The events to be described in this blog have long passed, and I’m in tip-top shape, so there’s no need to fret…
It must be every parent’s fear when they send a son or daughter off to Peace Corps (or, with the new-age Peace Corps, a child’s fear when they send their mom or dad off to Peace Corps) that the volunteer will get sick during their service. Especially in Africa, with quite a spectrum of different illnesses.
In Mozambique, malaria is a huge problem, especially during rainy season. About a month ago, I went to the beach with a group of volunteers. The first night, I went to sleep pretty early, not feeling too great. I woke up the next morning feeling like doo-doo, with bad, shaking chills. I spent the morning sleeping in the sun on the beach, so I really must say that the beach was quite a nice place to be sick.
From there, I had no energy, no appetite, and just wanted to sleep. I couldn’t walk straight, and the few times I went to use the bathroom, I almost passed out getting there. I woke up in the middle of the night, and my pants were wet. I cringed in embarrassment, thinking I had, gasp, peed myself but then felt a little relieved when I realized that the rest of my clothes were also wet—I had just sweat through them all!
The next day, we left the beach to head back to our respective sites. That doesn’t mean a comfortable ride in an SUV. That means almost 2 hours on a bumpy dirt road in the back of a truck, a trip to the city (Beira) and plenty of waiting around while the guy who agreed to take us back to Chimoio visited his family, and a 3 hour ride on a delightfully-pot holed road between Beira and Chimoio… Misery.
I stayed in Chimoio that night because I didn’t think I could handle the 3-ish hour trip back to Catandica. I took an (expired) malaria test that night, which came back negative. The next morning, however, I was feeling worse yet. When I woke up from some crazy dreams, I thought I was being smushed by my blanket—it felt like it weighed a ton. I decided to get another malaria test. I could barely walk, but since there were only expired malaria tests in the house, I had to go to the hospital. Thank goodness another volunteer took me there. Though it’s normally only a 2 minute walk, I wouldn’t have made it alone.
While waiting for my test in the crowded (outdoor) waiting “room,” I noticed a lot of people staring at me. I doubt they’d ever seen a muzungo (white person) that sick before. Right before I got called in, a stretcher/ gurney was wheeled down a path with a person who looked to be knocking at death’s door on it. There was a nurse at one end and someone I’m guessing to be a relative at the other end, steering. In entering the building, they jostled the gurney around and ran it into a wall several times.
Of course, I tested positive for malaria. I hadn’t been taking my prophylaxis regularly because of its side effects (really bad stomach cramps), so I wasn’t surprised. My house in Catandica is full of mosquitoes, and I had slept outside without a mosquito net when we visited Nhamatema (the placed I talked about in my last post).
After getting diagnosed and getting some medicines, I started, bit-by-bit, to get better. I could drink some juice and occasionally could take a small bit of banana. I made up my mind to start getting better, which would require eating, so I went straight for a pizza. That’s when I knew with certainty that I was on the road to recovery.
Altogether, I was really sick for about a week and a half, both at the beach and in Chimoio. Luckily, I had a lot of folks there to help take care of me, for which I’m incredibly thankful.
I made up my mind to never go back to the hospital again if I could help it. Even though I was completely out of it, it was still a horrific thing to see. And that’s in the city. I can’t imagine how it would have been in the middle of the bush. The stomachaches caused by my prophylaxis are still very unpleasant, but I’ve been sucking it up because I don’t want to ever get malaria again.
I just plain don’t want to get sick in Africa again. If I’m going to be stuck in bed, at least let it be in a comfortable place with good plumbing, good doctors nearby, and maybe a TV.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
This’ll be quite a long ‘un. Unfortunately, the internet has been incredibly uncooperative in the past few months, so I haven’t been able to really put up any pictures or post blogs.
Southern African journey:
Over my April holidays, I took quite a fly-by tour of
Bus trip from Chimoio to
South Africa- Botswana: There were some pretty funny street signs. One warned that you shouldn’t feed baboons. Others were for impala and warthog crossings. Later, on the road between
In Swakopmund (near
We stayed one night in
Namibia-Zambia: We took a double-decker bus from
Back to
In Chobe Park, we did both land and water safaris and saw a ton of animals: warthogs, dung beetles, lots of pretty birds, impala, crocodiles, hippopotami, buffalo, giraffes, a leopard, elephants and elephants and elephants. We were incredibly lucky to see a leopard, since they’re super-rare. I got a great picture of it, which I will hopefully be able to get up on the internet soon.
Visit to Nhamatema AKA real
Lindsay and I went to visit the family of our student Hélio. The family’s last name: Mibeque. Pronunciation: “my back.” His name is Hélio Pita Mibeque (Elio Peter My Back). They live in a small locale called Nhamatema, on the road between Catandica and Chimoio. There’s really not too much to see there: some small stores, a school, and a lot of farmland.
That day, we played with some of the kids in the family. For many of them, we were their first muzungos (white people), and, surprisingly, none of them cried. We helped the women de-kernel corn to make xima, the corn flour porridge. I chopped firewood, although I might have had a bit of help from a slightly more able-bodied Mozambican man.
We visited the compound where his family lives—about 27 people, in total. There are about 15 different structures in the compound, ranging from small brick houses to mud huts with straw roofs to various animal enclosures. The main gathering area is a large hut, about 12 feet tall, with open sides. At night, they light a fire in the center for both light and warmth in the winter. Elevated in the middle is a pigeon coop, where the pigeons sleep at night.
Guess who else slept there that night... That’s right, I slept right in there with the dogs and goat and whichever other animals were looking for a warm place to sleep. I can’t say it was a pleasant night’s sleep, but I did manage to get a few hours before the turkeys and roosters started crowing at about 4 am.
Nhamatema is much more traditional than Catandica in many respects. To show respect, people clap cupped hands together and do a series of small bows. Women and children are in lower societal positions than men are. (Lindsay and were treated very well there. I guess American is a gender in and of itself.) The women stay at home during the day with the children, cleaning the compound and preparing meals. Men go out to the fields or work in the little family stores. In this family, 3 of the older sons each have their own store—which all sell the exact same things. (Entrepreneurship is not a skill frequently stumbled upon in rural
At mealtime, the father and elder sons eat together, sitting at a table. The women sit around in a circle on the floor and eat from community bowls of xima and whatever sauce they have prepared for it. The children sit either on the mothers’ laps or on the fringes of the circles.
At the end of our visit, they gave us a live turkey to bring back home (which is currently awaiting an early Thanksgiving dinner in my freezer, thanks to some handy knife work by Hélio). I couldn’t believe I was accepting a turkey from a family of 27, many of whom are young children with the bellies of malnutrition, but it would have been quite offensive not to take it.
On our walk back from the Mibeque compound to the road, we had to cross over a small stream where women often bathe. Men must call out in dialect to let the women know that a man wants to cross and ask for permission. When the women are decent, they call back out to the man to tell him that he may pass.
And since I’ve already poked a bit of fun at the name Mibeque, I might as well continue weaving my handbasket. Some other funny names I’ve come across this year include:
Sande (sandwich in Portuguese), Sozinho (alone), Perato (pirate), Guivimo (Give more), Mugabe and Chissano (twin brothers named after the once-great leaders of Zimbabwe and Mozambique), Viola, Alone, Fama (fame), Helton de Asses, Lavumo (Love more), Arroz (rice), Zangado (angry), Alfandega (customs officer), Flavio, Farai (Shona for happiness). I think that’s all I have as far as students go.
Friday, March 6, 2009
February and early March
Alfredo and the Feticeiro:
In African culture, many people rely on traditional healers in lieu of or in addition to doctors, nurses, and other healthcare-givers. It is no exception in Catandica. Here, we have a variety: Curandeiros are the traditional healers, while feticeiros are more of the “witch doctor” types. In addition to that, there are also a number of people in the market who sell roots, herbs, and random objects used to bring luck, get rid of headaches or illnesses, etc.
Curandeiros are known to the village, and many people consult them on important matters, in addition to medical ones. When Lindsay’s phone was stolen while we were walking down the street, students urged her to go see a curandeiro. Many children have necklaces or waist beads given to them by the curandeiro- probably for good growth and safety. One of our neighbors is a curandeiro, and his children, the goat-herding boys, are some of our best friends here. None of them has been to a doctor. When they get sick, their father will perform a ceremony and perhaps give them something natural to help cure them.
On the other hand, feticeiros are much more mysterious and eerie. Feticeiros are not known to people while they are alive. It is only when they die that their identity may be revealed, though I’m not sure how that works. In order to be a feticeiro, someone else in your family must have been a feticeiro. Feticeiros may “curse” people and cause them pain and problems.
There is a 10th grade student named Alfredo that visits us quite frequently. He watched our house while we were away for our December holidays. Alfredo is very bright, industrious, and ambitious. His family, however, does not support his studies. They are all farmers, many of whom are alcoholics, according to Alfredo. Noone has studied past the 7th class, and he has been pressured to leave his studies to work in the fields with the rest of his family.
One day, Alfredo came to our house and was upset. He said that he had been “feticizado,” which means cursed by the feticeiro, and that someone in his family had done it. He was suffering from body aches and generally wasn’t feeling well. Somebody said to him: “Eu quero ti ver bem o proximo ano” (“I want to see you well next year,”) which is a sign that you have been feticizado. He went to the curandeiro, who apparently cured him, but he was still nervous about his family’s actions towards him as a result of his studies.
It seems amazing to me that he believes so strongly in the curandeiro and feticeiro, since he is intelligent and being educated. He was aware that we have no curandeiros/ feticeiros in the States yet insisted that the powers of the curandeiro and feticeiro are real here.
Alfredo is still studying this year and has hopes not only of being the first person in his family to finish secondary school but also to study in university. I hope he is able to follow through with that and to help overcome the conflict many Mozambicans have between modernization and tradition.
When the lights went out in the village...:
On Sunday, February 15, the lights went out, the fans stopped, and the refrigerator became more of a storage area than a cooling device. All of the professors’ houses at the school lost power, and it has yet to be repaired. Apparently, it will cost about 100,000 MTN ($4,000 US) to restore electricity to the houses. I’m fairly certain that the school is not prepared to dish out that kind of money, even though it was a huge $7 million investment by the World Bank.
Around 5:30 pm, it has become too dark to see inside (and that’s SUMMERtime here—I can’t even imagine what winter will be like), so we use candles. The candles I have received in care packages have been opened and used for more than just decoration or olfactory purposes. By about 8 or 8:30, it’s bedtime.
And that’s how I skipped the rest of my young adulthood and middle age to become a 70 year-old woman.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
If you can forgive the photography, this is a picture of one of the families we're friends with in Catandica. They have 3 children: the son, Rafiki, might be the cutest little boy I've ever seen. The lady in pink was just born 2 days before this picture was taken. Once her mom brought her home, she couldn't leave the house for an entire week! Her mom asked Lindsay and me to give her an American-ish name, so we gave her a list with about 15 names (including our Mozambican names, of course). By the time I left for the States, she had narrowed it down to Carolina (my name), Cecilia (Lindsay's name), and Elaine. When we got back, we had the moment of truth.... Elaine!I might not be able to leave this country until there's a baby named after me, though.
Obama, America, and back
My mama loves Obama:
The last time I was in Chimoio was to watch Obama’s inauguration, about two weeks ago. Although I experienced a bit of the excitement while I was home for Christmas, the majority of my 2008 election experiences have been here in Mozambique. The day of the election, I was in Catandica, proctoring national exams and was thus unable to watch the election coverage. The next morning, I received a text message from one of my friends in the village saying “Obama. Our new President. Now anything is possible.” Most of my colleagues were abuzz with excitement about the election as well. I think it shocked my school director quite a bit because he had said not too long before that there was no way that Obama would be chosen because America would never elect a black man to be President. Booyah!
At one point during my beach-filled trip down the coast of Mozambique to fly back to the States in late November/ early December, I had to send a fax to the Peace Corps office. I went to a local internet café/ tele-center to send it. At first, I was treated fairly coolly and was told that I would not be able to send the fax or would have to pay much more than was necessary. I talked to the man in charge for a bit, and eventually the conversation turned to the fact that I was American and that we had just elected a new president. Not only did he let me send the fax without further hassle, but when I went to pay him for it, he wouldn’t accept my money. I asked him why not, and he just asked me to say hello to Barak Obama for him when I got back to America. Obama and I, like Jackie Chan or Jean Claude Van Damme and I, are best friends.
I knew that the world watches America, but I wasn’t aware that they watched quite so closely. Perhaps it’s because I’m an American, but since October or November, conversations with non-Americans have almost always turned toward the elections and Obama at some point.
Back in the US of A:
My trip back home really started on Thanksgiving day, hitchhiking from Chimoio to Vilankulo. In Vilankulo, we went had a great Thanksgiving dinner of sweet & sour pork and lasagna from freeze-dried camping packs, snorkeling on a practically-deserted island, and enjoying some of the (not-so-)famous Mozambican beers on the beach. After Vilankulo, we headed South to Inhambane (a surprisingly European town) and Tofo (a great beach town with the only waves over 10 cm I’ve seen in this country). In Tofo, the highlight was definitely swimming with whale sharks. They are absolutely HUGE!!
After several days in Maputo, I was leaving on a jet plane. I didn’t sleep the entire Johannesburg, South Africa-Dakar, Senegal-New York flight. I watched movies and TV the whole time, trying to catch up on some of the pop culture I’d missed over the past year an a half. I had to switch terminals in NYC and was still dressed in African summer clothing. It was quite a shock to my system to be able to see my breath before walking out the door. Finally, almost two days after leaving Maputo (I think), I arrived in Charleston!
One of my favorite things about the trip was tap water. Not only was it there all the time- it was also drinkable and could reach a variety of temperatures in a matter of seconds. Grocery stores and Target/ Wal-Mart were other sources of entertainment. I couldn’t help but think what any of my colleagues or students would think if they were in a store with so much STUFF! It was a bit overwhelming for me, and I’m familiar with the basic layout of a Target store. I can’t imagine what somebody from the bush would think!
While in America, I stayed in Charleston for a large portion, visited my grandma and sister/ brother-in-law in NC, visited my other sister/ brother-in-law/ nephew in Providence, and ended the visit in New York City. The last time I had seen my nephew Peter, he was a little baby, but now he’s walking and talking. My other sister is pregnant and will have her baby in March. I think one of the hardest thing about living in Africa (other than transportation, illnesses, corruption, lack of available materials, etc) is that life goes on back home, even while I’m not there. Babies are born, people move, get married, get new jobs…
After a cold trip to New York, it was time to head back to Africa. I had to stay overnight in Johannesburg, South Africa and ended up staying at a huge casino. I have a not-so-secret love of betting. Luckily, I didn’t convert any dollars to South African Rand, so I couldn’t blow it all on the slots. The most surprising thing at the casino was an indoor roller coaster. I never would have expected to find one of those outside of the Mall of America!
Stepping off of the plane in Maputo, I was immediately enveloped in a blanket of heat and humidity. I could get away with wearing some of my winter clothes in Johannesburg, but an hour’s flight away, that was definitely not a possibility.
I visited my host family in Namaacha upon my return to Mozambique and brought them a lot of goodies from America. This is my host brother, Joaquim, sporting a lovely Bobby Cremins basketball camp t-shirt. (Those shirts have been a BIG hit in Mozambique. People would almost sell their souls for a t-shirt, especially one with a Nike Swoosh on it!) Joaquim is currently studying to be a teacher- math, I think.
Also in Maputo, there was a middle of service conference for the volunteers in my training group. I was really worried that I would test positive for Tuberculosis since I’d been working for several months in the TB ward at the hospital, and for about a day, the raised spot where they pricked me made me think I would indeed test positive. By the time the test was read, however, I was definitely negative. Woohoo!
After nearly two months away from Catandica, it was finally time to head back to the bush. We flew into the teensy tiny Chimoio airport. Only sight landings are possible. The only equipment there fits into a shipping container. Luckily, the weather was on our side that day, and we landed without problem. The road back to Catandica was pretty darn bad, some parts more river than road. Thank you, rainy season. On my first trip back into the villa and to the market, a lot of people told me they thought I had left and wasn’t coming back. Somehow, everybody knew that I had gone to America to spend my holidays. Funny, I only remember telling maybe 4 people in Catandica where I was going…
Now, I’m really just gearing up for the school year. We had the official opening of our school yesterday, and classes start on Monday. As of now, I’m going to be teaching 11th grade biology, which is mostly taxonomy. Not my favorite subject, but I think I’ll just blow through the necessary stuff and then do several weeks of labs and fun units in between. I have a lovely trip to Zambia and hopefully Namibia coming up in April and am already starting to think about my travels when I’m done with Peace Corps, sometime in November or December. Any ideas or suggestions would be warmly welcomed. I’m thinking about Eastern Africa: Tanzania, Kenya, and hopefully Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, and if they straighten themselves out in time, Congo. If anybody is sitting at the computer at work right now and feels like a little procrastination, feel free to do a little research for me! Shameless, I know.
The last time I was in Chimoio was to watch Obama’s inauguration, about two weeks ago. Although I experienced a bit of the excitement while I was home for Christmas, the majority of my 2008 election experiences have been here in Mozambique. The day of the election, I was in Catandica, proctoring national exams and was thus unable to watch the election coverage. The next morning, I received a text message from one of my friends in the village saying “Obama. Our new President. Now anything is possible.” Most of my colleagues were abuzz with excitement about the election as well. I think it shocked my school director quite a bit because he had said not too long before that there was no way that Obama would be chosen because America would never elect a black man to be President. Booyah!
At one point during my beach-filled trip down the coast of Mozambique to fly back to the States in late November/ early December, I had to send a fax to the Peace Corps office. I went to a local internet café/ tele-center to send it. At first, I was treated fairly coolly and was told that I would not be able to send the fax or would have to pay much more than was necessary. I talked to the man in charge for a bit, and eventually the conversation turned to the fact that I was American and that we had just elected a new president. Not only did he let me send the fax without further hassle, but when I went to pay him for it, he wouldn’t accept my money. I asked him why not, and he just asked me to say hello to Barak Obama for him when I got back to America. Obama and I, like Jackie Chan or Jean Claude Van Damme and I, are best friends.
I knew that the world watches America, but I wasn’t aware that they watched quite so closely. Perhaps it’s because I’m an American, but since October or November, conversations with non-Americans have almost always turned toward the elections and Obama at some point.
Back in the US of A:
My trip back home really started on Thanksgiving day, hitchhiking from Chimoio to Vilankulo. In Vilankulo, we went had a great Thanksgiving dinner of sweet & sour pork and lasagna from freeze-dried camping packs, snorkeling on a practically-deserted island, and enjoying some of the (not-so-)famous Mozambican beers on the beach. After Vilankulo, we headed South to Inhambane (a surprisingly European town) and Tofo (a great beach town with the only waves over 10 cm I’ve seen in this country). In Tofo, the highlight was definitely swimming with whale sharks. They are absolutely HUGE!!
After several days in Maputo, I was leaving on a jet plane. I didn’t sleep the entire Johannesburg, South Africa-Dakar, Senegal-New York flight. I watched movies and TV the whole time, trying to catch up on some of the pop culture I’d missed over the past year an a half. I had to switch terminals in NYC and was still dressed in African summer clothing. It was quite a shock to my system to be able to see my breath before walking out the door. Finally, almost two days after leaving Maputo (I think), I arrived in Charleston!
One of my favorite things about the trip was tap water. Not only was it there all the time- it was also drinkable and could reach a variety of temperatures in a matter of seconds. Grocery stores and Target/ Wal-Mart were other sources of entertainment. I couldn’t help but think what any of my colleagues or students would think if they were in a store with so much STUFF! It was a bit overwhelming for me, and I’m familiar with the basic layout of a Target store. I can’t imagine what somebody from the bush would think!
While in America, I stayed in Charleston for a large portion, visited my grandma and sister/ brother-in-law in NC, visited my other sister/ brother-in-law/ nephew in Providence, and ended the visit in New York City. The last time I had seen my nephew Peter, he was a little baby, but now he’s walking and talking. My other sister is pregnant and will have her baby in March. I think one of the hardest thing about living in Africa (other than transportation, illnesses, corruption, lack of available materials, etc) is that life goes on back home, even while I’m not there. Babies are born, people move, get married, get new jobs…
After a cold trip to New York, it was time to head back to Africa. I had to stay overnight in Johannesburg, South Africa and ended up staying at a huge casino. I have a not-so-secret love of betting. Luckily, I didn’t convert any dollars to South African Rand, so I couldn’t blow it all on the slots. The most surprising thing at the casino was an indoor roller coaster. I never would have expected to find one of those outside of the Mall of America!
Stepping off of the plane in Maputo, I was immediately enveloped in a blanket of heat and humidity. I could get away with wearing some of my winter clothes in Johannesburg, but an hour’s flight away, that was definitely not a possibility.
I visited my host family in Namaacha upon my return to Mozambique and brought them a lot of goodies from America. This is my host brother, Joaquim, sporting a lovely Bobby Cremins basketball camp t-shirt. (Those shirts have been a BIG hit in Mozambique. People would almost sell their souls for a t-shirt, especially one with a Nike Swoosh on it!) Joaquim is currently studying to be a teacher- math, I think.
Also in Maputo, there was a middle of service conference for the volunteers in my training group. I was really worried that I would test positive for Tuberculosis since I’d been working for several months in the TB ward at the hospital, and for about a day, the raised spot where they pricked me made me think I would indeed test positive. By the time the test was read, however, I was definitely negative. Woohoo!
After nearly two months away from Catandica, it was finally time to head back to the bush. We flew into the teensy tiny Chimoio airport. Only sight landings are possible. The only equipment there fits into a shipping container. Luckily, the weather was on our side that day, and we landed without problem. The road back to Catandica was pretty darn bad, some parts more river than road. Thank you, rainy season. On my first trip back into the villa and to the market, a lot of people told me they thought I had left and wasn’t coming back. Somehow, everybody knew that I had gone to America to spend my holidays. Funny, I only remember telling maybe 4 people in Catandica where I was going…
Now, I’m really just gearing up for the school year. We had the official opening of our school yesterday, and classes start on Monday. As of now, I’m going to be teaching 11th grade biology, which is mostly taxonomy. Not my favorite subject, but I think I’ll just blow through the necessary stuff and then do several weeks of labs and fun units in between. I have a lovely trip to Zambia and hopefully Namibia coming up in April and am already starting to think about my travels when I’m done with Peace Corps, sometime in November or December. Any ideas or suggestions would be warmly welcomed. I’m thinking about Eastern Africa: Tanzania, Kenya, and hopefully Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, and if they straighten themselves out in time, Congo. If anybody is sitting at the computer at work right now and feels like a little procrastination, feel free to do a little research for me! Shameless, I know.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Prep School of Moçambique: Escola Secundária Armando Emílio Guebuza:
On Saturday, the school is hosting a Baile dos Finalistas (a dance for the seniors), which I’m guessing is about Mozambique’s equivalent of a prom. Tickets are 300 Mtn (about $13) for non-finalistas and 250 Mtn ($10) for finalistas. The girls are wearing ball gowns (some of which look a heck of a lot like adolescent flower girls dresses… pictures to come soon!), and the boys are supposed to wear black pants and black jackets of sorts. When I asked what I should wear, they said, “Teacha’, don’t you have a ball gown here?”
At this dance, the students will be dancing the waltz and salsa, which they have been practicing for about half of the year. I’m a little nervous because my students are really excited that the American teachers will be there and I’ve already been informed that I WILL be dancing. It’s funny: this is the closest these students will have to the American version of a prom. Not only will teachers attend, but also important people from the community, like the administrator, mayor, and various chefes (bosses or leaders), will also be there.
This past Sunday (10/12) was Dia dos Professores (Teachers’ Day). It’s a big deal here, and the profession of teaching is generally very well respected. (Just ask me what I think about that statement after my students have been punks all week, though.) There was a ceremony at the praça (basically, at every holiday or important event, the villa congregates at the praça for the same general ceremony), after which there was another ceremony and some dancing/ singing.
The crowning glory was the party for the teachers that night. It was held in the gymnasium at the school, had a DJ, food, and drinks. Every teacher was served a dinner of an entire chicken. That may not seem like a big deal, but there are about 50 teachers at our school, plus their guests. AND, all of those chickens had to be killed, plucked, and cleaned. Thank you, students, for doing the dirty work! We ate very well and then danced with our colleagues until about 11:30, wayyyy past my bedtime. It was hilarious watching the teachers dance. Even our headmaster shook his bum for a bit, and we got to dance with our favorite pedagogical director (assistant principal). Some people perhaps had enjoyed themselves a bit too much throughout the day, as there were quite a few inebriated teachers by the end of the night. The next day, there were a lot of missing teachers at the school.
Concert in Moz:
After an English Theatre competition in Chimoio, we sent the students back to Catandica and stayed in Chimoio. That evening, we went to dinner at a pizza restaurant called Vapor. Later that night, there was a concert by a legitimate band. I had to check a couple times to make sure I was still in Mozambique because it seemed like something I’d go to in the States.
Some folks Lindsay and I have met were there. They all work for a company based out of Chimoio that has operations in Catandica and frequently uses helicopters to get here. The following Monday afternoon, I was teaching and heard the sound of a helicopter coming really close. The helicopter circled the school and waved- it was our friends from Saturday night saying hello! My students thought Guebuza was coming back!
The perfect storm:
On Friday, there was a huge thunderstorm, which is a good thing because the temperature had gotten up to 41°C that day. It started to get pretty strong right at dusk, and almost all of Catandica lost power. I sat on the porch and watched the lightning until the power came back on. I don’t know if I have ever seen anything like it. I could see lightning from miles and miles away. The rain was so hard that I couldn’t hear Lindsay talking—or even IF she was talking.
I was a little disappointed to get power back, but then I thought of all the people who don’t have the luxury of having such a sturdy roof over their houses. I remember a few storms during training (when I lived with a Mozambican host family) during which I was unable to sleep because of the noise of the rain and thunder and thought the roof was going to blow off. I wouldn’t wish that kind of an evening to anybody in Catandica.
Grades:
School is ending. This is officially the last week of classes, though I will be here throughout the remainder of October and parts of November to help my students prepare for and then control/ correct national exams. That means that as I’m writing this, I’m currently procrastinating. Calculating grades is not at the top of my fun list, as shocking as that may sound.
It’s difficult for me to give grades here because of the Mozambican grading scale. The grading scale is out of 20 possible points, and to pass, a student must only get a 10 (technically, I guess a 9.5). I have given out only one 20 in all three trimesters, and the highest average for the year is a 17 (and that’s only one student- the same one who got the 20), and after that four students got 16. My averages for my turmas are around 12.5. The funny thing is that I know that when I turn in my grades next week, they will most likely be among the highest of all the disciplines.
It has seemed to me that the low mark for passing has caused many students set a low mark for themselves. If they only need to get half of the test questions correct to receive a passing grade, why learn all the material? Why not learn only half of it?
I’m comin’ home:
Less than 2 months! I get into NYC on December 12, and I can’t wait! I’ll probably be in SC/ NC until New Years and then NY/ RI the first week of January. Let me know if any of y’all’s plans coincide with mine because chances are that I’d love to see you!
On Saturday, the school is hosting a Baile dos Finalistas (a dance for the seniors), which I’m guessing is about Mozambique’s equivalent of a prom. Tickets are 300 Mtn (about $13) for non-finalistas and 250 Mtn ($10) for finalistas. The girls are wearing ball gowns (some of which look a heck of a lot like adolescent flower girls dresses… pictures to come soon!), and the boys are supposed to wear black pants and black jackets of sorts. When I asked what I should wear, they said, “Teacha’, don’t you have a ball gown here?”
At this dance, the students will be dancing the waltz and salsa, which they have been practicing for about half of the year. I’m a little nervous because my students are really excited that the American teachers will be there and I’ve already been informed that I WILL be dancing. It’s funny: this is the closest these students will have to the American version of a prom. Not only will teachers attend, but also important people from the community, like the administrator, mayor, and various chefes (bosses or leaders), will also be there.
This past Sunday (10/12) was Dia dos Professores (Teachers’ Day). It’s a big deal here, and the profession of teaching is generally very well respected. (Just ask me what I think about that statement after my students have been punks all week, though.) There was a ceremony at the praça (basically, at every holiday or important event, the villa congregates at the praça for the same general ceremony), after which there was another ceremony and some dancing/ singing.
The crowning glory was the party for the teachers that night. It was held in the gymnasium at the school, had a DJ, food, and drinks. Every teacher was served a dinner of an entire chicken. That may not seem like a big deal, but there are about 50 teachers at our school, plus their guests. AND, all of those chickens had to be killed, plucked, and cleaned. Thank you, students, for doing the dirty work! We ate very well and then danced with our colleagues until about 11:30, wayyyy past my bedtime. It was hilarious watching the teachers dance. Even our headmaster shook his bum for a bit, and we got to dance with our favorite pedagogical director (assistant principal). Some people perhaps had enjoyed themselves a bit too much throughout the day, as there were quite a few inebriated teachers by the end of the night. The next day, there were a lot of missing teachers at the school.
Concert in Moz:
After an English Theatre competition in Chimoio, we sent the students back to Catandica and stayed in Chimoio. That evening, we went to dinner at a pizza restaurant called Vapor. Later that night, there was a concert by a legitimate band. I had to check a couple times to make sure I was still in Mozambique because it seemed like something I’d go to in the States.
Some folks Lindsay and I have met were there. They all work for a company based out of Chimoio that has operations in Catandica and frequently uses helicopters to get here. The following Monday afternoon, I was teaching and heard the sound of a helicopter coming really close. The helicopter circled the school and waved- it was our friends from Saturday night saying hello! My students thought Guebuza was coming back!
The perfect storm:
On Friday, there was a huge thunderstorm, which is a good thing because the temperature had gotten up to 41°C that day. It started to get pretty strong right at dusk, and almost all of Catandica lost power. I sat on the porch and watched the lightning until the power came back on. I don’t know if I have ever seen anything like it. I could see lightning from miles and miles away. The rain was so hard that I couldn’t hear Lindsay talking—or even IF she was talking.
I was a little disappointed to get power back, but then I thought of all the people who don’t have the luxury of having such a sturdy roof over their houses. I remember a few storms during training (when I lived with a Mozambican host family) during which I was unable to sleep because of the noise of the rain and thunder and thought the roof was going to blow off. I wouldn’t wish that kind of an evening to anybody in Catandica.
Grades:
School is ending. This is officially the last week of classes, though I will be here throughout the remainder of October and parts of November to help my students prepare for and then control/ correct national exams. That means that as I’m writing this, I’m currently procrastinating. Calculating grades is not at the top of my fun list, as shocking as that may sound.
It’s difficult for me to give grades here because of the Mozambican grading scale. The grading scale is out of 20 possible points, and to pass, a student must only get a 10 (technically, I guess a 9.5). I have given out only one 20 in all three trimesters, and the highest average for the year is a 17 (and that’s only one student- the same one who got the 20), and after that four students got 16. My averages for my turmas are around 12.5. The funny thing is that I know that when I turn in my grades next week, they will most likely be among the highest of all the disciplines.
It has seemed to me that the low mark for passing has caused many students set a low mark for themselves. If they only need to get half of the test questions correct to receive a passing grade, why learn all the material? Why not learn only half of it?
I’m comin’ home:
Less than 2 months! I get into NYC on December 12, and I can’t wait! I’ll probably be in SC/ NC until New Years and then NY/ RI the first week of January. Let me know if any of y’all’s plans coincide with mine because chances are that I’d love to see you!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Happy 1 year in Africa!
Exactly a year ago today, I arrived in South Africa. Crazy to think I’ve been here for so long… at least sometimes. Time has a way of flying by at times and practically coming to a complete halt at others. Let’s just say that the week that the following story took place was so long, it seemed to repeat itself 6 times!
How I became the mother of a 7-year-old boy
(Alternate title: Why NOT to play with children you don’t wish to take home)
It was September 14, Lindsay’s birthday, and the two of us were heading back to Catandica from Chimoio. We got to the chapa (bus) stop around midday and were just waiting for it to leave, when a little street boy came up to the chapa. He was shy but looked familiar—I had seen him around in the city a couple times.
Not really having anything better to do, we played around with him for maybe 20 minutes, making faces at him out the window. For a while, he came and sat in the car, though wasn’t really near us. Time passed, and we grew bored of the game and were distracted. When we finally got on our way to Catandica, I just assumed that he had gotten off himself or that the cobrador (basically, the guy in charge of letting people onto and off the chapa and taking money) had kicked him off.
We stopped to get gas just outside of town, and I noticed that the little boy was sitting in our chapa. I asked the cobrador who he was with and where he was going, but he ignored me. Flash-forward 2.5 hours. We get into Catandica and are ready to make the 30 minute walk back to the school with lots of groceries. Not far into our trip, we stopped for a second, turned around, and the little boy was FOLLOWING US!! When I asked him where he was going, he started bawling. GREAT!
I went and chewed out the cobrador for his irresponsibility, thinking he’d arrange to have the boy taken back on the next chapa headed for Chimoio. Oh no. He said they’d take him the next morning and that we should just take him home with us for the night. Having recently attended an event about child trafficking, I cited that as a reason why he could definitely NOT come home with me and told him that the child was his responsibility because he had so blatantly ignored me earlier. That A-HOLE then turned my same child trafficking argument back on me, saying that I needed to take the boy to the police (thus alleviating the cobrador from responsibility), or people might think we had tried to lure him to come with us.
Took him to the police, who asked questions of both him and us. Through this, we learned that his name is Tino, he’s from Chimoio, is 7 years old, is in 1st or 2nd grade, had never been to Catandica and knew nobody here, and has a father works in the chapa stop, selling CDs. In the same inquisition, I was asked my profession, residence, nationality, marital status… because CLEARLY that is important! They took down the information for our chapa and grudgingly (after asking the boy if he wanted to go stay with us several times and almost being punched in the face) said he’d be sent back tomorrow (Monday) and that the police would take care of him for the night.
Monday morning: I was sitting at home, preparing for my afternoon classes, when I heard loud crying outside my house. Whoever was crying sounded particularly upset, so I looked outside, and TINO was right in front of our house. How he found it, I have no idea, but- GREAT- now the kid who follows strangers onto chapas knows where I live.
He was really upset, so I took him back into town, ready to tear somebody’s head off for being that irresponsible with him.
Got to the police station, and an officer said she had just taken responsibility for him but that he had run away. Thanks, Captain Obvious. Not only did he run away- he ran away to a house he didn’t know THIRTY MINUTES AWAY! Apparently, the asshole (My most sincere apologies for the foul language. I’ve tried to refrain from it thus far, but believe me- I’m still very much censoring my language.) cops from the day before hadn’t told her that he’d followed the American teachers home. Nor had they told her that we provided him with the information about the chapa, so he had yet to be sent home.
Tino didn’t know his father’s phone number (and at my house told me that they hadn’t yet contacted him), though, to her credit, the policewoman told me that she had contacted his school in Chimoio to get his teacher to contact his father. I couldn’t go off on her, when I looked like she was at least somewhat genuinely concerned, so I left him there in her care, with promises that he’d be going home soon.
Wednesday morning: Again, preparing my lessons, Lindsay sees Tino outside our house. Again. Same clothes he’s been wearing since Sunday. This time, however, he had a smile on his face and looked like he wanted to play. Oh HELLLLL no! I will NOT have that little boy thinking that it’s okay for him to come to our house to play around, especially when child trafficking apparently really is an issue here (I’d heard the day before that there had been a kid taken from Tete that same weekend). With what little patience we had left, Lindsay and I dragged Tino back to the villa and to the police station. I really was ready to strangle somebody that day. I spoke to the same lady, who told me he had been transferred to the Acção Social (Social Action) group on Monday, thus relieving her of the blame.
A social action worker was at the police station, so the three of us set out to take Tino back. Tino, however, didn’t like that idea, and refused to walk, crumpling down to his knees. The social worker had just started carrying him when Tino started thrashing and pitching a fit. THEN, he started trying to bite him. I tried holding his head and arms, but he was too out of control. Lindsay took his feet, I took his arms, and we started carrying him the short walk toward the center. He tried to bite my hands several times in that period, so I kept dropping one arm or even both (not that I wanted to hurt him, but I’m pretty sure that a bite from a little boy is something that would almost definitely get super-infected in this country and is thus not something I was willing to risk). He was thrashing and biting, and I’m pretty sure that in the course of that 5-minute walk, I paid my penance for any temper tantrum I ever pitched as a child.
Got him to Acção Social and started yelling at the people there. Like the female cop, they, too, had not received any information about his situation. Didn’t know he had followed us. Didn’t know that he’d been coming to our house. Didn’t know that we had the information for the chapa (so that he could be sent back on it at the expense of that cobrador and so that they would receive some sort of punishment). Didn’t know anything.
As far as I know, he’s been sent back to Chimoio. I stopped by the police station two days later, and they said he was going to be taken back that day (Friday—FIVE days after he followed us here). I feel sorry for him. I can’t imagine what his life must be like if, after playing around with us for 20 minutes, he thinks we’re cool enough to follow 150 kilometers away.
Lessons learned:
-It really IS true that good things don’t always come in the big packages (or however that adage goes). I bet Lindsay never thought she’d be getting a 7-year-old for her birthday!
-BE CAREFUL when playing with kids, especially outside of your village. Adults here don’t normally play with kids. I guess that when he saw two adults playing with him, he thought we really liked him. Not true. I like kids but only those who can be returned to their parents when they get fussy/ need to eat/ need a bath. I can barely take care of myself sometimes- much less a 7-year-old Mozambican boy! Though Lindsay and I get along well, I don’t think we quite envisioned adopting a son as part of our Peace Corps service.
-As sad as it is, child trafficking is apparently a very real thing in Mozambique.
-There is an epic lack of communication, even within the same organization. When we had given the chapa information to the first cops, had spoken to several witnesses, and had even gotten the number to call to track down the chapa, that information was not relayed to anybody, even their fellow cop. And let me tell you, THAT is frustrating. To have that little boy coming to our house and causing trouble all over the villa and know that the cobrador had snuck away from that whole situation like a dirty, filthy rat, just makes me boil.
I’m posting this from Chimoio. Tomorrow, I will get on a chapa to go back to Catandica. If I feel the need to be followed home, maybe I’ll just try for something simple this time, like a puppy.
How I became the mother of a 7-year-old boy
(Alternate title: Why NOT to play with children you don’t wish to take home)
It was September 14, Lindsay’s birthday, and the two of us were heading back to Catandica from Chimoio. We got to the chapa (bus) stop around midday and were just waiting for it to leave, when a little street boy came up to the chapa. He was shy but looked familiar—I had seen him around in the city a couple times.
Not really having anything better to do, we played around with him for maybe 20 minutes, making faces at him out the window. For a while, he came and sat in the car, though wasn’t really near us. Time passed, and we grew bored of the game and were distracted. When we finally got on our way to Catandica, I just assumed that he had gotten off himself or that the cobrador (basically, the guy in charge of letting people onto and off the chapa and taking money) had kicked him off.
We stopped to get gas just outside of town, and I noticed that the little boy was sitting in our chapa. I asked the cobrador who he was with and where he was going, but he ignored me. Flash-forward 2.5 hours. We get into Catandica and are ready to make the 30 minute walk back to the school with lots of groceries. Not far into our trip, we stopped for a second, turned around, and the little boy was FOLLOWING US!! When I asked him where he was going, he started bawling. GREAT!
I went and chewed out the cobrador for his irresponsibility, thinking he’d arrange to have the boy taken back on the next chapa headed for Chimoio. Oh no. He said they’d take him the next morning and that we should just take him home with us for the night. Having recently attended an event about child trafficking, I cited that as a reason why he could definitely NOT come home with me and told him that the child was his responsibility because he had so blatantly ignored me earlier. That A-HOLE then turned my same child trafficking argument back on me, saying that I needed to take the boy to the police (thus alleviating the cobrador from responsibility), or people might think we had tried to lure him to come with us.
Took him to the police, who asked questions of both him and us. Through this, we learned that his name is Tino, he’s from Chimoio, is 7 years old, is in 1st or 2nd grade, had never been to Catandica and knew nobody here, and has a father works in the chapa stop, selling CDs. In the same inquisition, I was asked my profession, residence, nationality, marital status… because CLEARLY that is important! They took down the information for our chapa and grudgingly (after asking the boy if he wanted to go stay with us several times and almost being punched in the face) said he’d be sent back tomorrow (Monday) and that the police would take care of him for the night.
Monday morning: I was sitting at home, preparing for my afternoon classes, when I heard loud crying outside my house. Whoever was crying sounded particularly upset, so I looked outside, and TINO was right in front of our house. How he found it, I have no idea, but- GREAT- now the kid who follows strangers onto chapas knows where I live.
He was really upset, so I took him back into town, ready to tear somebody’s head off for being that irresponsible with him.
Got to the police station, and an officer said she had just taken responsibility for him but that he had run away. Thanks, Captain Obvious. Not only did he run away- he ran away to a house he didn’t know THIRTY MINUTES AWAY! Apparently, the asshole (My most sincere apologies for the foul language. I’ve tried to refrain from it thus far, but believe me- I’m still very much censoring my language.) cops from the day before hadn’t told her that he’d followed the American teachers home. Nor had they told her that we provided him with the information about the chapa, so he had yet to be sent home.
Tino didn’t know his father’s phone number (and at my house told me that they hadn’t yet contacted him), though, to her credit, the policewoman told me that she had contacted his school in Chimoio to get his teacher to contact his father. I couldn’t go off on her, when I looked like she was at least somewhat genuinely concerned, so I left him there in her care, with promises that he’d be going home soon.
Wednesday morning: Again, preparing my lessons, Lindsay sees Tino outside our house. Again. Same clothes he’s been wearing since Sunday. This time, however, he had a smile on his face and looked like he wanted to play. Oh HELLLLL no! I will NOT have that little boy thinking that it’s okay for him to come to our house to play around, especially when child trafficking apparently really is an issue here (I’d heard the day before that there had been a kid taken from Tete that same weekend). With what little patience we had left, Lindsay and I dragged Tino back to the villa and to the police station. I really was ready to strangle somebody that day. I spoke to the same lady, who told me he had been transferred to the Acção Social (Social Action) group on Monday, thus relieving her of the blame.
A social action worker was at the police station, so the three of us set out to take Tino back. Tino, however, didn’t like that idea, and refused to walk, crumpling down to his knees. The social worker had just started carrying him when Tino started thrashing and pitching a fit. THEN, he started trying to bite him. I tried holding his head and arms, but he was too out of control. Lindsay took his feet, I took his arms, and we started carrying him the short walk toward the center. He tried to bite my hands several times in that period, so I kept dropping one arm or even both (not that I wanted to hurt him, but I’m pretty sure that a bite from a little boy is something that would almost definitely get super-infected in this country and is thus not something I was willing to risk). He was thrashing and biting, and I’m pretty sure that in the course of that 5-minute walk, I paid my penance for any temper tantrum I ever pitched as a child.
Got him to Acção Social and started yelling at the people there. Like the female cop, they, too, had not received any information about his situation. Didn’t know he had followed us. Didn’t know that he’d been coming to our house. Didn’t know that we had the information for the chapa (so that he could be sent back on it at the expense of that cobrador and so that they would receive some sort of punishment). Didn’t know anything.
As far as I know, he’s been sent back to Chimoio. I stopped by the police station two days later, and they said he was going to be taken back that day (Friday—FIVE days after he followed us here). I feel sorry for him. I can’t imagine what his life must be like if, after playing around with us for 20 minutes, he thinks we’re cool enough to follow 150 kilometers away.
Lessons learned:
-It really IS true that good things don’t always come in the big packages (or however that adage goes). I bet Lindsay never thought she’d be getting a 7-year-old for her birthday!
-BE CAREFUL when playing with kids, especially outside of your village. Adults here don’t normally play with kids. I guess that when he saw two adults playing with him, he thought we really liked him. Not true. I like kids but only those who can be returned to their parents when they get fussy/ need to eat/ need a bath. I can barely take care of myself sometimes- much less a 7-year-old Mozambican boy! Though Lindsay and I get along well, I don’t think we quite envisioned adopting a son as part of our Peace Corps service.
-As sad as it is, child trafficking is apparently a very real thing in Mozambique.
-There is an epic lack of communication, even within the same organization. When we had given the chapa information to the first cops, had spoken to several witnesses, and had even gotten the number to call to track down the chapa, that information was not relayed to anybody, even their fellow cop. And let me tell you, THAT is frustrating. To have that little boy coming to our house and causing trouble all over the villa and know that the cobrador had snuck away from that whole situation like a dirty, filthy rat, just makes me boil.
I’m posting this from Chimoio. Tomorrow, I will get on a chapa to go back to Catandica. If I feel the need to be followed home, maybe I’ll just try for something simple this time, like a puppy.
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