Monday, October 29, 2012
Cooking in the Peace Corps
A few months ago an RPCV (a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, which I will also be in one month!) contacted me asking if I could help with this really neat project. He had found me through my blog and wanted my help with the Mozambique addition to this cookbook that would feature recipes from Peace Corps countries around the world. Check out http://peacecorpscooking.wordpress.com/ to see a really neat cookbook compiled by PCVs from around the world! You can order it online for your Kindle or in print, and when you do, the picture for Mozambique is actually mine, taken of my young neighbor here in Namaacha!
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
23/10/12
Last night our house got hit by
lightning. On Sunday when a group of the trainees were hanging out at our
house, one of them asked “so with all of the houses having metal roofs, do any
of them ever get hit by lightning?” “Hmm I don’t know” I responded casually,
barely registering the question.
Last night, after a swelteringly
sunny and sticky day, a magnificent thunderstorm rolled in. The power kept
going in and out. I sat on the couch reading by headlamp and noted that, based
on the trick I had learned in grade school of counting the seconds between
lightning and its thunder, the storm was…approximately four feet from our
window. I was sitting on the couch in the dark and Anna was lying in her bed
when suddenly our whole house went “ZZZZ-ZAP!” My phone charger was plugged in
(thankfully my phone wasn’t) and at that moment it sprang a few feet up in the
air, sparked, and went “ZZZ!” Anna came running out immediately yelling “DID
YOU SEE THAT?!?!” because the same thing had happened in her room. Thank
goodness neither of us had been touching anything metal, including Anna’s metal
bedframe. I asked her if she had padlocked the metal grate on our backdoor. Thankfully
she had, otherwise it would have stayed unlocked last night, I wasn’t risking
touching that!
21/10/12
I officially finished and submitted
ALL of my grad school applications yesterday! When I told my brother this he
said “that’s awesome! I hope the fact that you’re done with your apps means you’ll
get to blog a bit more now.” Noted.
Today
five of the trainees came over to hang out and cook Pelmeni, Russian dumplings.
I’m not exactly sure how the idea started, but two of the Moz 19s were born in
Russia and when they mentioned cooking, Anna and I happily offered up our
kitchen. Last Sunday after I returned from church I worked on grad school
applications, took a long nap, and watched a movie. So hanging out with
interesting people, learning to cook a new food, and eating that delicious new
food (and chocolate chip banana bread I made) was definitely an upgrade!
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The crew in the kitchen
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Men in the kitchen--I got proof! These are our two Russians who taught the rest of us the art of Pelmeni-making.
Friday, October 19, 2012
18/10/12
Last flashback to Julia’s trip: Cape Town!
When Julia was here we spent three full days in Cape Town and, like the rest of her trip, everything went perfectly! We stayed in Penthouse on Long backpackers, where I stayed last year, and it was great again. Last year we had met some cool people also staying there, including PCVs from Cameroon, but unfortunately it wasn’t the same kind of crowd this year. Our first day we met up with Stephanie, a former Moz 13 (if you’ve been reading since the beginning, almost exactly three years ago I went to stay at her house for a few nights during my Pre-Service Training for my “site visit”) who was in Cape Town for a summer internship, and her roommate from the same program. We did a “hop on hop off” bus that tours all over Cape Town city and some of the surrounding areas and there are many buses running throughout the day so you can hop on and off multiple times. We went to a museum, stopped and had a picnic on the beach, walked around a few other touristy areas, and ended with Thai dinner at the V&A waterfront.
Since we had three full days, our plan had been to do this bus tour one day, do a wine tour the second day, and then climb Table Mountain the third. I kept checking the weather and it looked like it was going to be really nice the second day, then rainy the third day. I didn’t want to be hiking a mountain in the rain and I figured the weather didn’t really matter for the wine tour, so last minute we switched our wine tour to the third day. Like everything else on the trip, it worked out perfectly, our second day was sunny and dry, while our wine tour was cold, rainy, and overcast (which would have been particularly problematic, since many days Table Mountain’s top has a “table cloth” of cloud cover). Things so rarely work out this nicely here in Africa, so it was a pleasant surprise!
The next day Julia and I set out to climb Table Mountain. Somehow I came to Cape Town at exactly the same time two years in a row—right when the cable car was shut down for re-servicing. Last year we had seen the cable car schedule and gone up Table Mountain the very first day, because it was shut down the rest of the time we were in town. I was actually glad the cable car was out this time while we were there. I don’t fancy myself a “hiker” or “mountain climber” and Table Mountain is fairly intimidating looking, so I don’t think it ever would have occurred to me to hike it if the cable car was an option, but climbing it was a truly wonderful experience. We left the hostel right as the sun was coming up, so we got to watch it rise and witness the day come to life as we were climbing. It took us about 2.5 hours to get to the top, then we found a nice rock at the top and had a wonderful picnic overlooking the city of Cape Town. Since the cable car was out for re-servicing, everything else (the gift shop, restaurant, etc) on top of the mountain were closed too, including the bathrooms. There were no bathrooms on the whole of the mountain—even the port-a-potties were locked. I thought this was pretty strange, since there were still tons of hikers that day, even without the cable car. Good thing I had a friend with me to stand watch while I squatted behind a rock.
I found the hike down the mountain rather unpleasant. Sure, it was much physically easier, but I didn’t like staring down my potential fall to death with every step. Julia laughed good-naturedly at my suddenly manifested fear of heights, of which I had had none on the climb up. At one point we were going down a narrow series of steps straight down. Since the path was too narrow for two people to pass, a man waited at the bottom for us to pass, getting a chance to catch his breath. This was one of the points where I could just picture my misstep and roll/plunge hundreds of feet down the mountain, so I was a little stressed out. “You look scared” the waiting man said to me. I’m not sure if I got momentarily distracted in responding to him, or if his timing was perfect, because in the next instant my foot slipped and I landed right on my butt. The man of course felt like he had caused my fall and felt terrible—Julia laughed hysterically at me. Over the next two days, she took many opportunities to tell me that “I looked scared.”
When we got down to the parking lot we were instantly accosted by the taxi drivers waiting there. One man wanted us to pay 80 Rand. We had only paid 60 Rand to get up there that morning, so I was trying to argue him down. But since we were stuck on top of the mountain and we were running late to meet our friends for dinner, we didn’t have much bargaining power. I argued with him for a few minutes, demanding only a 70 Rand trip. Finally his friend, who has stepped in to mediate, suggested “70 Rand with a 10 Rand tip?” I shrugged and we were on our day.
Our last full day we did a wine tour, coincidentally (and luckily, because I had loved them) with the same company/guy as last year. It was a great day—our tour guide and the other five people on the tour were really cool, including one PCV from Swaziland. There was one more girl who was supposed to come, but before we left the city she changed her mind, since she didn’t like drinking or being around drunk people. Obviously wine tours are about tasting lots of different kinds of wines, but we thought it was a little strange that she had signed up in the first place. By the end of the day we counted—we had sampled 42 different kinds of wines, and had learned all about the wine-making process and the art of wine-tasting, and had filled up on delicious cheeses too. At one winery we were standing at the counter choosing our next wine to sample and chatting with the middle-aged white South African woman working. She commented on our matching scarves—which I had gotten at the Bushfire music festival back in May. I explained that I had gotten them in Swaziland, one for myself and one for Julia, since I knew at that point that she would be visiting. “Oh, it’s so nice of your daughter to come visit you!” she responded. There was a confused silence and then Julia and I smiled and said “okay…” The woman then must have realized that I was clearly not Julia’s mother, because she then got extremely flustered and apologized profusely. Luckily, after being in Mozambique for years, I am used to people thinking—and telling me—that I am fat, have a dirty face (freckles), and am well into my forties, so there’s no offending me anymore.
The last day I caught a taxi back to the airport by myself, since Julia’s flight was a few hours after mine. The taxi driver chatted with me on the drive to the airport, asking where I was flying to. “Are you going home?’ he asked me. I hesitated, then responded “yes…I’ve been living there for three years.”
When Julia was here we spent three full days in Cape Town and, like the rest of her trip, everything went perfectly! We stayed in Penthouse on Long backpackers, where I stayed last year, and it was great again. Last year we had met some cool people also staying there, including PCVs from Cameroon, but unfortunately it wasn’t the same kind of crowd this year. Our first day we met up with Stephanie, a former Moz 13 (if you’ve been reading since the beginning, almost exactly three years ago I went to stay at her house for a few nights during my Pre-Service Training for my “site visit”) who was in Cape Town for a summer internship, and her roommate from the same program. We did a “hop on hop off” bus that tours all over Cape Town city and some of the surrounding areas and there are many buses running throughout the day so you can hop on and off multiple times. We went to a museum, stopped and had a picnic on the beach, walked around a few other touristy areas, and ended with Thai dinner at the V&A waterfront.
Since we had three full days, our plan had been to do this bus tour one day, do a wine tour the second day, and then climb Table Mountain the third. I kept checking the weather and it looked like it was going to be really nice the second day, then rainy the third day. I didn’t want to be hiking a mountain in the rain and I figured the weather didn’t really matter for the wine tour, so last minute we switched our wine tour to the third day. Like everything else on the trip, it worked out perfectly, our second day was sunny and dry, while our wine tour was cold, rainy, and overcast (which would have been particularly problematic, since many days Table Mountain’s top has a “table cloth” of cloud cover). Things so rarely work out this nicely here in Africa, so it was a pleasant surprise!
The next day Julia and I set out to climb Table Mountain. Somehow I came to Cape Town at exactly the same time two years in a row—right when the cable car was shut down for re-servicing. Last year we had seen the cable car schedule and gone up Table Mountain the very first day, because it was shut down the rest of the time we were in town. I was actually glad the cable car was out this time while we were there. I don’t fancy myself a “hiker” or “mountain climber” and Table Mountain is fairly intimidating looking, so I don’t think it ever would have occurred to me to hike it if the cable car was an option, but climbing it was a truly wonderful experience. We left the hostel right as the sun was coming up, so we got to watch it rise and witness the day come to life as we were climbing. It took us about 2.5 hours to get to the top, then we found a nice rock at the top and had a wonderful picnic overlooking the city of Cape Town. Since the cable car was out for re-servicing, everything else (the gift shop, restaurant, etc) on top of the mountain were closed too, including the bathrooms. There were no bathrooms on the whole of the mountain—even the port-a-potties were locked. I thought this was pretty strange, since there were still tons of hikers that day, even without the cable car. Good thing I had a friend with me to stand watch while I squatted behind a rock.
I found the hike down the mountain rather unpleasant. Sure, it was much physically easier, but I didn’t like staring down my potential fall to death with every step. Julia laughed good-naturedly at my suddenly manifested fear of heights, of which I had had none on the climb up. At one point we were going down a narrow series of steps straight down. Since the path was too narrow for two people to pass, a man waited at the bottom for us to pass, getting a chance to catch his breath. This was one of the points where I could just picture my misstep and roll/plunge hundreds of feet down the mountain, so I was a little stressed out. “You look scared” the waiting man said to me. I’m not sure if I got momentarily distracted in responding to him, or if his timing was perfect, because in the next instant my foot slipped and I landed right on my butt. The man of course felt like he had caused my fall and felt terrible—Julia laughed hysterically at me. Over the next two days, she took many opportunities to tell me that “I looked scared.”
When we got down to the parking lot we were instantly accosted by the taxi drivers waiting there. One man wanted us to pay 80 Rand. We had only paid 60 Rand to get up there that morning, so I was trying to argue him down. But since we were stuck on top of the mountain and we were running late to meet our friends for dinner, we didn’t have much bargaining power. I argued with him for a few minutes, demanding only a 70 Rand trip. Finally his friend, who has stepped in to mediate, suggested “70 Rand with a 10 Rand tip?” I shrugged and we were on our day.
Our last full day we did a wine tour, coincidentally (and luckily, because I had loved them) with the same company/guy as last year. It was a great day—our tour guide and the other five people on the tour were really cool, including one PCV from Swaziland. There was one more girl who was supposed to come, but before we left the city she changed her mind, since she didn’t like drinking or being around drunk people. Obviously wine tours are about tasting lots of different kinds of wines, but we thought it was a little strange that she had signed up in the first place. By the end of the day we counted—we had sampled 42 different kinds of wines, and had learned all about the wine-making process and the art of wine-tasting, and had filled up on delicious cheeses too. At one winery we were standing at the counter choosing our next wine to sample and chatting with the middle-aged white South African woman working. She commented on our matching scarves—which I had gotten at the Bushfire music festival back in May. I explained that I had gotten them in Swaziland, one for myself and one for Julia, since I knew at that point that she would be visiting. “Oh, it’s so nice of your daughter to come visit you!” she responded. There was a confused silence and then Julia and I smiled and said “okay…” The woman then must have realized that I was clearly not Julia’s mother, because she then got extremely flustered and apologized profusely. Luckily, after being in Mozambique for years, I am used to people thinking—and telling me—that I am fat, have a dirty face (freckles), and am well into my forties, so there’s no offending me anymore.
The last day I caught a taxi back to the airport by myself, since Julia’s flight was a few hours after mine. The taxi driver chatted with me on the drive to the airport, asking where I was flying to. “Are you going home?’ he asked me. I hesitated, then responded “yes…I’ve been living there for three years.”
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Denim Day: extremely classy.
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What happens when you've been in the Peace Corps a long time....
Last week there were a group of girls from Moz 15 who were finishing their service--they are the first from that group to leave. A lot of them happened to be my closer friends here, so we designated Tuesday as "Denim Day" and Anna and I went into Maputo to see them one last time. See above, we were decked out in head-to-toe denim, including denim flower rings, purses, hair bows, and necklaces.
17/10/12
Apologies again that I have been so irregular recently. I have submitted about half of my grad school applications and should finish the rest within the next few days. Moz 19 is in their third week of Pre-Service Training (PST) and it’s been nice to have a ton of other Americans around to hang out with (as much as Anna and I love each other, it’s always nice to hang out with other people too). Also during PST each week two current PCVs come down to help out with training. It’s been nice to catch up with PCVs who live in the far corners of the country, including one who I hadn’t seen since I came down to his PST two years ago.
Speaking of how much Anna and I love each other. Some of you might already know this: but we are going to Swaziland for 3-4 months next year. Sister Diane, a long-time friend of my dad, runs a mission (secondary and primary schools, orphanage, health clinic, etc) in Swaziland with Sister Barbara, so when my dad came to visit the past two years we would go visit them. I met them for lunch when I was in Swaziland back in May and they asked me if would be interested in working/volunteering for them for a few months next year developing their youth development project. I have about 8 months to kill between when I finish my service here and when I (ideally) start grad school. I asked if they would be interested in having two of us, especially since Anna is interested in a career in youth development. They said yes, so we will be meeting in Swaziland in mid-January of next year (after I go back to the states for about a month and Anna travels Asia) and staying there for at least a school term, so 3-4 months.
Back when Anna’s parents visited we picked her father up at the airport and had the car they were renting meet us there. The plan was to drive directly up to the beach, with Anna’s newly landed father driving. It must have been a lot to adjust to—Mozambique, jetlag, Mozambican driving, driving on the left side—but Anna’s mom didn’t feel comfortable driving and PCVs aren’t allowed to. We were trying to quickly coach him on all aspects of driving here—be aggressive, honking means “move” or “I’m coming,” it doesn’t mean you’re angry, turning your blinker on tells other cars to pass you (it doesn’t indicate that you’re passing). And we warned them about the cops here—they pull the majority of cars over and then look for and point out transgressions so that people will bribe them. I reminded Anna and her father, sitting in the two front seats, to make sure they were always wearing their seatbelts. This is a particularly wicked one, since so few cars here have functioning seatbelts. “I know it’s annoying, but they are always looking for reasons to pull people over, so just make sure you have your seatbelts on.” There was a pause, then, Anna’s father said “yeah…that’s the law in America too.”
When I was in Inharrime last I noticed that one of my good friends there, one of the ladies we buy from in the market and someone we socialized with often, is pregnant. I asked Erin about it and she said she had noticed too, but the woman hadn’t said anything yet. In Mozambican culture you can’t say anything until the woman herself mentions it, no matter how painfully obvious. I just wonder who the father is and what kind of situation that is (because when I lived there she didn’t have a boyfriend). It also reminds me how much my worldview has changed since being here. When someone in the states gets pregnant, it’s a joyous, celebratory thing. In Mozambique it certainly is something to celebrate, but it’s also haunted by a shadow of danger and doubt. The fact is that pregnancy and birth here and in all parts of the developing world are incredibly dangerous for the mother and the child. Also, contraception is not commonplace or well-understood here, and abortion is technically illegal. Sure, in the states there are unwanted pregnancies, but condoms are widely taught as a contraceptive method (in Mozambique condoms are incessantly repeated as a method to prevent contracting HIV, but for some reason contraception gets left by the wayside) and women theoretically have other options. Before I left, I was instantly happy for anyone who became pregnant, as social practice dictates. Here I wonder that perhaps it’s a situation she would have rather avoided and I worry for her health and safety.
Speaking of how much Anna and I love each other. Some of you might already know this: but we are going to Swaziland for 3-4 months next year. Sister Diane, a long-time friend of my dad, runs a mission (secondary and primary schools, orphanage, health clinic, etc) in Swaziland with Sister Barbara, so when my dad came to visit the past two years we would go visit them. I met them for lunch when I was in Swaziland back in May and they asked me if would be interested in working/volunteering for them for a few months next year developing their youth development project. I have about 8 months to kill between when I finish my service here and when I (ideally) start grad school. I asked if they would be interested in having two of us, especially since Anna is interested in a career in youth development. They said yes, so we will be meeting in Swaziland in mid-January of next year (after I go back to the states for about a month and Anna travels Asia) and staying there for at least a school term, so 3-4 months.
Back when Anna’s parents visited we picked her father up at the airport and had the car they were renting meet us there. The plan was to drive directly up to the beach, with Anna’s newly landed father driving. It must have been a lot to adjust to—Mozambique, jetlag, Mozambican driving, driving on the left side—but Anna’s mom didn’t feel comfortable driving and PCVs aren’t allowed to. We were trying to quickly coach him on all aspects of driving here—be aggressive, honking means “move” or “I’m coming,” it doesn’t mean you’re angry, turning your blinker on tells other cars to pass you (it doesn’t indicate that you’re passing). And we warned them about the cops here—they pull the majority of cars over and then look for and point out transgressions so that people will bribe them. I reminded Anna and her father, sitting in the two front seats, to make sure they were always wearing their seatbelts. This is a particularly wicked one, since so few cars here have functioning seatbelts. “I know it’s annoying, but they are always looking for reasons to pull people over, so just make sure you have your seatbelts on.” There was a pause, then, Anna’s father said “yeah…that’s the law in America too.”
When I was in Inharrime last I noticed that one of my good friends there, one of the ladies we buy from in the market and someone we socialized with often, is pregnant. I asked Erin about it and she said she had noticed too, but the woman hadn’t said anything yet. In Mozambican culture you can’t say anything until the woman herself mentions it, no matter how painfully obvious. I just wonder who the father is and what kind of situation that is (because when I lived there she didn’t have a boyfriend). It also reminds me how much my worldview has changed since being here. When someone in the states gets pregnant, it’s a joyous, celebratory thing. In Mozambique it certainly is something to celebrate, but it’s also haunted by a shadow of danger and doubt. The fact is that pregnancy and birth here and in all parts of the developing world are incredibly dangerous for the mother and the child. Also, contraception is not commonplace or well-understood here, and abortion is technically illegal. Sure, in the states there are unwanted pregnancies, but condoms are widely taught as a contraceptive method (in Mozambique condoms are incessantly repeated as a method to prevent contracting HIV, but for some reason contraception gets left by the wayside) and women theoretically have other options. Before I left, I was instantly happy for anyone who became pregnant, as social practice dictates. Here I wonder that perhaps it’s a situation she would have rather avoided and I worry for her health and safety.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
06/10/12
Thursday, September 27, 2012
27/09/12
I’m sitting in the office killing
time until I leave for the airport to receive Moz 19. A big welcome to all 68
new group members!
On Tuesday Anna and I went to the
office—my first time out of the house since Friday. I had depleted all of the
napkins in the house blowing my nose, so I stopped by the gas station to buy
more. They never have change, which drives all of us crazy. Unlike in America,
having change is seen as the responsibility of the customer. Customer service
is not a strong point of Mozambican society. On Tuesday they didn’t have
change, no surprise, but my patience was less than normal. I waited while the
cashier sent someone out to ask people for change, and another man came in to
buy some things. When the woman came back in with change, the cashier counted
it out and I could tell she was going to give it to the man, not to me. “No,
where is my change? You need to give my change.” She assured me that I would
get my change, but I kept pressing her because I knew otherwise the change
would go to the man first. “Fine” she said slowly “I’m going to give you your
change so you don’t get mad at me with your red face.” Not the least bit
ashamed, I thanked her and took my change.
Yesterday a man stopped by our gate.
When Anna went out to greet him he said “I want to come in.” “Nope” replied
Anna. “You have to let me in! Here in Mozambican when someone comes to your
house you must show them hospitality and let them in!” Anna refused and this
argument circled a few times until, exasperated, she left him at the gate. He
didn’t leave so I went out a few minutes later. “Do I need to show you my
identification?!” he exclaimed. “No, sir, but we aren’t going to let you in”
was my response. “I am your landlord” he said, and told us our landlord’s name.
I felt extremely frustrated—why hadn’t he told us this ten minutes ago? “In Mozambique
you must receive people with hospitality and let them in when they request” he
lectured me again. “No” I responded “we are two foreign girls living alone, we
absolutely cannot let people in who we don’t know.” “Okay, you’re right” he
conceded. He explained that he was just stopping by to check on us, since we
live in his house we are like since daughters. He just wanted to make sure
everything was okay with the house. I assured him it was and didn’t remind him
that we have been living in this house since last November and he has never
stopped by before. I repeated this story to a male Mozambican PC staff member
later—I was afraid we had been out of line and I little rude. “No” he said “I don’t
allow anyone I don’t know into my house, and you guys definitely shouldn’t.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
25/09/12
I’m finally out of the house and back at the office working on grad school applications. I had big plans to come in and work on Saturday, but I woke up twice and felt so sick I had to go back to bed, including the second time when I force-fed myself in order to take my antibiotics and was fevering so badly I was literally dripping sweat. Luckily Anna got home Saturday night, so she has been taking good care of me.
On Sunday I told my host mom I couldn’t make it to mass (and I wasn’t in a state to be responsible for two small children in addition to myself), so she stopped by again to check on me. This was one of the pictures I had printed and given to her the other night when she stopped by, it is my host brother on one of the days they came over to play at our house.
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My host mom told us the story of how, when she got home she first called him and asked him if, when he went to play at our house, he ever climbed on top of the walls. He solemnly assured his mother that, no, he never did that. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t lie to your mother would you?” she asked him. “Can you go grab my purse” and then she showed him the pictures. “And who is that?” He got very ashamed and quietly said “that is me.” Of course Anna and I were dying laughing during this story because we knew how it would end, while my poor host brother there silently dying of embarrassment.
This picture was taken while Anna’s mom was here and we went to visit my host grandmother, in the house where I lived during training. Anna’s mom had been taking tons of pictures, so Anna was showing our grandmother and the various grandchildren.
The Moz 19 group is all gathering in Philadelphia now for “staging” before leaving for Mozambique! I’ll be there to meet them at the airport on Thursday, it’s crazy to think that’s so soon. And even crazier to think that it’s been three years since I was nervous and terrified, on my way to Philadelphia.
On Sunday I told my host mom I couldn’t make it to mass (and I wasn’t in a state to be responsible for two small children in addition to myself), so she stopped by again to check on me. This was one of the pictures I had printed and given to her the other night when she stopped by, it is my host brother on one of the days they came over to play at our house.
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My host mom told us the story of how, when she got home she first called him and asked him if, when he went to play at our house, he ever climbed on top of the walls. He solemnly assured his mother that, no, he never did that. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t lie to your mother would you?” she asked him. “Can you go grab my purse” and then she showed him the pictures. “And who is that?” He got very ashamed and quietly said “that is me.” Of course Anna and I were dying laughing during this story because we knew how it would end, while my poor host brother there silently dying of embarrassment.
This picture was taken while Anna’s mom was here and we went to visit my host grandmother, in the house where I lived during training. Anna’s mom had been taking tons of pictures, so Anna was showing our grandmother and the various grandchildren.
Friday, September 21, 2012
20/09/12
I haven’t been feeling well for a couple days, so yesterday I stayed home all day except for one quick excursion to buy a few things. That small trip nearly killed me and I had to take a nap afterwards—some days I really miss the option of delivery food or having a car. While out I ran into my host mom on her way to work. She was of course incredibly distressed by how terrible I looked and felt, so she said she would stop by after work. That night she came by with Baby Anata and their next door neighbor who also has a daughter two weeks younger than Baby Anata. I had printed a bunch of pictures to give my host mom, and a few of the other little girl, Jusara, so had a good time looking at all of them. After that short visit from these two girls I certainly felt a little better. (This picture was taken when we celebrated Baby Anata's birthday--she is the one on the right--while Julia was here)
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Monday, September 17, 2012
17/09/12--WARNING: Graphic Images Below!
Growing up, my dad always said that the worst temperature is 33oFarenheit and raining. It obviously hasn’t been that cold here, but the mid-50s temperatures, combined with the rain, fog, and general dampness the past few days have caused a pervading discomfort that is so much more than the number on a thermometer. Call me a wimp, but it’s been freezing. Sure, some of it has to do with the fact that it’s been 3.5 years since I lived in Maine, where I went to college, and my body has fully acclimated to the climate here. But it also has a lot to do with the living conditions here. Our house, like most buildings here, is leaky and drafty. When it rains we have to be careful not to leave electronics in a few specific spots where the roof leaks. The condensation on the walls causes my pictures to come unstuck, and we have to pick things up off the floor of Anna bedroom, which has been known to flood. And everything is just a little bit damp, so you never quite feel completely warm. Perhaps the worst side-effect of this weather is the stupid drivers. People whose driving would be called stupid in good cars and good conditions are driving heaps of junk metal through six-inch puddles and over tire-sized potholes.
Now for the part with the graphic images. A few weeks ago was Timbila music festival in Zavala, Inhambane province (42km south of Inharrime, where I lived during my first two years). Timbila is a native wooden xylophone-like instrument, and every year Zavala district hosts a festival consisting of timbila music, dancing, and cultural events. Last year JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency—called the Japanese equivalent of Peace Corps by many) had an incredibly popular booth at the festival showcasing some of Japanese culture and their activities in Mozambique. Angela, the PCV in Zavala, wanted Peace Corps and American culture to be represented this year too, so she helped organized a booth that showcased Japanese-American-Mozambican culture. About 20 PCVs from the southern region of Mozambique and Custodio, the Peace Corps Director of Programming and Training, came to help out. We made smoothies to be our “American” thing (we opted for that over hot dogs or biscuits and gravy), but we also included Moringa, a plant endemic to Mozambique with many medicinal properties. We had printed pictures and descriptions of many PCVs conducting all of the activities we do during our service, from teaching to giving health talks to working with our youth groups. We also sold merchandise made by PCV-facilitated youth groups from all over the country, including earrings, bags, and jam. It was a wonderful festival and day and I think we did some positive cultural-exchange!
To feed the thousands of people who came for the festival, food stalls had been constructed all up and down the road. This picture was taken from where I was standing in our booth. I’ve been here long enough to hardly even notice the pig carcasses hanging in the middle of all the crowds of people walking around. But as some point in my life it would have shocked me, maybe even made me queasy. If you want some grilled pork, just walk up and point to which piece—they’ve already got the coals in the grill hot and waiting.
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Later in the day a man pulled up with this newly-dead, four-foot shark in the back of his pickup. He was honking his horn for attention, trying to sell the shark. He pulled up in front of our booths, probably thinking that surely the foreigners would want to buy a shark. “You know,” I remarked sarcastically, “I’ve been totally meaning to buy a shark.” Not surprisingly none of us were interested, so eventually he drove off slowly, honking his horn.
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Now for the part with the graphic images. A few weeks ago was Timbila music festival in Zavala, Inhambane province (42km south of Inharrime, where I lived during my first two years). Timbila is a native wooden xylophone-like instrument, and every year Zavala district hosts a festival consisting of timbila music, dancing, and cultural events. Last year JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency—called the Japanese equivalent of Peace Corps by many) had an incredibly popular booth at the festival showcasing some of Japanese culture and their activities in Mozambique. Angela, the PCV in Zavala, wanted Peace Corps and American culture to be represented this year too, so she helped organized a booth that showcased Japanese-American-Mozambican culture. About 20 PCVs from the southern region of Mozambique and Custodio, the Peace Corps Director of Programming and Training, came to help out. We made smoothies to be our “American” thing (we opted for that over hot dogs or biscuits and gravy), but we also included Moringa, a plant endemic to Mozambique with many medicinal properties. We had printed pictures and descriptions of many PCVs conducting all of the activities we do during our service, from teaching to giving health talks to working with our youth groups. We also sold merchandise made by PCV-facilitated youth groups from all over the country, including earrings, bags, and jam. It was a wonderful festival and day and I think we did some positive cultural-exchange!
To feed the thousands of people who came for the festival, food stalls had been constructed all up and down the road. This picture was taken from where I was standing in our booth. I’ve been here long enough to hardly even notice the pig carcasses hanging in the middle of all the crowds of people walking around. But as some point in my life it would have shocked me, maybe even made me queasy. If you want some grilled pork, just walk up and point to which piece—they’ve already got the coals in the grill hot and waiting.
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(Look directly to the right of the blue truck)
Later in the day a man pulled up with this newly-dead, four-foot shark in the back of his pickup. He was honking his horn for attention, trying to sell the shark. He pulled up in front of our booths, probably thinking that surely the foreigners would want to buy a shark. “You know,” I remarked sarcastically, “I’ve been totally meaning to buy a shark.” Not surprisingly none of us were interested, so eventually he drove off slowly, honking his horn.
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Friday, September 14, 2012
14/09/12
Yesterday after worked I stopped by the girl’s house. She is—amazingly—okay. One eye is swollen completely shut and that side of her face is really beat up. But she said that isn’t the part that hurts, it’s her body that hurts. She is walking around and talking completely normally. I worry that she could have internal injuries that aren’t being treated, but sadly that’s just life here. Her family was there and it turns out we know her sister and daughter. It seems like the family is taking good care of her. She said they went to the police that afternoon, and the police actually went to the guy’s house that evening and took him away. So he is not currently a danger. She and the situation turned out much better than I could have imagined.
When a couple of us conveyed the story to other Mozambicans, a couple people’s first responses were “did she betray him?” Not necessarily to say that this would justify his actions. But at the same time, this would allow his actions to make sense in a way.
When a couple of us conveyed the story to other Mozambicans, a couple people’s first responses were “did she betray him?” Not necessarily to say that this would justify his actions. But at the same time, this would allow his actions to make sense in a way.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
13/09/12
This morning Kyla (another PCV who is the new Malaria Activities Coordinator and will replace me when I leave) and I led a session on diversity, stereotypes, and counseling for the approximately 25 language and technical teachers who will be working with the newest group of PCVs during their ten weeks of training (“Moz 19” will arrive on the 27th of September). It was a fairly intimidating group—only two women—but they were an interactive and responsive audience. My chemistry trainer from when I was in training three years ago was part of the audience (both of my language teachers no longer work with Peace Corps), which made me even more nervous because if I didn’t sound good I was afraid he might blame himself, as my former teacher.
There is a G19 meeting going on in Namaacha currently, so Kyla and I were scheduled to show the U.S. Ambassador my house and neighborhood, then have dinner with him. He was unfortunately forced to cancel last minute, but two other Peace Corps staff were in Namaacha for the day and must have felt bad for us, because they took us to lunch before heading back to Maputo.
After lunch and walk around the market, they drove to our house so see what it was like. We (three PCVs and two PC staff) pulled up a little ways from our house, since the path gets very rocky after. As we pulled up we saw a man and woman arguing, he had his hand on her neck. As we stopped and got out of the car he started to yell louder about his bank card and then began to punch her repeatedly in the face. Once she went down to the ground he started kicking her with all his might, in the face, in the stomach, in the back, in the back of her head. He stomped on her head repeatedly. We were shouting at him to stop, but he had a crazy look in his eyes and kept yelling about his bank card. He finally stopped and a couple of us got physically between him and the woman lying on the group. A few female neighbors had gathered because we had made so much noise, so a few of them got her up and gathered the pieces of her phone that he had thrown against a building and shattered. He stayed there for a few more minutes ranting about why she had deserved it, until finally he took off for the town in a jog. The woman’s face was bleeding and twice the normal size, but she was able to walk herself home. I kept demanding to know why nobody was accompanying her, but the women gathered said she lived right there close, and continued to stand there talking, so she walked home alone. We kept saying that she needed to go to the hospital, but the Mozambican PC staff person who was there said that she would have to go to the police station first, otherwise they wouldn’t treat her. We wanted to help her, but there was a fear that if she went to the police, he would return to actually kill her. We were also in an awkward situation because we had pulled up in our shiny white SUV with the Peace Corps logos painted on the sides and our bright yellow diplomatic license plates. So anything we did to help would be associated with Peace Corps and could potentially turn into a diplomacy nightmare, since Peace Corps holds their pre-service trainings in Namaacha twice a year. If it had been just Anna and me—since we live 30 yards from where this happened—we could have tried to get her to the hospital or police station without too many people taking notice. But aside from rules and diplomacy, the simple fact is that she is a human being and the right thing to do was to help her, to make sure she didn’t die. We kept asking around and eventually we learned that her brother was home and taking care of her and her parents would take her to police station when they got home from work. That man is the father of her son. The way people talked about it, it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he had hit her. At the same time, I am no expert in domestic violence, but what we saw was not a wife-beating—it was one person beating another to death. And I am fairly certain that if we hadn’t pulled up when we did he might have killed her.
There is a G19 meeting going on in Namaacha currently, so Kyla and I were scheduled to show the U.S. Ambassador my house and neighborhood, then have dinner with him. He was unfortunately forced to cancel last minute, but two other Peace Corps staff were in Namaacha for the day and must have felt bad for us, because they took us to lunch before heading back to Maputo.
After lunch and walk around the market, they drove to our house so see what it was like. We (three PCVs and two PC staff) pulled up a little ways from our house, since the path gets very rocky after. As we pulled up we saw a man and woman arguing, he had his hand on her neck. As we stopped and got out of the car he started to yell louder about his bank card and then began to punch her repeatedly in the face. Once she went down to the ground he started kicking her with all his might, in the face, in the stomach, in the back, in the back of her head. He stomped on her head repeatedly. We were shouting at him to stop, but he had a crazy look in his eyes and kept yelling about his bank card. He finally stopped and a couple of us got physically between him and the woman lying on the group. A few female neighbors had gathered because we had made so much noise, so a few of them got her up and gathered the pieces of her phone that he had thrown against a building and shattered. He stayed there for a few more minutes ranting about why she had deserved it, until finally he took off for the town in a jog. The woman’s face was bleeding and twice the normal size, but she was able to walk herself home. I kept demanding to know why nobody was accompanying her, but the women gathered said she lived right there close, and continued to stand there talking, so she walked home alone. We kept saying that she needed to go to the hospital, but the Mozambican PC staff person who was there said that she would have to go to the police station first, otherwise they wouldn’t treat her. We wanted to help her, but there was a fear that if she went to the police, he would return to actually kill her. We were also in an awkward situation because we had pulled up in our shiny white SUV with the Peace Corps logos painted on the sides and our bright yellow diplomatic license plates. So anything we did to help would be associated with Peace Corps and could potentially turn into a diplomacy nightmare, since Peace Corps holds their pre-service trainings in Namaacha twice a year. If it had been just Anna and me—since we live 30 yards from where this happened—we could have tried to get her to the hospital or police station without too many people taking notice. But aside from rules and diplomacy, the simple fact is that she is a human being and the right thing to do was to help her, to make sure she didn’t die. We kept asking around and eventually we learned that her brother was home and taking care of her and her parents would take her to police station when they got home from work. That man is the father of her son. The way people talked about it, it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he had hit her. At the same time, I am no expert in domestic violence, but what we saw was not a wife-beating—it was one person beating another to death. And I am fairly certain that if we hadn’t pulled up when we did he might have killed her.
11/09/12
Anna’s mom has been visiting for the past few weeks, she went up to the beach with us and has spent the rest of the time in Namaacha living the experience of a PCV. Her father arrived two Fridays ago and we met him at the airport and went directly from there up to spend a few blissful days at Casa de Mar with Mary and Des. Well, more blissful for some than others—I spent a lot of the time writing grad school application essays on my laptop. Though I suppose if one has to spend the day writing application essays, there are worst situations in which to do so...
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It was a full moon while we were there and the moon was a breathtakingly brilliant orange. (Pictures can't even do it justice)
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Before I moved to Mozambique I never really understood why people in ancient times thought the moon was its own light source. When you see the moon here, you simply cannot fathom that it’s only reflecting light, not emitting its own.
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Another beautiful sunrise:
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I left the beach a day early so I could visit Inharrime and pass out the infamous t-shirts—the ones with my face on them. The girls absolutely LOVED them, enough that I was actually glad I had acquiesced to getting that design. One girl said “whenever I miss you, big sister Anata, I will just:” and she kissed my cheek and hugged my face to hers.
That night I let the girls in the orphanage braid my hair:
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It was a full moon while we were there and the moon was a breathtakingly brilliant orange. (Pictures can't even do it justice)
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I left the beach a day early so I could visit Inharrime and pass out the infamous t-shirts—the ones with my face on them. The girls absolutely LOVED them, enough that I was actually glad I had acquiesced to getting that design. One girl said “whenever I miss you, big sister Anata, I will just:” and she kissed my cheek and hugged my face to hers.
That night I let the girls in the orphanage braid my hair:
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Saturday, September 8, 2012
08/09/12
A few weeks ago everything in Namaacha looked like this:
And each time I braved the windy walk to the office I would dress like this:
After learning to embroider to make the quilt patch for my friend Kristen last year, I thought it would be fun to keep embroidering. I was mindlessly practicing stitches, hoping I would come up with something clever to embroider at some point. Then Micah, another PCV was visitng and made a specific request that I found extremely witty in its juxtapostion. My finished product below:
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