Back to the Start: Namaacha, one year later

“Paragem! Paragemmm!"I bubbled to the coborador excitedly. Minutes before, we had rolled past the bright blue “Cascadas” sign and crested the final hill into town. And now, after paying the driver, I was standing in front of the Mercado central where I was going to pick up some renown Namaacha pão – bread so wholesome and fluffy, it rivaled pao throughout the entire country. “Slap some bright yellow Rama on that and you’ve got yourself a lunche!”I thought happily to myself, giddily quasi-skipping into the bakery. Bread and fake popcorn-like butter. The lunche of champions. I then smiled wryly at myself, thinking of all the other wonders that have graced such warm buns. The bright pink Palony balone mystery meat that my Mae used to deep fry in oil for me every morning and slap between the doughy goodness. The angry purple jam. The blessed Gato Preto peanut butter that held me through fish head soup dinners. It made PST – or Pre-Service Training – feel like years ago instead of a simple 14 months. With the warm round loafs in a plastic bag and an easy grin, I sauntered out of the market and began the hike to Fronteira – the barrio on the other side of town where I would be staying at the PC guesthouse with my buddy and fellow 19er Matt.

It was an amazingly routine start to my week revisiting Namaacha – in some ways it was as if I’d never left. The fondness I found myself feeling while walking past certain homes and places around town was comparable to the love one has for their hometowns. Except this was my Mozambican hometown – where I came into my Mozambican self. Yet contradictingly, I was stunned by just how different it seemed in other ways. Similar to revisiting your elementary school as an adult – where the desks, chairs, and tetherball poles that had once seemed soooooo big before become magically dwarfed – I looked at Namaacha from a completely different perspective than when I arrived. For example, I remember not being particularly impressed by Namaacha. Yes, it was beautiful but it seemed so poor and undeveloped. My host-family’s cement block home with electricity and a private water pump once seemed decrepit and dirty – now its borderline palacial. And the Mercado that was so limited in its selection? Abundant with flavorful options and opportunity. Really, that first walk left me somewhat in awe, and I caught myself feeling that numerous times during my week in Namaacha.  Beautiful old homes, rich flowery gardens, decent roads, SIDEWALKS, and the greenest, lushest land I’ve ever seen.  Namaacha nearly transformed into a Mozambican nirvana. Funny how I didn’t know to appreciate it while I was there. Yet, how could I have known without enough time to learn to look in from the other side of the glass?

Leading PST instead of being in it was as refreshing a change as you can imagine. Matt and I prepped and facilitated nearly all of the CORE, TECH, and HUB sessions … which we really didn’t realize we’d signed up for but were happy with the responsibility anyways. And Matt and I made a good team!  I’ll admit I didn’t know Matt very well during our PST, and we got sent to opposite ends of the country for service, but I really enjoyed his company working in Namaacha. He is just such a GOOD human being. Fun, insightful, introspective, honest, complimentary.  We had some great convos and reflections about our own service, and how we’ve responded to the challenges of Peace Corps. Those convos helped balanced the stress of presenting 4-6+ hours of information straight. Experience offers perspective. I’d be reminded of that time and time again, especially with my interactions with the Moz 21ers. The Moz 21ers are cool, but very young it seems… which is funny because I’m actually the same age as them. “But,” I kept reminding myself, “They JUST got here! They’re in the PST bubble. They’ll learn ten times more once they get to site. They’ll grow up because they’ll have too. Like I did.” I remember that’s partly what the allure of Peace Corps was at the beginning – a fascination with the person I could become through the experiences of Peace Corps. And its funny, thinking back to the shenanigans of my PST just a year ago, I’m conflicted between wanting to bust out some fist-pumps and cringing in embarassment.  Such is the life of a PCT – member of an incestuous clan in which the main stress reliever is social drinking and mooching internet from the one fancy-ish hotel in town. Sooo yeahhhh. Not one to judge. We’ve all been there. Call it growing pains.

In any case, I did get to tear away from the group for my morning runs. Gah, it was soooo nice running in the RAIN!!! I loved it! My eyelashes filling up with raindrops, my shoes squishing with each step, the MATOPPEEEE (yep, that shit still stains everythinggg haha)!! I got to do all my favorite routes, like the cemetery loop, the border run, and the tres fronteiras (three borders) run/mountain climb. Sad to say, hills kill me now… they used to be my forte, you know, with these thunder thighs and all, but after a year of running on the N-1 pancake… dun dun duunnnnn. Anyways.

My favorite run to the Tres Fronteiras, or Three Borders (Mozambique, South Africa, and Swaziland) - Ever wanted to be in three countries at once? Come with me on my next run/hike! :)

 

Perhaps the highlight of returning to Namaacha was visiting my host family. I was a little nervous at first and let the craziness of PST work push my impending visit to the back of my mind. I hadn’t even told my host-family that I was going to be in town. My excuse was I wanted to surprise them… which was mostly true. But really, I was just nervous. When I left Namaacha last December, it was an awkward goodbye. I had begun having some small fights with my Mae over some of her little rules. I was fed up with being treated like a 14 year old with curfew. Mae and Pai were fed up having their four-person family live out of one bedroom. My departure, least to say, was overdue. That compounded by the guilt spiral of not keeping in frequent communication after I left was making me start to worry about how much I’d be welcome back. But, I told myself, I was just being dramatic. I’d be a coward to leave Namaacha and not have tried being a good host-daughter.

And so, the day before I was leaving to go back to Namaacha, I hitched a ride from the Peace Corps office to the market, bought some ananas (pinapple), stocked my backpack with goodies, dangled a squawking chicken from each hand, and strode up to the house. It was still the same simple cement exterior, with the same beautiful view overlooking the rolling hills. As I strode up I caught eyes with a very surprised Marina, still beautiful as ever, who quickly called for Mae and Elias. Pretty soon everyone was outside the house hugging and laughing. At some point during the enthusiastic welcome party, someone whisked away the chickens, which freed up my arms for some big bear hugs for Elias and primo Toni. Everyone was excited and all smiles. But little did I know, Mae had a surprise for me too! After I left Namaacha for Mapinhane, Mae became pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy September 11, 2013!! Mae calls him affectionately her little “America baby” in honor of September 11.  They won’t officially name him for at least another year… babies here in Mozambique have to survive long enough to earn a name… but I was absolutely blown away by how beautiful he was!! I felt so proud, haha J

Mae's new addition to the family, her "America baby" born on September 11, 2013

In any case, we proceeded to have a spontaneous festa pequena with beer and of course all the relatives poured in to say hello to their American daughter. It was awesome. And after the first hour it felt like I blended right in with everyone else. Like I hadn’t even left. Except for one main thing.

Perhaps the best part of the visit was being able to show Mae just how much I’d learned in the past year. For the first time really, I could communicate easily in Portuguese, understand the conversation, laugh along with them during their fav telenovelas. I was 110% engaged. To prepare for our small celebration, Mae even put me in charge of preparing and cooking the chickens and cooking the xima, both of which exceeded expectation. I was “ïn.”  Finally. And because of this I realized to what degree I admire my host mom. I always understood that she ran the house and had her way of doing things, but seeing and understanding how she coaxed, cajoled, teased, and demanded things from Pai and the numerous uncles and cousins (and still got her way despite being the “woman”), really impressed me. Mae is smart, educated, professional, working teacher, mother who somehow cares for everyone. She is respected tremendously by everyone in the family. She knows how to balance fun with her role of being the boss. And, happily, my new and improved ability to communicate lent me some respect and admiration from Mae… and being one of my fairest and most constructive critics, her approval felt DAMN GOOD.



Marina, me, Mae, and Elias! My amaaaazing host family in Namaacha! It was a wonderful visit and I was excited to show them just how much I've grown in the past year!

 

I also got to chat with Elias, my host brother. He’s in seventh grade now! I told them that if they studied hard maybe I’d come back to Namaacha to be their teacher next year haha. This incited a fit of excited giggles that lit me up. Elias is a special special boy. I have yet to meet a little boy more caring, kind, compassionate, good-humored, and loving (especially to his new little brother!!). There is never a hint of jealousy or meanness in him. I think if anyone ever stripped Elias’s sheer goodness away from him, I’d come after them with a vengeance and a vendetta.  I hope beyond hope that he has the opportunity to grow into a wonderful, sweet young man that preserves that goodness. Humanity could certainly use it.

And Marina!! What a beautiful young woman she is already! Unfortunately I didn’t get to chat with her a lot because she had a church function… but she did walk me home partway so we could catch-up. Apparently, she LOVES chemistry and wants to go to school in Maputo to become a teacher!! I couldn’t be more thrilled! She’s also getting baptized this weekend. While I’m not religious, I love seeing a young girl with a big heart and convictions. Maybe one day I can help pay for both Marina and Elias to go to college or start a business or something… whatever their dreams may be. I just hope I’ll get to be there for them after Peace Corps. When Marina and I reached the turnaround point for her to return home, she started crying and it took three sets of hugs and goodbyes before we finally split. It felt really good to be missed and to be seen as a role-model for her. I’m so so glad that I didn’t let my reservations get the best of me. My one afternoon with my host family was incredibly transformative and rewarding. It feels good to finally belong and it erased whatever reservations I’d had.

And so, after Friday’s Halloween party, Matt and I packed up and left our little Peace Corps home to go back to our normal lives. I’m so glad I got to meet and connect with the new volunteers. They will put new energy into our ranks… we could use it, for sure. 

Two 21ers, Maria and Victor came back to Mapinhane with me for site visits. Of course, I first took them to Vilankulos/Chibuene where I introduced them to Pat and Mandy and the wonders of a beach town. Then I brought them back to Maps for a good “bush” tour. While it was testing week and they thus couldn’t sit in on classes, Maria and Victor had a blast getting to know my colleagues, walking around our little village, talking with the nuns, and even tutoring some of the students at the mission. I think they really enjoyed their break from Namaacha and I’m excited that I’ll get to share my amazing village with Maria and Sarah next year as new sitemates!!! So thrilled to finally have a friend in town, I was getting a bit lonely up here. Couple that with Amy coming down to Inhassoro… I’m thrilled!!

Perspective is earned through hard experience. It’s fair to say that my newfound understanding and connections is the product of a year+ of hardddd work. And I’m proud to see the progress I’ve made. Thank you Namaacha, for being my mirror with which I can reflect on my time here in Mozambique.

 

Tinderbox: when "if" becomes "when"

Another light thunderstorm is rolling through Mapinhane today. Not much rain with this one, but the ugly bruised black cloud and grumbly thunder sure talk the talk. It never ceases to amaze me just how deep the BOOM and CRAAAACKLE of thunder can be – like the direct hit of a two-ton bomb, or the tantrums of gods/goddesses throwing shit across the sky in a very public domestic dispute. A pot here.  A vase there. Oops, there goes the lamp by the loveseat. Our mortal eyes can follow the violence flicking across the sky. Our skin can feel the electricity. And the heavy accompanying silence.

The storm has offered a nice reprieve however – from the incredible heat that’s already set in, and from the misery of being sick with few amenities.  I haven’t been sick in awhile but I woke up this morning to run and felt all shaky and weak. I brushed it off in typical denial, ran anyways, and not even an hour later found myself curled up on the cool cement floor in the fetal position, shivering and angry with myself. Thankfully I passed out and slept most of the day. But not even my dreams were comforting.

I just finished reading the Hunger Games series last night. It’s a phenomenal series. Plus, I adore the protagonist Katniss – her strength, resiliency, and sincerity in the face of ever unfavorable odds is makes her a fiercely lovable fighter and heroine. Yet, all the fighting, gore, violence, struggle, sacrifice, death, and heartbreaking loss clung to my conscience. Even without reading the Hunger Games, the anti-malarial “black box” meds I’m on (Larium is easily the hardest drug I’ve ever used) bring intermittent waves of violent dreams anyways, and often transform otherwise mild nightmares into full-blown graphic death/murder scenes. On Larium, I’ve dreamt about people getting slashed apart, executed, thrown off balconies, always large pools of blood…  I’ve been hesitant to write about any of this in order to avoid concern or alarming anyone (I’m well monitored don’t worry, we have an excellent med unit here in PC). And while I’m obviously horrified, I’m secretly, sickly fascinated with this drug-induced revealing of my subconscious. Is this a hint of the darkness that we all have in us? That’s partly what the Hunger Games series challenges afterall – that our ability to tolerate or even enact cruelty exceptionalises no one.  After these awful dreams, I always wake up in my own pools of sweat and have to shake myself back into reality. The worst nightmares of course are the ones that substitute loved ones from my own life. Those dreams take a little longer to shake off. And so, as I tossed and turned on the floor in the midst of fever/Larium, Katniss’s fictional enemies quickly morphed into my own.

In the midst of all the civil unrest and RENAMO guerilla attacks against innocent people here in Mozambique, I dreamed that RENAMO was attacking Mapinhane and shooting my Mozambican friends, mowing them down from the back as they ran towards me. I was screaming and screaming and SCREAMING bloody murder, writhing, fighting someone’s iron grip around my waist, demanding that they let me go so I could run to them, protect them, shield them with my body, do SOMETHING. Instead, like a slow motion scene in a spy movie, I was knocked off my feet, and my eye caught the Peace Corps logo on the side of the van right before I was chucked into it and had the doors locked after me. We were driving away. Running away. Leaving everyone to die. I woke up bawling. It was a horrible, unrecoverable morning.

The tragic thing is, realistically, that’s more or less what would happen if war breaks out in Mozambique again. I, a privileged American get whisked out of danger while the people who’ve cared for me are left to fend/fight for themselves. If this nightmare were ever to be realized (perhaps not in the Hollywood-esque style of my nightmare, but more in the day-to-day slow way that dominos fall, aka PC decides to close its Mozambique program and we’re evac´d before there’s any danger), I’m positively sure it would break my heart.

Least to say, the civil unrest here in Mozambique has been on everyone’s minds the last few months or so, but especially the last two weeks with the waves of new civilian attacks.  RENAMO, in response to a supposed assassination attempt against their leader Dhakalama, has negated and withdrawn from the 1992 Peace Treaty that ended the last civil war. Moreover, RENAMO is rejecting talk offers from President Guebueza and FRELIMO that came too little and waaaay too late, and subsequently is now demanding that all elections are terminated before any negotiations can go forward. And, if the elections are not terminated, RENAMO will go to whatever length necessary to terminate them forcibly. Guebueza, arrogantly feeling that he has the stronger hand with the municipal elections underway and the presidential elections next November, is in no way compromising his position. And so, RENAMO is now using the opportunity of political fallout to justify clashes with police and military bases as well as wage a minor bush-league campaign of terror throughout Sofala province, particularly in Gorongosa National Park (where their bush military headquarters is located) and a 100km stretch of the National Highway (N-1) between the Rio Save and Muxungue.  Most notably, RENAMO guerillas have been opening fire on private vehicles, 16-wheelers, public buses, and chapas alike, killing dozens of innocent people. Last week, guerillas escalated their siege of the N-1 by literally digging a large trench across the highway, entrapping the armed convoy and opening fire. Such an attack mirrored strategies used in the last civil war, as did last weeks attack and ransacking of a community Heath Center in Nhamazi, Nganda Gorongosa. Meanwhile, FRELIMO’s bullying of any opposition political party was made especially clear when in Beira leading up to the elections, FRELIMO police broke up a peaceful political rally with gun shots, tear gas, and set cars on fire. Mozambique’s political process is clearly anything but fair and democratic.

Perhaps the saddest consequence of these attacks is how they are shaking up the national Mozambican psyche.  Within one week of this new slew of attacks, most Mozambicans I talked to shifted from saying “If there’s a war…”to “When the war reaches us…”

This past week when my colleagues and I were correcting the tenth grade national exams, Prof. Elisio and Prof. Juliao always had their radios on, listening through the static for information on the most recent attacks. The mood has understandably tended to be a bit glum.

Yet, an interesting thing has occurred too in the face of this instability and bad news – the use of humor to talk about things that are actually really scary to imagine. After many hours of the radio blaring bad news and the stacks of ungraded exams diminishing only slightly, Osvaldo stood up and declared proudly, “Well, that’s it. I have no choice but to become the next President and resolve all our problems.” We all laughed, rolling our eyes, asking him to explain his vision for Mozambique. He started by guaranteeing that each and every teacher would receive a pencil sharpener with their service and no longer would any teacher need to hassle the Ped. Director again! We were all clutching our sides, laughing our asses off at his mild and subtle satire of the ever-bribing-African-politician motif. Over the next few days, Osvaldo kept adding issues and ideas to his campaign platform, including the Mozambican ownership of Mozambican resources (*cough* CHINA *cough*) and a redistribution of wealth (*cough* CORRUPT MAPUTO MINISTERS *cough*) that seemed to echo a bit of Mozambique’s communist history, not to mention the freedom from hunger and the right to work.  Osvaldo then dubbed me his “branca Condoleeza Rice” and Prof. Elodio his Vice President, then sprinkled in a few token “God Bless America”s and “God Bless Mozambique”s in broken English to make sure he was reaching his entire audience. And so, in spite of the tensions and fears (for example, Prof. Bonde’s whole family is in Beira, trapped in Sofala and he can’t return to them for the holidays out of fear of attacks), we all had big grins lighting our faces for the rest of the day.

Election season is a tinderbox anywhere you go. But here in Mozambique, it’s crazy… crazy enough that Peace Corps has instated a 8-day travel ban spanning the entire week of the election. Last Saturday as I was walking around Vilanculos stocking up on groceries for the week, FRELIMO posters were plastered to every inch of space – on walls, road signs, market stalls, t-shirts, cars, motorbikes… EVERYTHING. My fav encounter? I even saw two dudes riding around on their 4x4s with big-ass FRELIMO flags jacked up on a pole flying high and streaming as they revved their engines and ripped around town. That particular example of showiness (and propaganda) could have been in Politico-land, USA. But was the most different than the States (and the most disconcerting) is just how one-sided politics and representation in Mozambique is! Sure, you can talk about the oppression of political respresentation, but until you can’t turn a corner without the glaring red flag and stoic face of one man staring down at you from every perch, political monopolization is just an idea. But now, its an overwhelming reality, a reality that has existed for a while but was too difficult to envision. There simply aren’t other political parties big enough to challenge FRELIMO. RENAMO has boycotted the elections and gone military, and MDM (Movimento Democratico de Mocambique) is so new and undeveloped that it hasn’t formed a base of supporters outside Beira yet to challenge the FRELIMO monopoly. If I were a Mozambican who wanted to vote, but didn’t like the FRELIMO platform, was boycotted by RENAMO, and knew my vote would be wasted with MDM, what choice would I really have? Not much. I’d wager most Mozambicans, especially uneducated Mozambicans probably say, “FORGET IT, I’m going back to my farm in the bush. The democratic process doesn’t impact me anyways!” OR, I’d buy into the FRELIMO corruption club and try to somehow get the vote buying and social politics of small town party rallies to support my family and make ends meet… maybe even send my kids to university with party money … at the expense of actually building a democratic state of course.

 

Really, democracy can’t work unless everyone is enabled to participate. Otherwise, it’s just cyclical abuse of "have-nots" by "haves." If you're not top dog, someone else would love to be.

Overall however, although the political system is corrupt and broken in Mozambique, and a group of young angry men with machine guns are taking advantage of poor, vulnerable people, actual civil war is still decent way off in the horizon.  I forsee only one main thing catalyzing these localized skirmishes into something that ignites the entire country – a proxy war. I'm talking for example about a global political chessboard where China decides to back RENAMO for an opportunity to monopolize the natural resources. Mozambique is RICH in undeveloped natural resources just waiting to be unearthed. Would that cause the USA to get involved? South Africa? Brasil? Would we have a proxy war on our hands? Would the international community even care??

I hope beyond hope that such an idea is only one of my darkest nightmares – a nightmare that dissipates with a new day and the optimism that accompanies morning sunshine. Mozambicans want peace and sovereignty. Let’s help them keep it.

Walking the line.

The big-a** white 4x4 rumbled up to my hut, rolling over the miniature sand dunes and dwarfing my pathetically dead garden beds, the weeds shyly, curiously reaching out to tickle the massive treads. I had my capulana’ed butt up in the air like a typical Mozambican woman, bent over a bucket of soapy water. “We caught you missy, we caught you right in the act!” I whipped around with a priceless look of surprise, which upon seeing Christine’s grin morphed into its happy twin. We caught you being Mozambican!” Christine re-emphasized, it seemed a bit sympathetically. “What are you guys doing here?” I demanded, delightedly, yet hesitatingly, in English as my brain switched language gears. “We were on our way home and decided to swing by and see if you wanted to come stay the night on the farm with us!” Christine said, putting her hands on her hips and examining my dirt smudged face and frizzy, sweaty hair as her fiancé Cristo and his farm buddies hopped out of the covered truck bed. It’s exactly for this reason of my complete and utter homeliness that I’ve refused to buy a mirror for my hut so far. I have a general idea of how ragged and rough around the edges I may come across. And I sometimes try to do some triage work with my appearance. Yet, thankfully, not having the mirror allots me some grace. Some things you just… you just don’t wanna know. If you don’t know, there’s no problem. Remembering my manners, I quickly wiped my hands “clean” on my capulana, tucked my loose hair behind my ears and began hastily throwing some overnighter things in my trusty little backpack. I then threw it over my shoulder and pulled myself up into the left-side passenger seat of the off-roading monster. Christine threw a reverse, spun the wheel, and we roared back over the retreating weeds. A row of crianças had lined up along the fence and five pairs eyes turned to watch Teacher Karina and her Mulungo friends get whisked away in a white chariot.

And so, I got to spend the weekend at Christine and Cristo’s cattle ranch near the little village of Muabsa, about 30 minutes north-west from Mapinhane. I got a tour of the farm, walked through and examined their herd, helped feed the orphan calf living in their kitchen (ADORABLE), and enjoyed delicious fresh veggies from their garden along with the freshest beef I’ve ever eaten. We spent the evening with some of their neighboring ranchers and I was steeped in an evening of Afrikaaner-South African farming culture. And I got to be the token American with the funny accent. I am overwhelmingly a curiosity to white Africans. They simply cannot or will not understand why a blonde American girl with a good education came to live with nothing. And, I believe that despite my explanations of why what I’m doing is important, none of my white ex-pat friends actually, truly understand.

Overall, I really enjoy my ex-pat friendships and I love learning yet another narrative in the salad bowl of identities and histories that make up Mozambique. I am burning with curiosities myself! What is it like to be a cattle farmer here? What is it like to run a resort or tourism based business? How do foreigners make a living here? How do they impact local Mozambicans? Are they contributing to Mozambique’s development? Why did they come to Mozambique? When? Where are their families? The white ex-pat community is small and incestuous like any clan. But it is fascinating.

Yet, largely because of their views and misconceptions of local Mozambicans, I feel somewhat confused, frustrated, and guilty about my friendships with them too!

I tried explaining my mixed feelings to my parents like this: Here I am, a white American woman who is accepted in both the black Mozambican world (because of my commitment to language and Integration) and the white Mozambican world (because even though I’m “poor,” I’m white, so I’m automatically in). I have a rare ability to walk the racial “line” and pass through both worlds equally well; yet I know too that never will my friends on either side of the “line” ever meet each other in the middle (I feel I must even put “line” in quotations because race as a socially constructed phenomenon primarily implements social power structures AND moreover doesn’t allow for any nuance between extremes). This ability to “pass” in both worlds troubles me because in some ways it almost feels like a betrayal to the black Mozambicans I’m serving.  Mobility is the epitome of white privilege – and despite my desire to rid myself of all my racial baggage and extra privileges through making Integration my mantra – privilege inevitably rears its ugly head and comes rushing back in. The wealth. The mobility. My sheer ability to escape the hard days. The white chariot. The rumble of a 4x4 engine.

And it feels reaaaallyyy awkward, like a nauseating sinking feeling in my stomach coupled with the twinge of embarrassment – when I drive off happily, thinking of the hot shower and evening of conversational English awaiting me, waving to Prof. Angelica and Junior as they watch unsmilingly, waving slowly from their doorway.  

And that’s the worst part: My whiteness will always somehow separate me from the friends, neighbors, students and colleagues I have come to love here.  Ultimately, I haven’t been able to stop worrying: Is walking both worlds jeopardizing my Peace Corps experience? Is it possible for it to not?

Sophomore year at Willamette, we played this “game” in my American Ethnic Studies Intro course called the “Line game” in order to demonstrate how privilege affects our perceptions of race. My professor, Dr. Drew, took us outside one beautiful spring afternoon and lined us up on the concrete walkway on the backside of Eaton Hall. The lush green grass and the Oregon capital building lay before us, the Golden Man gleamed down at as. “Now, before we begin,” she said calmly, “here are the rules: I will ask you quite a few Yes/No questions about your life. Take one step forward to answer “yes,” and one step backwards for “no.” If you don’t want to respond or don’t know, stay where you are.” I glanced over at my bestie Heidi, and she shrugged her shoulders in her usual “let’s-just-wait-and-see” way. But we were curious now. We all began sizing each other up on the line. We all assumed that to “win” the game, you had to finish in front of everyone else. That was the point of pretty much every game, right?

Well, we were all in for a surprise.

With her series of simple “Yes or No” questions, Dr. Drew showed us just how much or how little privilege each of us had experienced in life.  “Do you parents work?” Did your parents graduate high school?” “Were you expected to go to college?” One by one, as the white students in the class took steps forward happily, our excitement turned to chagrin as we turned and looked behind us, slowly realizing the horrible reality. Each one of our non-white classmates had not only NOT moved beyond the starting line, but rather had dropped dramatically further and further behind. Moreover, even us white females couldn’t keep up with the “progress” our white male colleagues. By the end, the gap between everyone had widened so greatly that Dr. Drew had to raise her voice for all of us to hear her questions.

It was perhaps my first REAL understanding of privilege and how racism, classism, and sexism work to systematically disenfranchise and hurt EVERYONE. The class of “–isms” are part of a self-perpetuating machine that divides and conquers, pitting good people against each other. From that point on, I began looking at the world through lenses conscious to the forces of privilege and power that shape our status quos and our constructed ideas of “common sense.”

So, where does this consciousness fit in a Mozambican context? How does it fit into my Peace Corps service? Honestly, I’m frankly hoping to offset my privilege with my sheer dedication to serving growth and capacity building initiatives within my community. Peace Corps is about exchanging skills and knowledge to help someone else help themselves. And the process goes both ways.

And so, this last week when Prof. Gloria told me that I’m “a mulungo, but not an estrangiero [because]… Estrangeiros are peoples that have colonized, mulungos are just whiteys in general,” what she was insinuating is that although I’m white, I’m not as disenfranchising as “other whites.” My Americanness and my work here lends me some forgiveness I suppose, whereas if I was white South African, Afrikaaner, Zimbabwean, or Portuguese my integration would have to reckon with a long history of conflict, oppression, and exploitation here. Moreover, my attempt to achieve integration makes me fundamentally different than the “estrangeiros” who live and work in Mozambique and have not only self-segregated themselves but bring the racial paradigms of their home countries to Mozambique. Interestingly, many of my South African friends have fled to Mozambique because the “reverse racism” of South Africa – where now whites are experiencing economic discrimination in attempt to even the playing field – has not yet taken hold in Mozambique. Indeed, southern Mozambique is called the “terra dela boa gente” – “Land of the Good People” – because of the degree of compliance locals had to the Portuguese occupation.

This brings me to back to the main problem I’ve been wrestling with the last few weeks about how my mulungo privilege is impacting my effectiveness as a Peace Corps volunteer. Giving some of my time every month to hanging out and living the lives of my ex-pat friends feels at first somewhat wrong-minded and in contradiction to Peace Corps service. Yet, I cannot help but feel that there’s just as much importance in understanding the world of estrangeiros in Mozambique. Whether we like it or not, in our globalized world they also have a part to play in development work in Mozambique. And it has the potential to work out in a fair manner that can actually break the cycle of poverty that is crippling the majority of Mozambicans. For example, when Christine and Cristo started their farm in Muabsa five months ago, they employed 200+ local villagers, gave them technical training, give them sick days and health care, and pay them above minimum wage. Moreover, they don’t hire outside labor, only people in Muabsa. Thus, they essentially are jumpstarting a local economy.  They also built the village a school, and numerous community water tanks that keep the women and children from having to walk hours each way to the nearest well. Christine and Cristo are actually doing really important, effective, direct development work! It just has a different face to it than the one typically lent by international NGOs, government organizations, and other aid work.  And frankly, I kind of prefer the freedom from the red-tape that plagues any bureaucratic operation.

I believe skepticism is good. It keeps us evaluating and re-evaluating ourselves as anti-racist, social-justice oriented development workers. But it’s also important to be pragmatic and creative in looking at the problems of poverty and privilege and how the two are interconnected. Yes, as a Peace Corps volunteer, I am walking the colorlines in Mozambique. But, it is indeed a blurrier line than before.

Bringing Bras & Title IX to Mapinhane

I love how often the most mundane moments lend us the most astute insights.

Archimedes discovered displacement while taking a bath.  Einstein proved relativity while riding the trolley home from a dead-end job.  As for me, my recent moment of greater understanding, while admittedly more modest than the ideas of renown scientists, came when I was standing on the edge of the basketball court with my hands on my hips, pleading with my girls to at least break into a jog as they shuffled, grumbling, through their warm-up exercises. 

“Girls, why do you play basketball if you don’t even want to run?” I exasperatedly cajoled the group of teenage girls who stopped trudging around the court to size me up skeptically. The answer, of course, should have been obvious. With only a short pause and an exchange of sidelong glances, I was met with a resounding, screeching choral retort of “But Teaachaa Karinaaaaaa, we don’t liiiiike to ruuuuunnnnn!”

It’s a moment that most coaches face, yet for some odd reason rarely throw in the towel. If they did, coaches would have the highest turnover rate of all professions. Instead, like most of them I opted instead for a shaking of the head and a new game plan.

I suppose their answer shouldn’t have surprised me. It was a deja-vu flashback to the days that my Pops coached my elementary/middle-school recreational soccer team. We girls came in all shapes and sizes at that awkward stage of life. There was only one thing overall that united our team of misfits, nerds, misunderstood rebels, Goths, bible schoolers, and goodie two-shoes alike – a hatred of running laps. And my dad knew it. He also knew he held barely a thread of control on us rowdy and opinionated drama queens. So of course, laps quickly became a method used to keep us in line. Got to practice late? Run a lap. Forgot your ball? Run a lap. Brought the wrong uniform to the weekend game? Run until you were summoned back in, like a secret agent coming in from the cold. And we all ran. A lot. (Especially the coach’s daughter *cough cough*) Anyways. Ironically, although probably not surprisingly to my dad, it made us a better team. We even won our local championship that year and dominated the league for the next two. We consequentially, and rather appropriately, dubbed ourselves “The Force.”

And so, as I was taking in the obstinacy of the Mapinhane Girls Basketball team, I couldn't help wonder to myself what I was going to do to quench this most recent generation of lap-haters.  What was the root of their dissent?

Then, as I jumped in and rotated through their lines, running with them to tow the pace, I caught bouncing movement out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, I grasped an inkling of the problem. My players were playing in bikini tops or had nothing at all under their jerseys to lock ‘n load their lady twins up top. Nadaaaa. “OUCHHH!” my mind hissed to itself, and I involuntarily grabbed my own breasts (which were thankfully secured by the tightest piece of mega-elastic south of the equator).  I knew instantly what needed to be done. But how?

As we began our stretches, I my mind spun furiously. How was I going to introduce the idea of sports bras to them? It is not the cultural norm in Mozambique to wear bras at all, let alone sports bras. But then, you don’t see many female athletes either! I didn’t want to be ethno-centric or impose Western values on them by expecting them to adopt the use of sports bras, but I wasn’t about to deny them the opportunity if they wanted it, especially if it was a factor contributing to their lack of hustle on the court.

So I posed the question to the group. It wasn’t without a significant amount of awkwardness.  “Er, umm, meninas…” I started haltingly, my mind scrambling to find words in Portuguese that I’d never had to know or use before.  “Voces tem problemas com suas… suas…” I then gestured with my hands to my chest and gave the lady twins up-top a squeeze. “SEIOS!!!!” they squealed gleefully in unison, incredulent that their mulungo Coach was bringing up the topic at all. Yes, breasts. Seios. Exactly. Ok, now we’re getting somewhere. “Tem… tem coisas para apoiar durante a practica?” (Do you have something to support them during practice?) I asked, flashing them my black UnderArmour racer-back bra strap from under my neon orange tee. The girls all cooed admiringly. “Naoooo, mas nos queremos!!” (Nooo, but we want that!) “Pensa que voce irao usar se eu posso encontrar?” (You think you’ll use them if I can find them?) “SIIII TEACHER SIIIIIII!!!!”  Ta bom. It was settled unanimously. The girls were incredibly excited. And the more I thought about it, the more I became excited about the opportunities that a small conversation about sports bras would give us to begin discussing as a whole the challenges of female athleticism in Mozambique.  Not only would sports bras remove their discomfort and increase their ability to hustle down the court without holding on to their own meninas (at at least rid them of an excuse), but as I thought about it more, it provided a  perfect venue for discussing positive body image and women’s rights overall.

Then, I wondered. How was I going to obtain enough bras for all eleven girls? My local searches for bras turned up nothing. Why? Let me explain quickly the general Mozambican culture regarding bras and breasts.

Simply put breasts are utilitarian and bras are luxury goods. This reality produces an interesting phenomenon here in Mapinhane – a woman who has the money to buy a bra will often purposefully leave it partially exposed out of her shirt as a fashion statement and as a way of expressing her class. And because breasts are viewed as solely utilitarian entities here in Mozambique, they are not sexualized in the way that they are in the West. Because of this, you’ll see women breastfeeding next to men on chapas or while haggling at the market or walking down the street. I’ve even seen women publicly taunt their children with their breasts, offering a free meal but then pull their nipples away at the last second and toss their heads back laughing as their kids start screaming tantrums. I’ve seen other women simply get busy with another task and forget to tuck their breast back into their shirts afterwards! The lack of reverence for the lady twins is a bit comic actually! Thus, unlike in the States where a mother will go out and buy her daughter a bra at the first sign of puberty in order to strap “the girls” down for gym class, girls grow up here completely bra free because they simply can’t afford it and their mothers and grandmothers have gone without for their whole lives.

Given this context, it’s no wonder that I struggled to find sports bras in the entire Inhambane province. And while I suspected sports bras were available in the capital city Maputo, I also expected them to be outrageously expensive. And so, I got momentarily stuck.

Then, I had a second breakthrough.  Rather unsurprisingly it came during a Sunday evening phone call with my mom.  

After giving her the full spiel and explaining to my mom the bra-blockade I’d encountered, we began to brainstorm. “Argh, what I would give for a bag of bras from Target,” I whined into the line, punching my mosquito net above me half-heartedly. “Well, shoot, that’s easy then honey! Just run a little fundraiser or campaign at home!” At home. Suddenly, we were rapid firing names and local groups we’re connected to that could be interested in supporting such a venture. “Kitsap Sports!” “YMCA” “Kitsap Rowing” “LOCR!”  “WU Crew!” “LISA B. AND THE KITSAP TRI BABES!!!”

Boom. There. We had it. My mom and I had both trained and competed with Lisa and the Tri-babes during my high school years. We loved the all-women’s group and what it represented and promoted in our community – healthy living, camaraderie, and girl-power. “Ok,” my mom said, “you send Lisa an email and heck! I’ll even try to call Title Nine Sports Co…or maybe Nike? They’d love this type of PR. Maybe they’ll send you something too!” “Whoaaaa, mom!” I said laughing yet fully understanding where her enthusiasm bubbled up from. That same type of excitement regularly bubbles unfiltered and unrestrained out of me, too.  “Let’s just wait to hear from Lisa first.” Besides, I really loved the idea of our team of atletas in Washington helping to sponsor my new team of atletas halfway across the world in Mozambique. It felt auspicious and of course, fulfills the second and third goals of Peace Corps: to improve understanding of Americans on the part of Mozambicans, and to improve the understanding of Mozambicans on the part of Americans.  Mom and I exchanged a few “I love you”s then we hung up and I got to work.

I’ve known Lisa B. since the summer I turned 15, when I trained for and competed in my very first triathlon. The Kitsap Tri-babes was (and remains!) a group of aspiring women who meet two to three times a week to train for triathlons together.  Lisa is an accomplished Ironwoman herself whose effervescence and compassion quickly (and somewhat incredibly) warms anyone up to the idea that it’s actually FUN to put yourself through the type of full-body and mind battles that are triathlons. Her can-do, encouraging “pink-tri-turtle-power-never-give-up!” mantra fed my own dedication to girl-power and transformed her quickly into an amazing role-model. And knowing Lisa, I knew she'd be the type to inspire action through her sheer enthusiasm. Thus, when I sent off a message explaining my interest in organizing and running a local sports-bra drive with the Kitsap Tri-babes to sponsor the Mapinhane Girls Basketball team, I was thrilled yet somewhat unsurprised when in response I received a very typical Lisa-type of message that oscillated between all-caps “AWESOME”s and a multitude of scattered exclamation points (eg.!!!!!!!). With Lisa's contagious energy, it took only a few exchanges regarding logistics, and Lisa and the Tri-babes were on board!

So, just as the Kitsap Tri-babes sweated and trained for their big race day this August, the Mapinhane girls basketball team hit the court for practice. When the Tri-babes were gutting through their Saturday BRICK workouts, I used scrimmage timeouts to pass around a team photo of the Tri-babes on my phone for my girls to see their sport-sisters in action half a world away.  Least to say, it became a wonderful exchange not only of athleticism, but also of solidarity through sports(wo)manship. Meanwhile, day by day, week by week, Lisa emailed me updates about the bra-drive on the home-front, and in Mapinhane I took the girls’ measurements, which turned into a morning of the girls giggling and teasing each other about how “big” or “small” they were. Finally, with the close of the Tri-babe training season, the bras were packaged up and sent! All I had to do was wait and cross my fingers that the box o’ bras arrived safely in the Vilankulos post office.

On one of my Tuesdays off from work, I decided to once again go to Vilankulos and eagerly check the post-office one more time… 

AND THERE IT WAS!! A GIGANTIC 20LB BOX OF BRAS. THEY’D MADE IT!! 

All-in-all, nearly 100 bras were raised and over $150 donated to ship the bras. Moreover, the bras successfully traveled over 12,000 miles from Seabeck, WA to Mapinhane, Mozambique. That's literally halfway across the world (no really, I ran some numbers/GoogleEarth'ed it!). 

After bantering with the customs guy at the postoffice about what the bras were for, I discarded the box for a capulana, wrapped up the bras inside, tied a knot at the top and swung them ontop of my head Mozambican style as I left the office.Of course, I had to carry the mega-bag of bras through the entire town of Vilankulos on my shopping errands... Not only did I earn some enthusiastic "Amerika, hoye!!" cheers but I also sparked an unprescendented level of fofoca (gossip). My sex appeal apparently skyrocketed (because it's not everyday you see a white girl carrying stuff on her head!). In addition to the marriage proposals, five different Mozambican mothers stopped me to set me up with their sons. It was hilarious!'

Finally, Saturday practice rolled around and I swung the bag of bras onto my bike and pedaled over to the court. Soon the girls arrived, and we sat down at the half-line circle and I led a discussion about what these bras meant, where they came from, who sent them, and of course, about how sports and playing basketball affects their life in Mozambique. Then, came the moment we'd all been patiently waiting for... unwrapping the bag and getting fitted with the newly arrived bras!! After dividing them into groups, I turned them lose. Chao commenced. All eleven of them dove into the bags, started stripping off their shirts right int the middle of the court and started trying them on. I then modeled the "bounce" test and soon all eleven girls were shrieking gleefully, hopping, jumping, skipping around the court to "test" out their new support system. I honestly couldn't stop grinning!!!

"Mulheres sao a fundacao" - Women are the foundation

The "before" photo. We discussed the role of sport in our lives, the perception of girls who play sports in Mozambique, and why they like playing basketball. Left to right: Chupina, Joana, Eliza, Laura, Cristina, Dulce, Isabel, Ramadane, Nelca, Edna, Madalena. 

Excitement and mayhem! I divided up the bras by size, then assigned the girls to pick out two bras from the bags according to their fittings. Screaming and giggling commenced!

The "after" photo: And a big,"THAAAAANK YOU KITSAP TRI-BABES!!"

Time to practice! Madalena taking the ball down the court. She's our captain :)

Dulce and Ramadana.

Isabel taking the shot! She needs to learn how to pass more, but she's a dynamic, agressive little player! A soon-to-be powerhouse! 

Now to bring it back around to what this all means. Our eureka moment.

Overwhelmingly, girls and women face a huge amount of social advancement obstacles and discrimination here in Mozambique. They bear the burden of housework, of children, of caring for family members, and of sacrificing their needs and desires for the benefit of men. Their subservience to men is best seen through literacy rates (61%), life expectancy rates, poverty, underage marriage, school enrollment ratios and dropout rates, lack of accessible/affordable to health care, financial dependence, and opportunity for higher education and career training. It's a reality of incredible, imposing odds that make standouts like Mozambican Olympic track and field champion Maria Lourdes Mutola dedicate their post-professional athletic careers to youth, especially female empowerment. The Maria Mutola Foundation works to provide youth the services and resources needed to further Mozambique's development through education, sport, and entrepreneurial opportunities. In other words, sports offer an excellent platform to reach out to at-risk youth and engage and encourage the development of important life-skills that could transform into real empowerment for girls and women as a whole.

And so, as we take this sweeping panoramic view of the situation of women in Mozambique, and zoom into the microcosm of Mapinhane, we find a group of girls who wanted to play basketball but had no one to coach them, who wanted to get active but lacked the resources. Now we have balls. We have bras. And we have a dedicated group of  women both here in Mapinhane and far across the world in Kitsap cheering them on. It's perhaps a small act, a mere blip on the radar of development work here in Mozambique. But, as Margaret Mead best surmises, "Never underestimate the the power of a small group of committed people to change the world. In fact, its the only thing that ever has."

And so, to sum it all up, I'd like to extend a HUGE heartfelt THANK YOU to Lisa B. and the Kitsap Tri-babes!!! Your compassion, sportsmanship, camaraderie, and overall sponsorship of the Mapinhane Girls Basketball team enriches the girls' athletic experience and provides a new context of making sport and healthy living a new and accessible reality. The work and mentorship continues here, but this form of people-to-people activism gives us a foundation to grow from! WE COULD NOT HAVE DONE THIS WITH OUT YOU!!

But don't let me speak for them! Check out the video below! :)

**Note: If you're a Kitsap Tri-Babe, I'd love to hear how you felt about the sports bra drive, what you felt compelled by, and what you thought about sharing the love of good health and an active lifestyle with these young Mozambican women. Please feel free to comment below or send me a message!! I'd like to compile your experiences as well!!

Bonding with my Inner Joy-Monster

I’m plugged into some Rodrigo y Gabriela right now, and lovin’ the rattle and burn of their sassy beats. BUT I am sharing the only room with electricity with the other teachers at the moment, so despite “stomping” my toes and air-banging my face, that’s about as loud as my jammin’ will get to anyone else. If you've never listened to them before, STOP EVERYTHING and have a listen. These guys helped me survive the dark winter months and conversely sunny spring days spent writing my senior thesis. How can you resist anything that makes you want to dance?

This sweeping generalization of course includes happy dances. You know the type. The dance that you do when you think you’re alone, with no one watching and you want to celebrate in a way that would be otherwise publicly inappropriate (mostly because people would realize things about you that are a little too revealing of the vanity - otherwise lying dormant - that erupts when you just happen to think that your life is awesome and there can’t be anyone with a more awesome life than you in the entire world… I fondly refer to this alter ego as my inner joy-monster). The happy dance is exclusive to sober, ecstatic moments when literally the happiness and joy at the awesomeness of life inside you bubbles up and comes out as spastic-jumping-fist-pumping-YES-YES-YES!! that one might call dance moves or just… well… the happy dance! (And no, I’m not posting a video haha but if you’re a visual learner you can find my absolute fav example here).

Anyways, if you didn't pick up on it, life is feelin’ pretty dang good these days. I've found myself with the urge to happy dance in my hut, during quiet moments planning lessons in our teachers sala, walking back from the market with a huge back of fresh green peppers, or when I’m carrying 20lbs of water home on my head and effectively swagger my booty along like a Mozambican woman for the glee of the neighbor ladies... BUT WHY?!

First off, after my nearly three week trip north, I was THRILLED to get back to my lil’ hut in Mapinhane. It’s funny but Mapinhane really is my home now. I want to be there. I feel safe there. I feel welcome there. I have Mozambican friends and neighbors that I care and think about and they care and think about me. It’s gotten to the point, where I've already started sort of dreading the day I have to go back to America. This is, of course, RIDICULOUS. I've just got a special, somewhat neurotic, deep rooted hatred of goodbyes. I mean, c’mon, I’m not even halfway through service yet!

But, to put a positive spin on things as usual, it DOES show an interesting shift of identity, of a feeling of belonging.


Part 1: The (next) Mental Shift (of many more to come…)

This shift didn't come on its own. Like all things in life, things change with a conscious (or subconscious) assertion or decision to push the status quo out of line. And so looking back at the last few weeks that have felt transformational, I know it’s because I came to a realization about how I want to better my life here.

During the weeks I traveled around northern Mozambique, seeing fellow PCV sites and meeting PCV counterparts and community members, I thought a lot about how the experiences of my colleagues compared to my own thus far.  And I use “compare” very loosely here. Every Mozambican PCV site is different.  But, I realized that my colleagues who had close relationships with people in their communities were exponentially happier than those drifting in and out between worlds – the Mozambican vs. PCV world. Because, see, as volunteers we exist in limbo. We often begin to feel like we “belong” in Mozambique but are constantly reminded of our “outsider” status. This is especially because the horrors of colonialism weren’t really that long ago and its easy for Mozambicans to see snap judge us as just another “mulungo.” We may live just as our colleagues and other locals do, BUT we are also always fighting preconceived notions about who we are and who we are thought to be – in my case a white, rich, female, American, with a green card stamped on my ring finger. It’s easy to feel suspicious, distrustful, or worry about being taken advantage of because it can feel sometimes like people are unabashed about being friends with you because they want something, whether its money, clothes, food, medicine, shampoo… ANYTHING.

Anything is up for grabs anyways in Mozambique, no matter who you are. In a culture that emphasizes communal living, it’s completely socially acceptable for strangers to “estou a pedir” or ask for any thing or skill you possess. Every possession is negotiable. This is so incredibly different from the United States where everything has a set price, and possessions are very clearly owned. So of course, when people DO take occasional advantage of you (as can happen because opportunists exist EVERYWHERE in the world), then it affirms your suspicions and justifies the wall you build with Mozambicans to avoid future frustration. There was the guy who ran off with 800 meticais without finishing my kitchen door. There’s the colleague who always asks me consistently for money and medicine. There’s my counterpart who I just found out used Peace Corps money to buy a microwave (definitely a no-no!!!). There’s the neighbor that asks for clothes off my laundry line. There are the twenty students that come to my hut every day asking for water without offering to go to the pump to get me more. There’s the other students who steal the colored chalk that my mom’s sends me to spice up their own lessons! So, over time, those little things start adding up to make me feel like I’m getting mooched on by the whole village.

The thing is, when the needs become too much for high-energy PCVs to handle, we have a haven, an outlet – and that my friends is the beautiful phenomena of venting/crying over beer with other misunderstood PCVs.  Hey, we’ve alllllllll been “that person” at some point. ;) Integration is HARD.

The problem is, even if a break helps you push your personal "reset" button, the minute you get back to site, you realize that you've only avoided a problem rather than working toward resolution. And being a social and people-loving human being, I worry A LOT about my relationships with people and my community’s perception of who I am. If a conflict I've had with someone remains unresolved, I can’t stop thinking about it because of the consequences it could have with other relationships I want and need with other people at work and in the village. After all, it IS a village! Everyone knows EVERYONE. Often times these conflicts originate from miscommunications... literally, when I haven’t understood someone’s Portuguese or they haven’t understood mine.  That type of awkwardness is easily resolved if you’re willing somewhat embarrassedly to ask someone to rehash an entire conversation with you or ask for clarification. But, it’s not always that straightforward.

During this trip, I realized I was worrying a lot – pretty much ALL the time – and working through each possibility for miscommunication (verbal and body language) with each interaction I was having. The psychological weight/energy I spent doing this was unbelievable. My brain had become a computer to calculate the odds of each scenario as it played out and then re-evaluated afterwards to see if I had faulted.  Think Super Bowl instant replays – in my BRAIN – to navigate social etiquette in a country with incredibly different cultural norms. After living in Mapinhane for nine months, people generally expect me to have figured everything out already. Because this is very obviously not the case, this expectation caused (and still causes) me to avoid situations that I am clueless about or with people I don't already know well. A primary example?? Negotiating mix-gendered friendships in a Mozambican cultural context. Even simple things as being invited by my male colleagues to hangout, drink, and watch movies, I time after time deflected and flat-out rejected all propositions. This may seem rude on my part, but considering that I get slathered with compliments, flirting, and come-ons daily at work from all of them, I was seriously suspicious about intent.  Sure, I “trusted” my colleagues to look out for me, but I was also of the mentality of avoiding all problems before they even became problems. I think you can see where this is going. I’m not an uptight person, but I was so afraid of sending the wrong message or misunderstanding intent that I stiff armed every male colleague that tried to get to know me outside work. I was – how do they call it? – “keeping it professional.”

The tragic part of this is that, as I've realized now, this very uncharacteristic obsessive apprehension and conservatism has not only drained my overall energy level because I was avoiding people that I liked, but it's also needlessly caused me to miss out on a lot of the fun I could have been having. So while I have wonderful friendships with my neighbor lady friends and fellow female professors, I’m pretty sure every GUY at school besides Chefe Samuel thought I was THE MOST BORING PERSON ON EARTH. Can’t say I blame them.

And so, back to my decision. The turning point came when I got back from traveling and started the third trimester of the year. I realized that because I really do love my life in Mapinhane, it was time to stop being overly cautious and building walls/drawing lines with people. That phase is done. My point was made. It’s time to evolve. I realized I don’t want to leave Mozambique with “half” friendships, knowing the people I work with everyday only superficially. No way.

So, the Friday of that same week, I approached Adercio and Ernesto at the market and announced that I thought we should hangout the next evening. They thought I was joking. No seriously. I nearly got stood up the next night haha (*insert cricket chirps*).  To make a long story short, I hung out that night with Adercio, Etivaldo, and Chefe Samuel in town until 2am. AND we had SUPER FUN. They discovered that I, as an America woman, have A LOT of opinions. That’s no surprise to y’all back home (haha!), but my male Mozambican colleagues were THRILLED. They wanted to know my ideas about everything, and we thus shared some good heart-to-heart talks about life, politics, love, the future… the usual conversations incoming freshman at college stay up till 3am hashing and rehashing, enthralled by the new horizon of ideas and possibilities. We definitely felt a similar giddiness that night, bonding over Manicas, bad baraca music, and the exchange of world views.

And sure, clearly being an American (esp. woman) in Mozambique is STILL super awkward sometimes. But I’ve decided, WHO CARES. The end.  ;)

Chefe Samuel, Adercio, me and Etivaldo :)

Chefe Samuel is the best!!! He really looks out for me :)

Etivaldo tried to teach me how to open a beer with another beer. Obviously there are some parts of my life education that are still lacking lol ;)

Cheers y'all!!

Part 2: Secondary Projects - The trickle becomes a flood!

In addition to this dismantling of mental blockades and my general fear of social suicide, a lot of my projects have finally started to yield some progress and results! So, of course that’s good news! Community development is what I’m here for after all, not just cultural exchange!

“Levanta nossas meninas” – Girls Sports Bra Campaign

Perhaps my favorite project thus far is my “Levanta nossas meninas” or “Raise our girls” sports bra campaign. Teaming up with Lisa Ballou and the Kitsap Tri Babes, we organized a sports bra donation drive to support the Mapinhane girls basketball team that I’m coaching. I went to Vilankulos yesterday to check the post-office and found this HUGE box waiting for me, with 20lbs of sports bras inside!!!!

That's some MEGA BOUNCE-PROTECTION in there!!! :D 

There's enough bras in that box to cover at least two or three girls teams, so I'm trying to reorganize our local girls soccer teams as well to make sure the bras all have good homes to go to. 

For those pondering the sustainability question, I've been trying to brainstorm ways of making this sports bra drive more than a one-time thing. This first round of donations is incredibly impressive because it will jump start girls athletics in my host-community. However, what happens when the donated bras wear out? Or, what if even more girls want to get involved in playing sports? This needs a long-term strategy. I want to make this bra "drive" a bra "campaign"! At the moment, I'm thinking about trying to find a few local modistas, or tailors, and presenting sports bras production as a means of growing their businesses locally. If we had a local supplier, not only would it help local women-led business but would give our female athletes in the area an easily accessible resource. I don't know how feasible it is to find the right type of fabric needed for a supportive sports bra, but I do know that good elastic is available, so that's a start. I figure every option is worth looking into!

Centro de Leitura – Literacy Center (aka, the USAID Community Library project)

After attending the Early Grade Reading Assessment (EGRA) training in Nampula last month, all 19 PCVS and our 19 Mozambican counterparts left feeling revved up and excited about the implementation of a sweeping literacy initiative throughout Mozambique. Implementing this initiative and undergoing the necessary training wasn’t without problems of course.

To sum it up briefly, I feel we encountered as PCVs a textbook case of a big governmental organization throwing money and resources to jumpstart a campaign but then failing to maintain open lines of communication with local sources on the ground to make sure the original ideas/intent were realistic and implementable. Everything we were told to do during the conference – from the standard research methodology of evaluating baseline literacy rates to strategies regarding volunteer retention – had us relying on resources that weren’t obtainable or sustainable in our communities. Essentially, USAID had expectations for PCVs in our ground-breaking partnership, yet they didn’t bother taking the time to talk to us volunteers to negotiate realistic logistics about our roles in implementing their research and making the literacy program the most efficient and effective as possible. This lack of clarity led to such skepticism-lined PCV questions as, “Excuse me USAID, I live six hours by chapa from the nearest city, and you want me to not only pay for transport but to also pay for 100 ten page research questionnaires that are 5-10 meticais a page? That’s 1000 pages, costing between 5000-10,000 meticais (more than our monthly salary of 7,000 meticais, just for surveys)…how exactly are you expecting us to do that USAID?”  

So yes. Least to say PCVs and Mozambican counterparts alike felt incredibly frustrated by the lack of leadership overall during a conference in which we were supposed to learn the game plan for an exciting, cutting-edge USAID-Peace Corps partnership. Peace Corps staff seemed to be figuring things out on the fly and USAID seemed to be completely disinterested and disconnected from the very pilot program it espoused months before (especially because USAID only sent a representative the first day, and he didn’t even present USAID’s objectives for the EGRA program…). That left us PCVs feeling incredibly disappointed and floundering somewhat with the lack of direction.

But then things turned around. Us PCVs held a self-intervention and decided to take ownership in this program, and no longer worry about USAID rules or procedures. If USAID couldn’t show up to answer our questions, we would just run the show our way with the excellent help of our co-partner Livro Aberto (who’s representative was not only there the WHOLE conference, but was knowledgeable, helpful, and proved to be an incredibly dynamic mediator). Because of our collective decision and awesome teamwork, we pulled this looming disaster around, stripped away the frustration, and made the last day and a half the most productive, positive, and energizing conference days of the entire WEEK.

As such, we’re all jumping right into our community library projects and literacy programs at our sites with few complications.

My big personal recent progress was when I approached the Director of the Mapinhane Primary School and proposed the formation of the library and tutoring program on the Primary School grounds. Sr. Director Miguel was on board within the first five minutes, and we discussed, negotiated, and floated ideas and corresponding logistical plans for the next 40 minutes (all in Portuguese I might add! Wouldn’t have believed you if you told me I’d be doing that even 3 months ago!!!).  He invited me to start working on the library this week! More updates soon to come!!

A first peek at the room we're going to transform into the community library!!! SO EXCITING.

Programa de Alimentacão – Escola Primaria (Primary School Feeding Program)

So, as always there's some good news and some bad news. The good news? JAM's feeding program termination date for the Primary School has been extended to November. The bad news? Our director just went on his month-long vacation and is refusing to deal with any of this or schedule any meeting with JAM until he gets back in October. That means we'll have less than a month to talk about transition logistics, which is frankly just not enough time to do anything. So that's frustrating. But as much as I wish I could just freakin' call up JAM myself, that'd be a very American thing to do. I gotta play by Mozambican rules. Given the strong "chefe" complexes and adherence/reverence of titles and authority, it would be considered considerably rude, and out of line for me to go around the school director and take charge (what Americans would conversely call "showing initiative"). So. Instead of burning a mega bridge, I have to sit on my hands and wait. Thankfully I have lots of other things to keep me occupied!!

To wrap it all up…

I've been doing some serious bonding with my inner-joy monster ;)

"Como vai seu lado?" / "How goes your side?"

There’s a casual greeting exchange between people in my village that I’ve fallen in love with recently. It goes something like this:

Person A: Ola! Como esta?
Person B: Estou bem, mas nao sei sobre seu lado.
Person A: Estamos bem, obrigada.

There are two things that strike me as immediately interesting. For one, Person B says they’re well but in the same breath acknowledges that “nao sei seu lado” or, that they “don’t know your side.” To me, this insinuates that while the well-being and happiness of Person A is not entirely contingent on the response of Person B, they do have the thoughtfulness and courteousness to suggest that it might. And two, Person A responds to this allowance with a humble, “We are fine, thanks.” It’s with this subtle selection of the pronoun “we,” even when referring only to oneself, that suggests the speaker is also conscious of the collective. With the use of "we," the individual refuses to disassociate themselves from the social groupings of family, ancestry, community, or other social ties.  It strikes me how language is truly a vessel for cultural values. Perhaps it’s obvious, but how we discuss, debate, and even introduce our ideas, let alone how we address and acknowledge each other reflects an intimate intertwining of the value we place on both our relationships and our individuality (and perhaps the tension between both?).

So, all philosophical ramblings notwithstanding, how goes my (or should I say "our") side?

First off, the seasonal transformation I’ve witnessed in Mozambique the last few weeks has been rapid and unceasing. The sun is once again beating me out of bed in the mornings, and the ever inching weight of humidity has me stripping off my warm layers and kicking off my bedsheets at night. A part of me is thrilled with the change – I’m in love with the extra-long days of summer, coupled by the big thunderstorms and the vibrant, green of renewal that hurts your eyes after the dusty, dry winter. However, the other 98% of me is absolutely horrified at the thought of another six months of constant sweat, smelly feet, neurotic bathing, using sunscreen as body lotion, and the general loss of all ability to be outdoors between noon and sundown.  Let’s just say that I may be using the nearby “praia do Vilankulos” as a weekend escape hatch from my sweltering Hut with increasing frequency the next few months.

But for now, we are in the interim, a blessed purgatory. Life is incredibly good J

Actually, I just got back from a nearly three-week vacation away from site – the first few days I was in Vilankulos to celebrate my birthday, and then after a quick two days at site to submit grades, I went North!

Birthday Celebracoes! 

Because my birthday fell at the end of the last week of exams, all my Mozambican colleagues at school and my fellow PCV teacher friends were both a) completely broke AND b) buried under stacks of ungraded work.  Thus, I totally understood when no one could find the time or money to organize a small birthday get together.  Yet, still, the idea of sitting alone in my hut on my birthday was making me teeter precariously on the brink of self-pity - clearly a quite unflattering state of mind - until I had an idea!

Back in November I was given the number of a woman named Mandy who ran a horse stable and gave guided beach rides in Vilankulos. While I don’t wear my love of horses on my sleeve (in resistance to falling victim to any “crazy-horse-girl” stereotype and knowing full well that I am one), my obsession runs very deep. And so, in a “what-the-hell-I’m-taking-myself-out-this-weekend-YOU-GO-GIRL” moment, I decided to catch the next chapa to Vil, check myself into my favorite hostel, and call Mandy up. Instantly, the warm Zimbabwean-English voice on the other end of the line assuaged my restlessness, and by the end of the five minute phone call, Mandy had invited me on a snorkeling trip to Benguerra Island, a beach ride to the red sand dunes, and lodging for the weekend... ALL FOR FREE. The best part is, I didn't even tell Mandy it was my birthday – she’s just an incredibly generous woman who loves PCVs.  And so, for not having any plans until the very eve of my birthday, the start of my 23^rd year began with a wonderful stroke of not only amazing luck and generosity, but lots of adventure!  When I got off the phone, my mega fist-pump-happy-dance definitely woke up a cute guy in a nearby hammock. He laughed though. And then bought me a drink ;)

In any case, sometimes pictures really do better justice to an experience so I'll let them finish the story. A phenomenal weekend ensued, complete with AMAZING food (fresh crab curry anyone?), snorkeling (in which we saw octopi and dolphins!!), sailing, horseback riding, and making some very enjoyable new friends. 

Sunrise, July 14, 2013

Birthday lunch onboard the dhow! Next up, snorkeling and exploring the islands!!

My new friends, Maria (Sweden) and Liz (USA)! 

Heading home by sundown!

The next morning I played hookie from school and we went on a 50k horseride to the Red Dunes!

View from the top of the dunes! Couldn't be happier!! 

My tour north!

After a quick two days home wrapping up grades, I then took off again – this time for Northern Mozambique!! After an overnight in Maputo and a flight in business class (its kinda a long story) to Nampula, my bestie Cheyanne and I wandered through Angoche and Ilha de Mocambique over the next ten days before our Peace Corps Conference in Nampula.  

"The North" as referenced by PCVs refers to the provinces of Nampula, Zambezia, and Niassa, and Cabo Delgado. Considering that Mozambique is an incredibly large country, our two hour flight from Maputo to Nampula was a godsend that saved us from the two to three day bus trip (thru a PCV banned area) that Cheyanne and I would have had to undergo. Instead, we hopped on a plane, skipped along the coastline, and landed in the dry and semi-mountainous province of Nampula. First stop, Angoche!

Angoche is perhaps one of the nicest PCV sites in the whole country. It's really got it all! Imagine the salty air coaxing you out of bed every morning to find out your door the thick foliage of mangrove forests, salt flats, beautiful running trails, friendly and diverse locals (love me peacefully coexisting Christians and Muslims to contradict the stereotype), phenomenal food, and some historic architectural intrigue that remains after the departure of the Portuguese. Anneke and Mafe, our fellow PCV 19ers have the delightful luck of living in this wonderful oasis.

We spent a lovely five days wandering around the town with Anneke and her mom Barbara, going to the market, eating local delectables like Apas (which were fried tortillas with a fried egg, mayo, and ketchup inside, a delicious way to get a heart attack… or really just the closest thing to a Big Mac I can get here haha!), hanging out on Anneke’s apartment balcony reading, visiting the local modista (or tailor) to have some cute new caplana dresses made, and catching a canoe ride to the edge of the outer peninsula to visit the beach. All in all, besides a brief bought of food-poisoning that doubled as a malaria “scare,” it was an incredibly serene, peaceful place to start our trip. And Cheyanne, much to her surprise, found me a tolerable traveling companion. ;)

Next, we went to Ilha de Moçambique. This place, like all places that get hyped, up was really lovely… but it definitely was a place that I could only stay for a few days without getting restless (I mean, it’s an island, so I’m not sure what else I was expecting lol). But in any case, Ilha de Mocambique is famous for offering one thing – a premiere spot to teleport back in time and experience Mozambique’s colonial days. Everything about it – from its nostalgic Portuguese architecture, winding narrow European alleyways, the huge fortress and Governor’s mansion, along with the delicately painted fragments of Chinese pottery that wash up on shore with the tide (after being dumped by the Portuguese when they abandoned the island) – are all testaments to the time when Mozambique was one of the prime trading portals of the “East”.

It seems a little spooky for the identity of a whole island to continue to revolve around a time which was the embodiment of human cruelty. Ilha draws tourists interested in history and food, both of which are incredibly powerful reminders of what used to be. Ilha was occupied and used as a slave trade post for centuries. And now, the island itself, of a mere 0.6 miles from end to end, remains divided as it was decades ago into “stick town” and “stone town.” The names are pretty self-explanatory. Stick town is where the poorest of Ilha-ians live. Stone town, or the remnant, often crumbling old Portuguese homes, is where the wealthier Ilha-ians live. Many times while exploring the island, waves of simultaneous enchantment and revulsion would wash over me. The weight of history is heavier than many others in this place, mostly because Ilha de Mocambique is a place where you simply cannot forget the past. You're stuck in it. 

Classic colonial Portuguese archetecture with some original anchors from the trader ships.

The old Portuguese Governor's mansion coupled with the Catholic church. We got a tour of the place... quite ritzy, no surprise there.

An important Portuguese colonial dude. Probs the guy who lived in the mansion. (obviously I'm blanking on all the historical information I learned at the museum...)

The BEAUTIFUL walkway out to the pier.

A view of the fortress from the pier.

Exploring the fortress with Cheyanne :)

The Portuguese had an incredible military defense on the Island. Lots of other countries, including the Dutch, tried to take over the fort to no avail.

The bridge going back to mainland Mozambique.

I left Ilha on an early Sunday morning in the back of a truck driven by 6 Catholic missionaries.  It was one of those mornings of crisp-crystal-blue sharpness that cut through sleepy reveries better than any steaming cup of coffee.  As we motored down the bridge back to the mainland, my hair already transforming into a frizzy lion’s mane, I watched Ilha fade behind me into the golden rays of rising sunshine. Ilha is an island that fed the jaws of slavery yet  conversely protected people from the civil war. It is a place of Christians and Muslims. Of Portuguese and Mozambicans. It is a place where incredible differences and suffering has existed and yet everyone lives peacefully together within a square mile or less of each other. Ilha is microcosm of the entire country. And, while the "smallness" of it made me ready to leave, I wouldn't have missed its teachings for the world.

Back home, the final stretch!

After Ilha I went to a week long conference in Nampula. I couldn't wait to get back to Mapinhane, and now that I'm here we just started our third trimester of the year. I’m going to go out on a limb and introduce a Human Rights unit to 300 Mozambican eighth graders. It could be incredibly dynamic or it could fail miserably. Even though my shell has been toughened sufficiently the last few months, human rights  is something I hold near and dear to my heart… SO WATCH OUT eighth graders. It’s going to get intense! We’re gonna talk about discrimination, violence, the philosophy of non-violence and maybe even bring in some Dr. Martin Luther King.

Hey, I gotta pump myself up for the next three months somehow!! Wish me luck!