tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36279960125527270632024-03-13T10:16:44.714-07:00Oh, the Places You'll Go!Because your mountain is waiting...Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-16709847463773342702021-08-12T11:07:00.000-07:002021-08-12T11:52:04.186-07:00Wedding Season during the Rainy Season <p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-a2b8e8e2-7fff-a7ab-42a6-f944ca86e5d0">Rainy season - the quintessential equatorial African experience, with moody skies, billowing thunderheads and sheets of rain that soak you to the bone. Summer is the rainiest time of the year here in Mali. Water can destroy life as easily as foster it. Here in Bamako, a single thunderstorm can flood a whole field of crops as easily as sustain them, and can turn streets into rivers in seconds as the runoff negotiates its way back to the mother Niger River. The humidity is constant - I am trying to get used to the musty odor my clothes are fostering from never being able to fully dry. Yet, when compared to the other nine months of the year when Bamako's air is thick with urban smog and the sand whipped up into the atmosphere from the Sahara desert, one can't help but feel blessed by the rain. If I'm home, I often find myself storm watching from the family's roof. There are fewer more peaceful moments in this chaotic, industrial African capitol.</p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-a2b8e8e2-7fff-a7ab-42a6-f944ca86e5d0"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br><p></p><p dir="ltr">Summer in Mali, like many other parts of the world, is also wedding season! Weddings are typically Thursdays and Sundays. City traffic, while being absolutely insane anyways, is regularly made impassable by wedding motorcades that honk their way through town. Yet, Malians appear to LOVE wedding season. It is as great an honor to host a wedding as it is to attend one. The host feels particular pride in feeding as many people as possible - sometimes entire neighborhoods in addition to wedding guests - and the guest whether family, friend, or stranger is quick to make many meaningful blessings of prosperity to the wedding party and their family. What results is an impressive communal connection that builds ties and nurtures relationships across ethnic groups and social classes alike. </p><p dir="ltr">In any case, weddings usually have three phases, including a civil, religious, and traditional ceremony. The civil ceremony takes place at the courthouse and concludes with a big party. The religious ceremony is more private and happens at the mosque. And the traditional ceremony happens in the home. The bride and groom usually only see each other during the civil ceremony, as the rest of the time celebrations are segregated between men and women. And, while I can’t speak to the civil or religious aspects of wedding ceremonies here, I was able to attend and participate in traditional ceremonies myself this past weekend as Gie and I celebrated our fifth anniversary with a belated Malian celebration. </p><p dir="ltr">As you can expect, the traditional marriage ceremony is rooted in ritual. From the groomsmen stitching rolls of linen together to form the bedding for wedding night, to the aunties and griots encircling the bride in song and dance as she has her hands and feet washed by her grandmother, these customs have been practiced for generations. </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">The night before my traditional ceremony, I was also treated to having henna applied to my hands and feet. The process took several hours, during which a steady stream of neighborhood ladies stopped by to meet me and congratulate my mother-in-law on her good fortune of marrying off her eldest son. As drums played and many blessings made, Tante Tu delicately taped designs on to my hands and feet, applied the henna, then wrapped my limbs in plastic bags to help the dye “cook” for over two hours. The end result however was well worth the effort. When the plastic bags and tape were finally peeled away, a lovely, rich ochre lattice of flower petals and filigree was revealed. More than anything, Tante Tu’s meticulous care made me feel truly welcomed and accepted within the family. </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">The morning of my ceremony was laid back, even while everyone hustled and bustled around me with preparations. Cooking, washing, cleaning… oh my! I did try to help and put myself in close proximity with the women cooking the feast but Mama Coulibaly told me it wasn't good for the bride to be out in the rain. I have a sneaking suspicion though it was to get me out of the way, since I’m guessing I looked clearly lost. In any case, relieved of any duty, I got to sit back and marvel most of the morning. </p><p dir="ltr">By 1pm it was showtime. I hopped in the shower and donned traditional robes – a beautiful indigo blue – laid out for me by Mama Coulibaly. I was then escorted out to greet the guests and start the feast – red rice with vegetables stewed with mutton and a side of spicy hot pepper sauce. Delicious! </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr"><i>Griots</i> performers were the entertainment for the afternoon, singing and dancing the history and achievements of the Kone and Coulibaly families respectively. <i>Griots</i> are the artists, musicians, and storytellers of the Malian people. It is socially acceptable for them to joke, jest, and create in ways that is considered too crass, emotional, or inappropriate for other more stoic ethnic castes within Malian society. They thus serve a purpose in not only passing on oral histories for generations of Malian families, but to create a vibrant cultural memory. Every family has a griot that will show up to big family events such as weddings and funerals. And while our particular family griot had a prior engagement on my ceremony day, there are plenty of entrprenurial griots looking for work. Sometimes you even have multiple griots showing up to a single party, practically leading to a duel for the appreciation and sponsorship of the hosting family by lauding the family’s achievements and magnificence. The three griots that showed up to my traditional ceremony literally brought megaphones to out-laud their competition. And for their obsequiousness, family members usually slip money into the griots’ hands which in turn increases the volume of the flattery. Everyone ends up having a WONDERFUL time – the Griots go home with pockets full of money and the hosting family feels honored, valued, and important. </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">With my ears ringing however, I was happy to escape the attention of the griots via requests from many of my new aunties and cousins for a quick photoshoot. It was only a brief reprieve. </p><p dir="ltr">The next phase of the traditional ceremony was to bathe (again) and don a second outfit of customary robes. The first outfit usually gets donated to a local family in the neighborhood while the second outfit gets bestowed to my mother (hi mom!). After changing outfits, Tanti Fifi checked my appearance and when satisfied draped a black headscarf over my head so that it hung over my eyes and wrapped loosely around my neck and shoulders. I was warned that now that the scarf was on I could not take it off until after sundown. I was then paraded out with song again for the last part of the ceremony – the washing of the hands and feet.</p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">The washing of the bride’s hands and feet symbolizes a connection to the past as well as a fresh beginning. An elder woman from the community guides the bride and has her sit upon a stool with her grandmother or auntie seated besides her. The elder woman then washes the bride’s grandmother/auntie’s hands and feet before turning focus to the bride. Many blessings are made during this time. As I did not have any of my family members present, Tante Iya requested to be my person. Suddenly however, as Tante Iya was being washed, my sinuses – which had been stuffed up all day from a headcold – opened and began flowing! Unable to blow my nose and trying to discreetly wipe away the clear snot running down my face, the elder woman sharp as a tack caught me in the act and declared to the audience “Aww, she’s crying!” To which everyone cheered. I of course understood absolutely none of this because the entire ceremony was in Bambara, so I just kept smiling and internally cursing Sudafed for working too well. </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">In any case, the ceremony continued onwards. My hands and feet (and face!) washed, my final task was before me - to stand and kick over the stool behind me. I had one chance to get it or risk a lifetime of bad luck, elder woman declared. Still not being able to see anything, I channeled my inner mare and gave it a good hind kick with follow through, like I really meant it. I heard a thud and massive cheers erupted again. To end it all I was escorted back into the house and over the following hour the party slowly began to break up. People came to me with their praises, prayers for many babies, and lengthy goodbyes, with Gie as always kindly translating everything for me. By the time the last guest left I was absolutely exhausted. Yet Mama Coulibaly was positively beaming, making the many trials worth the craziness. </p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p></p><p dir="ltr">Let me tell you, I don’t know how Malians have the energy to go to two of those crazy parties a week for three months a year. It’s a whole new level of commitment. And yet, in a country where there are no guarantees – where surviving the daily grind is an act of rebellion – where even the rain can wash away your livelihood – it’s no wonder that Malians take the time to cherish and solidify their connections to one another. I am thankful that I have been able to honor my new family by observing and respecting their traditions, as well as taking the time to celebrate our (second) wedding. <br></p>Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-9667662399431566912021-07-25T14:44:00.001-07:002021-08-02T14:46:19.332-07:00Keeping up with Kone-Coulibalys<p dir="auto">Our first weekend in Bamako and we are being kept to a busy schedule! From 9am to 7pm Gie and I are on the road, with trusty Abou behind the wheel, visiting the dozens of family members around the city. Since Gie has been away from Mali for nearly 15 years, it was important for him to pay respects to his elders and also present me for a sort of unofficial evaluation as his wife. </p><p dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto">Upon arriving at a relative's home, Gie leads the way and makes the introductions. We are greeted with hugs and handshakes. We take off our sandals at the door as a sign of respect. Then we take our seats as a younger member of the household, often a young woman, pours water into a communal cup and offers us each a drink. I smile alot following the exchanges as Gie speaks in a combination of Bambara (his local dialect) and French, exchanging some of life's biggest life updates with aunties, uncles, and cousins. We stay maybe 15 to 20 minutes at each home before offering our thanks and moving onto the next. </p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto">These brief encounters offered so many impressions. From the unique blend of Islam and west African culture to the mashup between the rich and poor, Mali challenges all assumptions about what it is or should be. </p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto">But most of all, I am finding Mali's culture to be overwhelmingly heirarchical, balanced by the nurturing of incredibly complex social relationships. By complex social relationships, I mean knowing and understanding everyone's standing within the family from sibling to great aunt and third cousins. Everyone has a role to play, especially in arbitration. While you may never outright question the decision or speak against those older than you, a wise Malién will regularly work the back channels to have their concerns expressed to the person in charge without suffering the consequences of dissent. In other words, if I disagree with a decision of the patriarch, one could talk with the aunties who talk with their husbands who then meet with their brother (a peer) to make those concerns known. </p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto">To an American who was raised on a strong sense of individualism and direct often times blunt communication, this process still amazes me! Americans would likely find this cultural practice maddenly passive - yet I have a feeling the rest of the world would label it artful diplomacy. And while it's not the first time I've witnessed this sort of cultural phenomenon, it is the first time it's personal. Gie's role as the first born son of the oldest child on his father's side puts him in a leadership position automatically, which vicariously means that as his wife I am also allowed some privileges. But those privileges also come with specific duties and expectations. Essentially, these first few days I am trying to learn all those unspoken rules, perform certain roles, speak a new language and avoid as much embarrassment as possible. </p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto">Least to say I'm exhausted. </p><p dir="auto"></p><p>
</p><p dir="auto">Despite navigating a different social currency however, I must clarify that my various cultural bumbles have been treated kindly and gently corrected when necessary. My husband's family has truly welcomed me with open arms and incredible hospitality. Thanks to them the culture shock is much less than it would be otherwise. I will keep on smiling until I simply can't any longer. </p><p dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p>Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-77472233027152162392021-07-24T13:44:00.001-07:002021-08-02T13:55:25.054-07:00Bamako, First Impressions<p dir="auto">Our first day in Mali, we arrived mid afternoon after 23+ hours of flight time. I felt such relief seeing the red dirt with cinderblock houses and specks of white sheep come into focus as we made our descent through the clouds.</p><p dir="auto">At first glance from the ground, Mali is poorer than Mozambique and absolute chaos. And of course, opportunists look for, well, any opportunity. We got shaken down for bribes pretty much the minute we stepped off the plane even with Gie and Abou, his brother, speaking the local language. Apparently, customs suspected food in our bag and this guy offered to "help", grabbed one of our bags and led us to the customs guys saying "they are with me." Of course it was a setup. Immediately I got suspicious and started waving him away, telling the guy to back off, telling Gie to tell him to back off in Bambara. But he wouldn't leave us alone. He then demanded payment for greasing up the customs agent for us. When we refused to pay, he got irate and followed us all the way to the car berating and cursing us. I let loose some Portuguese/Xitswa reflexively, from another lifetime. Anyways, Abou got us in the car and pulled around to the exit but as we went to finally leave apparently we didn't get the "right ticket" to pay. So poor Abou had to walk back to the airport to get the ticket that allowed him to pay! A perfect TIA (This Is Africa) moment... and one heck of a welcome! </p>
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<p dir="auto">We took a collective breath and put all that behind us though once we started driving. Gie and Abou were chatting nonstop making up for 15 years of lost time - pointing out things that were the same, things that had changed. I loved this homecoming moment for my husband. And it allowed me to just take everything in. So many things feel familiar - the humidity that leaves your skin constantly dewey, the contrasting red dirt and bright green of rainy season, the trash absolutely everywhere, and all the half-completed abandoned projects strewn across town - skeletal evidence of temporary, fleeting wealth bartered for dreams. As far as driving goes, the four lanes of traffic acted as mere suggestions rather than rules. It was not uncommon for Abou to tap the horn mildly, politely in the face of an oncoming vehicle crossing into our lane, or motor bikes buzzing past us in packs. I tried to imitate Abou's level of chill - if he's not worried, I won't be either. Still there's a reason car accidents remain to be one of the top causes of death. TIA. </p>
<p dir="auto"></p>
<p dir="auto">We finally arrived home, and it was the homecoming Gie had been dreaming of for so long! We pulled up to the big iron door gates and with an impatient beep of the horn we are let into the compound and immediately surrounded. Big hugs to brother Zanah, a firm handshake to his father, and a mother grasping her son in happy tears. "You really are a man now" she told him finally stepping back and taking him all in. I also got the universal mama bear hug. "Welcome to your home, daughter" she said and with that we all paraded into the house for a tour. </p>
<p dir="auto"></p>
<p dir="auto">The rest of the evening was spent eating supper and lounging in the living room, telling stories. I told them that I felt bad not learning French to communicate and it was waved off by his mother saying, "Don't worry, you need to learn Bambara instead, French is not really our language." Take that colonialism. Bamabara it is.</p>
<p dir="auto"></p>
<p dir="auto">So here we are! This is bound to be a month of culture shock, integration, and adventure. But I did tell Gie when we married that I wanted anything but a dull life. He's certainly keeping to his end of the bargain. </p><p dir="auto"><br></p><p dir="auto"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br><p></p>Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-81627978195143650952021-07-17T04:10:00.000-07:002021-07-17T04:12:45.494-07:00Mali: the prologue. Well, hello again! I'm "dusting off" this blog for another adventure of a lifetime. Next week, Gie and I are headed to Mali, West Africa - a trip many years in the making. <p><br>Life has been a whirlwind since the last time I wrote. I'm happily married. I finished nursing school and am entering my second year as a critical care nurse in a local hospital. We've survived 2020 and the Covid pandemic (so far). All those big dreams I wrote about and agonized over in that little grass hut in Mozambique have come to pass. And now, I'm gazing toward the horizon of the next adventure - getting to know the life, language, culture, and customs of my husband's country. Most importantly I'll get to finally meet my husband's family in person - a much overdue tradition after Skyping them into our wedding almost five years ago. We'll be gone for around a month - a privilege that working so much overtime during the pandemic has ironically granted me. And I'm excited! But also, a little nervous? Uncertain? I expect many of the sights and smells I have stepping off the plane will feel familiar. After all, I will once again be attempting to integrate into a place in which I am blatantly an outsider. Not that my Malian family will make me feel that way. In fact, I expect quite the opposite.</p><p>That's my bread and butter though in so many of my international experiences - "cross cultural integration" AKA how-to-make-friends-and-build-a-life-with-minimal-social-competence-and-the-charity-of-others. Deep down, I believe I will welcome that lost and humble feeling again, even though this time there's more anxiousness attached to it than the care-free fearlessness (i.e. naivety) of my 19-year-old self who jumped on a plane to Zimbabwe so many years ago alone and only minimal planning (I realize now my parents were saints, let's be honest). </p><p>At least this time, I'll have Gie. </p><p> So, watch this space guys. I will definitely be journaling, and I will try to post a couple times a week depending on the amount of connectivity we have. Would love to hear your questions and feedback. </p><p><br></p><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p>Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-51912832047293300272018-03-19T14:23:00.000-07:002018-03-19T16:00:06.967-07:00No time for grief - Volunteering with the nurses at the Vilanculos hospital<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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[I originally wrote this post in September 2015 and kept it private. I am posting now for your review].<br />
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The first thing you always noticed when walking through the double
doors and into the darkened hallway was the smell. The sickeningly sweet wash
of formaldehyde, the slight bite of antiseptic, and a weighty, warm, sour aroma
I eventually realized was the smell of rotting flesh. It was a smell that embedded itself into your
clothing, into your hair – so pungent and domineering that upon arriving back
home after my first shift, I in a frenzy and on the verge of tears, stripped off my clothes and threw
myself into the shower. My white lab coat, crumpled dejectedly on the floor,
glowered, accusingly in silence as I scrubbed my naked, sunburned, sweaty body
and scalp with such ferocity I imagined the molecules of disease, death, and
heartbreak washing down the drain with the hot suds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I volunteered at the Hospital Rural de Vilanculos for two
months in early 2015 and it was during this time that my understanding of the true
nature of Mozambique’s poverty deepened tremendously. Because, as one woman
told me, “<i>As pessoas chegam aqui para morrer”- people come to the hospital to
die</i>. It's safe to say Mozambican's don't expect much from their healthcare system - one of the main reasons <i>cuninderos - </i>witchdoctors - remain so influential.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I’ve written before <a href="http://karinatravelsabroad.blogspot.com/2014/08/better-devil-you-know.html">in other posts</a>, the problems plaguing the Mozambican health care system are numerous and complex. From the theft and selling of state-sponsored medicines on the black-market, to doctors having to bridge the gap between science and popular beliefs in witch-doctors and magic, to a lack of consistent patient education crucial for patient treatment adherence - each of these topics could easily boast their own million dollar research grants. This post is not to dissect those problems. It is instead to document my observations and people I met there there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
My day would start with a brisk walk to work along the palm-treed sandy roads of the <i>bairos</i>, curling my toes through deep patches trying to keep the sand out of my not-so-white shoes. Dressed in my <i>bata,</i> I would get nods from other commuters, nods sent as expressions of respect to the white coat and all that it symbolized - education, authority, knowledge, power. "<i>Doctora!" </i>they would shout, waving. "Nao sou uma doctora... I'm not a doctor," I would reply abashedly. But they'd already be gone, dodging behind the next corrigated metal <i>loja</i> for a shortcut.<br />
<br />
Walking through the gates of the hospital and through the open-aired waiting room, my eyes would be met with the sight of <i>hundreds</i> of people already waiting for consultations. These consultations are served on a first-come, first-serve basis, so unless you are literally dying, you have to wait your turn like everybody else. But of course, you don't really just "wait your turn." The minute anyone with any sort of VIP status, whether its the friend of the second-cousin twice removed of one of surgeons, or the son of the mayor, receiving prompt medical care is largely who you know. And if you don't happen to have any connections, then resign yourself to finding a bench or what little standing room is left.<br />
<br />
I was able to drift through the hospital unquestioned - my presence tolerated because of my <i>estrangeira </i>privilege, and because frankly the nurses could use as much help as they could get. Even a white girl with a soft heart and soft hands.<br />
<br />
And so, I did as I was told - to fetch this and grab that. <i>Traga </i>this, <i>traga </i>that. Consequentially, I was given an unparalleled opportunity to observe and witness the stories of the men, women, and children from across the northern province seeking care.<br />
<br />
My mentors were Nera and Hortencio - bright and pragmatic nurses who ran the front-lines on the TB, HIV and infectious diseases ward. I was their shadow - glued to their hip, like a child clinging to a mother's skirt. Sights, sounds, and smells I often found overwhelming and upsetting caused them to hardly bat an eye. I wouldn't say that they suffered from compassion fatigue (but maybe). Rather, there was simply no time to grieve for each new life-changing diagnosis. They delivered HIV diagnoses to patients like one gives their spouse a routine honey-do-list. <i>Mana, you are not pregnant. But, oh by the way, the test indicated that you are positive for HIV. But don't worry, we can treat it. Let's start with this... And you need to stop by the farmacia...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
No time for grief. Just triage.<br />
<br />
Next person. Next day. Next fight. Next life.<br />
<br />
Heal them. Lose them. Either way another bed will become empty and be filled again tomorrow.<br />
<br />
What struck me more than anything, was the degree of such meaningless loss. From loss of limb to loss of life. That as amazing and heroic as the hospital staff were, they could never give their patients the best possible care because the system in which they were operating gave them insurmountable odds. I remember how typical it was for the electricity to go out in the middle of someone's surgery. Nera would say a little prayer under her breath when it happened. If you were lucky, the generator would be started up. But that would only happen if someone had filled it up with gas. Gas costs money and the little money the hospital had may or may not have gone toward filling the generator. I saw a grandmother in her 70s get her leg amputated with only minimal morphine. The doctor didn't want to "waste" any more on her than necessary because she was old, and he'd rather it go to someone young with many more years left to live. Her pain and agony is something I will <i>never </i>forget.<br />
<br />
Add to that the death of my dear friend Hermenigilda in childbirth a year into my time in Moz.<br />
<br />
And the near death of my friend Joana from sepsis that was poorly diagnosed and treated.<br />
<br />
There are too many other stories to count. Loss adds up, especially when it's personal.<br />
<br />
It's these encounters with preventable death, preventable loss that make me angry. Angry that this injustice is a reality for so many. Angry because even a few minor changes would have a huge impact in saving lives and improving quality of life.<br />
<br />
Living with anger ultimately however makes you humble because you know what it means to feel powerless. Ultimately, it makes you realize that there are only a few things in this crazy world that you have any actual control over. Suddenly those few things give you hope. Hope that if you act to the best of your ability in the things that you have control over, you can stare down these everyday cruelties. Stare them down and fight them back into the abyss.<br />
<br />
<i>Hospital rural de Vilanculos </i>taught me all these things, and affirmed my desire to pursue nursing school. One day, I hope I can give back all that it gave me and more.<br />
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-66588294121198333942015-08-31T12:51:00.001-07:002015-08-31T13:00:34.767-07:00For clarity, gaze from the hilltop.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Moments of clarity.
It's two girls sprawled over a fluffy green </span>comforter in a sunlit upstairs bedroom<span style="font-family: inherit;">, discussing C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, and agonizing over what it means to live a
meaningful life. It is the elder who, at the end, looks back and forgives. And
it is the addict who wakes up one morning and never takes a puff or drink
again. Clarity. It’s the smartest scientist in history who labored over theories of relativity for years </span><a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/physics/theory-behind-equation.html" style="font-family: inherit;">but didn’t connect the dots until he got on a bus</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. The moment the
fog clears, the static dissipates, and time is stretched like a slingshot,
tight to bursting and released in a roaring trajectory that, upon threading a
single poignant realization, begins to stitch together ones heart and
soul to reveal greater truths. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Humans strive for clarity because we’ve grown to dread the alternative. In a world that barrages
us with injustice and confusion, clarity, we believe, tries to bring us back to core values and ideas. To what "really" matters. Reality broken down into its simplest juxtapositions for when we feel so overwhelmed with life's complexity we would rather just crawl back to bed or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Metamorphosis">morph into a Kafkian cockroach</a>, than start muddling through all the contradictions. What
will we tolerate and not tolerate? What will we fight for and not fight for? And if we stand for one thing, doesn't that obligate us to stand for another? What truths do we want to define us? At the risk of oversimplification, clarity
allows a way of stripping away our fear, our doubts, and instead encourages us to act. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have felt overwhelmed, as I think many Millenials have, at
the host of national and world problems we will inherit, let alone the ones we are already dealing with as we come into adulthood. As CollegeHumor's <i>Onion</i>-esque post <a href="http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/08/why-its-socially-unacceptable-to-do-anything/">"Why It's Socially Unacceptable To Do Anything in 2015"</a> suggests, in our age of interconnectedness and globalization, there's nothing we can do, even at our best moments as social-justice-allied-fair-trading-human-rights-advocating-small-carbon-footprint-creating humans that doesn't negatively affect someone else in another corner of the globe, or even our own neighborhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And that is SO DEPRESSING, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
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Massive national debt. A
visibly shifting global climate. Unemployment. Rising housing costs.
Gentrification. Children bringing guns to shoot their teachers and classmates in school. Abundant racism and structural violence against minorities. An ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. The list goes on.</div>
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I graduated university with a Bachelor's in Politics, and so for years I held a deep conviction that the answer to social change lay in policy reform and populist movements. Change the rules the privileged play by using the system, or change the system through grassroots activism (apathy remains greatest pet peeve amongst my peers - How can people just NOT care about the state of the world or their community? I will never understand...). Because I am passionate about cultural exchange, activism, and human rights, I believed studying Politics would lead me one day to a position within a NGO, embassy, or international development organization that would help people help themselves, or at the very least put me in a position to help indirectly redistribute the imbalance of wealth that plagues largely the global south. I knew my journey would begin with Peace Corps, but I didn't know where that journey would lead me.<br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
Peace Corps offered me many rich moments of clarity. Moments that shocked me, angered me, turned my conceptions of the world, the pretty theories I'd learned as a scholar at college, and my ideas of what was "right," upside down. I saw corruption first hand, and saw the shakedowns pass from the obesely privileged down to the poorest peasant granny. No one was immune. I saw presidential elections bought with cases of beer and free t-shirts. I struggled to reconcile the fragile morale of my students, who had so little faith in their own intelligence, that even my best and brightest thought they had to cheat or bribe their teachers to pass. And then I had to look my students in the eye everyday, and tell them they must fight for their education knowing full well that it very likely would lead them nowhere. I mourned the death of dear friends who died from completely preventable and horrible diseases. And for the first time in life, I knew what it felt to feel utterly helpless.<br />
<br />
And I hated it.<br />
<br />
Did I really want to become a development worker (foreign or domestic) who was stuck in some big city somewhere writing briefs and reports about a community I'd never met, making 10-100 times the wages of people I was supposed to be serving?<br />
<br />
Or, did I want to have an actual practical skill that could visibly contribute to the betterment of health, wellness and education of a community in need?<br />
<br />
When you put it like that, the answer becomes obvious. Clear.<br />
<br />
<br />
My love of politics and public policy is real, but I know my place is on the ground, working hands on with people who policies fail to reach. As one of my most beloved professors' and life mentor in college reminded me, people have never been a number to me, they've always been personalities, faces, laughs, and feelings. They are characters who's stories have energized me, scolded me, and gentled me. It's the people who I miss most about Mozambique, and it's the people who have taught me that where I belong is where I am needed, nothing more, nothing less.<br />
<br />
It was this clarity that solidified my transition into medicine and caused me to restart my career from scratch.<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
With seemingly impeccable timing, a hometown friend loaned me Tracy Kidder's <i>Mountains Beyond Mountains</i>, a powerful narrative describing the life of Dr. Paul Farmer, a fierce global health advocate and one of the primary founders of the now well-known"<a href="http://pih.org/">Partners in Health" (PIH)</a>. <br />
From its initiation in 1987 in response to health projects begun in Haiti, PIH has expanded across the globe, unrelentingly advocating health as a human right for all peoples.<br />
<br />
Mozambique ranks <a href="http://www.undp.org/content/undp/en/home/presscenter/events/2014/july/HDR2014.html">#178 out of #187</a> on the United Nation's Human Development Index primarily due to the lack of access to medical care. So, it's not surprising that <i>Mountains Beyond Mountains </i>also offers one of the most concise analogies of the challenges met by global health workers. As Kidder writes during his visit to Haiti,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I offered him [Dr. Paul Farmer] a slightly moist candy, a Life Saver from my pocket. He took it... and then went back to gazing. He was staring out at the impounded waters of the Artibonite. From here the amount of land the dam had drowned seemed vast. Still gazing, Farmer said, "To understand Russia, to understand Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Boston, identity politics, Sri Lanka, and Life Savers, you have to be on top of this hill." The list was clearly jocular. But I had the feeling he had said something important. This view of drowned farmland, the result of a dam that had made his patients some of the poorest of the poor, was a lens on the world. His lens. Look through it and you'd begin to see all the world's impoverished in their billions and the many linked causes of their misery. (44)</blockquote>
<br />
Oh, messy inteconnectedness! A decision made by a few leading to the destitution of millions.<br />
<br />
Yet, despite all this, Dr. Farmer responds by treating one patient at a time.<br />
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This time, I believe I've chosen well.<br />
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-42150281126387295232014-12-14T03:21:00.000-08:002014-12-15T07:22:49.136-08:00Mozambique's Nirvana - Benguerra Island, and the Bazaruto Archipelago<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My fingers carefully ply the leather straps, cinching up the
girth inch by inch, making sure the saddle pad stays smooth and flat against my
mount’s reddish-brown sides. As I do this, Slash, a beautiful yet mischievous
chestnut gelding, turns to eye my handiwork and tosses his head in impatience. “Alright,
alright, I’m going,” I laugh as Slash whips his head forward again, ears
propped lazily backward to express his perpetual annoyance with the slow,
two-legged kind. He takes a big breath and sighs dramatically. I swear, if
horses were people…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, with my helmet on I swing up into the saddle. It’s
a little black McClellan saddle, incredibly lightweight with high clearance to
my horses withers, and named after the American Civil War officer who used its antiquated
relative in combat. Wedging my feet into the stirrups, we set off, with Squib,
our gentle giant senior, in tow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We take a right out of the stable “gates,” an aperture hacked
from the thick surrounding bush, and head south through the local fishing
village. Our easy amble takes us past excited children who herald our arrival
with cheers of “Cavaloooo! Mulungo!! Cavalo!!” We pass the <i>quintal</i> or circle of huts of the chief – a well-dressed, older
gentleman named Arone – and wave hello to his wives. I yell over the hedge row
to one of the wives Adna and ask if I can come buy fish from her later that afternoon.
We agree on a general time determined not by hours, but rather by the height of
the sun in the sky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Moving beyond the village now, a new quiet settles in around
us. At first, there’s nothing but the sound of Slash and Squib’s hoofbeats
muffled in the sand, the creak of warm leather, and the occasional coughs of Manuel,
the head groom, from behind. But after a
few moments, my ears adjust and the bush begins to come alive. Song birds
conversing across the rolling dunes, scuffling lizards, darting doe-eyed Suni,
and the rustle of the salty wind carrying whispers from the mainland. Soon we
come across some wild fruit, shaped like small orange plums. I swipe some as we
pass and pop the sweet fruit into my mouth, breaking the delicate skin with my
tongue and sucking the sweet flesh from the seed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I marvel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I marvel, like most nature lovers do, at the incredible bounty
of life throughout the Bazaruto Archipelago. Benguerra Island itself, where our
horses are located, boasts 11 different ecosystems over 34 squares miles. And
that’s not even taking into consideration the life below the ocean’s surface,
where coral reefs explode from the sandy bottom to host an abundance of reef
fish, giant turtles and Devil rays Moreover, the Dugong, an endangered relative
of the American manatee, is now being actively monitored and protected by
National Park staff. Thus Benguerra, and her 6 other sister islands, make the
Bazaruto Archipelago an absolute nirvana of biodiversity… <i>and</i> a conservationists dream job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now rewind. Two weeks ago. I was in Maputo to sign off on all
the paperwork that made my Close-of-Service with Peace Corps official. Passing
me on the stairs one day, our Country Director Sanjay Mathur, invited me up to
his office for a quick chat. “Please,” he said gesturing toward the round table
at the base of a giant map of Mozambique – l sat like a child at her mother’s
feet. <i>Mocambique, what surprise do you
have in store for me today</i>, I wondered. “Karina, I have an incredible
opportunity for you. I had lunch with Greg Carr last week and he has a colleague who is in need of a Community Liaison Officer for her brand new
conservation project. I don’t know much about it, but that the job will operate
between Benguerra and Vilanculos, and I thought since you’re interested in
staying on in Mozambique a little longer, this could be a good fit for you.
Shall I write you an email of introduction?” I couldn’t believe the words. <i>Sanjay, having lunch with Greg Carr, the
millionaire who’s made his life work rehabilitating Gorongosa National Park?? A
colleague who wants to hire? This could be the big break I’ve been looking for!
An opportunity to launch me into an actual career doing work I care about!</i> Somehow, I stuttered out a few excited syllables
along the lines of “Yes!” “Please!” and “Perfect!” Sanjay leaned back in his
chair grinning and said, “Well great then, consider it done!” I practically danced
out of his office.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I scheduled an informational interview with this colleague the
following day. The woman who answered was friendly and engaging,
clearly passionate about her project and interested in getting similar minded
people on board. As she described the work of her company (who's name I've omitted for the sake of professionalism) I couldn’t
help but start feeling excited too. “We want to develop Benguerra in a way that’s
environmentally responsible and also beneficial to needs of the local people,”
she explained after I’d summarized my work as a PCV in Mozambique the last 27
months. “While we want to build a lodge, yes, we also want to offer islanders employment
and skills training. And ultimately, we are hoping to forge a partnership
between our company, the National Park officials, and American universities to develop
an exchange program for graduate students to collaborate with Mozambican
scientists on environmental and marine research. The Community Liaison Officer
would be an educator, community organizer and negotiator between shareholders
of the project and the Mozambican community.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A job where I can bring groups together for common goals?
Where I can use my Portuguese and cultural knowledge? Where I could do
environmental community initiatives and coordinate skills training sessions?
Where I could be the shepherd of big money backing social justice and
progressive development work? Develop better park conservation strategies through
promoting scientific research? All while guaranteeing that Mozambicans could
participate fully in the process? I knew that as long as my work didn't devolve into a token position as the bringer of
bad news and disenfranchisement to a people I just spent the last two years
serving, I was hooked. </span>We've<span style="font-family: inherit;"> been in employment
negotiations ever since.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, back on Benguerra for December riding Slash, I see the
island a little differently. As the “dona de cavalos,” I am trying to learn all
the little </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">caminhos</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">bairros</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, and befriend some of the
families. Surprisingly I discovered that the islands were uninhabited before
the war. Thus, most current local residents are leftover civil war refugees,
living on the island for only the past twenty years. In the longitude of Mozambican
cultural memory, that’s nothing. But the population on Benguerra is growing,
putting stress on the resources of the island. Over-fishing, slash and burn deforestation… It
ultimately makes me ask the question, how can we mitigate the effect of humans
on nature? Benguerra is still a wild place. And as a National Park we should
want to keep it that way. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suppose if I had it my way, we’d leave the island alone completely, provide strong financial compensation to islander families to relocate to the mainland, and rehabilitate the Archipelago as a true, pristine National Park like we have in other parts of southern and eastern Africa. As long as this process was done carefully and in consideration of all human rights (as in people were willing to leave, not being forced), I think it would be a proud moment for conservationists worldwide. Because on the path we’re on, we've got to get smart about development, or we'll start seeing the rapid deterioration of Mozambique’s Nirvana.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So the question is, can we create a system people
will adhere to that manages resources effectively enough to keep the quality of
human life high, with low environmental impact? It’s a question any </span>company<span style="font-family: inherit;"> that wants to invest here will
have to answer to if they hope to succeed. Yet National Park or not, Benguerra – whether one
likes it or not – is going to be developed. That’s just how Mozambican politics
work. All it takes is the right "incentive" to the Ministry of Tourism
for lands to get set aside for special interest groups. While investors cannot buy land from the government, they can certainly "borrow" it. And so, knowing that this is the game we are forced to play, I personally
hope a company focused on equitable development practices has the first say, for everyone's gain. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">---- </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Slash and I are moving faster now, breaking into a light
canter up the sandy chute to the lookout point. His ears are pricked forward in
equal parts curiosity and vigilance. At the top we come to a halt. The view
takes my breath away even now. To the north, Flamingo Bay named for its
feathery occupants, and the Great Dune of Bazaruto island, a shimmering sentinel
in the afternoon heat. To the south, the wind-swept moonscape of the southern point.
To the East, a panorama of the interior lakes and on the horizon, the white
foam of lazy ocean rollers smashing into Two Mile reef. To the West, the cerulean
blue waters of the mainland channel, swirling sands shifting with the tides. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is a place not even words can properly describe, nor camera capture. It is
an experience that must be lived, touched, breathed, smelled, seen. This is why
we must protect it from the urges of necessity, from spoiling, so that others
may too travel to this special world and understand the value of Nature free
from the binds of humanity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-----</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YW7tvuUKXwc/VI17u2SKylI/AAAAAAAABeM/3nICeK65yXo/s1600/IMGP4819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YW7tvuUKXwc/VI17u2SKylI/AAAAAAAABeM/3nICeK65yXo/s1600/IMGP4819.JPG" height="423" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking West - Across the Channel to the mainland</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zs1MMdSJj-A/VI17vhIu0KI/AAAAAAAABeY/DSNxumUy0os/s1600/IMGP4869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zs1MMdSJj-A/VI17vhIu0KI/AAAAAAAABeY/DSNxumUy0os/s1600/IMGP4869.JPG" height="423" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Local beach criancas, messiing around :)</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Y8BtCdyLzk/VI17vmp9F-I/AAAAAAAABeQ/_D6vNGSQlCU/s1600/IMGP5023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Y8BtCdyLzk/VI17vmp9F-I/AAAAAAAABeQ/_D6vNGSQlCU/s1600/IMGP5023.JPG" height="423" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The interior lakes and big Dune.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GaF6OUPKQKg/VI19POo_17I/AAAAAAAABeo/h3233EipfAg/s1600/IMG_1189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GaF6OUPKQKg/VI19POo_17I/AAAAAAAABeo/h3233EipfAg/s1600/IMG_1189.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>South point! </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gQZ5AZ00_2Y/VI1--ZBuncI/AAAAAAAABe0/GhH8l5C0Bls/s1600/IMG_3408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gQZ5AZ00_2Y/VI1--ZBuncI/AAAAAAAABe0/GhH8l5C0Bls/s1600/IMG_3408.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>And introducing our horsie stars, Slash (above) and Squib (below)</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TKFKM8s8Vyo/VI14x41TKyI/AAAAAAAABeA/H4kDfMEh_78/s1600/IMGP5305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TKFKM8s8Vyo/VI14x41TKyI/AAAAAAAABeA/H4kDfMEh_78/s1600/IMGP5305.JPG" height="423" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-27771705927046912982014-11-13T01:42:00.002-08:002014-11-13T01:42:51.801-08:00Bartering with Goodbye.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks. 14/756 days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks and my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer in
Mozambique will be over. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks and I’ll be handing back the keys and saying
goodbye to the Hut, Mozambican friends and colleagues, my ever faithful dog,
Fenda, and hopping a plane to Maputo for medical exams (<i>poop cups, our
favorite!</i>), a language proficiency test, exit interviews from PC Mozambique
Country Director (<i>let’s talk about our feelings!</i>) and oodles of government
paperwork. My RPCV (returned peace corps volunteer) status even comes with a
few perks upon American reintegration, including (but not limited to) complete
ineptitude in discussing social and cultural phenomenon after 2012 (<i>looking at
you Tinder and Snapchat!! wtf?</i>), “shock and awe” syndrome upon entering a
supermarket (I<i> will probably schedule a day to just wander around Costco</i>),
and total communication breakdown when trying to bargain every price and
realizing my wide spectrum of tonal grunts usually used to win over the stern
market ladies for extra tomatoes in my basket make me look like a crazy person
instead. I can see the future and it terrifies me haha.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sooooo clearly someone’s not ready to leave Mozambique. If
you haven’t heard by now I’m staying on an extra six months (maybe more) to do
online pre-reqs and volunteer at the Vilanculos hospital to prepare for nursing
school applications due in Fall 2015. Moreover, I’ll get to continue improving
my horsemanship with Pat and Mandy by continuing as a horse volunteer, and I’ve
been tentatively offered an ocean safari guiding position with a local dhow
sailboat company taking clients on overnight sailing/snorkeling trips around
the Bazaruto Archipelago. It’s going to be a blast, and I’m SO excited to start
this next chapter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I’m trading in my Peace Corps privileges for
complete autonomy (and maybe even a real living-wage) here in Mozambique, my
Close-of-Service experience is very different than for most PCVs. I’m leaving
Mapinhane, yes. But I’m moving only 50km north rather than 12,000 miles
northwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expect to be able to keep
in touch with my students, help the new volunteer in Mapinhane take on the
library project, and visit Sarah and Maria, my site-mates and best friends,
regularly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m allowing myself a transition time. For one, to not go
back to Washington in the midst of a dreary, grey, cold winter (hellooooo
depression!). But also, to fully savor and make the most of the friendships I
cherish with my whole heart. It scares me thinking of what saying goodbye will
ultimately mean when I finally do climb my way into that sky, looking to the
next horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saying goodbye means going
away and leaving people behind. Going away means throwing yourself into the
next crazy venture and eventually, inevitably forgetting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t want to forget!! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to forget the smells after an electric,
crackling summer rain, nor the sounds of my students gossiping in Xitswa while doing
their English exercises (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wahemba!)</i>,
or the sight of another spectacular sunset silhouetting the ancient <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">embandeiro </i>(baobob) trees, striking and
burning the earth into a magnificent orange. I don’t want to forget the cheers
of “teeeeecha karinaaaaa” and little pitter-patters of flip-flopped feet of the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">criancas</i> that race to greet me when I
arrive each week to work on the library.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t want to forget the old man across the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">barrio</i> who’s soft heart helped me save Lisimu’s paw from infection
and who later that day tore down an aggressive vine strangling an old papaya
tree others were too lazy to save. I don’t want to forget the value of open
space, of clean air, and drinkable water. Of working with what’s available,
making the impossible possible on a daily basis. I don’t want to forget how
sweet the first mango tastes after the dry season, and the stickiness of the
juice running down your greedy chin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of all, I vow never to forget the people who made my
experience worth the struggle. Pat and Mandy, who I will forever love as my
family away from home. Director Marculino Bambamba, a visionary, albeit a bit
of a well-intentioned square, who believes in his students and loves his
country<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> Chefe Samuel who was my
first and most trusted friend. Angelica and little Junior who is very quickly
growing into a little man, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">meu homininho.</i>
Joana and Crimilda, my Mozambican <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maes</i>.
The innumerable community members, from mischeivious <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vovos </i>to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bandito carpenteiros</i>
Tomas and Obedias that repeatedly taught the American <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mulungo </i>a thing or two about the “real Africa.” And of course, my
favorite students whose names I write down in my heart, names that one day I
hope to see doing something as great as the potential I see in them. Adelson,
Celso, Edio, Gervasio, Bento, Helton, Jeremias, Erdito, Rui, Nelio, Domingos, Edilson,
Zacarias and Gercia, Hawa, Inazardina, Anelca, Assucena, Greta, Dorca. They
represent the next generation of Africa’s quiet community leaders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As many times as I wanted to give up, they
keep going. They believe in the value of their education, and so how, even on
my worst days, could I not?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We barter with goodbyes because we can’t stand the idea of
walking away from something we love toward a future we yet cannot see. No, I’m
not yet ready to leave Mozambique. But, “this is the time to remember because
it will not last forever; these are the days to hold on to because we won’t
although we’ll want to.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-15035165414447580122014-10-18T22:32:00.002-07:002018-03-19T14:24:52.288-07:00Teacher's Day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mozambique has <i>many</i> national holidays... so many in fact that it seems we can rarely go a month without the total disruption/interruption that such holidays bring. Yet, the celebration of National Teachers Day seems perhaps the best excuse, if any to take valuable class time and commemorate the work of educators across the country.<br />
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I'll give you a nice view of how we celebrated Teacher's Day here in Mapinhane.<br />
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-49388538028760500092014-09-26T08:44:00.000-07:002014-10-16T08:45:31.582-07:00Agua e' vida: The (quick) Borehole Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My host school, Escola Secundaria de 25 de Junho in
Mapinhane, boasts an enrollment of 700 students spanning three grade levels and
nearly 30 teachers and staff members. Yet, despite being a school of this size,
until a month ago we didn’t have accessible clean drinking water on campus. As
such, students needed to walk 10+ minutes across the village and stand in line
to wait with the dozens of community mothers collecting water to simply get a
drink before heading back to class. Consequentially, getting a "quick
drink of water" always delayed and disrupted student learning, as students
always somehow seemed to disappear after their trip to the community well,
skipping the rest of their class period(s). Moreover, because of the gendered
labor distribution practices in rural Mozambique, if the school needed to
collect water for their at the time small, pathetic, scraggly attempt at a
garden, it was the girls who seemed to always be pulled out of class or away
from their male peers to fetch water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in May, I finally decided to run by my observations
with the school director, Marculino Bambamba. A well-educated and incredibly
serious man, he listened to my concerns with intense gravity.
"Infelizmente filha," he sighed after I'd finished speaking,
"The government cannot allocate us the money yet to install a borehole. We
simply don't have the money. We can't even buy books! But I agree, it is one of
our most crucial school needs." We sat silently for a minute. "But if
I could raise the money," I said "you would support the installation
and raise community and parental support?" "Claro." he said. And
with that the meeting was over. But, at a time when the library was faltering,
I knew I'd found my next secondary project to tide me over - one that would
also directly benefit my primary project too. Because as everyone knows, agua
e' vida- water is life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so began the fundraising research, contractor borehole
installation quotes, and application submissions to both independent NGOs and
Peace Corps alike. Months passed. Finally, we got our break. We were awarded
one of USAID's "Small Project Assistance" grants – nearly $6000. From
the day we broke ground, it only took a week to drill and install the school
borehole... a relatively quick process that yielded an tremendous and immediate
impact upon our community.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m_1Z2BrLM70/VD_jJ81VjqI/AAAAAAAABbk/MrHRAe_VglE/s1600/IMG_2695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m_1Z2BrLM70/VD_jJ81VjqI/AAAAAAAABbk/MrHRAe_VglE/s1600/IMG_2695.JPG" height="432" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The "before" photo, taking soil from the digging point to bless the ground and water through a traditional ceremony conducted by the village <i>chefes.</i></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oEKt6ODgsGI/VD_l-JLkaWI/AAAAAAAABco/iIfqxU3_5Yw/s1600/IMG_2702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oEKt6ODgsGI/VD_l-JLkaWI/AAAAAAAABco/iIfqxU3_5Yw/s1600/IMG_2702.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The village <i>chefes </i>conducting the traditional blessing before we're allowed to break ground</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fg6d8TGsQIk/VD_jKHWTCYI/AAAAAAAABbo/Ip6gStn2sR8/s1600/IMG_2715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fg6d8TGsQIk/VD_jKHWTCYI/AAAAAAAABbo/Ip6gStn2sR8/s1600/IMG_2715.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Celebrating the start of the drilling process! Let's drink! (The <i>chefes </i>got wine, the rest of us orange Fanta haha)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KfxeWLx9Wac/VD_jIriDCUI/AAAAAAAABbc/UhJNLkkmLJs/s1600/IMG_2720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KfxeWLx9Wac/VD_jIriDCUI/AAAAAAAABbc/UhJNLkkmLJs/s1600/IMG_2720.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Day 2: Doug in the captain's seat!</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bJaGC8BDqq4/VD_jOVkogNI/AAAAAAAABb0/j28sUnekXVk/s1600/IMG_2728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bJaGC8BDqq4/VD_jOVkogNI/AAAAAAAABb0/j28sUnekXVk/s1600/IMG_2728.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Day 3: After striking a dense rocky layer, we finally broke through. So much water!</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wt7eWq4FIV4/VD_jSHT-ngI/AAAAAAAABcE/u2PfqGp8VOc/s1600/IMG_2753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wt7eWq4FIV4/VD_jSHT-ngI/AAAAAAAABcE/u2PfqGp8VOc/s1600/IMG_2753.JPG" height="497" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My two counterparts, Sr. Director Marculino and Doug - PCVs uniting people and resources to get the job done!!</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tyxXTKtONHs/VD_jTM6M4wI/AAAAAAAABcM/1cen1rmEPAc/s1600/IMG_2782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tyxXTKtONHs/VD_jTM6M4wI/AAAAAAAABcM/1cen1rmEPAc/s1600/IMG_2782.JPG" height="492" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>One week later. The official ribbon cutting ceremony! </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, not only do students have access to clean drinking
water throughout the school day, the school garden has transformed from a
withered yellow cluster of dusty vegetation to a vibrant and flourishing
garden, with an incredible boom of staple crops. With time (and the next PCV at
my site), the easy access to water will empower Director Marculino to make even
greater changes and growth to our school garden and nutrition programs. We've also
discussed introducing an income generation project by expanding our peanut
production and selling the peanut butter as a means of fundraising for school
resources. We've also partnered with the Agro-Percuaria teacher to begin
improving the biological and nutritional diversity of the garden by introducing
vitamin rich foods such as covi and orange sweet potato into his academic
lesson plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Using our education and specialized skills and experiences in grant
writing and fundraising to empower local counterparts to meet community needs -
<b>to me this is the heart of Peace Corps service. Helping people help themselves.</b>
The borehole may only be the first step towards bigger school development
projects, but it is the FIRST STEP. A million different community projects can
grow from this single foundation. Because water is life. And life is meant to
be nurtured like a garden. Let's see what our garden grows. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-36233847249172536572014-08-19T07:53:00.003-07:002014-08-19T08:17:12.300-07:00Better the Devil You Know.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past weekend presented me with two incredibly weighty
and humbling life experiences. The first: I chanced to help save my Mozambican
friend’s leg (and possibly, life). The second: I spent a full day watching the
great Humpback whale migration from the prow of a catamaran. And while the
former reminded me of the huge power a small act of human courage can have in changing
the course of another's life, the latter dwarfed any suspicion of
self-importance with the feeling that with every crest and fall of ocean waves,
we were a tiny spec teetering on the surface of a much greater and mysterious
world below. Least to say, it was an
intense few days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friday afternoon I popped into the library for a quick look,
and took some measurements for the mural that we’ll start painting next week.
It was there I ran into Raulina, a teacher at the primary school and my new
library counterpart. As usual we chatted
about the weather, our families, her chique new hair style, school gossip, and
our plans for the weekend. It wasn’t until I was on my way out however that she
caught me by the arm, and told me that “by the way, mana Joana is very sick”
and “could we go visit her now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being in a hurrying mood, I’m ashamed to say that I felt a
bit annoyed. Mozambicans are always complaining dramatically of some malady or
another. <i>Teeeecha. Estou suferir. Estou
com fome. Estou doente. Estou com dor de cabeça, ou barriga, ou pé. Estou com
constipação. </i>The list goes on.<i> </i>They’ll
have a pain in their stomach and say they have cancer. If they’re sick, they
say they’ve gotten it from the dust in the air, from the trash in their
neighbors yard, or that a witchdoctor has cursed them. I’ve never met a nation of
people so poorly educated about the transmission and general cause of disease,
let alone a complete lack of taking personal responsibility for disease prevention
and treatment. Even Joana, a very well educated matriarch of the primary school,
had been sick for weeks already with a swollen foot… I’d seen it the month
before. Yet she had just been tolerating it, expecting it to get better.
Perhaps the only thing equal to Mozambicans ignorance of disease is their
tolerance and patience with pain. Since I hadn’t heard anything from her, I
guess I’d just figured she’d recovered and gotten busy again. <i>Still,</i> a little voice in the back of my
head argued, <i>you should go and see her to
make sure she’s ok. </i>Sighing I wheeled my bike back around, away from home
and towards the huts behind school grounds. “Sure, Raulina. <i>Vamos.</i>” I said, now walking at her side.
“Thanks for inviting me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I’m quite conscientious about listening to my inner <i>little voice</i>, I’ve rarely felt more
fortunate for having heeded it than I did in visiting Joana that day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Immediately as I ducked into the darkness of her hut, I knew
something was horribly wrong. A mound of
blankets erupted from the cold cement floor a foot from the doorway. I knew
Joana was under that huge plaid mountain of felt, but I couldn’t see any hint
of her. “Mana Joana,” I called softly
into the darkness, my eyes adjusting to the dim, my toes slowly picking their
way around hidden obstacles, moving closer to where her face should be.
Finally, kneeling down, I waited as her son (one of my best students) Adelson,
worked to rouse her. “Mãe, Teacher
Karina and Teacher Raulina are here to visit you.” Moments pass. Again. “MAMA. Teacher Karina e profesora Raulina
estao aqui. Levanta mama!” Finally the pile began to stir and grumble and a
hand reached out, grasping. So I took it. It was burning. As the blankets
peeled away from the top, I finally found Joana’s face and gasped. It was a feverish face, a bleary-eyed, leathery brown face aged and etched
by pain. “Joana,” I breathed, scared and shaken now. “What’s happened?” She
began to cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next 20 minutes were a blur, a whirling of action and
response. Trying to keep my voice calm and positive, I sent Adelson and his
little brother for buckets of cold water, a wet cloth on the forehead, and
juice from the market. Joana was shivering uncontrollably and was so weak she
couldn’t prop herself up. Meanwhile, I knew I had to take another look at that
swollen foot of hers she’d told me about the month before. What I saw when I rolled back the blankets
took my breath away. The slight swelling that had been in her foot before, had
spread all the way up her leg and into her groin leaving clustered, dark,
almost pustule-like, spotting along her entire inner thigh. I was looking at an elephant leg.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiRbnqaTr6Q/U_NmqtcKvbI/AAAAAAAABXA/i6lQqz_Zkeo/s1600/IMG_2404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiRbnqaTr6Q/U_NmqtcKvbI/AAAAAAAABXA/i6lQqz_Zkeo/s1600/IMG_2404.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Part of Joana's freakishly large and swollen leg. The foot (not pictured) looked like a massive club.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Moreover, in talking to Adelson, I’d learned that Joana had
already gone to two hospitals – the health clinic in Mapinhane as well as the
Hospital Rural in Vilanculos. The first had turned her away with a prescription
for Tylenol, while the second had prescribed her a pain killer, fever reducer,
and the anti-biotic Erythromycin. The only problem was that <b>whoever had diagnosed her at the Vilanculos
hospital didn’t take the time to explain what each medicine was for. And so
because Joana could only afford two of the three medicines, she bought the
first two on the list and left the final prescription, Erythromyacin – the one
medicine that could actually do any good – unfilled.</b> Clearly, it wasn’t
that the nurses and doctors at the Vil hospital didn’t know what they were
doing… they simply just didn’t educate their patient about her own health and
how to help herself heal. And now with Joana shaking and moaning under that
pile of blankets with a horrible infection roaring in her body, I figured she was
in a really fragile state… that she would be too far gone in another 48 hours,
maybe even less, to be able to bring her back if I didn’t take action. I was
really scared. But I’d already lost Hermenigilda in a way that made me feel
helpless. I felt determined to do something, <i>anything</i>. There’s no way I was just going to stand by and watch her
suffer like that, especially for something I guessed was super treatable.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, within a few texts and graphic photos exchanged with my
mom, who’s a Nurse Practitioner with nearly 40 years of experience, back home,
we had a diagnosis. Because I’d first seen the swelling in her foot a few weeks
before, we realized just how aggressively the infection had spread up her leg. <b>Joana was suffering from an advanced stage
of septicemia, or blood poisoning.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doing some research on it later, septicemia is actually one
of the biggest killers in the underdeveloped world. Infection and the lack of
access to basic antibiotics and controlled treatment plagues the poor across
the world. As <a href="http://www.world-sepsis-day.org/?MET=SHOWCONTAINER&vCONTAINERID=11">WorldSepsisDay.org</a> explains:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Sepsis arises when the body’s response to an infection
damages its own tissues and organs. It can lead to shock, multiple organ
failure, and death, especially if it is not recognized early and treated
promptly. Between one-third and one-half of all sepsis patients die. In
developing countries, sepsis accounts for 60-80% of all deaths."</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the greatest tragedy of it is that infections like Joana’s are
some of the easiest to control and treat if caught early.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet with the lack of education and understanding of disease
transmission and control, coupled with the fact that most of the world’s poor
can’t afford treatment or even have access to a medical provider, most people
with very treatable injuries or diseases just sit, rest, and wait, hoping their
malady will pass and thus instead allow the infection to set in and take over.
They don’t even have a fighting chance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, we <i>finally</i>
had a diagnosis thanks to mom. So I hopped on my bike and shot out of that <i>barrio</i> like a bullet, pedaling for home
and the extra stash of kick-ass antibiotics my mom had brought me from home a
few months before (I’ve always loved being a Nurse Practitioners daughter!!).
With a new flurry of texts, Mom and I settled on a 1000mg / 12 hours pusher
dose of Amoxcycilin for the first 36 hours, then a switch to 500mg / 8 hours of
Erithromyacin. I threw in a pack of dehydration salts and Ibuprofen for good
measure. Then I hopped on my bike and shot off again through the sand and onto
the main road. Fenda must have thought I’d gone crazy. His wagging tail quickly
drifted back only a few steps into his pursuit.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the bike ride back to Joana’s, I prepped myself on how I
was going to explain treatment. One of the things we’ve learned through
teaching about HIV and malaria prevention is that you can’t make assumptions
about what people “already know” because most likely they actually don’t but
say they do. What I had going for me was
that I knew Adelson, the son, was a super diligent student of mine – the rare
kind of kid that copies every word on the board and asks clarifying questions
in class. So I crafted a list of detailed, descriptive instructions. <i>Pacote branco</i>, I wrote, referring to the
silver packaged Amoxcycilin, Adelson perched religiously on my shoulder. <i>1 pacote cada 12 horas para 2 dias. Aleve. 1
medicamento cada 6 horas quando tem febre.</i> I had him describe back to me
the treatment until he could do it from memory. Then in an attempt to push
program adherence I told Adelson I’d count each empty packet he had the next
day. Then I had to tell him to push fluids into his mom despite her resistance.
“Have her drink 4-5 cups of water or juice every hour,” I explained him,
guessing we’d be lucky if he could get even half of that. “The medicine needs
fluid to work,” I clarified, giving a very abridged reference to the horrors of
dehydration. I didn’t really know how to describe kidney failure.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with that, my lesson was done, the immediate crises of
deciding what course of action to take, over.
I watched Adelson administer the antibiotics and Aleve to his mom and
felt really proud. But I knew we weren’t out of trouble yet. Joana now just
needed time to let the antibiotics work. And while later that night I still
felt really self-assured in the decisions I’d made earlier that afternoon, I
couldn’t sleep. While we didn’t really talk about it, I knew that my sitemate
Maria, who had done pre-med at university thought I was out of line for helping
the way I did. That, for one, I was putting myself at risk with the community
if Joana didn’t make it and I’d been the last person seen with her giving her mystery
pills, and for two, she thought that I was in absolutely no way qualified to
make the judgment calls I’d made that day, even with my Mom’s help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both were valid points. It’s true there could have been
backlashes from Joana’s family if things had gone badly. Because I’m white.
Because people don’t understand how medicine and disease work. Because I’d make
a convenient scapegoat for a mourning community, and that I was trying to treat
an infection that was too far along. It’s the sad side to medicine in a
developing country that the odds are against you. And as to the second point,
sure, I wasn’t qualified at all, but with 40 years’ experience my mom is. And
with technology these days, essentially I got to present to my mom the symptoms
with photos and descriptions with real time accuracy. It was truly amazing,
honestly. Without the power of WhatsApp and GoogleVoice calls, my story would
have been different. I would have tried to take Joana to a second rate hospital
by public chapa, where we would have been forced to wait for hours to be seen
by a doctor, and for what? To be told to go home again? No. Way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Essentially to me it all came down to this: I could play it
safe, stand by, do nothing but try and make her comfortable and watch Joana lose
her leg or die from a treatable infection. Or I take a risk on both our parts,
make my best judgment based on expertise from someone I trust, and try to save
a friend’s life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand by my decision to this day. I couldn’t have lived
with myself or looked Adelson in the eye ever again if I’d knowingly made him
and his brother orphans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I let time take its course and kept myself busy. I had a
new roof on my hut installed that next day. I later sent myself to Vilanculos
with Maria, Sarah and Victor to relax and go whale watching for the weekend. It
was splendid to have my worries juxtaposed to the magnificence of the humpback
whales. Any anxiety suddenly seemed miniscule and was forgotten in the scheme
of things. For nearly an hour, a pod of four young males circled our catamaran
and put on a show, splashing, fluking, and diving. Dolphins played at our bow.
Witnessing these creatures felt more sacred than probably anything I’ve ever
experienced (besides wild elephants). They were letting us into their lives and
engaging us, and when they were done, they just flipped their flukes and dove.
Here we were bobbing on top, hundreds of meters above them, yet the whales came
to us not because we wanted them too, but because <i>they </i>did. The magnificence of the whales was awe-inspiring. And it
reminded me of the importance of perspective.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet I called and checked in on Joana twice a day, even from
the boat, and we started seeing signs of progress. After the first 24 hours,
Joana rated her pain level a 5, down from a 9 the day before. And it was on the
third day, when I got back to Mapinhane, that we rejoiced to see that the
swelling had started to finally go down too. The skin on her foot and ankle
that had been once taunt and stretched to bursting had begun sloughing into
flappy layers of loose skin. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time at my visit she had her church lady friends
sitting around her bed, and Joana had propped herself up to receive them all.
What made me happiest though was that Joana was once again smiling that huge,
toothy grin of hers. She was herself again. “You saved my life,” she said, in
front of everyone, taking my hand, hers healthfully cool again. “I only did what
I knew I could do,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. “It was nothing.” I then told
her she wasn’t allowed to get sick again. Right on cue, all the ladies cackled,
then proceeded to overwhelm me with their own medical worries. A woman with a
lump on her eye, another’s swollen foot, another complaining of chronic stomach
pain. I waved them all off. “I’m not a doctor,” I said. “I’m a teacher. And
anyways, mana Joana isn’t even on her feet yet.” Thankfully, they all chuckled
again and I left in a wave of “obrigadas” and “gracas a deus” also escaping any
further inquiries by stepping out into the winter rain.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a kid, and still even now, my mom and I have a little
thing where when I ask her how her day went after working at the clinic or running hospital rounds, and she’ll sigh
dramatically with a grin and go, “Oh you know, just saved a few lives honey. No
big deal.” It’s played off as a joke. Because how else can you talk about
everything inbetween the lines? The people you can help versus the people you
can’t. It’s easier to have a punchline instead.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my path to becoming a nurse, hopefully one day with <span style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.msf.org/" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">Médecins Sans Frontières</a> (MSF)</span></span>, it honestly feels like I’m doing everything out of
order. I’ve had to confront and will confront a lot more of these harsh
realities of third world health care next year with my volunteer position at
the hospital without formal medical training or knowledge. Yet I know that the
type of work M.S.F does is the type that works in similar or
even worse conditions of stressful, undersupplied, impoverished, undeveloped or
war-torn nations than Mozambique. I actually met an ex-M.S.F employee on the
whale watching trip and he said that getting posted to Mozambique is almost
like a holiday compared to the majority of other M.S.F posts. I’d like to think that it will help me a lot
in the future to be able to think back to the amazing people here in Mozambique
that only needed a little education and guidance to turn a serious illness or
complication like what killed Hermenigilda only a few months ago, into a
survivable one like Joana’s. I expect the people we preserve in our hearts, we
find again in future chapters of our lives, and what better way than to have a real skill to offer, and a real, tangible way to help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-8178036545485829892014-07-09T10:10:00.000-07:002014-08-12T10:12:00.215-07:00COS & the “abnormal normal” <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It is a moment every Peace Corps Volunteer anticipates with
equal parts excitement, dread, and enveloping nausea – receiving our
Close-of-Service (COS) dates. It is a rather arbitrary date, yet a date that
marks the end of a life chapter – a 27 month saga branded by incredible
freedom, personal growth, and the general sensation of having every fiber in
your body set on fire by each loss, triumph, heartache, and celebration. COS
also marks the beginning of a new chapter – a new chapter manifested in the return
to the mundane and predictable realities and responsibilities of “real life.”
As a whole, my group of PCVs (Moz 19ers) is excited about the little luxuries
we’ll get to readopt. Or even adopt for the first time ever, well, just because
we can. Fast internet. Netflix. Home-crafted brews. Beautifully maintained
roads. So much running water we can marvel at the whoosh of a flushing toilet.
Snowy Christmases. Going to the gym. Maybe even Taco Bell?? And generally, just
being culturally literate and understood. Being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">normal.</i> The list of things we’ve grown accustomed to living without
is endless. Yet, we wonder. Will they “get me” back home?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Public Radio series <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This
American Life</i> produced a piece called<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">
<a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/429/will-they-know-me-back-home" target="_blank">“Will They Know Me Back Home”</a></b> that places in starker clarity, via the eyes
of American soldiers who served in Iraq, what you could say is the traveler’s fear
of reintegration – the fear of not fitting back into society after a life
changing experience. “Will They Know Me Back Home” takes you through the stressors,
awkward encounters, and reconciliations American soldiers from the 216<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup>
platoon faced upon their return from the Iraq war. From short trips to the mall
that feel like fanfares to buying their first legal six-pack of beer, these
young soldiers struggle to reconcile who they were before they left and who
they’ve become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while Peace Corps and
military service host radically different missions abroad, at a second glance,
in many aspects the types of sacrifices both face upon homecoming are quite
similar. The fear of never truly belonging <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anywhere</i>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- being too American to fit in abroad,
and too deeply, permanently changed to ever see home in the same way again,
especially after having witnessed and experienced things previously
unimaginable. The fear of being an outsider to the life you’re supposed to be
readopting, struggling to find room and acceptance for your new ways of seeing
the world. And also of course, with attempts to reinsert oneself into daily
routines, the weighty realization that life and loved ones back home have gone
on just fine without you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Homecoming,
once fervently sought and a buoy for wavering morale , quickly transforms into
a crisis of belonging. Of place. Of purpose. Of self.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Excerpted from David Finkle’s non-fiction narrative <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Good Soldiers, </i>one of the best
moments of the This American Life episode was a returning soldiers’ monologue
about his first few hours back on American soil. The soldier explains:</span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I walked through the airport, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. The businessmen on cellphones, the families on vacations – all of it was too strange. The “normal abnormal” Major Cummings called Iraq. But this was exactly the opposite. The “abnormal normal.” So, I kept my eyes down and made my connecting flight home to a girlfriend I wasn’t sure I even knew how to talk to anymore.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Peace Corps service in Mozambique involves few of the types
of traumas and horrors experienced by our troops that were in Iraq. Yet given the
adjustments I’ve made as a volunteer living more than two years abroad, Mozambique
has indeed become <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> “normal
abnormal” – every day in Mozambique pushes ones comfort zone and confronts you
with all the things you’ve ever taken for granted. Things like being able to
express yourself in your own language and the ease with which Americans
generally forge trust and friendships, to having relatively similar cultural ideas
about personal space, borrowing, and what’s “right” and “wrong.” Yet it is the
abnormal that I’ve come to love. It’s the abnormal that makes me feel the most
alive. I have never been more creative, resourceful, flexible, and open-minded
than living with the everyday challenges of the normal abnormal. What happens
when I swap it for the “abnormal normal” of the United States? I already know
there will be no way around the shock of American reintegration. The strange
part is to think that I’ll be leaving behind the most simple, but completely magical
life I may ever have. As I stand now, I’m single, live on $200 a month, am
well-educated, yet still idealistic enough to think the world is my oyster. Bring
it on world.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Still, I’m already 24 and not too much of a romantic to
realize that I’ll have very tangible responsibilities in a handful of years. I
figure I have a year left to “play” before making some of my most serious life
decisions. A year before I have to pay actual adult-like bills. A year before I
take the first steps toward my career as a global health nurse and educator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The question I’ve been wrestling with
recently is – how do I want to fill that time? </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s start by putting off that dreaded American reintegration
process a little longer, and tacking on another 6 months of service. That’s
right. Next year, with or without Peace Corps (we’re still negotiating terms),
I will be extending my visa to stay in Mozambique through June 2015 in order to
volunteer at the Vilanculos hospital and get critical hands-on experience to
make sure that global nursing is something I’m really bent on doing. By July,
I’m tentatively planning on traveling for six months (to climb Kilimanjaro
too!) and then am looking at jumping on board a sailboat as a crew-member and
sailing from Capetown to the Caribbean. If that doesn’t work out, then I’ll
just fly home after traveling Africa.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Either way, the next chapter is in sight. I’m working toward
something meaningful. And, finally American reintegration is on my horizon
whether I like it or not. :)</span></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-75795964781190786182014-06-17T10:05:00.000-07:002014-08-12T10:11:32.364-07:00Somewhere Between Mozam-bleak and Mozam-awesome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The golden orb glowers at us, retreating to its lair beneath
the sky and casting cool rays upon the chipped blackboard. It’s late afternoon
on a wintery cool Friday and neither myself nor my students really feel like
still being at school a second longer. Still, I have earned a new level of
patience here in Mozambique, so instead of losing my cool, I gather myself, take
a deep breath of fortitude, and smile. My back is to the room, yet nothing
catches me off-guard. I’ve been here too many times before. I can feel the
breathy onslaught of piercing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">barulho </i>(noise)
raking up my spine, and clawing over my shoulders – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pedidos</i> for money, snacks, my pen, excuses about not doing the
homework, questions about where my boyfriend is, or could I take them to live
in America? All simultaneously. All the exact same comments from the hour, day,
month, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">year</i>, before. Sometimes I
get the occasional compliment, of “Wow Teacher, you look beautiful today!” but
more often I’ve heard the muttering of “mulungo” and following wave of
tittering, giggling girls.</span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since Cultural Week in June, when I covered the extra
cost for the caplanas I purchased for them, the level of disrespect from my
students has been ghastly. It’s like a bad case of the "gimmies "– you give a
little charity and suddenly 200+ teenagers want something from you all the
time. If you won’t give it to them, sometimes they just decide to take it. I’ve
turned out enough pockets to know. That, on top of the fact that I catch kids
cheating on even the most basic in-class assignments – by borrowing their
friend’s notebook who has English with me earlier in the day and either copying
the answers or being so bold as to hand me their friend’s notebook and claim
its theirs – it’s hard to take what I do here seriously anymore. </span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I honestly believe too, that my friendliness with my
students in an effort to build some camaraderie and meaningful mentorships has
actually caused many of them to lose respect for me. That by me being too kind,
they’ve lost their fear of me. Like Machiavelli’s advice to Italian lords that
effective rulers are to be feared rather than loved, kindness from a position of
authority here in Mozambique if often scorned as a weakness to be taken
advantage of, rather than something to be respected. Kindness will make you a
target. Being a female teacher in a male dominated workforce will make you the
punchline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And being the mulungo, or
“outsider,” I’m constantly seen as Miss Moneybags. Thus you can see why the
barrage of teenage slander is flourishing. They have a lot of material to work
with.</span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s hard to explain this to anyone who’s never really been
to Mozambique before. I’m sure to many of you, it may seem like I’m saying that
Machiavelli was onto something. Not so at all. It’s just that sadly, all these
kids have grown up with violence as a deterrent to bad behavior. As I’ve
explained before corporal punishment is alive and well both at home and in the
classroom. Physical violence is the only thing they fear. When a boy grows up
and becomes a man, if he steals he knows he can expect the whole village to
come after him and potentially maul or even kill him. A husband is completely
socially allowed to punish his wife with a beating. A mother may beat her
child. To us, it seems a harsh system of tribal justice. To them, it’s weird
that I don’t play by the same rules.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In any case, I’m 21 months in, and I’m just about burned out.
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Clearly, there are some days that I get so frustrated and
fed-up with this country that I’ll leave tomorrow on the next express bus to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anywhere else</i>. Days where I want to
throw my hands up, chuck my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bata</i> lab
coat in the trash, and march off without ever looking back. Growing up, I
remember it was as common to hear that “kids in Africa would give anything to
go to school” as often as we were reminded to clean our plates “because kids in
Africa are starving.” Perhaps it’s been one of the most depressing things to
witness as a Peace Corps Volunteer, the lack of value most of my students place
on their education. My worst teaching days bring up various versions of the
same rant, “What good am I really doing here anyways?!” With the layers of
corruption and systemic suffering I see on a regular basis, why should <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> barely make ends meet each month <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>feel mocked, disrespected, and
belittled for having high expectations of my students when they won’t even
bring their notebooks to class, receive zeroes for entire projects, and then
ask me for extra credit afterwards?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. I think the hardest
thing about being a Peace Corps Volunteer is realizing that often the people
you are trying to serve won’t even help themselves. That they are totally fine
with selling out on the long term to get a short-term kick or gratification.
The uselessness and powerlessness felt when people refuse to realize their
potential is the worst experience a Volunteer teacher can have during their
service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To know that someone is better
than their condition, yet see them fail themselves over and over again is just
morale breaking.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You can tell that I’ve finally been in Mozambique long
enough now. That the honeymoon is finally over. That it’s time to start making
sense of all this so that frustration doesn’t turn to bitterness. I have to
believe that what I’m doing here is worth it, even if I help just one young
mind start thinking outside of the multiple “boxes” that entrap them.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are also really good days too– days that make me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to live in this country forever.
Days where I’m in love with its overwhelming optimism, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vamos ver</i> attitude, and ability of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">povos mocambicanos</i> to live in the moment. In love with the constant
smiles, clapping hands, and incessant jokes that greet friends, neighbors, and
welcome complete strangers to their dinner tables. In love with the criancas at
my house and on the street that grab my hands with sticky fingers, tugging me
toward their new toy car made with soda cans and wire. In love with the happy
calls and waving arms to Teeeecha Karrriiiinnaaaaa across corn fields, school
yards, market stalls, and along the highway. In love with the full moon and
starry nights under the Southern Cross listening to the witchdoctor drums beat
under the ancient baobob tree.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been changed forever.</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere between “Mozam<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bleak”
</i>and “Mozam<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">awesome</i>” I’ve realized,
no matter what my frustrations, no matter whether I’m here or halfway across
the world, I’ll love this country forever.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is the dilemma of the Peace Corps Volunteer. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-59226611026707551832014-05-26T10:56:00.001-07:002014-05-27T23:35:59.586-07:00The Hoogstede's Great African Roadtrip<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You know, this kinda feels like that one video game…umm,
Grand Theft Auto!” my mom cackled happily from the back seat making pseudo
break screeching noises. <i>Like mother, like daughter </i>I thought, grinning.
My dad, conversely solemn and justifiably a bit stressed, was training his
squinty eyes on the lanes ahead, and navigating our monster white 4x4 adventure
truck through the free-for-all horde of Maputo commuter traffic - on the left
hand side of the road no less. Chapas, mini buses, taxis, flashy white sedans
of the rich (and infamous), swerved and honked around us. Pedestrians – women
with huge baskets of fruit on their heads, men decked out in blue laborers
outfits and reflective vests to a spectrum of suits and ties, and uniformed
school children – took their chances needling their way through the sprawling
urban badlands of a typical African city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maputo, like so many other capital cities on the African
continent, has grown too fast, supporting too many people with a complete lack
of infrastructure and <i>any</i> strategic
city planning or maintenance work since the Glory Days of Independence. To
oversimplify the history of the last few decades, when Salazar was kicked out
of his Portuguese presidential office and the government seized by the
victorious communist party in the early 1970s, Mozambique was returned to its
people nearly overnight. There was no transitionary government, no sharing of
skills or education on proper resources regulation, budgeting, or governance. Rather,
the quick transition demanded a fierce scramble between former revolutionary
leaders within Mozambique for power which ultimately lead to a devastatingly
destructive civil war. And Maputo, once known as the glamorous Lourenço
Marques, became a hub as much for corruption and piracy as it did for enlightenment
and liberation. Contemporary Maputo, nearly 40 years later, still remains an
unbelievable conglomeration of striking contradictions and muddled histories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul Thoreux explains Maputo in his narrative <i>Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown
</i>(Thoreux was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi in the 80s before becoming a
journalist and author – for any of you wanting a crash course in the sights,
smells, and voices of contemporary Africa, I highly recommend this book). He
writes: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="QuoteChar" style="font-family: inherit;">“Maputo was a dreary, beat-up city of
desperate people who had cowered there while war raged in the provinces for
twenty-five years, destroying bridges, roads, and railways. Banks and donors
and charities claimed to have had successes in Mozambique. I suspected they
invented these successes to justify their existence; I saw no positive results
of charitable efforts. But whenever I expressed skepticism about the economy,
the unemployment, the potholes, or the petty thievery, people in Maputo said,
as Africans elsewhere did, 'It was much worse before.' In many places, I knew,
it was much better before. <b>It was hard
to imagine how much worse a place had to be for a broken-down city like Maputo
to seem like an improvement.</b>” </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I must admit to some degree, that after living in Mozambique
nearly two years and having also traveled a bit to the central and some
northern regions of this huge country, you start to get a bit desensitized to
the chaos. It just <i>is</i>. This completely
unorganized but somehow functional chaos is how Africa [insert flamboyant air
quotations here] will always <i>be</i>. It’s
dirty, fascinating, and diverse with a comic and perverse ambivalence to life-threatening
everyday realities (ex. like commuting to work on public transportation – car
accidents <i>not</i> AIDS is the number one
killer in Mozambique). When Arsenio, my university-educated taxi driver friend picked
me up to bring me to the airport to meet
my parents, his specific rants that morning were about the walls barricading
the road to the airport from the horrible slums a stone’s throw away. “Those
brightly painted walls are nothing but concrete monuments to our poverty,” he muttered
resignedly as I nodded. “We’ll <i>always </i>be
poor.” Silence. “But hey at least I have a job. And we’ll replace Guebuza with
other one of his cronies soon enough.” He then showed me a photo-shopped
picture on his phone of Guebuza, umm, going at it, with a donkey with a Mozambican flag draped
across its flank. We laughed (sortof) then talked about the weather.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Least to say, Mozambique has the tendency to come off a
little too strong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CAbH7X1X5xI/U4NRqHImApI/AAAAAAAABSc/_BRdd5bv9kw/s1600/P1040531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CAbH7X1X5xI/U4NRqHImApI/AAAAAAAABSc/_BRdd5bv9kw/s1600/P1040531.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Pop and I infront of the Samora Machel monument - Maputo, Mozambique</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, perhaps it was unfair of me to expect my
parents to just slip right into the stream of social and cultural norms with
ease. I realize now I expected a lot from them – I wanted them to accept in a
mere three weeks what had taken me at least a few months to acclimate to.
Afterall I figured, my mom and dad are both experienced shoe-string
globetrotters. My dad even had a taste of west Africa back in 1999 when he
visited Guinea for a two week stint. And, they’ll have me as their translator!
What could go wrong? But, from the very minute they stepped into Arsenio’s
taxi, my parent were in complete shock and awe. “WOW, didya see that?!” my dad
would explode, pointing in the direction with the jerk of his head toward a
packed chapa bus with nearly two stories of beds, suitcases, tables, chairs,
and random third world shit on top. “AND LOOK AT THAT!” as local drivers without
warning turned a two-lane severely potholed road into a sketchy and dangerous three
and a half lane game of chicken, going head on with an accelerating semi-truck.
TIA – or This Is Africa – very quickly became part of their survival mantra. It
allowed them to set aside the things they didn’t understand about this
incredibly complex, confusing, overwhelming place, and just accept things as
they were. No, no one is <i>ever </i>on
time. No, orderly lines and waiting queues don’t actually exist here; you just
have to elbow your way to the front like everyone else. Yes, you’re expected to
barter for <i>everything</i>. And yes, it’s
totally normal for children to act like you’ve run over their foot just to get
you out of the car and ask you for money. TIA. </span>No rules. And then of course, there are the police to deal with. Not even five minutes after we had driven out of the airport car rental lot, we were waved over to our lefthand shoulder by a cop – a typical blustering <i>chefe</i> with a huge belly and an eager tendency to bully his victims. As we encountered numerous times during our trip, it’s primarily the men in uniform locals fear and distrust the most here in Mozambique. Because cops aren’t paid a livable wage by the government, they habitually shake down motorists for bribes, pulling people over for whatever reason they want, justifiable or not. As most chapa drivers would attest, slip in a 200 meticais into your car papers and usually you get off without a hitch. Just don’t argue. TIA. Thankfully for us however, of the four times during our roadtrip that we were waved over, all it took was some smooth talking in Portuguese, a lot of paperwork shuffling (and once a little beer money) and we were once again on our way.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">First stop? The wonderous Kruger National Park. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After clawing our way out of Maputo traffic, we crossed the
SA-Mozambican border an hour and a half later at Rissano-Garcia, a border town
erected to satiate the most primal of human creature comforts – food, water,
shelter, sex… It was a town pumping with commerce and unapologetic hawking </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">banditos</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, and brought back a memory of
the time I hitchhiked to the crossroad town of Inchope in central Mozambique –
the creepy guy I hitched with offhandedly mentioned (somewhat ironically) between
gulps of beer that bordertowns and crossroads alike were the “armpits of the
world.” Rissano-Garcia was no exception. But it </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">was </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">catchy. Like lions
who often play with their prey before tearing them to pieces, one’s first-time
African border-crossing gnaws at your nerves and makes you want to bolt. And
yet, besides the guys walking around showing off their Ak-47s at the checkpoints
and polishing their brass, everything went smoothly. The minute we crossed the border into South
Africa, the road hummed under our thickly treaded tires as we breathed sighs of
relief, and in the blink of an eye passed from the third most undeveloped
country in the world and into the relative bountiful plenty and sophistication
of the Rainbow Nation.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a3EdFV_veDY/U4NRpUCvvhI/AAAAAAAABSU/Ghy9foq7LPA/s1600/IMG_1274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a3EdFV_veDY/U4NRpUCvvhI/AAAAAAAABSU/Ghy9foq7LPA/s1600/IMG_1274.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Kruger National Park, after entering the Malelane Gate and on our way to Berg-en-Dahl Lodge for the night.</span></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O3w8uKR3j-M/U4NRqqnKJVI/AAAAAAAABSo/XX74xzgIPsk/s1600/P1040557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O3w8uKR3j-M/U4NRqqnKJVI/AAAAAAAABSo/XX74xzgIPsk/s1600/P1040557.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Mom and I, scouring the maps with some beers in hand at Ber-gen-Dahl rest camp.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We spent a day in Kruger Park and three more in the
Timbavati Private Reserve. Driving through Kruger was much like what I would
imagine driving through Yellowstone would be like except instead of buffalos,
moose, and Grizzly bears, you get up-close and personal with the Big Five. Rhinos,
elephants, giraffes, baboons, impala, we amazingly witnessed within our first
few hours in the park. It took an additional 4 hour drive through the park and
up the highway toward Hazyview and Hoedspruit to arrive the Timbavati Kambaku
Lodge for our private safari. The Timbavati shoulders the Kruger to the west
and is home to a concentration and unheard of abundance of not only the Big
Five - lion, elephant, cape buffalo, leopard, and rhinocerous, so named for being the hardest African beasts to hunt on foot - but also hyenas,
warthogs, wild dogs, kudu, hippos, the occasional cheetah, and the last
remaining pride of White Lions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kambaku Lodge gave us an intense but phenomenal three
days. Each day we enjoyed a sunrise and
sunset drive, since dawn and dusk are the times when predator animals are
especially active, and thus prey animals as well. Our Kambaku tracker team was
two awesome guys named Albert and Evan, who communicated in their own “tracker”
creole of Changana, English, and Afrikaans. Albert always perched himself
happily on the front seat overhanging the road ahead, ensuring that he could
scan for paw prints and fresh dung. Evan manned the radios, drove the LandRover
and filled our heads with factoids. Albert has been tracking for decades,
learning the trade as a child when he became old enough to begin guarding his
family’s cattle, and Evan essentially comes from a background of formal
schooling and practical field training alike.
Between the two of them, any question we had about the animals or the
environment around us could be answered. It was like riding along with Steve
Irwin on steroids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There were many incredible, almost sacred moments of those
drives… Seeing wild animals comfortable in their own habitat – turning off the engine and just listening,
watching, witnessing how they live and interact with each other, with their
young, and what rules each species determines for their own little miniature
societies… It makes you wonder why we as humans try so adamantly to purposely
separate ourselves from nature. Are we all that different from the mother
elephant who nurses her baby close to her heart to encourage familial bonding?
Or the Bateleur Eagles who mate for life? Or the lioness that kicks her male
cubs out of the pride once they’ve grown up? Or the bachelor clubs created by disillusioned
impala after losing their mating battles? I often found myself giggling at the
parallels between us “contemporary” humanoids and the animal kingdom at the end
of each day, snuggling deep into my fleecy snuggie and looking up to the starry
sky, swaying with the rhythm of the bush road as our Land Rover purred back to
camp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">The GOREGOUS leopardess, Marula. She put on quite a little show for us!</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our time at Kambaku ended too soon, but there were other
pieces of the African experience I wanted my parents to enjoy. So, we headed straight
back to Maputo and took a day trip to Namaacha to visit my host family. We
arrived bearing gifts and were received with hugs, kisses, songs and dancing. I
couldn’t stop grinning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a chaotic and exhausting, yet very fulfilling day
acting as translator between my two families. The process of shepherding stories,
blessings, and punchlines across the linguistic lines, made my job a difficult
but rewarding one. It blew me away the openness with which my Mozambican family
received my American parents. And, how much kinship they felt toward me. The
first thing my <i>vovo </i>– or Mozambican
granny – said the minute she laid eyes on me when I got out of our truck was
about how beautiful and <i>gordinho</i> I’d
gotten. <i>Surely I was turning all the
men’s heads in Mapinhane</i>. Once we were finally seated at the kitchen table,
the shepherding began when sassy Mae made a joke about how I had my mother’s
good looks, but she knew exactly who I’d gotten my big nose from, too.
Instantly, the nearly 12 Mozambican brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and sole <i>vovo </i>that had packed themselves into our
one roomed house erupted in laughter. Of course, my parents were shooting me
curious stares so I found myself having to carefully and accurately translate
the joke into English. Then when my mom and dad had their own laughs at Mae’s
observation, everyone else in the room roared again. It was boisterous,
chaotic, somewhat repetitive, yet… absolutely fantastic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After gifts were exchanged, I went with Marina and Elias to
the market to give Mom and Pop the big tour of our little PCV training
town. We picked up fruits, veggies, and
bread to feed a small army and then made our way to the chicken vendors still
parked in the same spot of shady orange soil that they were nearly two years
ago. As I bartered and picked out chickens with the <i>vendadores</i>, Mom and Pop retreated behind me. “I hate seeing this,”
I heard my dad mutter to my mom. “I know its normal, but it just sucks knowing
these chickens are going to end up in my soup.” The little remark caught me off
guard so I ignored it, willing them to toughen their stomachs to the reality of
life here. The detachment we Americans have to our food is staggering… we are
easy, happy consumers, yet if a fleck of blood makes it into our sanitized, over-processed,
frozen meat packages at the super market we grimace<i> </i>with the reminder of where the squishy pink flesh came from. Here
in Mozambique, you take ownership of your food. You know <i>exactly</i> where it comes from. YOU kill the chicken YOU eat. No, it’s
not a nice reality, but I think if people understood better how food gets to
their table, they’d be more grateful for the meat they <i>do</i> get, and realize how special it is. Afterall, it’s only
Americans that expect meat with every meal. For the rest of the world, meat at
any point during the week is a luxury. So maybe it’s hard/gross/sad taking an animal’s
life – even a birdbrained relative of the dinosaur. Yet, it <i>should</i> be something done with respect..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In any case, we quickly dropped off the goodies and the
doomed squawking <i>galinhas</i> with Mae,
and drove off with Marina and Elias for a little hike to the Tres Fronteiras,
my favorite. Mae would call us when the feast was ready, she said. And boy was
it worth working up an apetite for! When we got back the table was packed with
pots of matapa, grilled chicken, bean stew, sautéed pumpkin leaves, coconut
rice, xima, and more. I was given the honor of serving everyone. And so, we ate
and drank merrily filling our bellies till they were about to burst, laughing
and chatting in such high decimals that I’m sure half of Swaziland could have chimed
into our conversations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After saying our goodbyes in Namaacha, we hit the road
again, this time heading north up the coast, stopping only for a night in
Xai-Xai to celebrate my parents anniversary at a local baraca where we dined on
goat stew, chicken, coconut rice and cold beer. The next morning we drove on to
Tofo, a spectacular beach on the Inhambane peninsula. It was there we rested
for the next few days, easing the kinks in our necks earned from driving the
national highway. We thankfully avoided all darting children, herds of cows, runaway goats,
and stumbling drunk men along the way, but the vigilance had taken its toll on
us all. And so, we checked into the Casa na Praia, a guesthouse <i>right</i> on the beach and proceeded to eat,
drink, sunbathe, and relax in the hot, tropical rays. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">One sip of Tipo Tinto, the local run, and the crazy starts coming out ;)</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, after a few days of R'nR we made the last few hundred kilometers north to Mapinhane. In Mapinhane, my parents were welcomed as family. “She is my
daughter too,” my school director said warmly as he shook my dad’s hand and
waved us into his office. He proceeded to announce how big of an honor it was
to host my parents, and then began to explain how thankful he was for my
service, about everything wonderful I’ve done to help the school… My embarrassment
in translating his incredibly kind compliments was thankfully short-lived as
Chefe Samuel burst into the office, squealed like a 13-year-old girl, and proceeded
to give our well-practiced great big American-style hugs to us all. “Meester Hoogstede, I have waited my lifeeee
for this moment,” beamed Chefe Samuel as he continued grasping my dad’s hand in
the typical Mozambican lingering style. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Oops. Yep, he's stillllll holding his hand. Should have told Pops about that</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, I thought. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Oh well, surprise!</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Within minutes we set Mom and Pop up in the
extra room in Chefe Samuel’s house, and invited him and the Director over for a
dinner at the Hut of Pringles, beer, and spaghetti. It couldn’t have been more
perfect. Bringing my two worlds together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We only had a few short days in Mapinhane, and we packed
them full. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They gave Professora Angelica (best friend and mother to Junior) our old family laptop so she has it for studying at university next year!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They watched me teach.</span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">They made friends with all my village neighbors, colleagues, and friends.</span></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Dir. Adelaide and Dir. Marculino gave Mom and Pop a pumpkin! A very nice gift from Mapinhane :)</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We also took an afternoon bush walk to Mujavange. Had dinner
at the estalagem with my amazing site mates, Sarah and Maria. They checked out
my almost-functional library and met mana Joana, mother of the primary school.
They learned how to make coconut milk from scratch and then ate coconut bean
stew for dinner under the crystal clear starry sky of the southern hemisphere.
They made friends with my dog Fenda, and the local village criancas. My dad
even took them with him on a beer run to the local baraca, and they </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">loved</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> him for it. All in all they
had a great taste of village life. The sights, sounds, and smells of Mapinhane
are now much more real for them. I am so so thankful that my parents are now
able to personally relate to the people and places I tell them stories about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The final stop on our grand Mozambican tour was Vilankulos and Chibuene to introduce mom and pops to Pat and Mandy Retzlaff and their beautiful horses. Our first night we were welcomed with a fantastic braii that Jay whipped up for us all on his own. The wine flowed, the stories lengthened, the laughs became contagious. The next five days were amazing: riding horses on the beach, sailing in a dhow to Margaroque Island, snorkeling, storytelling over Amarula coffees, and canoeing/birdwatching on the river. Despite the fact that some unseasonably cloudy weather that came our way, it didn't dampen our fun too much. It just gave us more time to do as the Mozambicans do. Slow down, stop keeping a to-do list, and meet the cast of characters around you. As I've learned time and time again in the last 20 months of service, <b>it's not necessarily where you are or how you live, but rather the people you're with that make a place as special as it is.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our Great African Roadtrip was far from perfect, and it certainly wasn't a trip destined to be relaxing. But for Africa, I'd say we did pretty damn well. I can only hope I got my parents as hooked on this beautiful region of the world as I am. I know even now, that we've barely scratched the surface.</span></div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-87465128388193779612014-03-31T03:19:00.001-07:002014-03-31T03:36:41.403-07:00Only the Good Die Young<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Hermenigilda </span></b><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Esperança</b></span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"> (Hope) Vilanculos<br />April 13, 1984 - March 24, 2014</span></b></td></tr>
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Perhaps the greatest indicator of ones’ “faith in humanity”
is rooted in the belief (or disbelief) that the natural laws of our world tend
toward justice. That, from the headwaters of human nature comes a generous affinity
for truth, optimism, and egalitarianism. It’s from the confluence of these ideals
that we form an assumption: that life dishes back what we give out. That what
goes around, comes around. That the universe prevents bad things from happening
to good people simply because it <i>should.</i>
After all, <i>if</i> we are to have a social
contract, for most of us it’s in our interest that it should be at the very
least, <i>fair</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet, with more time and exposure to the small
cruelties and everyday tragedies of life, we are stripped away of our illusions.
From our very first childhood disappointments to our entrance into society as
adults, we realize that our mothers were right – “Life ain’t fair.” Bad things really do happen to good people. Deplorably,
they happen all the time. The question that we then must all reconcile and
crave an answer to at some point in life, is <i>why. WHY. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I was thinking about all this while staring at the casket
of my beloved friend and colleague yesterday afternoon. Hermenigilda Esperança Vilanculos died suddenly
at 7am Monday morning from complications from childbirth. She was only 30 years
old and left a week-old baby, her first child, in her wake. From what I
gathered, Hermenigilda essentially re-entered the hospital a few days after
giving birth, hemorrhaging, and the hospital simply didn’t have any of her
blood type in stock. So she bled out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The magnitude of this tragedy is staggering, mostly
because Hermenigilda’s death anywhere in the developed world would have been
completely unheard of – 100% preventable. But here in Mozambique, Hermenigilda
just became another statistic. A waste of a life, amongst many.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I found out Hermenigilda had died from our mutual friend
Angelica. Monday afternoon after I returned home from a weekend visit to
Inhassoro, Junior, Angelica’s 4 year old son, shuffled over to my hut and
mumbled that his mom wanted to speak with me. I remember thinking that this was
odd, as usually when any woman in the village wants to talk to the other, they
just converse loudly through hut walls and across corn fields, shouting their
fofoca (or gossip) house to house to save themselves the walk. Getting up
wondering, I wrapped my caplana around me quickly and left, Junior pulling on
my hand incessantly. I entered the neighboring house. My eyes adjusted to the
darkness. Angelica gestured for me to sit down. “I have some horrible horrible
news, amiga.” She said quietly. “Mana Hermenigilda passed this morning.” <i>Passou</i>. “Passed?!” I asked sharply. <i>What the hell was that supposed to mean? I
thought, my heart jumping into my throat. </i>“Passou. Morriu.” <i>Died. </i>Hearing the word aloud shocked us
both into silence. “What do you mean she died, Mama?” Junior implored, looking
at his feet. Junior lost his own father when he was a baby, too young to
remember. Yet, his instincts were sharp. Quickly, trying to avoid any
questions, Angelica pulled Junior over and explained, “Mana Hermenigilda is on
a great plane, high in the sky, looking down at all of us. She’s gone on a long
voyage. She’s not coming back, <i>filho</i>”
Then the questions poured out of <i>my</i>
mouth. “What? How? When? What happened?” <i>OH
MY GOD, NO.</i> Angelica turned away from me, tucking her head into her far
shoulder, hiding her face from Junior. Anguish. I couldn’t stop thinking, <i>THIS MUST NOT BE TRUE. There’s no way this
could be true! Maybe it was a misunderstanding. This cannot be real. I simply
don’t believe it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And then that evening we received the details from our
school director for the funeral the next day. And quite acutely, the reality of
our loss set in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The funeral was beautiful, if such a thing can be said
about a ceremony of mourning. Wednesday morning nearly 40 teachers and students
from our school and the nearby mission school piled into two chapas and made
the drive to Vilanculos. I had Prof. Adelaide, the matriarch of our school squeezed
in on my left and Prof. Sergio, my gangly superhero friend who always seems to
turn up when I’m in a time of need, squeezed in on my right. For the whole
drive, the remaining 19 teachers of E.S. 25 de Junho spent the whole hour in
song, singing for our lost sister. Hugging isn't exactly a “thing” in
Mozambique, so for once I rather appreciated the closeness of bodies, and the
ability to feel the rumble and breath of song in my colleagues chests and
shoulders as the chapa hurtled down the national highway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We stopped on the outskirts of Vilanculos, at the sandy
intersection to Hermenigilda’s house. Pouring out of the chapa, the women
stretched and readjusted their caplanas and headdresses, while the men beat out
the crinkles in their pants and straightened their ties. Then we began walking,
shoulder to shoulder down the long sandy road into the hot morning sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Arriving at the house, one side of the shady yard was
already occupied by over 100 women. In
every hue of capulana and lenço (headscarf), the women were kneeling, rocking,
resting, burping babies, fanning themselves in the early heat. But most
remarkably, especially for Mozambican women who incessantly find something to
talk about, they were somber – silent. Our rank and file of teachers and
students settled on the opposing side of the yard. Men took the chairs, while
women squatted and plopped their butts in the sand, feet straight out in front
or cradled under them. And we waited. And sang some more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Somehow I had the foresight to bring my portable recorder
with me, and I recorded many of these songs. They’re songs that, even without
understanding Xitswa, evoke emotion. You <i>feel</i>
these songs at the most basic human level. And so, to my pleasant surprise,
even though I didn’t know any of the words to these hymns, it only took a basic
musician’s ear to predict the melodies and accompanying harmonies. Humming
cautiously, I thus got to join in as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Suddenly, everyone leapt to their feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The truck carrying the body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In a whirlwind of activity, the casket is off-loaded from
the white truck and carried into the house where the door is shut and a private
ceremony conducted for immediate family members. Hundreds of us rush behind the
casket, forming a huge circle around the viewing table. I clinch a spot only
two rows back from the front with Gloria, Angelica, Adelaide, and Natalia, and
push one of my favorite students, Sonia, forward. I rest my hand on her
shoulders. Time slows. We sweat. We
wait. I try to not lock my knees. I feel a bit nauseated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Finally, the door to the house opens once more, and the delicately
gold-inlaid casket is brought out and placed gently on the viewing table. Fake, gaudy neon roses tumble to the sand with a gust of wind. To my relief, the
casket remains closed. Yet, to give the funeral its sense of finality, a framed
portrait of Hermenigilda’s face is placed at the head of the casket by a hand-carved cross, her
teasing gaze locked forever into our mournful ones. Gloria and Natalia burst into tears. With the conclusion hours later, 500+ people hopped into chapas and into the back of trucks, and paraded out to the cemetery in a two dozen car wake. Hermenigilda was lowered into the deep sand. A screaming, wail erupted from who I took to be Hermenigilda's brother, and two other women fainted, landing body-board stiff with a loud THWACK. The two rotund bodies of the women were casually dragged to the outer ring of the circle. The young man was escorted out of the premises to wail out of earshot. My final view and last act was laying a single stem of stunningly beautiful bouganvilla upon the top of her mounded grave. With that, I'd had enough. I took my own deep breath and retreated to the edge of the onlookers.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hermenigilda was a natural leader, a dynamic woman in
every sense – smart, opinionated, very well educated, and a role model for the
many young girls at our school who needed a trailblazer to lead the way. One of
my favorite memories of Hermenigilda was when at one of our horribly formal, drawn-out,
bureaucratic school meetings last year, she fearlessly confronted the Director
about the discriminatory forgeries and corruption practices going on in our
school administration that were docking payable hours from the female
professors in order to raise the payable hours for male professors – male professors
that often didn't even show up. When given a dismissive wave typical of any guy
at the top who doesn't want his dirty laundry to be publicly aired,
Hermenigilda pressed him further, making some of us squirm in our seats
breathlessly. Her pointed questions ended up making our Director so
uncomfortable he walked out. I absolutely loved her for her guts and approached
her the next day to become my library counterpart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
As it turns out, Hermenigilda was also an incredibly
humble woman. With more than a tinge of bittersweetness, I realized at her
funeral that I actually knew very little about the woman who had become one of
my dearest Mozambican friends. Born in Beira, April 13, 1984, Hermenigilda
spent most of her life in school, either as a student or teaching the next
batch of young minds. What I didn't know however, was that when she talked about
her husband, she was talking about Antonio Vilanculos, one of the primary leaders of the FRELIMO
party in the area. Thus, as the funeral transitioned from religious pomp of the
Methodist pastor, to the tearful personal anecdotes from family, friends, FRELIMO party members, and
old students, it was very clear just how beloved and respected she had been to those that had
known her for so many more years than I had. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And so, our school community begins to adapt to Hermenigilda's absence. We are learning how to keep on, although I have sadly had less practice in dealing with death than the majority of my students and colleagues. It was incredible to me, how, after nearly a full 8 hours of mourning and burial ceremonies, the whole ride back to Mapinhane was a cacophony of riotous bantering and joking around between my colleagues. It seemed like they had put the events of that day out of their mind completely and it was now time to celebrate being <i>alive</i>. Life, afterall, in Mozambique is always too short. I think a woman like Hermenigilda, so full of life and spirit herself, would have clapped her hands and loved us for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Descanso em paz, mana Gilda. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-34263191807744133582014-03-06T11:00:00.001-08:002014-03-06T11:26:17.225-08:00What Is An Education Worth?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Aii, teeeechaaaaaaa! Teeeecha is hereee.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I stride through the door and into Sala 3, Turma C - a class to
rival all others. It’s also my third class and my second dupla for the afternoon, so I’ve
lost the fresh optimism brought by a new day. Upon seeing my white lab coat
whip into the room, dozens of students scramble back towards their desks, throwing
punches, stealing notebooks, laughing. I
try to ignore the dread undulating in the pit of my stomach, quickly digging
into my back-pocket for a huge grin. Students smell fear. They exploit it unlike any other creature on
the planet. Undoubtedly, the first five minutes of each class determine the
trajectory of the entire period. If I get my students focused and engaged right
away, I always have a <i>wonderful</i> day of
teaching. But if the first five minutes are marked by incessant interruptions,
brincar-ing, tardy arrivals, or if they’ve collectively decided that they have
no interest in learning English that day, I’m in for a looooonngggg day of
teaching.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
Then I hear it. The rumble of hands slapping desks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Boom, boom, CLAP!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Boom, boom, CLAP!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Boom, boom, CLAP!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Boom, boom, CLAP!</div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Believe it or not a beat none other than the “We Will
Rock You” rumble begins emanating from my classroom (a brilliant idea I stole
from my PCV friend Jamie, holla atcha girl!). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Helllloooooo teacherrrrr, how are you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sixty excited faces scream-sing at me in rhythm as I walk
to the front of the classroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“I aaaam fineeee students, how are you?” I sing-scream back. One voice against sixty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Alright, so it’s fair to say that the odds aren’t exactly
in my favor for about 3 hours every day. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But then, the odds my students have in overcoming
everything that is Mozambique – poverty, disease, illiteracy, a shortened
life-expectancy (max 50 years), unemployment, continuing political unrest, and the indelible mark of corruption on
everything – just to name a few – are never EVER in favor of the well-being and
success of my students. There’s only
luck. Chance. Coincidence. Even the hardest working, most intelligent, and
promising young person can live a life of anonymity and squandered potential
solely due to the numerous systemic barriers to his (esp <i>her</i>) mobility.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Rewind to a conversation I had with a student yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Edilson is 16 years old. He lives in a village called
Murrure 6 miles away. He used to walk two hours each way to school until he
recently began living with a local family in Mapinhane and working for his keep. He's a diligent student, but doesn't have the canny instinct some of his peers do with English. As such, he comes by for tutoring nearly every week. Last week, after our neighborhood water pump broke (again), I also decided to ask Edilson to start fetching water for me, and thus help him make a little extra money,
money he’ll probably actually donate to his church as he’s quite pious. One
particularly hot morning after Edilson returned with a brimming bucket of
crystal-clear cool water and set it in my kitchen, he helped himself to a
chair. This surprised me a little. Usually he has better manners. He just kind
of slumped into it and looked up at me, thinking, hesitatingly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Professora,” he started.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Siiiiiiii,” I replied expectantly, smiling.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“We have a lot of indisciplinados in class. They are
loud. Annoying. They have no respect.”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I know Edilson, I am trying to do better in disciplining
the trouble-makers. Did you not see them working on the school machamba (farm)
last week? I sent them there.”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Yes, I know Teacher. But you’re still too nice. I want
to learn English. I don’t want to sit there and wait for people to be quiet.
Yesterday I told everyone in class that they can do what they want to me, beat
me up or whatever, but next time they are disrespectful to you I’m going to the
Director.”<br />
<br />
“You have a big heart Edilson, and lots of courage. But I
am the one who should go to the Director. And I don’t think we are at that
point yet.”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Teacher,” Edilson interrupted impatiently. “Let me tell
you why I am at school. After I finished seventh grade, my father sat me down
and gave me two choices. Either I could continue going to school or start
working in his shop. Either, he said, was honorable. But, I didn’t even have to think. I told him
I wanted to go to school.”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Why was that, Edilson?”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Because Teacher, I am the first in my family to go to
school.”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“What?”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Yes, my father – he only went to school through second
grade because of the war.” </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>The War. He says it
the way my Oma always did about World War II. How do I keep forgetting? Is it
because there’s a shroud of normalcy to this place now? That there's no one who lives old enough to really keep the memory of it so vivid?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><br /></i>“They had to abandon their school when the war arrived in
here Mapinhane. Bullets came through his school’s windows. He can read and
write in Xitswa. He’s very good at that. But he doesn’t know much Portuguese.
My mother never went to school either. Neither did my grandfather. I, I am
truly the first!”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“What do you want to do after you finish school Edilson?”</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Teacher, I don’t know. But I will know one day, I have
time.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whoa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s easy I think, in the day-to-day bartering and negotiation that comes
with being a PCV teacher – the pedaling of goals and dreams, and of ideas like
volunteerism and compassion, for both our students and for ourselves – that we
forget the big picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Yes, it angers me that when after grading a stack of 300
exams, only half my students score at or above the minimum passing score of 50%.
It permits defeatist thinking (“I’m a horrible teacher”). It encourages apathy
(“My students don’t care, why should I?”). It tempts one to slide on their
personal convictions, no matter how resolute they started (I came here to do
what exactly? So much for teaching, this is really just academic triage! Just
keep your head above water!”). It’s the
little voice in the back of your mind that whispers, “Pstttt! Hey you! Yes, YOU!
Honestly, WHATS THE POINT!? STOP CARING WOULDYA!! You can't help them until they take some personal responsibility and help themselves!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And to some degree that's true - personal responsibility, that is. There are students that always do their homework and succeed in my class. And there are those who decide never turn in an assignment all year.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But then, us PCVs have to think of the echoes of history that
continues to ensnare our students. Our host-communities. Our host-country. Fifteen+ years of war. A whole generation lost to violence. A whole generation that lost their right to education. And now that generation is parenting my students. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It's no wonder then why my kids don't know how to study. Or do homework. Or understand the value of education. We're taught these things by our parents... and their parents were robbed.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Within this context then, the real miracle is that we
even have a school at all. That despite all that has happened here (and
only ended 20 years ago), we have a relatively functioning, productive
educational system. That despite ALL its problems - however infinite in number they are - there are some families like Edilson's that see education as a real solution to the long-term
development of Mozambique and the betterment of their lives, even if the future
is uncertain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That must be the strongest form of <i>faith</i> I’ve certainly ever witnessed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And so, today I quieted the kids down as best I could. I
turned back towards the board. I made them work. “Okkkk everyone, we have LOTS of
Exercises today!” I announce enthusiastically, and dig my chalk deep into the
chipped surface of the blackboard. It feels good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I glance back at Edilson, who’s sitting front row now,
grinning, but who refuses to meet my gaze. He instead begins scribbling away in
the ratty pages of his notebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The rest of the class groans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Well then. I guess I must be doing something right. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-E9F18aZ0bKU/UxjJoaEAXQI/AAAAAAAABRk/OohbsjUXB7E/s1600/IMG_0516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-E9F18aZ0bKU/UxjJoaEAXQI/AAAAAAAABRk/OohbsjUXB7E/s1600/IMG_0516.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Benedita and Zulmira, two of my 9th grade English students</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-24125635493162927932014-02-21T07:05:00.005-08:002014-02-21T07:10:16.923-08:00Old wine, new bottles - Fresh starts in 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was the red lion on his capulana that made me do a
double take. The man was old for a Mozambican, but not ancient. Rotund
and stocky, a pudgy hand firmly grasped a short staff plumed with feathers. A
long dagger brought the dark, weathered hardwood to a dramatic and sharply
pointed end. He had in front of him bowls of bones and mystery
pastes alongside a half carton of eggs and a bottle of the cheapest labelled
gin in town. I caught myself thinking that this juxtaposition– between old and
new, traditional and modern, in both culture and commodity – must be one of the
best examples to be found in Mozambique.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We called the witchdoctor into service in order to find
out who had broken in and stole a handful of electronics from the horse
volunteer house a few nights before. I regularly stay alone in that house and
up until now had felt that my possessions and I were safe. Yet after going to
the police to report the crime, we realized that the Chibuene police – “police”
being a few sleepy youngsters with rusty guns – didn’t care too much about our
mulungo problems. Thus, Mandy with the wisdom and experience that comes from
living in Africa over 50 years – knew that we had another, perhaps more
effective resource. Magic. In fact, witchdoctors and their practices still hold
tremendous power in small, rural communities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the man’s methodical preparations began, a small group
had gathered – Luka and two other horse grooms, Mandy, myself, and the Canadian
gal Melissa, in addition to the eclection of lodge staff that couldn’t resist
the curiosity. We sat with our feet tucked under ourselves in a semi-circle
behind him as he began painting the eggs and then, using his staff gently as a
hammer, proceeded to pierce the top of each shell with a needle. He then got up
carefully and walked around the house to the outside of the broken window,
touched a light triangular pattern in the sand below with one of the eggs,
turned, and threw the egg straight towards the haphazardly mended fence. This
egg was followed by another, thrown deeper into the bushes. The splattering of
yoke set the curse. Now we only had to understand the conditions of it. That’s
where it got even more interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Between the witchdoctor, Luka, and myself, we explained
the rules of the “killing curse.” The witchdoctor spoke Xitswa to Luka,
Luka then relayed to me in Portuguese, and I would reiterate the conditions in
English. “He’s setting a curse that will make the betrayer of the community,
the bandito, go crazy,” Luka said. “Crazy to the point that he will die unless
he returns what he stole. You must throw one egg towards the road at dusk for
four days. On the fifth, the victim of the crime (Melissa) must start bathing
with this.” Extending his hands, Luka revealed a small newspaper pouch filled
with a dark, leafy paste. “Bathe with this, the man who did this will go crazy,
and the witchdoctor will return to assess the results.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is just one interesting day of many. Thinking back,
it’s crazy how many different challenges lately I’ve had to navigate as
translator. I’ve filed reports with police, I’ve had to talk my way
through a small slaughterhouse operation to acquire a bolt gun when we had to
put an injured horse down a few weeks ago, I’ve had to write radio briefs, and
negotiate the reward and safe airline transport of the valuable manta ray GPS
tracking device (which looks like a freakin’ missile) crucial to local research
being done by marine biologists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, and, of course, I’ve now worked with a witchdoctor.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is all just to say that my second year feels like a
wonderful fresh start from the first. Now, I have the integration and language
skills, the friendships, and confidence to make my second year here incredible.
It is, as one of my favorite metaphors go, like old wine in new bottles.
Experienced self-assurance now coupled with even greater opportunities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>So, what exactly are the new changes and plans for
2014?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, for one, I have new site-mates!!!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maria and Sarah arrived in Mapinhane in December to start
their Peace Corps service. Already, what I love about both Sarah and
Maria is how they always tell you what they think – it’s a type of honesty that
after last years’ misunderstandings is incredibly refreshing. In any
case, Maria is a dark-haired sassy pre-med grad who wants to save the world as
a doctor, and has already started volunteering at our local hospital. She’s
always the one to crack a joke and find something hilarious about a
situation. Sarah is also amazing! A sweet, kind, do-gooder,
master-rapper-beat-monster, Sarah’s the type of girl who always has something
positive and smiley to say. This is the girl, for example, that when she had to
go get stitches at the hospital with a dull needle, just decided to clamp her
teeth on her backpack strap and get it over with. She’s ballsy <i>and</i> brainy.
Obviously, you can tell I’m impressed and proud at how well these two
Americanas have already adjusted to life in Mapinhane. May we
forever enjoy cerveja’d Thursday Estalagem Dinners :) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ueAYwvcy3r0/UwdozK0MduI/AAAAAAAABQY/BBMOi65ts48/s1600/IMG_0530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ueAYwvcy3r0/UwdozK0MduI/AAAAAAAABQY/BBMOi65ts48/s1600/IMG_0530.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><br />Sarah, me and Maria!!! LOVE THESE GIRLS! So thrilled that they're my new site mates :)</b></td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJlYfWwzE7k/UwdoVOKN7LI/AAAAAAAABQI/p7ZxU3KzHmg/s1600/IMG_0531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJlYfWwzE7k/UwdoVOKN7LI/AAAAAAAABQI/p7ZxU3KzHmg/s1600/IMG_0531.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Moreover, my school has undergone some changes as well!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our school director from last year, Sr. Dir. Herculano
left without any warning a week before school started, leaving the entire
school scrambling. However, our new director is fantastic. I don’t know why,
but my old director and I never really clicked. Blame it on the fact that I was
so new and naïve that I was intimidated by him, or on the fact that we had an
awkward encounter at the casa do banho in which he came out with his massive
belly hanging out over his tiny capulana… Whatever it was, we were friendly and
I liked him as a Director, but we didn’t really see eye to eye on a lot. That
being said, our new director, Sr. Dir. Marculino and I are already on the same
page. I asked him for a meeting last week and we’ve already sat down
and decided our top three priorities for the school this year and figured out
ways as a PCV that I can help. I feel incredibly engaged and
supported on all levels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the priority projects we’re negotiating now is the
construction of a water pump. More on that to come in a future post...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And finally, we’re also making huge progress on our
Mapinhane Community Literacy Center. We’ve raised the entire $2315.00 necessary
to start work on converting the old classroom into a library! So far we’ve
already contracted the local carpenter Obedias to build our shelves, benches, and
window beds for the children’s reading corner. The Director of the Primary
School is also nailing down a local guy to paint the room next week. Once
that’s done, we’ll move in!! All the books and supplies are just sitting at my
house waiting to be used. Our goal is to get up and running by the end of
March.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And a final word…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My Mozambican friend and counterpart Hermenigilda is pregnant and is
about a week away from giving birth!!! This tiny little woman’s belly is
ENORMOUS. Just wow. Crossing my fingers that the birth goes smoothly.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Prof. Gloria, Hermenigilda, me, and dona Natalia. We are so proud of our baby mamma!!!! She's due next week!!</b></td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lkWB-wYM8Rc/UwdqSTiRUdI/AAAAAAAABRI/5nbGyfUihLk/s1600/IMG_0555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lkWB-wYM8Rc/UwdqSTiRUdI/AAAAAAAABRI/5nbGyfUihLk/s1600/IMG_0555.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p>Oh, and check out this view, looking west, from my house. 'Tis the wet season, no doubt!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0hlMK7hfxm8/Uwdp_cJo0uI/AAAAAAAABQ0/yUMKW_PdOyg/s1600/IMG_0571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0hlMK7hfxm8/Uwdp_cJo0uI/AAAAAAAABQ0/yUMKW_PdOyg/s1600/IMG_0571.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-3660909420445767172014-01-16T09:08:00.000-08:002014-01-16T14:48:56.481-08:00The Greatness of Gratitude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wake up to the sound of a fan whirring. I blink. A FAN. I
groggily sit up, the sheer joy of electricity cracking dimples into my cheeks.
I hop out of bed. It’s barely past seven and the world is already blistering.
No matter. I squirt on more sunscreen. I squint at myself in the little mirror.
Meh. Good enough. Minutes later I’m walking down the sandy road towards the
beach. The palm trees rustle with the light breeze. I hear the cackle of the
bright violet-turquoise rollers somewhere ahead. Winding my way around the
corner I pass an overflowing water tank, gurgling with delight in its gluttony,
the hose sitting idle forgotten by the gardener. I think for half a second about scampering
through the puddles, but am restrained by the thought of one thing: breakfast. Ah
yes, a hearty farmers, or rather for us, a horseman’s breakfast. The best kind.
I quicken my pace but try to refrain from breaking into a sweat. Too late. Finally,
the white-washed rondavel with its rutted driveway comes into view. “WOOF!!
WOOF!! AHWOOO!!” Instantly, six dogs rush up the hill, bounding towards me with
barking, yowling, tail wagging, tongue lolling happiness. My favorites - big bear-like Chico, fluffy
little Coco, energetic, curious Jingo, and shy, sweet Jaime receive me with the type
of dogged enthusiasm that makes me think today’s going to be the best day of my
life. And who am I to doubt?</div>
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“Good morning daaaarling! How’d you sleep? Come, come! Eat!
We have <i>lots</i> of rides today!” Mandy
waves her hand at the table set in the shade of a huge beautiful tree. She
disappears back into the kitchen. I sit down. I dig out a poached egg and serve
myself a fair portion of sautéed veggies. Not a moment later Pat rolls out of the
doorway, sliding into his work shirt, voice booming, “No no darling, you must
eat more than that! Here, have some yogurt. Have another egg. Oh and you must
eat these mangoes!” He pauses at my hesitation, then says, with his eyes crinkling
in delight, “What?! Are you on a diet??” We both burst out laughing. I shake my
head. Clearly, they’ve started to know me too well. They have already figured
out that “diet” has never been a word in <i>my</i>
vocabulary ;) Soon, I’m joined at the table. I soak in the matronly English
fussings of Mandy, and the teasing banter of Pat while he slathers his toast in
double layers of butter <i>and </i>peanut
butter. Soon enough, we’re off again,
this time to take our clients out for a day of horseback riding
throughout the bush and beach of Vilanculos. We swing up into our saddles. We canter up the red dunes. I watch chestnut ears flick and point against the wind. I grab the dark mane in my hands.<br />
<br />
It's just another day in paradise.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fiNz3ExPxo/UtheAQyMZjI/AAAAAAAABPs/ki1OeGtLUqo/s1600/IMG_8634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fiNz3ExPxo/UtheAQyMZjI/AAAAAAAABPs/ki1OeGtLUqo/s1600/IMG_8634.JPG" height="550" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Riding Holly</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h73DgZlzic4/UthcFjI56BI/AAAAAAAABPg/VeV567fzld4/s1600/IMG_8511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h73DgZlzic4/UthcFjI56BI/AAAAAAAABPg/VeV567fzld4/s1600/IMG_8511.JPG" height="440" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The "104 Horses" book launch in Chibuene, with Mandy and Pat</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Welcome to my life with Pat and Mandy Retzlaff, the wonderful Zimbabwean
couple who have semi-adopted me into their lives in Chibuene since my first
time horseback riding with <a href="http://www.mozambiquehorsesafari.com/" target="_blank">Mozambique Horse Safari</a> on my birthday last year. I have wanted to write this post for months
but could never quite express myself well enough to do them proper justice.
Saying that they’re the kindest, most unquestioningly generous, supportive
people I’ve met in my life is a glaring understatement. They have given me more over the last few
months than perhaps I’ll ever be able to repay. Meeting and coming to know them
closely during my time in Mozambique has helped me realize something about “goodwill”
- that one should not necessarily feel bad or guilty for charity given by
others, especially those who have little extra to give. <i>BUT,</i> one must <i>always</i> be
grateful for it. Not only have they fed me and provided me an amazing refuge
from the challenging sometimes frustrating life in Mapinhane, Pat and Mandy also have taught me some
important life lessons. I’ve not only learned how to give a horse antibiotics,
heal a wound with lime powder, make soap with coconut oil, or take apart the body of a 4-wheeler for example, but also
have been informally schooled in the proper etiquette and business rules required
to work in the tourism and service industries. But more on that another time. First, I want to share
their own story with you.</div>
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Mandy and Pat are both white Africans. Mandy was born in
Nigeria, Pat in Tanzania, and their families had already lived in Africa for a
couple generations, moving around a fair amount. They met each other in South Africa at
university in the late 1970s and married soon after. They settled in Zimbabwe (or
Rhodesia as it was known before Independence), bought a farm and started their
family. Their dream was to create a legacy for their children, a place that
could always be home, a place they could always return to. Biri Farm should
have been that place. The whole family worked hard alongside their employed local
black Zimbabweans to transform the wild bush into fields upon fields of crops –
the same type of fields that once helped label Zimbabwe as the economic "bread-basket" of
Africa, Then came Mugabe’s land invasions. The history of “land
redistribution” policy in Zimbabwe (sparked by the Lancaster House Agreement) spans three decades and originally was intended to more equitably distribute land with compensation between the historically disenfranchised blacks and minority-whites. The reality however became much more malignant and violent. Here's the progression in a nutshell. Robert Mugabe was
a freedom fighter in Zimbabwe’s war for independence. He gained popularity and
won the vote for President, but then in 2000 proposed a referendum that would not only give him absolute power, but empower the government to acquire land compulsorily <i>without</i> compensation. The voting populace, largely black Zimbabwean,
<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/644168.stm" target="_blank">voted down the referendum the first time</a>. But a few days later, the pro-Mugabe war veterans organized marches on
white-owned farmlands, forcing white families off their land and often killing white and black farm workers along the way. This onslaught of land invasions eventually arrived at the Retzlaff's Biri Farm. One afternoon, Mandy was delivered a hastily scribbled note that said she had less than four hours to leave with their lives and anything they could carry. </div>
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To make a long story a little shorter (or even better, please read Mandy's book,“<a href="http://www.mozambiquehorsesafari.com/104-horses-book.htm" target="_blank">104 Horses: A Story of Farm and Family,Africa and Exile</a>), the Retzlaff family ended up fleeing Zimbabwe and settling in Chimoio and finally Vilanculos, Mozambique, taking their six horses and rescuing nearly 100 more along the way. It is this family that despite losing everything and starting over too many times to count has still insisted on caring and compassion rather than convenience. And now, heartwarmingly (and with incredible serendipity) the horses that they once rescued from the cruelty of Mugabe's thugs are now providing Pat and Mandy with their livelihood in Mozambique. It seems good karma really does come back around.<br />
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And so here I am, a Peace Corps Volunteer who in my spare time helps out a fantastic family and their business however I can, entertaining clients from all over the world, all while using my love of horses and my knack for conversation. The greatness of gratitude thus is not strictly about measuring your debts against your credits. It's about understanding that no matter what you can or cannot offer someone you appreciate what you've been given and the small sacrifices that may have been made for it. <br />
<br />
<br />
As Elizabeth Gilbert, author of "Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia," writes rather perfectly:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay
back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's
wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just
keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices."</i></blockquote>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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There's no better place to bring that lesson into relief than in Mozambique. And there's no better teacher than African diaspora. </div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-43652981357429109632013-11-21T23:07:00.001-08:002013-11-21T23:24:45.450-08:00Back to the Start: Namaacha, one year later<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beautiful old homes, rich flowery gardens,
decent roads, SIDEWALKS, and the greenest, lushest land I’ve ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SoO-X6eKdCg/Uo8Evy6bWDI/AAAAAAAABKc/gsHLynoEjSU/s1600/966055_10151674388011784_919380550_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SoO-X6eKdCg/Uo8Evy6bWDI/AAAAAAAABKc/gsHLynoEjSU/s640/966055_10151674388011784_919380550_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>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! :)</strong></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ananas</i> (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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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 <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rzEvfycKifA/Uo8FQorvMLI/AAAAAAAABKo/V3K3rsLzFsM/s1600/860990_10151674397351784_73727347_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rzEvfycKifA/Uo8FQorvMLI/AAAAAAAABKo/V3K3rsLzFsM/s640/860990_10151674397351784_73727347_o.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Mae's new addition to the family, her "America baby" born on September 11, 2013</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtoZIHKogKU/Uo8FQgFEmkI/AAAAAAAABKk/Tkx15WxEtLI/s1600/1009239_10151674403101784_712524938_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtoZIHKogKU/Uo8FQgFEmkI/AAAAAAAABKk/Tkx15WxEtLI/s640/1009239_10151674403101784_712524938_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>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!</strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">special</i>
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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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!!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-22675102876190765602013-11-21T01:23:00.002-08:002013-11-21T01:30:18.706-08:00Tinderbox: when "if" becomes "when"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any </i>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps the saddest consequence of these attacks is how they
are shaking up the national Mozambican psyche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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…”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This past week when my colleagues and I were correcting the
tenth grade national exams, Prof. Elisio and Prof. Juliao <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> 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.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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??</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-79416222950991204042013-09-29T06:26:00.000-07:002013-09-29T06:26:25.492-07:00Walking the line.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Overall, I <i>really</i>
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yet, largely because of their views and misconceptions of
local Mozambicans, I feel somewhat confused, frustrated, and guilty about my
friendships with them too! <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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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?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>assumed</i> that to “win” the game, you had to finish in front of
everyone else. That was the point of pretty much every game, right?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, we were all in for a surprise.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-55187403655482543212013-09-14T00:56:00.000-07:002013-09-14T02:10:39.217-07:00Bringing Bras & Title IX to Mapinhane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I love how often the most mundane moments lend us the most
astute insights.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Archimedes discovered displacement while taking a bath. Einstein proved relativity <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/physics/theory-behind-equation.html" target="_blank">while riding the trolley</a>
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“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!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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 <i>all</i> 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.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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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?</div>
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<br /></div>
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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?</div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
<br />
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Then, I had a second breakthrough. Rather unsurprisingly it came during a Sunday
evening phone call with my mom. </div>
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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!!!”</div>
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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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>anyone</i> 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!</div>
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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.</div>
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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… </div>
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AND THERE IT
WAS!! A GIGANTIC 20LB BOX OF BRAS. THEY’D MADE IT!! </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UmwD_-gzrjM/UjQCNFjoPDI/AAAAAAAABIU/shA6SPWHuW4/s1600/IMG_7468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UmwD_-gzrjM/UjQCNFjoPDI/AAAAAAAABIU/shA6SPWHuW4/s640/IMG_7468.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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All-in-all, nearly 100 bras were raised and over $150 donated to ship the bras. Moreover, t<span style="text-align: left;">he 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!). </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lz6IuxQ1gMg/UjQM1dB346I/AAAAAAAABJo/crxSHZk-kuY/s1600/bramap2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="367" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lz6IuxQ1gMg/UjQM1dB346I/AAAAAAAABJo/crxSHZk-kuY/s640/bramap2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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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!'</div>
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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!!!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6xWaUznutCA/UjQCaDiTuiI/AAAAAAAABIc/A-lBs8skMdE/s1600/IMG_7528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6xWaUznutCA/UjQCaDiTuiI/AAAAAAAABIc/A-lBs8skMdE/s640/IMG_7528.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>"Mulheres sao a fundacao" - Women are the foundation</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dIU3Cp3X-uA/UjQCrkYUXZI/AAAAAAAABIk/t0IxbYNBqLI/s1600/IMG_7532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dIU3Cp3X-uA/UjQCrkYUXZI/AAAAAAAABIk/t0IxbYNBqLI/s640/IMG_7532.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NhLPB455HsY/UjQDh3R8guI/AAAAAAAABIw/1bIg3J2KDTM/s1600/IMG_7534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NhLPB455HsY/UjQDh3R8guI/AAAAAAAABIw/1bIg3J2KDTM/s640/IMG_7534.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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!</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vbcXT6pRP8Q/UjQDiq6XomI/AAAAAAAABI4/yK5q1npOqsA/s1600/IMG_7539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="442" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vbcXT6pRP8Q/UjQDiq6XomI/AAAAAAAABI4/yK5q1npOqsA/s640/IMG_7539.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The "after" photo: And a big,"THAAAAANK YOU KITSAP TRI-BABES!!"</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x1H4-Kship0/UjQEZByooLI/AAAAAAAABJE/nmqHJrNMPZE/s1600/IMG_7549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x1H4-Kship0/UjQEZByooLI/AAAAAAAABJE/nmqHJrNMPZE/s640/IMG_7549.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Time to practice! Madalena taking the ball down the court. She's our captain :)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HZddkTb82Mg/UjQE8NB8wZI/AAAAAAAABJU/rlJbsB-chsw/s1600/IMG_7557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HZddkTb82Mg/UjQE8NB8wZI/AAAAAAAABJU/rlJbsB-chsw/s640/IMG_7557.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dulce and Ramadana.</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w8NT7xywTgk/UjQEuIlKCoI/AAAAAAAABJM/0wzY0TKOD_M/s1600/IMG_7561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="441" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w8NT7xywTgk/UjQEuIlKCoI/AAAAAAAABJM/0wzY0TKOD_M/s640/IMG_7561.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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! </b></td></tr>
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Now to bring it back around to what this all means. Our eureka moment.<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.flmutola.org.mz/" target="_blank">further Mozambique's development through education, sport, and entrepreneurial opportunities</a>. 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.<br />
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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."<br />
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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 <i>accessible</i> 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!!<br />
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But don't let me speak for them! Check out the video below! :)<br />
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/qZZ7qABsuB0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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**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!! <br />
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-27325148972965859782013-08-26T06:15:00.001-07:002013-08-27T02:20:26.129-07:00Bonding with my Inner Joy-Monster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qR3rK0kZFkg" target="_blank">here</a>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i>home</i> now. I <i>want </i>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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, to put a positive spin
on things as usual, it DOES show an interesting shift of identity, of a feeling
of <span style="font-family: inherit;">belonging.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Part 1: The (next) Mental Shift (of many more to come…)</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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</span>
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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Anything is up for grabs
anyways in Mozambique, no matter <i>who</i>
you are. In a culture that emphasizes communal living, it’s completely socially
acceptable for strangers to “estou a pedir” or ask for any <i>thing </i>or <i>skill</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <b>After living in Mapinhane for nine months, people generally
expect me to have figured everything out already. </b>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 <i>all</i> 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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And sure, clearly being an
American (esp. woman) in Mozambique is </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">STILL</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> super awkward
sometimes. But I’ve decided, WHO CARES. The end. ;)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X70vM1PZIEo/UhxtTbhb5PI/AAAAAAAABGw/ZU0p2Lxpeyc/s1600/IMG_7290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X70vM1PZIEo/UhxtTbhb5PI/AAAAAAAABGw/ZU0p2Lxpeyc/s640/IMG_7290.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Chefe Samuel, Adercio, me and Etivaldo :)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KQqqOS_2c60/UhxtUGmFWhI/AAAAAAAABG4/3P50yqYE7aY/s1600/IMG_7294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KQqqOS_2c60/UhxtUGmFWhI/AAAAAAAABG4/3P50yqYE7aY/s640/IMG_7294.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Chefe Samuel is the best!!! He really looks out for me :)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--1fMaOKsWwY/Uhxta0HhCQI/AAAAAAAABHI/8EUgtkfYg-8/s1600/IMG_7296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--1fMaOKsWwY/Uhxta0HhCQI/AAAAAAAABHI/8EUgtkfYg-8/s640/IMG_7296.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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 ;)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kWb8W6Fbd9g/UhxtWRC6T-I/AAAAAAAABHA/YVHfDhWG6QE/s1600/IMG_7300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kWb8W6Fbd9g/UhxtWRC6T-I/AAAAAAAABHA/YVHfDhWG6QE/s640/IMG_7300.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cheers y'all!!</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Part 2: Secondary Projects - The tric</span></b><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">kle becomes a flood!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Levanta nossas meninas” – Girls Sports Bra Campaign</span></b></h4>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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!!!!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oZeaZ_hmXFU/UhxuemFxogI/AAAAAAAABHg/DTjFZCsXqcA/s1600/IMG_7469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oZeaZ_hmXFU/UhxuemFxogI/AAAAAAAABHg/DTjFZCsXqcA/s640/IMG_7469.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>That's some MEGA BOUNCE-PROTECTION in there!!! :D </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div>
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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 <i>modistas</i>, 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!<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Centro de Leitura – Literacy Center (aka, the USAID Community Library project)</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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 <i>surveys</i>)…how
exactly are you expecting us to do that USAID?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">As such, we’re all jumping
right into our community library projects and literacy programs at our sites
with few complications.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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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!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LDnwzc15h7A/UhxvKkKxVnI/AAAAAAAABHk/lP3SNJw5ENg/s1600/IMG_7331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LDnwzc15h7A/UhxvKkKxVnI/AAAAAAAABHk/lP3SNJw5ENg/s640/IMG_7331.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A first peek at the room we're going to transform into the community library!!! SO EXCITING.</b></td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">Programa de Alimentacão –
Escola Primaria (Primary School Feeding Program)</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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!!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To wrap it all up…<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been doing some serious bonding with my inner-joy monster ;)</span></span></b></div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-69307491913240710672013-08-12T06:39:00.000-07:002013-08-27T02:08:08.311-07:00"Como vai seu lado?" / "How goes your side?"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There’s a casual greeting exchange between
people in my village that I’ve fallen in love with recently. It goes something
like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Person A: Ola! Como esta?<br />
Person B: Estou bem, mas nao sei sobre seu lado.<br />
Person A: Estamos bem, obrigada.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>do</i> 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?).<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, all philosophical ramblings notwithstanding,
how goes my (or should I say "our") side?<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But for now, we are in the interim, a blessed purgatory.
Life is incredibly good <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
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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! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>Birthday Celebracoes! </o:p></h3>
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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!<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>very</i>
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<sup>rd</sup>
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 ;) <o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sunrise, July 14, 2013</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Birthday lunch onboard the dhow! Next up, snorkeling and exploring the islands!!</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My new friends, Maria (Sweden) and Liz (USA)! </b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EgXAT3y2Ajk/UgYfbSAlgZI/AAAAAAAABE8/DjmgQDCRzEw/s1600/IMG_6709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EgXAT3y2Ajk/UgYfbSAlgZI/AAAAAAAABE8/DjmgQDCRzEw/s640/IMG_6709.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Heading home by sundown!</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wre-oBsBRoA/UgYfbQrfc5I/AAAAAAAABEw/j3_1T4TIvJU/s1600/IMG_6719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wre-oBsBRoA/UgYfbQrfc5I/AAAAAAAABEw/j3_1T4TIvJU/s640/IMG_6719.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The next morning I played hookie from school and we went on a 50k horseride to the Red Dunes!</b><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqwpoxZop00/UgYftsm00hI/AAAAAAAABFA/IEdQurt0a6E/s1600/IMG_6731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqwpoxZop00/UgYftsm00hI/AAAAAAAABFA/IEdQurt0a6E/s640/IMG_6731.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O_NOjuZ5PKk/UgYdAtQbjJI/AAAAAAAABD4/JmWZ2g4KGNk/s1600/100_1794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="511" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O_NOjuZ5PKk/UgYdAtQbjJI/AAAAAAAABD4/JmWZ2g4KGNk/s640/100_1794.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>View from the top of the dunes! Couldn't be happier!! </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">My tour north!</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">"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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>modista</i>
(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. ;) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">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”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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 time<span style="font-family: inherit;">s while exploring the island, waves of simultaneous </span></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i>cannot</i> forget the past. You're stuck in it. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FUubY2MMN3E/UhxoCLzjw5I/AAAAAAAABFs/9Ykqz_EHx7A/s1600/IMG_7062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FUubY2MMN3E/UhxoCLzjw5I/AAAAAAAABFs/9Ykqz_EHx7A/s640/IMG_7062.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Classic colonial Portuguese archetecture with some original anchors from the trader ships.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z0oHUshWAUA/UhxoBueaUuI/AAAAAAAABFo/gJFn93AuaIg/s1600/IMG_7077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z0oHUshWAUA/UhxoBueaUuI/AAAAAAAABFo/gJFn93AuaIg/s640/IMG_7077.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The old Portuguese Governor's mansion coupled with the Catholic church. We got a tour of the place... quite ritzy, no surprise there.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyiucwOWE3A/UhxoPbYgk9I/AAAAAAAABGA/4VSrjzQfoxs/s1600/IMG_7089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyiucwOWE3A/UhxoPbYgk9I/AAAAAAAABGA/4VSrjzQfoxs/s640/IMG_7089.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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...)</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wV3OcWaYvZk/Uhxoh3PVjpI/AAAAAAAABGI/etgi3XZ-dyE/s1600/IMG_7088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wV3OcWaYvZk/Uhxoh3PVjpI/AAAAAAAABGI/etgi3XZ-dyE/s640/IMG_7088.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The BEAUTIFUL walkway out to the pier.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7tMfmH5Tso8/UhxoNej2EvI/AAAAAAAABF4/Ljs1SPW9mr0/s1600/IMG_7087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7tMfmH5Tso8/UhxoNej2EvI/AAAAAAAABF4/Ljs1SPW9mr0/s640/IMG_7087.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A view of the fortress from the pier.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5PY8YUo2tmI/Uhxp5AxyoMI/AAAAAAAABGk/6en3nEBszaY/s1600/IMG_7174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5PY8YUo2tmI/Uhxp5AxyoMI/AAAAAAAABGk/6en3nEBszaY/s640/IMG_7174.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Exploring the fortress with Cheyanne :)</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--OG_jP7oUXc/UhxpqLnrLMI/AAAAAAAABGc/IPsikTuoG4k/s1600/IMG_7158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--OG_jP7oUXc/UhxpqLnrLMI/AAAAAAAABGc/IPsikTuoG4k/s640/IMG_7158.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>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.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6_JHzhv0ASE/UhxphS4ED3I/AAAAAAAABGU/xk0eK-g0gIw/s1600/IMG_7228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6_JHzhv0ASE/UhxphS4ED3I/AAAAAAAABGU/xk0eK-g0gIw/s640/IMG_7228.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The bridge going back to mainland Mozambique.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">wouldn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> have missed its teachings for the world.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back home, the
final stretch!</span></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Hey, I gotta pump myself up for the next three
months somehow!! Wish me luck!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</h3>
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</div>
Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3627996012552727063.post-48349440285705527202013-07-13T11:23:00.000-07:002013-07-13T11:50:48.520-07:00"Tempo de fome," a time of hunger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's a phrase on the tips of tongues, at the
back of minds, and felt in the pit of stomachs. The literal knawing of
hunger and worry for families feeding their children, mothers and fathers exchanging
daily despairingly glances between their withered crops and incessant clear
blue skies – a deep bottomless cerulean blue that’s beautiful to the outsider,
but cruel to those that face the emptiness day after day, month after
month. Sometimes, dark clouds hover low
on the foggy mornings. And everyone knowingly, futility, hopes that with the
grey comes rain.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then, the school bell rings, you blink. And it’s
gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I incredibly underestimated Mozambique’s “dry
season” – the six month stretch between April and October referred to here as
the “tempo de fome,” a time of hunger. I thought the worse thing to live
through here would be the heat of the “wet” season – a heat with crippling
humidity that leaves you in a puddle of your own sweat just by trudging to the
market. But then we had water. Lots and lots of water. And that made the heat
bearable in a way because you could drink when you were thirsty and bathe when
you needed to cool down. Now, it’s finally refreshingly cool. Temperatures have
dropped into the low 50s at night, high 80s max during the day. Perfect for a
PacNW girl like me (even if it makes my outdoor baths often painfully chilly).
But I literally cannot remember the last time it rained*, nor the last time I
didn’t dread my daily water carrying duties that sometimes make me walk around
for an hour trying to find a well that’s not dry or disgusting. And I have it
easy. There are women that walk three miles from neighboring villages in the
bush to visit our pumps in Mapinhane. After filling every bucket, basin, and
bidão they can carry, they then walk the three miles back to their homes in the
bush. Alongside their mothers and sisters, I’ve witnessed children as young as
four or five undergo this water-scavenging ritual. Tiny, muscular arms wrench buckets of water as
big as their own bodies and balance them precariously on their heads. It’s at
times like this, considering the sacrifices of my neighbors, that I can’t help
but feel guilty when I feel tempted to wallow in mulungu self-pity about how “hard”
my life feels some days or how “little time I have” because I always seem to be
doing “survival” chores. Yeah. Right.
GET OVER IT KID. You’ll always be in the Posh Corps to everyone else
here. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course, for a nation like Mozambique in which
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/(http://www.wfp.org/countries/mozambique/overview" target="_blank">70% of 22.4 million people live in rural areas</a> well outside the reach of industrial agriculture and mass food production
markets, accessible water sources are
absolutely crucial to the success of small-scale agricultural farms that feed entire
communities. Yet, Mozambique also ranks
third highest of all African countries to suffer from “recurrent climatic shocks”
which disrupt small-scale food production. As such, the World Food Program
reports that nearly 25% of the population in Mozambique suffers from “acute
food insecurity” at some point each year due to weather-related hazards. The
most food-insecure households, WFP continues, are located in the arid and
flood-prone areas of the south and central respectively. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well. Wouldn't you know it. My village of
Mapinhane is located in the north of the southern province of Inhambane. Given
its geographic location (smack dab in the WFPs zone), suddenly it comes as no
surprise that extreme fluctuations between drought and torrential rains is a
very problematic, troublesome, yet normal reality for my neighbors and
community members here. The seasonal
drought happens every year. It’s turning all our corn brown. It’s causing my
garden to remain barren. The soil has transformed from its usual moist, red
softness into a sandy brown hardpan. Lamenting to my colleagues this last week
about how I sprouted only a single lonesome carrot out of my ENTIRE garden of
tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, beets, and squash (not even kidding, just ONE
CARROT), they erupted in laughter. Prof. Elodio at least attempted some
sympathy offering a “que pena!” (what a pity!) in-between his own incessant
giggling. Yet, despite offering my colleagues comic relief and posing more evidence
that I make the WORST Mozambican woman EVER, my predicament of a failed garden reflects
the greater predicament of Mozambicans at large. This time of the year is
called “tempo de fome” for a reason. And
given any ignorance of it, if I was poor and couldn't buy vegetables,
tangerines (and the rare banana) from the ladies at the market, I wouldn’t be
eating. Plain and simple. And what’s
worse, I’d be one of already millions of hungry people competing for incredibly
limited resources.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Humbling, right? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This issue of hunger and malnutrition has been
brought into stark clarity for me recently also because I just found out that
the Primary School with which I substitute taught for six weeks and continue to
volunteer at is about to lose funding for their school meal program. Their
sponsorship through Joint Aid Managament (JAM) places expiration dates on their
funding programs and as such, Escola Primaria de Mapinhane will lose its ability
to feed its 1,000 students during the school day as of August. As Joanna, an administrator,
personal friend, and self-proclaimed “mother” of the school explained to me,
she’s worried that with the loss of the school’s feeding program will come a simultaneous
deterioration of class attendance and student performance. Perhaps I’m stating
the obvious but when students are hungry the last thing they want or are able
to do is concentrate and learn to the best of their abilities. Indeed, oftentimes the school food program is
the only main meal some students will eat all day. Thus, the current feeding
program operates not only as a powerful incentive for students to come to
school, but also provide an opportunity to provide nutritional supplements that
they otherwise would not be getting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Losing this ONE important resource could be
potentially devastating to students’ foundational skills in math, science, and
general literacy that’s imperative to Mapinhane’s criancas completing the primary
years of their education. The odds are already against them. As JAM notes, only
40% of Mozambican children at-large even reach the fifth grade. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Once Joanna told me about the situation she’s
facing, my ensuing questions (and desire for involvement) were endless. First, how big a role does JAM play in
supporting the current feeding program, and how much is the Primary School dependent
on JAM funding or is able to support itself? If it is in any way self-supporting,
is it working effectively? Second, what
can be done to postpone the support gap? What sources are available through
grants or other aid programs to continue the program in place? Is there any way
to find a temporary support structure to maintain the feeding program while a sustainable
solution can be found? And finally, what is the best sustainable
solution???<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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To start attempting to answer to the first question,
I had to do some digging into what JAM is really all about and understand its
objectives and implementations of its development philosophy. As I quickly discovered,
the Joint Aid Management (JAM) is a (moderate) faith-based NGO with the motto “helping
Africans help themselves” and operates throughout South Africa, Mozambique,
Angola, South Sudan, Rwanda, Ghana, and Nigeria. Despite having such geographic
coverage of the African continent however, their approach to aid programming
tends to concentrated on small-scale community development rather than approaching
change through policy development. In Mozambique, JAM’s primary campaign
revolves around the “Red Bowl” Program (which mass serves a “Fortified Blended
Food” or “soja” to school students including Mapinhane!) throughout Gaza,
Inhambane, Manica, and Sofala provinces. Moreover, JAM’s philosophy of “helping
Africans help themselves” approaches the reduction of short-term hunger by
promoting in addition the development of school gardens and low-cost feeding
programs reaching approximately 321,131 school children in total. On the surface, it seems that good, important
work is being done. But, already what troubles me most is the autonomy
question. It remains unclear despite JAM’s publications, just how frequently sponsored
schools are able to transition off of JAM program funding and become
self-sufficient. Or conversely, how
schools cope when funding is withdrawn, used up, or expires. The dependency of schools on JAM would be an
incredible detraction from the fulfillment of their motto to “help Africans
help themselves”… and given this motto I’m quite surprised that JAM hasn’t actually
evaluated their effectiveness in “graduating” schools from their nutrition
programs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Secondly, the question of finding funding to “fill-the-gap”
caused by the expiration of JAM’s program in August is the next challenge. So
far I've done some power-mapping to brainstorm local, national, and
international organizations that are in a primary or secondary position to
support small farming and nutrition initiatives, and thus potentially cover the
continuation and further development of Mapinhane’s Primary School feeding program.
I've already sent off an email to JAM attempting to get in contact with the
regional coordinator for Mozambique but haven’t had any response yet. I’d like
to at least try to receive an extension of JAM funding to give us more time to
figure out a more long term solution. USAID,
the World Food Program, PEPFAR anti-HIV/AIDS funding, and grants from the
Public Affairs Office at the U.S. Embassy are some of my primary thoughts. I
have also discovered some local micro-credit loan offices in the neighboring town
of Vilankulos, which while always looking closed, should also be approached for
possible funding. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And finally, what’s the ultimate vision for a replacement
program, without JAM support? Ideally I’d like to continue and eventually
extend the trajectory of Joanna’s work. So far, the Primary School has the
materials to prepare and serve meals – this includes basic things like pots,
pans, and bowls. No need to reinvent the
wheel there. Moreover, Joanna told me that a small school garden does exist BUT
the size and productivity of it is marginal. Therefore, I am excited about the
thought of developing a school meal program that could implement the produce of
an expanded school garden. Just think! Students would learn how to grow the
very fruits and vegetables that could supplement their soja (and their own
health!). Filling tummies, boosting school attendance and performance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The thought just lights me up. Capacity-building
101. I LOVE the idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But implementation… there’s the tricky part. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So here’s my new to-do list.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Locate/apply for funding
to continue the current "soja" meals and buy more time to develop a more
long-term sustainable program</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Calculate the logistics of
expanding the school farm – what type of crops to plant, the type of maintenance they would need, the access to water, the feasibility of low-maintenance irrigation...</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Identify counterparts in addition to Joanna - organize a community council</span></li>
</ol>
<span style="text-indent: -24px;"><div>
<span style="text-indent: -24px;"><br /></span></div>
Let the hard work begin!!! </span><div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04623750603117097893noreply@blogger.com0