Meu Aluno Está Morto

Today was my first day back at school since the break, the start of a new trimester.  I woke up early, and felt pretty good; no back pain, no anxiety, no stress.  After spending all Sunday writing stupid lesson plans for physics topics that 11th and 12th grader have no business learning about until they are in college, I felt prepared, wasn’t feeling nervous, and I was actually pretty excited to get back to work and start speaking Portuguese again.  I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to be blindsided by news that one of my students had died while I was on vacation.

His name was Virgilío Luis Malandela, and I knew him.  Not well, but in a sea of 250-300 faces that I teach during the week, I knew him.  He was a smart kid who had just passed his first trimester of 11th grade physics.  I met him three months ago, when school started.  He was one of the only kids to actually come to school during the first week of classes.  That’s unheard of here, no one comes during the first week.  But he did.

For the first few months of school, he held the class title of “Chefe de Lingua,” (Boss of Language) a role I assigned to one person in each of my Turmas (classes).  Their responsibility was simple:  if and when (emphasis on the when, because I suck at this language) I make a mistake, they were to write it down in a special notebook I would give them at the beginning of each class, and then show me the errors and correct me after class was over.  Before I started to forget the notebook (probably ten or so weeks into the trimester), it was actually a pretty good system.  And Virgilío did a pretty good job at it.

I found out about his death when I tried to return his trimester exam.  I called his name, and no one responded.  So I called it again.  I didn’t notice that the entire class was looking at me funny until one of his friends responded.  “Pode me dar,” he said, “You can give it to me.”  I walked across the room to hand him the test, and he then explained the situation to me.  I still don’t know how he died, but I don’t think it really matters.  What matters is that death is very much a part of life here.  I think I’ve even said that before, but it stands true.  I had heard from other volunteers’ stories about students dying from Malaria or snake bites, but for some reason I always shook it off and said, “Oh, that’ll never happen to me.”  But it does happen to you, because that’s what happens here.  Life happens.  And then death happens too.  And unfortunately, in Mozambique, apparently death tends to happen a lot sooner than it should.

World Malaria Day

Question:  What do Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Amerigo Vespucci, Dante, and approximately 660,000 people in 2010 have in common?  Well Class, all of these people are reported victims of Malaria.

April is Malaria Month – in fact, today happens to be World Malaria Day.  Whereas this usually doesn’t mean much to the majority of people in the States, it has enormous implications to everyone living in the Developing World.  Malaria has become such a problem that it’s warranted the designation of an entire month to increasing awareness about the disease.  And it’s well earned.  Here’s why:  According to the World Health Organization, “there were about 219 million cases of malaria in 2010 (with an uncertainty range of 154 million to 289 million) and an estimated 660 000 deaths (with an uncertainty range of 490 000 to 836 000)…Most deaths occur among children living in Africa where a child dies every minute from malaria.”

I’ve made a number of off-hand references to this “doença” in some of my past posts, but I’ll summarize my observations again:  Malaria is to Mozambique what the common cold is to America.  It’s omnipresent, relentless, utterly annoying and it comes in seasonal waves.  Unfortunately, the similarities pretty much end at a superficial level.  Underneath the surface, Malaria is a cruel and elaborate monster, a blood parasite that’s transmitted through the bite of an infected female Anopheles mosquito.  Once it enters our immune system, it travels to through the circulatory system to the liver where it sets up shop.  Nice and cozy inside your liver, the parasite then reproduces and matures all the while planning a destructive campaign of biological warfare your body.  Depending on when Malaria can get its shit together and amass a sizable army of microorganisms, you start to feel symptoms 8 to 25 days after you first get bit.  First comes the flu-like symptoms:  headaches, fever, chills, joint pain, and hypersensitivity to light.  Then the contents of your bowels decide they no longer want to be contained, so they make for the exits.  Both ends.  Repeatedly.   And then, just when you’ve run out of toilet paper, you’re internal thermometer goes haywire.  Is it too hot?  No, it’s cold.  Wait…that’s not right, it’s hot. Wow, it’s really hot.  Wow, I’m sweating now.  But wait, my sweat feels like ice water.  More blankets!

But then things get even more serious.  If at this point you don’t get treated, Malaria, already in the middle of a crusade of terror, can up’s its game.  Seizures and even something called Conjugate Gaze Palsy (when your eyes don’t turn together in the same direction) can follow and eventually some people end up in a coma.  Or worse.

Although there is a cure for Malaria, there is no vaccination.  The disease has been eradicated in the US and Western Europe (thanks to painstaking and tedious efforts), but over 3 Billion people are still susceptible to infection.  Without a vaccine, these people will continue to be at risk. 

But there’s good news:  We’re working on it.  That same energy that was used to eliminate Malaria from certain parts of the world decades ago, is still being applied.  Bed nets are being distributed, insecticides are being used, and the correlation between standing water and mosquito breeding is being recognized.  And our work is working.   Mortality rates have fallen by more than 25% globally since 2000 (WHO).

As Peace Corps Volunteers, we are afforded a rare opportunity that host country nationals do not:  Prophylaxis.  Peace Corps requires its volunteers in Mozambique (and probably other countries as well) to take one of three medications that are designed to prevent contraction of the disease and to lessen the symptoms of Malaria if you do get it.   Sounds great, right?  Well, as with most things, there’s a tradeoff. 

Peace Corps Prophylaxis Option #1 is called Mefloquine (also known as Larium or Mefliam).  It’s a powdery, little white pill that I take once a week, every week, and I’ve been taking it since I got here 7 months ago. It’s infamous for its inherent ability to cause creepy lucid dreaming in those that are taking it.  It also makes you have to pee all the time and I believe it’s the reason I’ve been waking up with some pretty miserable back pain as of late.  What it’s not known for though are the rare, but serious neuropsychiatric problems associated with its use.  According to Wikipedia, which sourced an FDA report, “the FDA product guide states it can cause mental health problems, including anxiety, hallucinations, depression, unusual behavior, and suicidal ideations, among others.”  I can definitely attest to the validity of that statement.  Mood swings and a manic state of mind are pretty common these days.  They’re controllable, but it’s still stressful to deal with.  I’m sure some of my other PC colleagues could say the same thing.  Oh yeah, and then there’s this:  In 2009, the US Military stopped giving its troops Lariam after concluding that a number of military suicides, as well as the actions of four solider who murdered their wives at Ft. Bragg, were linked to the Lariam prophylaxis.  Instead, they switched to Peace Corps Prophylaxis Option #2:  Doxycycline.

Although Doxycycline doesn’t make you want to kill yourself, it doesn’t sound much better.  It’s an antibiotic that needs to be taken every single day.  In addition to whatever side effects come about from taking an antibiotic every day for an extended period of time, the medication can also cause you to become overly sensitive to sun-exposure.  When Peace Corps sends you doxy, apparently they also send you some extra-powerful sun screen.

The third Option on the list is Malarone, the high-priced wonder drug.  I don’t know very much about it, but what I do know is that it’s the last option for you as a Peace Corps Volunteer.  If all else fails, they put you on the magic pill.  Unfortunately it’s expensive, so PC can’t afford to just give it to everyone. 

Life on Malaria Prophylaxis is far from ideal.  But then again, so is the alternative.

Ferias Trip, Part 2: Ibo Island!

Part 3:  Nampula to Pemba (Bus), Overnight in Pemba

The adventure itself really picks back up at this point.  Nampula was a great break from PC life; pleasantly uneventful.  We spent 3 days sitting in an air-conditioned room listening to each other talk, as well as a couple of presentations from the staff and partners.  The first day was great.  We all talked about our sites, and our experiences thus far.  I got a bunch of great ideas and a boosted motivation to try and pursue some of them.  The second and third days we're more or less spent listening, then discussing, then thinking, then discussing some more.  Although I think I might be in the minority in saying that it was kind of enjoyable, most of the others thought the opposite.  Still, there are more painful ways to die. 

Our nights and evenings were spent catching up on lost time and hugging each other for as long as we could.  Well, that didn't actually happen.  We talked, but we were too busy stuffing our faces and trying to get the hotel's shoddy wireless internet to work to actually hug each other. It was great getting to see some of my friends from training again though.  I hadn't seen most of them since leaving Nampula for Site four months beforehand, and there was a lot of catching up to do.

Reconnect went by about as quickly as it came, and before I knew it, we were checking out of our hotel and cabbing to the Pemba Bus at 3am.

The trip from Nampula to Pemba took about 8 hours or so, and our short stay in Pemba was equally relaxing.  After disembarking from that god forsaken bus, I stuffed myself full of Mea Frango (Grilled Piri-Piri Chicken) and coca-cola and then spent the rest of the afternoon  napping on a capulana with Mafe while the others walked to the beach.  Maybe it's cause I'm getting older, but I'm finally starting to discover how wonderful a three hour nap in the middle of the day feels.  I woke up for a few hours only to head right back sleep (this time in an actual bed...soft of) as soon as the sun went down.  It had already been a long day of traveling, and we'd have to do it over again at the same time the next day.

Part 4:  Pemba to Quissanga (Open-Back Chapa), Quissanga to Ibo Island (Skinny wooden boat with a worn out motor)

To say that Ibo Island is difficult to get to would be like someone telling you that Heather Locklear circa 1993 (Sha-wing!) was only sort of attractive:  it's a drastic and substantial understatement.  Heather Locklear was jaw-droppingly hot (probably still is), and if they were still talking to one another, I'm sure Mike Myers and Dana Carvey would agree.  But apparently they aren't, so you'll just have to take my word for it.  And you're gonna also have to trust me when I tell you that getting to Ibo if you don't have the money to charter a flight is like battling Medusa when she has home court advantage.  It's freakin' tough, and your ass is gonna be so numb that it’s gonna feel like stone by the end of your trip out there.

The journey starts around 4 o’clock in the morning, when you have to get yourself out of Pemba’s main road and catch the only open-back chapa (200 Mets, and similar in style to the one we caught from Angoche to Nampula) going to Quissanga, a small but gorgeous town on the edge of the sea, and the departure point from the majority of boats going to Ibo Island.  Just like every other chapa likes to do, the Motorista will drive around town for a while in hopes of adding more fares to his journey.  In this case, we drove around for 2 hours all over Pemba, only to pick up a handful of additional people. Worth it?  Probably not.  I think he probably spent more on gas just driving around the city in those two hours then earn from the people he picked up.  When the driver finally gave up, the sun was already coming up and I was about the closet I’ve ever been to being an actual zombie, unconscious and incoherent, yet still open-eyed and verbal.

We set off on our journey, which all in all wasn’t as long as I thought it was going to be. The whole ride took about 6 hours, but only would have taken four if we didn’t spend the first couple looking for more people.  The initial part of the journey takes you on a gorgeous paved road heading out of Pemba (the same road that takes you to Montepuez).  After about 20 minutes, you turn off on a dirt road, and don’t touch pavement again until you hit the same point on the chapa ride home.  The road from that point on is rough, real rough.  Rough like it was never actually designated to be a road and then improved, but more so carved out of the land by the cars that have driven the same path time and time again.

The Road to Quissanga...

Coach class in the back of the Chapa.  We got lucky cause it wasn't packed full of people.

The road takes you through a number of Bush towns, and with each one you pass, you feel like you are getting closer and closer to the sea.  The scenery is nice, but because you don’t have much elevation, you don’t have an opportunity to see too far off into the distance.  We focused on what was up close though.  Every so often, we’d pass by a gang of baboons hanging out in a tree or crossing a field while waddling their humongous asses.  Finally, after what seems like an eternity (it always does when you’re on a chapa), the Mozambican woman whose sitting next to you and keeps saying that we’re only 15 klicks away is finally right, and as you pass over a short ridge, you’re treated to a phenomenal view of Quissanga, a town infested by coconut trees, as well as islands of mangrove forests outlined and engulfed by the pristine and refreshing Indian Ocean.  You’re there.

The chapa drops you off at the departure point, and is the tide is right, you can catch a boat right then and there over to Ibo Island.  We got lucky.  It was high tide, and so we got off the chapa, and immediately got on a boat.  Like I said, very lucky, because most of the time, the timing doesn’t work out so perfectly and you need to kill a few hours waiting for the water to come back in and give the boat something to float on.

Various website and guide books said that the boat ride itself (50 Mets, or about $1.66) can take anywhere from an hour to ten, depending on wind (if you’re in a dhow, or sailboat), or if you’re in a motorboat and the motor breaks (which happens more often that you’d think).  Again, we got lucky.  The ride was about an hour, and the weaving in and out of mangrove forests on the way to Ibo proved to be quite enjoyable.  My friends and I took pictures and gawked at just about everything we could before deciding that it was necessary to remake a scene from Titanic. Then we caught our first glimpse of the Island.

Leaving Quissanga and heading to Ibo.  Some locals giving our boat a push to get us going .

Traversing Mangrove Forests on the way to Ibo.  That's it in the distance.

Arriving on Ibo Island, this was our first view of the surrounding once we got off the beach (Casey's Picture!)

A little back history on Ibo Island for you.  Ibo was once a busy and bustling little trading post that saw a pretty diverse crowd stroll in and out of it.  Arab traders arrived first, and set up shop nearly fourteen hundred years ago – well, there were already Mozambican’s living there, but Arabs were the first outsiders who came with an entrepreneurial intent.  They established trading posts and really got things moving.  Gold, Ivory and Slaves were the primary exports, and the Arabs brought along Chinese and Indian traders to join in on the fun. When the Portuguese arrived in the 1500’s, Ibo was already an established, though still sleepy, port town.  The Portuguese took the town, and most of the surrounding island (also ruled by the Arabs) by storm, literally, raiding it and then killing or forcefully evicting most of the Arabs living there.  I imagine they probably established their presence by killing a few of the locals too.  The Portuguese apparently had big plans for the island, and didn’t waste any time in getting started.  This marked the start of a very dark and infamous, but also economically stimulating point in Ibo Island’s history.  The slave trade was greatly expanded, investments were made into infrastructure (Read:  serious port development, significant fortification of the Island, and the construction of governmental buildings and large warehouses).  By the late 18^th Century (right around when the US won their Independence…Horray America!), Ibo was the Capital of the Cabo Delgado Province and the second most important city in all of Mozambique; right behind Ilhe de Mozambique (which, was important for pretty much the same reason: slaves).

But, as quickly as it rose to prominence, it fell from grace.  In the early 19^th Century, France, who had been the primary buyer of Mozambican slaves and had been shipping most of them to Mauritius and Reunion to work on Sugar Plantations, decided that stealing people away from their families and then forcing them to work for little to no pay in shitty conditions away from home was a pretty messed up thing to do.  And so they stopped buying slaves off the Portuguese.  With a significant portion of their market cut, the Portuguese tried increasing shipments of people to Brazil and the Middle East in hopes of making up for what appeared to be crappy quarterly earnings.  To complicate things further, Warships from the Netherlands and Madagascar began increasing the frequency in which they were bombarding Ibo, thus disrupting trade even more as well as pissing off a ton of pretentious slave-trading jerks.

As the salve trade died, Ibo died with it.  Mozambican earned its independence in 1975, and the once bustling town returned to its sleepy origins.  Only this time is was even sleepier than before.  All the foreigner’s left and took all of the money with them, leaving the Mozambicans the remained with an island of crumbling buildings that mimicked the local economy.  The locals, no longer forced into a life of servitude, returned to a happy life subsistence fishing, freedom, and sun bathing, all the while trying to forget the 400 years of calamity (arguably more) that they and their ancestors had just endured.

Both little and a lot has changed since the Slave Trade died off and the Portuguese were ousted.  The town has remained just that, a town; not really growing much, but not really fading away either.  On the other hand, a brand new industry has emerged, essentially the opposite of what slavery was.  Instead of sending people away from the island to live a miserable life elsewhere, they’re trying to bring them in to be pampered.  Just like the Europeans did 500 years before, Tourism has been taking the island by storm (but this time I’m using the word figuratively and not literally).  Well, maybe that’s not so true.  Maybe it’s developing a little slower than I’m making it seem.  Still, it’s developing none the less, and a range of hotels, owned by both ex-pat imports and locals are beginning to pop up across the island’s only settlement.

It’s been called Africa’s Best Kept Secret, and I’d be more inclined to agree if I’d seen more of Africa.  But alas, I’ve only been on this continent for seven or eight months and have spent all of that time – apart from a couple of hours – in the same country.  For now, I guess I’ll just have to take their word for it, whoever that may be.

Still, Ibo is like unlike anything you could ever imagine.  It’s a desertion enthusiast’s wildest fantasy, the most magnificent state of abandonment and desolation you’ve ever seen.  Everywhere you look, colonial-style buildings are collapsing under their own weight in a perfect harmony of beauty, neglect and painful memories.  Red tiles from the roofs and plaster from partitions cover the floors while trees growing out the top of walls slowly devour the once immaculate buildings from the top down.  Oddly enough, at least to me, the scene is probably more beautiful now with its integrated natural elements and structural deterioration that is ever was in the past.  Certainly it’s more unique.

Now onto the actual visit.  We had three nights and two and a half days to spend on Ibo Island and for a group of people flying by the seat of their pants, we spent them pretty well.  Upon disembarking from what turned out to be a private boat across the water and out to the island, we were met on the “beach” (more on that later) by Mandinho, a kid probably 15 or 16 years old, who essentially ended up being our tour guide and personal assistant for our short visit.  We had done a little internet research prior to arriving, but there wasn’t much out there.  Aside from a few hotel suggestions, the web pages were sparse at best.  We had planned to stay at more of an upper-class hotel due to the fact that we couldn’t find any mention of other options online.  Fortunately, the kid knew better.  He asked us where we were staying, and then asked if we wanted to swing by another place on the way just to compare prices and facilities.  Little did we know, but right at that moment, this kid made the trip for us.  A few hundred feet from the dock/beach where we disembarked, located right next to the fancy-shmancy $400 per night Ibo Island Lodge is a little locally-owned backpackers joint called Karibune.  It’s run by a woman who I think I’d like to take home with me and have her compete with my sisters and mom for the title of best cook I know.

“Donna,” as we called her, a term that more or less (or exactly) means owner, showed just about zero emotion when we arrived.  With a relaxed and confident attitude, she immediately gained my respect.  After taking a look inside the bungalows she was offering and then hearing the jaw-droppingly low price-per-night (700 mets, or a little more than $20 per night), we quickly forgot about the other option and asked her for the keys.

What Donna has done with the place is really impressive.  I believe that she essentially turned the property her and her family were living on, slowly developing it from a quaint African domicile and machamba into a backpacker’s haven.  First came the dorms, an extension to already existing cement walled, capin-roofed building.  Then, when she saved enough money, she bought a pump and built a small water tower (which ended up falling down during our stay, but that’s beside the point, it had been in use for a while) to supply her property with running water.  She then built her family a new house in the front, and began renting out the rooms where her and her family has been living.  Then came the bungalows, two gorgeous and well-craft cement walled, capin-roofed single room hut’s that look like a traditional (though pimped-out) African home.  Each bungalow had a lockable door, electricity, a queen-sized bed, a pristine mosquito net and a bathroom behind a small wall that has a flushable toilet and shower with running water (when the water tower was still up).

This is where we stayed!  Karibune, a little backpackers haven where you can stay for cheap, but sleep and eat like a posh tourist.

But the housing isn’t even the best part.  For 150 mets each (about $5), Donna will cook you a freakin’ feast.  When we got there, we asked her if it was possible to cook for us, to which she kind of shrugged and said, “Yeah, I guess I can do that…”  I kind of got the impression, which she later confirmed, that she doesn’t like cooking for foreigner due to their picky appetites.  Her visible displeasure changed though after hearing out reply when she asked what we wanted to eat.  We told her that whatever she wanted to cook would be fine, and that we all really liked Mozambican food.  I’ve never seen such a quick turn around, and for the first time thus far, I saw her smile.  Once again, little did we know it, but our already awesome trip had just gotten all the better.  For the next three nights, we ate like Mozambican Royalty.

Night 1:

Fish, coconut rice, beans and salad.  Donna outdid herself on night one with a pretty diverse selection.  In addition to huge chunks of fish stewed in a succulent sauce, we Mozambican style Fejoada (stewed beans in a thick veggie sauce), a fresh salad, and a giant pan of coconut rice. 

Dinner:  Night 1  - Fish, Mozambican Beans, Salad, and Coconut.

Night 2:

Lula, coconut rice and salad.  Words cannot do this meal justice.  Observe the picture for an illustration of what I got to fill my stomach with on night two.

Dinner: Night 2 - Lula (Calimari) with coconut rice and salad.

Night 3:

Fish, coconut rice and salad.  By far my favorite.  I’m still not sure what this was, and this picture doesn’t exactly help.  It was probably some sort of strange creature from the depths of the sea, but the mystery aspect to this meat didn’t matter to me.  I dumped a hearty portion on top of a mountain of coconut rice and devoured it like there was no tomorrow.

I wanted to take a picture of the Dinner from Night 3, but I couldn't pull myself away from my full plate of food to go get my camera.  Instead, you'll just have to settle for a picture of the aftermath.  Use you imagination to put a big pile of coconut rice, stewed fish (maybe octopus?), and salad on the plate.

Posing with the Donna of Karibune.  This woman can cook.

When we weren’t eating, we did a lot of exploring.  While walking around on the first day, we casually mentioned to Mandinho that we were interested in trying to go out on the water in a dhow (a wooden sailboat infamous to the East African coast).  When we got back later that day, Mandinho was waiting at the entrance to our hostel with a Captain.  After hearing his plans, we signed on to go on a 7 hour excursion two different sites for only $50; total.  Unbelievable.    The next day we headed out.  Here’s a few pictures and a video or two from the journey.

Walking out the Dhow through the low tide.  (Thanks Casey!)

And here's a video of us walking through the water...

Playing Pirates.  Kinda tasteless because there really are pirates in these water.

Here's a video of the Sand Bank we visited...

This is the Island we visited after the Sand Bank.  You can't see it, but there is a humongous, but dead, puffer fish in that canoe.  (Stole this one from Casey too)

The rest of the trip and the time in between our excursions was spent doing a whole lot of exploring.  Here are some random shots and videos from around the Island.

Stole this from Casey...he takes really good pictures.

We went up to this kid to see what he was doing.  We asked him, to which he replied by silently dumping out the contents of that little plastic sugar bag.  He was collecting crabs from the tide pools after the tide had gone out.

Sunset.  In Ibo.  Thanks again Casey.

Low Tide

I call this one, "Boy with Basket.  And also there is water behind him."

Local criacas.

Don't let the picture fool you, that "beach" is actually just sharp rocks and broken glass bottles topped with a little sand.

Ibo, a haven for abandoned buildings.

Anna, playing Biologist and getting close with the local island Fauna.

This picture epitomizes Ibo.  A tree going out of a building that hasn't been used in 50 years (maybe more).  There is TONS of this here.  (Casey's Picture!)

Colonial fort!

It wouldn't be Mozambique unless someone had taken a shit in on of the bunkers of the 200 year-old colonial fort.

I went for a walk down the rocky beach one day and ended up in this Old Arab Graveyard that was right behind the beach.  Arabs haven't inhabited Ibo since before the Portuguese decided to use the Island as a slave shipping headquarters, so it was kind crazy to think that all of the graves were probably a couple hundred year old.  Here's a video of the Graveyard and Beach...

During my walk out there, I came across some kids that were catching eels.  I hung out and watched them for a bit hoping to see how they did it.  Unfortunately I think by the time I got there and started filming them, they had stopped and were just playing around.  Anyways, here's a video of some of the eels they caught and where they were catching them...

So that's all I got.  We did a nother over night in Pemba on the way home, said our goodbyes to Casey and Mafe, then headed back to Montepuez to go to sleep for a while.  Just in case you're interested, here's the return trip details:

Part 5:  Ibo to Quissanga (Even Shittier and Slower Boat than Before), Quissanga to Pemba (Cramped Bed of a Pick-Up Truck, still had to pay)

Part 6:  Pemba to Montepuez (Boleia and then Millennium BIM Bus)

Sorry for the long post. Hope it was worth the pictures!