles with the kids, exchanged knowing glances with the adults, and was generally satisfied that I had chosen to stop in on such a lively event. I usually struggle to pay attention during foreign language, religiously themed diatribes, but I was wide awake this day, and silently thanking God that I’ve never felt the Spirit(s) quite as much as this man.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
DeliCATessen (written 11.22.09)
Sometimes I give my cat more food than she can eat in one sitting, the consequence being that it’s a little less than crisp at the nth hour, due to the constant humidity in the DR. To show her disapproval, she will walk by, sniff the bowl, and head straight for the ziplock bag where she knows her food is kept, meowing each time I brave eye contact until finally, I cave, and give her a little extra fresh food on top of the older stuff. I’ve watched her eat this mixture, and she really does know the difference. No one likes mealy food, but a cat that’s closer to feral than domestic? Now I’ve seen it all!
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