The vagabondary begins: Adventures on the high seas

Written on October 19, 2012:

Hey all,

Greetings from paradise!  I’m in a little fishing town called Pangane in northern Mozambique, sitting in front of my crumbling rock-and-palm-frond bungalow on a windy point facing the Indian Ocean.  It’s been two weeks since I left Mabote for the last time, and just over a week since I finished Peace Corps and officially became a homeless, jobless vagabond!

So far, seeing as how I haven’t left Moz, it feels like I’m just on vacation and will go home to Mabote any day now.  I’m not sure when it will hit me that I won’t be, but maybe it’s better that way.  Hopefully by the time I get back to the states in January – after three months of wandering in Africa, and fresh from Korea – I’ll be so culturally confused that I won’t have much of the reverse culture shock that they warned us about at our final Peace Corps conference... things like crying in the cereal aisle, overwhelmed by the choices and the excess.  If I do that, please smack me and tell me there’s no crying in grocery shopping.

Anyway, I just arrived in Pangane yesterday, back on the mainland after a week of island hopping in the Quirimbas Archipelago.  Finding the first bed I’ve seen all week, I slept for about twelve hours last night and have done little more than read and stare at the ocean today.  So this two and a half day stop-over is definitely going to be a nice, and much needed, recharge.

Cause, man... what a week!  It all started when I met a 60-something Czech man named Boris at baggage claim after my flight to Pemba.  I would never have guessed it when I split a cab with him to the town center, but he became the nucleus of our five-person group of travel companions for the next week, as we sailed around on rickety dhows and camped on beaches.

Boris.  What can I say?  He could be a character in a classic novel: left the former Czechoslovakia as a refugee in his late teens; was stripped of his citizenship during the Communist era (though later got it back); was educated in the U.S. and lived for many years in New York and California; gets his kicks from cold beer, snorkeling, younger women, and traveling to exotic places like a 20-something backpacker; used to be a banker and did a start-up in Silicon Valley; has KGB maps on his smart phone; could out-swim all of us 20-somethings with one arm; and has more stories than the Bible.

The second member of the five-some was Whitney, an American girl who was the only other camper at my campsite on Ibo Island, my first stop after Pemba.  Being the off-season, there were only about five tourists on the island, so I was informed by a local boy even before I met her that there was another one of me wandering around.  And sure enough, when I met her we were both dressed in culturally appropriate-length capaluna skirts, and looked at each other like, “Oh, you must be Peace Corps.”

Turns out, she had just spent a month with a friend in Peace Corps-Zambia, and is scheduled to start Peace Corps-El Salvador in January.  If Boris was the nucleus of our group, Whitney was the glue.  After only a week, I can’t help hearing “Whitney-isms” echoing in my head: expressive phrases for every occasion.  When something goes wrong: “Porqueeeee????” (“Why????”), or, “Oh noooo... what’s gonna happen to us????”  When she’s not happy about something: “Bleeerghhhh.”  When she wants to say “excuse me”: “Sari-saari!”  (Like “sorry,” but pronounced the Zambian way, and sung.)

She made friends everywhere we went, literally greeting every person we passed with “Salaama assana!” (a Makua greeting – one of the local languages), and refusing to let the fact that she doesn’t speak Portuguese get in the way of attempting to have extended conversations with local kids, the dhow crew, or anyone else.

And the group of us three 20-somethings was rounded out by Alex from Spain, who’d been living in Berlin and the German part of Switzerland for the past five years, and had been traveling through East and Southern Africa for over a month.  When we met on Ibo, we spent the first ten minutes struggling to communicate in Portañol – him speaking Spanish and me speaking Portuguese.  It wasn’t until I heard him and Whitney talking that I realized he spoke English.  (“Why didn’t you tell me???”)

We have him and Boris to thank for our island-hopping adventures – Whitney and I both probably would have been content to wander around Ibo for a week, looking at the crumbling colonial buildings and watching Tanzanian TV at the local restaurant with chickens running around at our feet.

Speaking of Portañol, meeting Alex and Whitney marked the beginning of a week of adventures in language.  Between Alex’s Spanish, my Portuguese, Whitney’s Spanish from three months in Ecuador,  and Boris’ Spanish from once falling in love with a Guatemalan girl, communication with boat captains, campground owners and the like was a team effort.  Add to that the fact that people on the islands speak even less Portuguese than in Mabote, it sometimes took two layers of translation between Spanish, Portuguese and the local language.

The fifth member of our group was Anders, a friend of Boris’ who met up with us a day late on the island of Matemo.  He’s a a doctor from Sweden, a little older than Boris, and just as much trouble.  They met years ago on a boat in Indonesia, and since then have met up many times on four continents.  Listening to Anders interrupt Boris’ stories – about wooing women, fending off sharks, or being turned away from checkpoints with machine guns – to say he wasn’t telling it quite right, it was clear that these two were a dynamic duo that will only slow down when they die.  More than once throughout the week, Alex declared, “Those guys are my heroes!”

So that was the motley crew.

After we chartered a boat to Matemo from Ibo, we spent four days camping on the beach, snorkeling, swimming, taking a day trip to mostly-uninhabited Rolas Island, and crashing Matemo’s 5-star resort for cold beers.  They agreed to let us buy beers if we drank them quickly and then left – lest their chic European guests wonder who let in the dirty backpackers.  Seeing a speedo-clad Italian using wifi by the pool kind of burst my bubble of feeling like we were totally off the grid at the edge of the world.

Anyway, I had a great time and all, but I was really happy to get back to the mainland yesterday.  Sailing on a dhow from island to island through turquoise waters may sound romantic, and it is... for the first hour.  But when you’re baking in the sun, getting seasick, having to pee, and just wanting to be there already, it’s not fun to keep seeing your destination get oh-so-close... only to have the dhow drop sail and reverse course again, taking you farther away. 

I still don’t understand why sailing back and forth in a zigzag pattern is necessary, but I think it had to do with the current or the wind going the wrong way, or both. We tried to understand the sailing strategy, but every time we asked a question of the captain or his small crew, we got the same answer: “Não há problema” (“no problem”).

It didn’t matter what the question was, the answer was always the same: “No problem.”  It became a running joke among us, someone asking, “Where are we going?” or, “What’s for dinner?” and someone else answering, “No problem.”  I took it to mean, “You people ask too many questions, and God only knows when we’ll get there.”

Yesterday especially, going from Matemo to Pangane (here), was pretty harrowing.  The water was particularly choppy, and I suddenly became very aware of how delapidated this old wooden boat with the tattered sail was, and noticed with alarm that there were only five life jackets for seven people.  I plotted in my head how if we needed to, we could empty out two large jerry cans and use them as flotation devices.

Several times, a big wave washed into the boat, requiring more than the usual amount of bailing.  We realized we had nothing the right size to bail with, so someone finally broke open a round ceramic buoy (which Alex had been referring to as “Wil-son!!!” from Cast Away) and used a broken piece to help bail out water.  That worked for a while, but after a couple more of those waves hit there was so much water in the boat that they just started using a bucket.

Through it all, the captain and crew never seemed alarmed, though I’m not sure whether that was an indication that there was no real danger, or whether it was just in keeping with the Mozambican temperament (i.e. so laid back that they never seem alarmed about anything... even when there’s plenty to be alarmed about).

But they thought it was pretty funny when, after one such wave, I hurriedly donned a life jacket and started trying to help bail with the piece of the broken ceramic buoy.  I wasn’t accomplishing very much, stumbling and falling all over the place as the boat pitched and rolled, but they seemed amused by my efforts.  I was not amused, turning to Whitney and saying, at the edge of panic, “I am not dying on this *** ocean!!”

But after several hours of zigzagging, we did finally arrive in Pangane.  Well, almost.  The tide had started to go out so we had to wade through thigh-deep, jellyfish-infested water to get to the shore.  The captain and crew thought we were being silly muzungus to be afraid of jellyfish.  “No problem,” they assured us.  Thankfully there wasn’t a problem, and – however unnerving – we made it intact and un-stung (probably due to the fact that their tentacles were short).

But at least now it all makes for a good story, and maybe one day, when I’m Boris’ age, I’ll be telling it to some 20-something backpackers.  I can only hope.

We left Boris and Anders lounging on Matemo, and Whitney and Alex left early this morning for their next stop.  So now I’m enjoying the solitude and down time, and looking forward to another good night’s sleep in a real bed.

That was my first adventure of many, I hope, on this long journey home from Mozambique.

Até logo,

Julie

P.S. I posted a few photos from Ibo, Matemo and Rolas Islands (and watery points in between) here.

From a one-well town to dining with the Zimbabwean Scarlett O’Hara

Written on August 7, 2012:

Hey everyone,

So, apparently we (mankind, and specifically the U.S.) landed on Mars??  What the...?!  Wish I’d been near a TV or fast-enough internet connection to see that.  Hope you all got to watch it... that and the Olympics.

It’s a momentous week here – for me, anyway— for different reasons.  I move out of my house on Saturday, and a new volunteer will arrive to replace me on Sunday.  I’ll still be here for another 7+ weeks after that, but still.  It’s the end of an era.  Though in a lot of ways I’m ready to go, at the same time, I can’t imagine leaving.

I’ve had several bouts of preemptive nostalgia these past couple of weeks, realizing how little time I have left: “but, but, but... this is where I live!”  I’m getting ready to go be a homeless vagabond for the next 6-ish months, living out of a backpack and sleeping on buses, planes, bed bug-y hostel mattresses, and borrowed beds and couches.  So I’m trying to appreciate and savor having a place to call home, at least for a little while longer.

In addition to preparing for the big move across the yard to my new house, I’ve been busier than usual lately for other reasons.  Last week, I traveled all over Mabote district helping out with a consulting project for one of the NGOs.  An ex-pat friend (and former Peace Corps volunteer) living in Vilankulo was hired to evaluate a school vegetable gardens project and invited me to help.  We visited about 20 schools to see their gardens and do interviews.  And wow.  It does not get much more bush than some of the towns we visited.

I will never again complain about the very long dirt road out of Mabote... because at least it’s relatively flat and resembles a road.  The roads we traveled last week were really more like glorified trails – so bumpy that my head hit the roof on several occasions (where’s that Peace Corps bike helmet when I need it??) and so narrow that at times we had to roll up the windows to keep from getting smacked in the face by branches.

I spent a couple of hours by myself in one little town, where I got the chance to visit the “market” – three stalls selling little more than packaged cookies, Fanta, gin and a few staples like dried corn.  No produce except what they grow themselves (which isn’t much during this drought).  No generator to even hope might be turned on from time to time.  And no cell service.

As I waited for the NGO truck to come back and pick me up, I hung out with the teacher who I had been interviewing.  I peppered her with questions of my own, trying to imagine what it was like living there:

“What happens if someone has a medical emergency?”
“They take the chapa to the hospital in Mabote.”
“How often do the chapas run?”
“Once or twice a week.”
(internal dialogue: “I think we have different definitions of an emergency.”)

“Where do people get water?”
“From the well.”
“One well for the whole town? Where is it?”
“A 30 minute walk from here.”  (italics are mine)

“How many kids are in your class?”
“25”
“How many come on any given day?”
“Depends... 5? 8?”
“Why so few?”
“There’s a lot of hunger, so some kids don’t have the energy to come to school.”
(speechless)

I’m really glad I got to see more of Mabote district, though – certainly puts things in perspective.  My friend, Juliet, and I were joking about how quickly your perception changes.  Riding back into the town of Mabote and seeing a few cement houses, it felt like the big city.  And if Mabote is the big city, I guess that makes Maputo (the capital) New York City.  And the real New York City science fiction.

Speaking of the big city, I’ve been spending a lot of time in my big city lately: Vilankulo.  Since we don’t have electricity anymore, I’ve been going there more than usual to work on my business school applications.  I usually stay with my friend, Camila, another volunteer.  But she was out of town last weekend so I stayed at a hostel, and consequently was more social than usual.

On Friday night, I was attempting to work on an essay at the hostel’s bar (big mistake), only stopping to make occasional small talk with the Mozambican bar tender, who immediately warmed up to me once I told him I live in Mabote.  But then my precious work time got hijacked by an older Zimbabwean lady with more personality than one person deserves:

“Daarling, are you writing a book?  I told everyone you muust be writing a book.
“No, I’m just writing graduate school essays.”
(hearing my accent) “Oh!!  Are you American?  I loove Americans.”
“Yes, I live here though.  In Mabote.”
“Mabote?!  Oh, you poor thing!  What are you doing there?”
“I’m a Peace Corps volunteer.”
“Oh!  I loove Peace Corps volunteers!  You muust come sit with us!”
“Oh, um... that’s so nice of you.  But I don't have electricity in Mabote, so I actually               came here just to work on these essays."
“Daarling, do it tomorrow!  You just muust come tell us all about yourself!”

Needless to say, that was the end of that, and before I knew it, she was sharing her shrimp fettuccine with me, ordering me caramel & banana crepes for dessert, and making me sing Sweet Home Alabama to the table (wouldn’t you know it, she also just looves Southerners).  The table included her husband, a French tourist, and three short-term tourism industry volunteers from South Africa, Scotland and Northern Ireland (working in exchange for room & board in Vilankulo... not a bad deal at all).

She and her husband, I learned, fled Zimbabwe after Mugabe started his land redistribution program, forcing out white landowners and wreaking havoc on the country.  They brought their 104 horses to Mozambique and now run a horse beach safari company in Vilankulo, and they wrote a book about their experience called 104 Horses.  She told me I muust tell everyone in Alabama and New York about the book, which comes out this fall.  So now I’ve earned my shrimp and crepes.

There are some real characters floating around the Vilankulo expat scene.  At a craft fair on Sunday, the Zimbabwean horse lady was there and introduced me to an older man who she said I muust meet because we’re both American.  But as soon as he opened his mouth I thought she’d made a mistake – he was obviously Australian or something.  When he said he was a writer from North Carolina, I just looked at him strangely.  “And where are you from?” he asked.  “Alabama.”  Then he looked at me strangely and said, “But you don’t have an accent – not even a trace!”  “You don’t even sound American!” I responded.

Turns out he’d spent time in Rhodesia before it was Zimbabwe, had lived in Cape Town (South Africa) for ten years, and came to Mozambique to “get away from the chaos.”  Though it hadn’t worked, he said.  When I listened hard, I could hear that his accent was actually a very thick Southern drawl, heavily influenced by the British-origin English of South Africa and Zimbabwe.

Once we’d established that we were, in fact, both American and both from the South, he says, “It’s hard being Southern, isn’t it?”  I had no idea where he was going with that, but with a little probing he started talking about “surviving religion,” and how those that “make it out the other side” are stronger... “but then Southerners are stronger than most people anyway, aren’t they?” he said.  “We’ve been burned in the fire.”  I kind of wanted to ask him if he was sure his name wasn’t Pat Conroy.

And then he made an interesting comparison between Rhodesia and the Old South.  I was reminded of something that another Peace Corps volunteer, Drew – also from North Carolina – had said when I ran into him the day before.  We had been at a little get-together of Americans, Mozambicans and one Zimbabwean at the house of Juliet and her husband, Scott (the Zimbabwean), and I told Drew about meeting the horse safari lady.  He knows  her well because they live next door to each other, and he made the comment that she reminded him of a lot of Southern women.  I asked the North Carolina writer what he thought, and he emphatically agreed: “Absolutely... she’s the Zimbabwean Scarlett O’Hara!”

So that was my week.  Mozambique’s extremes never cease to startle and amaze me.  I’m left equal parts disturbed by the gross inequality and fascinated by the confluence of cultures and influences in places like Vilankulo and Maputo, which are distinctly Mozambican, yet increasingly globalized.

It’s good to be back home in Mabote, though, for as long as it’s home.

Ok, I’m off to bed... it’s past 2am!  The provincial governor is in town tonight so they turned on the generator just for him, meaning we miraculously have power for the first time in months!  I wanted to write this blog post while it lasts, since I’m sure they will turn it off the second he leaves tomorrow.

Enjoy what’s left of your summers, and watch some women’s gymnastics for me!

Julie

The devil drives a white Landcruiser

Written on June 19, 2012:

Hey y’all,

Happy summer up there! Can’t believe it’s already time to say that. I don’t quite know what season it is here because the temperature is all over the place on a daily basis. I never know whether I’m going to be trying to keep warm by literally donning every layer I own (picture that FRIENDS episode where Joey puts on all of Chandler’s clothes... “Could I BE wearing any more clothes??”)... or sweating and carrying said layers around like a hobo.

When I went to Swaziland on a little vacation last month, it felt like real winter, not just Africa winter. Freezing my butt off in an English-speaking country and surrounded by fellow foreigners and ex-pats at a swanky music festival, I didn’t quite know where I was.

It’s always a bit disorienting going back and forth between Mabote and the quasi first world bubbles you can find in places like Maputo and the music festival in Swaziland.  But this time was even stranger because before crossing the Swazi border, I spent a couple nights with friends at the apartment of an acquaintance in Maputo. This acquaintance is actually in charge of the international non-governmental organization (INGO for short) program that funds one of my associations.

To be honest, I felt a little uncomfortable staying at her apartment. I doubt my Mabote colleagues even know who she is, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether they would see me differently if they knew I was staying there. “Sheeh! Mana Julia, look at you, you’re a big deal!” I can hear them saying... in so many words. Or, never prone to let an opportunity slip by, “Juli-o, ask her to buy us a car so we can drive people to the hospital!”

I think one of the things that made me feel uneasy was grappling, in a very immediate way, with my first world privilege and power: the fact that I can get in doors that they would never have access to. When you’re in the habit of sitting on the ground under a tree, swatting flies with the mães (mothers, a.k.a. “my Mabote ladies” as I called them in my last post)... to suddenly find yourself at a dinner party eating chilli con carne with cheddar cheese and blondies for dessert next to their chefe’s chefe’s chefe (boss), it’s more than a little unsettling.

There were six guests at our little dinner party: three Peace Corps volunteers and three INGO staff members, one of whom was in town visiting from Washington, DC. We were all around the same age, all American, and among the six of us, it turns out we’d only gone to four different colleges. So we had a lot in common. As we were making conversation, the guy in town from DC remarked that he was thinking of getting out of international development work because he was disillusioned with it. He said something like, “I don’t know any other industry where you can fail 90% of the time and keep getting rewarded.”

My fellow volunteers and I – all of us placed with INGO-funded HIV/AIDS projects – exchanged knowing glances. Our frustrations with the mainstream INGO – or “international development” – industry is a common topic of conversation when we get together. A little later when it was just him and us three volunteers, I told him that a lot of us feel the same way, that we talk about it all the time. He laughed and said, “Yeah, but there sure are a lot of you who go to work for them afterward.” And, of course, he’s right.

So that got me thinking... why is that? Do we go in thinking we’re going to change the system from the inside, and then become part of it? Do we at some point lose site of what many of us see so clearly now: that something is terribly wrong here... and instead come to see only what we want to see?

The thing is, I can see how it could happen to me and people like me. Sure, I sit around ranting about the INGOs now, but I don’t want to sit under a tree swatting flies forever. In fact, as you could probably tell from my last post, sometimes I can’t wait to move on to bigger and better things. Things that my first world privilege allows me: like graduate school, for instance. And then after that, when life starts getting all serious and I’ve got student loans to repay, suddenly working for an INGO might start looking pretty good. “I lived in Mabote for two years,” I can see myself thinking. “I know how things really are, so better me than someone else... I could change things!”

But would I? Can one person really change the system? It’s a tall order...

Recently I was out in a tiny town called Gubo Gubo (best name ever, right?). I was with one of my associations’ activistas (home-based care providers) as she was visiting several of the patients she’s responsible for to monitor their adherence to their ARVs (AIDS medication) and just generally check on them. In theory, the activistas are supposed to be trained community-based health workers, able to provide a minimal level of counseling and basic care for those who aren’t sick enough to be in the hospital or who can’t get to/won’t go to the hospital.

In reality, all I’ve ever really seen the activistas do is monitor drug adherence and hospital visits by counting pills and checking the appointment cards patients receive at the hospital. And when people don’t show up to their appointments, the activistas are sometimes able to track them down and get them to go back. It’s not that that’s not adding at least some value, but it’s much less than what they’re supposedly doing on paper.

They don’t even have the medical kits they’re supposed to have (things like gloves, gauze and Tylenol). They do, at least, sometimes have condoms. But many of the activistas know very little about basic health topics. And some of them can’t speak or read Portuguese (supposedly a requirement to be an activista) so I don’t know how well they’re even able to monitor adherence and appointments, when the appointment cards and prescriptions are written in Portuguese.

Also in theory, the activistas are supposed to be in the field twice a week, but it’s always clear whenever I tag along, and when I try to make sense of their wonky data reporting sheets, that that isn’t happening. And for most of their patients, I’m not even sure what the activistas would have to do if they went that often – count pills more frequently? Remind them, again, of when their next appointment is?

The woman I was with in Gubo Gubo is, in my opinion, one of the best activistas. She had the idea of bringing her patients together into a kind of support group, so they could discuss common issues and concerns. So she was meeting with her group of three or four patients, counting their pills and checking their appointment cards, and asked them what problems they had. One man starts telling her how he has trouble taking his pills because when he swallows them they “don’t find anything (as in, food) in his stomach” so he often vomits them up.

ARVs are strong and shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach, so it’s no wonder he vomits. And they also increase a person’s appetite, so it’s a double whammy: you need to take them with food and then they make you hungrier. So when you don’t have much food, it can be a huge barrier to adherence (much bigger than just plain forgetting). But what is this activista supposed to do about that... bring him some chilli con carne and blondies?

And are most people who miss their appointments doing so because they forgot, or because there’s only one hospital for two districts and they don’t have money for transportation or the ability to be away from home for a day?

These are not easy problems. But would you invest in a program whose primary value-add was reminding people to take their pills and go to the hospital, yet doing almost nothing to help them overcome the very real obstacles to doing those things? Well, in fact, you probably already do: one of my two associations’ HIV/AIDS projects is funded – via the INGO – by PEPFAR (the American government). The other association’s funding is ultimately from the Irish government. (Note: PEPFAR also does some awesome things like making the ARVs available in the first place in countries like Mozambique – a relatively new development.)

But I look at all this money being spent with so little to show for it. And I see the extreme, unmet needs of people in these communities. And I’m left asking: Is this really the best we can do??

I have a Mozambican friend who used to be on the field staff of the INGO that funds one of my associations. One time we were talking about all of this and I’ll never forget what he said: “I know that the majority of the benefit of what (the program he works for) is doing lies at the field staff level: our salaries, offices, cars and computers. I go to the field and I know it’s not doing much. But what can I do? I’m one of them. And I have a family to support. So I say nothing.”

When an organization – or an industry – is getting paid to fight disease and poverty, yet are seemingly more concerned with getting their next government contract than with actually having an impact... aren’t they just profitting off other people’s suffering? Isn’t that... ya know, evil?

In the end, it is a tall order for any one person to change the system. And for those on the inside, there is always the danger of forgetting what you used to know when you spent your days swatting flies. But I personally know at least one person who’s trying: an expat friend in Vilankulo. She consults for one of the big INGOs and is trying to start an organization that would help communities assess their own needs, and help INGOs analyze their impact. And there must be others out there.

Maybe part of the solution is that even more of us – people who know what it’s like on the ground and who want to change things – should go to work for (or alongside) the devil in a white Landcruiser. Because one thing seems clear: he’s not going anywhere.

Okay, I’m going to stop now. My computer is almost dead anyway.  And it’s taken all my energy (electronic and otherwise) to talk about this particular topic without it devolving into a tirade. I hope I’ve mostly succeeded... aside from the “devil” moniker.  You have to give me that. ;)  My apologies if you were expecting something warm and fuzzy like last time. But really, the title should have given fair warning.

There’s a chance you might not hear from me for awhile, since I have, like, 50 business school application essays left to write. That’s how it feels anyway. But I promise to write about something warm and fuzzy next time.

Enjoy your summers!

Julie

P.S. If you’re curious, three excellent books about lessons to be learned from the efforts (failures, mostly) of governments and NGOs to respond to the AIDS epidemic and improve the lives of poor people in developing countries are:

Poor Economics: A Radical Rethinking of the Way to Fight Global Poverty by Abhijit Banerjee and Esther Duflo (so, so good!)

The Invisible Cure: Why we are Losing the Fight Against AIDS in Africa by Helen Epstein

The Wisdom of Whores: Bureaucrats, Brothels and the Business of AIDS by Elizabeth Pisani

The countdown begins (but who’s counting?) and the people who make it worth it

Written on May 3, 2012:

Hey everyone,

Well, I’ve done it again... it’s been over two months since I last blogged. Not quite as bad as the three month hiatus of fall 2011, but still shamefully delinquent. Desculpa.

I have no real excuse this time, other than the fact that Mabote doesn’t have electricity anymore. You might remember that we used to get three hours a day from a generator, but it’s been really erratic since about October or November, and pretty much nonexistent for about the past three months. So when I do have a charged laptop I usually use it to do work watch movies. Plus, the whole “oh my god I live in Africa!” thing wore off long ago so it can actually be quite hard to come up with anything interesting to say, hence the blog post in January about doing laundry.

But anyway, excuses excuses. So happy May! I hope you’re all enjoying what I imagine is lovely spring weather. Our seasons are opposite so we’re on our way into the cool, dry season... not that we had much of a rainy season this year. It only rained a small handful of times in Mabote. My friend Angela was visiting this week and my colleague Teresa and I took her to see my favorite spot: what some lovingly refer to as “praia” de Mabote (Mabote “beach”).

But alas, we found that what used to be a lush field with a large pond where kids swam and animals drank was nothing but a sand pit with a hole of sun-baked, cracked mud in the middle. Guess I haven’t been there in a while. Angela, Teresa and I entertained ourselves by staging a photo shoot at the “beach” (dirt hole). It was so Mabote. Clearly, though, a near-drought is not all fun and games since a lot of crops failed this year...

But enough about the weather. So the last time I blogged my dad was about to arrive in Moz and we were all set to have a father-daughter, trans-generational Peace Corps adventure (he was a Peace Corps volunteer too). And we did! It was a great trip, for a lot of reasons. Not least of which was that I got to hear him compare and contrast 1970s Guatemala and present day Mozambique, Santa Cruz Barillas and Mabote, bush Spanish and bush Portuguese, his agricultural work and the random assortment of projects I dabble in, etc etc. It was good perspective, and a great chance to spend quality time with my dad and show him my life here.

So. Not that I’m counting down or anything... but perhaps some of you have been thinking that I sure have been here a long time. And you would be right. But guess what: I only have FIVE MONTHS left! I am excited about that for a couple of reasons. First, even though I’m really glad I’m here, every day is hard. Obviously I try not to whine on my blog, but I’d be giving you a false impression if I didn’t put it out there.

The heat, the bugs, the bucket baths, no electricity, little privacy, always fighting to define my role and figure out how to add value, the language barriers, transportation challenges, being far away from family and friends, being a total misfit and stared at/asked for things/proposed to, all of the inevitable challenges of living in a culture that is polar opposite from my own. There’s no getting around it... that stuff is hard and it wears on you. So yeah, I know it will be bittersweet – after all, Mozambique feels like my second home now – but I also know I will be ready for a change in five months. Oh so ready.

Which brings me to my second reason for being excited: I’m planning an epic round-the-world adventure post-Peace Corps. Though it’ll be sad to miss yet another Christmas at home, already being in Africa is too good of an opportunity to pass up. My plans are a work in progress, but right now I’m thinking I’ll go overland through a few other southern African countries and then up to east Africa ending up in Kenya, and then fly to Asia (South Korea to see my friend Kristy, and then Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand). So if you have any interest in visiting any of those places (minus Korea), hit me up! I’m kind of intrigued by the idea of traveling alone, but I’d also love company. Maybe I’ll start a new blog when I’m traveling: Letters home from ????

So between fantasizing about my epic adventure, needing to apply to grad school before I leave, and the fact that a new volunteer will be arriving in Mabote in a mere THREE MONTHS to replace me, sometimes I get all riled up... “I’m almost done! The end is nigh!!” And yet, it’s not. When I have a bad day or a bad week (see above list of “things that are hard”)... five months can still seem like a long time. But I’ve got some pretty awesome people and perks in my life to keep me going during those times. In short, living in Mozambique is teaching me the importance of community. For this individualistic American, it’s an important lesson.

So who is my community? I’ve got my ladies in Mabote: several colleagues who I’ve gotten close with over the months who consider themselves my Mozambican family. They take me to church and the machamba (farm) with them, visit me when I’m sick, and – most recently— comfort me when I need it. For the record, I try not to complain to them because, well... compared to them, what could I possibly have to complain about, right?? All of my basic needs are met and then some, and I have more opportunities in life than they or their children ever will.

But the other day I was having a bad day (bad week really) and ended up crying in front of them despite my best efforts not to. And what did they do? Not surprisingly, they gathered around me, patted me and told me everything would be okay. I felt very mothered. They started telling me stories of hardship from their lives and even though their stories absolutely DWARFED mine, they didn’t seem to see a big difference.

They just saw the commonality: mainly that they were upset at the time but that it eventually passed (“graças a Deus”... “by the grace of God”), and so would my troubles. It was good perspective. I was touched, as always, by their kindness and was left with a new appreciation of the fact that despite what sometimes seem like insurmountable differences, we’re all pretty much the same when it comes down to it. There’s a Mozambican phrase I like that sums it up nicely: “Todos nós somos humanos” (“We are all human.”)

Who else is my community? I don’t know if I would have made it here without my Peace Corps people. Even though I am essentially maintaining long distance friendships with all of them except for my Mabote site mate, Mandy, that can sometimes be a perk. i.e. Taking a break from Mabote, or seeing it through the new eyes of a visitor, is sometimes the perfect reboot.

This past week has been quite a social one for the Peace Corps community. Try not to judge me for what I am about to tell you, but last weekend I was in Vilankulo with 50+ other Peace Corps volunteers for an annual event known as “Beer Olympics.” The name really says it all so I will leave the rest to your imagination. But my friend Jama and I decided that if we’re going to attend a college frat party weekend as mature women of a certain age, we’d at least do it with a little dignity. So we brought our own wine – complete with fancy wine glasses (well, fancy for Moz) – and rented a cozy beachfront bungalow instead of camping or sleeping in the dorms at the hostel. It was a good call.

What’s going right: stories from the human village

Written on February 29, 2012:

Hey y’all,

Happy leap day! Hope all’s well up there where it’s almost Spring. Here it has finally started to hint at the fact that it will eventually cool off… as in, lately at night I can actually put a sheet over myself comfortably. A real treat.

The big news here is that I am gearing up for a momentous occasion: my dad, the Brick Man himself, is arriving in Mozambique in less than three days! I still don’t quite believe it… it’s a bit like worlds colliding to imagine anyone from home being here in Mozambique, in Mabote, in my hut. Eeee!

I have a very exciting itinerary planned for us here in Mabote, which includes such activities as looking at old photos at the secondary school of Samora Machel (Mozambique’s first president) and Fidel Castro slapping each other on the back; having a capulana shirt custom made for him by my local stylist; showing him the factory (okay, “factory” is a bit of a stretch) where they make liquor out of local fruits; and of course visiting and cooking over firewood with friends and colleagues. Some of the women are even planning to “receive” him at one of the associations with dancing and singing. I hope Mabote is ready for a tall, grey-haired mulungu to arrive speaking Spanish and asking to go hunting for bush meat with them.

Aside from that excitement, things here are up and down. As always, ten things go wrong for every one thing that goes right. But when something does finally go right it sure does feel good. I won’t go into what’s going wrong because, well, I’m in too light of a mood to attempt to spin my frustrations into entertaining anecdotes and lessons learned. So instead I’ll just tell you about what’s going right.

English classes started again this week and this time we are much more legit. We even have a name: The Community English School of Mabote. It was a bit of a rocky start last week when only two people showed up to the planning meeting and we had to reschedule, only to have my co-planners not show up to the second meeting. To be honest I wasn’t sure it was going to happen, but then this week I was pleasantly surprised by the number of people who not only showed up to the first class but actually paid money (a big deal, considering) to help cover the cost of materials. It’s still a small group but that’s fine with me. It felt good to know people really are interested enough to follow through and even contribute money.

I’m also more excited about things this time around because I have a slightly better idea of what I’m doing. In addition to now having some experience from last year, I’ve also been reading a great book* about using a dialogue approach in adult education. It’s a challenge to do here because of people’s experiences with the formal school system, which is so rigid and anti-dialogue. But the concepts behind it – borrowed from such diverse sources as quantum theory and the work of Paolo Freire, a Brazilian social activist and scholar – are very powerful.

Here’s a passage that I underlined as I was reading because it resonated with what I perceive here as a deep-seated dependence on outsiders and an automatic deference to – and even fear of – those in power (chefes): “When we do not use dialogue and instead ask learners to be passive, they do indeed learn. They learn how to be passive, to be ‘good’ employees. They learn that they have no power, except to obey.”

So not to imply that fifteen people making a “hopes and expectations tree” out of post-its by lantern light is the start of a revolution or anything… but it felt good to see them breaking out of the schoolhouse mode and becoming a cohesive group. One person wrote on his post-it that he wanted to learn English “because it has advantages in the human village.” If I had laid out a list of good reasons to learn English to try and motivate people, I would never have come up with that. And how awesome is that?

In addition to English classes, my collaboration with the new community association I’ve started working with is also going pretty right. We designed a pig-raising project last week that will hopefully be funded by their INGO donor as income generation for the association and its members. I feel a bit like a double agent because the original association I was placed with is also starting up a pig project. I assumed they knew about the second project – small town and all – but apparently they didn’t and I let it slip. (Whoops.) The first association is worried there’s not a big enough market for them both but the second association thinks there is. Who knows, maybe this can be a teaching moment on market research.

The other thing that’s going right with the new association I’m working with is that they’ve embraced an idea that my first association never seemed to be very excited about: pill organizers like the plastic ones you can buy in drug stores in the U.S., but made out of used matchboxes glued together. Maybe it sounds unsanitary, which is what the hospital said last year, but it’s not like pills are being kept in sterile conditions anyway once they get to people’s houses. And a colleague from my new association’s INGO donor is on board and suggested putting the pills in little plastic bags they give out at the hospital if they’re worried about it.

To back up, a lot of people have adherence problems with ARVs (AIDS medication). Anyone would have trouble remembering to take a pill twice a day, but it’s only compounded here by things like the low level of literacy and the intimidation that many people feel when interacting with hospital staff (again, fear and deference to those in power). People I know – even those who are community health workers at one of the associations – will often tell me they went to the hospital for something and are now taking pills but they have no idea what the pills are or why they’re taking them. Asking questions of medical staff at the hospital is not encouraged, and I’ve heard similar stories from other volunteers who work more closely with the hospitals. It’s sad.

But it would be great to finally see this idea take off. We’re planning a trial of 5-10 patients in the near future, and they also might come up with a song to go along with it to help people remember how to take their medication and why it’s important. Maybe it’s too early to add it to the list of things going right, but at least it seems to be attracting new interest. Here’s a picture in case you’re curious.

Wow, it’s now midnight… Happy March! I can’t remember the last time I was up this late in Mabote. I should sign off since I need to get up early tomorrow to do laundry before I leave for Vilankulo to meet the Brick Man. I’m going a day early for some meetings and to have a little dual-birthday dinner with my friend Safiyya. She’s another volunteer and Vilankulo regular and we’re using our combined birthday power to get a little group together.

But in case you’re worried that my dad will be sitting in Mabote the whole time missing out on exotic beach adventures, don’t be. After a few days in Mabote I’m planning on taking him down to Tofo beach where we’ll go snorkeling with whale sharks (among other sea creatures) and get knocked around by the waves in the surf capital of Moz. Not too shabby.

Tchau,
Julie

*The book is Learning to Listen, Learning to Teach: The Power of Dialogue in Educating Adults (Revised Edition) by Jane Vella. I think it has implications for any educational/training setting and even management.

Doing the laundry rain dance and packing bush meat in my carry-on

Written on January 21, 2012

Hi everyone,

Happy belated new year! Maybe it’s a bit late to be saying that, but here things are just getting back into full swing after the festas (holidays). School just started up again this week, the market and stores around town are still reopening and replenishing, and some government and NGO employees are still trickling back into Mabote from the bigger towns and cities.

I myself am a major desaparecida (literally: disappeared person) from Mabote these days, having taken a long holiday break not too long after I got back from my Great Northern Adventure. Mozambicans love to accuse each other of disappearing whenever they haven’t seen each other in a while, and I’m about to do it again tomorrow because I have yet another conference to go to in Maputo, the capital.

In preparation for leaving again, I did laundry this morning. It’s been overcast and raining on and off for a few days now, so while drying my laundry out on the clothes line usually takes less than an hour in Mabote’s parching heat and brutal sun, today it was not so simple. Hanging your laundry out to dry during the rainy season is always a gamble, and sometimes calls for doing the laundry rain dance: running back and forth to the clothes line as rain threatens and then clears.

But doing laundry today was even more interesting, thanks to my meddlesome neighbor. At first it wasn’t raining so I put my clothes out on the line, but then when it started sprinkling I moved them onto my covered porch, where I have some strings rigged for just this purpose. But then my neighbor, who was also doing laundry, started telling me how I wasn’t going to get good air circulation on the porch. So we spent the better part of the morning debating on and off about whose clothes were going to dry faster: mine hanging on my covered porch, or hers out on the line getting periodically sprinkled on. To me is seemed obvious: why would you hang your clothes out in the rain?

When it finally looked like the sun was coming out I moved them out to the line, but then she marched over and started re-hanging all my clothes, telling me that the way I had hung them was not optimal for the fastest drying. I know she was trying to help, but it’s my damn laundry! Even if I had to go to Maputo tomorrow in damp clothes, what does she care? Living in such a close-knit community has its joys and frustrations, and maybe it sounds petty (ok, I know it’s petty), but today it was mostly frustrating.

I tried to imagine a similar situation happening in the states: what if I were doing laundry at my old laundry mat in Harlem and looked over and told someone they were folding their socks wrong? Doing something like that would probably earn you a dirty look, if not expletives, or worse… I once saw a fight almost break out over who was using a rolling laundry basket first. And in suburban Birmingham, you’d probably never even have a chance to tell your neighbor they were doing their laundry wrong because everyone is so insulated in their own houses. But even if you had the chance, you’d probably be too polite to say anything.

I finally decided it wasn’t worth fighting over, especially when she was, after all, trying to help me. So I relented and just started following her instructions like I was a child learning how to tie my shoes. She had me leaving each article of clothing out on the line until it reached a point of being mostly dry from being washed (even if sprinkled with raindrops), and then bringing it onto the porch to finish drying completely. I hate to admit it, but I did eventually see the sense in her process, even if it had me running back and forth doing the laundry rain dance more than I would have liked. But I’m sure I will be grateful tomorrow when I’m sitting on the plane to Maputo in dry clothes that don’t smell mildew-y.

Speaking of my trip to Maputo, and of this neighbor, she has asked me to take a couple of things to her family there. It’s very normal here to ask someone to transport things for you, or bring things back, when they’re traveling. In fact, I’ve also been asked to bring back a certain brand of soap for another colleague, and another Peace Corps volunteer said someone once asked them to take a loaf of bread to an extended family member living in New York.

But what she’s asked me to take to Maputo is slightly more noteworthy than a loaf of bread or a box of soap. She’s asked me to carry two butchered gazelle legs onto the airplane. (Gazelles are referred to as carne da casa, or bush meat, and are slightly smaller than deer.) When she asked me I had to stifle my laughter as I pictured the look on my fellow volunteers’ faces when I show up at the airport in Vilankulo with two gazelle legs in tow. I immediately agreed, thinking this opportunity was too good to pass up… when else will I ever have freshly slaughtered bush meat as my carry-on?

But beyond laundry woes and bush meat deliveries, things here are going pretty well this week (my first real “work week” since the festas). I met with a neighboring association to explore the possibility of the next volunteer placed here working with both my association and this other one, which has very similar projects. I already knew several of their members and there are a lot of family and social connections between the two associations, but I hadn’t ever sat down with them in a work-like context.

As it turns out, they had been harboring a lot of jealousy about the fact that I only work with my association, which I was placed with via a Peace Corps partnership with our NGO donor. But the other association said they are very interested in having the next volunteer be a dual-placement, and even starting to work with me now.

Seeing as how I’m always scrounging for productive things to do, I’m kicking myself for not making more of an effort with them sooner. But to be honest, attempting to work productively with my association is pretty frustrating a lot of the time, and I wasn’t sure I wanted twice the frustration. But based on our meeting yesterday, I think working with this other association might be a different experience. We shall see, but I’m looking forward to potentially having two opportunities to implement some things I’ve been hoping to do.

Other than that, my friend and English class co-organizer and I have been getting ready to start the next round of classes in February. This time we’re trying to make them more official and are planning to have tests and give out certificates at the end, with the idea being that they can then put on their resume that they are “certified” at a basic or intermediate level.

Six months ago I would have thought it unnecessary, but Mozambicans put a lot of stock in officialdom. I was once told at the post office that a letter of permission I was trying to turn in so that a friend in Vilankulo could pick up my packages for me wasn’t acceptable because it hadn’t been stamped by my employer. The fact is, any organization or enterprise here that is at all legitimate has their own official rubber stamp, so I suppose we’re going to have to get a stamp made to use on the certificates.

Another work-type update is that I’ve started helping this same friend start a small business. He’s relatively educated, motivated and very active in the community, but as it turns out, what I thought was his main job of working at the courthouse is actually an unpaid apprenticeship. It was supposed to lead to a paid position but I recently found out that he’s been working there without pay for the past three years because of the continued promise that this apprenticeship was leading somewhere. He’s taken the official test to be a court worker and has followed up several times, and each time he’s been told that they are processing his paperwork.

He’s in a tough position because if he quits now then he will have “wasted” those three years, but how long can he just keep working for free and hoping that one day the powers that be – the wizards behind the curtain – will one day deliver him the means to make a better life?

So he’s starting to look for other options, like this business of selling women’s beauty products in the market. Even if we don’t accomplish what I’d like to in the next ten months at the association, I feel like the things I’m doing with him will at least be something I can look back on and feel good about.

Anyway, I’m going to leave this blog shorter than usual since I spent too much time on laundry today and haven’t even started packing. Next time I promise I’ll write about something more entertaining than laundry.

Até a proxima (until next time),
Julie