Monday, December 17, 2012
Ilha de Mocambique
Catching Up
The past month or so I've been steeped in the social scene. Life has been go go go and as romantic aspirations have cooled into dissapointment, the moon of friendship ever rises.
There's been much carousing. I've essentially been on vacation. Everything in its right place.
I traveled to Ilha de Mocambique with the sunshiney Alexandra Breedlove; she who accompanied me on the mythic hike to Gurue's Garden of Eden.
Ilha de Mocambique is an incredibly strange tourist destination flung far up the Mozambican coast - a coast stretching the distance of Quebec to the gulf of Mexico. On the 5am to 2am bus it felt like Nampula, our destination, drew further from us the closer we drew near.
Immediately I began to notice the more Muslim population. The call to prayer was broadcast over the streets.
As Audi and I awaited our hot bus for Ilha, we called one food vendor after the next to give us good food. Fresh breads, boiled eggs and salt, fresh apples, cane sugar coca cola...and then the prize...BREADFRUIT. I spied him with the thing on his shoulder. We call him over. I'd heard of breadfruit but never tried it. How much? I say: 'make me a better offer.' 160 he says. I say '150.' It's a deal. A green stippled fruit the size of a small toddler is pushed through the window. Our neighbors are amazed. These whites hunger is insatiable! We baptize the breadfruit 'Mr. Greenbean' and take photo ops with him in groovey sunglasses. We depart for Ilha. Audi and I have lots to catch up on. We climb into a large open back to cross the long jetty connecting the island to the mainland. The locals admire our fruit fit to feed a village.
Ilha
Ilha de Mocambique was the former capitol until the Portuguese moved it to present day Maputo. It was the point on the Portuguese's spear of Manifest Destiny. They shipped slaves from it, protected the trade routes to India from it, and built an enormous fort that resisted every attact.
Atmosphere oozes out of the rocks. As a colonial ruin, it is a World Heritage Site. As a place where you can snorkel in crystal waters, take a dhao boat trip to nearby islands, or stroll through the ancient fort, it is a tourist destination. But 98% of the small island's population lives like the rest of the country on a dollar a day, making their livlihood; taking life as it comes.
These people would be forced to leave if it turns too touristic. Because the island is difficult to reach, it maintains a rural mozambican feel. Submerged shipwrecks surround the island, sunken by cannonball or reef. The town uses all the old broken china and blue glass that washes up on shore to decorate restaurant bars and confection jewlery.
My favorite activity was snorkeling off the end of the port where we saw fish as colorful as those gracing the most exotic travel brochure. Audi and I stayed with Patrick, a marine biologist and PCV English teacher.
Together we continued from Ilha to Audi's home in Angoche. We had a fire on the beach under a full moon and swam in the Indian Ocean's warm waters. The next day we celebrated Halloween by making our own costumes. When the power went out, we played beer pong by glowstick light.
I began the slow ride south towards Beira staying with friends along the way. My last trip to Machanga, I went out to run one last time with the children going further then ever before. I gave away most of my things. I can't have much on me as I travel through Europe.
Now, I'm on the plane that is taking me out of Africa. I'm reminded of other imporatnt flights marking the book ends of my life. 16, leaving my family behind to live in Brazil. My flight taking me after high school to enter Americorps.
I'm finally finished with the Peace Corps and most curious about what life will bring next. Please stay posted!
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Mozambican Theatre & Who is the MOST mato?
Hello citizens of the Western World! It's your far flung alien Micah Carbonneau checking in. My flesh and blood is still walking this strange landscape on the globe's far side.
But! Not to walk this side of the globe much longer! I end 5 years in the Peace Corps Dec. 6th. If you pass by any streetside fortune tellers, throw a penny in their hat and ask'em my future and you'll have a better chance then I of forcasting the future's great beyond. I've my own tea leaves to consult, but the way the light plays makes me doubt my future reading abilities.
I've one last blog to aid you in imagining Mozambique's culture landscape. It pertains to theatre and a trip I took with some youngsters to a sister school some 3 hours away. It's a little on the long side, but it'll likely be the last I send out from Africa, so get up, touch your toes, do 1-2 minutes of brisk walking around the room, come back and sit down to life in Mozambique.
Thanks as always for reading, and please don't hesitate for me to take you off the email list if you tire of my inanity.
Panguira Goes to Estaquinha
I typically hate to write these things before sending them out. I have a hard time trusting that my words will sound fresh if I let them sit for more then a day or two. But, I must put down a description of this weekend while it's memory is fresh.
This weekend I took my Panguira Group (Which means 'Counsel' in local language) to have a Theatre exchange with a sister school some three hours away. Anywhere three hours away is close here.
I was afraid 15 for a pick up truck would have been pushing it. I had memories from the weekend past of us all squeezed in upon our return from English Theatre. But, it seems 15 isn't too bad! This I observed from the relative spaciousness of the front seat, a King I!
Theatre in Mozamibque
Theatre here is quite vaudville in its stock characters, simple story plots, and physical humor. And like Vaudville, for all it misogyny and humor at the expense of adultery, illiteracy, and AIDS, it can really be quite charming.
For example the costumes. We volunteers joke that we should play bingo cards with the plays. Squares to mark off would include: chalk beards, Boss pot belly (bellies denoting stature), classroom scenes, sweeping the yard scenes, witch doctor scenes, hospital scenes. The costumes are always meant to be as random and hilarious as possible. Shoes are inexplicably put on the wrong feet, pants are worn inside out, giant sunglasses, wigs, walking sticks, might all be used. Their costumes are any clothes that are not what they typically wear, and because their collection of clothes is limited (I recognize kids this second year by the tshirts they wore last), the clothes that make it into the plays are usually quite odd or ripped. Once I saw them wear a straw that that had a giant hole in the top and the brim all torn up. Another time a guy wore lycra ski bottoms with suspender tops and flared pant legs. He was playing a gigilo. My face hurt from laughing at this character.
The plays our students make are usually recreating the struggle for independence or deal with domestic violence or AIDS. They're usually heavy handed in the message and sometimes model too much of the negative behavior we're trying to dispel.
Also, these plays are done in the school courtyard. There will be some 100-200 people gathered around, with vetrans in their caramel colored military dress in seats marked off on one side. Only the people in the front can see as it's always a tight circle around the action. Maybe there is one microphone that they hold in hand, or there is none. More often there's none. One of these times, I looked up to see kids filling the branches over me. I was sure a branch was going to break and children would rain down. I always feel I'm the only one with such fears for safety in public gatherings and transport.
The plays are all loosely improvised in a mixture of Portuguese and Xindau.
Despite the lack of training in anything resembling formal theatre: no (proper) costumes, exposure to play formats from the world without, and despite reliance on stock characters, talent still bears out.
Some of the kids make you want to watch them. They are fully immersed in character and have great physical humor.
Estaquina
This is our sister Mission School where we brought the students. It's parched in a different color then Machanga. Machanga is parched brown. Estaquinha is parched white, which somehow made it seem more desolate and dry. But the nice landscaping helped to counteract that impression.
We have an informal competition in Peace Corps. Well, two. The first is: 'Who is more Mato?' Mato is 'Bush' or 'Outback.' All of us like to believe we're the most isolated, most deprived of amenities, the furthest 'out there.'
The other competition between we volunteers in the ESMABAMA mission circut (there's 4 of us) is which mission gets the most love from the central office? Which mission is daddy's favorite?
I got some good ammunition this weekend against Estaquinha. It seems they boast, a fancy 800 dollar Panasonic Projector AND, it's rumored, a 3D projector. Good God! Compare this to the TV that stayed broken for half the year last, waiting to be taken across the river to the repairman here in Machanga. Also, they have (I understand agonizingly slow Internet) while the Internet promised here ready in two weeks time has after two years yet to materialize (despite my signing a contract!). Did I mention there's no land lines in Machanga or postal addresses? Have I conviced you Machanga is THE MOST mato?
Also, Estaquinha has three tractors, two of them new, to our one tractor.
So, Dylan and Ian show movies to their kids. This weekend they showed Glee and High School Musical. What a contrast onscreen to our weekend! But, I think the joy, enthusiasm, and I'll even go out on a limb and say talent and looks, are comparable to what flashed across the screen.
The kids had a great time and as we returned, as always they stood up in the back singing songs as conquering heros returned. Their happiness is certainly valid. One time, they took a capalana (bright local fabric), and tied it to a stick to use as a flag. Their joy is so over the top, that it makes you wonder how such a little thing as a weekend getaway to sleep on mats and eat beans and corn meal can mean to a kid.
But, now I see it's also a bit of showing off to the kids who didn't get to travel. It's: Look at us! We traveled and you didn't!
It was a colorful weekend.
Oh! Also! My lodging included a stand up shower and a fresh towel! Believe it or not, a bucket shower can be a very pleasant thing. But when you're dusty from two months of no rain blowing at you after a three hour ride, water shooting out of the wall and a fluffy towel seem like quite a luxury.
But! Not to walk this side of the globe much longer! I end 5 years in the Peace Corps Dec. 6th. If you pass by any streetside fortune tellers, throw a penny in their hat and ask'em my future and you'll have a better chance then I of forcasting the future's great beyond. I've my own tea leaves to consult, but the way the light plays makes me doubt my future reading abilities.
I've one last blog to aid you in imagining Mozambique's culture landscape. It pertains to theatre and a trip I took with some youngsters to a sister school some 3 hours away. It's a little on the long side, but it'll likely be the last I send out from Africa, so get up, touch your toes, do 1-2 minutes of brisk walking around the room, come back and sit down to life in Mozambique.
Thanks as always for reading, and please don't hesitate for me to take you off the email list if you tire of my inanity.
Panguira Goes to Estaquinha
I typically hate to write these things before sending them out. I have a hard time trusting that my words will sound fresh if I let them sit for more then a day or two. But, I must put down a description of this weekend while it's memory is fresh.
This weekend I took my Panguira Group (Which means 'Counsel' in local language) to have a Theatre exchange with a sister school some three hours away. Anywhere three hours away is close here.
I was afraid 15 for a pick up truck would have been pushing it. I had memories from the weekend past of us all squeezed in upon our return from English Theatre. But, it seems 15 isn't too bad! This I observed from the relative spaciousness of the front seat, a King I!
Theatre in Mozamibque
Theatre here is quite vaudville in its stock characters, simple story plots, and physical humor. And like Vaudville, for all it misogyny and humor at the expense of adultery, illiteracy, and AIDS, it can really be quite charming.
For example the costumes. We volunteers joke that we should play bingo cards with the plays. Squares to mark off would include: chalk beards, Boss pot belly (bellies denoting stature), classroom scenes, sweeping the yard scenes, witch doctor scenes, hospital scenes. The costumes are always meant to be as random and hilarious as possible. Shoes are inexplicably put on the wrong feet, pants are worn inside out, giant sunglasses, wigs, walking sticks, might all be used. Their costumes are any clothes that are not what they typically wear, and because their collection of clothes is limited (I recognize kids this second year by the tshirts they wore last), the clothes that make it into the plays are usually quite odd or ripped. Once I saw them wear a straw that that had a giant hole in the top and the brim all torn up. Another time a guy wore lycra ski bottoms with suspender tops and flared pant legs. He was playing a gigilo. My face hurt from laughing at this character.
The plays our students make are usually recreating the struggle for independence or deal with domestic violence or AIDS. They're usually heavy handed in the message and sometimes model too much of the negative behavior we're trying to dispel.
Also, these plays are done in the school courtyard. There will be some 100-200 people gathered around, with vetrans in their caramel colored military dress in seats marked off on one side. Only the people in the front can see as it's always a tight circle around the action. Maybe there is one microphone that they hold in hand, or there is none. More often there's none. One of these times, I looked up to see kids filling the branches over me. I was sure a branch was going to break and children would rain down. I always feel I'm the only one with such fears for safety in public gatherings and transport.
The plays are all loosely improvised in a mixture of Portuguese and Xindau.
Despite the lack of training in anything resembling formal theatre: no (proper) costumes, exposure to play formats from the world without, and despite reliance on stock characters, talent still bears out.
Some of the kids make you want to watch them. They are fully immersed in character and have great physical humor.
Estaquina
This is our sister Mission School where we brought the students. It's parched in a different color then Machanga. Machanga is parched brown. Estaquinha is parched white, which somehow made it seem more desolate and dry. But the nice landscaping helped to counteract that impression.
We have an informal competition in Peace Corps. Well, two. The first is: 'Who is more Mato?' Mato is 'Bush' or 'Outback.' All of us like to believe we're the most isolated, most deprived of amenities, the furthest 'out there.'
The other competition between we volunteers in the ESMABAMA mission circut (there's 4 of us) is which mission gets the most love from the central office? Which mission is daddy's favorite?
I got some good ammunition this weekend against Estaquinha. It seems they boast, a fancy 800 dollar Panasonic Projector AND, it's rumored, a 3D projector. Good God! Compare this to the TV that stayed broken for half the year last, waiting to be taken across the river to the repairman here in Machanga. Also, they have (I understand agonizingly slow Internet) while the Internet promised here ready in two weeks time has after two years yet to materialize (despite my signing a contract!). Did I mention there's no land lines in Machanga or postal addresses? Have I conviced you Machanga is THE MOST mato?
Also, Estaquinha has three tractors, two of them new, to our one tractor.
So, Dylan and Ian show movies to their kids. This weekend they showed Glee and High School Musical. What a contrast onscreen to our weekend! But, I think the joy, enthusiasm, and I'll even go out on a limb and say talent and looks, are comparable to what flashed across the screen.
The kids had a great time and as we returned, as always they stood up in the back singing songs as conquering heros returned. Their happiness is certainly valid. One time, they took a capalana (bright local fabric), and tied it to a stick to use as a flag. Their joy is so over the top, that it makes you wonder how such a little thing as a weekend getaway to sleep on mats and eat beans and corn meal can mean to a kid.
But, now I see it's also a bit of showing off to the kids who didn't get to travel. It's: Look at us! We traveled and you didn't!
It was a colorful weekend.
Oh! Also! My lodging included a stand up shower and a fresh towel! Believe it or not, a bucket shower can be a very pleasant thing. But when you're dusty from two months of no rain blowing at you after a three hour ride, water shooting out of the wall and a fluffy towel seem like quite a luxury.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Epic Walk with a Hike into Magical Lands; Puppy in Tow
Howdy do. Good gracious, has it been a time since I've checked in with y'all. Well, let me fill you in on some of the happenings in my neck of the world. The past two weeks been chock full of excitement. I walked some 100 km with me brand new puppy and with same puppy met myself a queen and hiked Mozambique's (almost) highest peak. That's some adventure! That's some puppy!
Well, first off is me puppy. It's a she. Her name is Cooba which means 'to steal' in N'dau. She was found in our front yard and taken in. She quickly stole our hearts. This is the first time I've had a dog of my own, so I'm quite the proud father. I've been feeling that role sincerely since I've traveled many miles with her in cramped buses. If you travel with anything that shits and doesn't have its legs tied together, you'll end up feeling like a parent. I wonder if the guys who tie their goats legs up or chicken's legs up and shove them under seats might not have the right idea. Wow. Do I sound like a bad parent. I gave Cooba the opposite treatment, cuddling her for the 48 hour round trip and giving her bits of chicken and boiled eggs. She only pooped in the bus once and I think she was ready to jump out the window to avoid doing that. So, I'll take the blame on that one.
So, the first 100 km walk. It originated in Mangunde at my friend Ian's site. We walked through the 'mato' (outback) for two days straight heading for a fourth of July party in Dombe. Why do it? Everyone asked upon arrival. Simple. Glory. All of us had major blisters but were emboldened by our accomplishment. Out on the trails all the women wore headscarves and more then a few would bow to the ground when we passed. Obviously, Portuguese wasn't spoken as much way out.
Hiking the mountain was good ol' fun with my friend Alexandra Breedlove. I had over 15 people ask me for my dog. Cute at first, but then the children with their knifes became a little threatening. I soon saw what the knives were for when I bought from the road side a sugarcane stalk. The boy started whacking it up into little portions for us. Very nice. And sooo good. Juicey! Rip the stalk off with your teeth like a panda. Break off a hunk and chomp down on that sugary juice explosion. Once all pulp is sucked dry, spit. Mastering this technique is a major accomplishment of my time here.
We hiked first through beutiful tea plantations with flamboyant trees scattered throughout (actually their names). We walked until 4 in the afternoon, up and up. We passed a man pushing his bicycle up. I don't know how these bikes can help them. You push them up up up and then coming down, well, none of them have brakes, so really how fast can you go? Well, I took mercy on the poor chap and helped him steer (the easier job) while he pushed from behind. He got a kick out of my helping him and let loose this hilarious Hannah Barbara laugh: hyuck! hyuck! hyuck!
We passed this drunken man sprawled on the side of the road with two children nearby. He seemed harmless until he lunged at my puppy shouting: 'MY DOG!!!!' MY DOG!!!' We managed to lose the guy with a little help from our guide. The man was the hungry giant in the fairy tale of our hike into magical lands.
Finally we made it to the queen's home real tuckered out. Cooba makes friends with the black and white dog who was awful frisky for a new friend. There would have been no way to know this was a queen. No special clothes. She chopped the wood for our bath and brought us our food. The only thing that denoted her status was the negotiation of price for climbing the mountain (unexpected), and her leading the ceremony to have the spirits protect us as we climbed.
The mountain is said to be the origin of the people there; kind of a Garden of Eden.
Anyhow, we did a job of integrating in. Audi gave out stickers. There were quite a few kids about. They played an ancient cassette that periodically slowed to halt. We danced and played with them. I helped some with chopping wood. My persisentece earned me a smile from the queen which was not easily won. She was, I can't resist the pun, an ice queen. None too friendly.
But still! A Queen! Probably the only one I'll ever meet. When we gave her our offerrings of alchol and corn meal I tried to add a bit of humility with a bow and holding both hands out with gifts. Very cool.
So, that's the skinny! I'm receiving my good friend Carolyn from Romania this Tuesday with more adventures to follow.
Regards to you all!
MC
Well, first off is me puppy. It's a she. Her name is Cooba which means 'to steal' in N'dau. She was found in our front yard and taken in. She quickly stole our hearts. This is the first time I've had a dog of my own, so I'm quite the proud father. I've been feeling that role sincerely since I've traveled many miles with her in cramped buses. If you travel with anything that shits and doesn't have its legs tied together, you'll end up feeling like a parent. I wonder if the guys who tie their goats legs up or chicken's legs up and shove them under seats might not have the right idea. Wow. Do I sound like a bad parent. I gave Cooba the opposite treatment, cuddling her for the 48 hour round trip and giving her bits of chicken and boiled eggs. She only pooped in the bus once and I think she was ready to jump out the window to avoid doing that. So, I'll take the blame on that one.
So, the first 100 km walk. It originated in Mangunde at my friend Ian's site. We walked through the 'mato' (outback) for two days straight heading for a fourth of July party in Dombe. Why do it? Everyone asked upon arrival. Simple. Glory. All of us had major blisters but were emboldened by our accomplishment. Out on the trails all the women wore headscarves and more then a few would bow to the ground when we passed. Obviously, Portuguese wasn't spoken as much way out.
Hiking the mountain was good ol' fun with my friend Alexandra Breedlove. I had over 15 people ask me for my dog. Cute at first, but then the children with their knifes became a little threatening. I soon saw what the knives were for when I bought from the road side a sugarcane stalk. The boy started whacking it up into little portions for us. Very nice. And sooo good. Juicey! Rip the stalk off with your teeth like a panda. Break off a hunk and chomp down on that sugary juice explosion. Once all pulp is sucked dry, spit. Mastering this technique is a major accomplishment of my time here.
We hiked first through beutiful tea plantations with flamboyant trees scattered throughout (actually their names). We walked until 4 in the afternoon, up and up. We passed a man pushing his bicycle up. I don't know how these bikes can help them. You push them up up up and then coming down, well, none of them have brakes, so really how fast can you go? Well, I took mercy on the poor chap and helped him steer (the easier job) while he pushed from behind. He got a kick out of my helping him and let loose this hilarious Hannah Barbara laugh: hyuck! hyuck! hyuck!
We passed this drunken man sprawled on the side of the road with two children nearby. He seemed harmless until he lunged at my puppy shouting: 'MY DOG!!!!' MY DOG!!!' We managed to lose the guy with a little help from our guide. The man was the hungry giant in the fairy tale of our hike into magical lands.
Finally we made it to the queen's home real tuckered out. Cooba makes friends with the black and white dog who was awful frisky for a new friend. There would have been no way to know this was a queen. No special clothes. She chopped the wood for our bath and brought us our food. The only thing that denoted her status was the negotiation of price for climbing the mountain (unexpected), and her leading the ceremony to have the spirits protect us as we climbed.
The mountain is said to be the origin of the people there; kind of a Garden of Eden.
Anyhow, we did a job of integrating in. Audi gave out stickers. There were quite a few kids about. They played an ancient cassette that periodically slowed to halt. We danced and played with them. I helped some with chopping wood. My persisentece earned me a smile from the queen which was not easily won. She was, I can't resist the pun, an ice queen. None too friendly.
But still! A Queen! Probably the only one I'll ever meet. When we gave her our offerrings of alchol and corn meal I tried to add a bit of humility with a bow and holding both hands out with gifts. Very cool.
So, that's the skinny! I'm receiving my good friend Carolyn from Romania this Tuesday with more adventures to follow.
Regards to you all!
MC
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The Scary Fart & Balloon Frenzy
Phew. Really, I'm quite anxious in this nascent hope of mine, expressed in the preceding blog to even publicize this latest blog posting or email it out to everyone, in case the way becomes blocked. I am hoping the fervour of my interest will clear the way and it may bring me into contact with the contacts I need to become of use, and that they'll be receptive to my initiative.
But.
I had different aims for writing a blog before 4 am this morning. And so, I may return to that initiative, which is to recall to memory some of the interesting anecdotes and reflections that illustrate my life here. They accumulate and coalesce into ideas and perspectives that are later often forgotten. I hope to amend that.
Two Stories
1. The Scary Fart
I read tons here in Mozambique. It's a singular gift to have the time to do so. I once wrote a blog that I felt was rather clever, how Machanga, so rich in time, need export it to areas of the globe that are poverty stricken for time. Hours upon hours could be exported to all of you back home who lack the time to say, read.
One of the books I read fired my passion for running like never before. It's all about ultra running. Anyhow, I'm getting far adrift. The story is that I was out running, doing a two hour jog. I've grown accustommed to running as dusk falls and my return trip is always under a vast starry sky that's really quite brilliant. Running is one of the best things in Peace Corps, apart from reading.
Padding along the path, a man was strolling in the same direction. As anyone of you who jogs knows, running causes farts. As I came abreast of him, about to pass him, one sneaked out and startled him so. He jumped. Now, I at one point was a professional at various Haunted Houses and have scared many a poor soul. But never with a fart. I guess he didn't hear me coming.
Part II: N'diano Wafota?
And so, sorry for having scared him, it occurred to me make light of the event. I asked him as I jogged away, in local dialect: 'Who farted?' N'diana wafota? Mac and I have learned this as the only joke we ever need learn in N'dau. It always gets a laugh. Apparently word from students has spread about our little joke.
Farting is not a big part of the culture here. In fact, it is frowned upon. But, we muzungus can get away with such high jinks. Please keep in mind, most of this are jokes originate in our home with nary an expectation that it should leave those confines.
The only person I know who cuts em' like Mac is my brother. Seriously, these two could make a Pen & Teller routine with farts instead of magic and it'd be pure comedy. Mac particulary enjoys blaming them on our Club Muzungu VIP guests: Antonio (age 8) or Tujo (age 7). Joao derives particular enjoyment out of this game and has expressed on more then a few occassions his certainty that it was, in fact, Mac who dealt it (always quite obviously the case). Anyhow, that's how we came to ask Hassan, our empregado, how to ask: 'Who farted?' in N'dau. Upon learning it, we shared our newfound ability to converse in our local language with our teenage neighbors. No more need be done. Word has spread like a wildfire caught by farted flame.
Mac in town had a man from the other side the street shout this question at him, laughing all the while. I met a guy on the canoe who asked me the question. It's the equivalent of us all quoting the funniest superbowl commericial quip at work. I know I should not be proud of this, and is not what Peace Corps has in mind in spreading American Culture. But, it is gratifying to know that a good fart joke cuts across all cultures. Cuts. Hmm.
Anyhow, Story 2.
I learned in Romania, teaching at kindergartens, that giving balloons to kids = popularity. And so I've stockpiled a nice collection of balloons from the big Shoprite here in Chimoio. Now, I've used these balloons as well as stickers to distribute to the kids at school. Mind you, I teach 11th grade. But, never having had access to such things, their joy in such insignificant prizes is without shame. I had a neighbor (who has a laugh like a hyena), a former student of mine (age 19), show up and ask for a balloon. What color does he pick? Pink. What do you want it for? I ask him. 'For my room,' he tells me. Adorable. It's the impossible cultural gap that prevents me from explaining how wanting a pink balloon for his room in no way detracts from him his masculinity as a normal, quite cool, 19 year old guy.
So, I'll often hand these balloons out to the kids. Now, Mac and I agree that we are fond of two types of kids. 1. The cute little babies. Not so much the-not-so cute babies, however. There are enough babies around that you start to become a little discerning, and clearly, superficial. Seriously. In our small community of some 20 professors there are over 6 new borns and as many 1-2 year olds. But, then there's the outlier, like Gisele, our little starlet who, while not the cutest gerber baby, hates us because we are white and hates anyone to pick her up. Everyone loves a challenge, so Mac and I have endeavoured to win over Gisele's little heart, despite her below average baby looks. Then there is type 2. The 7 year olds and up. They have just enough social conditioning to make their company pleasent if not tolerable.
But anything in between 2 and 7 and they're just in the way and messing up and breaking your things all the while chattering in circles about some barely inchoerent story or request. They rove around in gangs like 'The Little Rascals.' They have no supervision. Where are they going? You don't know. What will happen when one of them falls down a well? Best hope that Lassie comes barking, and isn't run off with stones pelted after him. So, these kids roll on up looking for hand outs and want to show off to their friends that they're the Muzungu's best friend, and most of all they want to touch all your stuff and find out how to break it or win it from you.
So, being the friendly Muzungu ambassador to all children everywhere, friend of dogs, compassionate soul, showing that we of the adult world need not shun these outcasts to society invite these children to take of colorful bag of magic making balloons. First there is joy: BALLOONS! MR. MICAH IS THE HERO OF THE WORLD! BALLOONS! HOORAH!
Quickly word spreads that free balloons are being distributed and older brothers and sisters return with their younger less cognizant siblings to cue up. I'll blow them up and tie them. Then, of course they blow away in the wind and as balloons are apt to do, pop. I know they have popped because the crying is carried along by the wind. Shortly thereafter I hear fighting as they try to liberate a younger child's balloon through begging, borrowing, or stealing. When this fails, there comes the knock on the door. The sound of fighting comes nearer. Now the word becomes a lament, or an righteous indignant call: 'BALLOON! BALLOON!' I open the door to hear the too sorry tale of one little child, who, ever so sadly, you understand, no longer has his balloon. And now the quandry: do I replace said balloon? After all, these things happen and will continue to happen, and really, how much do I prize my populartiy amongst these children? And so I'll relent and the process begins again and continues for the next week. It earns me some unbidden hand holding, which is very nice, but not quite worth making balloon distribution day more then a bi-monthly event. After all, it seems to inspire equal parts joy and sorrow. It is a strange God like feeling.
But.
I had different aims for writing a blog before 4 am this morning. And so, I may return to that initiative, which is to recall to memory some of the interesting anecdotes and reflections that illustrate my life here. They accumulate and coalesce into ideas and perspectives that are later often forgotten. I hope to amend that.
Two Stories
1. The Scary Fart
I read tons here in Mozambique. It's a singular gift to have the time to do so. I once wrote a blog that I felt was rather clever, how Machanga, so rich in time, need export it to areas of the globe that are poverty stricken for time. Hours upon hours could be exported to all of you back home who lack the time to say, read.
One of the books I read fired my passion for running like never before. It's all about ultra running. Anyhow, I'm getting far adrift. The story is that I was out running, doing a two hour jog. I've grown accustommed to running as dusk falls and my return trip is always under a vast starry sky that's really quite brilliant. Running is one of the best things in Peace Corps, apart from reading.
Padding along the path, a man was strolling in the same direction. As anyone of you who jogs knows, running causes farts. As I came abreast of him, about to pass him, one sneaked out and startled him so. He jumped. Now, I at one point was a professional at various Haunted Houses and have scared many a poor soul. But never with a fart. I guess he didn't hear me coming.
Part II: N'diano Wafota?
And so, sorry for having scared him, it occurred to me make light of the event. I asked him as I jogged away, in local dialect: 'Who farted?' N'diana wafota? Mac and I have learned this as the only joke we ever need learn in N'dau. It always gets a laugh. Apparently word from students has spread about our little joke.
Farting is not a big part of the culture here. In fact, it is frowned upon. But, we muzungus can get away with such high jinks. Please keep in mind, most of this are jokes originate in our home with nary an expectation that it should leave those confines.
The only person I know who cuts em' like Mac is my brother. Seriously, these two could make a Pen & Teller routine with farts instead of magic and it'd be pure comedy. Mac particulary enjoys blaming them on our Club Muzungu VIP guests: Antonio (age 8) or Tujo (age 7). Joao derives particular enjoyment out of this game and has expressed on more then a few occassions his certainty that it was, in fact, Mac who dealt it (always quite obviously the case). Anyhow, that's how we came to ask Hassan, our empregado, how to ask: 'Who farted?' in N'dau. Upon learning it, we shared our newfound ability to converse in our local language with our teenage neighbors. No more need be done. Word has spread like a wildfire caught by farted flame.
Mac in town had a man from the other side the street shout this question at him, laughing all the while. I met a guy on the canoe who asked me the question. It's the equivalent of us all quoting the funniest superbowl commericial quip at work. I know I should not be proud of this, and is not what Peace Corps has in mind in spreading American Culture. But, it is gratifying to know that a good fart joke cuts across all cultures. Cuts. Hmm.
Anyhow, Story 2.
I learned in Romania, teaching at kindergartens, that giving balloons to kids = popularity. And so I've stockpiled a nice collection of balloons from the big Shoprite here in Chimoio. Now, I've used these balloons as well as stickers to distribute to the kids at school. Mind you, I teach 11th grade. But, never having had access to such things, their joy in such insignificant prizes is without shame. I had a neighbor (who has a laugh like a hyena), a former student of mine (age 19), show up and ask for a balloon. What color does he pick? Pink. What do you want it for? I ask him. 'For my room,' he tells me. Adorable. It's the impossible cultural gap that prevents me from explaining how wanting a pink balloon for his room in no way detracts from him his masculinity as a normal, quite cool, 19 year old guy.
So, I'll often hand these balloons out to the kids. Now, Mac and I agree that we are fond of two types of kids. 1. The cute little babies. Not so much the-not-so cute babies, however. There are enough babies around that you start to become a little discerning, and clearly, superficial. Seriously. In our small community of some 20 professors there are over 6 new borns and as many 1-2 year olds. But, then there's the outlier, like Gisele, our little starlet who, while not the cutest gerber baby, hates us because we are white and hates anyone to pick her up. Everyone loves a challenge, so Mac and I have endeavoured to win over Gisele's little heart, despite her below average baby looks. Then there is type 2. The 7 year olds and up. They have just enough social conditioning to make their company pleasent if not tolerable.
But anything in between 2 and 7 and they're just in the way and messing up and breaking your things all the while chattering in circles about some barely inchoerent story or request. They rove around in gangs like 'The Little Rascals.' They have no supervision. Where are they going? You don't know. What will happen when one of them falls down a well? Best hope that Lassie comes barking, and isn't run off with stones pelted after him. So, these kids roll on up looking for hand outs and want to show off to their friends that they're the Muzungu's best friend, and most of all they want to touch all your stuff and find out how to break it or win it from you.
So, being the friendly Muzungu ambassador to all children everywhere, friend of dogs, compassionate soul, showing that we of the adult world need not shun these outcasts to society invite these children to take of colorful bag of magic making balloons. First there is joy: BALLOONS! MR. MICAH IS THE HERO OF THE WORLD! BALLOONS! HOORAH!
Quickly word spreads that free balloons are being distributed and older brothers and sisters return with their younger less cognizant siblings to cue up. I'll blow them up and tie them. Then, of course they blow away in the wind and as balloons are apt to do, pop. I know they have popped because the crying is carried along by the wind. Shortly thereafter I hear fighting as they try to liberate a younger child's balloon through begging, borrowing, or stealing. When this fails, there comes the knock on the door. The sound of fighting comes nearer. Now the word becomes a lament, or an righteous indignant call: 'BALLOON! BALLOON!' I open the door to hear the too sorry tale of one little child, who, ever so sadly, you understand, no longer has his balloon. And now the quandry: do I replace said balloon? After all, these things happen and will continue to happen, and really, how much do I prize my populartiy amongst these children? And so I'll relent and the process begins again and continues for the next week. It earns me some unbidden hand holding, which is very nice, but not quite worth making balloon distribution day more then a bi-monthly event. After all, it seems to inspire equal parts joy and sorrow. It is a strange God like feeling.
A Significant Night
Hello again. It's been a month long interval since I last wrote and I'm feeling more then a bit of regret at having been so out of touch with family and friends. My family raised me in love of the kind that does not suffer distance easily. I frankly sought out isolation of a kind coming here. I wanted to become 'unplugged,' as it were and in the first few months at site seeing the emails in my inbox dwindle seemed a most natural and even liberating thing. However, of late, it occurs to me just how much time has gone by without my even sending word to loved ones their importance in my life. Third goal of Peace Corps is to tell the outside world about our work, about this country's culture, to help make the world a smaller place. I've for too long now used inaccessible internet and lack of resources as an excuse to ignore this third goal, and to remain out of touch with those who have such an important role in my life. That being said, all of you reading this, please know you are in my thoughts and that I hold you in love.
It's 4 am and I'm in a rude state. Rude may not be the word. Agitated is neither the word. Something like a pain, an aching that nothing is being done. Of course a clarification is merited.
I'm in Chimoiu where is located our Peace Corps office and an internet that doesn't quit and comes like strong waves in a western city hooked into the 21st century. And yet Chimoiu has become for me a symbol of poverty and neglect the kind that ought make anyone in ownership of a car here, blush. We volunteers have sufferred a variety of crime here. Home invasions. Rape. Muggings. Police incompetence. A police force with so little resources that they need borrow phone credit from you to make a phone call. Never mind a car of their own. Everytime I've come to Chimoio I'm beset by beggars. I've grown too good at ignoring them. Each time I resolve to buy fruit to have something, anything to give them that helps. Money never seems the right choice and to ignore them outright seems heartless, though as I said, it's become routine.
For the reasons cited above, it was pertinent for me to walk a colleauge here to the office as her early morning taxi doesn't know our place's address. Walking here we passed a man huddled on the street. I must tell you it is cold here now that the winter has arrived. This poor man. Not so much as a place to rest his head at night.
We met the motorista at the office and as my friend ran upstairs to collect her things I explained our difficulties to him and how struck I am by the problems of this city. I described to him the man we passed, without so much as a blanket to comfort him. The motorista says, 'he was probably drunk.' I said, I hope he was. Perhaps that would help him forget the cold. But irregardless, drunk or no, doesn't everyone have the right to a place where they can lay their head? To warm themselves? To have some compassion from another? Good God.
And so I feel a compulsion. And an anger. And a desire to speak out.
There is an organization Eleos Ministries of whom I'm fortunate to know the husband and wife who are its founders. I met them in Romania where they've adopted three children who are now young adolescents. Ed travels around the world trying to awaken the spirit of God in others that the Bible teaches us to love those who are in need. Their message is a simple one and it is one of love. They run a beautiful gospel outreach to the homeless in London. It is known to its congregants as 'the Church Without Walls.' I'm so fortunate to have their example in a moment like this.
In the community I grew up in, I gained a distinctly negative view of Christians as those who wish to exert their viewpoints on others in a spirit most un-Christian. There is a decidely anti-Christian sentiment out there kept alive and stoked by a few very outspoken misguided souls. They give cause for too many of us to disparage a group of people around the world who commit great acts of compassion as general course.
And too many wish for us all to worship at the altar of reason and evolution when there are people who need some more immediate help. In Romania I met a missionary whose later espoused hatred for Muslims and Gays did not detract for me the power of his message to one very poor little girl: He had her stand up. He directed his finger at her and told her: 'God loves YOU.' I can't imagine the dark tunnel that girl's life may be. But I pray she remembered that man's words. That love cannot be taken away. Caprice, a gentle woman who preached the Gospel in Ocna Mures before it was acceptable, told me when they first arrived a Gypsy told her: 'We didn't know that God loved us.'
Put his political opinions aside, the mans' message of love wasn't some watered down nothing. He gave that little girl a candle that doesn't go out. She is loved. Who will relate that message? Be it Christian, Muslim, Jew, secularist, non believer, coach, what have you. I don't care what your beliefs are if you are showing love in your actions for the person in front of you. The light that doesn't go out. As the great Gay, Harvey Milk said: 'You gotta give 'em hope.'
I don't want to stay in Mozambique. I don't want to make this my life. I get older but these other volunteers stay the same age. I love it here. I am happy in my work. But I have also been doing this five years. I miss friends and family. I miss seeing my nephew grow up. I miss being part of a culture I feel a part of.
But tomorrow I'm seeing if I can't extend if it would mean I can find a church here to help the homeless.
For more info on Ed and Karen's organization visit: http://eleosinternational.org/ There you'll find many stories about the orphanage that I frequented in Ocna Mures: the children there, and the miracles the church has enacted in restoring these children to themselves.
It's 4 am and I'm in a rude state. Rude may not be the word. Agitated is neither the word. Something like a pain, an aching that nothing is being done. Of course a clarification is merited.
I'm in Chimoiu where is located our Peace Corps office and an internet that doesn't quit and comes like strong waves in a western city hooked into the 21st century. And yet Chimoiu has become for me a symbol of poverty and neglect the kind that ought make anyone in ownership of a car here, blush. We volunteers have sufferred a variety of crime here. Home invasions. Rape. Muggings. Police incompetence. A police force with so little resources that they need borrow phone credit from you to make a phone call. Never mind a car of their own. Everytime I've come to Chimoio I'm beset by beggars. I've grown too good at ignoring them. Each time I resolve to buy fruit to have something, anything to give them that helps. Money never seems the right choice and to ignore them outright seems heartless, though as I said, it's become routine.
For the reasons cited above, it was pertinent for me to walk a colleauge here to the office as her early morning taxi doesn't know our place's address. Walking here we passed a man huddled on the street. I must tell you it is cold here now that the winter has arrived. This poor man. Not so much as a place to rest his head at night.
We met the motorista at the office and as my friend ran upstairs to collect her things I explained our difficulties to him and how struck I am by the problems of this city. I described to him the man we passed, without so much as a blanket to comfort him. The motorista says, 'he was probably drunk.' I said, I hope he was. Perhaps that would help him forget the cold. But irregardless, drunk or no, doesn't everyone have the right to a place where they can lay their head? To warm themselves? To have some compassion from another? Good God.
And so I feel a compulsion. And an anger. And a desire to speak out.
There is an organization Eleos Ministries of whom I'm fortunate to know the husband and wife who are its founders. I met them in Romania where they've adopted three children who are now young adolescents. Ed travels around the world trying to awaken the spirit of God in others that the Bible teaches us to love those who are in need. Their message is a simple one and it is one of love. They run a beautiful gospel outreach to the homeless in London. It is known to its congregants as 'the Church Without Walls.' I'm so fortunate to have their example in a moment like this.
In the community I grew up in, I gained a distinctly negative view of Christians as those who wish to exert their viewpoints on others in a spirit most un-Christian. There is a decidely anti-Christian sentiment out there kept alive and stoked by a few very outspoken misguided souls. They give cause for too many of us to disparage a group of people around the world who commit great acts of compassion as general course.
And too many wish for us all to worship at the altar of reason and evolution when there are people who need some more immediate help. In Romania I met a missionary whose later espoused hatred for Muslims and Gays did not detract for me the power of his message to one very poor little girl: He had her stand up. He directed his finger at her and told her: 'God loves YOU.' I can't imagine the dark tunnel that girl's life may be. But I pray she remembered that man's words. That love cannot be taken away. Caprice, a gentle woman who preached the Gospel in Ocna Mures before it was acceptable, told me when they first arrived a Gypsy told her: 'We didn't know that God loved us.'
Put his political opinions aside, the mans' message of love wasn't some watered down nothing. He gave that little girl a candle that doesn't go out. She is loved. Who will relate that message? Be it Christian, Muslim, Jew, secularist, non believer, coach, what have you. I don't care what your beliefs are if you are showing love in your actions for the person in front of you. The light that doesn't go out. As the great Gay, Harvey Milk said: 'You gotta give 'em hope.'
I don't want to stay in Mozambique. I don't want to make this my life. I get older but these other volunteers stay the same age. I love it here. I am happy in my work. But I have also been doing this five years. I miss friends and family. I miss seeing my nephew grow up. I miss being part of a culture I feel a part of.
But tomorrow I'm seeing if I can't extend if it would mean I can find a church here to help the homeless.
For more info on Ed and Karen's organization visit: http://eleosinternational.org/ There you'll find many stories about the orphanage that I frequented in Ocna Mures: the children there, and the miracles the church has enacted in restoring these children to themselves.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Life getting on
If websites were portals, this blog of mine would be the cave in Indiana Jones with cobwebs, dust, and skeletons; sans jewels.
A year and a half into life in Mozambique has seen the romance cool. The honeymoon is over. I was so excited to be returning to Machanga following my trip home to the states, and indeed I am happy to be back. But, the novelty of the place has worn off. The other day after a 5 hour chapa ride that should have taken 3, I awaited the canoe as the sun set. I just wanted to get home. 25 minutes later it arrvied, but the chapa motorista left with a boy to collect his 10 metecais fare. 25 minutes passed and dusk had set. I was ready to pack it in and stay at my friends' hut when he appeared with three other men carrying a freezer which was loaded into the boat. The night was very romantic with the stars reflected in the waters and illuminating the night. I just wanted to get home. The other side, we met students returning home from break who paid extra. We had to bring them back across the river. I stayed in the canoe because well...I didn't get back until 9 at night. Mac and Safiyya must have thought I'd been swallowed by a crocodile. What was remarkable wasn't that I visited new areas of the river or saw my shadow by the light of the moon for the first time, but rather that I didn't care! I had one blah week in which I longed for nothing more then a job stapling papers and weekends to go to TGIF or somewhere else predictable with coworkers to get something deep fried and expensive. Predictability and familiarity. Still, roomate Mac and I agreed this would get old in 2 days or so and we'd be pining for adventure again.
That all being said, there's still highs. I had a volunteer visit my site and as we left I realized we'd stopped countless times to speak to students or former students, all of whom I introduced without thinking: 'This is one of my best students!' I was really impressed at the connections I'd amassed and the real fondness I feel for those students.
That's that for now. Hope you're all living well and walking lots.
Oh. And books. I need tell you of the great books I've read here. Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Beautifully written, well constructed, vivid characters. I read 'All the King's Men,' again, great characters and beautiful writing, and some pretty heavy themes. I read Vonnegaut's Cat's Cradle. Cute and just a little tragic. I read a woman's letters from a holocaust deportment camp in Holland called Letters from Westerbrook. She still found life to be beautiful despite the awfulness about her. Her last letter thrown from the train said she and her parents left the camp singing. I read too about Percy Fawcett who cut his way through the Amazon Rainforest seeking a lost civilization. He disappeared but left countless followers who followed him into the jungle hoping to find what happened to him. It fired the imagination and impressed me with the man's courage and grit. I'm reading Tale of Two Cities by Dickens which so far has some incredible descriptions of the squalor, filth and lawlessness of Paris in late 1700s. And this weekend two Great, great movies: The Fighter with Mark Walberg, and True Grit with Matt Damon and Jeff Bridges. Fantastic. Inspiring. Now I've got to get to my writing.
Hope y'all is fine and dandy and I do hope to write again sooner then later. You all deserve something a bit more poetic and sincere.
My love and regards to you all.
A year and a half into life in Mozambique has seen the romance cool. The honeymoon is over. I was so excited to be returning to Machanga following my trip home to the states, and indeed I am happy to be back. But, the novelty of the place has worn off. The other day after a 5 hour chapa ride that should have taken 3, I awaited the canoe as the sun set. I just wanted to get home. 25 minutes later it arrvied, but the chapa motorista left with a boy to collect his 10 metecais fare. 25 minutes passed and dusk had set. I was ready to pack it in and stay at my friends' hut when he appeared with three other men carrying a freezer which was loaded into the boat. The night was very romantic with the stars reflected in the waters and illuminating the night. I just wanted to get home. The other side, we met students returning home from break who paid extra. We had to bring them back across the river. I stayed in the canoe because well...I didn't get back until 9 at night. Mac and Safiyya must have thought I'd been swallowed by a crocodile. What was remarkable wasn't that I visited new areas of the river or saw my shadow by the light of the moon for the first time, but rather that I didn't care! I had one blah week in which I longed for nothing more then a job stapling papers and weekends to go to TGIF or somewhere else predictable with coworkers to get something deep fried and expensive. Predictability and familiarity. Still, roomate Mac and I agreed this would get old in 2 days or so and we'd be pining for adventure again.
That all being said, there's still highs. I had a volunteer visit my site and as we left I realized we'd stopped countless times to speak to students or former students, all of whom I introduced without thinking: 'This is one of my best students!' I was really impressed at the connections I'd amassed and the real fondness I feel for those students.
That's that for now. Hope you're all living well and walking lots.
Oh. And books. I need tell you of the great books I've read here. Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Beautifully written, well constructed, vivid characters. I read 'All the King's Men,' again, great characters and beautiful writing, and some pretty heavy themes. I read Vonnegaut's Cat's Cradle. Cute and just a little tragic. I read a woman's letters from a holocaust deportment camp in Holland called Letters from Westerbrook. She still found life to be beautiful despite the awfulness about her. Her last letter thrown from the train said she and her parents left the camp singing. I read too about Percy Fawcett who cut his way through the Amazon Rainforest seeking a lost civilization. He disappeared but left countless followers who followed him into the jungle hoping to find what happened to him. It fired the imagination and impressed me with the man's courage and grit. I'm reading Tale of Two Cities by Dickens which so far has some incredible descriptions of the squalor, filth and lawlessness of Paris in late 1700s. And this weekend two Great, great movies: The Fighter with Mark Walberg, and True Grit with Matt Damon and Jeff Bridges. Fantastic. Inspiring. Now I've got to get to my writing.
Hope y'all is fine and dandy and I do hope to write again sooner then later. You all deserve something a bit more poetic and sincere.
My love and regards to you all.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Back in Moz
Hello from the other side of 2012!
We’re all in this New Year together so let’s make the best of it: Kick some butt & take some names.
I’m back in Mozambique for my second year. Got back from the states after a whirlwind trip home that covered Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. Thanks to Peace Corps who made it all possible. Thanks to Moms & Dads who flew me down to Florida and paid for innumerable meals and movies out nevermind use of their vehicles. Thanks to Jame for insisting I need new shoes and to Dad who insisted I return to the use of underarm deodorant. And thanks for all you who made the effort to make it down to Old Saybrook to see old Micah Carbonneau.
Some highlights of the past few weeks include meeting the new roommate Mac, who in this very short year has proved to be the most positive person I’ve met thus far. He is so excited to be in Peace Corps in Machanga. To quote him: “My excitement is going to explode!”
He’s a runner like me, so already we’ve hit the roads making for an unstoppable Muzungu attraction. Our first jog out, we had in the course of a 35 minute jog over 30 people join, mostly women and children. One woman had a baby on her back bouncing. Another was was a child with a bandaged foot.
Mac is huge, blond and as friendly a public relations figure as South Carolina could produce. He is gregarious and earnest and damned determined to improve his already capable Portuguese and get a handle on the local language. (he already knows how to ask: ‘Who farted?’ in N’dau) There’s a funny story how that little gem was acquired. All that and he still gets down on himself that he’s not doing enough. That’s your typical Peace Corps Volunteer for you. So, he’s been a big inspiration.
Looking back on my trip home I’d more then a few special memories and excellent dos. I gave Jesse a few baths, we all saw the Muppet Movie together and had ourselves a Dance Party to the BeetleJuice Soundtrack: “Jump in the line! Rock your body in Time! Okay! I believe you!”
I visited the Wadsworth & New Britian Musuem of Art, did Yoga in Brattleboro, VT, skied for the first time in 10 years, and saw War Horse, Tintin, Super 8, & Hugo. Mom & I went kayaking and bicycling in Florida, I ate copious amounts of pizza, and saw more n’a few good friends including the Testermans and the Roesella’s.
Some sad news: A few days before Christmas I got word that two volunteers in Mozambique were killed in a car accident. Two other volunteers were in the car with them, one was from my group. He suffered a major concussion and back spinal injuries, and the other escaped unharmed. They had hitchhiked in the afternoon, the car was new, only the driver was going too fast and didn’t make a corner forcing a roll over. The two women aged 22 and 23 were from Mac’s group and had only been at their new sites for less then a week.
Our country director went over at my group’s mid service conference last week details of the crash and its aftermath. Their coffins were draped in the flag and each step of their flight back to the states was accompanied by a Peace Corps official. The outpouring of support from the embassy, the expat community, the staff, and volunteers has been very moving. It is a tragedy but one of the risks we take. I and other volunteers who never met these colleagues could not help but be affected. We’re a pretty big family here. And it's a period of our lives that force us to grow and rely on one another a good deal. Some of the new volunteers are quite shook up. The one volunteer who survived the crash is eager to return and I understand the mother of one of the women is eager to come to Mozambique to meet her daughter's host family and see the community where she would have served.
When I was home I was asked often what I’d do following Peace Corps. An occurrence like this strengthens my belief in the organization. It forced me to consider the purpose of my mission here: to serve others and live as they do with all inherent dangers. It is nothing compared to service in the Army where death is an expected element of service.
Back home, this being my fourth year abroad, I realized I no longer identify myself as uniquely American. I’ve had four years to identify myself with a broader community of Romanians, Mozambicans, expats, missionaries, and international service workers, and it’s compelling work. I’m less certain I want to live my life in the states, but of course everything changes.
I am trying to further investigate jobs in the Peace Corps. And still I feel compelled to work in Hartford. But, if it’s between anywhere USA and abroad, I’d likely go abroad. Of course my first consideration is work and family. Fortunately, these past years I've been home to see family once a year. I doubt I could go any longer than that. Nothing is more important then family.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Lynch Mobs and philosophical tangents
Here's an old blog that I was hesitant to post. It's called 'The Dark Side of Poverty.' Maybe you're thinking: poverty has a light side? At the end of the post, I'll share my thoughts as to poverty's 'light.'
The Dark Side of poverty: I've learned recently that in the big cities, crime is dealt with by lynch mobs. My students tell me they've all seen a lynching. Theft is crime #1. When the police do nothing, the people take justice into their own hands. Patrick traveled to South America during college and he told me they burn thieves there, so it's something rather common, I think, in unorganized parts of the world. It is horrifying, but I've been working to get an angle on it. What I gather is that I can't understand how horrifying it is to live in a world where your only possessions are clothes and food living without any protections from bullies and neer do wells. Like all evil, the evil paid in retribution pulls the good people down. Ordinary good people turn into a righteous mob ready to serve retribution with sticks, petrol, tires, and a match. It's hard to understand such rage without knowing the conditions that foster it. So, that's my limitation, the cultural barrier: class.
What reassures me is 'Normal Goodness.' Everyday people do incredible things when no one is watching. Where is the person who finding a wallet full of money returns it without thinking to take a dollar? Where is the mother who rocks her crying infant into the night, sacrificing her rest to give her child comfort? Where is the person who gives up their chair on the bus for the elderly? I think of men on the titanic who let women onto the life boats, because it was their duty to die so the women and children might live. People do right because they are good, and it are these small actions that uphold humanity and such goodness gives me immense reassurance.
Poverty's 'Light'
Oscar Wilde said: 'The poor don't know how idylic they are.'
This belief is borne out by pastoral paintings in banks and boardrooms of cows and farms, old houses, 'simpler times.'
I think there is widespread fear that our society has grown too complex or materialistic for its own good. I fear my blog may make friends and family guilty for having technological tools and guilty pleasures. It's the: 'children are starving in Africa and China,' deal.
I've tried hard to steer from that angle. Pity and guilt are more likely to atrophy will and blunt insight. Compassion and laughter on the other hand reveal our common humanity. That's what I hope you come away with from these reflections.
A less controversial persepective to take is 'simple vs. complex.' It's easier to be objective in that guise.
Some anecdotes:
An elderly woman I walked with to a Christmas stroll tripped on a new driveway's lip and bloodied herself. An ambulance and paramedics were on the scene in less then 5 minutes with a hydraulic stretcher and an ambulance with head room. Cones were set up that night and before the week was out, cement had been laid by the town to smooth the lip.
My father told a story about his dryer crapping out a year after purchase, one week after the warranty expired. He had to pay to have it repaired. Later he learned there was a class action lawsuit against the company for the common malfunction his dryer experienced. He got all his money back for the repairs from the suit.
I took a bus ride and had wifi access and a seatbelt. I navigated from Brattleboro VT to Hartford to Old Saybrook CT and was picked up by a waiting technician to drive me to my father's car's dealership.
Coordination and systems abound. Certainly they fail more often then succeed, but there are much higher standards of accountability and more efforts invested to see that success is finally reached.
Not Machanga.
There they don't get pissed off about broken dryers because they don't have dryers. There they don't navigate all across creation and need web access while en route because everyone they need to contact is in their community a walk away. They don't have seat belts in their buses because no class action lawsuit or government initiative is encouraging people to 'buckle up!' And there they don't have police or systems funded that can ensure your possessions aren't stolen. Nevermind those more pernicious crimes of molestation, sexual harrasment, and rape.
But, you don't have to pity the people 'there' or admire them. Just love them as you love the people in front of you and next to you because of the beauty and imperfection of us all. Decency is always a simple human characteristic and an enduring one and is totally divorced from location, time, and race. That's why they call it 'common decency.' It's everywhere.
The Dark Side of poverty: I've learned recently that in the big cities, crime is dealt with by lynch mobs. My students tell me they've all seen a lynching. Theft is crime #1. When the police do nothing, the people take justice into their own hands. Patrick traveled to South America during college and he told me they burn thieves there, so it's something rather common, I think, in unorganized parts of the world. It is horrifying, but I've been working to get an angle on it. What I gather is that I can't understand how horrifying it is to live in a world where your only possessions are clothes and food living without any protections from bullies and neer do wells. Like all evil, the evil paid in retribution pulls the good people down. Ordinary good people turn into a righteous mob ready to serve retribution with sticks, petrol, tires, and a match. It's hard to understand such rage without knowing the conditions that foster it. So, that's my limitation, the cultural barrier: class.
What reassures me is 'Normal Goodness.' Everyday people do incredible things when no one is watching. Where is the person who finding a wallet full of money returns it without thinking to take a dollar? Where is the mother who rocks her crying infant into the night, sacrificing her rest to give her child comfort? Where is the person who gives up their chair on the bus for the elderly? I think of men on the titanic who let women onto the life boats, because it was their duty to die so the women and children might live. People do right because they are good, and it are these small actions that uphold humanity and such goodness gives me immense reassurance.
Poverty's 'Light'
Oscar Wilde said: 'The poor don't know how idylic they are.'
This belief is borne out by pastoral paintings in banks and boardrooms of cows and farms, old houses, 'simpler times.'
I think there is widespread fear that our society has grown too complex or materialistic for its own good. I fear my blog may make friends and family guilty for having technological tools and guilty pleasures. It's the: 'children are starving in Africa and China,' deal.
I've tried hard to steer from that angle. Pity and guilt are more likely to atrophy will and blunt insight. Compassion and laughter on the other hand reveal our common humanity. That's what I hope you come away with from these reflections.
A less controversial persepective to take is 'simple vs. complex.' It's easier to be objective in that guise.
Some anecdotes:
An elderly woman I walked with to a Christmas stroll tripped on a new driveway's lip and bloodied herself. An ambulance and paramedics were on the scene in less then 5 minutes with a hydraulic stretcher and an ambulance with head room. Cones were set up that night and before the week was out, cement had been laid by the town to smooth the lip.
My father told a story about his dryer crapping out a year after purchase, one week after the warranty expired. He had to pay to have it repaired. Later he learned there was a class action lawsuit against the company for the common malfunction his dryer experienced. He got all his money back for the repairs from the suit.
I took a bus ride and had wifi access and a seatbelt. I navigated from Brattleboro VT to Hartford to Old Saybrook CT and was picked up by a waiting technician to drive me to my father's car's dealership.
Coordination and systems abound. Certainly they fail more often then succeed, but there are much higher standards of accountability and more efforts invested to see that success is finally reached.
Not Machanga.
There they don't get pissed off about broken dryers because they don't have dryers. There they don't navigate all across creation and need web access while en route because everyone they need to contact is in their community a walk away. They don't have seat belts in their buses because no class action lawsuit or government initiative is encouraging people to 'buckle up!' And there they don't have police or systems funded that can ensure your possessions aren't stolen. Nevermind those more pernicious crimes of molestation, sexual harrasment, and rape.
But, you don't have to pity the people 'there' or admire them. Just love them as you love the people in front of you and next to you because of the beauty and imperfection of us all. Decency is always a simple human characteristic and an enduring one and is totally divorced from location, time, and race. That's why they call it 'common decency.' It's everywhere.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Well, I ought to have begun this blog as my bus pulled out the station, but now we're already on the highway, no time to be nostalgic for my father's city of Hartford. I'm already passing the dump.
I'm writing you from a situation that couldn't be further from my Mozambican experience. I sit on a greyhound bus heading to Vermont with a notebook laptop plugged in accessing the bus' wireless system.
I went through all the brochures boasting Hartford's cultural wealth. I ran into a guy who I may have known at one point from days in the Center. He's on hard times, but didn't ask for help which I was expecting. He said it's expensive to live everywhere. I told him: 'not everywhere.' I spend 10 dollars a week on food .
Coming home, I hear talk about the economy's weakness. I lament that people are out of work. I'm still very cushioned from the slings and arrows of fortune. Poverty is of course a question of perspective. I hesitate to draw any comparisons between the 'hard times' here and those I've seen abroad. I hope I'll always remember that no matter how lost I feel in the future that there are those with much less.
Otherwise, home's all right. Hope you all are gearing up for the holidays and enjoying the love of family and friends as we move into the holiday season.
My wishes of health and serenity to you all.
mc
I'm writing you from a situation that couldn't be further from my Mozambican experience. I sit on a greyhound bus heading to Vermont with a notebook laptop plugged in accessing the bus' wireless system.
I went through all the brochures boasting Hartford's cultural wealth. I ran into a guy who I may have known at one point from days in the Center. He's on hard times, but didn't ask for help which I was expecting. He said it's expensive to live everywhere. I told him: 'not everywhere.' I spend 10 dollars a week on food .
Coming home, I hear talk about the economy's weakness. I lament that people are out of work. I'm still very cushioned from the slings and arrows of fortune. Poverty is of course a question of perspective. I hesitate to draw any comparisons between the 'hard times' here and those I've seen abroad. I hope I'll always remember that no matter how lost I feel in the future that there are those with much less.
Otherwise, home's all right. Hope you all are gearing up for the holidays and enjoying the love of family and friends as we move into the holiday season.
My wishes of health and serenity to you all.
mc
Friday, December 2, 2011
Part III Back Home
Part III Return to the good ol' USA
'In Romania, I've learned to live with lowered standards. In Mozambique, I've learned to live without.'
This is a line I've used a few times, and it's a statement I'm testing this trip home. How much can I preserve my viewpoint and adopted way of life surrounded by all that America is?
Catching connecting flights, I began to notice more and more passengers speaking English. Kind of like noticing the water temperature slowly change.
I've decided it is hard to travel and look well groomed. Travelers are unkempt people. It's too difficult trying to walk out the pages of GQ magazine onto a plane with all your crap in tow. I struck upon a nice costume for traveling. . I'd bought a giant basket the shape of those hats worn in Vietnamese rice paddies. The easiest way to carry it was on my head. Everyone from the kids on the street I passed in Vilanculos, sweating, hauling my butt to the airport on foot, to the women hawking credit card subscriptions in Atlanta, loved the hat. All you need then, is something slightly ridiculous. On my trip back to Africa, maybe clown shoes?
Last trip home I was trying only to get ready for the next step. This trip home I'm hoping to actually reach out to friends. But, not been able to since Jame, Cristy, and nephew Jesse are in town.
There are the predictable highlights: cheese, pizza, & coke. A muppets movie with popcorn and killing machines with the lobby's video game 'Terminator Salvation.' My parents organized a party for family and family friends that was like stepping onto a hug carousel. Other highlights include last night's giving my nephew a bath and listening to Al Green for the first time in 3 years.
Adjustments: walking into the Stop & Shop I noticed the potato chip bags have gotten bigger. The bakery there is filled with delectable treats. The shelves were arm deep, stacked with cans, cookies, plastic things, ice cream, nuts, chocolate....I'm flabbergasted that our economy can support this much stuff. How does this store not go out of business having so much capitol tied up into cupcakes and bread stuff that goes bad after a day and 1/2? I can see how there's an obesity epidemic. There's just too much good food around and it's too cheap! I wanna get fat too!
It seems that forces, like those reacting to Environmental Dangers, are gathering, educating people about nutrition, organic options, etc. but it's not happening fast enough.
In Machanga, I don't have a refrigerator: no milk, no cheese, no meat, no problem. With all my condiments, my kitchen compared to other Mozambicans, is intense. Mine, in comparison to kitchens here is a rusty old chevette. I'm cooking dinner for my neighbor this Sunday, and opening her fridge to peruse, she stated: 'I have nothing.' But, oh wow, she had so much!
Also, there's the getting used to driving everywhere. Yesterday I went for an hour and a half walk to staples. That felt good. It would have been a 10 minute round trip drive. Let me tell you, I'm glad I walked. Even though my folks live on kind of a jetty without a lot of traffic, I was still passed by cars every few minutes. Visiting the local gas station, passing the reflective shiny speed signs, getting passed by more cars, entering Staples where there's so much more stuff...I was struck by just how complex life is here. I passed on the way some marshes. Saw some berries I've missed until now and some lumber and other detritus. Those natural systems are awful complex, but our complex systems are pushing them off to the side.
One developing so much faster, changing faster then the other.
'In Romania, I've learned to live with lowered standards. In Mozambique, I've learned to live without.'
This is a line I've used a few times, and it's a statement I'm testing this trip home. How much can I preserve my viewpoint and adopted way of life surrounded by all that America is?
Catching connecting flights, I began to notice more and more passengers speaking English. Kind of like noticing the water temperature slowly change.
I've decided it is hard to travel and look well groomed. Travelers are unkempt people. It's too difficult trying to walk out the pages of GQ magazine onto a plane with all your crap in tow. I struck upon a nice costume for traveling. . I'd bought a giant basket the shape of those hats worn in Vietnamese rice paddies. The easiest way to carry it was on my head. Everyone from the kids on the street I passed in Vilanculos, sweating, hauling my butt to the airport on foot, to the women hawking credit card subscriptions in Atlanta, loved the hat. All you need then, is something slightly ridiculous. On my trip back to Africa, maybe clown shoes?
Last trip home I was trying only to get ready for the next step. This trip home I'm hoping to actually reach out to friends. But, not been able to since Jame, Cristy, and nephew Jesse are in town.
There are the predictable highlights: cheese, pizza, & coke. A muppets movie with popcorn and killing machines with the lobby's video game 'Terminator Salvation.' My parents organized a party for family and family friends that was like stepping onto a hug carousel. Other highlights include last night's giving my nephew a bath and listening to Al Green for the first time in 3 years.
Adjustments: walking into the Stop & Shop I noticed the potato chip bags have gotten bigger. The bakery there is filled with delectable treats. The shelves were arm deep, stacked with cans, cookies, plastic things, ice cream, nuts, chocolate....I'm flabbergasted that our economy can support this much stuff. How does this store not go out of business having so much capitol tied up into cupcakes and bread stuff that goes bad after a day and 1/2? I can see how there's an obesity epidemic. There's just too much good food around and it's too cheap! I wanna get fat too!
It seems that forces, like those reacting to Environmental Dangers, are gathering, educating people about nutrition, organic options, etc. but it's not happening fast enough.
In Machanga, I don't have a refrigerator: no milk, no cheese, no meat, no problem. With all my condiments, my kitchen compared to other Mozambicans, is intense. Mine, in comparison to kitchens here is a rusty old chevette. I'm cooking dinner for my neighbor this Sunday, and opening her fridge to peruse, she stated: 'I have nothing.' But, oh wow, she had so much!
Also, there's the getting used to driving everywhere. Yesterday I went for an hour and a half walk to staples. That felt good. It would have been a 10 minute round trip drive. Let me tell you, I'm glad I walked. Even though my folks live on kind of a jetty without a lot of traffic, I was still passed by cars every few minutes. Visiting the local gas station, passing the reflective shiny speed signs, getting passed by more cars, entering Staples where there's so much more stuff...I was struck by just how complex life is here. I passed on the way some marshes. Saw some berries I've missed until now and some lumber and other detritus. Those natural systems are awful complex, but our complex systems are pushing them off to the side.
One developing so much faster, changing faster then the other.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Part II Tofu Revelation
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.
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.
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
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Time, Travel, Dreams, Memory
I’m back, I’m back, I’m back.
Time, Travel, Dreams, Memory
I arrived in Mozambique in October. I’ve been in Machanga since December. That works out to 10 months in country, and 7 months at site. Coming into the big city today, I was struck by the apartments. After all this time, my eye is accustomed to the mud and straw roof houses that surround our school. Little things remind me that I am not at home.
We pass 6/7, more phone towers. Two of them had smokey cooking fires next to them and women pounding corn. A few cars on the road, and my director exclaimed: ‘lots of traffic Sunday!’ A car races ahead – my thought: ‘What a hurry!’
Travel
Taking a car into Beira is a luxury. Space to stretch my legs. I’m amazed that I missed the chapa – (the bush taxi). My first trip to Beira I was plauged with Scabies attempting to drug myself with allergy medication to numb the itching. Cramped in with 20 other people, & little room (an airline seat is spacious in comparsion) , I dozed in and out of sleep, hot and uncomfortable. Upon arriving in Beira, seems when I went to take a piss in the straw outhouse (where to pee with no hole in the ground?), someone stole my phone. The ride back from Beira too was cramped, but thankfully my belly was uncomfortable making my scabies a secondary problem. So, I started off hating Chapas.
But then I got my systems in place that made travelling more comfortable: travel light: lots of underwear to change, one pair of pants (wearing them), one coat (to sit on), one book, a journal, and toothbrush. that’s it. The chapas are loud, but everyone is amiable. I see that the cobrador who is in charge of collecting money and assigning seats has an infinitely hard job and will have back pains the rest of his life –but, his is an honest living. I am hustled in there, with the babies, the corn, the chickens, the cheery talkative drunks, the blaring music. It’s very African, and the spirit is high.
A short episode.
We stop to pick up some four standing on the side of the road. Sound of the door sliding open. Looking down, I see the man has no shoes. His shirt hangs off his shoulders in tatters. But, this is a cheerful departure and their poverty is right now no concern. He is handing off packages. She is getting loaded in with a giant sack of corn meal and a baby. The older brother has his eyes to the window peering in, saying goodbye to baby brother. I look over the seat in front of me. The drunken man in front of me is engrossed in a racing game on his touch screen phone. The cobrador is chomping on a corn cob that gets tossed out the door. The music is blaring, the bass thumps, the door slides shut and we are racing again; slalomming potholes in our solo race. It’s so old and new and African and I’m in it, changed by it, & now, complicit.
Dreams
I have odd dreams, some caused undoubtedly as a side effect from my weekly malaria meds, but some due to home sickness. I dreamed I returned home to comfort my dog as he died. I dreamed I arrived home just in time for my friend’s wedding – a parade from the airport, and me without my costume (my imagining the great time I would miss), hugging my father after he had a leg amputated. Dreams of my passed grandmother. Dreams of my nephew. I dreamed I toured Obama’s bedroom and saw his bed and closet and felt it incorrect that he and his family in the White House have no privacy.
Memories
Being away makes past good memories shine, emotions of years settle into recognizable forms, and values come out in strong contrast.
These bared emotions time’s brought into focus leaves me with a strange unspoken feeling of what my life has been. This poem describes it.
Behind the curtain it is / all the world’s poets have attempted to describe / all the world’s artists in hue and curve sought to capture /authors have tried telling it through the behaviour and meaning in a story’s arc/wise men have enfolded it into parables/ The mother holds her baby to her chest trying to be close to which she loves so dear. Behind the curtain, it smiles, laughing to itself, holding its sides laughing more, silently, barely able to breathe. They don’t know. They don’t know. I am not that. I am not that. Oh, I am more. Oh, they can’t even imagine all that I am, all at once.
I’m just talking about all of you who are reading this who may think of me sometimes as I think of you, as you think of those we share in common and those whom you’ve only told me about. My grandmother, my grandfather, those who have passed, those times we spent drinking coffee practicing the art of conversation, those silly fights healed by the platelets of love that always heal. It’s the understanding we’ve always had, and the life you’re living now that I don’t know, and the one I’m living that you don’t know. It’s the faults and qualities you recognize in me when we meet again telling you, oh, it’s still Micah, and, oh, he’s changed, it’s not this whom I once knew.
It’s the remembering of good times, and the trying to remember other times. What did we talk about? It’s the stumbling upon good times forgotten. It’s reading books and some days later recalling a line that fits what it is I’m trying to understand. It’s taking glasses to my past, trying different prescriptions. Which is better? Number 1? Number 2? Number 1? Number 2?
It’s new friends telling me what I felt but didn’t know(good advice!). It’s being overwhelmed by the amount of memory I’ve stored up. It’s the opportunity to read yet, books, voices from bodies long since deceased that have spoken to millions but never before to me. It’s living in southern africa, but traveling through pages in trains through blizzards from Moscow to St. Petersburg with Anna Karenina. It’s 1800-something.
It’s those things.
And it’s realizing, 10 months is really a very long time!
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