tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66656515939448038522024-03-12T21:26:47.407-07:00Scooter In Mozambique (and Swaziland?)Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.comBlogger916125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-80255329705680189142013-04-26T04:32:00.001-07:002013-04-26T04:38:02.330-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Okay I lied. I thought it would be
nice to have a last post that kind of wrapped things up. And more than
anything, I wanted to say thank you to anyone who has ever read. I landed in
Thailand yesterday, meaning that after three years of making it my home, I have
officially left the continent of Africa. This was a wonderful and life-changing
experience. To paraphrase a beloved priest in the states, it helped me to see
the world through different eyes, and I am extremely grateful for the
opportunity. Also thank you for ever reading. This was such a special and
monumental experience for me, it meant so much for me to be able to share it
with others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> And why not finish with a few
stories. Saturday when I traveled back down to Maputo from Inharrime, the rain
had slowed us down so I got in around 6pm (after dark) and it was pouring. I knew
that these conditions can make guys like taxi drivers be jerks—a young white
girl alone in the rain after dark doesn’t have a whole lot of bargaining power—so
I was dreading my interactions with the taxi drivers. I told the first car
where I was going and he said a surprisingly reasonable price, so I jumped in
immediately. It wasn’t until I was sitting and buckling in that I realized the
windshield in front of me was shattered inward in what was the distinctly
concave imprint of a human butt. “Is that from a person?” I asked. Why? Why do I
ask questions I clearly don’t want to know the answer to? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> When I arrived at the stop for the
overnight bus to Johannesburg (where I would fly out of) I got my credit card
out and found a stupidly well-hidden 1000met bill in my wallet that I hadn’t
accounted for. You can’t exchange the Metical anywhere in the world outside of
Mozambique, so I was deteremined not to cross the border with it (it’s about
$30), but it was 7pm and my bus was leaving soon. So I used my Africa-made Portuguese
skills, charm, and perseverance to convince the guy selling cashews to exchange
with me for South African Rand, including him rounding up Rand notes from his
buddies selling phone credit or chips nearby so I could exchange the whole 1000. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Also an update: baby D went to live with her paternal grandmother on Tuesday and it seems that things are going well. I think about her all the time, I hope she's happy and loved where she is and remembers somewhere inside that I love her too.</div>
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Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-73953495684531695482013-04-23T08:50:00.002-07:002013-04-23T08:50:18.705-07:0023/04/13<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This is my last blog post, my taxi
should be here in the next 15 minutes. So what better way to end my saga than
with a blog about MALARIA?! April 25<sup>th</sup> is World Malaria Day, and
sadly things don’t seem to have changed much since I was hyped up about malaria
one year ago. Malaria still kills around 600,000 people worldwide, the majority
of whom live in sub-Saharan Africa. And in Mozambique, malaria is still the
leading cause of death, accounting for 29% of deaths in the country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Perhaps you remember me writing
about the horrible flooding in Gaza province back in January and February. The water
washed out bridges and roads, isolating towns; submerged and destroyed houses;
and drove food prices through the roof. But there was another less apparent
result of all this flooding. Flooding, even after the bulk of the
flooding has subsided, results in standing water in unexpected places,
especially when people’s last concern is getting rid of all this standing
water. And all this water leads to an increase in mosquitoes, the vector that
carries malaria. This, coupled with the many many displaced people who are
sleeping in temporary situations, most likely without mosquito nets, will surely
lead to an increase in malaria in southern Mozambique this year. I am
interested to see the rates when data is collected at the end of the year. Just
from speaking to people in these areas, they have told me that there has been
much more malaria this year than other years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Hopefully, through initiatives like
Stomping Out Malaria in Africa (check out the website!) and the numerous others
being rolled out by NGOs, we can start to make a change for the better. Malaria
is preventable and malaria treatable, we just need to continue to educate
people about how they can impact and improve their own lives!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-48093350928173848732013-04-23T08:47:00.001-07:002013-04-23T08:47:17.747-07:0022/04/13<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today I ran my last few errands
around Maputo, including stopping by the Peace Corps office to say hi and bye. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> One thing I think is funny. When I meet
Africans from other countries and tell them I live, they all comment on how bad
the drivers in Mozambique are, and how terrible the public transport here is
(as in, the cars are falling apart, and they shove a ridiculous number of
people in each vehicle). So apparently everyone really thinks we’re the worst!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> When I was up in Inharrime I got to
meet Jasmin for lunch one day, and she had just returned from a REDES workshop
and was telling me about it. It made me smile inwardly, because I have realized
now that every single year the leadership of REDES and JUNTOS (the co-ed
equivalent) thinks they can do a better job than the previous year. I saw this
my first year when the leaders talked about their predecessors, I felt that
with confidence when Anna and I took over, I saw the changes our successors
made to our work, and I see them repeating the same mistakes this year. It’s
interesting because as long as leadership changes to a new group of PCVs on a
yearly basis, this will never change. And it’s a horrible business model, but
somehow through the perseverance and hard work of the PCVs and Mozambicans in
charge, these programs continue to do really wonderful things in Mozambique. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-32573873708886736482013-04-23T02:52:00.000-07:002013-04-23T02:52:03.782-07:0021/04/13<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today I spent the day in Namaacha with
my host family. Baby Anata is talking much more than when I left and her motor
skills have noticeably improved. I’m sad I’ll miss her growing up even more. We
hung out at their house for a while, then we went down to Grandma’s house,
where I lived when I was in training. And I got to see a cousin, Anna’s host
sister, who is now studying at a university in Maputo.</span></div>
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My two host brothers, Baby Anata in blue, and her best friend and neighbor in pink.</div>
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I gave her a beautiful pair of earrings that she loved (after the initial pain of forcing them in). All day she kept shaking her head to make them swish back and forth. </div>
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Riding in the back of the truck to grandma's truck. At one point the chicken (our lunch) jumped out and made a break for it, but my host brother chased it down. </div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-11305379779292325402013-04-23T02:09:00.001-07:002013-04-23T02:53:48.855-07:0020/04/13<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I had a really nice week with the
girls. Who knows how big they’ll be by the time I make it back. Nothing makes me
realize how long I’ve been here like seeing kids who were in the womb when I arrived,
now running around and talking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today I traveled from Inharrime to
Xai-xai (about halfway to Maputo) to meet a friend for lunch, before continuing
on to Maputo. It almost seems like some higher power wanted to make sure that I
didn’t make it out of Moz without one last “true” chapa ride. Thus this day of
traveling had all the components of a classic chapa ride:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
drunk chatty man. He was sitting in front of me in the first chapa and
originally turned around to scold me for reading my book and not chatting with
other people on the chapa. Then he kept turning around to repeatedly ask where I
was from or where I was going. He was perfectly friendly (sometimes they can be
aggressive or skeevy), but he reeked of booze and wasn’t terribly coherent. He told
me about an American he knew and kept referring to her as my “cousin.” He wanted
me to call her to say hi, but he didn’t have her number, so he wanted to take
my number so that when he found hers, he could give it to me. I politely
declined and that pissed him off a little, but he forgot quickly and then the
conversation recycled again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Other
living creatures. The woman next to me was traveling with a live chicken (I’ve
never understood this. You can buy chickens everywhere, and the maybe 5-10
Meticais you save by buying one outside Maputo are certainly negated by the
annoyance of traveling with a live animal.) It was inconveniently where my feet
should have been, and chicken beaks and claws are incredibly sharp, so I rode
with my feet propped up on the seat in front of me, putting more pressure on my
butt and causing it to fall asleep after the first hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cozying
up with your seatmates. Because I was in the front row, many larger bags were
piled up in front of us and at our feet (next to the chicken). In addition to
the three other people in my row, we had two kids sitting on laps, plus the
chapa conductor who was squeezed semi-standing by the door. So all sense of
personal space or individual seats was lost, my knees were propped against the
woman next to me, the child on the lap next to me rested her hand on my knee
and her head on my arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A
nursing baby (a little closer to you than social norms in America would allow).
Just as I’m never sure what social convention dictates about greeting someone
who is peeing as you walk by, I’m never sure how to interact with babies while
they’re nursing. I’m already squeezed up against the mother, but does it get
weird if I play back with the nursing baby who is making eye contact with me
and grabbing my arm? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A
batshit crazy driver. I don’t think that sane people would sign themselves up
to drive up and down the national highway every day, but some are crazier than
others. This guy was speeding along,
weaving in between other cars, passing while going up blind hills, taking turns
too quickly—your typical horrible Mozambican driver. I just closed my eyes and
tried to think about other things. But then as we were getting into the
outskirts of Maputo, traffic going south slowed to almost a standstill. So our
driver pulled into the right lane and proceeded to speed past traffic down the
wrong side of the road, and when oncoming traffic came, he made them move over
for us (even though we were in their lane).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Poor
driving conditions. In addition to large potholes, it poured for the last 130km
of my trip, hiding these potholes underneath about 6 inches of standing water. It
didn’t slow down my driver though! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-26307592458632585662013-04-19T22:20:00.002-07:002013-04-19T22:20:53.250-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVtxwldvcX7_CO3q49G4qIbJ4z50rA11Fht5r4LdWcOzl4f6pL-xv7VmQ8fIIdjCfbKYiioy7eiqGilvjm6UD4LC1c2n931V1oVZtxaln9veaG2QMyO-BKm8qSzjHQZ3J-DrYsK5mczTl/s1600/IMG_7777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVtxwldvcX7_CO3q49G4qIbJ4z50rA11Fht5r4LdWcOzl4f6pL-xv7VmQ8fIIdjCfbKYiioy7eiqGilvjm6UD4LC1c2n931V1oVZtxaln9veaG2QMyO-BKm8qSzjHQZ3J-DrYsK5mczTl/s320/IMG_7777.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJSzNo84Y5csczBLn5Z52_LUA_eJPghYmnyHOWAVWBhCszW2UWVcc7GbLX_VrV7qajIY-9QNgd01wCrACuv1x7xOE4SlKhWkswceA7zGCLIPQjyTemW-UMZDOV13zUClYzxkss90lHB6L/s1600/IMG_7789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJSzNo84Y5csczBLn5Z52_LUA_eJPghYmnyHOWAVWBhCszW2UWVcc7GbLX_VrV7qajIY-9QNgd01wCrACuv1x7xOE4SlKhWkswceA7zGCLIPQjyTemW-UMZDOV13zUClYzxkss90lHB6L/s320/IMG_7789.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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One last dance party</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlDxeWAOuDjq_OTvSZaTgpQjisqWTMkEa4pP11-2SdLg_L-fPtRL3JufTYfiWNRiEovxSovpruo742KFVhDWh-S06jkYL_ESOxXR0ySk2t2f2lBOgOaIPVAsZ6BQYwfwRzISXePKe1YZ6/s1600/IMG_7944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlDxeWAOuDjq_OTvSZaTgpQjisqWTMkEa4pP11-2SdLg_L-fPtRL3JufTYfiWNRiEovxSovpruo742KFVhDWh-S06jkYL_ESOxXR0ySk2t2f2lBOgOaIPVAsZ6BQYwfwRzISXePKe1YZ6/s320/IMG_7944.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzqAMAGiuZk_MclnIt5X8sOHEE6F7GIdFQju8wqS4RJ-4JYUIof0GZaGMkWAdDkl_Sgcd4bP4_lqRH5YOorxhKEbQncIAdDvIYkaYKK0oXn4-06bvC6eJQ4FUYMSlalZRyQIYp8V4kfKH/s1600/IMG_8681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzqAMAGiuZk_MclnIt5X8sOHEE6F7GIdFQju8wqS4RJ-4JYUIof0GZaGMkWAdDkl_Sgcd4bP4_lqRH5YOorxhKEbQncIAdDvIYkaYKK0oXn4-06bvC6eJQ4FUYMSlalZRyQIYp8V4kfKH/s320/IMG_8681.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-91005251640543595572013-04-19T00:28:00.000-07:002013-04-19T00:28:19.772-07:0018/04/13<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVswwNqD1Vhnk5JnGt5dF02i12OavGTwm7am0aK9srmugDYa0M0Rsatauk6_n_Sr1Fk6vLByH2Oz5q0QMZ2op44yUgyWcN3iVwLCBauy5oLsk5t3WUw2Nfvl9h7AlYNkV1VIYcyo63FQB/s1600/IMG_7674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVswwNqD1Vhnk5JnGt5dF02i12OavGTwm7am0aK9srmugDYa0M0Rsatauk6_n_Sr1Fk6vLByH2Oz5q0QMZ2op44yUgyWcN3iVwLCBauy5oLsk5t3WUw2Nfvl9h7AlYNkV1VIYcyo63FQB/s320/IMG_7674.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Yesterday some of the younger girls
were braiding my hair. Isaura, the really bright one who I would give English
lessons to was sitting nearby, and one of the girls called her over to help.
She responded that she didn’t know how to braid hair, to which all the girls
responded “WHAT?!? You don’t know how to braid hair?!” Isaura very literally
turned her nose up and retorted “I do well in school. It’s much more important
to pass grades than to know how to braid hair.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bFfhQhcRB8DBCwzhMVZ4myyoA9Pmq7FqCqjylr_Yap_FdovDwebLM7XFiyUa_5SXOFGNV4mAPAPvvJ_BPIilc2RvMVkekZmUG2pJiWe5S3KTAsLbitKalAE5bfuL4ZkwxmiDfZawGkJW/s1600/IMG_0378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bFfhQhcRB8DBCwzhMVZ4myyoA9Pmq7FqCqjylr_Yap_FdovDwebLM7XFiyUa_5SXOFGNV4mAPAPvvJ_BPIilc2RvMVkekZmUG2pJiWe5S3KTAsLbitKalAE5bfuL4ZkwxmiDfZawGkJW/s320/IMG_0378.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> One of the older girls who was in my
REDES group and who no longer lives here is back visiting now. She left when I
did, so I haven’t seen her in 1.5 years, so it was great to see her again! I
learned last night that one of the girls from the orphanage who left pregnant
last fall had her baby boy and he is healthy, though her living situation seems
a little unstable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiopki_R9vxRjEGSIU64z5QFQBkYJTmMhqvVC1O3cShH_TEjme0PcEzVFxmsLxldQTwxnku8NvkyxRK10th6WwoF-REI8FR_ysJTr0B5p8MO_NPfsOb6RZVMJnH-JKZf0xb4XO8r7HKsgq/s1600/IMG_0384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiopki_R9vxRjEGSIU64z5QFQBkYJTmMhqvVC1O3cShH_TEjme0PcEzVFxmsLxldQTwxnku8NvkyxRK10th6WwoF-REI8FR_ysJTr0B5p8MO_NPfsOb6RZVMJnH-JKZf0xb4XO8r7HKsgq/s320/IMG_0384.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today some kids from an orphanage in
Inhambane city came for the day (the kids are on school holidays this week),
which was a fun break in routine for all of the kids—they had so much fun
playing games and dancing all day together. When I lived here, the youngest
girl, who I was really close to, was Margarida. When she arrived she was a
chubby little three-year-old who didn’t speak a word of Portuguese and had no
idea where she was and what was going on. When she began talking, she would
always chatter on about her twin brother Fabião, who was at another orphanage
because ours is only girls. If she was playing with a doll, its name was
Fabião. If she pretended to call someone on my phone, she called Fabião. After
the holidays spent with their families, she would excitedly tell me about
everything she had done with Fabião. She was super chubby and had a big belly,
so I would always ask her what was inside her belly and she said it was a baby
named Fabião. Well today I finally got to meet the famous Fabião himself, along
with another brother who’s a year older than they are, because it was their
orphanage that visited!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeyd_Bc-0TwkDJciFsQMsGY_GugXLxn2PP_WhIHXmHjkELcZIZLTZIA-7hw0lZtmfpDJy-EnRYIu6rb2o0JtCGe5-uwqEGA0jKxUC-jidwleyibH9Q_bOOdpZgbU6jtQSJfiD44Uvl4F9/s1600/IMG_7668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeyd_Bc-0TwkDJciFsQMsGY_GugXLxn2PP_WhIHXmHjkELcZIZLTZIA-7hw0lZtmfpDJy-EnRYIu6rb2o0JtCGe5-uwqEGA0jKxUC-jidwleyibH9Q_bOOdpZgbU6jtQSJfiD44Uvl4F9/s320/IMG_7668.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Above: Margarida (in blue), the famous Fabi<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">ão in orange, and their older brother in the middle</span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-14407046377015275662013-04-18T02:16:00.001-07:002013-04-18T02:16:42.292-07:0017/04/13<div style="text-align: center;">
Back where I belong!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnEtcsE6YgIw4P6fgc8DIxhdjgkHFJK1q7snQZPGljoZSjbD1brwyT13uGBTBxMiZZLrtwlzetggu8higFZ5O7rleGShCcOKJng9aKdo2thubRUPBOo0BPLL73eHGVMBVblqMAC5YCrgJ/s1600/IMG_7550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnEtcsE6YgIw4P6fgc8DIxhdjgkHFJK1q7snQZPGljoZSjbD1brwyT13uGBTBxMiZZLrtwlzetggu8higFZ5O7rleGShCcOKJng9aKdo2thubRUPBOo0BPLL73eHGVMBVblqMAC5YCrgJ/s320/IMG_7550.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqv_s3jvyoSzy0NmGddgp_ifP9QBe28HWFvP5Gtkx-OAjMMng_9O8PV6k3GicykRhhLA2cmgdCBXP43kUjEPeT-LX6vrysqOviLBD1Pwf2ItgZMdKTt3mz8O_0u3jqZZW0qTU4Xc6yXP5/s1600/IMG_7376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqv_s3jvyoSzy0NmGddgp_ifP9QBe28HWFvP5Gtkx-OAjMMng_9O8PV6k3GicykRhhLA2cmgdCBXP43kUjEPeT-LX6vrysqOviLBD1Pwf2ItgZMdKTt3mz8O_0u3jqZZW0qTU4Xc6yXP5/s320/IMG_7376.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Yesterday
I had my laptop, so I started showing the girls pictures from my first two
years here, particularly my first year. They thought it was so funny to see
everyone’s baby-faces—the way I remember them. It’s really incredible how much I’ve
seen some of them grow up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I went into town today to meet
Jasmin for lunch. The cement wall around the soccer field that we painted 1.5
years ago with our REDES girls has partly fallen down now (the day our young
girls forced through singing and chanting the group of cocky men soccer players
off their field, it will always be one of the greatest moments of my life). I
guess the crumbling cement blocks couldn’t withstand the huge amounts of rain
Inharrime has had this year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Before meeting Jasmin I went into
the market to say hi to our two friends there who we always bought our vegetables
from. One of these girls was the one who was incredibly pregnant last year, but
wouldn’t “tell” me she was pregnant, so I wasn’t culturally allowed to talk to
her about it. She happily told me today that her daughter was born in December
and is healthy and doing well! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> The amount of development and
changes in the town of Inharrime since I lived here, or even since I last
visited in early November, is pretty unbelievable. Apparently Inharrime has a
new administrator who seems to be really proactive about developing and
cleaning up the town. The main streets used to be crowded with vendors selling
everything from fruits, to grilled corn-on-the-cob, to sandals, but now all
these people have been herded to designated locations. The bus rank has been
cleared out and fenced off. One of the iconic symbols of Inharrime—a shop/bar/restaurant
that operated out of a metal trailer—has been removed, and the park area it
occupied fixed up. But aside from the proactive local government, you see signs
of development and growth in the many shops and houses that have been renovated
or fixed up, or the new shops that have opened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Another bit of reflection, or just
thoughts I didn’t get to write from Swaziland. I’m not sure if it was that
where I was living in Swaziland was more rural than where I lived in
Mozambique, or if it’s a difference in countries/cultures, but I found Swaziland
to be much more “traditional.” There is one albino boy at the hostel in
Swaziland. He doesn’t actually fit the normal criteria for kids who are
admitted into the hostel in terms of his family and their resources, but he is
there because his family can’t properly protect him. It is a traditional belief
that body parts from albinos have extra powers in witchcraft, so people try to
kidnap him in order to sell him to a traditional healer for a very high price.
This happened multiple times in the short time I was there. I have heard of
this belief before, but I heard of it as if it were folklore, I never heard of
anything like that actually happening. Albino people in Mozambique are
sometimes ostracized or treated poorly, but nothing like this. Also recently baby
D’s paternal family emerged from nowhere to try to claim her. We are now
helping to facilitate talks between the paternal and maternal sides, as well as
social welfare. One of our staff mentioned that the time of ritual killings is
approaching, so we need to ensure that their motives for wanting her are pure. I
have never heard of anything like this while living in Mozambique either. And
this isn’t just me, I asked some Moz PCVs and they were equally surprised by
these things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This brings me to another thing that
has been on my mind: how strange it is that worlds can change with the simple
crossing of an arbitrary line. Perhaps this doesn’t sound as weird to someone
who didn’t grow up in America (or in the middle of America), but I find it
truly strange that I could live in Swaziland less than 200km from where I lived
in Namaacha last year, yet be in an entirely different world. Sure, in the
States the crossing of an arbitrary line can affect the time, where and when
you can buy alcohol, and who you can marry. But here we cross the border and
suddenly everything changes: the language, the ethnic group (Swazis are largely
one ethnic tribe). In Swaziland, like like many African countries, wealth is
counted in cattle, so there are large herds of cattle everywhere, but this is
not true of Mozambique*. In Swaziland, there is a familial homestead. Their traditional
marriage customs are hugely different. In Mozambique every woman wraps a capulana
around her waist in almost every setting—Swazi women don’t. Even something as simple
and stupid as this: Beth loves to bake, but has been unable to find a good graham
cracker substitute for crusts. I suggested Maria biscuits, assuming they would
be as prolific in Swaziland as they are in Mozambique, but you can’t find them
in Swaziland. In Mozambique at every single little selling stand (a small table
beside the road where a lady or young kid sits selling phone credit, a
saltine-type crackers, little sweets, and Maria biscuits. These are the basics,
if you’re lucky they might have other items in addition) has them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">*disclaimer:
all this is true for southern Mozambique, I know nothing about the central and
north. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwfFMCcRzpJujXXD34lG20JlxUqZ3LEnYNVjzQUIa2bOv140TgJiUWLidMU9VnEV2qYzTOc_lt_od_2U3Fh1ebH-4vMHXXMtTlRcOI17xq1v7pJeLxd7FX2IPvyAZGx9HYzG9TjdGSeCz/s1600/IMG_7630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwfFMCcRzpJujXXD34lG20JlxUqZ3LEnYNVjzQUIa2bOv140TgJiUWLidMU9VnEV2qYzTOc_lt_od_2U3Fh1ebH-4vMHXXMtTlRcOI17xq1v7pJeLxd7FX2IPvyAZGx9HYzG9TjdGSeCz/s320/IMG_7630.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-3975566715309271162013-04-17T00:02:00.001-07:002013-04-17T00:02:04.529-07:0016/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Yesterday I arrived right at lunch
time. As I walked into the dining hall, I got lots of flashes of recognition,
big smiles, waves, and whispers of “Mana Anata!” from girls. The older girls. The
younger girls (7 years old and younger) mostly pretended not to see me, which
is weird because I was probably closest with them. I went over to their table
to bend down and greet them, and they mostly ignored me, though it was clear
they were pleased I was paying attention to them. In Psychology 101, we learn
that these kids are “insecurely attached,” loving someone who is inconsistent
in their affection or presence, so reluctant to show too much affection, though
desperately wanting it. Moments like these make me feel so sad and frustrated.
Why am I spending so much time with these girls (and baby D in Swaziland),
showering them with the love and affection they so desperately want and need,
only to abandon them like everyone else in their lives has? I can’t decide if these
relatively short times of love and friendship are ultimately worth the
inevitable abandonment, and it makes me feel so guilty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Yesterday and today I’ve seen some
cloth flowers in some of the girls’ hair—something I taught them to do. It just
might be one of my biggest legacies as a PCV, but at least they look beautiful
and have something to remember me by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> One of the girls asked when I was
leaving, so I told her Saturday. Instantly there was a chorus of “no, leave on Sunday!”
“no leave on Monday!” With finality one girl announced “no, leave in July.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> As I prepare to return and live in
America after 3.5 years of living abroad, I will reflect on something that happened
while I was back for the holidays. I was at Rockafeller Center in New York with
a friend and asked a woman passing by to take a picture of us. There is a line
across the display screen of the camera, but this doesn’t affect the photos. She
was nice and as she handed the camera back to us she smiled and casually
remarked that I should ask for a new camera for Christmas. But why? This one
still works. I know she meant nothing by it, but to me it seemed to reflect this
American need to constantly replace and upgrade that I find extremely
disconcerting. If people in America could only see how my friends and neighbors
here will use their t-shirts, phones, shoes, and cars until they literally fall
apart. How some of my bridge school students (in Swaziland) took home the
cardboard boxes from a new furniture delivery to put on top of their “mattresses”
for extra cushioning. The idea that someone would just get rid of or stop using
a perfectly functional, high-tech digital camera because of an aesthetic problem
would seem completely ludicrous to people here. In a lot of the world for that
matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-86107785694275795512013-04-16T04:27:00.002-07:002013-04-16T04:27:50.552-07:0015/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today I was well enough to travel
and made my way up to Inharrime. As much as it seems that some external power
was screwing with me yesterday to thwart my efforts to travel, it seemed like
something was helping me today. I made it from the house where I’m staying in
Maputo to the mission in Inharrime in 5.5 hours, which is truly incredible. Right
as I arrived at the bus rank (which has been completely redone and looks
wonderful!), there was a bus going north about to leave. Sometimes it seems
like a bus is about to leave, but you end up sitting at the bus rank with the
engine running for an hour or two. But as soon as I sat down, the bus pulled
out! It was an express bus going about 3 times as far as I was, so it didn’t
make many stops to drop people off or pick people up—I was going one of the
shortest distances. Our bus, unlike so many heaps of metal here, was actually
capable of reaching high speeds, and our driver was maniacal enough to drive
that fast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> On the ride up I was struck by how
many new houses and buildings there are since I last made the trip in November,
particularly cement block structures. The bus rank in Maputo used to be an
overly congested sandy area next to the highway, full of people milling between
busses hawking goods and trying to get you on their bus, but now it’s a
fenced-in, paved area with designated spaces for buses to different locations,
and the ground was noticeably free from both the hawkers and all their litter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Home at last, and all the girls are so
grown up! It’s wonderful to see them again, though I miss them when they were
shorter, chubbier, and spoke with stronger speech impediments! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I forgot to write, over Easter one
night I was heading back from eating dinner at Ben and Beth’s house. It was
dark and I was mostly monitoring the ground in front of me with my flashlight,
so I noticed belatedly that we (baby D was tied on my back) had made our way
into the middle of a herd of cattle. Cows are pretty docile and slow-moving,
but it still made me really uncomfortable in the dark, with a baby tied on my
back, and bags in my hands, knowing that I couldn’t run very fast if I needed
to. Also in the dark their eyes were lit up red by my flashlight, plus their
horns were slightly silhouetted against the sky, so they looked like devils. I
was relieved when we made it back to the house safely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-48940402245229559662013-04-14T07:45:00.001-07:002013-04-14T07:45:18.362-07:0014/02/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I was almost out of here. After 3.5
years, I was going to finally leave Africa “for good.” Well Africa must have
found out because she decided to get the last word in. After not feeling
extremely well for a few days, yesterday after lunch and coffee with friends I started
to feel really terrible. I went back to the house to lie down and stayed there
for the next many hours, getting up only to go to the bathroom. This morning I was
not feeling any better and certainly couldn’t chance sitting on a chapa without
bathroom access for the 6-10 hour drive up to Inharrime. I thought maybe later
in the day I could leave if I started feeling better, but this never happened,
so I suppose I will try again tomorrow. Africa for the win. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-957286478040487602013-04-14T07:26:00.001-07:002013-04-14T07:28:28.501-07:0012/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Over the past few days, multiple
kids from the hostel have assumed that I am taking baby D with me when I leave.
Each time I explain that as much as I would like to, I am not allowed to, much
to their surprise and concern. A few of the girls were pressing the issue, so I
explained to them that the police would be very angry with me if I took her. “So
what if the police say it’s okay?” the asked, no doubt thinking of going and
talking to the policeman who lives on the mission. I explained that only if the
king said it was okay, would I be able to take her. Sister pointed out at dinner
last night that many of our kids are acutely aware of how it feels to be
abandoned and probably don’t want to watch it happen to D. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Today
I left Swaziland for good. In the morning I went over to the girls’ dorm to
spend time with baby D and say goodbye again to the kids before the left for
school. Saying goodbye isn’t fun, but that part was cheerful. They smiled as
they waved goodbye to me and laughed and nodded when I told them I’d be back to
see them in grade-something (a few years above what they are currently). But
with D it was different. Partly because she’s non-verbal, so I had no way of
explaining to her what was happening, but perhaps that was for the better. But saying
goodbye to her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. With the other
kids, I know I’ll make it back here before too long and catching up with them
will be fun. But whenever I come back, D won’t remember me—at least not consciously—and
so knowing that this was goodbye forever to what we have is difficult. She started
screaming as someone took her so I could get into the car. Who knows if she was
just generally upset that I wasn’t holding her anymore, as she sometimes gets,
or if she knew something was going on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-3712200381815426502013-04-11T13:47:00.000-07:002013-04-11T13:47:41.479-07:0011/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This has been a week of goodbyes as I
prepared to leave tomorrow. Monday was my last auntie’s meeting (which almost
all childcare staff attends) so I baked an apple-cinnamon bread and made
earrings or hair clips for all the aunties and childcare staff. Everyone has
looked especially pretty the past few days sporting their new colorful
earrings! Yesterday the hostel kids and staff threw a goodbye party for me,
complete with songs, dances, and cards from the kids. At the end they dressed
me like a Swazi and made me join in the girls’ traditional dance to show off my
own moves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCsw7yDMO1MhNCV-oMz3qjGLnVwsFO1wC18MrewEmv9bUoiGf79NMvrIPd8XQs16virV6xQzmzRVvzr7koUvI0RCdRDCjqu3c9kc7tXkX8EslTHXZ3ej2lrB3LOf9Kb6P2Z8Q3JzoRe7S/s1600/Despedida+3+(12).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCsw7yDMO1MhNCV-oMz3qjGLnVwsFO1wC18MrewEmv9bUoiGf79NMvrIPd8XQs16virV6xQzmzRVvzr7koUvI0RCdRDCjqu3c9kc7tXkX8EslTHXZ3ej2lrB3LOf9Kb6P2Z8Q3JzoRe7S/s320/Despedida+3+(12).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dancing with the girls. It's like Where's Waldo, you almost can't find me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgw4CmdlBMtsdFGYBnVjuOv24oyvCgui7jNFEN31Io6UzyuMEzINJLZIbPpRtEltIt_G1wlx14Ih-EFKUEsQvaVf77NnQQ4XSgBAy6zTGuoSmYq2TYObN8z58vYvE5LZmKUv8oRsY4ML3/s1600/Despedida+(53).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgw4CmdlBMtsdFGYBnVjuOv24oyvCgui7jNFEN31Io6UzyuMEzINJLZIbPpRtEltIt_G1wlx14Ih-EFKUEsQvaVf77NnQQ4XSgBAy6zTGuoSmYq2TYObN8z58vYvE5LZmKUv8oRsY4ML3/s320/Despedida+(53).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This morning I made cookies and
popcorn for my bridge school kids. We danced for a bit, enjoyed the snack, then
I introduced them to madlibs, and we ended with hangman. Madlibs was a big hit—the
kids got really into coming up with funny and creative parts of speech, and by
the third time (it took them a few times to really understand the game), they
were dying laughing during the reading. Teaching bridge school has been a
really wonderful and special experience for me. Not only were these 11 very
sweet kids, but there were ELEVEN kids! I loved teaching in Mozambique, but
there are limits to what even the most motivated teachers can do with five
classes of 50 kids. With bridge I could check their homework every day and make
corrections. I could anticipate mistakes they would make while copying notes or
doing exercises and be there to help when it happened. I’m thankful that I got
to experience teaching in such a drastically different and better setting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-44756752766952580122013-04-08T22:22:00.001-07:002013-04-08T22:22:35.505-07:0008/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I leave Swaziland for good on
Friday. Crazy that three months flew by so quickly. What’s even crazier is that
I will leave Africa, my home for the past 3.5 years, “for good” in two weeks.
But of course we all know I’ll be back soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
means the end of a huge chapter in my life and starting a new life—this time in
a brand new city as a Master’s student. It also sadly means the end of the long
saga of this blog. I will write through my Mozambique trip so everyone can
check in with their favorite people from my time there, but as of April 23<sup>rd</sup>
I will sadly be neither Scooter in Mozambique nor Swaziland. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-44428415435652819412013-04-04T11:14:00.001-07:002013-04-04T11:14:06.972-07:0002/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> One of the hostel girls apparently
knew she was pregnant, but didn’t tell any of the staff and simply didn’t return
after the Easter holidays. There was one girl who never came back after
Christmas break because she knew she was pregnant. And one girl who we support
who was going to a private school has also fallen pregnant. So the first school
term is not even over yet and we’ve already lost four girls to pregnancies. In the
entire history of the hostel—11 years—only three girls have ever completed
secondary school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> In Bridge school this morning I was
asking the students about their holidays. I asked the kids what they did over
the weekend, and one girl told me that she had worshiped. “Who did you worship?”
I asked, trying to get her to converse more. “Me” she responded,
misunderstanding the question. However, the girl in front of her had understood
the nuance and starting giggling uncontrollably. I was thrilled to see one of
my students demonstrate a deeper understanding of English, and after she had
composed herself, she explained the distinction in Siswati to her classmates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-14005958412224769892013-04-04T11:13:00.001-07:002013-04-04T11:13:25.583-07:0001/04/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Happy Easter! Yesterday I celebrated
my fourth straight Easter in Africa, though it was the first one I didn’t spend
in Inharrime, which was weird. Luckily Ben and Beth offered to take baby D
Saturday night, so I was able to attend Easter Vigil—my favorite mass of the
year—and she didn’t have to. Easter mass is a long one anyway, and Africans
have a way of making things even longer Plus we started about 35 minutes late—African
time. After we had been there for four solid hours, I snuck out after
communion, and the next day I heard that somehow mass had continued for two
additional hours. Solid choice on my part. At one point during mass while the
congregation was singing, the priest, standing in front of the altar, took out
his phone and attended to a text message. I’ve gotten pretty used to African phone
etiquette over the years—answering your phone while teaching or leading a
meeting—but I’ve never seen that one before!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> We had a big Easter lunch with the
approximately 20 people who had stayed on the mission for the weekend. I got
baby D all dressed up for the occasion: a brightly-colored dress, a necklace, a
bracelet, and a big bow in her hair. When Sister D saw her she said “oh look at
that, she’s starting to look more like her mom!” I studied D’s face, trying to
see the resemblance to her mom, until I realized that Sister had been talking
about me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-15589159521206475462013-04-04T11:11:00.002-07:002013-04-04T11:17:25.260-07:0030/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Over the Easter holiday weekend (Thursday-Monday)
all the hostel kids go back to their homesteads. Since baby D doesn’t have a
place to go back to, she is staying with me for the weekend and we are LOVING
being together. I’m sure it’s also nice for her to sleep in her own quiet and
dark room, rather than in a room that 60 other girls pass through loudly at 9pm
and 5am. On Friday we went to the country club in the nearest city, where there
is a pool, playground, and restaurant. D has never been to a pool before, but
her favorite activity is playing in the sink, so I figured she would like it. We
didn’t have a pool diaper for her, so we put her in underwear underneath a
swimsuit and crossed our fingers that she wouldn’t poop in the pool. After taking
her diaper off and before putting the swimsuit on, I figured I’d try to get her
to pee one more time. I took her and held over the toilet to see what would
happen—and she peed right away! Just one more indication that, even though she
refuses to speak, she’s always watching and paying attention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Last weekend we had a pig roast to
celebrate a couple birthdays and some visitors from the states!</span></div>
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Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-70808927740017691142013-03-28T05:27:00.001-07:002013-03-28T05:27:46.748-07:0028/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Today all the kids are going back to
their homesteads for the holiday weekend and won’t return until Monday. This
means two things: baby D will spend the weekend with me and people get
rightfully nervous about the girls getting pregnant. In the history of the
hostel (I believe around 10 years), they have only had three girls finish high
school. With few exceptions, this is due to girls falling pregnant. In a
country where the HIV prevalence rate is around 33%, nobody can deny that sex
is part of the society. One of the great things about this hostel is that they
strive to maintain relationships between the kids and their homesteads, familial
lines, and lands. This is crucial in a culture/society where everything—land rights,
community rights, etc—is tied to the family and family name. This is why kids
spend as much time at their homes as possible. One of the downsides to this is
the fact that they are at the hostel because their homes weren’t deemed
suitable originally. For many, going home means a child-headed homestead, less
supervision and structure, and poorer nutrition. And then about three months
later it’s discovered that girls are pregnant. On Monday we just learned that
one of the high school girls is about three months pregnant. I don’t think I will
ever be able to get used to receiving this news. Each time it feels like
someone is stepping on my chest. What should be such a wonderful thing is
shameful and painful for the girl, and to me it feels like a death sentence for
the life she could have had. I was relieved by the general staff reaction
though—it was not one of punishment or teaching lessons, that ship sailed. But instead
we discussed ways we could support her during the pregnancy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> With this in mind, Christine and I took
the opportunity to talk to the girls about sex and birth control in our weekly
meeting with them Tuesday night. We asked them how they could prevent
pregnancy, and like well-trained Swazis they all responded “abstinence!” Well clearly
that’s not working for the country or you guys, so let’s try a more realistic
approach. We reminded them that condoms protect them against HIV, STIs, and
pregnancy, and that birth control is available for free at clinics. We answered
a few great questions about these contraceptive methods, and although a lot of
the girls got giggly and embarrassed, hopefully we got through to a few of
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> D is with me for the weekend, which
will be great fun. She was super disoriented and upset to be put down for her
nap in a new room, but now she’s sleeping peacefully. Probably much more
peacefully than in a dorm with 60 other girls. I’m looking forward to feeding
her all sorts of delicious, yet nutritious, foods this weekend! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-71388694777630572212013-03-28T05:26:00.001-07:002013-03-28T05:26:54.158-07:0026/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> After a long application process,
many interviews, nerve-wracking hours waiting, and even more hours of
second-guessing myself, I have officially enrolled at Emory University for the
fall of 2013 for an MPH/MBA dual degree. I had many fantastic options and it
was not an easy decision, but I am incredibly happy about my decision and
looking forward to starting at Emory in July!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> On Saturday I had printed out an
Easter wordsearch to do with my educational outreach grade 7 kids. I don’t know
if they had ever done a wordsearch before, but I think they really enjoyed it,
and they certainly got into competing with each other, which was fun to watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-20987391458925350242013-03-28T05:25:00.003-07:002013-03-28T05:25:24.849-07:0025/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Let’s call the baby “D” from now on.
I just found out that D was born an identical twin, and her twin died sometime
around 7 months ago. This would have been really nice to know two months ago
when she arrived and was so emotionally and psychologically stunted. Not only
was she incredibly sick and emotionally closed off from lack of consistent
affection—she was missing her other half. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Bad news on the baby front. The orphanage
that had “promised” to take her (she had already been turned down by two
orphanages, because they only take kids under two years and she is 2 years 4
months) has now communicated that they won’t take her. Their policy is that,
once a kid enters, they have no further contact with the outside, including
family. They don’t want to take D because her mom has stated she would like to
visit her. This is frustrating because we are running out of options and I
would like to see her placed in a good situation before I leave. It doesn’t make
much sense because her mother already signed away her legal rights as a
guardian, so it’s not like she could show up to reclaim the baby. Plus her
mother is mentally unstable, incredibly poor, and lives 3-5 hours from the
capital city by public transport—I really don’t think they need to be worried
about her visiting too often. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-23437636308010883662013-03-21T11:46:00.003-07:002013-03-21T11:46:54.401-07:0021/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I read “The Little Engine That Could”
with my afternoon education group yesterday. I didn’t know or had forgotten that
the little engine that could was a SHE-engine. Love it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Many mornings when I’m teaching
become take-your-daughter-to-work day, as the baby comes to play right outside
the door to the classroom/dining hall, and occasionally decides to come in with
her bow-legged waddle. Yesterday I was giving a test, so I wasn’t actually
teaching, just patrolling the classroom. The baby came in with her arms
stretched out wide and sort of fell onto my legs hugging them. She grabbed my
skirt and pulled down, expecting me to pick her up, and pulled my elastic-waist
skirt down a good 5 inches before I was able to react and grab it. Luckily all
of my students were engrossed in their tests and I don’t think anyone noticed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> After reading “The Little Engine That
Could,” the kiddies (all 4-7 years old) did puzzles. One of the puzzles is a
Winnie-the-Pooh puzzle which is great for the littler kids because it has fewer
and large pieces. Unfortunately it’s missing one piece—the one with the
majority of Piglet. One of the little boys who was working on that puzzle isn’t
one you would label as the brightest kid and his English isn’t that great. Which
was why I was so proud and impressed when he marched over to me with the
picture of how the puzzle should turn out and demanded, “teacher! Where is the
pig?!?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-33961875847305783572013-03-21T11:46:00.001-07:002013-03-21T11:46:17.251-07:0020/03/13<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This morning on my run I was a
million miles away in my mind when suddenly I felt something snap against me. It
was like I had run through the banner at the end of marathon. Dread and panic
hit me as I realized that it was a spider’s thread, and I spun around to find
the beast. Only an impossibly huge monstrosity could have spun a thread that
strong. Not seeing the spider around the path, I thoroughly checked myself to
be sure. Things I won’t miss about running in Africa. If I don’t get out early
enough, the flies on the path are unbearable. The flies are attracted to the
huge, fresh piles of cow poop along the path that I hop over and around while I’m
running. And every time I go through areas where the grass is high I wonder if
this is going to be the day I startle a deadly poisonous snake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I had to go down to the office to
make some copies today, so I brought the baby—my baby, as everyone refers to
her—down with me. I let her walk back by herself, transforming the 5-minute
walk into a 25-minute one, but a wonderful one. Now that it seems she may
actually be leaving any day, I’m cherishing these moments I have left with her.
At one point she tripped and fell over a huge pile of dried cow poop. Only in Africa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> There is a “library” here that is a
huge closet full of great resources that have been largely forgotten. The past
week I have been excavating puzzles, finding them to be a great educational
activity to do with my grade 1s and 2s. Anytime I lift something in this room
where things have been sitting for months, maybe years, I do it slowly and
cautiously, ready to jump away, depending on what I might find underneath. The good
news is that in all my cautious rummaging I haven’t yet come across any moulted
snake skins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-30187817883874444852013-03-19T10:38:00.001-07:002013-03-19T10:38:46.172-07:0019/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> A little health update. I tested
negative for HIV, which is good news. As I’ve been teaching people here for 3+
years, you can never be 100% sure of a negative test (only a positive one), but
there is little reason to worry and I will retest myself in a few months. They also
tested my blood, since a side effect of the medication I was on is lowering
hemoglobin levels. I’ve always been almost anemic, but we learned today that
while normal hemoglobin levels are 12-18, mine is 7.6. Well at least that helps
explain why I’ve been so exhausted! I’m taking iron supplements now and trying
to adjust my diet accordingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> This past weekend I finally made it
back to Mozambique. I work the education outreach on Saturday mornings, and we
had to be back Sunday evening, so it was a quick trip. But nice to be back. Saturday
on the way into town we stopped at a capulana shop where I got to replenish my
supply of those beautifully-patterned cloths I love so much. Then in the
evening we hung out with friends and enjoyed unlimited fast internet. Sunday morning
we visited Café Sol, a wonderful café that is struggling right now because of
road construction. Then we went to the craft market where I did some serious
damage. I have always gotten gifts for other people throughout the past three
years, but I avoided that kind of shopping when possible, since I hated being
labeled as a tourist. But lately I’ve realized that I need to stock up on my African
paraphernalia before I leave for good in a month. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Last
stop before heading back to Swaziland, we went to the infamous Maputo fish
market. Think the stereotype of a third-world market area—chaotic, smelly, overwhelming,
pickpockets, and people scheming ways to get your money. We parked the car and
chatted with a super sketchy guy who resembled something between a pirate and a
gangbanger who promised to keep watch over our car and offered to wash it. Then
three people immediately tried to take us to their restaurants, but I told them
we wanted to talk around a bit. Then we walked through the narrow aisles
between wooden tables where piles of fresh fish dripped water onto your feet as
you squeezed past. Extremely fresh crabs threatened to escape from their crates
and equally fresh clams squirted water into the air from their tubs. Back through
the market is the restaurant area, where each row of tables belongs to a
different “restaurant,” so all these people are trying to get you to sit at
their table. We settled on a woman we liked, so we walked back out to the
market area with her. I bought some squid and she took the bag, Joe bought some
fish. Then she walked us back to our table and she took our newly purchased
seafood back to the kitchen where they cooked it. It was delicious! I hadn’t been
to the fish market in over three years. I had avoided going back because I had
found it so overwhelming, stressful, and “touristy” the first time, but I am
glad I went back, because it was a fun experience. And I was pleasantly surprised
to find that on this Sunday afternoon, most the people eating in the fish
market were Mozambicans, so it made for a nice environment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-52294842709678455812013-03-16T12:56:00.001-07:002013-03-16T12:56:06.303-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAvZHIrU73X6LBaGEavCxrUskKHlu0c2FgtngGmIx4DNzQHuKr5gUU-PUKgjdzwzk8m4FZlqiENPdc1JWmDqylGcsH0zp6hyphenhyphen76KMSggAirzJ01HmOW76dEjQb1WWbApeWE_sc1AzsadDpy/s1600/Day+Care+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAvZHIrU73X6LBaGEavCxrUskKHlu0c2FgtngGmIx4DNzQHuKr5gUU-PUKgjdzwzk8m4FZlqiENPdc1JWmDqylGcsH0zp6hyphenhyphen76KMSggAirzJ01HmOW76dEjQb1WWbApeWE_sc1AzsadDpy/s320/Day+Care+(1).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Learning colors, developing motor skills, and practicing the thumbs-up in Scooter's daycare</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBDdVWHH8epdRc38XlcTK-ryANx16CZPSHtqH4l_St_9xoNEU1vvmw6fndxBGDzbTwCcxNW_DgoyRyM_TZZnVnqtByCxNew3vDH8JWDL1YryWBbzj98oaoZQ-3BwaBP2PjXh037uwoKH7/s1600/Day+Care+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBDdVWHH8epdRc38XlcTK-ryANx16CZPSHtqH4l_St_9xoNEU1vvmw6fndxBGDzbTwCcxNW_DgoyRyM_TZZnVnqtByCxNew3vDH8JWDL1YryWBbzj98oaoZQ-3BwaBP2PjXh037uwoKH7/s320/Day+Care+%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665651593944803852.post-83888386314529527672013-03-15T04:22:00.004-07:002013-03-15T04:22:24.828-07:0015/03/13<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> The baby continues to develop in all
sorts of wonderful ways and along a seemingly normal trajectory. She looks
awkward when she does it, but she walks all over the mission. She hums to
herself often and can’t resist dancing when she hears music. She waves to
almost every person or car she sees and recently learned to give a thumbs-up,
so recently she’s been charming everyone with a thumbs-up and a big smile. She understands
the words “no,” “hello,” “bye-bye,” “dance,” “come here” and the Swazi word for
thumbs-up. This morning as I was leaving my house to go teach, I told her to
get her shoes. Whether she understood me or saw where I was pointing and put
two and two together, she walked over the picked up her shoes. She blows her
food with me when it’s too hot and in church when she’s humming, she’ll
gleefully put one finger to her lips and “sh” back at the people trying to tell
her to be quiet. She also understands many Siswati words and phrases. But she—willfully
it seems—refuses to talk or even imitate sounds. She imitates my movements, my
facial expressions, and my singing, but not any sounds I make. She seems
utterly uninterested in speaking for the moment, I’m just waiting for when her “first
words” are a complete sentence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scooterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013070441511790556noreply@blogger.com0