Spinnin' Kaleidoscope.

Hey y'all, I'm gonna try something new this time around! Here’s some stream of conscious/unrefined excerpts from my journal from every day this past week. Mix 'n match between Sunday's comic relief, Monday's  dedication to an old teacher of my own, Tuesday's pig poo hunt, Wednesday's restless musings, and a brush with corruption and sexism on Thursday! And of course, Friday, I fought the law (aka 8th grade mobocracy) and won. Enjoy the crazy lack of filter and candidness. Dig in!

[SUNDAY]

 A day of anger and confusion (okay being a little dramatic here) that shall otherwise remain forgotten except for the meritable achievement of grading 300+ exams NONSTOP. 

WHO DOES THAT TO THEMSELVES?!? noob.

Creative artistic interpretation of Teacher Karina (me)

[MONDAY]

Passed back tests to all five Turmas. Was immediately begged for "recooperacao" or extra credit. I told my students I don't believe in extra credit, that they should study harder next time. There were a handful of kids that actually did really well!! So, I know the test was doable, and I'm a lenient-benefit-of-the-doubt grader anyways. I'd also like to believe tough love builds character. Thank you Mr. Driscoll for teaching me that invaluable life lesson (he failed my whole 10th grade Honors English class and put us in "grammar hell" until we worked our way out of it! Move over Dante, we've got another Inferno on our hands!! Hahahaha, ooooh where are all my fellow English majors when I need them!? ;) Someone's gotta laugh at my nerdy jokes!)

[TUESDAY]

My day off!!  Can't remember what I did today. Nothing? Naw. Maybe I sat and stared at my hut's awesome ceiling watching my gecko family eat bugs, and listened to This American Life. Probs. Ira Glass has a sexy brain. Oh, yeah, I shoveled some "poo do porku" and hung out with the neighbors under the big Baobob tree that I've been wanting to wander out to for a while. It’s taken me about two months of fofoca-ing (gossip) to figure out who could hook me up with “estrumo” without paying money. No way do I want to spend my precious meticais on…well… you know. Planted carrots and tomatoes. Peppers and lettuce will follow this weekend. It's 7:30. BEDTIME. MUWAH. Such a granny!

[WEDNESDAY]

I woke up this morning to discover a particularly asshole-ish mosquito had bitten the top of my boob (try scratching that in-front of 60 eighth graders! Man, I was trying out every "readjustment" strategy in the book! HAH!). Also, had to run the N-1 sim iPod - feel like that type of plod, plod, shuffle beat sets the bar pretty low for the rest of your day. But it'll only get better!

Or. Not.

In general, the restlessness came on hard and strong today. And while some monotony (although my life is hardly monotonous!) is a lovely indicator of a well-established routine and proof that my life here is "normal" having integrated well into the rhythm of my community, the reality of course is that I'm living in a small, fairly isolated village. And that reality can make even the most content and happy PCV start to feel itchin' to get out and see the rest of Mozambique sometimes. As such, I caught myself Googling random things like "How-far-is-it-to-walk-from-Mapinhane-to-Kilimanjaro" (585 hours, or 2,870 kilometers if you were curious). I'll even begrudgingly admit to searching for flights home for Christmas... a huge turn of events for a girl who a week ago was morally opposed to the use of parental dinerho for anything other than traveling Africa. So what changed?

I'm not homesick. I'm not unhappy. Quite the opposite really. Whenever I do travel away from site for weekenders I always look forward to going "home" to my little hut, hanging out with my neighbors, taking care of my garden. 

But I had a late-night convo with an awesome friend/fellow-PCV a couple weeks back about just what I was being so stubborn about in my refusal to go home. At the time I rambled on about wanting to prove to myself that I could do it, that I could sacrifice and go without all the things I deeply love for two full years to focus on the needs of other people. Then I'd truly understand what it means to serve selflessly right?

But then the "Africa-will-always-be-there" argument was posed... and I stumbled. I mean yeah, Africa WILL always be there. Mt. Kilimanjaro will always be climbable (although the glaciers won't be there in ten years womp womp, woooomp... oops, bad joke, too soon!?). People WILL always need help, care, education, or nurturing. That night, I shelved these original musings to the back of my mind and rolled over to sleep. Yet, after having this conversation keep popping up over the following week, I realized I probably didn't have a very good answer to my dilemma. Or rather, my answer was rooted simultaneously in pride and a rather philosophical value of self-deprivation. That it was better if I "toughed out" the two years for what it would teach me about myself than to appreciate the things that I already had - wonderfully wise and hip parents, loving, adventurous, supportive friends, a beautiful homestate...

(Lets just say there was a reason my parents had to pull the car over for me to vomit up my last breakfast on the way to the airport nine months ago... In a way it’s like I had convinced myself I wasn’t ever coming home again! At that moment, 27-months felt like an eternity!)

And knowing that my future career path will most likely take me across the globe and (again) far from the people I love, is it foolish to not take an opportunity to go home when an opportunity arises? Would there be regret later? 

And so, for the first time I'm looking at going home halfway through my service as a viable option. We shall see. I might change my mind again tomorrow.

[THURSDAY]

I walked out again on the hooligans of Turma A and this time didn't come back. Moreover, I gave them the school-appropriate equivalent of the middle finger by going straight to Dir. Adelaide and asking her to lecture their disrespectful you-know-whats. No wheedling the Dir. de Turma this time when all he'll do is just find some scapegoat kid to beat on a little to scare the others OR brush me off with the Portuguese equivalent of "boys will be boys" and do nothing. Going straight to the WOMAN in charge thankyouverymuch!!!

Moreover, I bypassed Turma A's appeals for forgiveness and went to teach Turma B instead (since surprise surprise they didn't have a Prof...). I love Turma B - they're great kids. And I told them so. They try, they participate, the listen. Turma A may be "smarter" in the sense that they do better on tests, but I would take any turma of kids who need more guidance but also who want to learn, over a turma of sycophants.

Also today, after finding out that I had missed yet another meeting because I was magically supposed to know about it without anyone telling me, I talked with the other three female profs, Hermenigilda, Gloria, and Angelica, and found out that they hadn't been told either... AGAIN. It seems like us ladies are regularly being unrepresented at these school meetings!! That makes me soooo mad! What's more, apparently there's been some discrepancy with recording our number of faltas (absences). Sounds like (from what I could make out of the angrily fired Portuguese amongst my colegas) some profs are gone all the time yet their faltas magically disappear while other pros (again, primarily the women) have faltas recorded that are incorrect/falliciously changed! There's suspicion that white-out was even used on numerous Livro do Ponto entries to change the attendence record AFTER the professoras had already signed to its veracity!!  Unbelievable.

Let me tell you, corruption sucks (obviously). But! When the perpetrators of corruption suddenly, explicitly wear the faces of your colleagues, especially the ones you like and trust to look out for you as not only your colleague but your friend, it sucks when their suspected of such discriminatory transgressions.

We'll see how this whole fiasco pans out. The ladies kept saying "vamos falar, vamos falar" ...but whether they actually are able or want to air their grievances... we'll see.

The thing that disturbed me about this whole incident too is where I fall in this equation. I am "woman enough" to be included in sexist discrimination at meetings (aka being viewed as unimportant or simply forgotten), but not "woman enough" to qualify for discrimination in pay, (ie through the suspected falsified falta scheme). Unlike my female colleagues, my faltas were correct and unchanged. Or rather, the one time I had a falta recorded incorrectly, I brought it up and it was immediately on-the-spot changed with all sorts of  chagrin and apologies. Yet, when Hermenigilda tried to do the same thing she was told she was "wrong" that she actually had "missed more days then she thought" or "recorded". And that was that. No one to appeal to. Nothing to do except choke it back and move on. It's infuriating.

My faltas mean nothing financially for me - it operates more as a self-check. But for everyone else, it's your salary that gets whittled away with each "absence." And salaries have to go a long way here to make ends meet. It affects if you can eat three-meals-a-day, how you live, and essentially your whole ability to be mobile! For Gloria and Angelica, mobility is key because they have families (including a 1 year old baby!) living four hours south of Mapinhane in other towns. They can only afford to home to see their kids and families once or twice a month. And if their wages are late (as they frequently are), then they're delayed from seeing their families even longer! It's cruel. Single moms like Gloria and Angelica are the sole providers for themselves, their children, and usually even their parents. So in other words, these forged faltas have a significant impact on not only their quality of life, but the lives they're responsible for caring for!

Yet, I am the one school admin bends over backwards for to please ad apologize?! That's so *ucked up in soooooo many ways.

Moreover, I've been asking myself all day, "what can I do about this?! Unlike my colegas, I get listened to when I make a fuss. Perhaps what overcomes my "womanness" is my whiteness. Plan and simple. Being a mulungu makes me exempt from certain rules and/or offers me more privilege, leniency, and status without reason. Would I have as much to lose if I did some movin' and shakin' with the admin for my female Mozambican colleagues? No. Worst-case-scenario is that I confront the right person in a way they can't save face from and then alienate myself from admin and my other colleagues who can't risk offering me comraderie. And I suppose that'd be pretty devastating.

Yet, isn't not doing anything just as bad if not worse?? It'd be like saying, "Well ladies, that's the way it is, you might as well get used to getting screwed over by the system (even by other women like me in the system who are trying to take care of ourselves!)

So, I can't do that. But then... what do I do?

It's also tough because my extra mulungu priviledge divides me from Hermenigilda, Gloria, and Angelica. Even though I'm a woman, I'm "upper-class" so to speak. The rules for mulungu ladies like me are different than for them. And because of that, I think they don't really see me as a part of their struggle.

During their angry back and forthing today, comparing notes and figuring out just what's been going down right under our noses, they didn't really include me in their convo. Hermenigilda tried a couple times, but for the most part I hovered awkwardly on the sidelines, offering my supportive grunts. I wanted to join in but knew as well as they did that I had been exempted from their mistreatment. Even though I identity more with them as women than with my whiteness or wealth, those two factors continue to interfere in deepening my relationships. It's so frustrating. Yet would I give up my privilege? Could I? How? And at what cost?

Thank god my hand is cramping up, I don't feel like scribbling out an answer to that question right now.

[FRIDAY]

New day, fresh eyes, fresh heart, a game plan, lets roll!

Today, I fought Turma A...and won lol *cue Western movie theme song*

I walked into class with a plan. Assigned seating. Class rules. No more "nice-happy-cute-brincar-ing-Teacher-Karina" anymore. It's business time. On my end that means I've got to have the ovaries for enforcement. And it was tough. They broke the no-talking-without-raising-hand rule? That minus one point from your test score. Talked again without raising your hand? Minus another point. Oops, now you "mishkalgi" student (thank you Arabic for popping into my brain randomly!) you are now failing my class when 30 seconds ago you were passing.

Had to mentally coach myself through those astonished looks of disbelief... those looks that crumble my resolve and make me want to take it all back. But no! They'll survive. They'll learn. Who knows they might even forget it all by next Monday and I'll have to go through another round of deductions.

But, seeing the glass as half full this enforcement thing is as good for me as it is for them. It takes gumption to make someone live through the consequences of their actions. I’m teaching and getting through to them more about life today, than perhaps any other week of the year.

And for the first time in months, I attained a wonderful, respectful, class learning environment. It was miraculous. And it brought back some of my fondness for my little smart-asses. I ironically find myself musing that after all, they are just kids.

Then, of course right when I thought I had smooth sailing, I walked into Turma B and found one of my favorite students Vavia bawling, tears rolling down her face. "Vania," I asked alarmed, "O que e que foi??!" Between sobs, burying her face in her arms on top of her desk so I could barely hear her, I made out, "caneta," "dinerho," and "roubar."

Apparently, someone had stolen not only Vavia's pen but 40 meticais out of her school bag. That's a lot of money for anyone here. "Who has Vavia's money?" I asked the class. "You can give it to me now, without any punishment."  *silence*  "Entao, I will go to speak with Sr. Directora immediately and she will deal with the situation." And with that, I swept out of the classroom and brought back the Pedagogical Director herself who let Vavia go through everyone's bags in front of her. The money wasn't found, but I can't say we didn't try.  Some days I really do wish I could wear a Wonder Woman outfit. Or carry around a lasso at the very least haha. BAM!! Restorative justice.

Taught at the Primary School again today. Then I stayed late and helped serve lunche... a mysterious cream-of-wheat-style mash of goodness that might serve for some kids as their only main meal. At least it's not Cheetos.

Oh! One last thing! I found out my grant application for USAIDs Books for Africa program was accepted!!!!!  That means I’ll be receiving 100 childrens books in Portuguese to start up a children's literacy program here in Mapinhane! AND if that sets some solid roots, maybe I can even get a library going before I leave! Obviously the hardest work is yet to come, but we’re one step closer to putting books at kids fingertips and social/economic mobility on the horizon. BRING IT ON.

Anyways, time for some Friday night craziness. Hot cocoa, a toasty warm blanket, and some Samantha Power by kerosene lamp. I’ll try not to set my highly flammable mosquito net on fire…

Life is truly good. 

Oh and here's some pictures of my primary schoolers. How can you not love them!

Dreams of Strawberry Juice (and other stories of delayed gratification)

Last year at Willamette U (go Bearcats!), my bestie Lea and I worked out nearly every day together, training for top times on our varsity crew team. Unbeknownst to most people outside the rowing community, rowing out on the water in an actual boat is something that occurs maybe 25% of the time. But a collegiate team in a high intensity training season spends the majority 75% on a torture device called the “ergometer” or “erg” for short. So, during those long dark winter months spent in the erg room and lifting weights alongside the football team, Lea had developed this theory about fun. And she explained it to me one day while we were busting out a particularly brutal 90 minute piece, clicking and swinging in union, the fan blades whooshing with each burst of power from our legs. “There are three types of fun, Karina” I remember her explaining diligently between gasps. Type I fun she said is all about instant gratification, like eating ice cream – it’s fun because the reward with each bite is instantaneous when the icy sweet goodness hits your tongue. Type II fun is like studying for a quiz and acing it – you have a little pain and work at first but the payoff for obtaining the a short term goal is relatively quick. But Type III fun is the most demanding of them all – the type demanded of varsity athletes (and now PCVs) where the ultimate reward is months, sometimes years, down the line… a horizon that is often hard to envision and the number of steps in-between daunting if not completely unknown. Type III fun is the ultimate scenario of delayed gratification, and thus as we came to believe (as most rowers are secretly masochists though we hide it well) the sweetest type of fun. Lea and I knew that the months of sweating through our spandex and doing workouts so hard we’d vomit into a trash bucket would pull us across the finish line first at Champs and maybe even bring us to NCAAs again.

WU Crew flashback, kickin' some WWU booty of course!!!! Stroke - Jesse, 3-seat - Kate, 2-seat - Lea, Bow- Karina (me!) WIRA Championships, May 2012

And so, despite all the challenges that is bundled under the “living-in-Mozambique” umbrella, I have been having a lot of fun here (of all three types!) ;)  If all the pictures of white sandy beaches, palm trees, and bikini-clad-beer-toting PCVs are even making you start to wonder just when exactly I’m going to get down to business and start doing actual work here as a volunteer, you’re point is somewhat fair and warranted. 

Participating in a treasured PCV Moxambique tradition... Beer Olympics!! GOOOO Dirty South!! :D

Oh you know, just enjoying one of the most beautiful beaches in the world - Tofo Beach!

Yet, in reality, there’s been a lot happening off camera here in Mapinhane. My neighbors, friends, and colleagues are truly the people that make my world go round here and I've been really enjoying the process of figuring out just what makes me happy especially since all my “normal” Happy Index boosters (aka rowing, rowing, rowing, climbing mountains, playing my oboe, rowing, eating ice cream, Portland beer…) are laaaaaa back home in the PacNW.

But that’s the thing: I AM HAPPY HERE!! Really!

I've now passed the stage of operating in “survival” mode every day – a mentality of smiling and doggedly putting one foot in front of the other even when everything about your life seems utterly overwhelming and you regularly just want to stamp your foot and throw tantrums – and have settled comfortably in my hut, token gecko family included. I’ve really begun to see my life explode into a flourish of activity, belonging, and purpose. This is a delightful realization for me – as delightful as biting into a ripe strawberry from your garden and finding that it’s still warm and sweet from the sun. Even though you expect it to be delicious because the months spent nurturing it gave you sufficient time to dream about eating it, you are nonetheless pleasantly astounded by just how sweet the fruits of your labor taste.  When the berry juice finally dribbles down your chin, you ultimately understand – as with any situation of delayed gratification, especially Integration – that the sacrifices, adaptations, sweat, and hard work is well worth the reward of having created a new life with your own hands (and of course, the helpful hands of your neighbors!).

Some not-so-quick highlights/life-updates:

SCHOOL & TEACHING

Whether I’m finishing up my morning sunrise run, hiding under my blankets ignoring my alarm, or ducking the school fence and crossing the yard with my white “bata” running over lesson plans in my head, each and every day begins with the ancient and nearly toothless Senhor Chaukey clanging a long piece of rebar against a hanging oil drum – the rather unceremonious but incredibly effective school bell. In an instant, students emerge onto the main highway from the various village paths, walk through the main school entrance, trot toward our big trees, and form their class lines. The tenth graders (and the eighth graders that can afford it) are crisply uniformed, wearing their slacks and white collared shirts and ties. The eighth graders from poorer families often wear the same outfit that they did the day before – a less raggedy t-shirt perhaps with khakis, which if they’re lucky, is freshly washed (if not, the morning dew laced with B.O. hangs a little heavier in your nose than usual lol). Our students stand together, clustering a little, chatting and bantering. Girls’ shrieks of laughter rebound off the school walls and dissipate into the ever-clear blue skies. Then, on cue, two selected students shuffle to the front of the lines and begin singing the first line of the national hymn before being joined in chorus shortly by their classmates. A little distance away another student begins to slowly raise the flag. Sometimes faltering and often off-pitch with their squeaky and ever-changing pubescent voices, Mapinhane’s secondary students (along with their professors) stand at military-like attention throughout all five verses. Sometimes they mumble and murmur through it as sleepily and indifferently as I remember mumbling the pledge of allegiance back in Junior High. Yet sometimes, they belt it out of their little bodies with such energy, that the excitement is contagious. It’s an anthem that acknowledges slavery, suffering and civil war, but ultimately it’s a song about rebirth and the opportunities that lie in new horizons and bright futures. As goes the chorus:

Mocambique nossa terra gloriosa (Mozambique the glorious land)

Pedra a pedra construindo novo dia (Stone by stone, building a new day)

Milhoes de bracos, uma so forca (Thousands of arms, one force)

O patria amada, vamos vencer (For the love of country, we will overcome)

As the final chord dies out, Senhor Chaukey barely waits a second before making the bell burst out in resurging clangs. Finally, the school day has begun.

8a classe - Turma A, led by one of my favorite students, Hawa :)

I enter my classroom to cheers in unison of “GOOOOD MOOORNIIIINGGGG TEECHA!!!” and I can’t help but grin. I immediately begin my rounds around their desks, waving my index finger and appealing to students to sit their butts down, stop punching their neighbor, and get out their notebooks. Once this is accomplished, I’ll jump right into whatever lesson I have for the day. Sometimes it starts with a game or a puzzle. Oftentimes though, my lessons start with reviewing our last class. Considering that my students only get 2 hours and 15 minutes of English every week, the progress is slow. They learn something on Monday only to forget it by their next 45’ class on Thursday. But, just as my colleagues assured me, despite all odds we did make some progress by the end of the semester.

One of my eighth graders, raising the Mozambican flag
during the national hymn

We've just entered the second trimester here in Mapinhane. I’m teaching the same five classes of eighth graders, each class having almost 60 kids. Teaching has gotten easier, but in no way do I feel like I’m fulfilling my potential yet. But I DO love teaching. It feels natural. I believe I have a good “gut” instinct for teaching. I enjoy finding the magic ingredient that each group of students respond to. But, now I feel I need some more guidance to transform my talent into a real skill, an art even!  Because as I’ve realized, anyone can teach, but to teach well…? THAT is something you could spend your whole career crafting!! Peace Corps gave us some general teacher training during PST, but really my experience with teaching is trial by fire. As one lonely voice which asks rather than commands the attention of sixty, the feeling that I’m on the verge of anarchy is incessant. Unlike one of my colleagues who regularly beats his students in order to get their “respect” and attention (or in my opinion, utter fear… more on this horrible reality in another post), my general teaching philosophy revolves around lovingness, mutual respect, honor, high expectations, and encouragement. Really, I just try to be my best me! As Jim Henson, the creator of The Muppets wrote, kids “don’t remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are.”

So who am I in the classroom? Well, I’ll tell you who I try to be.

I try to be a teacher that laughs a lot, a teacher who teases and cajoles her students into better behavior. I sit with my students at their desks and answer questions. I try to be a teacher that walks every aisle throughout the entire class period to show my interest in their work and push students to stay engaged. I try to be a teacher who asks her students to become artists and authors because art helps you visualize language, and language can create art. I try to get students to relate to the language they’re learning, to see the relationships between words, between cause and effect, between English and Portuguese. I try to encourage camaraderie and teamwork. Instead of laughing at the kid that gets an answer wrong when they’re the only one to have courage enough to raise their hand, I now expect students to be encouraging instead of cruel afterwards.

And, more than anything I try to encourage academic honesty and discipline. Studying for another class? I will confiscate your notebook for the period without guilt. Writing a kabula or cheat sheet? I’ll take those too, throw them in the trash, and probably have you lead the class’ lesson with me, or if I’m in a bad mood, kick you out the door. Students know I mean business too. Last month, when I caught a student writing a kabula, before I could snatch it, she instantly rolled the paper into a ball, popped it into her mouth, and swallowed it. Despite being the funniest thing I’d seen in months and using it as an opportunity to ask her “Porque voce gosta de comer papel??” (why do you like to eat paper??), it also reminded me that I’m teaching in a country where kids’ first introduction to corruption begins at the primary school level and continues on up through the ranks of the national government.  Cheating isn’t seen as bad – it’s seen as the norm – it’s what you have to do to succeed here. Why be honest when everyone else who’s cheating could beat you out of a job or a chance to go to university because they've bribed somebody or faked their way through? It’s a huge reality here. Yet the irony of course is that if students spent as much time studying and actually learning the material as they did writing their cheat sheets or copying their neighbor, they wouldn't need to cheat at all! This reality is something that constantly has me borderline beating my head against the concrete classroom wall. Especially when even some of my best students, students that don’t need to cheat to do well, continue to think that cheating will benefit them!

So, I’ve begun wondering about how I can evaluate and measure my effectiveness as a teacher. Is basing my worth as a teacher solely on the test scores of my students really a fair option? Especially when students probably aren’t even performing to the true abilities. In this realm, the results of the Provincial exam (which, granted had an overwhelming number of flaws) delivered a crushing defeat. The fact that even with a “passing” bar of 50%, nearly half of my students failed, even when most of my students did fairly well on the test that I wrote/gave them. This reality made me step back and reevaluate my goals and my approach to teaching English here.

Despite my students’ poor test taking abilities however, I don’t feel like a bad teacher. Is it better that students fake their way through an exam they don’t understand and “pass”? Or, is it better that they walk away from English class, maybe failing my class, but having learned important knowledge and skills that they can apply to other areas of their lives? Suddenly, my priorities shifted from emphasizing English as a huge grammar lesson, to approaching English as a means of fostering critical thinking skills and knowledge.

And it seems to be working.

As a teacher, I feel I need to find what makes my students tick. What captures their interest? Their imaginations? How can I package English in a way that seems more accessible and more interesting? I feel like perhaps the best feedback - feedback that tells me I’ve hit student engagement right on - is when my students not only listen attentively and participate in class discussion, but also simultaneously forget to ask the inane questions rooted in boredom, such as “Teacher, should I copy this down?” or "Teacher, I don't have a pen. Do I need one?" (It takes all my will-power to not scream sometimes, WELL DUHHHHH!!! lol) And so, a good teaching day that makes me feel on top of the world is when I have captured the elusive attention of high wired, high energy 13/14/15year olds who would rather be anywhere else than crammed three to a desk with a teacher speaking to them in Portu-glish.

So, in any case, while I spent nearly the whole first trimester trying to prove to my students why they should want to learn English, this second trimester I've decided to show them why they should learn English. The first few weeks I've focused solely on health and nutrition, and have made it a point to teach my students real life skills and knowledge that they need to be safe and healthy here in Mozambique. For one, it makes for a more interesting class conversation, AND when students are having fun or are interested in the topic they forget that they’re learning English grammar. Lessons have covered the food pyramid, the food groups, types of nutrients and the importance of a balanced diet. We've also studied the differences between infectious and non-infectious diseases and identified the causes of such types of diseases. Correspondingly, we've also covered basic prevention practices for four primary diseases in the area – malaria, HIV, tuberculosis, and malnutrition.

Learning about the food pyramid and nutrition! Loved teaching this lesson :)

Okay. Maybe my students still confuse when they should use the present simple and present continuous tense of the verb “to be.” SO. WHAT.

Instead, my students now understand and can share some crucial information about good health practices and how they can protect themselves and their families from some horrible diseases. At one point last week I had 60 eighth graders at a time reciting conditional phrases such as, “IF I use a condom, THEN I can prevent HIV” and that “IF I use a mosquito net, I can prevent malaria.”

I call that a teaching WIN thank you very much, grades be damned :)

SECONDARY PROJECTS

While teaching is my official Peace Corps “assignment,” it’s common for PCVs to also pursue other “secondary” projects. This is an opportunity for volunteers to start sports teams, girls’ empowerment groups, music groups, start tutoring programs… essentially, anything that you perceive as a community need is fair game. However, the key point to this secondary project model is to have a local community member or “counterpart” be your co-facilitator for whatever project you decide to pursue. It’s meant as a way for volunteers to not only connect more deeply with their host-communities, but also make whatever sort of development work PCVs pursue sustainable after they leave.

As for me, my commitment to secondary projects has snowballed in the last two weeks. As of now, I’m coaching a girls’ basketball team, helping organize and run our school science fair, and trying to get a Reading/Tutoring program started between the primary and secondary schools. I applied for a grant through USAID to recieve 100-150 books for children. While it's not much, it's certainly a good place to start and has motivated me to start looking ahead to building a library or Community Learning Center here in Mapinhane. What better way to foster empowerment than through a "culture of literacy"?

This week I also started teaching sixth grade English at the local primary school. While I was a bit nervous to face down another age group of mischievous Mozambican criancas, already I love working with the younger kids. Upon finshing my first full afternoon of teaching, I was escorted out of class to 50 of my students singing, and had freshly picked oranges (a luxury here) shoved into my hands. I'm already looking forward to next week :)

FRIENDS & COMMUNITY

I realize now I've failed to properly introduce you all back home to my new friends and neighbors here. While a more detailed post will come soon, here's some names and faces that make my life here :)

Edilson, the ever-loitering student of mine who wants to marry me. Instead, I ask him to shuck beans or fetch water for me... muah, poor guy!

It has become an endeavor of mine to teach the local criancas how to smile for a picture. Featured here are my favorite amigos, Izidro, Antonio (Tony), Junior, and Matteu. Junior and Matteu get an A+ haha!

Hosting my first dinner partayyyy! Left to right: Cristovao (co-basketball coach), Laurie and Chris (my awesome PCV site mates!)

My colleagues from both Esc. Secundaria 25 de Junho (my school) and the nearby mission. We get together and play soccer against other local villages every weekend. They're pretty dang good too!

So, time to close out for now. Thanks for your patience with this mega-post. I'll try to post more frequently in the future to avoid such story-cramming. :) 

Shine on, y'all!!

My week of Orc-dom in Chimoio

If you ever need a good “get-to-know-you” game for your next rendezvous with new friends and cheap wine, I've found the following will really get people going: Pick your favorite superpower, then, slap on a limitation. My personal favorite? Teleportation, but you can only teleport to places you’ve already been to meaning, a) you still have to do the hard work of getting somewhere for the first time, but b) after that you can revisit a place as many times as you want! Here’s another example however that might make you reach for another glass of wine. Flying would be awesome right?  Of course. But what if you could only fly two feet off the ground the whole time???

BOOM.

Suddenly, when you think about flying at crotch level for the rest of your life, the “super” part starts to wear off and seem not-so-sexy. 

These last two weeks in particular have taught me something about humility in the face of such – shall we say, disappointing if not unexpected – limitations.

Primarily, I am completely accustomed – and now realize how much I’ve taken it for granted – to being healthy 99% of the time. Mono? Never had it. The flu? Not really. Malaria? Not yet. Flesh-eating bacteria? Escaped that one too (at least so far!)

But, when I woke up one morning two weeks ago with my left eye swollen shut, a lump the size of an egg between my eyebrows, and a plan to hitchhike, alone, with random strangers ten hours to Chimoio, the timing for my superpower of perfect health to falter couldn't have been worse. However, being in complete denial (mostly due to the lack of a good mirror and light), I hit the road early anyways, only thinking to pop heavy doses of Advil and Benadryl, wrap a bandanna across my forehead, and to don my darkest, biggest aviator sunglasses. Let’s just say those things didn’t come off at any point during the day. Trying to cheer myself up, I thought about the new parallel between my life and Kanye’s ("We formed a new religion/No sins as long as there’s permission / Sunglasses and Advil, last night was mad real / Sun coming up, 5 a.m., I wonder if they got cabs still?") and felt a little better. In any case, it was tough embracing the impersonal doucheness of not giving anyone visible eye-contact for an entire day. But it was a good personal challenge and beat the alternative of getting stranded in the middle of nowhere because no one wanted to pick up the blond ogre… ;)

Eight hours, one creepin' drunk driver, three corrupt policemen, one bridge crossing, and two chappas later I finally arrived in Haleigh’s town of Vanduzi, about 30 minutes north of Chimoio. I was tired, grumpy, and the lump on my face had started throbbing with the vengeance of an angry hornet. But I was about to receive the best antidote – sympathy, and compassionate friendship. When Haleigh saw me finally get off the chapa, she trotted over happy with her dog Amendoin, her turquoise skirt ruffling with each step and gave me a tight hug. Amendoin was also excited to see me, and was, as per usual, yelping and wiggling his tail/entire body off.  The lovin’ couldn't have come at a better time to say the least. I needed a boost.

Hay and I spent the evening walking around her village, going to the market, cooking quinoa ‘n veggies, talking with criancas, drinking beer, catching up… the usual things best friends do after missing out on each other’s lives for too long. The next morning we also went for a fantastic run through the beautiful lush green and mountainous countryside, common of Moz’s Central region.  It was absolutely wonderful.  Like chicken soup to the PacNWers soul :)

My face refused to be ignored nor heal up magically on its own however. The morning before Hay and I went to Chimoio for our PCV Reconnect conference for 19ers, I woke up and found that my face had literally blown up to the size of a balloon, a glorified puffy bowling ball. Really, it looked like I’d transformed into an orc from Lord of the Rings, OR like I’d had the sh*t beaten out of me. As I told Sergio (APCD) later, rather cavalierly in retrospect, “yeah, but you should have seen the other guy!”

The 12 hour progression of my face... to Orc (LOTR) status! ;)

It was at this point that Hay wouldn't tolerate any more of my excuses and pleas for “waiting-it-out.” Being the good friend that she is, she told me that I needed to go to the hospital. ASAP. It was the first time anyone had said it out-loud  I’ll admit, I kinda started getting scared. I mean, after all, this infection was on my face! Could it spread to my brain??? Having a creative imagination, visions not of sugar plum fairies but rather mystical zombie-brain-eating-bacteria danced through my head.

Awesome. So, ok. It was time to call Izzy, our Peace Corps doc. An appointment was made within 20 minutes with a local doctor in Chimoio for the next day.

To make a long story shorter, I ended up spending the next THREE mornings at the local clinic in Chimoio, getting my face squeezed, prodded, analyzed, and finally drained of a disgusting, gagging amount of pus. Thankfully, I didn’t have to navigate the Mozambican health care system alone. Gabby, Anna, and I went to the clinic together for our various issues.  Perhaps the funniest moment however came the first time we entered the doctor’s office. A stout, tan, Cuban man with smiling eye-crinkles stood up to welcome us. When we sat down, he took one look at the thing growing on my face and exclaimed in a staccato-ed Spanish, assuming Gabby and I wouldn’t understand, “My God, it’s good she came to see me now, otherwise she’s so ugly not even a Latino would want to sleep with her!!”

While the comment didn't do wonders for my confidence at first, it later fueled in me a sort of defiance. Like, *uck yeah, I have this alien thing on my face that’s people can’t help but stare at. AND I’M GONNA ROCK IT. I’M GONNA LOOK THEM RIGHT IN THE EYE AND STARE THEM DOWN.

Despite all the tough mental talk, I couldn't have held my resolve without the support of my fellow 19er PCVs either. Their humor, their empathy was fantastic. I mean, my bestie Cheyanne and I even had a running list of names for this sucker to laugh it off. That list however will remain undisclosed haha ;)

And really, this whole experience taught me a lot!

For one, to have more appreciation for the fact that people perceive me as “normal” – that I don’t have to go around explaining this or that or who I am to any and every casual observer. Also, that being “normal” offers you a helluva amount of privilege.

Secondly, to have the maturity of accepting that even if I was deemed an ogre for the rest of my life, it’s not the end of the world! If anything, it helps you know who’s got your back. It made me think back to a girl I used to play in the orchestra with, who was born with a large birthmark on her face. I remember she told me once she called it her “boy/friend filter” – that anyone who couldn't get past judging her superficially wouldn't have the qualities she wanted in a friend or relationship anyways. In other words, haters gonna hate, so accept the people that accept you for you!

Thirdly, patience is a virtue, but procrastination is not!! Next time, get thee to a hospital much sooner woman!!!

Oh and for the record, we still don’t really know what caused this huge allergic reaction/grande infection… Our best guess is that it was a nasty bug/spider bite that got infected.

EWWWW.

Nine dead after Renamo threatens war to block elections

[SOURCE: "Mozambique News Reports & Clippings," Ed. Joseph Hanlon]

Nine people have been killed since Friday in a growing confrontation between Renamo and the government in Muxúnguè, Sofala province, on the main north-south road (EN1) 100km north of the River Save. This follows a statement by Renamo Secretary-General Manuel Bissopo to the daily O Pais (2 April 2013) that Renamo is prepared to go to war to prevent registration and elections this year.

In an attack on a police post on Muxúnguè Friday 5 April, four police and one Renamo attacker were killed. In an attack on road traffic on Saturday in Muxúnguè, three people were killed; Renamo denies involvement in this attack. And on Sunday in Muxúnguè, in an unexplained attack, the local Anglican pastor was killed.

"Mapa localizador - Central" Atlas de Mocambique 2009

The confrontation grows out of Renamo's rejection of electoral laws approved in parliament. During the extended debate on the electoral laws last year, Renamo consistently demanded the right to have veto power in the National Elections Commission (CNE). This was never a possibility, but Renamo remained implacable in its demand.

"The decision of the majority bench of Frelimo to approve the electoral law and the CNE without consensus is an invitation to war," declared Renamo spokesman Fernando Mazanga in an interview with the Portuguese news agency Lusa (2 April 2013). And he confirmed Renamo is ready for war.

"There will not be elections. Renamo will not allow elections. Renamo will not accept any Mozambican moves to prepare the electoral process," Renamo Secretary-General Manuel Bissopo told Lusa (29 March)

The Renamo head of mobilization in Beira, Horacio Calavete, earlier said “we are not saying that we are not going to stand in the elections this year. We are saying that we will not allow the voter registration, much less the municipal elections, to take place”. (O Pais, 25 March 2013) He threatened that, if the police try to prevent any Renamo demonstration, the party would call on its former guerrillas to intervene. “If the police use force, we shall react in the same way,” Calavete said. “Our soldiers will not forgive."

Renamo has also refused to name its two members of the CNE and is refusing to participate in the ad hoc parliamentary commission to name civil society members of the CNE.

In the early morning of Wednesday 3 April the riot police (Força de Intervenção Rápida, FIR) responded by raiding the Renamo party headquarters in Muxúnguè and in Gondola, Manica province. There were between 200 and 250 men at the Renamo headquarters in Muxúnguè, who were dispersed and 15 were arrested. A similar number were at the Gondola party headquarters, where 3 were arrested. Both groups included some former guerrillas from the 1980-92 war, but Renamo says that the gatherings were just two of many being held by the party throughout the country to mobilise against elections.

There is no law against even large political gatherings on private property. Initial reports were that the Renamo people were unarmed and no shots were fired. In Gondola the raid was not resisted. But in Muxúnguè the spokesperson for the Sofala provincial police command, Mateus Mazive, said that because of the resistance offered by the Renamo men, the police used tear gas. (AIM 4 Apr 2013)

Police and district administration spokespeople gave various justifications, including that the two Renamo offices were "military camps", Manica police spokesperson, Belmiro Mutudiua. said that the presence of such a large number of men at the office constituted a danger and was causing panic among the local population, because of the “clandestine meetings” they were holding. “Renamo did not inform the local government … The presence of those men constituted a threat, and so we dispersed them and occupied the office”. (AIM 4 Apr 2013)

At 3.40 am the next morning, Thursday 4 April, Renamo men attached the Muxúnguè police station, killing four members of the riot police (FIR) and injuring at least nine; one of the Renamo attackers was also killed. (CanalMoz 5 Apr 2013, http://canalmoz.co.mz/hoje/24828-renamo-deixou-ummorto-

no-ataque-ao-quartel-da-fir.html)

Then at 16.50 on Saturday afternoon there was an attack on the main EN1 road about 30km south of Muxúnguè. An armed gang attempted to stop a bus of the South African company Intercape which was travelling from Maputo to Beira. The driver did not stop and the armed men shot at the bus, injuring two passengers. Next they shot at a southbound tank lorry forcing it to stop. After it stopped, they shot and killed three passengers. Next the armed men tried to stop a southbound bus of the Mozambican company Etrago which drove through the ambush without incident.

This is an area of the EN1 in which there were repeated attacks by Renamo on road traffic during the 1980-92 war, and government officials and media again blame Renamo for these attacks. But Renamo head of security Ossufo Momad denied any Renamo involvement in a statement Sunday. But according to Noticas (8 Apr 2013) he also warmed people not to drive along that stretch of road, and also warned of possible attacks in Maputo.

Finally, on Sunday in Muxúnguè in an unexplained attack, the local Anglican pastor was killed. (Noticias 8 Apr 2013)

Catholic bishops in a pastoral letter Sunday said that the "hypocrisy" of both Frelimo and Renamo was behind the conflict. It cited the "intense antagonism and lack of tolerance and dialogue" on both sides. It went on to blame the lack of internal democracy in the two parties. "Aren't there many members of both parties who are afraid to express their own opinion if it differs from that of party leaders?" asked the bishops. (O Pais 8 Apr 2013)

What's in a Legacy?

Flipping through my Willamette U planner, I recently discovered a Greek proverb that seems to constantly hold weight with my thoughts this past month. It reads, “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in.” Having recently sprouted three Acacia trees from mere seeds, and avidly watching the dainty green fronds pop from their pods, stretch and unfurl themselves to the sky, I can’t but help have a better appreciation of the wonder and plain luck that’s involved in new beginnings and the eventual evolution of a legacy (after all, even the smallest seed becomes the grandest tree!). So often it’s incredibly daunting to have a vision of the future, especially when that dream starts out so fragile and vulnerable to the everyday barrage of elements. Yet, I’ve also realized every vision needs a champion. As such, I’ve been hawking over my little trees, defending them from snuffling dogs, pesky insects, and happily shrieking criancas with wildly ricocheting soccer balls that, while tragically destroying my melon plants one-by-one, will NOT be coming close to my little trees.  Mana Karina doesn’t mess around!

So why am I acting like an overprotective mother bear over three measly sprouts? Frankly, that’s an excellent question for someone who – much to her mother’s chagrin – has never held a trace of a green thumb in her life. If anything, things I’ve tried to grow in the past have wilted under my devotion and flourished with my negligence. Just ask my three cactus plants that I was given in fourth grade. They’d rather be left alone thank you very much! (Or at the very least handed over to the nice silver haired lady who talks to them while she waters them – lol, love you mom!)

In any case, even though I’m in Mapinhane for two years, my three little trees will maybe only stand four feet tall and be unable to offer me much reprieve from the scorching Mapinhane sun. Thus, I’m looking down the road 15 years to when some lucky Peace Corps volunteer or Mozambican teacher inherits my little nirvana. So, when they’re lounging in their hammock, writing lessons plans, or maybe even making big sweeping plans for women’s empowerment and educational reform, they’ll be looking out at the world from underneath the comfortable shade of the big canopy of Acacia trees that I planted.  And thus, my little trees are also making me come to terms with the competing tensions of time’s velocity and the weight of a legacy. Some days, two years of service can feel like eternity. But really, to a tree (and ultimately to a PCV) it’s just a blink of an eye, a rustle of delicate little green branches.  A wink and a nod. 

And so, I very appropriately celebrated the six month anniversary of leaving home and beginning my new life in Mozambique by completely forgetting about it. Yep. Completely. Moreover, I didn’t make the realization until two weeks later. Oops. (Future significant others out there, you’ve been duly warned, haha!)

I guess the secret to losing time is involvement. This past month, as I’ve become increasingly busy with teaching and school/community groups and activities, I’ve finally started to comprehend just how short two years of service truly is. Just think! The steps you go through to do your job as a volunteer as responsibly and respectfully as possible can require much more than a mere 27 months.  First, you have to be in a place long enough to adapt to cultural and linguistic differences and simultaneously form relationships within your community to become integrated. Then you need to collaborate with your friends, neighbors, and colleagues to assess community needs. After that, you have to weigh and organize your priorities. Finally, you can then organize a group of interested people and begin working toward one maybe two goals. THIS PROCESS IS SOMETHING MANY ACTIVISTS SPEND THEIR WHOLE LIVES PURSUING, let alone 27 months!! And while Peace Corps Volunteers often idealistically set out to “change the world” at the microcosmic level, even the most motivated “super-volunteer” can begin to feel the pang of self-doubt when faced with the reality of not being given any resources (aka money!) to actually jump-start community development projects . AND of course, it assumes that you actually have learned enough about your community to be in a position to accurately evaluate the needs of your host-community. Now that being said, it’s not like as a PCV you have to tackle the biggest community issues. You can absolutely (and should) start small. But again, mobilization is tricky! For example, it’s great if you want to build a community well or start a school music group, but good luck trying to find the money to sponsor the idea you and a few colleagues came up with. I’m thinking increasingly that being a PCV essentially means door-to-door grassroots organizing in a community that you’re still “new” to! For me, this dilemma kinda calls into question the real aim and effectiveness of Peace Corps. Is it really meant to be a development organization? Or, does it function solely to promote cultural exchange?  Who benefits more from the experience – the community or the volunteer? What dissonance exists between how PC markets its agenda of fostering peace and development, and how it actually enables volunteers to serve their host-communities? Are there organizational reforms that would help volunteers help their communities more effectively?

All these questions I’m only beginning to ask and am lacking any coherent response. But you can bet as I attempt to navigate these challenges over my term of service that after evaluating and continuously re-evaluating, I'll begin to understand just how I can best use my role as a volunteer to serve Mapinhane and help my neighbors help themselves.

Crossing the Save River (or how I celebrated the end of the travel ban)

Last Friday, I may or may not have beat my students out the door when the bell – marking the end of class and the start of the weekend – rang. I felt like Bradley Cooper in The Hangover – pocketing kids’ field trip money, bolting out of the classroom, and jumping into a shiny, silver Mercedes convertible bound for Las Vegas. Except that I wasn’t going to Vegas. And I certainly didn’t have a Mercedes.  I had a four hour, 120 kilometer ride in an overcrowded put-put chapa, practically duct taped together, along the bumpy, potholed, 1.5 lane national highway, dodging double decker semi-trucks and potholes alike. Still, this girl was ecstatic. It didn’t matter that I quickly sweat through my clothes and basted in the sour communal body odor made rampant by the humid, steamy, stickiness of thunderstorms. It didn’t matter that I was holding onto an adorable, big-eyed, but slobbering baby that wasn’t mine through most of the ride. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t move more than a couple centimeters in any direction, that my feet might never regain sensation, or that I was sitting more intimately with my random seat partner than I had with anyone over the last few months (awkwardddd!).  None of that really bothered me. Why? Because I had my eye on the horizon, and on my final destination: Machanga! 

Aaahhh, Machanga!

It’s really incredible how traveling only a few hours North changes the scenery so drastically. Upon reaching Nova Mambone, the primary way-point, my eyes were met by a lushness that Mapinhane simply could never support (which makes sense considering that Machanga is a village that lies on the edge of a large river delta).  Once you make it to Nova Mambone, Machanga is just a canoe-paddle away on the other side of the Save River.

As the chapa whined down to a clanking halt upon our arrival in Nova Mambone and we all unfolded ourselves and rubbed out the various kinks in our muscles, I was met by one of my very good friends and classmates from language training in Namaacha. In two bounds, Jesse, a 6’3’’ bearded gay man, tackled me in a huge bear hug and seconds later we became obnoxious Americans, talking and laughing in a velocity and pitch that is universally recognized and unmistakably American. “OH MY GOD I MISSED YOU SO MUCH,” we yelled happily at each other. “HOW ARE YOU?! TELL ME EVERYTHINGGG!”  And so, only minutes later we found ourselves with large bottles of Manica beer and frango (bbq’ed chicken), catching up on all the details/stories related to how we’re making Mozambique our new home.

A while later, as the sun was beginning to set, we sloshed through shallow river water and hopped in a boat gently docked in the deep mud of the Save River. The gentle breeze rustled the reeds and the sky was splattered with bright swathes of iridescent clouds made especially vibrant by the dying rays of light. It smelled distinctly, pungently like river – if you’re a rower, sailor, or paddler, you know what I mean – that rich, paradoxical smell of decay and growth mixed with the salty tides of the delta. And I was happy.  Having to use a canoe to get home? My inner-traveler, my core “self” who’s laid largely dormant the past few months out of respect for the three-month PCV out-of-province travel ban, began to stir. Now things were starting to feel like an adventure! Were there crocs in the river? Hippos?  Maybe not this time around, but there’s nothing like being in a new place to make you feel alive and see the abundance of possibilities! Oh the joy of a place never traveled!

Waiting for our ride home... ;)

Amaaaaaazing sky, right?? Even better in real life!

Getting pushed across the Rio Save. I was bummed I couldn't put my rowing skills to the test ;)

After crossing the Save River and slipping precariously with each step on our way home past empty cattle pens, we finally stumbled onto Jesse’s front porch, with “matope” (mud) caked up to our shins.  Mac, Jesse’s housemate and one of my newer PCV friends, arrived home minutes later after playing a game of soccer with the other professors.  Although I’d only hung out with Mac once before when he came to visit Chris and Laurie in Mapinhane, as a 6’3’’ blonde, athletic, tenacious do-gooder, let’s just say Mac is someone who’s energy is contagious and overall hard to forget. I mean c’mon, when your first in-depth conversation with someone happens to be discussing the ins-and-outs of all your favorite subjects – human rights, refugees, social justice, revolution, and Samantha Power – that’s an awesome brain explosion to have with someone lol.

(Kudos to comedian Jenna Marbles for always helping me express myself better ;)

In any case, at the beckoning of loud simultaneous tummy grumbles, we set out to prepare ourselves a delicious dinner of sweet and sour cabbage over rice and watch one of my favorite TV shows, Parks and Recreation. I spent the rest of the night smiling too much and laughing too loudly at only semi-funny jokes, but hey, who wouldn’t be completely thrilled to get a break from sitting alone in a hut writing lesson plans by the light of a kerosene lamp… Mhmm! Exactly. The guys were mercifully forgiving of my effervescence.

Sunshine and morning chores next door.

So, over the next few days that I stayed with Mac and Jesse, I got to enjoy a mini-vacation of sorts, enjoying all the luxuries of electricity, good food, and good company. I was the first one up each morning – a habit that I’ve not only continued from the college rowing life, but have fully embraced here. As such, I got to lounge on the front porch with the local dogs curled up at my side, cup of tea in one hand and a random book off their shelf in the other, just relaxing and watching the world wake up.

My newest canine friends.

During the day, I walked to town with Jesse for groceries and worked out with Mac, tackling the legendary butt-kicking Insanity regimen (eff you Shawn T, lol!!). Aptly, we also then cooked some of the most buttery pancakes I’ve ever had (thanks to Jesse) and felt no guilt whatsoever to helping myself to a second serving. Also, a Canadian missionary named Gen came over to hangout one day. Maybe it’s us being so far from home that makes us more amiable to connecting with people. Maybe it’s the thrill of being able to fully communicate in your native tongue and thus take extraordinary pleasure in having the full weight of your words. Either way, much to Mac’s amazement, it took maybe five minutes before the two of us were carrying on like old friends, even proceeding to delve into “girl talk” (aka “boy talk”) and cut each other’s hair.  While Mac and Jesse were too kind to roll their eyes at us, it would have been completely warranted.

Don’t get me wrong though, despite my weekend feeling distinctly American, you are always an American in Mozambique. You smell it. You feel it. You hear it. You’re reminded of it the minute you walk out your front door and have an instantaneous posse of criancas shrieking happily "Oiiii, mulungu/munzungu!" I believe it would be impossible to in any way to distance yourself from Mozambique, unless you were to lock yourself in your hut or house for days and watch nothing but American TV shows and eat “American” food and hangout with only Americans… yet even then you’d have to eventually venture out of your bubble, blinking and confused, into reality. I’m only constructing this picture (because what exaggeration isn’t comic???) because of the actual boundaries I’ve witnessed white South African and European expats construct between themselves and local Mozambicans here.  It’s such a distinct divide that in Vilanculos for example, the town I visit every Saturday for a milkshake and internet, there are definitely only places expats go – places to eat or shop that only expats can afford. Even on the beach, there’s an unspoken rule that a certain part of the beach is for tourists, and while you can be Mozambican and passing through, you’ll rarely find a local family lounging on the sandy “touristy” part of the beach, but instead further down the beach where it’s rockier and the surf is rougher. Frankly, self-segregation and exclusion of the "other" to maintain an unbalanced power dynamic - besides being obviously racist, classist, etc - is a lot more stressful.  You could begin to dismantle an unjust system just by making friends with your neighbors. Imagine that?! If Peace Corps has taught me anything so far is that there's nothing more universal than the human experience. It doesn't matter who you are. You gotta look out for and take care of each other. It's a tough life for everyone here. So why not be allies? Racism hurts everyone. Everyone.

In any case, my original point was that it was a wonderful luxury to indulge in my American-ness, but only because it was an exception to the norm. If anything, while visiting Mac and Jesse, it was very clear just how well those two have integrated into their community and how the benefits of integration has on a volunteers effectiveness. Even though Mac and Jesse have different thresholds for just how many community members they like welcoming into their home in a day, they still maintain an open-door policy – literally. OPEN DOOR. Like their door is just open for anyone. Dogs. Kids. Students. Whoever, whenever can “licenca” for some time with their PCVs.  I was utterly impressed.

And so, when Mac asked me Sunday afternoon if I wanted to go hangout with his REDES (girls empowerment) group, of course I said, “HECK YES!”  The afternoon’s activity? Reading aloud one-on-one to primary school kids. With a clearing of the throats and colorfully illustrated books in hand, we were off adventuring with ocean animals, learning about HIV/AIDS, and even accompanying a Timbila princess as she saves her village from an evil spirit by playing her beautiful traditional music. 

It was an absolute blast.  I couldn’t stop smiling, and neither could the kids. We ended the reading session with a circle clapping name game, and I may or may not have given a few of the little girls piggy-back rides home. 

Later that night, we walked into town to follow up on an invite from one of Mac’s friends for a free dinner. As we sat around together with some cervejas, gossiping in two languages, and viewing the heaps of steaming coconut shrimp, goat stew, and bowls of every type of carb you can imagine before us, it was one of those what I like to call, “world-citizen” moments, where I see myself as a very happy speck connected to the whole world. The two beers certainly made it easier ;)

Me, Jesse, and Mac enjoying a fun evening out together!

Proof that I was in Machanga... even if it's just me acting silly in front of a discoteca we never actually went into haha ;)

With bursting stomachs and full hearts, we walked home to the distant rumbling of thunder and stumbled upon another wonderful surprise – a local traditional healing ceremony. We slipped in off to the side, popped a squat, and watched as twenty or more women chanted, beat drums, and rattled gourds around a young woman. The young woman, wrapped in capulana was convulsing, her whole body shaking with each beat. Each shake of her head brought a new bead of sweat to her brow. I was riveted, I was riveted until my lids began to droop at least and the the tired stooges made their way home. 

Tuesday morning came too soon, and I bid my adeus and returned to Mapinhane that afternoon. Traveling to Machanga was a wonderful treat, and I look forward to visiting my neighbors again very soon (or, they of course, may decide to come visit The Hut). Either way, with the travel-ban lifted, you can be sure that more adventures are soon to come :)