Only the Good Die Young

Hermenigilda Esperança (Hope) Vilanculos
April 13, 1984 - March 24, 2014

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 should. After all, if we are to have a social contract, for most of us it’s in our interest that it should be at the very least, fair.

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 why. WHY.

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.

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.

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.” Passou. “Passed?!” I asked sharply. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I thought, my heart jumping into my throat. “Passou. Morriu.” Died. 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, filho” Then the questions poured out of my mouth. “What? How? When? What happened?” OH MY GOD, NO. Angelica turned away from me, tucking her head into her far shoulder, hiding her face from Junior. Anguish. I couldn’t stop thinking, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 feel 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.

Suddenly, everyone leapt to their feet.

The truck carrying the body.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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 alive. 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. 

Descanso em paz, mana Gilda. 

What Is An Education Worth?

“Aii, teeeechaaaaaaa! Teeeecha is hereee.”

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 wonderful 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.

Then I hear it. The rumble of hands slapping desks.

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

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!).

“Helllloooooo teacherrrrr, how are you?”

Sixty excited faces scream-sing at me in rhythm as I walk to the front of the classroom.

“I aaaam fineeee students, how are you?”  I sing-scream back. One voice against sixty.

Alright, so it’s fair to say that the odds aren’t exactly in my favor for about 3 hours every day.  

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 her) mobility.

Rewind to a conversation I had with a student yesterday.

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.  

“Professora,” he started.

"Siiiiiiii,” I replied expectantly, smiling.

“We have a lot of indisciplinados in class. They are loud. Annoying. They have no respect.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

"Why was that, Edilson?”

"Because Teacher, I am the first in my family to go to school.”

“What?”

“Yes, my father – he only went to school through second grade because of the war.”

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?

“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!”

“What do you want to do after you finish school Edilson?”

“Teacher, I don’t know. But I will know one day, I have time.”

Whoa.

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.

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!”

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.

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. 

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.

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.

That must be the strongest form of faith I’ve certainly ever witnessed.

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.

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.

The rest of the class groans.

Well then. I guess I must be doing something right.

Benedita and Zulmira, two of my 9th grade English students

Old wine, new bottles - Fresh starts in 2014

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Oh, and, of course, I’ve now worked with a witchdoctor.

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.

So, what exactly are the new changes and plans for 2014?

Well, for one, I have new site-mates!!!! 

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 and 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 :) 

Sarah, me and Maria!!! LOVE THESE GIRLS!  So thrilled that they're my new site mates :)

 

Moreover, my school has undergone some changes as well!

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.

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...

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.

And a final word…

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.

Prof. Gloria, Hermenigilda, me, and dona Natalia. We are so proud of our baby mamma!!!! She's due next week!!

Oh, and check out this view, looking west, from my house. 'Tis the wet season, no doubt!

The Greatness of Gratitude

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?

“Good morning daaaarling! How’d you sleep? Come, come! Eat! We have lots 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 my 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 and 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.

It's just another day in paradise.

Riding Holly

The "104 Horses" book launch in Chibuene, with Mandy and Pat

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 Mozambique Horse Safari 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. BUT, one must always 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.

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 without compensation. The voting populace, largely black Zimbabwean, voted down the referendum the first time.  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. 

To make a long story a little shorter (or even better, please read Mandy's book,“104 Horses: A Story of Farm and Family,Africa and Exile), 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.

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.


As Elizabeth Gilbert, author of "Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia," writes rather perfectly:

"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."

There's no better place to bring that lesson into relief than in Mozambique. And there's no better teacher than African diaspora. 

Back to the Start: Namaacha, one year later

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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



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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tinderbox: when "if" becomes "when"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

Walking the line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, we were all in for a surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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