Africa is full of frustrations. Take for example: the widespread and obvious corruption; numerous failed international aid projects whose remnants now litter the town and countryside (I should start photographing and mapping all the broken wells…actually, that’s not a bad idea…); the neo-colonialism being practiced by countries who are looking to exploit natural resources here because they’ve already tapped all theirs at home; or maybe the binge drinking that goes one by men and woman who could have used that money to buy their kid a meal; the unfortunately ingrained expectation by some Mozambicans that things will be given to them rather than the knowledge that in a free-market society, you work so that you can provide these things yourself; or, what about the frustration caused by my 16 year-old punk of a neighbor who just picked my tiny cilantro plant clean even though I explicitly told him not to. I was gonna make pico dude. But this post isn’t about that stuff, or how much I miss Mexican food. It’s about testing.
Anyways, we just concluded the second trimester (which means I only have four more to go!) and now the students have a week of trimester exams. These tests suck. Here’s why: Rather than allowing each teacher to write his or her own exam for their classes specifically, the tests are put together by officials in the Provincial Government. Early in the trimester, the officials ask four schools from around the province to write two versions of a trimester exam for each subject being taught to each grade level. The Government then gathers these tests for each grade level and discipline, and picks out the questions they like and refines them to form their own super test which they call a Provincial Exam. In doing so, they try to include only the questions that match up with their expectation of where each teacher should be in the curriculum at that point in time. Therefore, each class is being tested on material they may or may not have learned up to this point. Once the Ministry has written their ideal test, they photocopy it about a bajillion times and send it to every school in the province. Every student enrolled in a physics course from 8th to 12th grade, for example would then take the specific exam that was compiled by the Ministry for their grade level. And the best part is, it’s supposed to factor heavily into each student’s grade for the trimester.
So you’re thinking, “Oh cool, Will didn’t even have to write his own exam. Shiiiiiit, life is easy out there. Probably gave him a chance to relax and read a book.” Not really. I actually recently started an attempt at a secondary project which has been keeping me nice and busy. More on that some other time though, when things start to pan out. But yeah, I wasn’t even allowed to edit or see the test prior to it being given. I’m not even allowed to proctor the exam! Not only did I have no idea what to design a review around, but I was also stressing out because there was a good chance that because we are behind on the curriculum, these kids would get tested on material we hadn’t even gone over yet!
What’s funny about all this though, is how someone actually thought this was a good idea at some point in time; comparable to when they used to say smoking cigarettes was good for you, or that lead-based paint would make your walls (and your organs) pop! The reality is that this is a horrible idea, and I’m actually fairly confident that they’ll soon recognize this and make a change. According to some of my colleagues who I’ve asked about it, the current testing system has been in place less than 5 years, so they are still working out the kinks. There are a lot of smart Mozambicans, my school’s Director being one of them, who will eventually be responsible for this change. He is now slowly creeping his way up the ranks, and into a position with the Government where he, as well as all the other hard working school teachers who seek change, will soon become the new members of the ministry and thus be able to influence policy.
The fact of the matter is that every single person in this country, anyone doing anything at all, is a student. I need to start reminding myself of that. Could be the kids in school, the Chefe’s working in the Ministry, and even the President himself. Everyone here is learning, because a peaceful and malleable version of this country has only been in existence for 20 years, and there is a lot of learning to do.
But, unfortunately, these changes take time, and that means that the students now are the ones who will pay the price for the steep learning curve.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Friday, July 5, 2013
A Visit to the Hospital.
There’s a hospital (correction, there is a clinic) right around the corner from my house, and although I could probably throw a rock and hit it, I’ve never been closer that about 50 meters. Kinda bad because one of the first things we were supposed to do upon arriving to site was introduce ourselves to the local doctors. It’s wasn’t a matter of laziness that kept me from going, it was more so sheer terror. (Side note – I just won a staring contest with the rooster that was crowing right outside my front door…cock.)
It’s not that I hate hospitals; in fact, every experience I’ve ever had in one has actually been pretty pleasant. I just have a bad feeling about the hospitals here and would prefer to avoid them for as long as possible. In other words, I’m absolutely terrified of healthcare in Mozambique. Scaly, bleeding rashes that cover kids head to toe, broken bones that never healed correctly, battle scars from knives and bullet holes (though not many, most of the people that were nicked by a bullet died due to a lack of treatment), crazy deformities (I know a guy who is missing a shoulder!), and festering open wounds covered in flies are all a pretty common site around these parts. On a regular basis I see people with some pretty horrible looking medical problems, and unfortunately, I’ve let that have an influence on my feeling about the local doctors.
Well, today was apparently that day that I would have to go. I got home from a particularly hectic day (and sleepless week) only wanting to sit and eat. I was helping my neighbors pick some beans off one of my bushes when a friend of mine, a 12 year-old named Elizio, appeared in front of my house and waved at me to come over to him. I was about to shout for him to come to me instead, but I saw this as a opportunity to stop with the beans and make a quick exit. I walked over to him and saw his typical ear to ear smile. This kid is great, and I’ve grown to really love him. He comes over all the time to hang out, draw, drink water and help out around my house. I asked him “tudo bem?” a common greeting to see how everything was going (literally, “All good?”). He said, as he always does while continuing to flash his enormous smile, “Yeah amigo, tudo bem!” But it wasn’t. He was carrying a used motorcycle tire, and told me he was going to buy cell phone credit for one of his neighbors. The lack of actual toys here has forced kids to become pretty resourceful when it comes to finding things to play with. Anything and everything is a toy, and at this point, the site of a kid with anything in their hands (even a blown-up condom) doesn’t really faze me as strange. Still, just to make conversation, I asked him what the tire was for. “For walking, I had a bike accident yesterday. Look at this…” As he finished his sentence, he lifted his leg up to show me a foot that was covered in dirt and swollen to about twice its normal size. I asked him like three more questions before putting him on my back and carting him off the the clinc down the street.
Now if there was ever a place that would challenge my streak of pleasant hospital visits, it’s Mozambique. One of the poorest and underdeveloped countries in the entire world, according to the WHO, Moz only has 889 Medical doctors. That’s a ratio of 1 doctor to every 30,000 people (recommended ratio by WHO is 1:1,000). In the words of my sister: Woof.
Expecting to see something that was more like a dungeon than medical office, I was surprised to find what was actually a modestly clean place. The nurse took us in immediately, and got right to work. She began talking to Elizio in Macua, the local language up here, knowing that he’d be able to explain what had happened a lot easier in his native tongue. There were a few questions, some even shorter responses, and then a few giggles by her and Elizio before the nurse said something I couldn’t understand but was probably something like: “Thanks for the info kid, now prep yourself good cause this is gonna hurt. A lot.”
First came the cleaning. When I was inspecting the kid initially while in front of my house, I had asked him about pain. I very gently probed a few spots on his foot to get a good judgment and when I reached his toes, he was on the verge of tears. Now this woman was not nearly as gentle as I was. In fact, I’m pretty certain the word gentle doesn’t even have a place in her vocabulary. She went to town, driving that sponge like it was an 18-Wheeler with a snow plow on front. I watched as the poor kid squirmed in his chair trying to fight the pain. After the foot was clean, she dried it off with some gauze. Again, she just went at it. It was almost like she was trying to show me what rough actually meant. And then, all of a sudden, she brought out a razor blade and my entire world turned upside down. Holy shit, is that a used razor blade? Why does she have that, I don’t remember seeing a cut. What the hell is she gonna use that for?!
It took all my strength to stop myself from pinning the woman against the wall and yelling for Elizio to make an escape through the window, but then I reminded myself that I’m not in America, and I’m not a doctor. She’s gonna do what she has to do and it’ll all be over soon. Right before she started slicing up the space in between his toes (You read that correctly...), I said those exact words to Elizio to try and make him feel better. In reality, it was more likely I was saying it to make myself feel better.
She spent a good 4 minutes cutting out something invasive she had seen that entered his foot in one of the most vulnerable of spaces. I cringed. He cringed. She cringed. We all cringed for the obvious excruciatingly intense amount of pain the little malnourished kid was probably feeling. As she cut, she also ripped tiny pieces of something out. I never actually saw what it was, but I can take a guess. With all the broken glass, ripped up tin cans, tiny pieces of metal and other horrible things lining the dirt street here, I have no doubt that this kid had managed to puncture himself with something miserable while spending most of his time walking barefoot around town.
After she was done, she wrapped his foot up, and sent us to get counseled – or what is essentially just the Mozambican version of check-out. The guy working the table wrote down the kid’s info, put some pills in a bag, and told him to return in a few days to have the gauze changed. Then, right as we were getting up to leave, the nurse came back and gave Elizio a going away present: a rough injection, coarsely jammed right into his arm. They us we were free to go, and feeling confused because the entire procedure was done for free, I put the kid on my back, and we walked out.
As we walked away, I couldn’t stop thinking to myself. Mission complete and job well done. Well, maybe. This kid is either going to get better, or e now has a horrible case of HIV because I took him to a bush hospital with doctors I know nothing about. I’m gonna try and be optimistic though and believe everything is good. I think that’s better. I gave the kid a piggyback ride home where I left to try and keep himself out of trouble. Sure enough, he showed up at my house not two hours later shoeless and smiling as usual. At least he had a sock on the wounded foot, albeit a dusty one. Oh Mozambique, you’re starting to get a little predictable…
UPDATE: Took the kid to get a checkup today (July 8th) and everything appears to be fine. He managed to actually keep the wound clean (amazing, I’m not sure how), and they changed the bandages and gave him a new one. The process was a whole lot more pain free this time around as the nurse changing his bandages was much gentler. For some reason though, rather than put on some rubber gloves which he had in a box next to him, he decided to perform the entire process using a pair of large tweezers. Literally, every step. Meh. At least the kid’s foot hasn’t fallen of yet.
It’s not that I hate hospitals; in fact, every experience I’ve ever had in one has actually been pretty pleasant. I just have a bad feeling about the hospitals here and would prefer to avoid them for as long as possible. In other words, I’m absolutely terrified of healthcare in Mozambique. Scaly, bleeding rashes that cover kids head to toe, broken bones that never healed correctly, battle scars from knives and bullet holes (though not many, most of the people that were nicked by a bullet died due to a lack of treatment), crazy deformities (I know a guy who is missing a shoulder!), and festering open wounds covered in flies are all a pretty common site around these parts. On a regular basis I see people with some pretty horrible looking medical problems, and unfortunately, I’ve let that have an influence on my feeling about the local doctors.
Well, today was apparently that day that I would have to go. I got home from a particularly hectic day (and sleepless week) only wanting to sit and eat. I was helping my neighbors pick some beans off one of my bushes when a friend of mine, a 12 year-old named Elizio, appeared in front of my house and waved at me to come over to him. I was about to shout for him to come to me instead, but I saw this as a opportunity to stop with the beans and make a quick exit. I walked over to him and saw his typical ear to ear smile. This kid is great, and I’ve grown to really love him. He comes over all the time to hang out, draw, drink water and help out around my house. I asked him “tudo bem?” a common greeting to see how everything was going (literally, “All good?”). He said, as he always does while continuing to flash his enormous smile, “Yeah amigo, tudo bem!” But it wasn’t. He was carrying a used motorcycle tire, and told me he was going to buy cell phone credit for one of his neighbors. The lack of actual toys here has forced kids to become pretty resourceful when it comes to finding things to play with. Anything and everything is a toy, and at this point, the site of a kid with anything in their hands (even a blown-up condom) doesn’t really faze me as strange. Still, just to make conversation, I asked him what the tire was for. “For walking, I had a bike accident yesterday. Look at this…” As he finished his sentence, he lifted his leg up to show me a foot that was covered in dirt and swollen to about twice its normal size. I asked him like three more questions before putting him on my back and carting him off the the clinc down the street.
Now if there was ever a place that would challenge my streak of pleasant hospital visits, it’s Mozambique. One of the poorest and underdeveloped countries in the entire world, according to the WHO, Moz only has 889 Medical doctors. That’s a ratio of 1 doctor to every 30,000 people (recommended ratio by WHO is 1:1,000). In the words of my sister: Woof.
Expecting to see something that was more like a dungeon than medical office, I was surprised to find what was actually a modestly clean place. The nurse took us in immediately, and got right to work. She began talking to Elizio in Macua, the local language up here, knowing that he’d be able to explain what had happened a lot easier in his native tongue. There were a few questions, some even shorter responses, and then a few giggles by her and Elizio before the nurse said something I couldn’t understand but was probably something like: “Thanks for the info kid, now prep yourself good cause this is gonna hurt. A lot.”
First came the cleaning. When I was inspecting the kid initially while in front of my house, I had asked him about pain. I very gently probed a few spots on his foot to get a good judgment and when I reached his toes, he was on the verge of tears. Now this woman was not nearly as gentle as I was. In fact, I’m pretty certain the word gentle doesn’t even have a place in her vocabulary. She went to town, driving that sponge like it was an 18-Wheeler with a snow plow on front. I watched as the poor kid squirmed in his chair trying to fight the pain. After the foot was clean, she dried it off with some gauze. Again, she just went at it. It was almost like she was trying to show me what rough actually meant. And then, all of a sudden, she brought out a razor blade and my entire world turned upside down. Holy shit, is that a used razor blade? Why does she have that, I don’t remember seeing a cut. What the hell is she gonna use that for?!
It took all my strength to stop myself from pinning the woman against the wall and yelling for Elizio to make an escape through the window, but then I reminded myself that I’m not in America, and I’m not a doctor. She’s gonna do what she has to do and it’ll all be over soon. Right before she started slicing up the space in between his toes (You read that correctly...), I said those exact words to Elizio to try and make him feel better. In reality, it was more likely I was saying it to make myself feel better.
She spent a good 4 minutes cutting out something invasive she had seen that entered his foot in one of the most vulnerable of spaces. I cringed. He cringed. She cringed. We all cringed for the obvious excruciatingly intense amount of pain the little malnourished kid was probably feeling. As she cut, she also ripped tiny pieces of something out. I never actually saw what it was, but I can take a guess. With all the broken glass, ripped up tin cans, tiny pieces of metal and other horrible things lining the dirt street here, I have no doubt that this kid had managed to puncture himself with something miserable while spending most of his time walking barefoot around town.
After she was done, she wrapped his foot up, and sent us to get counseled – or what is essentially just the Mozambican version of check-out. The guy working the table wrote down the kid’s info, put some pills in a bag, and told him to return in a few days to have the gauze changed. Then, right as we were getting up to leave, the nurse came back and gave Elizio a going away present: a rough injection, coarsely jammed right into his arm. They us we were free to go, and feeling confused because the entire procedure was done for free, I put the kid on my back, and we walked out.
As we walked away, I couldn’t stop thinking to myself. Mission complete and job well done. Well, maybe. This kid is either going to get better, or e now has a horrible case of HIV because I took him to a bush hospital with doctors I know nothing about. I’m gonna try and be optimistic though and believe everything is good. I think that’s better. I gave the kid a piggyback ride home where I left to try and keep himself out of trouble. Sure enough, he showed up at my house not two hours later shoeless and smiling as usual. At least he had a sock on the wounded foot, albeit a dusty one. Oh Mozambique, you’re starting to get a little predictable…
UPDATE: Took the kid to get a checkup today (July 8th) and everything appears to be fine. He managed to actually keep the wound clean (amazing, I’m not sure how), and they changed the bandages and gave him a new one. The process was a whole lot more pain free this time around as the nurse changing his bandages was much gentler. For some reason though, rather than put on some rubber gloves which he had in a box next to him, he decided to perform the entire process using a pair of large tweezers. Literally, every step. Meh. At least the kid’s foot hasn’t fallen of yet.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
The Strangest 4th of July I’ve Ever Had.
4th of July’s are usually pretty standard events. One time I was on a plane for the 4th, but aside from that one instance, every other time has been pretty much a day devoted to celebrating the American dream. My typical 4th of July has usually involved all, or some combination of sunburns, hamburgers, baseball, fireworks, friends, family, potato salad, cheap beer and a day off work. Hell, last year, my sister somehow got me into the State Department party where I taste-tested apple pie with foreign emissaries and watched the fireworks over the monuments in Downtown DC with former President Bill Clinton and at the time, current Secretary of State Hilary Clinton just a few feet away. It was pretty freakin’ American if you ask me. But then there was this year, which, as a result of my geographic location among other things, strayed from the norm and turned out to be what was probably my most un-American 4th of July ever. There was no beach, and there were no fireworks. No national anthem, no BBQ, and no sweltering heat. I think the closest baseball game was something like 10,000 miles away. Oddly enough, there were still Presidents though.
Today, I had my first “official” meeting with a variety of representatives from the communities that I will be assisting with the Bridge Project. The meeting took place in a village called Bandari, the closet village to the potential bridge site, under a big Alpendra (sort of like an open-air gazebo, but with a roof made of capin and an architecture style that was far from Victorian). Nearly 50 villagers sat in the shanty’s shade on wooden benches, bamboo stools, rope beds, straw mats and piles of dirt. Among the attendees were village Presidents, Kings, Chiefs and other elders. They all sat in a big circle on one end of the alpendra, and behind them, occupying random ground-space inside and out of the shoddy structure were intrigued farmers, unoccupied villagers, and curious children. All of them had come to learn more about the project, and I, using my shitty Portuguese (which most of them don’t even speak anyway), would have to be the one to explain it to them.
I had previously visited Bandari a few weeks before to start the ball rolling on a feasibility study, trying to answer the question of whether this was something they actually needed. More importantly though, I was out to find out if this was something they actually wanted as well. I’d done a fair amount of research inspecting the river, looking at current crossings, talking to villagers and recognizing how dependent they were on the river, so I had a pretty good feeling I had already answered both questions. After the meeting today though, both answers were definitive “Yes’s.”
The meeting itself went pretty smoothly. Like I said, people outside of the city don’t really know all that much Portuguese, but I was lucky enough to have my two counter-parts (Alan, the missionary and Armindo, my former-Portuguese tutor turned English student) with me to help translate all the technical mumbo-jumbo into the local language (Macua, and both of them speak it perfectly). The night before the meeting, I produced a nice little PowerPoint presentation on my computer full of pictures to help illustrate some of the stuff I had planned to talk about. That aspect couldn’t have gone better. The pictures needed no translation as the grandiose images of completed bridges spoke for themselves, inspiring thoughts in the heads of each attendee of crossing a similar bridge that they could call their own. To watch their reactions to these pictures was truly magnificent.
The whole thing ended up going really well, but in the reality of things, this was only really a small step in the right direction. I still have a ways to go, and many, many more hurdles (most of which will be much, much bigger) to overcome. My cousin Jay once gave me some advice about tackling big projects, a mentality I’ve been trying to apply to this one as well. “How do you eat an elephant?” he asked. As I pondered the question, trying to come up with a witty response, he, with an uplifting smile and his renowned sense of humor, beat me to it. “One bite at a time.”
Today, I had my first “official” meeting with a variety of representatives from the communities that I will be assisting with the Bridge Project. The meeting took place in a village called Bandari, the closet village to the potential bridge site, under a big Alpendra (sort of like an open-air gazebo, but with a roof made of capin and an architecture style that was far from Victorian). Nearly 50 villagers sat in the shanty’s shade on wooden benches, bamboo stools, rope beds, straw mats and piles of dirt. Among the attendees were village Presidents, Kings, Chiefs and other elders. They all sat in a big circle on one end of the alpendra, and behind them, occupying random ground-space inside and out of the shoddy structure were intrigued farmers, unoccupied villagers, and curious children. All of them had come to learn more about the project, and I, using my shitty Portuguese (which most of them don’t even speak anyway), would have to be the one to explain it to them.
I had previously visited Bandari a few weeks before to start the ball rolling on a feasibility study, trying to answer the question of whether this was something they actually needed. More importantly though, I was out to find out if this was something they actually wanted as well. I’d done a fair amount of research inspecting the river, looking at current crossings, talking to villagers and recognizing how dependent they were on the river, so I had a pretty good feeling I had already answered both questions. After the meeting today though, both answers were definitive “Yes’s.”
The meeting itself went pretty smoothly. Like I said, people outside of the city don’t really know all that much Portuguese, but I was lucky enough to have my two counter-parts (Alan, the missionary and Armindo, my former-Portuguese tutor turned English student) with me to help translate all the technical mumbo-jumbo into the local language (Macua, and both of them speak it perfectly). The night before the meeting, I produced a nice little PowerPoint presentation on my computer full of pictures to help illustrate some of the stuff I had planned to talk about. That aspect couldn’t have gone better. The pictures needed no translation as the grandiose images of completed bridges spoke for themselves, inspiring thoughts in the heads of each attendee of crossing a similar bridge that they could call their own. To watch their reactions to these pictures was truly magnificent.
The whole thing ended up going really well, but in the reality of things, this was only really a small step in the right direction. I still have a ways to go, and many, many more hurdles (most of which will be much, much bigger) to overcome. My cousin Jay once gave me some advice about tackling big projects, a mentality I’ve been trying to apply to this one as well. “How do you eat an elephant?” he asked. As I pondered the question, trying to come up with a witty response, he, with an uplifting smile and his renowned sense of humor, beat me to it. “One bite at a time.”
Friday, June 28, 2013
Random Videos!
Finally has a chance to use my schools internet stick, so I put a bunch of video's up on YouTube. Here's a few random one's from the last 8 months...
First one is a video I took from the plane as we were flying from Maputo to Nampula. I honestly have no idea where we are, but I think the Mountains hint that it's probably over Zambezia or Nampula Province.
This is a video of the approach into Nampula providing a view of the city of Nampula as well as the Mountains in the background.
This is a video I took during the chapa ride on the day we were dropped off at site. Here we're driving through some village on the way up north.
Here's a video from Montepuez. It's a bunch of kids playing with a monkey in a tree. Cute shit.
First one is a video I took from the plane as we were flying from Maputo to Nampula. I honestly have no idea where we are, but I think the Mountains hint that it's probably over Zambezia or Nampula Province.
This is a video of the approach into Nampula providing a view of the city of Nampula as well as the Mountains in the background.
This is a video I took during the chapa ride on the day we were dropped off at site. Here we're driving through some village on the way up north.
Here's a video from Montepuez. It's a bunch of kids playing with a monkey in a tree. Cute shit.
Another video from Montepuez. This is my friend Manuel and he is in the process of building his own house. He bought some land last year and finally saved up enough money to buy the supplies he needed to start building. First comes the skeleton made from skinny tree trunks forming the structural columns inside the walls of the house. Then, you secure horizontal slates of bamboo to the posts using thin rubber string made from old tires. Next he'll build the scaffolding of a roof using more bamboo, then cake the walls in mud to make an inside and an outside. Finally, he'll throw bundles of "capin," or tall grass on top of large sheets of plastic to form the protective portion of the roof and keep the inside dry. The whole process is actually fairly simple and really doesn't take that long to do depending on how much effort you put into it. He's only in the initial stages right now, but he's moving fast! This is his progress after two weeks of working all by himself.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
And just like that, I’ve got myself a Secondary Project.
It’s not intentional, but all throughout PST, there a fair amount of pressure builds on the shoulders of PCT’s in regards to starting secondary projects once you get to site. Secondary projects are exactly what they sound like, they are projects you as a PCV can pursue in addition to your primary task (which in my case is teaching). Even with all the great things visiting PCVs had to say about the various secondary projects they were involved in, some of the most popular being: REDES, JUNTOS, English Theater and Science Fair. Science fair a little, but nothing else really ever caught my interest. So I figured I’d wait until something did.
And then it did. The idea itself was something that had been dormant in the back of my head, a lingering possibility if the need became apparent. All it took was one random conversation a half-year into my service to elucidate an apparent need.
I want to build a bridge. No, not a metaphorical one, a real one. I want to build a pedestrian bridge that villagers living in the bush can use to safely cross the river outside of town when the water level starts to rise during the rainy season and the crocodiles start to get hungry.
A couple of days ago, I was talking with one of the local missionaries who lives in Montepuez, but works in some of the rural villages outside of town. A casual conversation about his work soon turned into a discussion about the impoverished conditions present in the villages, the local dependency on the river, and the plush farmland that lines its banks. My curiosity spawned a site-visit to Bandari, one of the villages outside of town that was dependent on the river. In addition to examining the bear-by section of river as well as the current crossing, I also had the opportunity to talk with a number of the community members about the river’s role in their lives. I was surprised to find just how much influence it had.
Essentially, the river has a significant impact on most, if not all potential for economic development of the local economy and the personal growth of the people who form it. The majority of locals living in the rural villages along the river are subsistence farmers with one or more machambas (personal farms) on either side of the river. They use these plots to grow their food for the entire year, and when it’s possible, they use any extra land to grow cotton, the local cash crop.
When the rainy season comes in November, the river starts to rise eventually reaching a point where it becomes impassable by foot between the months of December and March. Swimming is avoided due to the presence of crocodiles and fast flowing water. Those that can afford it can pay to take a small dugout canoe across, but the fee charged by the boat’s owner is extremely high (between 50 to 100 metacais, or $2-$3), forcing many of the farmers to abandon their plots for 4 months during the prime planting season.
Aside from dugout canoes, there is one other point along the river that can be crossed by using a road bridge. But, for the people living on the far side of the river in villages like Nchomekah and Kampiri, it can take between 3-4 hours to reach the city of Montepuez by foot, where they can access a semi-functional hospital, secondary schools, a diverse market and the main transportation hub.
So, that’s that, and now I’ve got myself a good ol’ fashioned secondary project. I’ve got a long road ahead of me, but I’m hoping to ride this wave of motivation towards some serious progress. More to report when it happens, that is, if it happens.
And then it did. The idea itself was something that had been dormant in the back of my head, a lingering possibility if the need became apparent. All it took was one random conversation a half-year into my service to elucidate an apparent need.
I want to build a bridge. No, not a metaphorical one, a real one. I want to build a pedestrian bridge that villagers living in the bush can use to safely cross the river outside of town when the water level starts to rise during the rainy season and the crocodiles start to get hungry.
A couple of days ago, I was talking with one of the local missionaries who lives in Montepuez, but works in some of the rural villages outside of town. A casual conversation about his work soon turned into a discussion about the impoverished conditions present in the villages, the local dependency on the river, and the plush farmland that lines its banks. My curiosity spawned a site-visit to Bandari, one of the villages outside of town that was dependent on the river. In addition to examining the bear-by section of river as well as the current crossing, I also had the opportunity to talk with a number of the community members about the river’s role in their lives. I was surprised to find just how much influence it had.
Essentially, the river has a significant impact on most, if not all potential for economic development of the local economy and the personal growth of the people who form it. The majority of locals living in the rural villages along the river are subsistence farmers with one or more machambas (personal farms) on either side of the river. They use these plots to grow their food for the entire year, and when it’s possible, they use any extra land to grow cotton, the local cash crop.
When the rainy season comes in November, the river starts to rise eventually reaching a point where it becomes impassable by foot between the months of December and March. Swimming is avoided due to the presence of crocodiles and fast flowing water. Those that can afford it can pay to take a small dugout canoe across, but the fee charged by the boat’s owner is extremely high (between 50 to 100 metacais, or $2-$3), forcing many of the farmers to abandon their plots for 4 months during the prime planting season.
Aside from dugout canoes, there is one other point along the river that can be crossed by using a road bridge. But, for the people living on the far side of the river in villages like Nchomekah and Kampiri, it can take between 3-4 hours to reach the city of Montepuez by foot, where they can access a semi-functional hospital, secondary schools, a diverse market and the main transportation hub.
So, that’s that, and now I’ve got myself a good ol’ fashioned secondary project. I’ve got a long road ahead of me, but I’m hoping to ride this wave of motivation towards some serious progress. More to report when it happens, that is, if it happens.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Bin Laden's Not from America
Fun day I just had. Unique experience too. But the best part wasn’t learning about culturally Islamic traditions that celebrate the dead, it was a conversation I had while attending the event where I learned about this stuff. Lucas invited me over today to celebrate with his very extensive family. Once a year, everyone gets together to celebrate the lives of all the family member’s, young and old, that they’ve lost in the past. To sit together, to feast together, to think together, and to pray together. Really was a cool event.
In the midst of using our hands to feast on a large community plate of xima, chicken caril (caril is essentially just a general term for any sauce you make to put over xima or rice…there are a million different ways to prepare it, but no matter how you do it, it’s always called the same thing), and Majimbue Matapa (Majimbue is a type of plant that produces a root you can eat, in this case though, they used the leaves to make Matapa) with the other men, I began answering the typical questions asked to me on a regular basis when I first meet someone: Who I was (Hi I’m local white guy, Teacher William, a volunteer with Corpo de Paz); Why I was there (I’m a teacher, teaching Fisica at the local escola secondaria around the corner); What I was doing (eating xima and trying to pretend like I’m Mozambican, yo…no but seriously, I’m a volunteer and I’m here for two years to school some kids); and where I was from (America…North America. Estados Unidos; do you know where that is? No? Ok, how about Obama; do you know who that is? Yeah! I’m from the same country as him; in fact, we’re kind of neighbors. I from the same city he lives in. Uh-huh, yeah, now you’ve got it!).
Well today, one of those men had some pretty interesting feedback for me concerning a few personal character traits. He wasn’t clear on the whole “Estados Unidos” thing, and I don’t really blame him for not being all that well informed about geo-political relations regarding a country he’s never been too, but he was fairly convinced that the US was where Bin Laden was from, and took a fair amount of time trying to convince his friends, as well as me, that was the case. I tried to explain, in as gentle a manner as I could, that he was gravely mistaken (and without referencing the whole thing about us spending the better part of a decade hunting him down and then killing him). Didn’t seem to work. So we moved on.
The discussion then turned to religion, and as the same man kept asking me questions, the other listened in.
“So what’s your deal? Are you Christian or are you a Muslim?” the guy asked.
“Well, funny story dude,” I responded. “I’m kind of a little bit of both. You see, I was raised Jewish. I’m Judaismo. You don’t really have many of those around these parts.”
“Oh! You’re Jewish huh. That’s neat. Didn’t you guys kill Jesus?”
**Awkward Silence**
“Oooo, that’s a bit of a loaded question there isn’t it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure it was you guys. Hey, let me ask you…Why’d you do that?”
“Umm, you know…I’m not really sure. I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that question, nor confirm that what you said actually happened. If I can’t cite Wikipedia as a viable source of information, I don’t think that a Mel Gibson film is much better. But either way, I’m only 27 years old. I think that happened like 2000 years ago man. Hard to say, I wasn’t there and I don’t know anyone who was.”
“Naw, it was definitely you guys. But no worries, I’m Muslim, I don’t even care!”
“Oh…ok. Wait, dude, are you drunk?”
“Yes. Very…Can I have ten mets for more beer?”
The impromptu session of religious persecution then opened up to the rest of the group once again and transformed into a much livelier discussion on the grammatical structure of Bantu Languages. A quick local language lesson followed, some jokes were told, I learned the word for hand in Macua (Matata), made an offhand comment about how it sounds like the Portuguese word for potato (Batata) and then got laughed for a while for having made such a comical discovery. We finished our food, our discussions, and the get-together, despedir-ed (said our goodbyes) and I went on my merry way. Good old culture.
In the midst of using our hands to feast on a large community plate of xima, chicken caril (caril is essentially just a general term for any sauce you make to put over xima or rice…there are a million different ways to prepare it, but no matter how you do it, it’s always called the same thing), and Majimbue Matapa (Majimbue is a type of plant that produces a root you can eat, in this case though, they used the leaves to make Matapa) with the other men, I began answering the typical questions asked to me on a regular basis when I first meet someone: Who I was (Hi I’m local white guy, Teacher William, a volunteer with Corpo de Paz); Why I was there (I’m a teacher, teaching Fisica at the local escola secondaria around the corner); What I was doing (eating xima and trying to pretend like I’m Mozambican, yo…no but seriously, I’m a volunteer and I’m here for two years to school some kids); and where I was from (America…North America. Estados Unidos; do you know where that is? No? Ok, how about Obama; do you know who that is? Yeah! I’m from the same country as him; in fact, we’re kind of neighbors. I from the same city he lives in. Uh-huh, yeah, now you’ve got it!).
Well today, one of those men had some pretty interesting feedback for me concerning a few personal character traits. He wasn’t clear on the whole “Estados Unidos” thing, and I don’t really blame him for not being all that well informed about geo-political relations regarding a country he’s never been too, but he was fairly convinced that the US was where Bin Laden was from, and took a fair amount of time trying to convince his friends, as well as me, that was the case. I tried to explain, in as gentle a manner as I could, that he was gravely mistaken (and without referencing the whole thing about us spending the better part of a decade hunting him down and then killing him). Didn’t seem to work. So we moved on.
The discussion then turned to religion, and as the same man kept asking me questions, the other listened in.
“So what’s your deal? Are you Christian or are you a Muslim?” the guy asked.
“Well, funny story dude,” I responded. “I’m kind of a little bit of both. You see, I was raised Jewish. I’m Judaismo. You don’t really have many of those around these parts.”
“Oh! You’re Jewish huh. That’s neat. Didn’t you guys kill Jesus?”
**Awkward Silence**
“Oooo, that’s a bit of a loaded question there isn’t it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure it was you guys. Hey, let me ask you…Why’d you do that?”
“Umm, you know…I’m not really sure. I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that question, nor confirm that what you said actually happened. If I can’t cite Wikipedia as a viable source of information, I don’t think that a Mel Gibson film is much better. But either way, I’m only 27 years old. I think that happened like 2000 years ago man. Hard to say, I wasn’t there and I don’t know anyone who was.”
“Naw, it was definitely you guys. But no worries, I’m Muslim, I don’t even care!”
“Oh…ok. Wait, dude, are you drunk?”
“Yes. Very…Can I have ten mets for more beer?”
The impromptu session of religious persecution then opened up to the rest of the group once again and transformed into a much livelier discussion on the grammatical structure of Bantu Languages. A quick local language lesson followed, some jokes were told, I learned the word for hand in Macua (Matata), made an offhand comment about how it sounds like the Portuguese word for potato (Batata) and then got laughed for a while for having made such a comical discovery. We finished our food, our discussions, and the get-together, despedir-ed (said our goodbyes) and I went on my merry way. Good old culture.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Racial Discrimination
Let me start of this post with a disclaimer: Pretty obvious by the title, but within this post, I’m going to talk about Racial Discrimination. By no means am I in any way trying to say that I now understand what it was like to be African-American in the US during the 1950’s or during any other point in time for that matter, today included. My personal experiences with racial discrimination stem from a handful of isolated incidents in the past that were a result of being Jewish, as well as the most recent one that I’ll describe below. In no way, shape, or form does my experience growing up as a middle/upper-class privileged suburban white kid allow me to pretend like I now know exactly what it’s like to be part of a minority group just trying to live a normal life and make it in a community of people who are different. But, I can say that after spending eight months living here as an estrangeiro (a general terms used to label outsiders, foreigners, and immigrants), being called out on a handful of painfully obvious superficial differences, and with my community continuing to discover an endless shopping list of internal ones as well, I have a much better idea. On to the story…
Today, I was discriminated against because of my skin color. I never thought it would happen to me. There was no reason to think it would. Not until I moved to Africa at least. And because I never thought it would happen to me, I never thought about what it would feel like and how to cope if it did.
My immediate reactions to the happening is just as confusing and overwhelming as the event was itself. Emotions running wild. Anger and hatred against the guy who scorned me; confusion as to why he would judge me simply by the color of my skin; feelings of intense vulnerability make me feel weak, like even the slightest trauma could bring my whole world crashing down; I feel petty, unwanted, insignificant, and for the first time since I’ve been here, alone; but then there’s the most out-of-place and subtle feeling of pride, and I can’t understand why.
This all happened over a coke. I didn’t know I was supposed to bring back the coke bottle. This it. All over a coke. In my country, we bring the glass bottles of coke home, and when we are done with them, we put them in the recycling bin. Here in Mozambique (and apparently in a lot of other African countries as well), you give the empty bottle back to whoever supplied it to you when it was full. Usually, the shops, restaurants, bars, or stands that sell the coke to you don’t even let you take it with you. You have to drink it there and then leave the bottle.
Well during my first month at site, the guy who runs a loja right around the corner from my school let me take a bottle home. Little did I know, he was under the impression that I knew I had to bring it back immediately. Meanwhile, oblivious me had not picked up on this apparently intuitive rule. When I arrived to drop the bottle off the next day, he gave me an overly dramatic tongue lashing about my heresy. Meanwhile, I was still practically fresh off the chapa and was still trying to grasp Portuguese. What I heard him say was something along the lines of: “Bark, bark, bark, you no return my bottle! Bark, bark, bark, why you do?! Bark, you go, bark, milk and eggs, bark, bark, soda.” I may not have understood everything, but I got the point.
Anyways, even though the guy sucks, I still would visit his loja after school sometimes to buy a quick snack or a soda. He has an ice cream machine out front of his store, and even though the ice cream sucks, it’s an necessary evil when the temperature in Mozambique starts to peak. I always tried my best to be nice and make small talk, but he was never having any of it.
So finally, I guess he snapped. I went to his store looking to buy a soda, when out of no-where he starts loudly berating me (literally, I hadn’t even reached his store when he started up) for not understanding Portuguese and never returning bottles on time. Funny thing is, I haven’t taken home a bottle of coke since he yelled at me in December.
I was caught off-guard and somewhere between embarrassment as a result of the loud and public accusations, and pride because I was understanding what he was saying. It felt strange, but the feelings only got stranger with what happened next. He concluded his tirade by trying to make a strong point about how all white people are terrible because they take and do whatever it is that they want, and then how I wasn’t welcome in his shop anymore because I was a white person and that meant I was going to harm him and his business.
The ironic thing is that he’s a “strangerio” too, he moved here from Somalia.
Taken back by the whole thing, I wasn’t sure how to react. As he shouted, I began to build a rant of my own, jam-packed with curse words and insults, but that plan was foiled when I realized that I didn’t know how to translate the word asshole. So instead I took a different route. I laughed and walked off, feeling good about my actions, but terrible inside because I knew that this meant I would never be able to eat ice cream there again.
Jeez, drama de mais…all over a bottle of coke.
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