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
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