Last month I needed to pay the rent (which is deposited into my account along with my salary), so I went to the one and only ATM in the town of Namaacha. My bank is Barclays, and there are two other main banks in Mozambique, BCI and Millenium BIM. There is no Barclays ATM in Inharrime so during the last two years I always withdrew from these other two banks’ ATMs without problems. The ATM in Namaacha is Millenium BIM, so I went one day and tried to withdraw 5,000 Meticais. It told me that those funds were not available at the time. This happens often at the end of the day when there just isn’t sufficient cash, so I asked for 3,000 Meticais and received it. The next day I returned and asked for 8,000 Meticais. It told me my card wasn’t working (which was slightly strange, I’ve never been told that before). I came back again the next day, requested 8,000 Meticais and received it. But then a few weeks later I realized my account was much lower than it should have been. I went to Barclays and requested an account statement and found that the 5,000 and 8,000 Meticais that I had requested but never received had still been removed from my account!
So today I took the chapa to Maputo (140 Meticais roundtrip) and spent the entire morning trying to recover this money. The people at the bank were nice and helpful, but restricted by a system that is less-than-efficient sometimes. At the end of the morning I was assured that they had contacted Millenium BIM to request the return of my funds and thus the process had been started. I was assured that the process should take no longer than 45 days, and was given a letter to bring back to the bank, should the funds not be returned at the end of 45 days. I was floored. 45 days?! I am currently, through no fault of my own, short 13,000 Meticais. At today’s exchange rate, this is $480, a notable sum of money for most people. And I am not most people—as a Peace Corps Volunteer this is almost TWO of my monthly salaries! Luckily I have a safety net to fall back on—money saved up, my bank account from America, friends and family who can lend me money—but what about all the people in Mozambique (the majority, surely) who don’t have these options? What are they supposed to do for 45 days in this situation?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
07/03/12
Cyclone #4 of the year (and it’s only march) hit Mozambique over the weekend, causing many power outages in the southern region of the country and knocking out our internet for four days. Luckily it wasn’t as bad as originally anticipated to be, but there was still severe rain and wind and all PCVs in the south weren’t allowed to travel for a couple days.
Being back in Inharrime was really wonderful. People in Namaacha are getting to know me little by little—the people from my church, the guard at the gas station I walk by every day, the woman who sells produce on my way to the office, the neighborhood kids, the man we buy eggs from—but it’s still not the same as it was in Inharrime. I was a teacher there, which meant that instantly thousands of people knew who I was and why I was there and gave me a certain amount of respect. It was great to walk down the road, into the market, into the school, and into the restaurant and have tons of people greet me by name with big grins and waves again.
There are a few girls from the orphanage who didn’t return after the holidays. The littlest one from last year and her sister are reportedly living with family in South Africa now. This troubles me because these two girls were not in great shape when they arrived at the orphanage last year, the little one had a stomach full of worms and the older one was a little off cognitively and socially. I hate to imagine that they are likely returning to that same environment.
Being back in Inharrime was really wonderful. People in Namaacha are getting to know me little by little—the people from my church, the guard at the gas station I walk by every day, the woman who sells produce on my way to the office, the neighborhood kids, the man we buy eggs from—but it’s still not the same as it was in Inharrime. I was a teacher there, which meant that instantly thousands of people knew who I was and why I was there and gave me a certain amount of respect. It was great to walk down the road, into the market, into the school, and into the restaurant and have tons of people greet me by name with big grins and waves again.
There are a few girls from the orphanage who didn’t return after the holidays. The littlest one from last year and her sister are reportedly living with family in South Africa now. This troubles me because these two girls were not in great shape when they arrived at the orphanage last year, the little one had a stomach full of worms and the older one was a little off cognitively and socially. I hate to imagine that they are likely returning to that same environment.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
02/03/12
Yesterday I caught a ride up to Inharrime, my old site, with the Peruvian engineer who works for the Salesian sisters in Namaacha and Inharrime. We had only gone about 60k (of the 350k) and I was starting to nod off when he pulled over. There was a hissing sound coming from beneath the hood and steam rising out. When we popped the hood it wasn’t the radiator as we had expected, but it seemed like a tube or attachment was loose and allowing steam to escape. He called the mechanic who works for the construction company, who was apparently 1.5 hours behind us on the road. We refilled the car radiator with water and cautiously drove some more. We stopped twice more to fill the radiator and then refill those water bottles before he decided we should pull over in the shade and wait for the mechanic to catch up with us. I read for a little while and napped. Eventually the mechanic and driver pulled up in a mid-sized flatbed truck and fixed the problem, though apparently we still needed something because we stopped in four construction stores along the way before we found it. I was glad to be moving again—I had people to see in Inharrime! But in the next big city we stopped to eat lunch. It was 3pm, I just wanted to go! Luckily we just got the meal that the kitchen had prepared that day (a huge pot of beans served over rice) so the whole lunch break only took about 20 minutes—the least of our worries today. We got back on the road and caught up with the guys in the flatbed, who had waited for us. We were cruising along and I was content because, although we were getting in much later than I had planned, we would be there in time for dinner. Suddenly there was an explosion and water covered the front windshield. We pulled over, popped the hood, and saw that a large tube (not the one that had been having problems before) had burst. We tried to call the guys in the flatbed who had been right in front of us but hadn’t seen us stop. They were in an area without service so it took a few minutes to get through to them, and then they had to backtrack. They pulled a long rope out of the back of the flatbed and tied the busted truck to it. I switched seats and sat in the flatbed so that the mechanic could do the steering and braking of the truck being towed. And that is how we drove the last 100k of the trip. We finally got in at 8:20pm, but I was just pleased that I got there before the girls went to bed.
It’s been wonderful being back and seeing everyone again, from the sisters and girls living at the mission, to my former students, colleagues, and REDES girls at the school. People keep asking me if I am back for good now and they are disappointed when I say no, I am only visiting. Everyone is extremely pleased (and vocal about it too) by how fat I got while back in the states. Except one colleague who took it kind of personally, “you gained all that weight there? So you eat more there than here? What’s wrong with Mozambican food that you gain more weight in America?”
It’s been wonderful being back and seeing everyone again, from the sisters and girls living at the mission, to my former students, colleagues, and REDES girls at the school. People keep asking me if I am back for good now and they are disappointed when I say no, I am only visiting. Everyone is extremely pleased (and vocal about it too) by how fat I got while back in the states. Except one colleague who took it kind of personally, “you gained all that weight there? So you eat more there than here? What’s wrong with Mozambican food that you gain more weight in America?”
27/02/12
Last night I walked into our outdoor bathroom. I was about a stride in when I squealed and ran back to the house yelling “cobra, cobra!” As you may have guessed, cobra means snake in Portuguese and there was a black and bright yellow striped one sitting in the entryway to our latrine. We all agreed that bright colors on a reptile are never a good sign, so we took care of it and disposed of it. Growing up in central Illinois all we had were garter snakes, and I used to catch them and play with them for fun. My mom didn’t think it was as funny. But here in Mozambique, where the national soccer team is the Mambas, I am a little more cautious.
We are logged into the computers here in Namaacha, but due to a shortage of office keys (one set, to be exact) we can only work there Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, which is frustrating. My favorite part of the office is the sign on the back of the door that informs you that it is “EXTREMELY PROHIBITED” to poop in that bathroom.
The other day Anna and I met a man who was originally a Rwandan refugee who ran away from there when he was 14 and lived in a camp in the Congo for a few years before running away to Angola and living there for a few years before running away again to Mozambique, where he has been for the past 11 years. I asked where he had citizenship and with a smile he replied “I’m a citizen of the world.” He has a refugee passport and has applied to become a Mozambican citizen, but has not yet been granted citizenship. He must be very good at some things, because he owns a small store in the town over from ours, which is a huge deal here. I’ve said this before: one of the best things of this experience the past 2.5 years is the all of the incredibly interesting people I have met and their stories.
We are logged into the computers here in Namaacha, but due to a shortage of office keys (one set, to be exact) we can only work there Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, which is frustrating. My favorite part of the office is the sign on the back of the door that informs you that it is “EXTREMELY PROHIBITED” to poop in that bathroom.
The other day Anna and I met a man who was originally a Rwandan refugee who ran away from there when he was 14 and lived in a camp in the Congo for a few years before running away to Angola and living there for a few years before running away again to Mozambique, where he has been for the past 11 years. I asked where he had citizenship and with a smile he replied “I’m a citizen of the world.” He has a refugee passport and has applied to become a Mozambican citizen, but has not yet been granted citizenship. He must be very good at some things, because he owns a small store in the town over from ours, which is a huge deal here. I’ve said this before: one of the best things of this experience the past 2.5 years is the all of the incredibly interesting people I have met and their stories.
26/02/12
This morning at church a bunch of the girls from the orphanage here in Namaacha sat with me. There is one little girl about two years old who doesn’t live in the orphanage, but who I recognized from church. She walked over and stood in front of me. Unsure of exactly what she wanted I patted my lap and she nodded, so I picked her up and she sat on my lap for mass. They aren’t MY girls, but it was nice and almost felt like I was back in Inharrime again.
When I went to my first mass in Mozambique back in October of 2009 I hated it. I think that I had expected mass to be the one thing that stayed constant when I left America, so I was devastated by how different it is here. I quickly grew to love it though, it wasn’t mass how I expected it, but it was a beautiful different version. That said, I was excited to go back to America to experience the mass I had been missing for two years. But when I went back to America…things were different. The priest in my hometown’s church has retired since I left, as well as the priest in the town where I went to college. And there have been some other changes. So I was left with the very depressing and possibly most frightening feeling for people who have left a place for a while—that the thing we were missing so badly all this time no longer exists.
When I went to my first mass in Mozambique back in October of 2009 I hated it. I think that I had expected mass to be the one thing that stayed constant when I left America, so I was devastated by how different it is here. I quickly grew to love it though, it wasn’t mass how I expected it, but it was a beautiful different version. That said, I was excited to go back to America to experience the mass I had been missing for two years. But when I went back to America…things were different. The priest in my hometown’s church has retired since I left, as well as the priest in the town where I went to college. And there have been some other changes. So I was left with the very depressing and possibly most frightening feeling for people who have left a place for a while—that the thing we were missing so badly all this time no longer exists.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
25/02/12
Namaacha has a large market area on Saturdays and Wednesday, so this morning Anna and I walked in to get some produce. As we were weaving between the stands we heard a woman talking about us say “mulungu” (the somewhat derogatory word for white people here). Anna turned to her and said “I have a name and it’s not mulungu!” Then, in Changana (the local language here and also where Anna lived the past two years. Sadly it was not the local language where I lived the past two years) Anna told her that she speaks a little Changana. All of the women within earshot squealed with delight and erupted in Changana about what Anna had said. We stopped to buy carrots and green peppers a few stalls away, so they got to talk about us for a few more minutes. As the woman handed us her change she said “tell her your name so she doesn’t call you mulungu next time.” We introduced ourselves and all we heard as we walked away was “Ana” and “Anata.”
Last week Anna and I were sitting inside our house listening to the kids torment our dog, as they often do. Finally he came inside growling and whimpering to himself and pacing back and forth, and we were happy he was able to show such self-control. Then something rolled across our floor. And then another thing. The little idiots were throwing rocks at/in our house. I threw on shorts of an appropriate length and stormed outside. As soon as I was outside our gate I yelled “who was that throwing rocks at my house?!” I was told it was some girls who had perched themselves in the window of the half-constructed house next to ours. “Where do they live?” I demanded. The neighbors instructed an adolescent girl to take me to their houses, so we set off into the neighborhood behind me house, me with the rocks in hand. At one point along the walk I saw them hiding in a neighbor’s garden, they took off when they saw me storming toward them. When I got to their house I encountered only a teenage boy and was told that the parents were at work. I stayed there for a few minutes and meanwhile the mother showed up. I showed her the rock and told her that her daughters had been throwing rocks at my house, which was not only extremely rude and terrible, but also dangerous and she needed to teach her daughters that this wasn’t okay. She said she would, but I couldn’t read her very well. In my experience, with parents in Mozambique you often get two extremes in situations like this—either the parents go all vigilante and kick the crap out of the kids, or they couldn’t care less. As I walked home a neighbor asked me what had happened. I explained that the girls who lived in that house had thrown rocks at my house. “Oh that’s terrible!” he said. I returned the following day and spoke to the father and then on the walk home informed a few more neighbors about how terrible the girls who live in that house are. I am hoping that even if the parents don’t care, the sense of public shame will encourage them to do something.
Our bathroom area is two cement rooms without doors, but configured such that you can’t see directly in. There is a roof that is not attached directly to the walls, but sits a few feet above them.
The next day I was bathing when I saw four fingers curl over the top of the wall. I didn’t completely process what they were until I saw the corn rows on top of a head begin to appear next to them. “SUCA!” I yelled. This is a word that means scram and is generally reserved only for dogs—or people you intend to offend. She did scram immediately and I called for Anna who was in the house. Anna looked over the wall but the girl was long gone or hiding. We have had no such incidences since. In this situation I am hesitant to go talk to the neighbors behind us, the property from where this girl had perched. Because I’m not too keen on reminding (or informing) people that it’s possible to peek at us while we bathe.
Last week Anna and I were sitting inside our house listening to the kids torment our dog, as they often do. Finally he came inside growling and whimpering to himself and pacing back and forth, and we were happy he was able to show such self-control. Then something rolled across our floor. And then another thing. The little idiots were throwing rocks at/in our house. I threw on shorts of an appropriate length and stormed outside. As soon as I was outside our gate I yelled “who was that throwing rocks at my house?!” I was told it was some girls who had perched themselves in the window of the half-constructed house next to ours. “Where do they live?” I demanded. The neighbors instructed an adolescent girl to take me to their houses, so we set off into the neighborhood behind me house, me with the rocks in hand. At one point along the walk I saw them hiding in a neighbor’s garden, they took off when they saw me storming toward them. When I got to their house I encountered only a teenage boy and was told that the parents were at work. I stayed there for a few minutes and meanwhile the mother showed up. I showed her the rock and told her that her daughters had been throwing rocks at my house, which was not only extremely rude and terrible, but also dangerous and she needed to teach her daughters that this wasn’t okay. She said she would, but I couldn’t read her very well. In my experience, with parents in Mozambique you often get two extremes in situations like this—either the parents go all vigilante and kick the crap out of the kids, or they couldn’t care less. As I walked home a neighbor asked me what had happened. I explained that the girls who lived in that house had thrown rocks at my house. “Oh that’s terrible!” he said. I returned the following day and spoke to the father and then on the walk home informed a few more neighbors about how terrible the girls who live in that house are. I am hoping that even if the parents don’t care, the sense of public shame will encourage them to do something.
Our bathroom area is two cement rooms without doors, but configured such that you can’t see directly in. There is a roof that is not attached directly to the walls, but sits a few feet above them.
The next day I was bathing when I saw four fingers curl over the top of the wall. I didn’t completely process what they were until I saw the corn rows on top of a head begin to appear next to them. “SUCA!” I yelled. This is a word that means scram and is generally reserved only for dogs—or people you intend to offend. She did scram immediately and I called for Anna who was in the house. Anna looked over the wall but the girl was long gone or hiding. We have had no such incidences since. In this situation I am hesitant to go talk to the neighbors behind us, the property from where this girl had perched. Because I’m not too keen on reminding (or informing) people that it’s possible to peek at us while we bathe.
24/02/12
Pumped up after my two meetings yesterday, and satisfied that I finally had the appropriate authority to do so, I sent out two emails to the health sector PCVs in Mozambique, introducing myself and my position and introducing what I hoped we would do this year.
When I missed my flight to Mozambique coming back from Senegal and had to spend the night in Johannesburg I met a guy, Tim, who was in the same predicament. He spent the past two years working in Mozambique and knows some of my PCV colleagues and, strangely enough, knows friends of mine from Bowdoin, my tiny college of 1700 students in Maine that nobody has ever heard of! He won’t be based in Maputo permanently, but he was still around last weekend so he came out to Namaacha to visit us. It was so nice to have a friend visit and interact with people aside from each other (not that we don’t love each other). Currently we only have access to the office here in Namaacha on Tuesdays Wednesday,s and Thursdays, so we work at home on the other days. And even at the office there is only one other woman who works there. So unlike the past two years when we were teachers in large schools (and I lived in an orphanage with 67 girls), our day-to-day lives are not extremely social this year. On Saturday morning we went walking around town because Tim has never been to Namaacha before. We stopped by my host mother’s house to say hi; she wasn’t there but the kids were. Tim is 6’4”, so he scares people even more than I do. My normally hyper and outgoing 6 year old host brother who might be labeled as ADHD in America was unusually quiet and would only speak in one word answers. Baby Anata was playing with friends so we walked over to say hi. Tim knelt down to talk to her and she burst into tears immediately. We all laughed and I was a little pleased that for once it wasn’t me who made her cry. “Come here and give big sister a kiss” I said to her. She neither refused nor accepted, but tottered over to me and let me pick her up and gave me half a kiss on the cheek. As I put my arm under her butt to pick her up I noticed that it was wet—I hoped that she had just sat in a puddle. When we left and I handed her off to the teenage girl who lives with my family I mentioned that Anata’s butt was wet. “Oh yeah, it’s probably pee” she said. A quick sniff confirmed that yes, it was—good thing I always carry hand sanitizer.
Last week I took Amendoim (our dog) in to get his vaccines updated. When I got to the district animal control building nobody was there, so we walked down the street to the district economics building and I said I was looking for the people who deal with animals. A woman appeared eventually and we went back to her building. I showed her his papers and she got out the syringe and appropriate bottle. I held him still and she gave him the shot. For Mozambique, I was pleasantly surprised by how painless it was. It had rained the previous night, so a small amount of water had gathered in a dip on the step, so after administering the shot she reached over and filled the syringe and squirted the water back out to rinse it. I mentally reaffirmed why I will never get stuck by a needle in Mozambique. After the shot, the woman filled out a form to take with me as proof that he is up-to-date. “What race of dog is he?” she asked me. “I don’t know, African?” was my response. This was clearly not a sufficient answer. The other man working in there looked at him and gave her a suitable answer. “You can tell one of his parents was a wild dog though, from his ears.” He does look exactly like the wild dogs you see roaming around in the bush here.
When I missed my flight to Mozambique coming back from Senegal and had to spend the night in Johannesburg I met a guy, Tim, who was in the same predicament. He spent the past two years working in Mozambique and knows some of my PCV colleagues and, strangely enough, knows friends of mine from Bowdoin, my tiny college of 1700 students in Maine that nobody has ever heard of! He won’t be based in Maputo permanently, but he was still around last weekend so he came out to Namaacha to visit us. It was so nice to have a friend visit and interact with people aside from each other (not that we don’t love each other). Currently we only have access to the office here in Namaacha on Tuesdays Wednesday,s and Thursdays, so we work at home on the other days. And even at the office there is only one other woman who works there. So unlike the past two years when we were teachers in large schools (and I lived in an orphanage with 67 girls), our day-to-day lives are not extremely social this year. On Saturday morning we went walking around town because Tim has never been to Namaacha before. We stopped by my host mother’s house to say hi; she wasn’t there but the kids were. Tim is 6’4”, so he scares people even more than I do. My normally hyper and outgoing 6 year old host brother who might be labeled as ADHD in America was unusually quiet and would only speak in one word answers. Baby Anata was playing with friends so we walked over to say hi. Tim knelt down to talk to her and she burst into tears immediately. We all laughed and I was a little pleased that for once it wasn’t me who made her cry. “Come here and give big sister a kiss” I said to her. She neither refused nor accepted, but tottered over to me and let me pick her up and gave me half a kiss on the cheek. As I put my arm under her butt to pick her up I noticed that it was wet—I hoped that she had just sat in a puddle. When we left and I handed her off to the teenage girl who lives with my family I mentioned that Anata’s butt was wet. “Oh yeah, it’s probably pee” she said. A quick sniff confirmed that yes, it was—good thing I always carry hand sanitizer.
Last week I took Amendoim (our dog) in to get his vaccines updated. When I got to the district animal control building nobody was there, so we walked down the street to the district economics building and I said I was looking for the people who deal with animals. A woman appeared eventually and we went back to her building. I showed her his papers and she got out the syringe and appropriate bottle. I held him still and she gave him the shot. For Mozambique, I was pleasantly surprised by how painless it was. It had rained the previous night, so a small amount of water had gathered in a dip on the step, so after administering the shot she reached over and filled the syringe and squirted the water back out to rinse it. I mentally reaffirmed why I will never get stuck by a needle in Mozambique. After the shot, the woman filled out a form to take with me as proof that he is up-to-date. “What race of dog is he?” she asked me. “I don’t know, African?” was my response. This was clearly not a sufficient answer. The other man working in there looked at him and gave her a suitable answer. “You can tell one of his parents was a wild dog though, from his ears.” He does look exactly like the wild dogs you see roaming around in the bush here.
22/02/12
Things have been creeping along slowly here in Namaacha with my new job (and actually Anna’s too). When I returned from Senegal I sent to my bosses an action plan that outlines what I hoped to do this year. Peace Corps Mozambique has been hit by one crisis after another recently, so the office has been quite busy dealing with all of these. First there was the horrifically tragic accident and that was followed by many volunteers requesting to move sites and some volunteers being evacuated back to the states for medical leave of up to 45 days and they haven’t yet decided if they will return. Then Mozambique was hit by two cyclones in January, requiring the evacuation of some PCVs. I haven’t heard of any volunteer’s houses being destroyed, but I know that there was a fair amount destruction, including a REDES group’s shop that they had constructed when they won the country’s Future Business Leader’s contest. Those kinds of things are the hardest to hear. We were threatened by another cyclone last week, but luckily it changed course and never actually hit Mozambique. And last week a few men with machetes broke into a PCV’s house where four PCVs were and stole things and hit one of the boys a few times with their machetes. In situations like these it is protocol for the PCV to go on Post-Exposure Prophylaxis, in case of exposure to HIV from the cuts. It was probably a good thing too, because they heard that these men had hit a number of other houses in that night, and there could have been blood from other people on the machetes. So, needless to say, the Peace Corps staff in Mozambique has had its hands full without me to worry about. I felt that I should wait until I had their approval and support before I moved forward with my action plan, so I haven’t done much while I waited until they had time to spare to deal with me.
I was able to meet with them this morning, which was great. They were supportive of my plans, I was only cautioned not to try to bite off more than I could chew. There are still some things we didn’t have time to address that day, so we’ll need to have some follow up meetings next week, but it was a good start. One big change following this meeting though—once reviewing all of the work my malaria position will entail this year, we decided that I will be 100% Malaria Activities Coordinator now, rather than splitting my time 50/50 with the role of reviewing the HIV-prevention curriculum of the youth groups in Mozambique. I am still interested in this work, but my role in malaria activities is much more pressing. Also, I am currently not remotely qualified to be evaluating the efficacy of HIV-prevention curriculum and activities—I would need to do a lot of reading and studying of behavior change theory first. This afternoon I met with the representative from the President’s Malaria Initiative (PMI), who I will be working with primarily this year as a liaison between them and Peace Corps—both the administration and volunteers. There are still some questions from both Peace Corps and PMI about how my position will function this year, mostly in regards to funding, but hopefully we will be able to answer these in next week’s meetings.
And great news, I finally have a user login so I am now able to use the computers in the office here in Namaacha.
I was able to meet with them this morning, which was great. They were supportive of my plans, I was only cautioned not to try to bite off more than I could chew. There are still some things we didn’t have time to address that day, so we’ll need to have some follow up meetings next week, but it was a good start. One big change following this meeting though—once reviewing all of the work my malaria position will entail this year, we decided that I will be 100% Malaria Activities Coordinator now, rather than splitting my time 50/50 with the role of reviewing the HIV-prevention curriculum of the youth groups in Mozambique. I am still interested in this work, but my role in malaria activities is much more pressing. Also, I am currently not remotely qualified to be evaluating the efficacy of HIV-prevention curriculum and activities—I would need to do a lot of reading and studying of behavior change theory first. This afternoon I met with the representative from the President’s Malaria Initiative (PMI), who I will be working with primarily this year as a liaison between them and Peace Corps—both the administration and volunteers. There are still some questions from both Peace Corps and PMI about how my position will function this year, mostly in regards to funding, but hopefully we will be able to answer these in next week’s meetings.
And great news, I finally have a user login so I am now able to use the computers in the office here in Namaacha.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
