Part II Diving with Whale Sharks
So school's ended and I had me some three weeks to go where the wind blows. This took me to spending more 'n a few days with volunteers I'd not seen since October's training. We volunteers are a good crowd of kids who love to eat and watch tv shows n' movies. Lots are into drinking but I'm finding I have more interests in common with my fifth grade self then 20 somethings. Popcorn, soda and a movie or tv show promises great entertainment. I don't have a laptop at site so most of my entertainment at home is jogging, art, or reading.
So my friend invited me to go with her & her friend to dive with the whale sharks. These two ladies both go by the name Camila. One is Puerto Rican. She's curvy, smart; ambitious. The other's a Georgia peach, an artist: tall, classy, & very sweet.
We make it to Tofo, racing to make the boat taxi across the sound. Our first chapa breaks down twice. It's quite hot. We flag down an air conditioned ride with an Africaaner. Most of these guys I see are over 50 and shaped like barrels. It turns me racist-I get to thinking all white people are unattractive and Black Mozambicans (who are almost always slim and muscled) beautiful.
This guy was friendly enough (especially for picking us up). We had some interesting discussion. When you meet any whites from South Africa, you can assume their attitudes towards blacks bear traces of the racist apartheid government that lasted into the 90s. About Blacks he said: "I'm Boer. They have their space, I have mine." He's trying to build a hotel but has to wade through lots of bureaucracy to obtain permits. He is in for the long haul however. His stories of working with officials showed he had tolerance and some understanding. That kind of interaction for mutual gain promises the continued development of race relations. Or maybe I'm just intuiting too much. Camila talked to us both about Bovine tuberculosis. Like I said: she's smart.
We crossed using a boat that had a cage on top it, covered by a tarp to keep us dry. No escape hatch. If you are looking for transport safety, Africa is not the continent for it. The Embassy official who visited our training group told us: "Be smart. If you catch a ride hitchiking, find a place where you can jump and roll." This is one area where I am all about Strong Government imposing rules to the benefit of all.
In Tofo we hit the bar scene where lots of unkempt 20 something backpackers danced to the worst DJing. I wrote a poem for the party. I think a party is an excuse for joy. Joy must be felt sincerely. A good party is a sincere party.
Two of the best parties I ever attended were also the geekiest. One was the prom at the special education school I worked for (theme: Oscar Night). the second was in Romania with Hungarian teachers, the median age 55 partying out in a cafeteria. Both parties, a jubilant, sober dance floor. Fierce.
Here's my poem:
Tofo Revelation
The poet's philosopher stone
turns the focused energy: a joy of parties bursting at the seams
stomped church floors with bursting voice of choir
and solitary spinsters alone in their kitchen with the radio loud
dandcing themselves over the broken linoleum
It takes out of the night
collected from the dust of cars racing through
cutting it like a knife
the man 'hind the wheel crazy for the music
that's stirred his soul something sincere
That stone turns that energy
to make some special gas
that powers nuclear generators
steam engines, lamborghinies,
the cameras at Emmy Award Ceremonies and all the bulbs' flash
Runs for years on years
leaving no residue or pollution.
Dilutes only in the feeling amongst the people
as some vauge sentiment
that the world's all right.
I went diving with the whale sharks. They have no teeth, eating only algae or krill. They're spotted. The guy was great at dropping us right in front them. You see only a huge mouth coming at you and have to hustle to get out the way.
The art market was incredible but I was short on funds. I will return.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Part I Mangoes from Umbilical Cords
All right. Seems this blog'll be three parts.
Part #1: 6 hr. trip to Beira diary
Part #2: Whale Shark Diving (& a poem)
Part #3: Return to the USA
As always I'll try and keep it succinct. ;)
1. Beira. I've hated this long ass journey since having to take it while desperately seeking medication to treat the scabies attack that had turned my body to that of a sunburned lizard. The packed conditions then seemed less then charming. This particular morning, I lucked out and was taking the comparatively spacious bus. Despite it being 530am the driver began blasting rock and roll hits like Bryan Adams. He told me it should make me feel at home. This long journey always puts me in touch with the experience of living in a different country. Apart from food, road/train/boat/& plane trips are great ways of reading a culture, the best reason to travel.
Here's an excerpt from my journal...some of it illegible for the bumping.
545am:
Like the rain, the music comes
whether I like it or not
the notes work on me, like scalpels on
an anesthetized patient
The termite mounds
the houses the color of earth
the mango trees promise fruit
the confident smile of the pregnant mother
concentrated on the life inside her
the upside down chickens
the papaya trees no longer look ridiculous
and black muscles
stand out through tatter windows
the sky gave us rain the other day
salving the ground
the women open it with their hoes
Dogs with ribs jump out from in front of the bus - a pathetic look on their face: "Why me?"
mangoes hang from umbilical cords
once they were too many
now they're a gift
baby goats like toys
papaya trees seem dignified
banana groves isolated and shocked, parched
termite mounds as tall as the banana trees
the house's baby blue door
musters all the color it can
women sitting in the house's yard, gathered, enduring
The respectable gentleman in blue button down coat
Newsboy cap and red sunglasses sits across from me
The elderly husband smacks his young (2nd wife?)'s arm
Her breast hangs out for her crying infant to take
He wears a baseball cap with confederate flag and motto: 'Get R Done.'
His child looks at me wide eyed
drinking in the muzungu (that's me)
a baboon in a bare tree high up, distant
a baboon large as a dog turns to the bus' honk
bored, probably thinking about food
boy selling goat kebabs
a half side of goat hoisted to the high window, rejected
We pass a sign for the 'God Exists' pharmacy
Our bus is surrounded by vendors
Surely the white man will buy something!
Part #1: 6 hr. trip to Beira diary
Part #2: Whale Shark Diving (& a poem)
Part #3: Return to the USA
As always I'll try and keep it succinct. ;)
1. Beira. I've hated this long ass journey since having to take it while desperately seeking medication to treat the scabies attack that had turned my body to that of a sunburned lizard. The packed conditions then seemed less then charming. This particular morning, I lucked out and was taking the comparatively spacious bus. Despite it being 530am the driver began blasting rock and roll hits like Bryan Adams. He told me it should make me feel at home. This long journey always puts me in touch with the experience of living in a different country. Apart from food, road/train/boat/& plane trips are great ways of reading a culture, the best reason to travel.
Here's an excerpt from my journal...some of it illegible for the bumping.
545am:
Like the rain, the music comes
whether I like it or not
the notes work on me, like scalpels on
an anesthetized patient
The termite mounds
the houses the color of earth
the mango trees promise fruit
the confident smile of the pregnant mother
concentrated on the life inside her
the upside down chickens
the papaya trees no longer look ridiculous
and black muscles
stand out through tatter windows
the sky gave us rain the other day
salving the ground
the women open it with their hoes
Dogs with ribs jump out from in front of the bus - a pathetic look on their face: "Why me?"
mangoes hang from umbilical cords
once they were too many
now they're a gift
baby goats like toys
papaya trees seem dignified
banana groves isolated and shocked, parched
termite mounds as tall as the banana trees
the house's baby blue door
musters all the color it can
women sitting in the house's yard, gathered, enduring
The respectable gentleman in blue button down coat
Newsboy cap and red sunglasses sits across from me
The elderly husband smacks his young (2nd wife?)'s arm
Her breast hangs out for her crying infant to take
He wears a baseball cap with confederate flag and motto: 'Get R Done.'
His child looks at me wide eyed
drinking in the muzungu (that's me)
a baboon in a bare tree high up, distant
a baboon large as a dog turns to the bus' honk
bored, probably thinking about food
boy selling goat kebabs
a half side of goat hoisted to the high window, rejected
We pass a sign for the 'God Exists' pharmacy
Our bus is surrounded by vendors
Surely the white man will buy something!
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Inequality
I'm but a day away from my flight home to the states. I've learned to travel light here. I've a week's worth of clothes in my backpack, some poetry and spiritual readings make for light weight reading material, and the rest is my wire artwork and a coconut palm broom. That's good cuz I'm down to my last 200 mets and think I'll be huffing it to the airport and back instead of a 300 met taxi ride.
It's a momentous thing to be at the one year mark of my service. I left site with my duffle bag balanced on my head, sweating a storm, jumping streams and passing cattle, waiting for canoes, greeting locals. There's a feeling of accomplishment there.
In Mambone across the river I stayed with Saffiya and Kate. We encountered a giant scorpion spider with fangs like tusks. I ate unripe mangoes that tasted like lemons and we talked about life her side the river.
A neighbor of hers was found recently in the river, murdered. Another friend passed away from AIDS some days before that. Then yesterday I got word that my student's 1 year old daughter died in the hospital after fighting full body burns for a month and a half - some kind of allergic reaction, not caused as I first thought by hot water or fire.
Celeste, her mother, is a modest, beautiful, slender woman who travels each day to school by canoe to get to school. I've worked hard to motivate her to learn and had her over my place a few times for tutoring. I gave her vaseline along with advice on burn treatment out of my 'Where there is no Doctor,' guide, but now I see it wasn't superficial burns but something much more serious. The child wasn't eating for a time. Saffiya had visited her in the hospital a few times and last week said she was getting better. Now the family is dealing with her death. It's just awful to think of.
Two weeks ago, my best friend from Romania, her brother, an active basketball coach, fell into a coma following a brain anyeresum. They operated and it seemed he was doing better, but a week later he passed.
This was a family I spent three Christmas dinners with. Emi and Iulia and her mother would all play guitar and sing in their cramped kitchen. Their family is just wonderful. Emi encouraged me to play basketball with him. Afterwards he was all compliments despite my inexperience and insecurity. He touched many kids lives in Ocna and was incredibily energetic. I can clearly imagine the cemetary down the road where so many will have gathered for his funeral. The day of the dead, people leave candles and flowers and in the nighttime you can see the hill illuminated. It's beautiful. I regret I'm not there amongst the mourners sharing in the Huiculescu's grief.
I've come to Mozambique to get away from the Internet and have been successfully isolated from the world's trials and tribulations. When the tsunami hit Japan for example, I didn't read or hear much about it. I only learned about it through a friend. But, here crime and death seem to come closer at hand. Here, a bad case of malaria in three days can kill an otherwise healthy 23 year old. Here a child dying in birth is a too real possibility.
Speaking with a student, he asked if I was married yet or had children. When I responded that though I was old to be single for a Mozambican, for an American 31 isn't too old to yet be with family. He remarked: we Mozambicans marry young. And we die young. Hard to know what to say about such uncomfortable truths. Mozambicans are a fit group of people. Incredibly so. But poverty makes them vulnurable.
So...that's what I'm ending on.
I've been awful lucky to travel and relax during these weeks off, and perhaps I'll write more about that once I'm back in the states with more time to discuss that.
But for now, I'm just sad.
It's a momentous thing to be at the one year mark of my service. I left site with my duffle bag balanced on my head, sweating a storm, jumping streams and passing cattle, waiting for canoes, greeting locals. There's a feeling of accomplishment there.
In Mambone across the river I stayed with Saffiya and Kate. We encountered a giant scorpion spider with fangs like tusks. I ate unripe mangoes that tasted like lemons and we talked about life her side the river.
A neighbor of hers was found recently in the river, murdered. Another friend passed away from AIDS some days before that. Then yesterday I got word that my student's 1 year old daughter died in the hospital after fighting full body burns for a month and a half - some kind of allergic reaction, not caused as I first thought by hot water or fire.
Celeste, her mother, is a modest, beautiful, slender woman who travels each day to school by canoe to get to school. I've worked hard to motivate her to learn and had her over my place a few times for tutoring. I gave her vaseline along with advice on burn treatment out of my 'Where there is no Doctor,' guide, but now I see it wasn't superficial burns but something much more serious. The child wasn't eating for a time. Saffiya had visited her in the hospital a few times and last week said she was getting better. Now the family is dealing with her death. It's just awful to think of.
Two weeks ago, my best friend from Romania, her brother, an active basketball coach, fell into a coma following a brain anyeresum. They operated and it seemed he was doing better, but a week later he passed.
This was a family I spent three Christmas dinners with. Emi and Iulia and her mother would all play guitar and sing in their cramped kitchen. Their family is just wonderful. Emi encouraged me to play basketball with him. Afterwards he was all compliments despite my inexperience and insecurity. He touched many kids lives in Ocna and was incredibily energetic. I can clearly imagine the cemetary down the road where so many will have gathered for his funeral. The day of the dead, people leave candles and flowers and in the nighttime you can see the hill illuminated. It's beautiful. I regret I'm not there amongst the mourners sharing in the Huiculescu's grief.
I've come to Mozambique to get away from the Internet and have been successfully isolated from the world's trials and tribulations. When the tsunami hit Japan for example, I didn't read or hear much about it. I only learned about it through a friend. But, here crime and death seem to come closer at hand. Here, a bad case of malaria in three days can kill an otherwise healthy 23 year old. Here a child dying in birth is a too real possibility.
Speaking with a student, he asked if I was married yet or had children. When I responded that though I was old to be single for a Mozambican, for an American 31 isn't too old to yet be with family. He remarked: we Mozambicans marry young. And we die young. Hard to know what to say about such uncomfortable truths. Mozambicans are a fit group of people. Incredibly so. But poverty makes them vulnurable.
So...that's what I'm ending on.
I've been awful lucky to travel and relax during these weeks off, and perhaps I'll write more about that once I'm back in the states with more time to discuss that.
But for now, I'm just sad.
Monday, October 31, 2011
How does the water smell? or Micah vs. Boy's Dormitory
In the words of Little Richard: "A whop bob a loo bop, a whop bam boom."
The length of time between when I last wrote you all, all the dry changing of events, all the new insights, all the considered blog topics passed over...it's hard to find a transitive opening statement, and so, as always some kind of nonsense helps put everything in order. Because, really, does any of it matter?
I'll try to shrink wrap my life's experriences, day to day, and life directions and observations into the smallest possible format.
1. Glee. I watched it all night. Great fun. How far we've come that a same sex kiss on prime time tv isn't the news breaking stuff of five or ten years ago. It's immensely gratifying to see someone like you represented in mainstream media.
2. School's over! Only this last semester do I really feel comfortable. I'm not great yet, but not terrible. It's been a learning experience.
3. English Theatre Competition: We took 2nd place & Best Actor! It's one of the best things I've done in service thus far. Peace Corps Volunteers are great. The whole event went super well because everyone is willing to jump in and help out. At the end everyone came onstage to dance. The stage shook with stomping feet and it was a sense of joy shared by all. Free tshirts, new dictionaries, soda, chicken, a hotel stay...placing in the competition is good, but the kids love the event even if they don't. I squeezed into the back of a pickup truck with 15 other kids for the 6 hour ride home. Got a little sunburned. We stopped and picked up lizard roadkill to cook later.
4. The cafeteria: for the last three and a half weeks of school I've been supervising lunch and dinner. When Abel or John aren't there supervising it can sometimes feel like Lord of the Flies. A lot of the systems they had at the beginning of the year seem to have broken down this last semester. I've tried to help out by getting the students to stand in lines, bring the tables and chairs inside, to get them to push chairs in, etc. Simple stuff, but considering the circumstances it feels revolutionary.
5. The dormitory: I've tried helping out too with problems of discipline - getting wood, fighting... If the kids don't gather wood saturdays there's no fuel to cook and they all miss out on a meal. I've taken to instituting push ups and the like to get kids to correct their behavior. The headmaster sometimes uses corporal punishment in the dormitory, so I'm hoping to show that with greater accountability, consistency, and imagination discipline can be achieved without violence.
So...if my blog is a fishbowl, there are some flakes scatterred for you, on the water's surface. The environment in this emails narrow confines are as expansive, and the food about as nutricious or substantive, though slightly colored. I'm sorry you are all goldfish in my analogy. Would you prefer 'chum' and you are all ravenous, terrible, though magnificent Great White Sharks? And my blog is just some of the water in the sea, hinting at its vastness? So be it. You are all Great White Sharrks.
I hope this finds you all well, receiving my greatest wishes for your day to unfold in the best possible way.
Love,
mIcah
The length of time between when I last wrote you all, all the dry changing of events, all the new insights, all the considered blog topics passed over...it's hard to find a transitive opening statement, and so, as always some kind of nonsense helps put everything in order. Because, really, does any of it matter?
I'll try to shrink wrap my life's experriences, day to day, and life directions and observations into the smallest possible format.
1. Glee. I watched it all night. Great fun. How far we've come that a same sex kiss on prime time tv isn't the news breaking stuff of five or ten years ago. It's immensely gratifying to see someone like you represented in mainstream media.
2. School's over! Only this last semester do I really feel comfortable. I'm not great yet, but not terrible. It's been a learning experience.
3. English Theatre Competition: We took 2nd place & Best Actor! It's one of the best things I've done in service thus far. Peace Corps Volunteers are great. The whole event went super well because everyone is willing to jump in and help out. At the end everyone came onstage to dance. The stage shook with stomping feet and it was a sense of joy shared by all. Free tshirts, new dictionaries, soda, chicken, a hotel stay...placing in the competition is good, but the kids love the event even if they don't. I squeezed into the back of a pickup truck with 15 other kids for the 6 hour ride home. Got a little sunburned. We stopped and picked up lizard roadkill to cook later.
4. The cafeteria: for the last three and a half weeks of school I've been supervising lunch and dinner. When Abel or John aren't there supervising it can sometimes feel like Lord of the Flies. A lot of the systems they had at the beginning of the year seem to have broken down this last semester. I've tried to help out by getting the students to stand in lines, bring the tables and chairs inside, to get them to push chairs in, etc. Simple stuff, but considering the circumstances it feels revolutionary.
5. The dormitory: I've tried helping out too with problems of discipline - getting wood, fighting... If the kids don't gather wood saturdays there's no fuel to cook and they all miss out on a meal. I've taken to instituting push ups and the like to get kids to correct their behavior. The headmaster sometimes uses corporal punishment in the dormitory, so I'm hoping to show that with greater accountability, consistency, and imagination discipline can be achieved without violence.
So...if my blog is a fishbowl, there are some flakes scatterred for you, on the water's surface. The environment in this emails narrow confines are as expansive, and the food about as nutricious or substantive, though slightly colored. I'm sorry you are all goldfish in my analogy. Would you prefer 'chum' and you are all ravenous, terrible, though magnificent Great White Sharks? And my blog is just some of the water in the sea, hinting at its vastness? So be it. You are all Great White Sharrks.
I hope this finds you all well, receiving my greatest wishes for your day to unfold in the best possible way.
Love,
mIcah
Friday, September 2, 2011
Boobs, Up there, My Best Dance Party
Hello Good Family & Friends,
My distance from you all I can only mitigate by this thin thread of communication. And it’s a thin thread indeed.
However! I’ve secured, with some wrangling, my home leave ticket and month + vacation time home! Thank you, thank you Peace Corps! 2000.00 ticket and more then a month’s worth of vacation? Not bad. Not bad at all.
I will be back Nov. 23 for Thanksgiving and staying until a day or two after New Year’s! Can’t wait to see you all.
Ok. So, this blog I’m prepared with topics. Here’s at them:
Boobs.
They are out and nourishing children. Everywhere and often. We all start off that way, yet drinking it from a carton makes more sense to us these days then that original fount! But here, no. I attended a conference recently, my first that had a small baby in attendance, with mother. His head was round like a cabbage. A very cute kid. She came to accept her diploma at the end with him there nursing. Absolutely Awesome!
Lunar Eclipse
My friend gave me a heads up as dusk fell. I grabbed the handheld scope Patrick left behind and went door to door telling people to come out and see. The telescope was a big hit. I had to help them balance it, but their reactions to seeing moon close up was great. “BIG!!!” One kid ran away after looking he was so shocked. It was spontaneous and one of those ‘Peace Corps Moments.’
Up There
I’ve said before how everything gets thrown up on the head, here. It’s their trunk. To date I’ve seen a 20” TV screen on a woman’s head, a plastic table upturned and balanced as the man rode his bicycle, one hand keeping it secure. I’ve seen boat motors on shoulders, giant tubs with about 15 ceramic pots wrapped up, 5 gallon jugs of water, 45 lb. sacks of flour or rice. They do this at any age, walking through mud barefoot, often with a baby on their back. You may see a mother with a 5 gallon bucket on her head and her 6 year old with a gallon jug on her head. The kids too do double duty carrying their little brothers and sisters on their backs. What’s best though is when it’s something small. A medium sized pumpkin, a compact umbrella, or their hoe as they make their way to their ‘machamba.’, They even put their purses up there. I’ve carried some things this way (a pot of soup!), and it really is easier then carrying with your arms, giving the weight over to your back.
My most fun night
During training I stayed with a host family. What a great family. Lots of brothers who all like to laugh and play cards and blast Rick Ross. (If you don’t know who that is, consider yourself lucky). If you do, then you know “He’s the biggest boss that you’ve met thus far.” My favorite night, we had a dance party. Just four of us. Playing Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits. Dancing with my little host sister, 6, Joao, Armando. UB40. The Police. We just broke it down and it was such great fun. The bare bulb. The stone walls, spinning my little host sister and just sweating up a storm.
So, I’ll end here leaving a short blog for once. Leaves me with some topics for the future.
Hope you’re all well and enjoying what remains of summer.
Sincerely,
M.C.
My distance from you all I can only mitigate by this thin thread of communication. And it’s a thin thread indeed.
However! I’ve secured, with some wrangling, my home leave ticket and month + vacation time home! Thank you, thank you Peace Corps! 2000.00 ticket and more then a month’s worth of vacation? Not bad. Not bad at all.
I will be back Nov. 23 for Thanksgiving and staying until a day or two after New Year’s! Can’t wait to see you all.
Ok. So, this blog I’m prepared with topics. Here’s at them:
Boobs.
They are out and nourishing children. Everywhere and often. We all start off that way, yet drinking it from a carton makes more sense to us these days then that original fount! But here, no. I attended a conference recently, my first that had a small baby in attendance, with mother. His head was round like a cabbage. A very cute kid. She came to accept her diploma at the end with him there nursing. Absolutely Awesome!
Lunar Eclipse
My friend gave me a heads up as dusk fell. I grabbed the handheld scope Patrick left behind and went door to door telling people to come out and see. The telescope was a big hit. I had to help them balance it, but their reactions to seeing moon close up was great. “BIG!!!” One kid ran away after looking he was so shocked. It was spontaneous and one of those ‘Peace Corps Moments.’
Up There
I’ve said before how everything gets thrown up on the head, here. It’s their trunk. To date I’ve seen a 20” TV screen on a woman’s head, a plastic table upturned and balanced as the man rode his bicycle, one hand keeping it secure. I’ve seen boat motors on shoulders, giant tubs with about 15 ceramic pots wrapped up, 5 gallon jugs of water, 45 lb. sacks of flour or rice. They do this at any age, walking through mud barefoot, often with a baby on their back. You may see a mother with a 5 gallon bucket on her head and her 6 year old with a gallon jug on her head. The kids too do double duty carrying their little brothers and sisters on their backs. What’s best though is when it’s something small. A medium sized pumpkin, a compact umbrella, or their hoe as they make their way to their ‘machamba.’, They even put their purses up there. I’ve carried some things this way (a pot of soup!), and it really is easier then carrying with your arms, giving the weight over to your back.
My most fun night
During training I stayed with a host family. What a great family. Lots of brothers who all like to laugh and play cards and blast Rick Ross. (If you don’t know who that is, consider yourself lucky). If you do, then you know “He’s the biggest boss that you’ve met thus far.” My favorite night, we had a dance party. Just four of us. Playing Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits. Dancing with my little host sister, 6, Joao, Armando. UB40. The Police. We just broke it down and it was such great fun. The bare bulb. The stone walls, spinning my little host sister and just sweating up a storm.
So, I’ll end here leaving a short blog for once. Leaves me with some topics for the future.
Hope you’re all well and enjoying what remains of summer.
Sincerely,
M.C.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Tragedy, Goats, Church
I’m ever writing down blog topics, but I find myself in my rare opportunity to access the World Wide Web without my list. I’ll attempt to hit some targets from memory.
The first two events stand out in sharp relief.
1. Tragedy & the inevitable comparisons of unequal access to health facilities
The afternoon began with my learning of a friend’s baby, born dead. She was large and past due. We all awaited its birth. My first thoughts were for her health. Is she alive? She is. Thank goodness. I went straightaway to her. This woman was friends of a good friend of mine. We've become closer since. She is in good economical standing compared to others in the community. A shop owner with many employees. Yet, here she was, like everyone else in Machanga – deprived access to machines or medicine that could have forestalled this ‘act of God.’ Which is how she took it. “God did not want me to have this child. I have three children and that’s enough, isn’t it?” she asked me hopefully. “Maybe next time I will die too. I am lucky.” Such grace and acceptance is maybe at times in short supply in the US because solutions are closer at hand. We understand that culpability means systems improve. Her attitude however, compensates for circumstances outside her control. Her family and the community circled around her and I tried too to add my compassion to share in her and her husbands’ loss.
I told her after fetching her phone credit from town I could not meet her again until the following day. I had a dinner guest. Later that night, asking a friend for carrots, he tells me Gestor, my night's guest, had been in a terrible motorcycle accident, badly injuring both his legs. He had been brought into the hospital 5 minutes after I’d left. As I ate the dinner I'd prepared us, I looked across the table and felt dread. I've since visited him in Beira & learned he will be able to walk again but not for some time. When I visited Gestor, his wife was giving him a sponge bath in bed. One could argue, that nurses should have that responsibility, but I found her care touching.
The lack of conditions here are more or less equally felt. Maybe that is why, instead of resentment or spite, there is acceptance of God’s will. Which, in the short term, is a salve to suffering, if not detrimental to things getting better in the long term.
2) Travel to Beira and silly transport.
I know I always talk of travel – but I garner funny sights to share. On my packed 6am-4pm bus ride home last time,the woman beside me got pooped on by a cute, drooling, diaperless baby. She wiped it off her shoe uncomplainingly and the cobrador helped her.
I saw 2 goats strapped onto the back of a bicycle. I only turned my head when I heard one of the goats terrible plea. I saw it a moment before it was gone, its' mouth open and crying loudly. What an odd sight! It recalls to memory the sight of four chickens hanging upside down from a kid's bicycle handles. Priceless. They carry chickens as readily as we do backpacks. In the chapas as we get settled in, they squak in defiance, accustomed to having their freedom to run around. Like the rest of us, they usually settle in and cease their noisome protests.
Today. Today was filled with diverse experiences.
Catholic Church: A big big church for the ordination of a priest. 5 hours of incense and speeches broken up (thankfully) by a soulful chorus, African drums,and women in matching capalanas and headscarves softly gesturing and shuffling forward in unison. The ceremony was punctuated by heartfelt ululations (yiyiyiyiyiy!) from the chorus and warm gestures from the priests colleagues. The priests made a long procession and one after the next, kissed the palms of those three newly ordained and took them in large embrace. The music and their joy was so infectious that the ceremony's tedium was peeled back to reveal the sanctity of the occasion, the apex of 10 years’ education, the beginning of a career of service, a taste of the compassion their vocation exists to inspire.
After another 45 minutes of waiting around, I went to the yaht club to meet a friend. The YAHT Club! Later me and my friend went to have drinks with pilots who told me about pilot things. Later, ignored in conversation I went off to listen to the jazz pianist who was playing, largely ignored. He played unaccompanied, set to buttons that had recorded certain beats. The last he improvised bent with a secret smile on his lips and his upright back showed to this viewer, he wasn't playing for the 5 bucks he earned from the night's performance.
The night before, I'd learned a volunteer friend of mine is also a jazz pianist. How we all hide away our passions, and often, once living them, are ignored. But then again, we don't have our passions for anyone but ourselves.
After that, Cybelle and I, on a whim, stopped at a church service in an outdoor (small size) stadium. I wanted to see the enormous cake she said would be served to commemorate their 10th anniversary. What shocked me instead of huge cake was my witnessing for the first time, humans: ‘catch the spirit.’ I watched, both slightly concerned as one woman shaking so fell on an overturned chair. Really, if they’re going to rouse people into states where they may fall over, they should put down mattresses. That would be fun.
The cameraman found my white, studious face and projected it on the big screen. Everyone loves to be on the big screen. While the priest exhorted the crowd to ‘Raise your hands!’ I folded mine. (the camera quickly moved on not to return) Instead I concentrated on his words. Most of which I mainly agreed with. But, to show that passion in front of others is not my way. The more you show your righteous feeling, the greater I imagine would be the shame when you fall from it. I know, there's no shame in honest transgression, human frailty. It's just not my way.
The evening ended with their serving an enormous cake, large enough to feed a stadium. The church encourages lots of good things: to give instead of receive, to dream, to live independently, to live in brotherhood. Their style for me is culture shock. What they’d experience I imagine, seeing a mosh pit at a heavy metal show or a field full of hippies clouded in a blue haze of smoke. We are all alive with praise for living in our own ways.
The first two events stand out in sharp relief.
1. Tragedy & the inevitable comparisons of unequal access to health facilities
The afternoon began with my learning of a friend’s baby, born dead. She was large and past due. We all awaited its birth. My first thoughts were for her health. Is she alive? She is. Thank goodness. I went straightaway to her. This woman was friends of a good friend of mine. We've become closer since. She is in good economical standing compared to others in the community. A shop owner with many employees. Yet, here she was, like everyone else in Machanga – deprived access to machines or medicine that could have forestalled this ‘act of God.’ Which is how she took it. “God did not want me to have this child. I have three children and that’s enough, isn’t it?” she asked me hopefully. “Maybe next time I will die too. I am lucky.” Such grace and acceptance is maybe at times in short supply in the US because solutions are closer at hand. We understand that culpability means systems improve. Her attitude however, compensates for circumstances outside her control. Her family and the community circled around her and I tried too to add my compassion to share in her and her husbands’ loss.
I told her after fetching her phone credit from town I could not meet her again until the following day. I had a dinner guest. Later that night, asking a friend for carrots, he tells me Gestor, my night's guest, had been in a terrible motorcycle accident, badly injuring both his legs. He had been brought into the hospital 5 minutes after I’d left. As I ate the dinner I'd prepared us, I looked across the table and felt dread. I've since visited him in Beira & learned he will be able to walk again but not for some time. When I visited Gestor, his wife was giving him a sponge bath in bed. One could argue, that nurses should have that responsibility, but I found her care touching.
The lack of conditions here are more or less equally felt. Maybe that is why, instead of resentment or spite, there is acceptance of God’s will. Which, in the short term, is a salve to suffering, if not detrimental to things getting better in the long term.
2) Travel to Beira and silly transport.
I know I always talk of travel – but I garner funny sights to share. On my packed 6am-4pm bus ride home last time,the woman beside me got pooped on by a cute, drooling, diaperless baby. She wiped it off her shoe uncomplainingly and the cobrador helped her.
I saw 2 goats strapped onto the back of a bicycle. I only turned my head when I heard one of the goats terrible plea. I saw it a moment before it was gone, its' mouth open and crying loudly. What an odd sight! It recalls to memory the sight of four chickens hanging upside down from a kid's bicycle handles. Priceless. They carry chickens as readily as we do backpacks. In the chapas as we get settled in, they squak in defiance, accustomed to having their freedom to run around. Like the rest of us, they usually settle in and cease their noisome protests.
Today. Today was filled with diverse experiences.
Catholic Church: A big big church for the ordination of a priest. 5 hours of incense and speeches broken up (thankfully) by a soulful chorus, African drums,and women in matching capalanas and headscarves softly gesturing and shuffling forward in unison. The ceremony was punctuated by heartfelt ululations (yiyiyiyiyiy!) from the chorus and warm gestures from the priests colleagues. The priests made a long procession and one after the next, kissed the palms of those three newly ordained and took them in large embrace. The music and their joy was so infectious that the ceremony's tedium was peeled back to reveal the sanctity of the occasion, the apex of 10 years’ education, the beginning of a career of service, a taste of the compassion their vocation exists to inspire.
After another 45 minutes of waiting around, I went to the yaht club to meet a friend. The YAHT Club! Later me and my friend went to have drinks with pilots who told me about pilot things. Later, ignored in conversation I went off to listen to the jazz pianist who was playing, largely ignored. He played unaccompanied, set to buttons that had recorded certain beats. The last he improvised bent with a secret smile on his lips and his upright back showed to this viewer, he wasn't playing for the 5 bucks he earned from the night's performance.
The night before, I'd learned a volunteer friend of mine is also a jazz pianist. How we all hide away our passions, and often, once living them, are ignored. But then again, we don't have our passions for anyone but ourselves.
After that, Cybelle and I, on a whim, stopped at a church service in an outdoor (small size) stadium. I wanted to see the enormous cake she said would be served to commemorate their 10th anniversary. What shocked me instead of huge cake was my witnessing for the first time, humans: ‘catch the spirit.’ I watched, both slightly concerned as one woman shaking so fell on an overturned chair. Really, if they’re going to rouse people into states where they may fall over, they should put down mattresses. That would be fun.
The cameraman found my white, studious face and projected it on the big screen. Everyone loves to be on the big screen. While the priest exhorted the crowd to ‘Raise your hands!’ I folded mine. (the camera quickly moved on not to return) Instead I concentrated on his words. Most of which I mainly agreed with. But, to show that passion in front of others is not my way. The more you show your righteous feeling, the greater I imagine would be the shame when you fall from it. I know, there's no shame in honest transgression, human frailty. It's just not my way.
The evening ended with their serving an enormous cake, large enough to feed a stadium. The church encourages lots of good things: to give instead of receive, to dream, to live independently, to live in brotherhood. Their style for me is culture shock. What they’d experience I imagine, seeing a mosh pit at a heavy metal show or a field full of hippies clouded in a blue haze of smoke. We are all alive with praise for living in our own ways.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Some Anecdotes & Observations
Ufah.
Here I am.
Ok. This time I come awfully prepared. I have topics for y’all pre-selected.
1. Toys. Kids make the darndest toys here. And it’s colonial era and modern mixed together. The old hoop and stick? Still quite popular! Only, it’s a metal bicycle hoop or rubber tire. Tops? Great fun! They spin them off string tied to stick. They use little blocks of wood as cell phones. Use soda cans and bend wire to make trucks, or put bottle caps on containers to make cars. Quite inventive. And they’re awfully unsupervised. You’ll see a 1 year old hanging off a 4 year olds’ back. Packs of the littlest kids, all it seems, taking care of each other. 5 and 6 year olds the babysitters. You see a 3 year old walking by himmself. Where? You don’t know. And kids work here. 4th graders, 5th graders, 6th graders...selling phone credit or pushing your canoe.
2. Status Symbols in Mozambique: the other teachers invest in such things as: motorbikes for tooling about town, big freezers, tvs, nice shoes, expensive phones, and maids to help cook and clean. I avoid most of those costs and save quite a bit of money as a result. It's wierd being surrounded by poverty and looking over the guy in front of you in some aluminum taxi can of death fingering a fancy blackberry phone.
3. Tried sugarcane. Bought a tall piece. Seeing me fumble with it, trying to tear with my teeth the thick rind, a grandmother stepped in and with expert incisors ripped into it like a professional panda. It hurt my teeth just watching her. Then she handed it to me laughing. It’s quite pulpy and sweet. I chomped and spat as we crossed by canoe, quite charmed at having been suddenly adopted.
4. One night I was pumping water under the usual domey sky. These two teenagers close by were giggling, huddled over a cell phone. Strange sounds carried. Yes, it sounded a lot like pornography. But they were laughing. Can they watch videos on their phones? Is it possible it is what it sounds like? They were just yucking it up! Kids. And technology! Remade the world's economic reality. And brought our vices to project on tiny screens. Look how crazy those white people are!
5. One day at the market a woman asked me about how I arrived in country. I told her how I stayed with a host family to learn Mozambican ways, such as washing clothes by hand. She asked: how do you do it in your country? I answered: ‘Oh, with machines to wash them! Then, we take them out and put them into another machine to dry!” I thought she'd be rather impressed. Instead, she answered incredulous: ‘You don’t have the sun there?”
6. Patrick protested when he saw our bike mechanic club a poor chameleon to death. “You know, in the States people will spend over 100.00 dollars to buy one of those,” he said. Confused, the mechanic asked: “To eat?”
7. I know I’ve spoken before about jogging, but not necessarily about scaring little kids. It’s almost better then when the kids cheer and run alongside me. They’re sitting there in the dirt, look up, and their reaction is priceless. I imagine their thought is something like. ‘Whoa.’ Before the tuck tail and run as fast as they can up the path and around their house to hide. I am finally the friendly monster I’d always hoped to be.
8. Sometimes I feel I’m in the (non existent) Mozambican postcard: for instance, taking a canoe ride across the river with a sky filled with stars. Then, I feel I’m clear on the other side the planet. Then, other times, feels I’m just around the block. Like when I see everyday, NY (Yankees) hats on everyone. Or I love NY. Or a CT little league baseball jersey. I told the clerk - I’m from there! She said: ‘Buy it.’ I said- it has a huge mustard stain on it! I’ve seen UCONN shirts and crass American humor: ‘Tis the season to get hammered.’ There’s hand made tshirts from summer camp, pep boys shirts, even a UPS shirt on one of my students. It’s like Mozambique is the little brother that inherited the clothes we grew out of .
9. I know I may well describe a real dearth of conditions here, but really, Mozambican laugh so much. Much more then Americans, Romanians, or any other people I’ve ever met. They sometimes get loud and shout. Like when I told them they had to take another test because everyone cheated on their final exam. They were ready to burn me in effigy. The next day, I see one of the most pissed of my students: “Hi Mr. Micah!” I’d like to think this is due to my irrepressible likeability, or maybe even begrudging respect for nailing their cheap attempts at duping me. But really, it’s just that Mozambicans don’t stay mad! It’s not in their national make up.
10. Last one. One of the best parts of travel is hearing the funny sounds different cultures make to show emphasis. This last anecdote you’ll have to hear. I can’t quite describe it. In Romania, ‘Hey Man!’ Is ‘BAH MUHHH!’ Here, when people wish to express incredulity, they say: ‘SHEE!’ They also like to say things are little: “Little, little, little!!!” and their voice gets as tiny as they can make it. What most of us grossly dislike however, is the unintelliglbe: ‘Uh.’ ‘Uh,’ depending on its’ inflection can me ‘Uuh’ (yes) or ‘Uh.’ (no). There’s also a lot of nose clearing that goes on, but I forgive them that. They are a Kleenex-less society. Not to mention a cheeseless society. I mentioned that before, I think.
So, there’s some anecdotes for you to masticate. (I mean chew on). Like cud!
Warm Regards,
mIcah
Here I am.
Ok. This time I come awfully prepared. I have topics for y’all pre-selected.
1. Toys. Kids make the darndest toys here. And it’s colonial era and modern mixed together. The old hoop and stick? Still quite popular! Only, it’s a metal bicycle hoop or rubber tire. Tops? Great fun! They spin them off string tied to stick. They use little blocks of wood as cell phones. Use soda cans and bend wire to make trucks, or put bottle caps on containers to make cars. Quite inventive. And they’re awfully unsupervised. You’ll see a 1 year old hanging off a 4 year olds’ back. Packs of the littlest kids, all it seems, taking care of each other. 5 and 6 year olds the babysitters. You see a 3 year old walking by himmself. Where? You don’t know. And kids work here. 4th graders, 5th graders, 6th graders...selling phone credit or pushing your canoe.
2. Status Symbols in Mozambique: the other teachers invest in such things as: motorbikes for tooling about town, big freezers, tvs, nice shoes, expensive phones, and maids to help cook and clean. I avoid most of those costs and save quite a bit of money as a result. It's wierd being surrounded by poverty and looking over the guy in front of you in some aluminum taxi can of death fingering a fancy blackberry phone.
3. Tried sugarcane. Bought a tall piece. Seeing me fumble with it, trying to tear with my teeth the thick rind, a grandmother stepped in and with expert incisors ripped into it like a professional panda. It hurt my teeth just watching her. Then she handed it to me laughing. It’s quite pulpy and sweet. I chomped and spat as we crossed by canoe, quite charmed at having been suddenly adopted.
4. One night I was pumping water under the usual domey sky. These two teenagers close by were giggling, huddled over a cell phone. Strange sounds carried. Yes, it sounded a lot like pornography. But they were laughing. Can they watch videos on their phones? Is it possible it is what it sounds like? They were just yucking it up! Kids. And technology! Remade the world's economic reality. And brought our vices to project on tiny screens. Look how crazy those white people are!
5. One day at the market a woman asked me about how I arrived in country. I told her how I stayed with a host family to learn Mozambican ways, such as washing clothes by hand. She asked: how do you do it in your country? I answered: ‘Oh, with machines to wash them! Then, we take them out and put them into another machine to dry!” I thought she'd be rather impressed. Instead, she answered incredulous: ‘You don’t have the sun there?”
6. Patrick protested when he saw our bike mechanic club a poor chameleon to death. “You know, in the States people will spend over 100.00 dollars to buy one of those,” he said. Confused, the mechanic asked: “To eat?”
7. I know I’ve spoken before about jogging, but not necessarily about scaring little kids. It’s almost better then when the kids cheer and run alongside me. They’re sitting there in the dirt, look up, and their reaction is priceless. I imagine their thought is something like. ‘Whoa.’ Before the tuck tail and run as fast as they can up the path and around their house to hide. I am finally the friendly monster I’d always hoped to be.
8. Sometimes I feel I’m in the (non existent) Mozambican postcard: for instance, taking a canoe ride across the river with a sky filled with stars. Then, I feel I’m clear on the other side the planet. Then, other times, feels I’m just around the block. Like when I see everyday, NY (Yankees) hats on everyone. Or I love NY. Or a CT little league baseball jersey. I told the clerk - I’m from there! She said: ‘Buy it.’ I said- it has a huge mustard stain on it! I’ve seen UCONN shirts and crass American humor: ‘Tis the season to get hammered.’ There’s hand made tshirts from summer camp, pep boys shirts, even a UPS shirt on one of my students. It’s like Mozambique is the little brother that inherited the clothes we grew out of .
9. I know I may well describe a real dearth of conditions here, but really, Mozambican laugh so much. Much more then Americans, Romanians, or any other people I’ve ever met. They sometimes get loud and shout. Like when I told them they had to take another test because everyone cheated on their final exam. They were ready to burn me in effigy. The next day, I see one of the most pissed of my students: “Hi Mr. Micah!” I’d like to think this is due to my irrepressible likeability, or maybe even begrudging respect for nailing their cheap attempts at duping me. But really, it’s just that Mozambicans don’t stay mad! It’s not in their national make up.
10. Last one. One of the best parts of travel is hearing the funny sounds different cultures make to show emphasis. This last anecdote you’ll have to hear. I can’t quite describe it. In Romania, ‘Hey Man!’ Is ‘BAH MUHHH!’ Here, when people wish to express incredulity, they say: ‘SHEE!’ They also like to say things are little: “Little, little, little!!!” and their voice gets as tiny as they can make it. What most of us grossly dislike however, is the unintelliglbe: ‘Uh.’ ‘Uh,’ depending on its’ inflection can me ‘Uuh’ (yes) or ‘Uh.’ (no). There’s also a lot of nose clearing that goes on, but I forgive them that. They are a Kleenex-less society. Not to mention a cheeseless society. I mentioned that before, I think.
So, there’s some anecdotes for you to masticate. (I mean chew on). Like cud!
Warm Regards,
mIcah
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