They fired the gun inside the house.

Manage your expectations, they said.  Expect the unexpected.  That’s what Peace Corps is all about.

Ok, I said…piece of cake.  I’ll just roll with the punches, it won’t be so hard.

So you go on doing your thing, taking a couple hits, but you always end up getting back up.  Bruises heal, right?

But then a group of 3 to 5 jerks armed with guns and machetes beat up your unarmed guards, rip off your security grates, and break into your house in the middle of the night to hold you, your wife, and your three young children hostage while ripping your home apart in search of valuables.  Your Laptop, your iPad, your LCD TV, electronic picture frames, and all your emergency cash is taken. To make sure you know your place, they fire a gun inside your house, in front of you as you lay on the ground with your wife, your kids locked in their room less than 20 feet away. How about that bruise; Does that one heal?

I don’t know the answer to that one.  My hope is that yes, it does.  What I do know is that the road to recovery from something as traumatic as what my missionary friends experienced a few nights ago is a long one.

I can’t release the thought: Why do bad things happen to good people?  The answer, I’m sure, is complicated.  But it doesn’t matter. Apparently that’s life.  The only thing that matters now is perseverance.

When something like this happens – when the worlds shows its ugly-side – it’s hard for me to understand how the victim can stay motivated.  Oftentimes they don’t.  Intense feelings of vulnerability cause them to retreat into a closed-off space, void of interactions and away from the public world in which they once lived. It’s completely understandable.  We are not a people who have the inherent ability to process trauma, put it behind us so easily, and return to normalcy like nothing ever happened.  No, instead the bad things seem to stick with us.  It’s what we tend to remember the best, and oftentimes it overshadows all the good that we’ve experienced.

I’ve talked to many a PCV who’ve had security incidents, and for some, even though they come out of it scarred, their experience is often reinvigorating.  Most need a recovery period, just like anyone else.  They have their bad moments.  But what I’ve also seen is that their trauma lights a fire inside of them, and they use that motivation to fuel their service.  To show not only themselves, but the offender that they are not one to succumb to adversity.  They will not fall.  From what I’ve seen, resiliency seems to be a characteristic common to not only PCV’s, but to most within the ex-patriot community as well.  And it’s one that I’m sure all the members of my compassionate and dedicated missionary family possess as well.

Consegui!

There’s this song here that’s pretty popular right now.  It’s called “Proximo Ano,” and it plays on repeat here at various Baraca’s (little shacks with huge, loud, yet still crappy sound systems where you can buy beer, cigarettes, candy, and some other little things) around town.  I can’t understand most of what the singer is saying, but the Chorus is pretty addicting.  After repeating the phrase “Proximo ano” three times and then saying something else, the singer pauses and then yells, “Consegui!”  It translates to something like “I did it!” And it’s hard not feel like a winner when you’re singing it. 

Usually I just sing just for the sake of singing along.  But today was different.  Today I had a reason for singing that chorus with more enthusiasm than ever before.  We did it.  We conseguired!  The city Administrador, the former African Revolutionary War Commander who thinks that I’m a CIA spy gave me his blessing to continue.

Yes, we finally got the signature we needed. Not the most legible thing I’ve seen, but approval none the less.  The Administrator signed the top of a letter that the City’s Infrastructure Department had written in support of the project (this was an added bonus I didn’t know about that was also submitted to him in support of our project along with all our other documents).  He also signed every page of the packet we gave him as well. There was no reason for that, it was simply an information packet about the Peace Corps as a whole, including our mission and objectives in country.  Pointless stuff, but that’s Mozambican Bureaucracy for you.

So with that victory, we managed to jump serious hurdle number one.  It took a little longer than expected, but…well…I guess that was a bad metaphor, because this isn’t really a race. We conseguir-ed.  Onto the next obstacle. Bring it on. 

Well…that didn’t go the way I thought it would.

You ever been in one of those situations where you enter the scene and immediately you know that something’s gonna go wrong.  It’s like stepping on a landmine in the bush, and hearing the click of the detonator right before your leg is blown off. Just enough time for a bunch of neurons to fire in your brain, and for you to realize what’s happening and what kinda shit is about to hit the proverbial fan.  It’s that moment you say “Oh S…”, but before you can even finish the explosion of smoke and fire swallows you whole and your own foot kicks you in the face.

Yep, that happened today…when I almost took down the entire project.  Allow me to give an overly-dramatic reinterpretation of what happened today during a meeting I had with the District Administrator of Montepuez about the Bridge.  I’m gonna go ahead post the e-mail I wrote to our Country Director, as well as a few other Peace Corps Chefe’s running the show in Maputo.
Prep yourselves.  This is a long one. 

“
Hi Everyone,

I’m writing you this e-mail in regards to a meeting I had today with the Administrador do Distrito de Montepuez in Cabo Delgado.  You may have already heard, but I will summarize the events of the meeting below (as well as why I had the meeting in the first place) so that everyone is clear, just in case.

Background: 
Over the past few months, I’ve started working on an exciting secondary project.  I’ve partnered with three small communities just outside of Montepuez with the goal of building a pedestrian bridge over the Rio Montepuez. Together we will plan, design, and build a 35 meter Bridge with the purpose of not only providing a safe means for crossing a dangerous, crocodile-filled river all year long, but to also stimulate the local economies.  Strong enough for people, animals, bicycles, and even motorcycles, a bridge in the proposed location would allow farmers to use the fertile land on the opposite side to continue their subsistence farming, and start profiting from cash crops like cotton as well.  Additionally, it would also provide those living on the far side of the river with convenient access to a hospital and specialized medical posts, secondary schools, a diverse market and the main transportation hub.

In addition to the three communities, I’ve managed to put together a small team of 4 additional people who are helping with various tasks.  These counterparts include: 1.) Alan - an American Missionary fluent in the local language (Macua), active in the beneficiary communities, and serving as a liaison between the team and the communities; 2.) Armindo – my former language tutor, turned project assistant, who is well connected in the city, knows how and where to get materials, and is very knowledgeable about all things Mozambique; 3.) Anna – My wonderful sitemate who has recently come aboard to assist with state-side fundraising, material procurement research duties here in Moz, and general support; and, 4.) Undukkus – the most recent addition to our team and a first year student and leader at the local Universidade Pedogogico who is assisting with local fund-raising activities, has an expansive network both here in Montepuez and in Pemba, and is serving as our liaison with the local government.

In trying to realize this project, I’ve had to interact with the local government quite a bit.  Armindo and Alan have been particularly useful in this regards often pointing me in the right direction and even accompanying me to some of the meetings.  Up until today, every single government employee that we’ve talked to about the project (Chefe’s included), have been extremely helpful, and often both excited and interested in the project too.  In developing the project, we came up with a plan of attack of who we would approach in terms of seeking approval for the project and when we would talk to them.  We all agreed that the first people we needed to talk to (after the villages of course) were those at the Escritorio dos Servicos Urbanos do Distrito.  They are in charge of infrastructure projects, and it seemed to us that this type of project fell right into that label.  We met with the Director and a Technico, described the project to him, and then discussed his thoughts and our next move.  He told us that the next step would be to write a letter to the Administrador describing the project and seeking approval.  In this letter, he told us that it would be necessary to include a cost estimate, and in the meantime while it was being prepared, he said that he would contact the administrator, tell him about the project and to expect a letter from us.

Producing an estimate for the bridge is not an easy task due to the complex nature of the project.  In order to produce an estimate, we needed to do a site survey and take measurements.  Once we had that information, I would be able to produce a basic design and material estimate. I have a background in Civil Engineering, so I was excited to take up this opportunity to do some real field work. 

In trying to figure out how we could do this survey, I began to search the city for some of the tools I needed. I went back to the Escritorio dos Servicos Urbanos do Distrito to see if they had any equipment I could borrow, and was then told to visit the Escritorio dos Servicos Urbanos do Municipio.  While there, I spoke with the director and discovered that the city Technicos had a Total Station, an advanced surveying machine that would allow for us to make the precise measurements that we needed.  I was told that borrowing it would not be a problem so long as I got approval from the President of Montepuez. So, I went back home, wrote a Pedido, and returned the next day to ask the President of the city if I could borrow their Machine.  As it turned out, rather than just dropping off the letter, I was invited into the President’s Office and had the opportunity to speak with him directly about my request.  The President was extremely enthusiastic about the project and approved my request immediately, wishing me good luck with my project and saying that he hoped we would succeed so that we could continue doing more projects just like this one.  I returned to Servicos Urbanos a few days later to pick up the machine, and then went to complete my survey. Using the collected data, I was able to produce a basic design and put together a rough budget for the project, the same budget I submitted with my PCPP Grant Application.  That brings us to the present day. 


Present Day:
This morning, Undukkus and I went to the city with the intention of scheduling a meeting to sit down with the District Administrator so that we could deliver the letter and tell him about our project. As it turned out, his secretary told us that was available to talk right at that moment, and so, if we wanted to, we could talk with him today.  Thinking this was a good chance to introduce ourselves and give him some basic information about the project, we decided to take the meeting. This turned out to be a big mistake.

Even before we started the meeting, both Undukkus and I could tell that the Administrator was already in a bad mood.  We started off the meeting with formal greetings, before Pedro went into some of the details of our project.  Undukkus barely had a chance to say anything of substance before the Administrator began an angry tirade about how this was his district, how this wasn’t the mission of Peace Corps, and how he hadn’t received any of the proper documentation (from the Pedagogical University, from the American Embassy, from Corpo da Paz, from anyone…). He refused to let us explain, was not interested in seeing any of the pictures we brought along, and was not willing to continue the meeting without any of his required documentation.  It was obvious that he wanted us to leave when he closed his notebook and stood up.  We both did the same, and as he walked us to the door of his office, I tried to respectfully despedir (to say goodbye).  I thanked him for his time, apologized for the inconvenience, and then assured him that we would arrange all of the documents that he requested. I then stuck out my hand to shake and close the meeting.  He looked at my hand, and after a few very awkward seconds passed, he grabbed it and literally forced me out of the room in a very aggressive manner.  He then slammed the door behind me and kept Pedro in the room.  After two or three minutes, Pedro emerged just as confused and taken aback as I was.  He later told me what happened once I had left.  The Administrador, still angry, turned to him and asked “Who are you?  Who do you think you are coming here? Do you have any idea what you are doing?”  Pedro tried to respond in a calm manner, but the Administrator cut him off again, explain: “We have problems here in this country and you are trying to do this?  Get out of here.” He then kicked Pedro out as well.  We were both shocked.


The Aftermath:
Reflecting back on the events of today, I’ve tried to understand what happened and why he reacted the way he did.  I’ve come to a few conclusions.  First and foremost, I realize that he should have been the first person we contacted in regards to this project, and not doing so was a big mistake.  We probably should have written him to ask for permission before doing any work at all.  I regret not doing that.  Secondly, I believe that he is concerned about me being an American and, judging by what he said to Pedro behind closed doors, he may believe that I have ulterior political motives.  He has every right to think that.  He fought with FRELIMO during the Civil War, and as Marcelino mentioned to me on the phone today, he was actually a high ranking official in the Military prior to moving into office.  He is probably aware of who the US backed during the Mozambican Civil War, and as a result, may not be very trusting of Americans.  Additionally, as strange as it may sound, he may also believe that I am spying for the American Government (this wouldn’t be the first time that American’s living in Montepuez have been accused of spying by a district administer, it happened to the Missionaries upon their arrival here ten years ago).

As far as I am concerned, I’ve put it behind me.  I have no intention of abandoning this project, and if anything, it has only motivated me even more to succeed.  Both Pedro and I feel that have something to prove, and would like nothing more than to show the Administrator that we are capable.  Personally, I look forward to the challenge of changing his opinion of me and my country.
“

So yeah, that happened.  And even though it’s a pretty significant happening, I believe it’s something we will be able to overcome.  We’ve got a plan of action that our head honchos in the capital have approved and we’ll now follow it to resolve this issue.  Essentially, we’re gonna give this guy exactly what he wants.  The Country Director is writing a letter that will be signed and stamped that includes information about Peace Corps, my role as a volunteer (Professor, Representative of the US, Pursuer of Secondary Projects, etc.), and that he approves and supports my undertaking of the bridge-building project. Pedro, meanwhile, is working on getting the same exact type of letter from his university.

Now I may not be able to secure a comfortable space on the Administrators “Good Side,” but that’s not really my goal right now.  I’ll give him what he wants, and if he approves, then we’ll show him a bridge. Has the CIA spy ever done that?

Mozambican Prom

My cousin used to work at this restaurant in Bethesda a few years ago.  I think it was called Newton’s Table, after Sir Isaac himself.  All the dishes were so creative, it was like each plate was an ingenious concoction straight from the mind and workbench of Mr. Sir Isaac Newton himself.  Ok, it probably wasn’t named after Isaac, but more likely it was the name of the chef or his mother or something.  But I digress.  Anyway, we went because my sisters are foodies, and the restaurant was new.  Obviously, this was more than enough reason to drop $30 a plate on overpriced seafood, isn’t it?  Well, that and my sisters have this overly aggressive need to know everything there is to know about every single restaurant and chef in existence. Shit again with the digression.  Anyways, we went, and aside from the impeccable service from my man Perry, the only thing I really remember from the experience was the overdose of blue my eye’s digested over the course of the visit. Never before have I indulged in such a monochromatic environment.  It was like we had walked in on a fresh crime scene where the blue man group had just drowned an entire village of smurfs with blue paint while playing that late 90’s classic “Blue” in the background.  The walls, the chairs, the table clothes and napkins, the rim on the glasses and the trim on the plates, Christ even the silverware was Blue (in reality, the silverware was probable silver, but still, the reflection was blue dude, blue a-ba-de-a-ba-di.

So, last night, my Newton’s Table experience was one-up’ed by Mozambican Prom. Yeah, they have that here too, and last night, I went. 

But it’s not your normal prom.  You know how in America they are all about trying to limit the amount of alcohol consumed at the dance with the optimistic goal that everyone in attendance will show up and subsequently remain completely sober?  So imagine that in Mozambique, but the complete opposite.  Particularly when it comes to the teachers.  For lack of better terms, or not, it was a complete shit show.

A day or so earlier, one of my colleagues, a fellow professor, stopped by my house to drop off an invitation.  Inside a fresh envelope was a photocopied letter with my name written on the top.  Dear Professor William, it said (side note: they never use my last name, because not only can no one pronounce it, but they can’t spell it either…), you’ve been invited to the “Baiale das Finalistas,” an end of the year dance at a local hotel honoring a selection of students (read: the ones who wanted to pay to attend) who passed the first and second cycles (tenth and twelfth grade, respectively). 

Like most everything in this country, I’m pretty unclear on the exact details of how it works and what it all means, but from what I experienced, basically it’s a dance in which students celebrate the aforementioned achievement by preparing a whole bunch of food, feasting on it, getting the attending teachers (and later on, everyone else in the room) completely and utterly shit-house wasted on chefe beers, and then dancing until the sun comes up. 

The students coordinated the entire thing, including their attire, the music, and a few dance performances they did.  Purple was selected as this year’s chiquey-as-shit color.  It’s not really my thing, but hot damn do the Mozambican youth know how to wear it.  Since the students in attendance were mostly the ones that came from a little money, they didn’t seem to have much of a problem preparing their costumes.   The girls all used the same shiny purple fabric to make extravagant ball gowns, each unique and customized for the person modeling it to the crowd.  The men, in similar fashion, used the fabric to make a variety of vests, ties, suspenders, socks,  and any other wacky accessory you could imagine that would go with some suit pants and a white button down (that it, except for the kid who had the brightest shirt in the room). One of my favorite kids decided to channel Prince and made a costume shirt and pair of shiny purple shoes.  I think fabulous is a good word to use here.

So I arrive around 830pm, and all the teachers were immediately sat in a row behind some tables.  Beer was dropped in front of use, and bottle after bottle continued to be delivered by students throughout the night. I was pretty confused by the whole thing at first, and the drinks didn’t help.  “How come there were only 25 students?” I wondered.  Where was everyone else? That’s when I found out that the entire event was paid for by the students in attendance and each person participating had to drop something like six or seven hundred mets just to attend.  So yeah, it was a pretty selective crowd.  Among the combined 700 or so tenth and twelfth graders, only a handful of “finalistas” (what we in Americaland call graduates) attended.  Luckily a number of my 12th graders were there, so at least I got to celebrate with a few of them.

The All-Stars, my Colleagues.

Taking out seats.

We sat around for a while before the events began.  First, my school director stood up and read a speech he prepared. Sappy stuff about the future and how he’s proud and how everyone is great.  It was actually a pretty nice thing of him to have done.  After that, he began calling students individually to the front to pin a banner on them.  To my surprise, I got called up to pin the purple finalist banner on some 12th graders purple dress.  Awkward.  I had no clue who this girl was, nor did I know where to pin this girl.  Hopefully I didn’t stab her, but if I did, hopefully there wasn’t too much pain.  She didn’t scream or anything, so I think I did ok.  Then again, you never really know with Mozambicans.

One of the Head Teachers hammin' it up while talking about the event.  Those purple people are our Finalistas.

One of my colleagues trying not to stab a student.

Following the banner ceremony, the food came out.  The students had spent all day preparing a feast of cultural dishes: grilled chicken, matapa, feijoada, cabbage salad, endangered fish, and of course, French fries (I know, I know, this cultural dish was commandeered…).  We ate, drank, conversed, and then cut a gigantic congratulatory cake and devoured it.  That’s when the dancing begun. It started with some presentations. First a couple’s dance, then a hip-hop group came out and broke it down for two songs. The dance floor was cleared after that and the DJ came out. He spent what felt like the next 15 hours playing the same 6 songs over and over again while the students got funky and the teachers got drunk.  Then the students got drunk too. I was done by about 130am (not done like wasted done, done as in I wanted to go home cause it was 130 in the morning and I was tired done).  Lucky for me though, the party wasn’t even close to being finished by then.  So, instead of drinking more, I decided to take a bunch of pictures and dance.  I made a fool of myself for a while trying to show them how it’s done, but only ended up feeling old.  Finally, 430am came and it was time to leave.  FINALLY.

We didn’t need our head lights as we drove home because the sun was just starting to show its shinny face.  I finally climbed into bed around 5am.

Here are some more pictures!

Dance presentations!

First Course

Second course, which I refilled and ate again as a third course too.

Cake!

My Director (in the white) and Pedagogical Director (in the stripes) cutting the cake!

In this photo, you'll see my School Director giving alcohol to minors.

Purple.  There is just so much purple. Except for that one guy.  He's wearing a jacket a former concierge donated to charity.

A Triumphant Return

Good news everyone!  Two weeks ago I won the PCV Lottery.  I got a call from Sergio, the Southern APCD who told me that I’d won an all-expenses paid vacation (well, not really) to Maputo.  I’d been selected to participate as one of the visiting PCVs during the training of the new group of Education volunteers.  And not only that, but I was chosen to come for the PCT Arrival in Maputo and the following Week One in Naamacha.  Now to you folks back home, this probably doesn’t mean much, so let me school you a bit in how awesome this actually is. Week One is when the PCT’s first set foot in country.  It was my responsibility to not only welcome them at the Maputo Airport (which, as it turned out, I wasn’t able to do because my flight got in an hour later than theirs), but also to help them settle in at the luxurious Hotel Cardoso and to over-indulge in their extravagant buffet.

Because I got in a little late, our Country Director Carl and Pedro, one of the Office Administrators, met me at the airport and gave me a lift to the hotel.  I arrived about an hour after everyone else and was greeted by 50 whacked American faces.  Like zombie babies, they were exhausted to the point of collapse, moving mechanically; yet wide-eyed and curious, still anxiously trying to soak-in their surroundings and that they could.

I spent the next day and a half answering questions about Mozambique, shoveling grilled steak and calamari ceviche into my stomach, and standing under a hot shower. Yesterday morning, we had one last crack at the breakfast buffet and one last orientation session, before we boarding a couple of chapas and a minibus bound for Namaacha.   It’d be my first visit since departing last December.

So now I find myself back where it all started, Namaacha.  My housing situation is a bit different (Laurie, the other visiting volunteer and I get to stay in a small guest house behind the local PC Office) and my stay is a bit shorter, but the town itself still has the same feel to it. It’s freezing out, hasn’t stopped raining, and there’s a whole lot of mud.  Namaacha is familiar, and it feels like home.


ADD-ON!
I got to visit my host family, and it was great!  It was only my Mae and Pai, but that was ok.  Octavio has since moved north to Nacala and Mandinho is living in Maputo trying to get into College.  Anyway, I dropped by after training was done one day to say hey, and to try and organize a time to come for dinner sometime that week.  My Mae wouldn't have it.  "Haha, it's funny how you think that you're gonna walk out of here with an empty stomach," she exclaimed in her characteristic booming, yet well-intentioned voice.  "Sit down. I'll be right back."  Well, it wasn't exactly "right back," but that wasn't an issue for me because it gave me a nice chunk of time to do some well-needed catching up with my host-father.

No joke, the first thing I did was apologize to him.  My Portuguese is far from excellent, but I can now comfortably communicate and understand most of what's being said to me.  So I apologized for my pitiful inability to speak when I had been here last time, and thanked him for his patience with me.  I was finally able to say all the things I had wanted to before; finally able to tell him how much I really appreciated him opening his home to me and welcoming me into his family.  It felt good to finally be able to say it.

We sat there talking for a while.  It was one of those conversations that feels like five minutes, but must have been more like an hour and a half.  Finally, my Mae came back with a huge bowl of coconut rice and some pumpkin leaf matapa.  Even though it had been nearly a year since I left to start anew in Cabo Delgado, she still remembered my favorite dish and how much I loved her green stuff.  And then, just like she used to, flipped my plate over and piled on a hefty portion that could feed a small army.  That's motherly love right there.

The visit was short lived, but still very enjoyable.  I was so happy to see them, and I think they were equally happy to see me.  They loved hearing about what I had been up to over the past year, and even seemed proud of me.

What a feeling.  I'm so glad I got to do that.

Surveying Trip to Rio Montepuez

So remember that expensive piece of equipment the government let me borrow?  Well, here's the part where we take it out to the bridge site and put it to use.

Armindo and me in the back of Alan's Truck.

As it turns out, there were a bunch of women from Bandari who were in Montepuez for a funeral. Alan knew about it, so he offered to give them a ride back.  They all piled into the back of his truck.  there had to be like 15 women back there.  Here's a pic of them getting out.

A truck bed full of women!

Takin' some measurements with the fancy equipment

John, the city technician, scouting out the site.

More surveying...

John wanted a picture of us with he machine, but then he decided that he also wanted a picture of Alan taking a picture of us. It turned out to be a picture of him taking a picture of Alan taking a picture of him.

Alan and Armindo tough at work.

Something made a sudden movement in the grass and John flipped out.  I never seen a Mozambican jump to far all of a sudden.  Armindo man'ed up, grabbed a machete and started chopping away at the grass to make John feel better.

Crossing the river and heading back to the truck.

Really…You’re just gonna let me walk out of here with this $5,000 piece of equipment?

I guess Mozambique is just like that.  They’ll fight you over the price of a single banana, but when it comes to borrowing a $5,000 precision measuring device, you can walk right out the door with it sem problemas. Ok, so maybe it’s a little more complicated than that.

So, I’m at the point where I need to put together a solid estimate of the budget for my bridge project.  Not easy to do.  To accomplish this task, I not only need to get estimates on labor, but I need to figure out materials and how much we’ll need as well.  This involves making a mockup of the bridge, and to make a mock up, I need measurements.  Good ones.

I’ve already identified an adequate site and specific location for the bridge, so that’s half the battle.  A couple of visual and playful soil tests (picture me rolling around in the mud pretending to be a warthog) helped me confirm that the site was suitable for foundations.   I’d gone out there a few weeks before with a 50-Meter measuring tape, some stakes and my counterpart Armindo to try and get some good measurements, but it turned out that the ones we got weren’t good enough.  What I needed to know was the difference in elevation between each side of the river and distances between the potential foundation sites.  The measurements we had taken couldn’t provide me with that.  I needed to go back. But before I could do that, I needed to find some equipment.

I was looking for a tool called an Abney Level.  It’s a little device that allows the user to measure angles. Using a little bit of trig, all you need is a horizontal distance and an angle to build a theoretical triangle and then calculate the difference in elevation between two points.  Exactly what I needed to do.  Easy to use, not too technical and widely available, I was crossing my fingers that someone, somewhere in the city had one.  Then for the first time, Mozambique decided to throw me a bone.

First, I went to the market, then to some of the local hardware stores; then I went to the Government Infrastructure Office before being sent over to the Municipal Services Building. That’s where I got my answer, and I’ve never been so happy to hear no.

“No, we don’t have whatever tool you just described in your shitty Portuguese, but what we do have is this crazy little device called a Total Station.  You can use it to do all the things you just said.  Maybe that’ll work for you?”

Marry me.  No, but really, yes, I want it.  Give it to me. 

I then learned that borrowing it wouldn’t be a problem, so long as I got approval from the city President.  “Well, how do I do that?” I asked. The answer was surprisingly simple. The man in charge told me that I’d have to write a letter describing what I wanted to do (borrow this expensive toy), why I wanted to do it (because I need to measure stuff), and when I needed it (Tuesday), then I’d drop it off at the other Municipal Building where various officials would pass it around until it ended up in the possession of the President who would give final approval.  Apparently, this would only take a day or so to do.

I ran home to start writing, and that’s when Mozambique threw me another bone.  I had been staring at a blank computer screen for about a half hour when my good friend Pedro Undukkus stopped by.  I don’t know if I’ve written about Pedro before, but he’s one of the good guys.  Extremely intelligent, well rounded, and a completely selfless individual, he’s passionate about the development of his country and wants nothing more than to improve the lives of his countrymen.  He’s full of good ideas, has an incredible network, and always wants to help.  And he never asks for anything in return.  Our conversations, which often switch between English and Portuguese (he speaks both, beautifully and fluently), are some of the more intellectually stimulating conversations that I have in this country.  But I digress…Anyways, Pedro arrives and in typical fashion, saves the day.  We talk for a bit before he offers to sit down and help me write my letter.  An hour and a half later, I staring a no longer blank computer screen.

I dropped the letter off on a Wednesday and was told to come back Friday morning.  Unsurprisingly, o senhor still hadn’t had a chance to take a look at it when I got back, but was told that if I came back after lunch, it would be ready for me.  To my surprise, when I returned, I was led into the President's Office where I had the opportunity talk to him directly.  He had read my letter and not only was he going to approve my request, but he wanted to personally tell me how excited he was about the project and how he knew of another site nearby that could use a bridge if everything worked out with this one.

I left the building feeling on top of the world.  Rafael, a neighboring volunteer from Balama who was in town visiting, was waiting outside the office for me.  He offered a nice, strong handshake and a pat on the back.  “Congrats man,” he said it his ever-friendly voice.  “Now let’s go drink some cabanga to celebrate.”

Here are some pictures from the Site Survey:

Me and Armindo with the goods in the back of Alan's Truck.

Classic Mozambique.  If you've got some space, you give it away to someone in need of a lift.  Since the back of Alan's truck was open, we gave about 12 women a ride to Bandari.  They were in Montepuez for a funeral and needed to get back.

Another picture of the Mae's crammed in the back.

Angelo taking some readings.  Good thing he's wearing a hard hat, you know, just in case.

Angelo taking a picture of Alan taking a picture of us. Me confused.

Armindo, happy to be helping out.

This is the current river crossing when the water level is low.  Right now is about as low as it's gonna get and while you could technically walk across the river, there is still a threat of crocodiles.

Agua.

With a set-up like the one I’ve got, who am I to complain? It’s selfish, I can’t deny that. I live across the street from people who have nothing more than mud and grass for a house, yet here I am sitting inside my little castle of concrete feeling stressed out about life.  Why?  Water.  That’s why.  Allow me to explain.

The dry season has been in full swing for about 6 or 7 months now, and I can’t even remember the last time it rained (Well, I can, but I was far, far away in Chamoio nearly 1000km away).  The ground is dry, it feels like a rock.  The wind blows, kicking up sand and leaving it everywhere, inside and out. My once white-walled home now has a brown tint to it, partially due to the dust and partially due to the dirty Bairro kids touching everything when they come over to hang out and play.  Luckily, the dry season happens during winter time here, so at least the temperature has been manageable; nice even.  But it’s September now, and that’s starting to change.  Summer is coming, and you can sense it as soon as you wake up cause you’re already starting to sweat.

So why am I stressed?  Well, this part of the dry season has some very undesirable consequences.  Because it hasn’t rained in close to half a year, the ground water level has diminished dramatically.  The river is drying up.  City wells are drying up.  Even people’s individual wells are drying up.  Water is disappearing.

During the rainy season, my house has running water most, if not all of the day.  But as I’ve mentioned like 84 times already, this is not the rainy season.  And, I’m quickly finding out how difficult life can be when you don’t have running water.

The water that gets piped to my house comes from a big water tower we have on the school campus.  A decently working pump pumps waters up to the tower from the aquifer deep below the school and city.  When it rains, the rain water soaks through the ground and reenters the aquifer, thus replenishing the supply.  When there lots of water, the pump doesn’t have to do much work and keeps the water flowing day and night (there are a few outages, but nothing serious).  I rarely had to ever dip into the reservoir that I have (I have a big trash can in my kitchen that I use to store water, maybe 30 or 40 gallons of it).  But after February it stops raining, and when it stops raining, the aquifer stops being replenished.  The water level starts to drop, and it continues to fall until the rains return some nine months later. 

With an ever falling water level, the pump is relied upon to do more work to lift water than it had to do the previous day.  Queue the outages.  Outages became common place as soon as it stopped raining.  At first, they weren’t so bad.  Rather than running day and night, the water was only on in the morning and sometimes at night.  A month later, it was only morning.  Around April, the water would usually only come on during the morning for a few hours on weekdays only.  This lasted for another month, and when the end of May arrived, I started losing water for days on end.  The outages were never longer than three days, and rarely even that in length, but then came August.  Three, four, and even five day would pass without water.

There are a lot of things in life that cause stress.  Relationships, school, work, family, friends, that baseball team you love that keeps letting you down in the hardest way, anything really.  In my opinion though, most, if not all of that pales in comparison to the stress you feel when you have no idea when you’ll have access to water again.  At least for me, this is the cause of a significant amount of stress.

So how do I deal with it?  Well, in a few ways.  First and foremost, I had to go find a new source.  One new source turned into two, and two into three.  The sources are wells of various quality that people have dug near their houses.  Today, I carted water from the third because the other two had dried up.  This first alternative source of water that I found was a hole in the ground next to my friend Chale’s house.  Literally, it’s nothing more than a really, really deep hole that doesn’t really have any protective walls, nor much of a cover, just a few bamboos sticks laid across the top (Quick side story:  A chicken fell in the other day and died because there was no way to get it out).  The water that I get from it is a cloudy, muddy mess filled with sediment and some dead bugs for extra flavor.  To get it, I throw a 5 liter plastic container that’s attached to 10 meters of very sketchy rope into the hole and wiggle it around until water fills it up.  Then, I pull it up, pour it out into my 5 gallon bucket and repeat the process  until the buckets full.  I’ve got two of these 5 gallon buckets, and once both are filled, I help one of my Barrio crianças put it on his head (I’ll throw him 5mts later for the help), put the other on mine, and together we walk the half kilometer back to my house.  Don’t let this quick little description fool you.  The carting processes it absolutely miserable. There are few things I hate more than having to put something on my head (not including hats), so to me, this is like having someone peel one of my fingernails off with some pliers.  It’s heavy, dirty, and leaking, not to mention the point on the bottom of the bucket that stabs deeper and deeper into your scalp with each bouncy step you take on the long hike home.  I hate it, but I have to do it.  It’s life here.

Realizing that I can minimize the number of times I cart water if I learn to conserve it better, I’ve taken some steps to changes my habits in regards to usage.  I’ve learned that you can recycle it, often using it two or three times to do what you need.  For example, I was my dishes in two buckets.  One bucket it to wash and clean the gunk off the dishes, and the second is to rinse the soap off.  I then take the wash basin with the gunky water and either flush my toilet with it or water some of my plants.  I then use the water in the rinse bucket as the new gunk-wash water, or I use it to wash some clothes.  It’s not really dirty, just has soap in it, so it really serves a secondary purpose well.  After a little laundry, I dispose of it in the same way. 
Water is not an issue back home (not like it is here at least).  It’s everywhere.  The city brings it to us, and we use it freely to do our biddings.  Jeez, we’ve even got little spouts on the corners of most city street where if we turn a knob, it’ll expel water in massive quantities.  I never thought about how much of a commodity water was, and I definitely never treated it as such.  Back home I kept the water running while brushing my teeth; I took 20 minutes showers just because I liked the way hot water feels; and I let a leaky faucet drip just cause I was too lazy to repair it. 

I never did any of that intense, multi-use conservation stuff back in the states, and if I return, I doubt that I will.  But while I might not manually flush a toilet with my dirty dish water, I will try to find other ways to change my water consumption habits.  Because it’s important, and after living here for a while, it’s something that I feel I need to do.

Side note:  Shout out to Travis Ramos, a friend of mine from Grad School at Colorado.  He recently started an incredible organization called Second Mile Water (2MW) and he and his team are working alongside disadvantaged communities to help them gain access to clean, safe drinking water with the goal that these people will never again have to live with the stress that amounts from not having it.  Check out the 2MW website here:  http://secondmilewater.org/

White People Hair

There’s something about getting your hair cut in a foreign country that I just can’t put my finger on.  That’s because the slightest thought of getting my hair cut in a foreign country causes my body to start violently convulsing, and it’s really just difficult to point something out when your finger won’t stay still.   Of course, what I’m trying to say here is that when it comes time to get my haircut here, I do just about everything I can to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.  In the nearly ten months since I’ve been here, I’ve gotten my haircut 5 times.  Four times by American’s, and one time by an experienced, and Mozambican familiar with the intricacies of white-people-hair (and apparently there are intricacies).

The first time my friend Kevin, another PCT at the time, did it.  And he was good.  He did it on the front porch of my host family’s shack.  The second time Rafael, another friend and PCV from a nearby site took a turn using a shoddy set of shears that Chris, the volunteer who lived in my house before me had purchased at Montepuez’s infamous “Chinese Loja,” the one stop shop for all things quality (…he said sarcastically).  It didn’t actually turn out that bad, though my thick hair kept jamming the shears and the machine itself broke two or three times along the way.  One time, it stopped mid-cut and demanding us to open it up and perform some open-heart-of-the-machine surgery.  The third time was in Angoche, where Kevin (same Kevin actually), Casey and I all ventured into the bairro’s of the hosting city to seek out someone who could clean us up.  That he did, and I think I already mentioned in the post about my trip that he cleaned-up Casey particularly well practically leaving him bald.  Anyway, this guy had cut white people hair before, so it wasn’t so new to him.  Still terrifying, but not change-your-pants inducing terror.  Foreign country haircut experience number four occurred in Mireya and Anna’s Quintal, where I contracted Elizabeth, yet another volunteer from a neighboring site, to do the dirty on my head.  In this case, the dirty being bushwhack through my dusty, gross and oiley hair, and then make something out of it.  Number five shouldn’t really count, but I’m throwing it in there anyway.  My neck was itching me one day while visiting the girls house, so I handed Mireya a pair of scissors and asked her to fix the problem.  A few snips later and that was all she wrote.  Hair cut number six happened today.

I returned home from a failed meeting, but otherwise successful garlic restock in the city to the realization that I had most of the afternoon free.  There are a number of things that I needed to do, but like any sane person having been given the gift of time, I instead decided to waste it doing things that were much less important.  So, I went to get my haircut.

My friend Genito, a 10 or 11 year old who sometimes comes to my house to break stuff and other times just to draw, set out in search of a guy.  I’d call him a barber, but they don’t really exist in the professional sense here.  A barber in this country is anyone who has a set of clippers (most likely the same shitty pair I had in my house, and purchased from the Chinese Loja) and a bamboo hut blasting music from gigantic, cheaply-made speakers (probably also purchased at the Chinese Loja…I told you they have everything).

To find our guy, we walked around the bairro making a few friends along the way as we asked for directions.  Eventually, a small army of pre-teen boys and I arrived at a small hut down the street from my friend Lucas’ house.  Inside the three foot by four foot hut was a man sitting and reading a newspaper in front of two speakers that were blasting music loud enough that it was causing the corners of the paper he was holding to dance to the beat.  I tapped him on the shoulder, and thus began my plunge into the world of back-alley barbers.

Our conversation went kinda like this:
Me:  “Hey man, I need to cut my hair, can you do it?”
Him:  “Hold on, let me turn down this music…**screws with about seven of the 15 knobs on the speaker until it finally decreased the volume**…What did you say?”
Me:  “I need a haircut, do you know how to cut white people hair?
Him:  “Meh, no, not really.  I’ve never done it before, but no worries, right?  Hair is hair.”
Me:  “Yeah, sure, whatever, I have no idea.  All I know is that the last time a Mozambican cut my hair, he sold what he cut off to some kids who wanted to make fake beards.”
Him:  “Yeah, I’m probably gonna do that too. Cutting hair doesn’t really make me all that much money, the real cash crop is in the extension business.”
Me:  “Oh, they’re fake? I had no idea.  I thought all those smooth, technicolored streaks I’ve been seeing in peoples hair were naturally occurring.”
Him:  “Ha!  You are just too much whitey.”
Me:  “Dude, I’m kidding.  Most of that crap is made from horse tails.”
Him:  “Negative amigo, we don’t have horses here.”
Me:  “China?”
Him:  “China. Wait, what are we talking about?”
Me:  “Hair…speaking of which, can you cut mine.”
Him:  “Yeah, but I’ve never done it for a white person before.”
Me:  “Don’t worry, we’re in this together buddy.  Do you have a number 3 clip?”
Him:  “Yeah, it’s here somewhere.  What a three look like?  Oh well, don’t worry, I think this is it.  Ok, let me go ahead and lube up this rusty set of shears I have.  By the way, who are all these kids?”
***10 agonizing minutes or jammed clippers and hair-pulling pain later I’m looking spick and span.***
Me:  “Hey wow, that’s not half bad.  And I’m not even bleeding!”
Him:  “It’s all in the wrist, bro.”
Me:  “Yeah, I guess so.  I really have no idea; haircuts have never been my thing.”
Him:  “Really?  Wow, that’s a shame.  Haircuts are great.  In fact I demand you come back soon.”
Me:  “Well, hair needs to be cut, that’s why it’s there, right?
Him:  “Actually, I believe that real reason we’ve evolved to have hair on our heads is threefold: for warmth, the reelecting of harmful UV rays, and for protection against impact.”
Me:  “Ugh…come again?”
Him:  “Darwin mothafukah, what up?!”
Me:  “Well, thanks for that, ugh, lesson?  And here’s your money.  I’m assuming you’re gonna overcharge me anyway, so here’s 20 mets.”
Him:  “Well that makes this a whole lot less awkward. Thanks for understanding!  Sorry that you’re different and have a great day!”

Haircuts.  Now you see what I mean?

My first Ide

And all of a sudden, it feels like my foreign allure as a Peace Corps Volunteer has earned me admission into the outskirts of a pretty sweet social circle.  I spent the afternoon brushing shoulders with some of the city’s higher-ups while we inhaled plate after plate of savory, fall-off-the-gigantic-bone meat dishes, fries, rice, salad, and all the shamosas you could ever want.

We were celebrating Ide, an important day that marks the end of Ramadan and the month-long fast endured by Muslims.  Faruk, a well-off and festive Mozambican I met after his boss gave Vikram, Anna and I a boleia to Macomia once, invited me, Anna, and Mireya over to his house to celebrate with some of the town’s elite.  A couple university Professors, the Municipal Judge, the Commander of the local Army Base, a few prominent Store Owners and Delacaya, a chiquey Mozambican who works at the Mcel Telephone Store and has a passion for club dancing, we all in attendance.  Of course, I had no idea who any of these people were (with the exception of the cell phone guy, who I’d met a few times before).  But when the Scotch started following, that all changed.

We sat down to eat in the early afternoon and stayed seated as we went through the first course, indulging in just a few of the aforementioned delicacies.  And then we drank some Scotch.

The second round of food was served buffet style and was heavy on the meat.  Following Mireya’s bold lead, I dove right in, building a mountain of food on my plate until I got to a point where the slope of the pile was so steep that if I’d added anything else, it wouldn’t have fallen off.  A pleasant change of pace from my own under-flavored cooking, it took me a little under 3 minutes and 30 seconds to show that stack of food who it’s daddy was.  And then we drank some more Scotch.

As it turned out, there was more reason to celebrate than just the end of Ramandan.  Faruk’s son had a birthday, and that meant there was cake.  In the spirit of my sister, I managed to find some room on the upper shelf in my stomach for dessert, in all its chocolaty goodness.  And then we drank some more Scotch.

As the sun began to set, so too did our eyelids.  We excused ourselves and said our thank you’s and goodbyes.  A job well done.  Between the amount of food I’d eaten and scotch I took down, I figured I’d made my sisters and grandpa pretty.  I like this Ide thing.  I can’t wait for it to come again next year! 

Tete and South

Final Phase of the Trip.  We took a bus into Tete City (Which, I wish I had more energy to write about right now.  It seems like an awesome place with a humongous suspension bridge spanning Mozambique's Mississippi. Except this river has hippos), and then another one from Tete City into Chamoio, Anna's Site. I spent a few days hanging out with her and exploring before taking a chapa up to Messica with another Anna (if you're keeping track, this is Anna #3, she lives in Messica, outside of Chamoio).  She had surprised me (sort of) right when we arrived in Chamoio and I was completely ecstatic to see her.  She was my next door neighbor during training and she's one of my closet friends here. She like my Lauren in Africa.

Here's some pictures!

Walking across the Zambezi on Tete City's Bridge.

Old Church in Manica overlooking the city.

Manica, just down the road from Messica towards the border with Zimbabwe, is famous for the Chinhamapere Rock Paintings.  But, because it's so off the beaten track, visitors seem to be rare.  There's no tour center, or even a little info station.  There's no Park Ranger, no sign, and no advertisements along the way.  There is absolutely nothing that says these drawings are where they are except for a little blurb in the lonely planet we had

You gotta pay to get in though, whih I thought was kinda funny.  But this experience is a little difference.  To get to see the drawings, you need to go with a guide.  The locals think the drawings are sacred, so someone needs to take you in order to perform the proper rituals required before you can see the drawings.Sure enough, when we got to the house of the overseer or owner, a older woman came out with acarved wood try asking for a donation.  It was only something like 200 mts for everyone, so we happily paid it.

Sure enough, a small ceremony followed before our shoeless guide started hiking us up the side of the mountain overlooking all of Manica. You could tell this woman's done this before.  A few times.  She was in great shape for someone who looked as old as she did.  Still, she kick our ass's getting up that mountain, performed another ceremony and than sat and waited for us as we basked in the moment, perched on the top of a historical mountain, overlooking the entire valley, and staring into Zimbabwe just over the chain of mountains in the distance.

The drawings are up there!

Infrastructure.

Following our shoeless tree-carrying woman.

Anna and her Director.

Ancient History, bro.

The View from the top.  Zimbabwe's those big mountains on the Left Side.

Chamoio Anna and I parted ways the next day.  School was starting up again for her, so she needed to get back to work. Messica Anna, however was still free. So we went to Beira.

Beira is a confusing city. It makes you think that it's developing and evolving as good as of them, but it's also a marvelous liar.  Beira shoes progression, but it's got some pretty horrific poverty too.  One thing that stands out is the Grande Hotel.  Anthony Bourdain talks about on his show "No Reservations" during the Mozambique episode.  Well, we went there.  Nothing he says is exaggerated.  A place that was once one of the nicest 5-star hotels in the world is now hell on earth.

Thousands of people living in what must be one of the most densely populated placed anywhere.  It makes me think about the Kowloon Walled City. Rooms, closets, bathrooms, balconies, stairwells, and every single corner had already been claimed. People how had claimed space in the Grande Lobby brought in their own bricks and rocks in an attempt to put up small walls in order to create even a little privacy.  Capulana's served as walls for others.

The entire hotel has been stripped raw.  The marble was torn of the walls, the metal bannisters in stairways have been stolen, the gates along the concrete bridges  connecting the buildings is gone, and in some places it looks like people even tried to pry the rebar reinforcement out from inside the concrete walls.  The structure itself is failing on a catastrophic level; Support columns are crumbling due to ignorance as a result of there having been no upkeep or maintenance since being abandoned by the company that ran it.

Today, the building has such a large population that it now has it's own localized market in the front of the complex. I bought a snack there, and while talking with some girls selling the bread cakes, I got made fun of for accidentally saying a terrible word in their local language while mispronouncing the expression "Do you live here?"  Good ice breaker I guess.

They told me that the building had no electricity and no running water.  Wouldn't matter even if there was anyways because all the wiring and piping has already been torn out and stolen. To get water, all the residents must take their old plastic gasoline canister across the street and pay some guy to use his tap. All three or four thousand of them.

But still, even in all it's shitty glory, and probably because they have no other options, people still call the Grande Hotel home. Scary.

Grande Hotel, Beira, Mozambique

Grande Hotel, Beira, Mozambique

Grande Hotel, Beira, Mozambique

Someone drying fish on the sidewalk outside of the Grande Hotel, Beira, Mozambique.

And then we got Chinese food for the first time in a year.

Beria Architecture.

Beira Church

Some guys attaches this to his truck and makes pizza's with it around the city.

This is Africa?