The Town of Namaacha

In a few short days I’ll be leaving Namaacha to begin my journey north towards Montepuez.  As I’ve only got a few days left here, I thought it would be nice to reflect a little bit on the past two months and this quaint little town of 20,000 that I’ve been calling home. 

From what I understand, Namaacha is a unique place.  As I walk around my neighborhood, Villa Pouca inside of Bairro Frontera, I see the remnants of what look to be abandoned, colonial style vacation homes once inhabited by rich Portuguese ex-patriots.  Superficially, they look deserted, run-down due to a lack of maintenance.  But a closer look reveals that that these homes aren’t vacant, not one bit.  In fact, they’ve been commandeered by local families…big ones.  

The residents of Namaacha live in what we as American’s would perceive as impoverished conditions: having to obtain dirty water from oft-broken wells, burning trash, using pit latrines, and taking showers with a bucket.  But the contradiction lies in the fact that many of the families here do all this while living in a home that is suited for a neighborhood in Bethesda.  The once decadent houses are a subtle reminder that the Portuguese were once here in force. They tell a complicated story of colonization and cultural differences, all the while illustrating the hard-fought liberation of a country from the grasp of a withering foreign dictatorship.

Not all of these homes are dilapidated and broken.  There are many that have been up kept and are still quite breath-taking.  The engineer in me is ashamed to admit, but the structures themselves aren’t what impress me the most.  What really blows me away is how the people have made us of the land.  In my neighborhood, Barrio Frontera, many of the community members have turned their compounds into huge subsistence farms.  Strawberries, Corn, Sugar Cane, Peanuts, Kale, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, beans and rice are all common crops being grown in the machamba’s (small farms) of Villa Pouco.  The most amazing feature of my neighborhood though, and of Namaacha as a whole, is that nearly every single tree you encounter produces some sort of fruit.  Mango trees are everywhere.  I mean, you can’t throw a rock without hitting two or three.  And when it’s not a mango tree, it’s some other tree that’s sprouting something else equally sweet and delicious.  If I weren’t already full on bread and peanut butter every morning, I could pick lychees, limes, oranges, and papaya off the trees I pass along the way to school and eat them while I walked.  On my way home, if my family needed some meat, I could robar one of the goats that I pass (they are tied up everywhere, and to everything), or grab one of the chickens that just walks around town. 

Just like the vegetation that’s slowly over-taking the ruined colonial structures, the once repressed culture that defined Namaacha and Mozambique prior to and during its occupation is in the midst of a revival, revealing itself little by little each and every year.  You can see it in the architecture of every newly constructed home.  You hear it in the local tongues being spoken freely throughout town, and in place of the once-prevalent Portuguese language.  You can smell it in enticing aroma that floats off the Piri-Piri Chicken and it makes your eyes and mouth water as its pungent scent dances its way into your nostrils.  It reminds you of where you are, and it all screams Mozambique.

As much as I love it here though, I can’t wait to get out and see what the rest of this country has to offer.  Namaacha is unique, I know this.  But every volunteer that has come to help us out with training likes to remind us that it’s not really an accurate representation of what Mozambique is really like. If the North really is five to ten years behind the south (something that’s been told to me numerous times as well), I have a feeling that I’m about to find out how true that statement really is.

Here are some pictures of Namaacha:

The Revolution is still alive at Namaacha's Secondary School.  Or maybe they just didn't have any paint left to go over this one...

The Main Drag.

Outside the Wednesday and Saturday "Shoprite" Market.

Inside fake "Shoprite"

My Post-Exam Entry…

Well, that wasn’t the disaster I anticipated it to be.  In all actuality, I think I did just fine.  I entered the exam and pretty much just sat down and conversed with one of the Language Professors for about 20 minutes.  We talked about what I liked to do back in the sates, what Colorado was like, how it compares to Namaacha, and what I hope to do for secondary projects while at site.  We finished the session by doing a little role playing.  He gave me a card with a scenario written in English that we would act out.  I was supposed to pretend we were at a market buying some items for dinner.  I was to ask about the items availability and then barter the price.  Just like that, it was all over.  I thanked the professor and said goodbye.

Having been so discouraged this morning, I knew that I needed to shaped up, and do it quickly.  Lucky for me, I knew what I had to do.  Over the course of the last few weeks, I’ve discovered a practical and fun way to get some extra practice with my Portuguese: I shoot-the-shit with my host-brother.  Honestly, it’s actually been pretty helpful, and always seems to provide a huge boost in confidence when I need it.  We joke around, eat mangos, and talk about whatever there is to talk about.  I ask him questions about himself, the machamba, what kids in Mozambique are like, etc.  He’s a nice guy, as friendly as they come, and always seems happy to let me bug him for a while.  Not only do I get the opportunity to get to know him better, but I get some much-needed practice too!

Aside from putting him on display in a picture a few weeks ago (he was sporting my Banana Suit), I don’t think that I’ve given the internet an adequate introduction to him yet. His name is Gerson Armando Sidonio, but the family calls him Mandinho for short.  The nickname means Armando Junior (he’s named after my host-father, who is his grandfather), and this kid is bright.  When I say bright, I mean it by American standards.  If compared side-by-side, he’d blow the typical American 18 year-old out of the water.  It’s almost embarrassing to admit that when I was 18, I wasn’t half the man he is today.  Almost ten years later, I still might not be.  He pretty much runs the house when my host-parents aren’t around (which is a lot), working on the farm, selling the produce, maintaining the house, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, and studying when he has some free time.  He just recently passed his 12^th grade final exams, which means he’s now eligible to register for College.  Next year, he’ll begin studying Electrical Engineering in Maputo, and everyone really couldn’t be prouder of him.  It’s strange, but I’ve learned more from this eighteen year-old kid in ten weeks than from spending sixteen weeks with some college professors.  Needless to say, I owe him a huge thanks for all the help he’s provided me; in preparing for today, in practicing all week, and for spending two months teaching me how to survive in Mozambique.  I only hope that one day I’ll be as eloquent as I’d like to be so I can tell him personally how grateful I am.

Now, with this test behind me, I’m feeling pretty good.  Peace Corps came by today and picked up the first round of luggage in preparation for our big move out of Namaacha. I can’t even begin to describe how excited I am about this (mostly because I’m feeling hangry – hungry and angry – and lazy and don’t want to type any more).  I’m ready to get my life started; I’m ready to start settling in.  Only a few more days till we start moving.

We were talking about Peanuts…

The worst is when your reverse “A-ha!” moments time themselves so perfectly that they hit you when you least expect it.  Your body stops functioning and turns itself into a lifeless vessel, but your mind is still very much on the move.  Forty-three very negative thought-streams predicting the immediate future sprint marathons through your head in different directions, but none end with victory; all stop at Mile 25.  Cue the nerves.  Your stomach decides to take an unsavory plunge off the nearest cliff, and your confidence, the lemming that is it, soon follows suit.  Feelings of defeat infect your entire body.  The ominous catalyst enters through your ears and/or eyes, is converted to negative emotion in your brain, and is then sent racing through your veins faster than the blood which fuels you.   And just like that, you’ve been transformed into a hopeless glob of goo. It’s that discouraging feeling you get when something metaphorically kicks you right in the testicles.  That feeling’s only made worse when you realize that you’re alone, and in Africa… for another two years.

I got that metaphorical kick tonight while attempting to make conversation with my Mãe, and my downhearted mood stuck with me throughout the night.  In typical fashion, I’m describing the feeling to you in the most dramatic way possible.  We were talking about peanuts.  I was trying to tell her that a friend of mine wanted to buy three cups of peanuts for a game we would be playing on Saturday. In hind sight, trying to ask for something that will be used in the future isn’t a particularly easy task when you don’t have a firm grasp on interrogatives or the future tense.  Using the expression “em futuro,” will only work so well for so long. Also, it doesn’t help that Portuguese is neither of our first languages, and neither of us know it all that well.

Up until today, I had spent the past few days basking in my newfound ability to converse in a foreign language on a very basic level.  For the most part, when I know the context of a conversation, I can understand most of what is being said to me at any point in time.  Responding….well, that’s a different story, but I can usually get the point across without too much trouble.   All in all, I’ve been able to successfully fight my way through conversations for about 2 weeks now.  That said, there have been a few speed bumps along the way.

For some reason, last night felt more like a trying to conquer a mountain then hurdle a speed bump.  For some reason, I just couldn’t explain things right.  I forgot words, mis-conjugated verbs, and constructed my sentences pretty poorly.  A lot worse than usual.   My Mãe, the expressive little African Peach that she is (her repertoire of facial expressions is unmatched by anyone I’ve ever seen.  Her laugh comes from the bottom of her belly, and you can hear it down the street.  Phenomenal.  And she does this thing when I get home from school that makes me feel are warm and fuzzy inside. When she sees me, she gets all excited, smiles and barks “Oooh, meu filho, ja volto!”  No joke, she does this every time.  And it’s freakin’ adorable… end digressive tangent), responded with a number of her familiar verbal reactions. A loud, confused “EIY!” and “OOO!” were thrown my way a few times before the conversation came to a screeching halt as both of us were at a loss for words.  If I hadn’t been using it to cut up the fish on my plate, I could have used my butter knife to cut the awkward that now filled the air.  It was quiet.  It was disheartening. It was uncomfortable. I felt embarrassed and low.  We sat there in silence, reflecting on the awkward exchange as we continued to eat.  At least we could use that to temporarily escape from the moment.

Awkward conversations are no big deal to me.  I’ve had plenty throughout my time out here. This wasn’t the first, and it certainly won’t be the last.  I rarely know everything that’s being said to me, and I’ve gotten quite good at faking it while successfully steering the conversation back in the direction of something I can understand and sustain. But tonight was different.  On the eve of the LPI (the final language evaluation we have to pass  that apparently determines whether or not we can swear-in as volunteers on Tuesday), the confidence I’d need for the following day just up and walked away.  Now, with my oral exam looming over me iin less than twenty-four short hours, I’m still trying to locate it. Boa Sorte, Professor William.

Mozambican Food Porn

Lick your lips and rub your bellies folks, this post is about sweet and succulent South-East African Sustenance.   I’ve got a few members of my family back home who are pretty big fans of food, so I thought they’d be interested in hearing a little something about what my Mãe’s been filling my stomach with throughout my homestay.

Before I begin, I want to explain that of all the things that have shocked me in Africa, (aside from gigantic spiders) the food situation has done the best job of causing my jaw to drop.  Day after day I find myself surprised by not only the diversity off what’s available, but with the quantity as well.  Oh, and the prices are pretty sweet too.

That said, I do also recognize that Namaacha and Maputo are certainly exceptions to the African expectation.  Although these two places might convince you otherwise, Mozambique, and Africa in general, have huge problems with malnutrition and starvation.  I’m actually expecting to encounter a lot more of this once I head up north where the prevalence of poverty is a lot higher, and opportunities for financial gain seem to be a whole lot smaller. Still, exceptional Mozambique is still part of Mozambique, and I am still blown away by the fact that this is nothing like what I expected to find.

For example, let me tell you a little about Shoprite.  The Shoprite in Maputo redefines the concept of a mega-superstore.  It’s essentially the consequential offspring of a kinky love triangle between Walmart, Target and Safeway.  And it has everything; literally, everything.  If I had known about this place prior to coming, I wouldn’t have packed a second bag.  I remember hearing from RPCV’s (on the internet and in person) time and time again that I should unpack half of what I put in my bags because it wouldn’t  be needed.  And if it turned out that I needed it, I could get it in-country.  Problem was, no one ever advised me on which half to take out. So, I’m gonna clear that up right here and now (just in case there are any future PCV’s heading to Mozambique and reading):  Unpack EVERYTHING.  If you need it, Shoprite has it.  If Shoprite doesn’t have it, then Premier – which is a block or two away and one square kilometer bigger in size – does. 

But I digress (as I often seem to do), I’m not supposed to be drooling over the African Shopping Scene.  This post is about food, so back to it!

Much to my Mãe’s delight, I’ve begun a habit of taking a pictures of my full plate of food prior to diving in and devouring the pile that’s been given to me (a second portion always follows as because she’s also trying to fatten me up so she can brag to her friends about how much I’ve engordar’ed).  I tell her that I want to show the pictures to my American family and Mãe, and she’s excited that I want to put her artwork on display outside the house. She spends most of her time cooking recipes that date back to a time before the Portuguese arrived (that was over years 400 ago), and have been handed down verbally ever since.  She learned to cook by watching her Mãe, eventually transitioning from the role of student to that of the teacher when she had children and taught them the same skills.  She laughs hysterically as I take each photo, as if I’ve just told her she’s going to be featured in a famous cooking magazine.

So, without further ado, I present to you Mozambican food porn:

Matapa (AKA Green Stuff)

Green Stuff

This is the dish you come to Mozambique to eat.  Matapa is Mozambique; and Mozambicans do it well. First and foremost, the leaves of a Mandioka plant (whose leaves looks distinctly similar to those found on a cannabis plant) are picked, chopped, and then pounded (Pillar’ed) into a greenish paste using a Pilão (classic africa: a three foot long section of a tree that’s been hollowed out about half way through and fashioned into a deep bowl).  Peanuts are then deshelled, mixed with some dry rice grains (to suck up some of the moisture, genius!) and put through the same pillar’ing process until they have been crushed into a fine powder.  Not sure what happens next, but at some point they mix in onions, tomatoes, and coconut, then they stew it all together until it looks like what you see in the picture.  It’s served to me over either a bed of white rice or an extremely generous portion of Xima (Mozambican version of mashed potatoes made from corn flour). I eat it all, and it makes me happy.

 

Matção (Other Green Stuff)

Other Green Stuff

Matção is the name of this dish in Shengana (the local Language) and it essentially means “Leaves of the Pumpkin Plant.”  This stuff is freakin’ amazing, and if I wasn’t so terrified of what a consistent diet of nothing but pumpkin leaves would do to my stomach, I’d ask my Mãe to cook it up every single day.  Very similar to Matapa, except that instead of Pillar-ing the leaves (different type of foliage used…in this case, it’s the leaves of a pumpkin plant), they are sliced into thin strips.  Peanuts are prepared in a similar fashion as I described them in Matapa, and both are then stewed with onions, tomatoes, coconut, water, and salt.  Served over White Rice.  When I was in Bilene, we had a variation of this that was served with crab (carangueju) stewed in as well.  It tasted like a crab had made love to a coconut (apologies for all of the sex metaphors in this little blurb)

Cacana (Shitty Green Stuff)

Similar in style to Matção and Matapa, but instead of tasting good, it tastes like a sour ash tray.  I blame the vegetable for this, not the recipe.  A cacana is small, green ball that’s about the size of a grape.  I guess it’s a vegetable, But I’m not really sure.  I also don’t know if there’s an English name for it, but I don’t think so, because I’ve never seen it outside of Moz.  I don’t have a picture of the finished product because I’ve only had it once, and I think my Mãe could tell that I wasn’t a fan.  To be honest, apart from the one time I was forced to stomach it, I don’t know too much about it.  I guess they chop it up and stew it with all the same ingredients (and cigarettes too, cough), and then serve it over white rice.  Either way, it doesn’t matter because I’d rather be locked in a room and forced to watch the same Brazilian Soap Opera over and over again on full volume than eat it again.

Caril de Vaca

I eat this.  A lot.

Beef Medallions (small pieces of piece that have been cut off a much larger hunk of meat we keep in our freezer…and don’t you dare trim the fat off either, we eat it all here) left to cook in boiling water, then stewed with Tomatoes, Onions, Potatoes, Oil and a packet of powdered Chicken Stock.  Served over White Rice.  I usually have this four or five times a week and it’s actually pretty good.  Easy to make and equally delicious.  Tastes a lot like beef stew!

Karapão

Here fishy, fishy, fishy.

(PIC)

Karapão is a breed of fish from Angola (or so I’ve been told…) that my Mãe buys in mass quantities when she is in Maputo, and then freezes individuals so she can use them when she wants (we have one of those box freezers in our house, but no refrigerator).  In preparing it, she chops of the head, cuts the body into a few pieces, and then rubs it down with some salt, garlic, and some other spices (I don’t know what exactly, but whatever it is, it’s savory).  When she ready to cook, she throws the pieces into a pan of oil and fry’s the crap out of them until they taste like salty, garlic-ey heaven. It’s usually served to me on a bed of elbow pasta or spaghetti noodles that have been tossed in oil, tomatoes and onions, along with some fried potatoes.  Before eating, I have to use my hands to extract all the bones.  Honestly, it’s so good that I don’t mind having to go through the tedious bone collection process each and every time I eat it.

Frango

Dead chicken.

Galinha is the word for chicken when it’s alive.  But after the little sucker has been cut and cooked up, it’s called Frango.  There are a ton of different ways to prepare frango, but like so many other things, my Mãe likes to makes a salty little stew with potatoes and broth.  Whenever she wants to make frango, she has to actually go and buy a real-live chicken at the market. Of course, you can buy frozen chicken in bigger cities, but Namaacha doesn’t have that luxury.  Instead, they sell the chicken very much alive, right out of the cage. You see tons of people walking around holding chickens here, returning from the market.  It’s pretty popular, and seems to be a cheap and easy meal (Chickens here cost about 2 or 3 bucks!).  Usually, if my mom isn’t make chicken that night, she’ll leave the chicken sitting in our kitchen overnight.  I once walked in late at night to do the dishes and saw one just sitting there in a bucket too terrified to move.  It stayed put and watched me the entire time, as if it knew what it had coming.  Sad life, but it’s tough to be happy when you’re so delicious.

Far and away my favorite type of frango is when it’s been grilled (Frango Asado).  A friend of mine introduced this delectable delight to me the other day when I followed him to the market for lunch.  We sat down at his Mãe’s stall (she runs a little restaurant there serving lunch to people), and after choosing which half chicken we wanted, she cooked it up and served it to us with some Xima and salad. You then carefully apply a minuscule amount of the eye-watering, home-made Piri-Piri sauce and tear it apart with your hands.  When we were done, we washed ourselves off, said thanks and left 70 Mets on the table (a little more than $2).  The picture at the beginning of this section is from that visit.

Matabicho

My Breakfast, each and every day.

This is a picture of the breakfast (Matabicho) I eat every single morning.  I slice up a small loaf of bread, lather it up with peanut butter, then top it with a cut up banana.  Sometimes I drink tea, but if I'm lucky and we have it, I get Milo (essentially just hot chocolate).

 

Lancha

Yum.

Lanchar means to snack in Portuguese (spelling?), and everyday I'm given the same thing.  Maybe you recognize this picture from my Halloween entry?  My snack is always a Banana, Juice Box, and some Bloachas (cookies/crackers).  Sometimes, instead of Maria's, I get a pack of Aqua e Sal.

A few other things that I don’t have pictures of:

Massa

Massa is the Portuguese word for noodles (I think).  There’s nothing too special about this dish and there are a ton of variations.  Essentially, anything that is mainly noodles, and mixed with other things can be called massa.  My Mãe doesn’t really cook it too often, but when she does, she tosses noodles with tomatoes, onions, and oil, and then makes a small salade of raw onions, cucumbers and oil that I mix in later. Sometimes my host brother has to cook, and he’ll make a variation of this too.  I know I haven’t made it out to be much, but any way it’s served to me is has a freaking phenomenal taste.  He cooks his up with spaghetti and then mixes in fried fish (sardines or karapão), tomatoes, onions and salt before drenching the mixtura in oil.

Kouve

Kouve is Mozambican Kale.  It’s prepared exactly like Matção, and sautéed with the same stuff too.  Another one of my personal favorites!

Thanksgiving

I could sit here and describe thanks giving to you word by word, but instead I'll just show you what I ate.

First Plate

Second Plate

After the second plate, the turkey got to me and I was too lazy to take any more pictures.  Instead, I attacked the desert table.

Desert Table

Thanksgiving was awesome.  We all came together for a big feast, where individual teams cooked up a variety of different things.  A lot of the regular stuff (Sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, salad, green beans, and turkey...there were ten turkeys), and then an entire table devotes to deserts (pumpkin pie, peacan pie, apple crisp, apple crumble, brownies, and more).  As I've been craving brownies since we left Philly nine weeks ago, I managed to land myself on the brownie making team.  We cooked up four or five trays before coming to the realization that the most popular item for sure, would be brownie batter.  So instead of cooking the last tray, we poured the chocolatey mixture into some tuberware (we made this last batch without eggs) and brought that along with us.

One side of the buffet.

Some of the turkeys.

Site Placement Day!

Well, today arrived in dramatic fashion, and it started with some rain. It hadn’t rained in about 4 days and had been so hot that I was practically beginning for the crappy weather to role in.  Today, it finally did, and I was quickly reminded of why walking anywhere sucks when it rains in Namaacha.  About two minute into my soggy trek to school this morning, enough matope had latched itself onto the bottoms of my shoes to make it feel like each of my feet weighed about 20 pounds.

The morning itself crawled by at a turtles pace.  Some representatives from USAID spent the first few hours talking about a new initiative they were starting in Moz, and then Carl, our Country Director, did a session on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator.  When 1pm finally rolled around, every single trainee was sitting on the edge of their seat.  We were given the go-ahead to pack up our stuff and head to the Gymnasium where the site placement ceremony would take place.

As we entered the gym, we formed a big circle around a giant map of Mozambique that had been drawn out with chalk on the floor. Our language professors then handed each of us a personalized envelope that contained a piece of paper with the name of our sites, a short job description, as well as a map. 

Now, I’ve opened plenty of envelopes in my day, some more interesting than others.  While the majority of the envelopes I’ve opened have contained complete crap (e.x. credit card offers, magazine subscription renewals, valentines that didn’t include a piece of candy…), some have not (e.x. Report Cards, SAT scores, college application decisions, birthday money…).  This envelope definitely fell into the latter group. 

Upon grabbing the envelope, I felt my heart begin to beat a little faster as a tidal wave of excitement surged through my body.  Endorphins released; my fingers went numb.  I stared deeply into the envelope’s empty white surface, lost in thought; my mind erupting with visualizations and fantasies of how the next two-years would all pan out.  I was excited.  

I’d been waiting nearly eighteen months for this exact moment; for my life to finally have some sort of certainty.  Ever since finishing grad school, my life has been a messy clump of ambiguity.  Between moving away from Colorado, watching a family staple disintegrate, bouncing around from job to job, and looking for a new path in life, I can’t remember the last time I was able to confidently answer the question “Where will I be in two months, and what will I be doing?”  And it’s taken a stressful toll. But the contents of the envelope would change all that.

After counting down from three, all 68 of us opened our envelopes and then ran to find our places on the giant map so that we could meet our site-mates and new neighbors.  And just like that, life became a little more clear.

PCV Name:  William Zweig

Subject: Physics Teacher

Site: Montepuez, Cabo Delgado

School: Escola Secundaria 15 de Outubro

Initial reactions:  I’m psyched. Know why?  Because I wanted the north, and I got the north.  I wanted rural but close to a city, and I got rural but close to a city.  I wanted to replace someone at an already-established site and live alone, and sure enough, I got both of those things.  My house is fairly new, apparently has consistent electricity and even water that comes out of a tap (albeit sporadically).  There are nearby mountains, and lots of hiking trails to explore. I have two site-mates, which is also awesome.  One is a Moz 17’er who’s been living in town for a year already.  The other is a delightful young woman from my group named Anna.  Even more awesome is the fact that she is the only other person in my group that happens to be from Maryland. There doesn’t seem to be much to complain about (well, it’s supposedly pretty hot, but it’s a dry heat like Colorado and not miserable and humid like DC!).  Maybe that’ll change once I settle in and get to know it better, but for now, I’m going to sleep a pretty happy guy. 

Site Placement Interview

After waiting all day for my turn to come, I finally had my site placement interview just as we finished the afternoon language class. You know, I think it went pretty well. I interviewed with Gellany, who is the APCD for the Northern Provinces.  Not sure what his job is exactly, but it includes figuring out where to place volunteers depending on the need of various schools. We spent about 20 minutes or so talking about a variety of things.  He asked what I was looking for in a site, what I wanted to teach, what I wanted to do, what I wanted my living situation to be like (roommates?), and more. I had spent about six weeks thinking about all this prior to our interview, so I had a lot to say.  I told him that I was pretty open to placement anywhere, but was really hoping for electricity.  I also explained that I was very interested in infrastructure engineering projects, wanted to explore what was going on in Mozambique (there is a lot!), and possibly make some international engineering contacts if at all possible.  He seemed pretty receptive to this, but who knows, maybe he was just humoring me.  Either way, I’m excited!

We find out what our sites are on Wednesday, two days from now.  It feels so weird, time has never moved slower. 

A few Gross Note from the Beginning of Week 7:

• It’s funny to look back at the past few weeks and reflect on what I’ve been through, how I’ve changed, and what’s to come.  One thing I remember well that stands out is my tendency to stress out over the language. Meh, it’s kind of unavoidable when you are expected to be fluent just 
• Mango season just arrived.  In the past, I’ve never really eaten them or been much of a fan.  But here in Mozambique, it’s a different story.  In the past two days I think I’ve eaten about 17.  This fruit is un-freakin-believable.  I’ve never done crack before, but my guess that mango’s taste like crack feels.  That’s gotta be why both are so addicting. Also, I think I remember hearing that doing too much crack gives you diarrhea.  The same thing happens when you do too much mango too.
• To continue with the bathroom talk, I’ve recently discovered that there is an impending problem with my host-family’s latrine: it’s nearly full.  The level of body fluid that currently resides below the ground is at an uncomfortably high level, barely a foot and a half from the top of the chimney.  It’s bad.  You know how sometimes when you pee in a toilet or stall, a little toilet water will splash out?  Well, that problem isn’t limited to toilet bowls.  If the level of body fluid in a pit latrine reaches a certain level, it can happen there too.  It’s just that what splashes out isn’t really water. Like I said, this is a problem.  We have three more weeks of training left in Namaacha and we don’t have another latrine.  It’s gonna be a long three weeks…

Climbing the Mountain

It’s Sunday, and you know what that means: LAZY DAY! But today was anything but lazy; instead it was active and awesome.  I woke up after five awesome hours of sleep at the awesome hour of 7am with an awesomely upset stomach. I ate an awesome breakfast of awesomely stale bread and an awesomely unripe banana.  The water in my tea was awesomely lukewarm (because I was feeling awesomely lazy and did not want to fully heat up the water) and the artificial creamer that I put in it did its best to resist disintegrating, instead deciding to form an awesomely disgusting clump of fake milk play dough that floated around my tea.  Around 815ish, I was feeling even more awesome, so I decided to go back to bed.

I woke back up around 1030am – still feeling awesome – and began getting ready to carpe diem the crap outta the day.  Ryan, Rafael, Anneke and Anna showed up at my house around 11am, and after a bit of dilly-dallying with mangos and sunscreen we set off on our journey to climb the mountain the overlooks all of Namaacha. On a side note, Ryan and I have been talking about hiking up this mountain for about four weeks now. Since Sunday is the only day that we don’t have class, it’s pretty much the only time we would be able to go on such a long hike.  Unfortunately, since all it ever does here is rain, we’ve had to postpone our plans more than a few times.  But today…today was the day that we were determined to make it happen.

Here are some pictures from the hike:

Stereotypical Brazilian Pose.

The Chapa Information Post

Not sure if I’ve described what exactly a Chapa is yet, but if I haven’t, then here’s a short lesson on what they are, how they work, and how much they suck. 

Chapas are the official Mozambican method of travel when someone is looking to get from Point A to Point B.  There are other options to choose from (buses, trains, airplanes, taxi’s, etc.), but Chapas seem to be the preferred way of getting around if you don’t have a personal car.  They work a bit like a normal municipal bus system in the states would with pre-determined routes and a set price, but they are far more dangerous.  There’s a reason for that too. 

Manned by a Motorista (Driver) and Cobrador (I don’t know the English translation, but he is the one who takes the money as people get into and out of the van), Chapas are big (but not that big) ghetto-looking, flat-face vans a bit smaller in length and width than a typical sixteen-passenger van you see in the states.  In these vans though, the engine is located in a compartment below the space that is between the driver and shotgun seat (keep in mind that they drive on the other side of the road here, and thus the driver seat is on the other side).  Often, there is a seat on top of this compartment to make the space more comfortable for the unlucky person that has to sit there.  Behind the front row where the driver sits are four more under-padded benches – each with a fold-down seat on the end that folds-up so people can get in and out of the back “easily” – that provide just barely enough space for three people to sit uncomfortably in each row.  Because this is Mozambique though, they cram four people into each bench. 

But it doesn’t stop there.  There is still a little bit of space behind the driver and passenger seats, and as a result, there are typically a couple people sitting backwards and occupying those spaces as well.  But, if the Chapa is going less than 100km, it doesn’t stop there.  Even though the Cobrador is already having trouble closing the sliding door, he’ll typically try and squeeze one more people who will join him in spending the entire ride crammed in and standing as if they we’re imitating the shape of an upside-down capital letter “L.”  Keep in mind that this van also doesn’t really have much storage space, so if you have any sort of carry-on, it usually rides on your lap.  Now, if you’ve been doing the math, than that makes approximately 22-23 people – with luggage – packed into a van that is designed to hold 16 people.  The Chapa experience redefines any preconceived notion of what it means to be packed like Sardines. There is no such thing as a personal bubble when riding a Chapa.

Thus far, my record is 26 people in one Chapa (Ok, ok…two were kids sitting on the laps of adults, but I think that should still count!).  It was miserable, and when I get back, I promise never to complain about not having enough leg room on a bus, plane, or car in America ever again.