Now that it's February, I believe the rainy season is on its way out, but I have to say there wasn't nearly as much precipitation as I anticipated. The temperature is slowly but surely beginning to drop, as I don't sweat through my clothes on 5minute walks anymore. School is back in session, and everyone is back into a work routine from the extended holiday around Christmas and the New Year. I detailed my work situation in my last post but am happy to say that I've had a bit of a change of heart concerning my activistas at the hospital. I spoke this morning with hospital staff about the possibility of having an office space set aside for the activistas. While they are volunteers, they do a lot of work within the hospital, which I feel warrants their entitlement to some space. Unlike the United States, the health system in Mozambique relies heavily upon human resources from community groups. I was hung up on the idea of having an office elsewhere, but I think having a central location within the hospital to store materials, books, and paperwork, would be a healthy step for the activistas.

Last week, we had a weekly meeting reporting the funds for the 2011 calendar year. The activistas were yelling at each other, going in and out of local dialect (that's when you know people are angry), and the meeting was sidetracked for a good 45minutes on the matter of where the money was. Currently, five people have money that belongs to the association in their personal accounts. Some of the money was transferred when their chicken-selling income generation project was going on, but I wasn't able to keep track of all of it. One member who is no longer active has a large amount of money in her personal account, which is disheartening. Who knows if she spent it already or where the money is now, but the wheels are in motion to confront her and have her return the money. I anticipate the police will have to become involved. We decided to also open a separate account for the association, as it's simply not a good idea to mix personal accounts into the matter. It will require the signature of three people to withdraw funds in the future, so hopefully a consensus can be reached for any future transactions.

This morning, I sat in on the palestra at the hospital. It was about malaria, but it didn't go too well. First off, I'd like to procure a megaphone for the activistas or try to make something so more people can hear them. One person speaking to 50-100 people just doesn't work well. Anyway, the palestra was sidetracked when people started yelling about the activistas' advice, which was not applicable to those individuals who are sleeping outside after the cyclone. Further, some people don't have mosquito nets to use in the first place. There was an awkward few minutes that the conversation all got directed towards me, because people expected me as the foreigner to fix the problem and distribute nets. I know nets have been distributed before, and sometimes they are used for other purposes than sleeping. I'm going to teach the activistas how to make a mosquito trap with a plastic bottle, black plastic bag, water, sugar, and yeast, so they can do the demonstration next time they discuss malaria. I hope to work in more activities like this to the palestras, because I know many people just zone out when someone's speaking.

There's a lot of confusion for people who have not yet formed groups for the retroviral distribution. I'm suggesting that the topic be discussed everyday, and at the very least, people are asked to meet others who live in the same bairro who are there for the morning. I feel for people's frustrations. Some come to the hospital day after day and waste hours waiting in the morning. The sooner we can form people into groups, the sooner we can reduce the number of people who arrive per day. Try multiplying a typical waiting room crowd in the ER by five, and you'll have a typical day at the hospital here.

I have a meeting this afternoon with some girls to discuss forming a girls' group. Ultimately, I need to go over to the secondary school and meet the director, so I can have access to a large group of youth and also have a space to use for meetings. I'll also need to go by the police and governo to let them know of my actions and intention to start these activities. Volunteers who failed to acknowledge this step have been shut down in the past. Tomorrow, I'll have the weekly meeting with the activistas in the hospital, and we'll talk about today's palestra and ideas for future palestras. The weekend after next is Carnival, so several volunteers are traveling to Quelimane to celebrate. Things are looking up!

A few photos below to leave you all with. I mentioned having a garden in front of my house-- it may eventually happen, but I've been slowly leveling the ground every time it rains and I see puddles. For now, I'm settling for herb gardens in buckets on my verandah.

basil seedlings! parsely and rosemary coming in now

left to right: Ázia, Anibel, and Nedi

p.s. two books that I'd like to recommend are Helen Epstein's "An Invisible Cure" and Paul Farmer's "Pathologies of Power".

I'm impressed with how incredibly accurate the former is, and the latter is thought-provoking. I'm going to give Farmer's book a second read because I'm not entirely sure I agree with all of his points, but he certainly is insightful in the connections he makes with people's current situations and events of the past.

All for now,
Eric

The Return to Mozambique

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique helen in mozambique

2012-02-08 10:12:00

Apologies for the lack of updates. Our new school in Cateme has an awesome air-conditioned computer lab so I should be updating more frequently this year. Also, I´ll also be more prone to read and respond to emails, so start writing away! :)

So, I hadn´t written about my time back at home.. but I figure most of the people checking up on my blog are back stateside. I had a wonderful time back in the States. The past year in Mozambique has made me appreciate everything that I have back at home so much more. What I probably spent the MOST of my time doing back home was either A) eating or B) shopping for food. As soon as I got home, my mom wanted to cook me my favorite Korean meals, people wanted to take me out to eat, and I wanted to eat a lot of junk food. Hence, as soon as I got back to Mozambique, per usual, all I heard was "you got fat!"

Throughout the past month I was home, every time I would go out to Target, Walmart, BJs, H-Mart, or whatever other store, I would buy and stow away a pile of goodies that I wanted to bring back to Mozambique. By the time I had to start packing, I had wayyyy too much stuff that my mom finally convinced me to pack a 3rd check-in bag in exchange for her not sending me any packages this year. Compromises... :(

So during my last days at home, with all of my new snacks and goodies and treats for Olive, I was really excited to go back to Mozambique and start my second year with everything I would need. I didn´t really dread going back to Africa and figured with all the stuff Audrey and I are bringing back collectively, we´d be living like rock stars this year. And all the way until an hour before landing, I anticipated coming back to Mozambique. An hour before landing, something changed.. I guess this second year became more of a reality, and I didn´t want to land. Starting this year at a new site would mean another year of adjusting to a new school, having people judge my Portuguese, and living without hot showers and supermarkets.

But alas, my plane landed and Thank God that Geraldo came to pick me and my 3 check-in bags, 2 carry- on bags, and purse from the airport and drove me all the way home to Cateme. Arriving at nightfall into a dinky room (my new room is a lot smaller than the last) filled with dead insect carcasses and spider webs was NOT what I was looking forward to, but I guess it´s a lot better than what Audrey had to face (check out her blog, link is located in the right hand side of my blog). Having such a small room with no bed, only a mattress on the floor, and a closet with no closet rod to hang clothes.. meant no unpacking for a couple days. This week, Geraldo installed a rod into my closet, bought & brought me a bed, and put together a bookshelf for me. So, things are looking golden! :)

Currently, I feel a lot more adjusted at our school and site. We finally have our final schedules and classes and I´m getting the swing of things. Wish me luck and keep praying for me!!

A smoky dream

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique back to the drawing board...

2012-02-07 23:08:00

Last night I dreamed that I was hanging out with a buddy of mine who smokes. We were chatting it up and eventually, I felt the urge to light up again (in reality, I quit over two months ago). He gave off the vibe of "sweet, glad to have you back" as he passed me a stick and a light. I had the lit cigarette in my mouth and was about to inhale when the motivation for quitting popped into my head. If I smoked this cigarette, I would be shunning the two years I spent in Africa and the memory of all the friends I made there. I had vowed two months ago that in honor of the feelings and experiences I had had over there, I would quit. Needless to say, immediately I didn't want to smoke anymore. I guess I still felt a craving, but compared to my feelings for Moz that was nothing.

So, I put the cig out. And then my friend shot me a look of "what the heck, why did you ask for one then?"

Then, I woke up. And, I'm happy to say, there was absolutely no desire to smoke after waking up.

My first site mate was right, you really just need to find a remembrance strong enough to help you quit. For some people, it's the knowledge that oxygen is sweet and feels good in the body whereas the tar in tobacco gunks it up like a sewer. For others, it's the birth of their children. Well...I guess it's only been two and a half months so far, but I feel like it gets easier to stay off tobacco as time goes on.

I guess it helps that there are so many more distractions here in the states, too.

07/02/12

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Scooter In Mozambique

2012-02-07 18:17:00

Day 5 of the Malaria Boot Camp here in Senegal. It's been fantastic so far, I have so much to recount. I was a little worried that some portion of a ten-day conference would be dedicated to stupid ice-breakers, but instead we have just been bombarded with useful and relevant information. It's been wonderful. I will have a lot to say once I have a moment's rest!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Life in Moz

2012-02-07 12:03:00

(this is an email that I sent to my mom on the second day back at site. Apologies for the lack of formatting, thats just the way Nokia phones email lol)

welllll ... if possible, today has been crazier than yesterday. after we talked, i started trying to unpack-waiting for the water to come on. during said unpacking, i encountered the giant f-ing lizard whose
been leaving gifts all over the house. i screamed when he came flying out at me and he promptly hid behind my matress. awesome. so as im trying to scare him out, olive (who apparently has learned to be slightly more productive after her time with antonias family) caught him on the other side. she then proceeded to scurry around the house with the twitching, bleeding lizard looking for a place to eat him. i, in turn, ran after her with a broom trying to get both of them outside. at this point, the lizards 4 inch long tail fell off (they do that
sometimes, im not always sure why, in this case, i would assume it was the ´oh shit this cat will eat me´reasoning.) so i just left olive in the kitchen, swept the still moving tail outside and left them. she
didnt leave a drop. sidenote, olive wont stop purring and its really pissing me off.... could be that i took a full larium. anyways, 8 oclock rolls around and im panicking about the water sitch. i was trying to wait to go over to school until i had bathed. eventually, i just wiped myself down with a baby wipe (which, btw, is not a good substitue for a bath) and went over to school. after being told i was fat and pale, multiple times, and that water just wasnt running i went home and decided to walk to the market in an attempt to buy either
bottled water, toilet paper or phone credit. luckily on the way, 2 students stopped me (a brother and sister) and the girl offered to come with me to the market. shes gonna be a rockstar, i can tell. so so sweet. she had the peace corps teachers in zobue before janet and luc and won the national science fair in 2008--- she was super proud. she told me about the water sitch. apparently there was a strike with some of the community members and they blockaded that one road into the village. so whoever was supposed to come and turn on the water never made it. the rest of the people who live here took that as their cue to take the day off as well. so there was literally nothing in the market. nothing. we tried 3 different peoples houses for toilet paper and phone credit and eventually, after about an hour and a half, got some phone credit. so i came home, super sweaty and dirty and spit on my used baby wipe to get some of the dirt off my feet. seriously. i feel like this could be some crazy joke haha!! i did, what im refering to as my ´possom plan´....and went to sleep. when i woke up and went out, my director offered a little water (i think he was more concerned as to how i had managed to make it til 1:30 with zero water). ive managed to unpack the majority of my things - so thats mentally helpful. not to be dramatic, but i feel like ive been traumatized within the past 48 hours! ughh. itll be fine. i just keep thinking, even if i were to just crack and e.t. today, id still have to stay for at least like 2 weeks getting all of my paperwork and med stuff done. and within 2 weeks, things could be much better here anyway! i guess thats a good thing?! who knows! ok well now that ive recounted my entire day ill let you be!! although i am enjoying the airconditioned computer room at school and appearing to be busy... maybe when i call you in the a.m. things will be on the up swing!!

i loveeee you!!!!

Cateme Riot in the News

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Life in Moz

2012-02-07 12:14:00

I though I would share some of the news articles from the demonstration that I mentioned in my last post. Luckily, our Peace Corps friends who have already finished their service have been keeping us in the official loop.

Mozambique families protest against Brazil's Vale

Wed Jan 11, 2012 5:27am GMT

JOHANNESBURG (Reuters) - Families resettled by Brazilian mining giant Vale in the Tete region of Mozambique protested on Tuesday that the company had failed to keep promises it made to them in 2009.

About 700 families, resettled approximately 60 kilometres away from the Moatize coal mining site, demonstrated against the lack of access to water, electricity and agricultural land at their resettlement Cateme area.

"Many promises made by Vale before they resettled us here have not been accomplished since 2009," said community leader Eduardo Zinocassaka.

Vale refused to comment, saying it had an agreement with the local government, which would release an official comment on Wednesday morning.

The families were resettled between November 2009 and December 2010.

"Last December we sent a document-complaint to the government of Moatize District requesting their official intervention to solve the problems faced by the communities, and as we saw the government's incapacity, we decided to demonstrate," Zinocassaka told Reuters by phone.

Mozambique: Vale Promises to Solve Resettlement Problems

19 January 2012

Maputo — The Brazilian mining company Vale has promised to solve within six months all the problems faced by households resettled from the area where Vale is now mining coal in Moatize district, in the western province of Tete.

717 households were resettled at Cateme, about 35 kilometres from Moatize town. Many of these families protest that the houses they were given are shoddily built. Cracks have appeared in the walls and the roofs are leaking.

On 10 January this problem hit the headlines when about 500 Cateme residents blocked the Sena railway line, from Moatize to the port of Beira, thus interrupting the movement of Vale coal trains. The protestors were eventually dispersed by the riot police and 14 alleged ringleaders were arrested.

In addition to the problems with the houses, Cateme residents cited in Thursday's issue of the independent daily "O Pais" say that Vale promised each household two hectares of land for farming, but actually only allotted one hectare each, and in an area that is not suitable for agriculture.

They say they are facing hunger, have no jobs, and have no means of transport. They claim Vale promised them priority in the allocation of jobs, but the only jobs some of them managed to obtain were temporary. They also accuse the government of doing nothing to relieve their suffering.

Adriano Ramos, director for sustainability of Vale-Mozambique, admitted to the paper that the complaints are justified, and promised that everything can be set right within six months.

"I think there was a lack of dialogue between the population, Vale and the government", he said. "There should be a permanent dialogue, because we want to see the development of all concerned, and particularly of Mozambique. We have to recognise that processes are dynamic. What was good two years ago may not be good today".

The costs of resettlement were estimated at 120 million US dollars, of which Vale has so far spent 100 million.

(from AllAfrica.com)

Things that are Hilarious

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Bom Dia, Mozambique!

2012-02-06 04:58:00

When we met with Janet and Lucas in Maputo before moving to our site, Janet had a way of saying a certain line that I will never forget. Whenever she would state an unusual or interesting fact about Zobue or its inhabitants, she would finish by saying,

“It is hilarious.”

For example, she told us that Romao once tried to keep a scorpion as a pet in a mayonnaise jar.

“He tried to feed it xima,” she said. “It was hilarious.”

Her way of looking at our new friends and neighbors has been infectious. More and more, I am noticing things about this town that are, in her words, hilarious.

Things are done in ways that are, to us, strange. People say things that seem strange, and often do things that seem stranger. I could fill a bingo board with the strange things that I see every day: Men in women’s clothes, men in women’s sandals, babies with the top half exposed, babies with the bottom half exposed, women who forgot to tuck a breast or two ….

And those are just clothes-related incidents.

And so, without further ado…

I give you “Things that are Hilarious: A Celebration of Differences”

The Cell Phone:

There is no concept of privacy or personal space in Mozambique. Doors are left wide open, people stare into windows. Kids crawl onto our porch and loll about in our door frame, edging ever closer. This concept, of personal space as public property, is even evident in the way that Mozambicans use their cell phones. I think that most volunteers will agree with me- Mozambicans will make use of their free text messages! To the extreme.

It is not uncommon to get a text message from a Mozambican friend that says simply,

“I am eating,” “I am at home,” or, “I am ill and vomiting.”

We have a good friend that takes this one step farther. Zachariah sends the most wonderful and hilarious text messages, and they are especially valuable because of his command of the English language.

Take this message that I received two weeks ago.

“Hi Lisa! How are you doing today? As for me, I am worse. My head is in pain, my stomach is aching so that I’m defecating nonviscous excrement. My bones are tedious and my body is feeble. I can’t go to the hospital ‘cause I had the same problem last yr while I was here. The weather here isn’t tolerant to my body, sometime my body itches due to the fierce searing of the sun. I’m in hell and I doth imbibe lukewarm water.”

Or this one:

“Hi Lisa! It’s zach. I’m unconscious today! Im coughing a lot.”

Oh, Zachariah. How we doth love thee!

The Students

Dan and I love our students, but we are having trouble keeping track of their names. At first, we blamed ourselves.

“We just need to try harder,” we said. “Maybe we can practice their names at home.”

But one day, I took my attendance sheets home to enter them onto the laptop. As I started to type up the name of each student, I had a sudden realization- it’s not us, it’s them. I have never encountered such a collection of odd names in my life! Apparently, the students feel the same way, because they clearly don’t know how to spell them.

I have one girl who alternately signs her name as “Linda Rock” and “Lindia Roque.” I have another who can’t decide if he is “Camanula Mapemba” or “Kamnula Mpembo.” A third fluctuates between “Ana Santo Jose” and “Ana Santos Josse.” One of my favorites, a certain Margaret Andre, has signed her name in four different ways on four different attendance sheets- Margret, Margreti, Margrety, and Marget.

Not only are they unclear on the spelling of their own name, they have some of the trickiest names I have ever seen. And they mumble! Very difficult, believe me. Try these names:

Bizalamo Bernadimo

Diquimoni Chivboda

Baliqueri Bulatinesse

Maquissuelo Laudone

Quembo Roque

And, my all-time favorite:

Jubertanzia Abilio.

Poor Jubertanzia. He or she (we’re still not sure which) has no idea how to spell his own name. And can you blame him?

Names also have funny translations. Take the following five names.

Mesa Vincente - Table Vincent

Jose Toalha - Joe Towel

Maezinha Paulo - Little Mama Paul

Hamilton Almoco - Hamilton Lunch

Portamao Joao Portamao - Door-hand John Door-hand

Hamilton Lunch? Very funny.

Clothing

Mozambicans will wear anything. Yesterday, I saw a teenage boy in a pair of bell-bottoms with embroidered pink flowers. The cuffs were rolled up, but I could see the back side of the embroidery.

I see other good examples, too. We buy bread from a man in women’s rhinestone-studded sandals. Romao has a V-neck camisole that he pairs with a heavy orange vest. Gift Mponda has a day-glo yellow road-worker’s vest that he wears with his shiny black dress shoes.

It’s not just the men, either (although they do have an unusual predilection for women’s clothes). Just a few days ago, our landlady came to talk to us wearing a dress that must have been about three sizes too small. Her chest was spilling out of the top. On the right-side, she was not entirely tucked. In fact, we could clearly see a burger-sized chunk of nipple. Nobody else batted an eye, though. Breasts are always out and about. I have seen babies gnaw on a breast for hours at a time, almost absentmindedly.

Whenever I take a good look at the clothes around me, I see strange combinations. Pink socks are paired with loafers, raincoats with long underwear, and overalls with woolen hats. I am reminded of the wizards in Harry Potter, trying to dress like ordinary Muggles but not quite making the cut.

In the words of Barbara Kingsolver, “In Africa, the general idea seems to be, ‘if you’ve got it, why not wear it?’ ”

Two things are important here, though, and it is best to remember:

1. Knees are strictly forbidden. A female who shows a pair of knobby knees might as well show her bottom at the same time. I could walk around with my top off as long as I was wearing a hefty pair of knee pads.

2. Clothes can be torn, but not dirty. I have seen clothes that hang in tatters, like the netting on a goal post. This is acceptable, as long as everything is nice and clean. In all, this makes a statement that I rather like. It’s as if the Mozambicans are saying, “We may be poor, but we have standards.”

Restaurants:

Restaurants are not terribly popular in Mozambique, but most towns have one or two establishments that are trying their hardest to at least appear to understand the concept. Like in the United States, you can ask for a menu when you sit down at a table in a Mozambican restaurant. You can even look over this menu and choose anything you want. The only problem is- and this is where the concept of “restaurant” seems to differ- they probably don’t have it.

A restaurant will create a big, elaborate menu with descriptions, side dishes, and prices, but then never carry that particular type of food. A conversation with a waiter might very well look like this:

“I would like the hamburger, please.”

“We don’t have the hamburger.”

“Then I would like the steak sandwich.”

“We don’t have the steak sandwich.”

“I would like the egg sandwich?”

“We don’t have.”

“What do you have?”

“Chicken.”

“I will have the chicken, then.”

At this point, if Dan and I go out to eat, it is because we want to eat chicken and we don’t want to kill one. It is not because we are craving diversity in our diet. Variety in our daily diet is entirely our responsibility.

Honesty:

You can always count on a Mozambican woman to be honest with you. Just last week, I encountered a woman in the market place who said she liked me because I was skinny. Specifically, because I was,

“Not ugly like that fat one.”

Who could she have been talking about? Certainly not Janet! Another teacher, perhaps? A volunteer long gone? An American visitor? We will never know.

Over Christmas, Mary, Adrienne, and I went over to a neighbor’s house to borrow a pot for cooking. The dona of the house came out to talk to us.

“I like you girls,” she said. “You are pretty.”

Then she pointed at Adrienne.

“She is the most pretty,” she said.

The three of us sputtered a little bit. I giggled.

In America, that sort of honesty is rude and unthinkable. Here, it is common. Yesterday, Romao pointed at my nose.

“Your skin is coming off,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I got a sunburn. My skin is peeling.”

“Well, it’s ugly,” he said.

In fact, that brings me to my fifth and final entry…

Romao:

Romao is both a Godsend and the bane of our existence. I’ve never had such mixed opinions about a person in my entire life.

Let’s take yesterday, for instance. A drunk man followed us home, muttering unintelligently and pointing at our dog. I had yelled at him multiple times in my very clear, very simple Portuguese, but it did no good. He staggered after us, grabbing at the back of my shirt.

“Nyehhhh, nyehhhh. Vende-nyuhhh, paga-nyehhhh.”

Dan and I grabbed the dog, picked up our pace, and headed straight for Romao’s house.

Once there, we explained the situation. Romao’s family gathered around us to watch.

“We’re going inside,” Dan said to Romao, tucking the puppy against his chest. “You talk to this man.”

To his credit, Romao sat on the porch with him for about thirty minutes. Eventually, the drunk man left of his own accord.

“What did you say?” We asked Romao, poking our heads back outside.

“I lied for you,” he said, rather cryptically. “And now he’s gone.”

“… Okay,” we said. “Well, whatever. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

Then, immediately afterwards, he added, “Your papaya got ripe today. I ate it.”

“Romao! We were waiting for that papaya!”

“Yeah." He said. "It was good.”

Never before have I wanted to hug a person while simultaneously strangling them with my bare hands.

Romao also has been having fun with Bwino’s new chew toy. Unfortunately for all of us, it is a squeaky toy. Imagine being woken up at 5AM to the sound of-

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek. Eke Eke Eke Eke Eke. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.”

“We need to hide that squeaky toy,” said Dan. “He just can’t leave it alone.”

He, of course, meaning Romao. Not the puppy.

We are lucky enough to have inherited a boy who will guard our house carefully and conscientiously during vacations and extended weekends. The downside is, of course, that while we are gone, he is liable to eat an entire shaker of cinnamon.

It’s like having two puppies. One is small and helpless, the other is large and hopeless. Either way, we feel somewhat responsible for the well-being of both.

The goal this year is to get Romao through the ninth grade. At the age of nineteen, this is his third attempt.

When attempting to do this post, it was hard to draw the line between what was funny, what was a little bit sad, and what could actually be considered nausea-inducing. Here are a few things that didn’t make the cut:

Funny/Scary/Didn’t like: The mouse that tried to nest in the pillow of the spare room. When I picked up the pillow, the mouse fell out! The plan is to drown him in a pot of water, but as of last night, he was still at large in our house.

Funny/Sad: Our house is crumbling around our ears! Large, fist sized chunks have been falling off the wall and bursting into pieces on the floor. This is due to swelling of the wooden frame during the last few weeks of rain.

Funny/Nausea-Inducing: A chapa ride. Imagine 27 people packed into a mini-van. Imagine that there are only 20 seats, so you are one of the lucky few that gets to ride with an adult male sitting on your lap. Picture, if you will, the armpits, the crying babies, the dripping perspiration, and the

Crack

Of an unexpected pothole. Imagine, during all of this, the urine of another individual slowly soaking the hem of your favorite skirt. Imagine it pooling in the toes of your sandals.

Nausea-Inducing: A goat head on a stick. This is used in the marketplace to announce the goat-meat stand. As if we couldn’t find the goat-meat vendor on our own, without the pickings of decapitation.

And, finally, the Not-Funny Moment of the week:

Dan and I traveled to Tete City this weekend to visit the bank and to stock up on supplies. The plan was to flag down a boleia instead of taking a chapa. It would, we decided, be more comfortable to ride in the cab of a truck rather than sitting four by four in a stinky old mini-van. We sat on the side of the road for about an hour, playing cards, but there were few vehicles passing through at that time of day. Our options were dwindling. It probably didn’t help that a pack of boys noticed us and decided to try to help. Every time that a truck passed by, some fifteen boys would plug up the roadway and try to entice the trucker to slow down. Needless to say, that must have been an alarming sight from the throne of a cab, and we had no takers. Finally, Dan and I agreed to take the next chapa and were bundling down the road by noon.

About forty minutes outside of town, our chapa driver slowed down to a near stop. There had been an accident directly in front of us. A large tractor-trailer had crashed and flipped onto the side of the road. Other vehicles were pulling over to help. As we pulled by, slowly, I could see that the cab of the truck had been crumpled and destroyed. The passenger’s side was smashed in like a soda can. The driver was nowhere to be seen and, strangely, the windshield seemed to be missing. As I glanced backwards, I had a sudden realization.

I had tried to flag down that same truck just one hour before.

Resolve

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Mozambitious

2012-02-05 14:21:23

So this is the story of Nelson, a determined student in one of my twelfth grade classes last school year. Perhaps it was due to the overwhelming number of students in each classroom at the start of the school year, but Nelson did not really stand out as a “star” student during the first trimester. [...]

Something Tastes Fishy...

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique A Journey of Fresh Pão and Peanut Butter

2012-02-04 11:41:00

Dedicated to Bernard Newton

It started out like any other day. I was out of food in my
house, not a remarkably unusually situation, so I walked to the market. In stock:
potatoes, tomatoes, and dried fish. I bought some of each. Satisfied, since it
was a Sunday and I didn’t think the market would even be open, I returned home
and asked my foster family (a new family, different from my host family) how I
could cook the fish. They said, “where did you buy this?! That fish is not good
for eating. It will give you a rash.” They whisked away my dried fish and
brought out some of their dried fish, apparently superior, although it didn’t
look any different to my untrained eyeballs. They de-headed and de-scaled it
for me, and gave it to me along with instructions on how to cook it and a bit
extra to dine on the following day.

They turned out to be sardines, so salty
that I could still taste them in my throat after downing a pot of plain white rice.
Luckily my family had chosen that day to take pity on me and deliver me a bowl
of beans, as they do sometimes when they sense that my cooking is going to
result in a disaster. The next day, I gave the remaining fish back to my family
for them to enjoy. They laughed and said, “next time, buy fresh fish.”

I learn new things every day.

“But how do you get out?”

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique A Journey of Fresh Pão and Peanut Butter

2012-02-04 11:46:00

When you reach the waiting area, use the index digit to
apply pressure to the round illuminated apparatus bearing the triangular
symbol. A beep indicates impending arrival. Enter between the parting panels
without dawdling on their track. During the ascent, eye contact and verbal
exchange may be discouraged or met with coldness. Refrain from passing gas
until your disembarkment is imminent.

Does the previous paragraph sound slightly nonsensical? If
so, mission accomplished. I’m trying to simulate what I imagine it feels like
for someone who has no electricity and whose house consists of four mud-brick
walls, a tin roof, and two rooms each the size of a medium bathroom, to try to
understand what it’s like to ride an elevator. The more I tried to explain how
you press a button and the moving box knows which floor you’re on and comes to
pick you up, and how it travels on cables up and down a hole in the middle of
the building, the more ridiculous it seemed. But my friend was still very
curious about it, and asked questions like, “how do you get off? Do you have to
jump?” after which we explained that it goes level with the floor so you can
just walk off. I didn’t even tell her yet about jumping when the elevator starts
to go down, or the reasons you shouldn’t fart when you’re in one with other
people. That will be for another day.

I can’t live without you…

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique A Journey of Fresh Pão and Peanut Butter

2012-02-04 11:48:00

...cookbooks. I never realized how
amazing recipes are until now. And limiting, sometimes. But overall, huge
time-savers. I thought I knew how to cook, but then I realized that I’m just
good at following directions.

I do some things backwards here - relative to the way I did
them in the US, at least. Like thinking, for example. And running. I always run
forwards here. Although if I ran backwards down a hill (like I do in the US
sometimes) the looks people give me probably wouldn’t be any stranger than the
ones I get now (“where are you running to?” not as in, “how many kilometers are
you attempting today?” more like, “where the heck could you be going that you
need to rush to and why would you be running if there’s no soccer ball in front
of you or rabid dog behind you?”

Anyway, back to backwardsness. I was actually referring to
cooking. In the US, here’s what would happen: 1) decision: what do I want to eat? 2) recipe: find one for the food I want to eat, and 3) shopping: buy the ingredients for it.

Here, the process looks more like this: 1) shopping: buy whatever food is in the
market that day, 2) recipe: look
through some recipes (we received a “You Can Make it in Mozambique” cookbook,
compiled by Peace Corps volunteers, which is amazing but slightly better suited
for sites where the people don’t grow everything they eat in their backyards.
Which is also amazing! Just takes some getting used to) then realize that there
is no recipe that combines crackers, hard boiled eggs, and bananas, and for the
recipes with at least one of those things, I’m missing at least 2/3 of the
ingredients. The cookbook helpfully suggests substitutions, but it’s like that
philosophical dilemma: if everything except for one thing is substituted, is the
product still the same thing? and 3) decision:
mix everything together and think, do I really want to eat this?

I always eat it.

My English is bad, but my life is good

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Musings from Mozambique

2012-02-04 02:21:00

(Quote above attributed to one of my English theatre students)

My friend Meagan from Zambezia province came to visit me in Chicumbane for a few days after Midservice Conference (highlights of which, by the way, included all 62 of us Moz15-ers being together again for the first time since we left training, bumper cars in Maputo, Korean BBQ where Helen the legit Korean sweet-talked the restaurant owner into giving us free drinks, a mock burlesque show in honor of another PCV's birthday, a Superlative event in which I was voted Moz 15's "Most Likely to Reject You at a Bar," Thai food, pizza, and sangria with good friends). Being around so many people, after leading a solitary lifestyle for so long, was a bit exhausting and made me aware of some of the ways I have changed since being in Peace Corps. While others were fueled by the nightlife allures of drinking, dancing, and socializing, I yearned for my quiet town and my movie-before-bed-at-10pm routine.
Meagan lives in Quelimane, a big city in northern Mozambique, and it was interesting to discover just how different her Peace Corps experience has been from mine although we are both female health volunteers. She has hot running water at her house, so needless to say bucket bathing is not the norm for her. In Quelimane, she hangs out a lot with expats instead of Mozambicans, so she hears mainly English and Portuguese while I am constantly inundated with Changana. (She was completely bewildered when she got in a chapa with me. "What is this that they're speaking?" She asked.) Her organization has a private car so usually she doesn't even have to take public transportation, and the few times we had to get in super crowded chapas where people were crouched all over each other, she got a little upset. My site is a cattle town, and everywhere you go you find cows strolling around in packs, or sometimes even wandering around alone (and a few times, into my yard). Meagan's reaction: "I've never seen so many cows in my life!!" At her site, she has a guard while I just have my dogs to protect the house. I think she found it odd that I talk to them a lot, although she did agree that Magorducha my puppy is super cute. People pass through her site a lot, and her house has a constant stream of visitors but since I'm a smaller site and only a few hours from Maputo, I tend to be a rest stop only for friends passing through to the capitol city. I am not fazed by the presence of cockroaches, big or small, in my house, but I could tell that Meagan was disturbed, and I can guarantee she has never had to beat a rat to death. (Another PCV once told me that when it comes to bugs and critters that I'm "stronger than most," but I really think it comes with the territory. When you live in a part canico (reed) house and have a latrine in the back, it's inevitable, and if you want to survive for two years you just gotta do what you gotta do- right?)
One giant overlap between me and Meagan, however, is our work. We both work with youth- Meag is paired with a girls' education program much like REDES, and she does activities similar to the ones I do at CACHES. While she was here, we would go to CACHES in the evenings and she taught my kids hopscotch, hokey pokey, pass the orange, and other games and team building activities. One game in particular was a huge hit with both my coworkers and the children: two teams raced to successfully throw crumpled up pieces of paper into a box, which was supposed to get them used to throwing away trash properly. Meag deemed her team "Uva" (Grape) and my team "Manga" (Mango) and we all cheered and screamed for our teams while they competed. Of course, there was some definite cheating going on, but all in all things went really well and Meag and I had a lot of fun with the kids.
Another defining aspect of our experience in Mozambique for us, as women, has been sexual harassment. One day while we were walking around together in Xai Xai, we counted 15 times that men tried to hiss, holler, or otherwise attempt conversation with us. In Chicumbane, where the people are more or less used to my presence, we rarely got harassed but we definitely still got stared at. Meagan used to have a male sitemate (who has since left) and so she didn't really experience the sexual harassment until later on in her service. I've noticed too that when I'm with another male PCV or with Kevin, no one tries to talk to me; if anything, they'll greet the male instead.
After three days, Meagan left to go visit another PCV in Macia, but I suspect that she'll be back next week because she has some time to kill before going back to Maputo to take the GRE. In the meantime, I'm enjoying having quiet time and making conversation with my dogs :)

Lesson planning - Mozambique style

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique With My Chaco Strap Tight: TJ in Mozambique

2012-02-03 15:43:00

Truthfully, I’ve never planned a lesson really before thislast month. I’ve planned a number of meetings, etc. but never anything in a) alanguage I’m still struggling with and b) a subject I’m not completelycomfortable with. So when the teachers’ meetings started, I was rather excitedto get some guidance on the chemistry curriculum and to begin planning theyear. However, things (per usual) didn’t go quite as planned. 1) I am the onlychemistry teacher. While I kind of knew this when I moved to site, I hadn’trealized how much being the only chemistry teacher would matter. My sitemate,Zach, who is teaching English had someone to at least talk him through thebasics of all of the required forms for curriculum formation, where as I waskind of just floating in space for awhile.

This was partially due to the fact that Estrela do Marcoordinates their curriculum and final examinations with another tech school inInhambane City – so I wanted to wait to form my curriculum until I couldcoordinate with the other teachers. This meeting was supposed to take place onJanuary 24th, about a week before school started. It ended up taking place onJanuary 31st, aka the second day of school. So I wrote out an entire curriculumthat I didn’t really end up using because the teachers in Inhambane City haveactually taught chemistry before, and obviously have better Portuguese skillsthan I do, so the joining of curriculums ended up being a little one-sided.While I understand scheduling issues, it was just so strange to me that thismeeting took place after school had already begun and after the teachers hadalready (theoretically) spent 2 weeks on their lesson planning.

I still am unsure how some teachers managed to do any lessonplanning as we did not have a “final” (it’s been completely overhauled at leastthree times since then and I’m still missing a class . . . ) teaching scheduleuntil the first day of school. While I at least knew that I would be teaching1st year chemistry (because there are no other chemistry classes) otherteachers only had a vague idea of what year and sometimes of what subject theywould be teaching. On the first day, the national anthem started at 6:45 am andthen all the teachers had a meeting at 7:00 am, the time school wastheoretically supposed to start. I’m fairly impressed with students’ ability togo with the flow, the teachers’ meeting didn’t end until almost 9 am when theyfinally handed out our schedules (which, to be fair, are put together without acomputer, so I’m really actually pretty impressed) and I found out that I hadalready missed my first class. A lot of the teachers didn’t even teach theirclasses the first week because they were engaged in the overhaul of theschedule – trying to make it so they taught 3 classes in a row, instead ofhaving a lot of “free” time. I tried my darnedest to stay out of that process,my schedule is a little weird on some days, but I just did not want to getinvolved with all of the trading of class times, etc.

Anyways, I am currently attempting to collect littledemonstrations and experiments that are feasible without any type of labequipment (so if you happen to have any ideas, please email me). This weekendis devoted to looking through the new curriculum from the Inhambane school andtrying to make it make sense to me while still ensuring that my students atleast have the opportunity to learn everything they’ll need to know for thetest. It’ll all work out in the end and I’m actually kind of happy that I nowhave no choice but to improve my Portuguese.

Rat Strat 2012

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique With My Chaco Strap Tight: TJ in Mozambique

2012-02-03 15:45:00

There was a cyclone that passed by the coast of Mozambiqueabout a week or so ago and while it didn’t cause any major damage (it stayedpretty far off the coast), we had some serious wind and rain for a couple ofdays. As I have a tin roof, this rain/wind sounded basically like the world wasabout to end, meaning that I didn’t hear the large branch that broke off andfell onto my shower drainpipe, basically shattering it. To continue the seriesof unfortunate events, the rain evidently displaced a rat, who decided to comeinto my house through the now broken drain. Ew.

I can deal with most bugs, cockroaches aren’t even that bigof a deal now, but on the second night of the rat adventure, he (she?) jumpedon my not-very-tall headboard, causing me to almost have a heart attack andleading to my rat paranoia of the subsequent week. I basically didn’t sleepbecause I was a) making sure the rat didn’t get inside my mosquito net and b)waiting to see if one of my rat trapping/killing strategies worked. Even thoughI had blocked the shower drain, the rat had figured out how snazzy my house is,and started coming in through the roof (a problem that I can’t fix). So, firstI tried one of the scary traps baited with bread and peanut butter . . . andalmost lost a finger. That night the rat ate the bread and peanut butterwithout setting off the trap. Second night, just peanut butter on the trap, butapparently Mozambican rats don’t like peanut butter (or are just really smartabout their trap avoidance techniques) so he just ignored the trap. Third nightI tried to put bread inside of a 5 gallon bucket, with a stick leading up tothe bucket, the theory being he wouldn’t be able to get out. Turns out, the ratis large enough to get out of the 5 gallon bucket without tipping it over.Fantastic. The bucket trap took awhile to get any results, so it wasn’t untilthis week that I finally tried turkey jerky on the trap. Rat still ignored it.

It’s unclear if the rat is even coming in anymore becauseall of my food is put away (so I don’t have any evidence of his continuedexistence) and I was so sleep deprived from the period of rat paranoia that Ihave basically just passed out the last couple of nights. However, I did letthe cat stay inside last night and am planning to do the same thing for thenext couple of nights hoping that’ll either discourage the rat or be the end ofthe rat. But he also may have been eaten by the cat that lives on the roof, it’sall unclear. My mom is sending me sticky traps (to outsmart Mozambican rats),so next time (I really would prefer there wasn’t a next time) I’ll beprepared.

And so it begins . . .

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique With My Chaco Strap Tight: TJ in Mozambique

2012-02-03 15:46:00

Before I look forward to the year in front of me, I want to first take a moment to look back on the year that was, 2011. If I had to sum up my 2011 in a few words, I would say “new, humbling, and non-stop.” Considering I had never taught anything to anyone at any level before, figuring out how to teach biology, English and computers at a new school and in a new culture was a formidable enough challenge for me. Combine that, however, with the exciting but new challenge of running my English theater, journalism and JOMA (HIV/AIDS theater) clubs, and I often had my head spinning. I managed to figure it all out though and put all of the pieces of my life at Mangunde together. I found ways to commit time and energy to all of my projects and to make them fulfilling for me and my students. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, though, Mozambique found a way to throw a few more challenges my way to knock me off balance again. There was malaria, then there was a bus accident, then there was the break-in with the crazy machete-men in which I lost my computer, camera, phone, and ipod, then there was another bus accident and more malaria. Despite these setbacks, however, I was able to carry on and finish my year on a very positive note. October meant exam time and the end of the school year along with the regional English Theater competition that I organized in the provincial capital. I went into detail about the competition in one of my earlier blog posts, but it was a perfect grand finale to my first year here in Mozambique. Between running to and from the city, calling restaurants and hotels, and suffering through headaches at the bank, the competition ended up consuming every free hour of my life down the stretch. It was a glorious event, however, that made me remember why I am really here and the kind of difference a few committed Peace Corps volunteers can make in the lives of many, and I don't regret it for a minute. Needless to say, I was ready for a break in November.

November and December took me all over Mozambique and to three other countries. I began my break by making a journey down to Maputo to participate in the training for the new group of volunteers that were arriving to Mozambique. Suddenly, I looked in the mirror and realized that I had been here in Mozambique for over a year and was now “an experienced volunteer.” Thus, for a week in Namaacha, the very same town that I had spent two formative months a year ago for my own training, I dispersed my sage advice and broad experiences to the wide-eyed newbies. It was fun, and I was even able to spend some time with my old host family – Mama Joana, Papa Justino and their kids. After training, I was able to meet up with other volunteers in Vilankulos, a beach town on the way up the coast, for a few days, then head to Gorongosa National Park for a Thanksgiving celebration. Among a gathering of about 25 volunteers, we were able to procure a turkey and all contributed to have a feast of mashed potatoes, stuffing, squash, and pumpkin and apple pies for the holiday – now the fourth Thanksgiving in a row I've spent abroad. After Thanksgiving, I jaunted around the country a bit, seeing other volunteers and traveling to new destinations until, finally, it was time for me to go home. On my way out, however, I was able to stop in Malawi and South Africa. Both English-speaking countries, they served as a sort of half-way point between Mozambique and the upcoming month I would spend back at home in a developed English-speaking country – America!

Before I get to America, though, let me say that Malawi was gorgeous, well, parts of it. If you refer to your map of Africa, you will see that Malawi is a long and thin country that slices right through Mozambique, splitting between the northern provinces of Tete to the West and Zambezia to the East and riding the border of Lake Malawi, one the largest and most beautiful fresh water lakes in Africa. People say that Malawi is the knife that cuts right through the heart of Mozambique. As it's essentially in Mozambique, and it's another very poor country in Southern Africa, Malawi offers a lot of similarities to Mozambican culture: it's hot, public transportation is shit, and it seems to be full of many friendly people willing to stop and help you out. Allow me to elaborate on the public transportation. If you have read any of my previous blogs, or the blog of any PCV in Southern Africa for that matter, you've probably gotten the feel that public transportation can be a vexing, dangerous and pesky pain in the ass. The situation in Mozambique is one that I have gotten used to and now with an iPod and a sensible forgiving disposition can be made tolerable. When I stepped across the border into Malawi, however, I had no idea that I had just walked into a different playing field. I was trying to play football while someone had switched the game to field hockey at half time.

The first shortcoming of the Malawian transportation system that I found: the Malawian Kwacha (their currency) is tanking. It's depreciating at such a rate that it'll be cheaper to start using their bills as toilet paper in a few months. When we got there you could get 1000 Kwacha for about $4, but only a few months earlier it was probably double that and in a few month it'll probably be less. The result of this massive shift in values is that there are no stable prices in Malawi. Day to day, week to week, prices are in flux. Therefore, when you get on a chapa (public mini-bus) there are not established fares. Each passenger has to bargain the price independently with the money-collector for each different route. You could have 12 people in a van all going to the same destination but all having agreed to different prices with the collector. Being white doesn't help your bargaining power either. We found that collectors routinely began offering prices at least double what the other patrons were paying. Even after bargaining the price down to something that seemed reasonable for us, we found that the collectors often would not be satisfied by giving us the same prices as other Malawian passengers and would deny us passage. What's more, the other passengers would often refuse to tell us the rate that they agreed upon with the collector forcing us to bargain without any good reference. That was strike one for Malawi. Strike two was not having a cue. Let me explain. Let's imagine that there are five chapas that operate a route from A to B. Normally, that is, in Mozambique, there will be a line. Chapa 1 will sit at the front of the cue and wait to fill up with passengers while chapas 2, 3, 4, and 5 wait for their turn to fill, only accepting passengers when the chapas before them filled up and departed. All the passengers that come would file happily into chapa 1 and it would fill up quickly, allowing everyone to get where they're going in a somewhat timely fashion. Here's a hypothetical question: what would happen if the line system broke down and every collector was competing with every other collector to fill up their chapas first and leave? The answer...you would be in Malawi and ti would be CHAOS. You arrive to a town and immediately you have five different collectors preying upon you, breathing down your throat, forcibly trying to shove you into their chapa so they can fill up. They grab your bags and try to stuff them into the trunk, they honk their horns, and rev their engines all in a desperate attempt to get you thinking that they are going to fill up and leave first so that you will hop in. This is not a fun environment to wander around if you have just arrived to a new town. I came dangerously close to punching many collectors in the face after they tried to snatch my baggage out of my hands and force me to their chapas. Aside from creating a very hostile, noisy and stressful environment, you can probably guess what other shortcoming this pernicious filling strategy suffered from – chapas would take hours to fill up. There might be five different chapas each with five people in them waiting to fill up to 10 or 15 more spots, honking around and revving to seduce newcomers into their vans. If they could just consolidated their efforts and fill up one chapa we could all be on our merry way. It was extremely frustrating. If there is one thing I've learned in my first 15 months here in Africa, though, it's that things are never as simple as they seem.

Apart from chapa headaches, Malawi was really quite breathtaking. My destination was Cape MacClear, a small beach town on the coast of Lake Malawi. The water was crystal clear, fresh and calm. On our first full day there we rented kayaks and kayaked out on the lake, stopping at various islands to hop off and do some snorkeling. I heard later that Lake Malawi is home to the most species of fresh-water fish in the world, or something like that. Whatever it is, looking back, I don't doubt it at all. Just sticking your face under the water you could see hundreds of shimmering cyclids and vibrant blue tropical fish darting through the water. I had never seen so many tropical fish concentrated in one place before; it was a snorkeler's paradise and it was in a serene and transparent freshwater lake. We later looped around the back of one the islands and saw a whole population of bald eagles scanning the water and periodically swooping down to pluck a fish right out of the water. It was idyllic and almost worth the levels of transportational hell that we went through to get there.

After Malawi I headed to South Africa, another stepping stone on my slow re-initiation into the modern world. There are many parts of South Africa that are extremely poor, like Mozambique, but, unlike Mozambique, there are also parts of South Africa that are extremely wealthy. It's this juxtaposition that have made economic and racial tensions in S. Africa so volatile in the last 50 years, but also what makes it a very pleasant vacation destination for someone coming from the doldrums of undeveloped Mozambique. In Maputo, my girlfriend Hannah and I had met up with two other volunteers, Janet and Luke in order to travel South Africa together. We spent the first day in Johannesburg. While still fresh and embellished from its World Cup fame in 2010, Johannesburg couldn't hide its dark side. Racial tensions still run high as it boasts one of the highest murder and car-jacking rates in the world. Blacks still live in the mega-cardboard box townships that they were relocated to during apartheid and whites operate big businesses in skyscrapers downtown. Despite this, there were a couple of noteworthy destinations that we stopped at in our 24 hour stay in Joburg. First, I had breakfast at McDonalds...Egg Saugage McMuffin and a McCafe coffee. To the conventional American, it might seem trite to crave such cheap complaisance from the commercial and corporate world, or it might even seem to be a shameful forfeiture of all the values I learned in the Peace Corps over the past year to covet such a sinister symbol of obesity and materialism as the Egg McMuffin. But, folks, let me tell you, it was more than just a two dollar English muffin with a slice of processed cheese and a perfectly symmetrical cut of scrambled eggs stacked on top of each other. No, as I dipped my hand into the brown paper bag with the yellow “M” on it and furrowed my brow at the thought that McDonalds is still using the slogan “I'm Lovin' It” after 10 years, I felt as if I was dipping my hand into a little bag of home-grown comfort. Call me cheap, call me gluttonous, call me insensitive to the fact that McDonalds is brain-washing our country into an obesity-related coma, but to me, that Egg McMuffin on my first day in South Africa represented a little taste of home.

After the McMuffin, we went to a slightly more wholesome, but equally frightening destination in Joburg: the apartheid museum. Now I can't go into the same kind of detail with the apartheid museum as I went into with the Egg McMuffin, because, frankly, I don't remember it as vividly. I can, however, say that the museum was extremely well put-together, and daringly honest about the atrocities that took place in South Africa during the period of apartheid. The accounts of bold-faced unquestioned racial discrimination that were enacted by the white South African government between 1948 and 1995 were chilling. Black Africans were identified and systematically stripped of all opportunities to succeed in life by the perverse government – they were relocated and given bare-bones housing and broken down schools to ensure subjugation. Harrowing, though, were the stories of Africans like Nelson Mandela who rose up against the white government and eventually won his people's freedom back in such a noble and non-violent way.

Joburg was merely a jumping off point, however, for our final South African destination of Cape Town. All in all, we spent five glorious days in Cape Town. What can I possible say about Cape Town that hasn't already been captured by the stunning panoramas that I snapped and conveniently posted on “facebook” for my readers' pleasure? Well, not much, Cape Town has a breathtaking landscape and a lively atmosphere that make it a fantastic holiday destination for thrill-seekers and romantics alike...that's what I would say if I worked for Lonely Planet. It's true though. If you didn't get my hint before and follow the link to the photos, I'll give you a brief geographical description. Cape Town is a historic city on the beach-lined coast tucked into the rugged hills of the Western Cape. Providing a backdrop for the city is the magnificent Table Mountain, which sits majestically behind the city pinning in against the coast. As the sun glazes Cape Town in its warm summer rays, the perfectly flat mountain top watches over the city with its notorious shroud of clouds, known as the Table Cloth,” rolling up and over the mountain-top. When we were there our activities included climbing Table Mountain and taking the cable car back down, climbing Lion's Head, an adjoining peak, visiting the famous Fort, touring the wine country of Stellenbosch, walking along the waterfront and beaches, and visiting the Cape of Good Hope. At the Cape of Good Hope we ran into some unexpected guests – it was full of wild ostriches, baboons, and, best of all, penguins! Cape Town was pretty amazing, and there are about 1000 amazing restaurants to choose from. I felt that I had come a long way from Mozambique and had once again sold out to a material world that my friends and students back in Mozambique would never understand...but...it isn't hard to rationalize and tell yourself that you deserve something when you're gallivanting around a city as beautiful as Cape Town. After that, I think I was finally ready to go back to America...

Home. What was the first thing that stood out to me in America? Wealth? English-speaking? Obesity? Food? No, actually those things came later. I flew into O'Hare in Chicago, where my parents picked me up to drive back to Madison. My mom waited for me at the arrivals gate and I saw her anxiously craning her neck to see through the door as I walked in, still wearing flip-flops and shorts from South Africa in the December weather. She seemed to whisper to the crowd of women standing around her when she saw me and I saw them all give her nods of approval. I imagined her explaining to them while they all waited for their loved ones that she was waiting for her son who had been in the Peace Corps in Africa for a year. I can't deny that I felt a little validated. After seeing my dad and our dog, Maddie, in the car we drove off down the largest highway I had ever seen, towards Madison. That reminds me, what was the first big thing that struck me about being in the States? The roads. Driving on I-90 from Chicago to Madison we were on three lanes of glorious one-way interstate. Bright, freshly painted lines and reflectors marked the lanes, barriers separated us from oncoming traffic, bumper strips protected a robust shoulder and signs marked turn-offs for every possible destination one could have. I had never been so taken by such a simple concept as a well-maintained road. What can one good road do for a society? The answer is everything. People, goods, money and services can MOVE! Movement is a wonderful and entirely under-appreciated commodity. With a little bit of movement, people can start businesses, transport products, go shopping, and see their families. I sat there in awe, watching the signs and reflectors flash by my glassy eyes and imagined what Mozambique could be like with one road even half as nice as I-90. While not as eye-opening as the drive home, the rest of my stay in America was wonderful. I spent most of my time in Madison, catching up with my immediate family and grandparents who still live in Madison, playing tennis(!), jamming with my family on piano and bass, and eating my mom's delicious steak. I also had the chance to visit a few of my cousins, aunts and uncles, spend time at our cabin on Lake Superior and stop through Minneapolis to see my sister's place and catch up with some of my good friends from college. For New Year's I was even able to go down to Chicago to meet up with Hannah, who is from Michigan and was also back in the States visiting family for the same time period as me.

Like almost all PCVs who look forward to returning to the states for a brief stint in the middle of the service I had been compiling a list over the past year of all the things I wanted to do stateside that I had been missing. Sometimes when you're feeling lonely and restless over here, the most appealing activity is to fantasize about all of the good food and American things you are going to do when you get back home for those three weeks. While not the most productive activity for your service, sometimes it's a necessary escape. Cereal and milk, check, Subway roasted chicken breast on honey oat with pepper jack, check, Rocky Rococo pizza, check, Indian food, check, juicy home-cooked steak and salad, check....hmm, seems to be all food up to this point. Tennis, check, Christmas cookies, check, piano, check, ESPN, check, watch the Packers lose their first game in over a year, check, watch the Badgers lose the Rose Bowl, check, use a laundry machine, check, use a dish washer, check, use a micro-wave to heat up left-overs for lunch, check, sleep in my giant comfy bed, check, and finally, eventually get so sick of the ridiculous comforts in the US that I'm compelled to return to Mozambique...hmm, I kept expecting that to happen, and it never quite materialized. Nonetheless, January 5^th rolled around and it was time for me to say good-bye to my family, the comforts of home, and board a plane bound for Africa again. Stepping onto the plane and facing up to another 12 months in Mozambique wasn't as easy to confront this time around as it was a year ago for a few reasons. As some of you may have heard, while I was at home, there was a tragic road accident in Mozambique in which two of our fellow Moz PCVs lost their lives. While I didn't know the new volunteers that passed away particularly well, it was still a huge blow to our PCV family here in Mozambique and something that made facing the ever-present dangers and palpable grief back in Mozambique extremely daunting. Death affects everyone differently. For those people close to the deceased volunteers, I can only imagine the grief and loss that they are continuing to feel. For those of us, however, who may not have had close personal ties, but share the responsibilities and lifestyles of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mozambique, it serves as a haunting reminder of how fragile all of our lives our, and the kind of risks that we submit ourselves to on a daily basis. That said, while I vacillated a bit in the days leading up to my departure, I eventually decided to come back to Mozambique and fulfill the rest of my service with respect to my school, my students, my friends, both in the Peace Corps and Mozambican, and for myself.

Now back in Mozambique, back in Mangunde, school has begun and I am glad that I made the decision that I made. When I arrived to my house I was greeted by a new Peace Corps volunteer, Mike, who will be my roommate for this year, our wonderful friend and housekeeper Gracinda, and her adorable and ever-growing one year-old son, Jacinto. I have been at site for a week and find myself slowing getting back into the flow of life here in Mozambique. The sounds, smells, and colors of Africa are all coming back. It's mango and pineapple season and Mike and I have already begun to satiate ourselves in the succulent nectars of Mozambican fruit. On Monday our school had its opening ceremony, and later that night we sat down with the pedagogical director to make the schedule. At the end of the day, I came away with almost exactly what I wanted: four sections of 8^th grade biology, the same grade that I taught last year, and four sections of 10^th grade English, the same students that I taught English to last year in 9^th grade. I may or may not pick up a few more classes, seeing that we are currently without any biology or chemistry teachers for 11^th and 12^th grades. We'll see what happens as the next few weeks unfold. For now, though, I am happy where I am and looking forward to another productive year here at school. Thanks for sticking with me through this, as usual, marathon of a blog post. In the future, I hope to post more frequently than once every three months and to keep the entries below five pages, something I failed at today. By the time I post this entry I will probably already be in Maputo, as I am leaving tomorrow (Saturday) to attend a week-long mid-service conference that all PCVs from my group will be attending. I'm looking forward to seeing volunteers that I haven't seen since training, and even though I feel like I just got back from the states, spending a week in the comfort of a Maputo hotel. I hope that everything is well back in the states and that you all finally got some snow! You're probably sick of the cold now and anxious for it to start warming up, but here I would die for a day in the 20s as it's already hot and humid in the thick if the rainy season here. Until next time! Peace and love. Ian.

The rest of week 2

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique A Time for Adventure

2012-02-02 11:29:00

The rest of the second week was somewhat lesschaotic. It was actually like a realwork week! Who knew?! I got tired of still waiting for a definitiveschedule and took matters in to my own hands and talked with another professorabout moving his class and filled in some of the turmas’ free periods witheither my bio lessons or TICs lessons. Mom, guess you’re right! Slowly Iam taking over! But I think professorschanging their own schedules around is pretty common here, who I was to thinkthat the administrative people would do it I guess…

So I had another TICs lesson, where I learned fromprevious aulas that it is much better to teach them something (today, how toturn on and off the computer) and then let them enter the computer roomafter. An interesting method I may continueto employ in future lessons.

My biology classes today could not have gone anybetter! Introducing the concepts oftaxonomy, I presented a song to the tune of “Mary had a little lamb” about theorder of taxonomic categories (kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus,species, but in Portuguese). Thestudents applauded afterward, so I guess that means they liked the song! Hopefully they will actually remember somethingfrom the lesson! (They even rememberedthe song the following week!)

On the two mile walk back, I took the opportunityto learn a little of the local language, Macua. Some of my students walking with me a taught me a few words after Iexplained that I only knew two, how are you (“ehali”) and I am well(“salama”). Now I can also count to tenand ask how much does it cost! Slowlybut surely!

Week 3 - Another test of patience

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique A Time for Adventure

2012-02-02 11:30:00

After a weekend spent in Angoche with some othervolunteers, Monday I headed back to site, leaving Angoche around 4am to catch achapa. A chapa picked us up on the waytowards the station and was about half filled at that time. We then reached the chapa stop where weproceeded to wait for more people to fill up the vehicle. After about twenty minutes, two more peoplecame, but we still lacked at least 7 more.

Sitting and waiting is common here in Mozambique,but this was ridiculous and unbelievably frustrating. The drivers were doing nothing to try to getpeople to fill the chapa and other trucks were leaving, their truck beds filledwith people, some most likely heading to Nampula also. We were hesitant to get off because we hadgood seats and didn’t want to risk this chapa leaving without us and not beingable to find another. But finally afterabout an hour, we decided to take the risk and look for other options becauseclearly we weren’t leaving anytime soon.

A driver in a huge truck said he had room for thethree of us in the cab and he was leaving “now”. We clarified asking, now now or twentyminutes from now now? He claimed andinsisted now now. Mmmhmm, guess what?! We proceeded to wait some more, apparentlyfor some guy who had to go home to get some sack of something, who knows….

Finally around 6:30 we left Angoche headed towardsNampula city. Now let me describe thisroad for you. Gelane, our North PCDirector, said it best, “It is a mix of paradise and Hell.” I could not think of a better way to describea road with some heavenly paved sections intermixed with some hellishpractically washed away dirt road sections filled with an incredible amount ofpot holes providing for quite the bumpy ride!

Slowly but surely we made it to the city, withonly a couple stops on the way to apparently give someone down a side road gasand to chat with the drivers of a broken down car. Drivers pretty much do what they want, whenthey want, regardless of the number of paying passengers they may have.

But eventually I made it back home after about 9hours (it should have been 5 or so), was running late for my afternoon class,but luck was on my side finally as my director drove by and gave me a ride tothe school so I was able to make it to class on time.

Tuesday was another fun test of flexibility. Still learning and experimenting with how tohandle the management of the classroom during the TICs lesson, I busted outstrict teacher Sara and taught the first half of the class without thecomputers again and then we went in and I assigned the students to groups ofthree or four per computer. We practicedusing the mouse today, letting the students rotate using Paint to draw and playaround a bit.

A good tactic when it seems people are notfollowing your instructions? Make themraise both hands in the air! When it wastime to turn off the computers, I did just this. It was greeted with some laughter, buteveryone did it and I definitely had their attention! Slowly but surely I am figuring this wholeteacher thing out!

That afternoon I went to the market and tried outsome new Macua words. As per usual, whenI walk around people shout Ehali to hear my Macua response and then smile andgiggle to themselves, but today I surprised them asking “how much” inMacua. I was greeted with suchenthusiasm, laughter, and high fives all around! I even understood their response! Walking home rather pleased with myself, Ithen had a relaxing afternoon before my later Biology lesson.

One would think that it being the third week ofschool, there would be a permanent schedule. But alas, this is not the case. Monday I found out that I may be teaching five more turmas of computers,but I made it known that I cannot teach without computers and would not teachtheory. So we’ll see what happens withthat. But my biology lessons got movedaround a bit too, so that one lesson was switched to a time when the studentstypically had a free period.

So I walked the two miles to class, entering theclassroom filled with only seven students. Yup, seven of fifty. I chuckledto myself, really expecting nothing different and thinking well, at least I gotsome exercise! Just another day inMozambique…

Wednesday

It’s amazing how one class can totally change yourmood. My computer class this morning, Ihad to deal with a couple kids being little punks. After giving them two warnings, I finallymade them leave the computer room, receiving their pleas of “professora, we’resorry, we want to stay and learn, professora” blah blah blah. Nope, leave! And to top off the stress and extreme test of patience the computerclasses can be, I had an audience of students outside, first trying to get inand about 10 did before another student told me they weren’t in our class, andthen about 20 were just standing outsidethe bar door, sticking their heads through, watching. I told them to leave multiple multiple times,and they got scared enough that they would run away as I approached the door,but would soon return a couple minutes later. I just shook my head and laughed, cuz what else can you do really?

The orange tree orchards, pine tree forests, and huge fields of corn took me across the states…Florida, Minnesota, and Nebraska.

Blyde Canyon in South Africa took me to all of the trips to American National Parks… Yellowstone, Angels’ Landing, the Grand Canyon.

Lesotho’s beautiful mountains and waterfalls bought me a ticket to Interlaken, Switzerland.

Mozambique Bom Dia, Mozambique!

2012-02-01 06:55:00

Monday, January 23

Today it happened. I woke up at about five in the morning to sudden, dire pressure in my intestines. I hurried out of the mosquito net and into my sandals. I tried to wrench open the front door, but it swelled shut with the rain. I tugged and tugged, feeling the pressure intensify in my stomach. Finally, with one mighty heave, I managed to loosen the door from the door jam. With shaking, desperate hands, I tried to unlock the padlock, but it was already too late. I had pooped, just a little, in my underwear.

When I finally got the gate open, Bwino ran to stand on my feet.

“Gotta go,” I said, hurriedly, shuffling past him and half walking, half running down the stairs.

Thankfully, I made it into the toilet with the rest.

Shaky and tired, I cleaned up what I could, put on a new pair of underwear, and went back to bed.

The rest of the day, unfortunately, did not get much better. I arrived at the school at 12:30, ready to teach my first aula. Dan would be arriving at 1:20, for second period. As I walked into the teacher’s lounge, I noticed that there was a new schedule on the board. I had an immediate sinking feeling that I was not going to like this.

It took me a minute to even understand the schedule. In Dan’s words, it is written in the least efficient way possible.

“That can’t be right,” I said. The schedule said that Dan was due to teach his first aula at 12:30 and that I only had four turmas of eighth grade. Trying to be dignified and to muffle the fact that I was completely indignant, I marched down to the office. The directors were not there. Of course. It was only Paulo. Paulo, who rings the bell between classes and always seems to be sitting in the teacher’s lounge, watching TV.

“Do we have a new schedule?” I asked.

“What?”

“Do we have a new schedule?”

“The schedule is in the teacher’s lounge.”

“Yes, I know that. But I saw a different schedule in the teacher’s lounge. Why?”

“Huh?”

“The schedule that is in the teacher’s lounge RIGHT NOW. Is that the new schedule that I need to follow?” (Read: Why did nobody TELL me?)

“The schedule is in the lounge.”

“Okay. Yes. Will you come with me to the lounge and look at it?”

We walked over. I was silently bristling, but tried to hide it. I wasn’t mad at Paulo, after all.

I showed him the revised schedule on the board.

“Here,” he said, trying to explain the schedule to me. “This is tenth grade, in the morning. This in ninth grade, in the morning. Now we’re on eighth grade, in the afternoon. Right now it is afternoon. You teach in the afternoon.”

“I know that,” I said. “Why is it different?”

“Oh,” said Paulo. “I don’t know.”

Sometimes, I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s Paulo that doesn’t speak Portuguese.

He stood next to me, looking perplexed and a little worn out. It was about 12:40 at this point, and if the new schedule was correct, Dan had already lost ten minutes of class time.

Darn it, I didn’t have my phone.

“Listen,” I said. “I have to go get Dan and tell him that he has a class. He doesn’t know.”

I walked away, fuming. I felt so little and unimportant. How could they just take away my turma? I was already barely working as it was. And poor Dan, he had no idea that he had class right now.

Dan was on the porch, washing a dish.

“Hey, sugar,” he said. “Why are you home?”

“Put on your bata,” I said. “You have class right now.”

“What?”

“They changed the schedule. Don’t ask me. But we need to go.”

“Okay, let me just put on pants.”

Poor, good Teacher Dan. Many of our counterparts would have just skipped class at this point.

When we got back to the school, I was able to finagle with Artur the math teacher to reclaim my lost aula.

“See here,” I said. “They have scheduled me for two at the same time. That’s impossible. But if you and I just switch, here…”

Luckily, Artur was reasonable and flexible. He switched 8E from first period to third period and I was able to keep my original five turmas. I didn’t start class until 1PM, though. That was thirty minutes late.

I had been really proud of my lesson plan for that day. First, we were going to do a review of the classroom commands from last week. Then, we were going to start our dictionaries by writing the opening page (O Meu Dicionario) and numbering and lettering the pages. I had ten simple words that I wanted to put in to get the project started. Finally, I had written a fairly simple assessment to see what the students had and had not retained from the previous two years of English class. It seemed like a simple, sensible 45 minute lesson.

Well. I have a lot to learn.

I started my first class 30 minutes late and decided to start with the assessment.

“With our fifteen minutes,” I said, “I am going to write a few questions on the board. I want you to try your best to follow the instructions and answer the questions. I will not give a grade for this. I just want to see what you remember from last year.”

The students nodded their heads. A few of them did, anyway. The rest just kind of… looked at me.

It was unsettling. It is always unsettling.

I felt like the questions would be easy.

“Write the answers in English,” I said. “Livro, Lapiz, Caneta, Porta, Janela.” Book, Pencil, Pen, Door, Window. I had gotten these vocabulary lists from the first page of their sixth grade English textbook.

I finished copying my questions in about four minutes. Nervously, I walked between the rows.

The students were copying incredibly slowly.

“Nuuuummmmmmbbbberrrr Onnnnne. Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-vro.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just want the answers. Just write the number of the question and your answer next to it.”

“Nuuuuummmmmbbbberrrrr Twooooo.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapiz.”

I almost tore my hair out. After ten minutes of this snail’s-pace torture, I was feeling a bit frazzled.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal. You guys have the rest of the day to fill out the answers to this. You can work together, if you want. I will return at the beginning of sixth period to collect your notebooks.”

There was a barely perceptible nod of assent from the class. Most of them were still intent on copying. Still.

So I was definitely not having a good day when I started teaching 8A for second period. I was, however, determined to make this work.

“Who here brought an extra notebook to make their dictionary?” I asked my second period class. About ten people raised their hands. Honestly, I was not that surprised. Without a Livro da Turma (Class Book), I really had no way to enforce that they did their homework. Only a select few of my students are actually self-motivated.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s move on to the assessment. You must bring your extra notebook to class on Thursday, because we are going to begin creating our dictionaries.”

I explained the purpose of the assessment, and then wrote my questions on the board. Again, the entire process took about five minutes.

“Remember,” I said, “I am not giving a grade for this. I only want to see what you know and what you do not know.”

Slowly, very, very slowly, they began to write.

“Answers!” I said, again, realizing that they meant to copy my instructions, too. “I only need numbers and answers!”

By the end of class, I realized that no one was finished. Oh well, perhaps I could get a good read by what they had done.

But wait. How would I collect their notebooks?

In America, the students leave the classroom and the teacher stays. In America, I would have asked them to leave it on my desk as they left the room. Here, though, it was me who was leaving. How was I supposed to collect their notebooks? Why didn’t I think of this!?

“Time’s up,” I said. “Pencils down. You have a five minute interval until your next class. Please hand me your notebooks as you leave the class.”

Not one single person moved.

I wanted to cry.

“Hand in your notebooks,” I said.

I feel so weak and helpless when giving commands in Portuguese.

Still, nobody moved. Mozambican students, I am learning, are like a slow-moving train. It is hard to get started and equally impossible to stop.

Finally, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I marched right up to the first person in the first row and demanded their notebook.

“I know you’re not finished,” I said. “But class is over now.” I all but had to tear it out of their hands.

Second person in the first row. “Your notebook please,” I said.

First person in the second row. “Your notebook.”

Second person in the second row. “Your notebook.”

It was exhausting and embarrassing. I was aware that some of the students were laughing at me. As is often the problem, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was that they were laughing at. I don’t really know how a Mozambican class is supposed to be run, so I never know when I am doing the wrong things. In this instance, it was probably because I had chosen the single least efficient method of collecting notebooks.

It took five minutes to collect every notebook. I know this, because I had started directly after the first bell and finished directly after the second bell.

“There goes your interval,” I thought. “Serves you right.”

“Tchau, alunos,” I said. They just snickered at me.

“Tchaaaaa-uuu,” they sneered.

In my third period, I just chose to avoid the evaluation all together. “Maybe we’ll get to it at the end,” I thought, “and just go over it verbally.”

I already had my hands full with 49 notebooks from turma 8A.

Things got better after I dropped the evaluation, but only just. The dictionary segment of my class, which I had assumed would take no more than 15 or 20 minutes, was eating up an entire 45-minute lesson. And the kids were thoroughly confused.

‘Why do they copy so slowly?’ I wondered. ‘Why is this so hard?’ I was beginning to thoroughly regret this project.

The Dictionary Project, I should explain, was supposed to be simple. With a little bit of work, I thought, it could be very rewarding. First, they would buy an extra notebook. Then, I gave them information for the cover page. Basically, it would say (in Portuguese):

My Dictionary

Portuguese – English

Note: Every word in this dictionary is a

Noun, verb, adjective, or adverb. We will

Use the following abbreviations:

Noun ……. Noun

Verb ……. Verb

Adjective……. Adj

Adverb……. Adv

Then, every day, I would give them between five and ten relevant vocabulary words to copy onto the correct pages. By the end of the semester, I pictured every student toting their own complete classroom dictionary. At that point, I reasoned, they would have nearly 1,000 words. It wasn’t working out the way that I had hoped, though.

The last two classes got considerably better, but I still wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy with myself or with them. The lesson that I thought was going to be fun and productive (Start a Dictionary! Give an Assessment!) had turned into a mindless mess of copying and confusion.

“Some letters need more space in the dictionary,” I tried to explain. “Like the letter S. Lots of words start with S. So we are going to give it two pages.”

Blank stares.

It later occurred to me that perhaps they had never seen a dictionary before in their lives.

That night, we walked home from the market during a beautiful pink sunset. Fog was starting to roll in between the mountains and over the fields. We stopped at the soccer field to watch. Even though we have been discouraged against making physical contact in public, I put my head on Dan’s shoulder.

“The Peace Corps experience is so up and down,” I sighed. “I don’t even know if I’m happy or sad right now.”

“Me neither,” said Dan. “I’m just tired.”

Tuesday, January 24

If yesterday was the day that I pooped my pants, then today was the day that I threw up in my mouth in front of a room full of students.

I was sick all morning. I chose not to eat breakfast, and instead curled up on the couch in a little ball. I was too sick, even, to read Harry Potter in Portuguese, which I have been chugging through since November.

I chose to have half a piece of bread before class, but that was probably a mistake. Regardless, I was determined to teach this aula. I was still shocked and disappointed by the attitudes of my Mozambican co-workers, and felt like the most important thing that I could do right now was just to show up for class. I wasn’t sure I was a good teacher, but, as I told myself, “at least I go to class.”

The topic was Introductions. I wrote the following paragraph on the board:

“Hello! How are you? My name is Teacher Lisa and I am from

America. I am twenty-four years old. I have one brother and

one sister. I like to read and to write. I just introduced myself.

Today, we are going to learn how to introduce ourselves.”

I asked for a volunteer to read the first two sentences, but nobody raised their hand. Finally, after a few minutes of choosing people who then stood up and gaped at me (mouth: open, mouth: closed, mouth: open), I had an idea.

“Let’s just read this together,” I said. “I’ll go first, you second.”

“Hello, how are you?”

“Hello, how are you?”

“My name is Teacher Lisa.”

“My name is Teacher Lisa.”

And so on.

At the end of the previous class, I had offered a prize to the person who had made the most beautiful dictionary.

“You have colored pencils, right?” I had asked.

The students had nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “A good prize on Tuesday for the most beautiful dictionary.”

Ha.

Not one single person decorated their dictionary. I ended up awarding two prizes to a neighboring pair of girls who had scribbled a half-hearted map of Mozambique on the second page of what I think was actually their usual class notebook. At the time, I didn’t think to scour for cheaters.

I felt very lousy about giving a prize after that. Especially when, before I left, the whole class started to beg for more prizes.

I was writing the homework on the board (BUY AN EXTRA NOTEBOOK) when I heard a general mumbling.

“Duvidas?” I asked. Questions? Doubts?

“Sim!” Said the class.

“Well, what is it?” I asked.

“Premios,” one girl shouted. Prizes!

“Premios?” I asked. I was thoroughly confused. Prizes?

“Da-nos premios,” said the same, obnoxious girl in the second row. Give us prizes.

“Ja,” I said. “Ja dei premios.” I just did. I just gave prizes.

“Da-nos mais.” Give us more.

At that, my friends, is about the time that I unexpectedly puked in my mouth. For a moment I stood there, cheeks swollen. I wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, I decided that my only option was to swallow it back down and then run to the bathroom.

“No,” I said, feeling rather hectic. “No mais premios.” No more prizes. I recognized that the situation within my body was becoming dire.

“Okay. Bye, alunos.” I said.

“Byyyyyyyyyyye,” they said. As I ran/trotted away, a few of them yelled out the window at me.

“Prehhhhhhh-mioooos.”

The teacher’s bathroom is behind the teacher’s lounge, and the more accessible side was locked. For a few seconds, I thought I was done for. Luckily, it occurred to me to run around the building, That’s how I ended up holding the tails of my clean white bata, squatting over a hole, and praying for privacy. In my rush, of course, I had forgotten to lock the door.

I was so weak and shaky after my latest bout in the bathroom that I couldn’t wait for Dan outside of his classroom. I went back to the teacher’s lounge and collapsed into one of the armchairs. When Dan joined me three minutes later, I asked for his help in carrying my purse and the prize box.

For dinner, I managed to choke down a hard-boiled egg and a single, stewed tomato.

Dan tried to put on a movie for us that night, but I was too tired. I was asleep by eight-thirty.

Wednesday, January 25

I woke up at about midnight with a tight pain around my waist. After a few minutes, it became clear that it was not going away, and that I would have to take more extreme action. Sleepily, I ducked out of the mosquito net and slipped on my inside-the-house shoes.

I made my way to the porta and unlocked it, dreading every minute of what was coming. When I got to the latrine, I was saddened to realize that I barely had to go. Instead, I just had constant, gripping intestinal cramps.

After about fifteen minutes of fruitless squatting, I gave up and came back inside. However, I still had a wrenching pain in my gut told me that this night wasn’t over, yet. I took my pillow off of the bed and set up a blanket on the sofa.

After about thirty minutes of writhing and wincing, it occurred to me that it might help if I threw up. I re-opened the grate and switched shoes, adjusting my headlamp and heading back to the latrine. I was going to stick my finger down my throat and I was going to throw up if it was the last thing I did that night.

It worked, all right. Bits of stringy tomato bounced into the back of my throat and landed with a soft plop on the high, level surface of the latrine.

After my stomach was completely empty, the cramps began to abate.

“Thank God,” I thought. “I am so tired.” Once inside, I wrapped the blanket around myself and went back to sleep. I left the door unlocked, though. I wasn’t sure if I was finished, yet.

Thirty minutes later, the cramps were back. They were a little more intense than they had been before. I immediately ran to the ledge of our veranda and threw up into our concrete gutter. Bwino stared at me, looking alarmed.

What followed, I will admit, was not my proudest moment. I had to make a decision. I could go now to the latrine and squat and wait until I finally passed a decent bowel movement, or I could go back inside and rig the chamberpot between two dining room chairs and try to get some sleep. On top of my homemade toilet.

I chose the latter option. I placed the chamberpot on top of an up-turned bacia and wedged that in between two wooden chairs. I could straddle the two wooden chairs and aim directly between them into the chamberpot. It was the perfect idea. Then, on a whim, I placed a third chair directly in front of me and piled it high with pillows. Now, with my face on the pillows, I could sleep comfortably and use the bathroom when the mood struck. Yay, Africa!

Shame evaporates like water on the sandy soil.

What is the difference, really, between squatting over a churning hole in the ground and sitting comfortably over a clean blue bucket? A toilet is a toilet is a toilet, when you’re in Africa. A bush or stone wall can be a toilet, too.

By two in the morning, I was back in bed on the couch, sleeping comfortably. When I woke up the next morning, I was tired, but free from pain.

Surprisingly, I had no trouble with my afternoon classes. Every day, I realize something new.

“Oh, if only I knew this yesterday!” I have been saying. For each new class, I make amendments to my lesson plans to account for the things I have learned. This afternoon, when having my kids start their dictionary project, I realized that none of them had ever seen a dictionary in their lives. Well, that changes everything! Suddenly, my original explanation (“There will be a bit letter on each page, like in a real dictionary”) seemed horribly insufficient.

Dan and I went out to eat at the only restaurant in town- Quinta Monte Zobue. I still wasn’t hungry, but we ordered a half-chicken with an extra plate of fries to split between the two of us. The extra food we could bring home for Bwino.

The service was slow, of course, but it was a nice night. It was chilly, for summer in Africa, but it wasn’t raining, and we could see glimpses of the sunset between the gray clouds. Two other professors also went out to eat that night, and addressed us to the restaurant staff as “os professors” and not “A’zungu.” It was heartening.

Thursday, January 26

I am starting to feel better. Today, I had two doubles, which was lucky. I needed to get out of the house and to be reminded of my purpose. Every class is getting better and better. I am starting to understand the kids, and, more importantly, I am starting to understand their limitations. I still regret, just a little bit, the installment of the dictionary project, but I am willing to push through and make it work.

With my first turma, we played a game of palmas. To review the numbers 1-10 (which are very easy for them), I would say the name of a number in English and the participants (two runners) would have to race to the board to slap the corresponding numerical value. It was hugely successful, but a little bit too noisy. I had to tell them more than once to quiet down.

For my second turma, I tried writing my introduction on the board-

“Hello! How are you? My name is Teacher Lisa and I am from

America. I am twenty-four years old. I have one brother and

one sister. I like to read and to write. I just introduced myself.

Today, we are going to learn how to introduce ourselves.”

-and including corresponding translations underneath.

Eu gusto de ler e escrever.
Eu tenho um irmao e uma irma.
Eu tenho 24 anos.
Meu nome e Tr. Lisa e eu sou da America.

To get them to think about the literal translations of what I had written (and thus understand my paragraph), I called up volunteers to circle the matching sentences in English and in Portuguese. I was so, so, so happy and gratified when it worked. It felt like another hurdle that I had just cleared. I now had a way to ensure that they were translating and understanding my English.

When checking dictionaries, I became wise to the fact that there had been some cheating in my classes.

“I would like to give points for dictionaries,” I said. “BUT, in order to earn points, you must have TWO notebooks, one regular and one dictionary, and your dictionary must have letters along the top of every page. If you can show me both notebooks AND the lettered pages, I will give you plus one point on your homework grade.”

When I returned home, Dan was busy washing dishes.

“How was 8D?” He asked. That was the turma with which he had had the most trouble. At the end of the day, they tend to get very riled up. He had almost sent a few of them home the other day, for bad behavior. The behavior of this class, in particular, contrasts starkly against the demure, uncooperative nature of our other classes.

“Well,” I said. “It’s different for me than for you.”

“They were good for you?”

“No,” I said, slowly. “They weren’t. It’s just… my class is louder. It’s English. It takes a lot more participation. So I have them talking anyway. It gets some of their energy out.” I thought for a minute. “I did have to scold them a lot, though.”

It was true. Sometimes they would get so excited to answer or write on the board that they would rush out of their seats before I was finished giving instructions.

“Can I have a volunteer-“ I would start, and suddenly six little bodies would come hurtling towards me. “No, no, NO. Sit down. I want a volunteer to read this answer. No, raise your hands.”

Sometimes it was hard not to laugh, because they were so riled up and excited, but I tried my hardest to maintain a fairly strict demeanor. I don’t know if I pulled it off, though. They were truly so funny and so bad. I hope that this does not come back to haunt me. I do want to be respected.

We had scrambled eggs for dinner. For the first time in three days, I was able to eat nearly all of the food on my plate.

Small victories.

It occurred to me, then, that you can have a lot of small victories in two whole years.

Friday, January 27

Today was the best of all the days this week.

My class was wonderful. I practiced entering and exiting the room for the Good Morning Song (which they thought was really funny) and I reiterated my requirements for their dictionary project. I went over introductions with them, and then gave out homework points for students with dictionaries. This time, I was very strict. Despite my sharp eye and unwillingness to budge, I still gave out fifteen points for perfect dictionaries. I even gave out four prizes (pencils) for exceptional work. Two of my students had filled out pages with their own definitions that they had gleaned from previous class notebooks. That was unprecedented. I was so happy.

When I arrived home, I did the dishes and made some tea. Finally, I was in a good, good mood. I was healthy. My classes were going well. Bwino was behaving beautifully and was taking himself outside to pee.

When Dan got home, I did some lesson planning for the following week, recorded my class details, and chose dinner from our Mozambican cookbook. Together, Dan and I settled on stuffed peppers and yellow cake. We were going to try baking.

We brought the ingredients home from the market and made the cake that very same evening. When we brought it out of oven, it was firm and buttery-yellow. It was also delicious. It was Grandma’s homemade, Ruby Tuesday, ice-cream Sunday delicious. We were so, so proud. Again, it’s the small victories that give us hope. This time, we were celebrating our small victory over cuisine.

“Can we bring a piece to Romao and Marcelina?” I asked.

“You’re nice,” said Dan.

And so I did.

That, my faithful readers, is an account of one full week, and of my second week as an English teacher in Africa. It’s a bit honest at times, but I really don’t feel shy, especially about my stomach troubles. Every single volunteer in this country is experiencing the same thing, and we don’t mind saying so.

This week has been especially trying, but I wanted to be honest about it. Even 11 hours of teaching per week can seem exhausting when you are unable to eat or hold down food!

The Aftermath

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Cam in Mozambique

2012-01-31 09:17:00

Yesterday I went to a funeral for one of my activistas who died during the storm here last week when her house collapsed during the night. Maganja had the highest death toll in the province of Zambezia, and when I walk around the vila or visit the bairros during work it is clear why this is the case. More than half the houses are in shambles, completely demolished, mud walls having crumbled and buckled under the strong winds and rains that lasted for almost 5 nights without pause.

I wrapped and tied a capulana around my waist over my skirt, draped another one over my head and wrapped about my shoulders so all that was visible was my face, forearms, and ankles and headed out the door. It was easily 95 degrees out and I felt slightly claustrophobic in my traditional wear, but it also protected my head from the sun. When I reached the end of my path leading towards town two of my activistas were waiting for me, dressed in a similar manner. They kissed my cheeks and then wordlessly started preening; fixing my apparently bad job of covering myself, pulling my capulana here, tucking my hair behind my ears, untying and retying the one around my waist so tight I could barely breathe. When they seemed satisfied that I was presentable we headed towards the bairro where the funeral was being held. The two ladies were chatting quietly in the local language, and I enjoyed listening to them as we walked, recognizing the occasional Portuguese verb thrown into the conversation, and smiling at their exclamations of “shiiiiii”, or the sharp, quick, inhale of breath that signals an agreement with whatever was just said.

I could hear where the funeral was before I saw the house, the cries and wails of the women mourning rose up and carried all the way down the path to where we were. I hesitated for a second as I was more than slightly uncomfortable with what was about to take place, and one of the women I was with must have sensed my nerves and grabbed my hand and tugged me along. We entered the quintal and the family of the deceased was sitting on chairs behind the casket. I followed my senhoras and greeted the husband, mother, and grandmother with kisses on the cheeks and apologies for their loss, they nodded in acknowledgment but didn't look up. We then sat down with the growing crowd of women in brightly colored capulanas sitting on the ground surrounding the casket. I can honestly say that funerals here are nothing like I have ever experienced in the states.

The noise alone is enough to unnerve a person. Sitting down and looking around I can see the raw grief on the faces of the mourners, and unlike in the States I can also hear it. Women literally keen, ululate, and sob without reservation as they rock back and forth and clutch their arms around their bodies. A small cluster of older women to the right of me were singing loudly in flat high pitched tones that provided a haunting cadence for the steady cries of the mourners.

I looked around and my eyes fell upon three kids sitting slightly removed from everyone else. There were two girls who looked about 10 and 12 and a little boy who was maybe 5, and I recognized one of the girls as the daughter of the woman who had died. They were sitting quietly, motionless, and seemed to be rightfully lost in their own thoughts. The little boy started to cry and the older girl silently picked him up and pulled him into her lap and comforted him. This was the beginning of her taking on the role of mother in the family, as so many young girls do when the mothers are absent and their fathers (if still in the picture) are working far away. Remembering what I was like when I was 10 or 12 makes it seem like an impossible idea, comical even, but here it is a reality. I often see my neighbor girls washing clothes or preparing food with a baby strapped to their backs, knowing how to calm it when it starts to fuss, and not being scared when it cries; which is something that I at 23 am just starting to be able to handle. But in a country with a high level of poverty, HIV, and other structural injustices that inhibit the growth and development of infrastructure and human capital, death is unfortunately a very common occurrence, even among youth. People here in Maganja often die from treatable illnesses, or even curable illnesses like TB, the problem being that they don't have access to regular healthcare, or know the symptoms and warning signs of when a cough isn't just a cough. A few weeks ago I went on a home visit way out in the bush that took more than an hour to get there and was way deep in the woods. The woman we visited was as thin as a rake and had a cough that made her entire body shake, and despite the muggy heat she was wrapped up in a blanket. Her son and grandson also were plagued by the same cough, and I made sure to not sit downwind and tried as much as I could to avoid their coughs. When I inquired about how long they had been suffering with this cough they told me it was asthma. Later on that week I asked one of our TB volunteers to go back and visit the family again and have them take a TB test, and it turned out they were all positive.

But it's not only just the lack of healthcare that negatively impacts the people here in Mozambique, though that is a serious problem which handicaps the ability of the workforce and depletes the number of children enrolled in schools, it's also the level of poverty. But it's a thin line that separates these two things, its hard to identify when a death due to HIV is because of a lack of healthcare or rather because a person was made vulnerable to the disease because of their economic status; poverty and health go hand in hand in terms of human and social development. They are inextricably tied together, when one suffers so does the other, and when both are poor it proves to be a deadly combination. The storm last week was bad, but had it happened in Maine back in the States there would not have been 16 deaths in my town alone. The problem here was that houses are made poorly, with thatched roofs, walls made out of mud, barely reinforced and constructed on uneven ground. The houses here that didn't suffer were made out of cement, or had natural protection like trees planted closely to their houses that served as a buffer from the unrelenting winds. So when I walk around the bairros and see people reconstructing their houses with bricks made out of mud it makes me upset that the government of Mozambique has not taken action and is providing barely any disaster relief to help these people rebuild in a more sustainable and reliable manner, that won't prove to be fatal if another storm of this magnitude were to hit Zambezia yet again. The people here have no other way to build, nor the resources to buy better materials to construct stronger houses, placing them in the same vulnerable position they were in before the storms last week.

Four men pick their way through the crowd of women gathered around the wooden casket that is poorly made and tied shut with rope, as nails currently are hard to come by, and pick it up and balance it on their shoulders. The keening increases in its intensity and a few women throw themselves at the feet of the men as they carry it towards the back of an open bed truck. Everyone slowly gets up and moves to get into the truck where the casket has been placed and the few family members arranged around it. I see the three children sitting silently inside it with wide eyes and I feel myself blinking back tears. I stand off to the side and watch the truck slowly drive off, weighed down by the bulky casket and the 20 or so women inside the bed of the truck. The cries of the women again carry all the way down the path as they make their way to the cemetery to bury their friend, colleague, wife, mother, and daughter.

I draw back the capulana from my head and shake loose my sticky hair, unwrap the one from around my waist and use it to wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead. I can no longer hear the wailing or see the faces of the women in mourning, but like so many things that happen here in Mozambique, this is something that I won't be forgetting any time soon.

Malawian Radio

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique La Vida Vicente: Mozambique Edition

2012-01-30 20:06:30

I know its been a while since I updated…I feel like I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Work is progressing slowly and is not all that glorious, though it is important. Lately I’ve been trying to build up my orgs’ capacity by teaching my supervisors how to type and how to organize [...]

back to normal: mice, Mountain Dew and a music video

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Mozamblog

2012-01-30 10:00:00

After a very lengthy and fabulous Christmas vacation, I came back to Monapo and got settled back into the regular grind- work Monday-Friday and relaxing/doing chores/eating chicken at Pica Pau on the weekends. Not too much has changed here in Monapo, except for the Mountain Dew that is now sold near the market. I was SO surprised to see the stuff, just too bad I don't drink it. Also, a new Mennonite family has moved in. It's so nice to have other Americans in town!I have not met the father of the family yet, but his wife and children are incredibly friendly. They have 2 dogs, kittens, and 2 monkeys! I was supposed to get one of the kittens (Simba), but he ran away before I got the chance to take him home.

Its been a slow start-up for work, but that is to be expected. Many of my colleagues still have not returned from holiday vacations but those who have returned are hard at work. SCIP recently created a new partnership with the community radios in Nampula province and I am the lead for SCIP Monapo's involvement with our community radio. The relationship requires community debates, reports on SCIP activities and interventions in the communities and radio 'spots' with health themes. Tonight is our first debate and I'm nervous! Along with 3 community leaders, a nurse and 2 HIV testing and counseling officials, my coordinator and I will participate in an HIV debate to be broadcasted over the radio.

Since returning from vacation, I've been battling against a family of rodents who have taken up residence in my house. I moved every food item into glass or plastic storage containers but the creatures just don't want to leave! While they have not caused much physical damage, the psychological damage has left me with insomnia. One night I woke at 3:30am to a mouse on top of me! I don't know how it got inside of my mosquito net (I guess I didn't tuck it in tight enough) and I don't know what it wanted, since I obviously don't have any food in my bed with me. Needless to say, I didn't sleep the rest of the night and only for a few hours each night afterward. Until one morning I woke up to find a dead mouse on the floor of my kitchen-the rodent poison finally took its toll! And 2 days later I was shocked to find a paralyzed rat (slowly dying from the poison) beside my mini-fridge. I was screaming and in no condition to remove the thing myself, so I got my 8 and 12-year old neighbors to help :)

Many people want to know how I spend my weekends here. So I thought I'd explain how I spent my time this past Saturday... I woke up early to meet some colleagues (members of SCIP Monapo's theater group) to have a meeting. I've asked them to help me with a workshop I'm going to be giving to community leaders on stigma and discrimination. So they wanted to show me a short skit they've been working on to perform at the workshop. Unfortunately, when I got to the office to meet them none of them were there! So I went over to Ariel and Leah's house (my new education volunteer sitemates) and chatted with Leah and some of our friends. Then I left to go pick up Simba, the kitten, from the Mennonite family. But of course when I arrived at their home they informed me that he ran away. Feeling pretty defeated, I stopped by the market to buy some fancy new plastic basins for washing clothes. I returned to my house to find 3 members of the theater group waiting for me and we were finally able to have a short meeting to talk about their involvement in the stigma workshop. After they left I washed clothes for 2 hours and ate leftovers (my attempt at pad thai) for lunch. Then, my friend Assane met me to go to the carpenters and ask about the prices of wood as I want to build a table in my kitchen to have space for preparing meals. We went back to my house after the carpenters where I invited Assane to watch an episode of "So You Think You Can Dance" (Season 6) with me. We didn't have time to finish the episode before another friend, Ismael, showed up to have me film his music video. Ismael has been asking me for months to help him with this video and we have just never had the time to do it before. So I spent about an hour filming him and his "dancer" with my camera as they performed to an original song written by Ismael. I'll let you all know when the video gets posted to youtube! You'll be able to see my lovely house and laundry (mostly underwear) hanging up in the background. When the boys finally left it was dark out so I locked up for the night, made banana pancakes for dinner, and fell asleep watching Robin Hood. All in all, a pretty solid Saturday.

Here's what February looks like- more collaboration with the radio, stigma and discrimination workshops in Monapo and Moma, stigma and discrimination refresher course in Nampula, Carnival in Quelimane (the biggest in Southern Africa!), Chocas or Ilha for the holiday weekend (Mozambican Hero's Day), and preparing to leave for vacation in SOUTH AFRICA!

Maui Oceanfront Marathon Race Recap

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique Pancakes and Postcards

2012-01-30 07:06:06

Blog hiatus over! I tried to be as unplugged as humanly possible last week as I took my first VACATION in the year that I’ve been working to Maui, Hawaii with my friend Alyssa. I’ll be sure to do more posts about Hawaii itself including the delicious food that we ate and activities we engaged [...]

So this is the new year

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Mozambique melle in moz

2012-01-30 07:24:25

It’s been a while since I wrote about my day-to-day at site. The kids here are starting a new school year & their families have returned from holiday travel. I’m especially excited to have my next-door neighbors back from their weeks of working in the machamba. They were one of the first families I got [...]

Peace Corps Journals

Out of breath...

Recipe for a better day

High, low & sideways

Lookin' ahead

Sometimes just living is enough.

Typical Morning

Parado

Changing Winds

The Return to Mozambique

A smoky dream

07/02/12

Cateme Riot in the News

I though I would share some of the news articles from the demonstration that I mentioned in my last post. Luckily, our Peace Corps friends who have already finished their service have been keeping us in the official loop.

Mozambique families protest against Brazil's Vale

Mozambique: Vale Promises to Solve Resettlement Problems

Things that are Hilarious

Resolve

Something Tastes Fishy...

“But how do you get out?”

I can’t live without you…

My English is bad, but my life is good

Lesson planning - Mozambique style

Rat Strat 2012

And so it begins . . .

6 Month Update - Please Help Support Me and Amanda!

Salgando as Feridas [1/14]

This is Bizarre [12/16]

Untitled [12/18]

Alden, Lena, Derek, Mary, Mark [1/10]

Buzin [1/10]

The Great Hunger Famine of 2012 [1/11]

Itchin’ [1/10]

Maputes [1/11]

02/02/12

Around the World and Back Again...10 Months To Go!

The rest of week 2

Week 3 - Another test of patience

Back in Moz!

Mocuba Cyclone Destruction

Start of School

Teleporting aka Travel De Ja Vu

Lobolo

27/01/12

30/01/12

01/02/12

Super Simple Cake Mix Whoopie Pies

The Aftermath

Malawian Radio

back to normal: mice, Mountain Dew and a music video

Maui Oceanfront Marathon Race Recap

So this is the new year

My English is bad, but my life is good