One ear Later: Quase Nada

"Well, you’ve been there a year, are you glad you did it?” – My dad

“I better be, I have another whole year left! I believe the time to regret is after the second year.” – Me

As I sit here sipping my little nightcap – ie instant coffee with way too much splenda – out of my newly purchased hedgehog themed mug (random china choice), I cant help but wonder, what the heck have I done with the last year of my life?

Yes, I learned Portuguese. That’s a big step. But in terms of making the world a better place… well I guess that’s more complicated than memorizing verb conjugations.

So I am compiling a semi-organized list of my accomplishments/self realizations/general lessons learned.

Here is is:

I have survived one year in a Mozambican classroom (well, almost, we have about a week left). First trimester they were little angels. Well, no exactly angelic, but at least relatively quiet and attentive, and generally seemed to respect me. However now, at least one of my classes, and others depending on the day, have devolved into a seventeen ringed circus. There is Belgildo calling my cell phone because he somehow miraculously got my number. But once I look at my phone and realize it is him, he of course has passed the phone to someone else, and it continues to clandestinely creep through the under-trappings of the little wooden desks (yes, I am lucky, my school has desks!) and I hopelessly quit my search. And then there is Sebastian with the condom in his tie, if I had a nickel for every time I have said “Sebastian, TAKE THE CONDOM OUT OF YOUR TIE!” followed by, “but wrap it up when you have sex!.” And then all of a sudden I realize that someone is throwing chalk – only once has it been at me, thankfully – and I either get angry and start yelling, which they think is funny, try to ignore them and carry on with some useless English grammar lesson that they will probably never use in their lives outside this classroom, or once I even pronounced “I am not mama, I wont take care of children!” in both English and Portuguese as I huffed out to the sounds of the real perpetrator of all things diabolical, little mister Macacule, screaming at Mariah Carey Range. Someone later told me it was because he was angry at me for leaving. I think its just untreated ADD to a major extreme. The problem is, these trouble makers are just so damn smart. They basically don’t even watch English lessons, because I kick them out every day after the first 17.4 seconds, and yet they have the highest grades in the class.

My students love me. I am not exaggerating, or feeding my ego, or whatever. It could be the white thing, or that I am their only female teacher, or the Obama thing, or maybe because I don’t believe in gaining respect though deprecation. In all honesty they run around screaming after me “Teacher KATE”, with this ridiculous emphasis on the first syllable of my name, which may or may not trail off into a bit of a “lin” but they can’t really pronounce it so its hard to make out. So like I said, they LOVE me, the problem is I am not sure they respect me. So that could lead to issues.

In truth, I have decided the trouble makers are my favorites. They just have the most personality.

To commemorate my one year anniversary I made xima for the first time in my life. I was so proud of myself… and then Iraque just looked at it and laughed.

About two months ago I ate a tangerine that changed my life. It didn’t really change anything per-se, but I was sitting in a chapa in Xai-Xai, waiting to go to Maputo, popped a few juicy wedges in my mouth, and thought to myself, “This tangerine is so good my life is now different because of it.”

There is the whole Mozambican boyfriend thing… not sure if I can count that as an accomplishment, but it is the most serious relationship I have ever had. And it continues to involve major cultural exchanges.

I have learned to see the good in Mozambique/Mozambicans. I just have to remind myself that their semi-insults and assumptions that I am basically a zygote, completely incapable of anything, aren’t personal and they really just mean to help. However, I fail to take this rational line of thinking when I am sick (often), or extremely tired… and usually just get all huffy before storming into my bedroom to cry in my pillow.

I was sick or injured pretty much constantly from March-September. But I have been pretty good for about two weeks now. So maybe my luck is changing.

I have pooped the rainbow – red, brown, green, black and yes, purple. Probably something to do with beets. The most common color though, baby diarrhea.

I survived one year living with a Mozambican roommate. We are actually pretty good now. She has realized that I can, in fact take care of myself, and I just make sure to clean up after myself really well and not mess with the whole bacia system she has going on.

I have learned just enough Changana and Chopi to make my students laugh at me.

Mozambicans think I am a VERY funny person – not JUST crazy, so that’s good.

I have also learned most of the words to all Bon-Jovi, WESTLIFE (a british boy band you probably have never heard of), Lil Wayne, and Akon songs.

I have recently lost all small luxuries that my meager life here involved. Ie – I fired my empregada because she was complaining that I paid her too little (lie! And, as my mother says, “nobody wants a cranky cleaning lady”) and my gas stove ran out, meaning I am cooking over charcoal.

I will get another Empregada, its just hard to find a good one. Until then, I am a-washin my own clothes, and getting open soars on my hands from working the dirt out of the denim.

I will also eventually buy more gas, but it is just so much more expensive and money is a little tight right about now. One tank used to last about 3 months, and now it makes it just over one. It’s all this damn cooking I do! Charcoal isn’t that bad, except that you have to spend forever lighting it, leaving it to heat up, and there is the whole dirty factor – black hands, black lungs, etc.

But, having lost these luxuries, I am earning Mozambican street cred. So that’s good. “Now you are almost a Mozambican woman, you just need to have a baby.” Thanks, I’ll wait.

Iraque just laughs at me and takes pictures. Jerk.

I have learned the names of a majority of my students (now that the school year is over of course). And most of those whose names I don’t know, I have just given nick-names that are easy to remember. For example, there is “little man,” “short man,” “shoes” and “Akon.” Well, Akon, actually asked to be called that.

I have a girls group that is on the verge of falling apart. We meet weekly, but the group seems to be getting smaller. This could be a result of the fact that it is the end of the year, people are busy and preoccupied with important things like actually passing school, or the fact that I have no local counterpart because female teachers are scarce round these parts so my American antics are just no longer entertaining.

I got an organization to donate books to my school… but they only donate English language books, which is not really THAT helpful.

I am working with a local HIV prevention organization, but 6 months and three grant applications later they still don’t have funding.

I want to dig a well. Ok, not me personally, but you know, write a grant and have someone else do it. Does anyone know anything about water sanitation?

I went bungee jumping at Victoria falls, saw elephants trundle off into the sunset, and hand fed a wild baboon. Now that just makes me sound hard-core.

Zimbabwe was involved. Again, hard-core.

All in all, I feel like this list should be longer. Perhaps I am forgetting things. Or I just need to change my perspective and accept the fact that little things are important, and just my presence here has influenced some peoples' lives… hopefully for the better.

But all things considered, I guess changing the world is more like learning Changana than Portuguese. Its easy to get a few words. But the whole language seems to have very little rhyme or reason and is ridiculously difficult to pronounce, so getting it down takes some time… and patience.

Txova txova (Push through) right?

How To: Light Carvão

Well it has been two weeks now without a gas stove, and I can already feel my lungs turning black.

And not only do I cough/wheeze like a granny that has smoked since I was 14, but I smell like a walking campfire. Joy.

But, at least I have gotten my charcoal stove lighting technique down pat. The stove itself is basically scrap metal welded together. It has four legs that make the whole stove about knee height, and atop those wiry appendages stand two pits, which are basically little wire baskets that you fill with charcoal. Just above the basket/pit there are little fingers where you put your pot (I guess I am really into the human imagery but just picture the little metal things which hold the pot over your basic gas stove).

How to fazer lumen (literal translation: make fire)

Step One: try to find a not very windy location (for example a semi-closed in veranda) to place your stove.

Step two: fill the metal basket with charcoal.

Ok, actually my second step is walk to Iraque’s house with a plastic bag and fill my said plastic bag with charcoal because, for some reason, we decided to store the saco de carvão at his house even though I ALWAYS cook. So now that my hands are already coated in black coal dust, I pile muito carvão from my little plástico into the stove.

Step three: forage for kindling. I have in fact located a prime kindling spot just near my house, but after two weeks it is already running a bit dry. Not sure if it’s a sustainable source afterall.

Step four: arrange a little teepee of kindling in the middle of your charcoal.

Step five: locate matches and a plastic bag. But try not to touch too many things in the process because your hands will be blacker than an African coal miner, and that stuff stains (especially if you recently fired your empregada and are now washing you own clothes by hand. ie me).

Step six: use a match (or two or three depending on the wind levels) to light the plastic bag on fire, and hold said bag so that it just touches the kindling teepee. The woodlets should light on fire. Be sure to let go of the bag before your hands are consumed in the flames. I have tried paper because of the whole toxicity of burning plastic issue, but it just burns to quickly, and then I have to end up burning my old lesson plans or something which I don’t really want to do. A plastic bag, however, lasts just long enough to really set that teepee afire.

WARNING: avoid breathing in the toxic burning plastic.

Note: if you are having wind interference, try moving inside. Or, my mama in Namaacha told me to drape a capulana over my head, and then lean into the stove so that the fabric forms a wind-block. I never liked this idea much because of the possibility of burning of the fabric/my face, and the increased plastic bag/charcoal smoke inhalation.

Step seven: carry the stove to a very windy location or use a plate or something to wave the flames so that it really catches.

Now, you have made fire, and can get a-cookin’

Linga Linga

“What is inferno in English?” –Iraque

“Hell” - Me

“This is hell baby.” - Iraque

Not that the place wasn’t quaint, it just isn’t what we were expecting… and Iraque has been known to be a bit dramatic at times. Lonely planet calls the Funky Monkey at Linga Linga Point a “very no frills backpackers.” They should really be a little more honest/specific, and say something like: “Reed huts, dirty bath water, and no electricity.”

Or at least have a little note to travelers: “Warning, don’t wear skinny jeans because you will have to trek through knee deep muddy bay water to reach this semi-quaint destination”

The 25^th of September commemorates the day the armed fighting began (not sure with whom, but I assume something about the Portuguese, yay war I suppose). Well anyway, it was a Friday, and a holiday, so Iraque and I decided to spend the long weekend away. How romantic.

We just knew we wanted the beach, and somewhere not too expensive – cheap and beachy is the story of my life in PC Mozambique. I had heard fantastic things from other PCV’s about the Funky Monkey backpackers, at Linga Linga.

Linga Linga Point is a peninsula that you reach by going just north of Maxixe, to Morrumbene (about 3.5 hours north of Chidenguele). From Morrumbene, you take a boat – little, wooden, rundown, sailboat – to the point of the peninsula.

Iraque doesn’t like boats because he doesn’t know how to swim, fair enough. But he was up for facing the trip because I wanted to go, a few PCVs had recommended the place, and the Funky Monkey man sounded nice enough on the phone.

So we set out, at 6am Friday morning. We hitched a ride with a rather unfriendly Mozambican man in a very nice, comfortable, fast truck. Unfortunately the unfriendly Mozambican man made us pay for the ride, but at least we were able to use seatbelts and made it to our destination in record time. We did have to make one quick stop in Maxixe to use the ATM.

“Shit, I forgot my American bank card and I only have 55 meticais in my Moz account.”

“Well I only have a few hundred mets.” – Iraque

“You never know, maybe I already got paid.” – me

So I entered the ATM booth as I prayed to the baby Jesus that Peace Corps had paid me a few days early and we could in fact carry on with our romantic getaway, and weren’t paying the unfriendly Mozambican man 300 mets to drive us to Maxixe just to turn right on around.

Well, what do you know. PC Moz came through and the money was there.

“Graça a Deus” – Iraque

The luck stopped there.

The nice, and we now realized toothless, Funky Monkey man we had talked to on the phone met us in Morrumbene. From there, we made our way to the teeny-tiny sail boat. As the other passengers took off their shoes, and hiked up their capulanas/pants, Iraque and I stood hesitantly already barefoot in the mud, but hoping someone would tell us we wouldn’t actually have to trudge through the water.

We in fact did have to trudge. Since skinny jeans don’t hike up very well, I soaked my pants, and we then spent the next 1.5 hours gripping the little wooden sailboat for dear life as it slowly bobbed through the waves.

First stop, a little old lady and a little old man got off – ie walked/swam through almost waist deep water. The lady was a trooper, she just balanced her baggage on her head and hiked that skirt up. Grandpa wasn’t so agile. So the boat man had to get out and help. You can tell he does this all the time because he just pulled his shorts right up, high enough in fact, that I am pretty sure I got a glimpse of his scrotum.

“Oh, and by the way, you are going to pay the boat man 150 mets for taking us to the next stop.” - nice, toothless, funky monkey man.

“What! This better be a fucking paradise.” - us

After more wading through water, and then walking for a while through the African bush, we finally arrived.

Iraque’s instantaneous reaction: “We will leave tomorrow."

It looked like a deserted island colony. There were about 6 huts made out of coconut palm leaves, a lot of sand, and one solar panel… which didn’t work very well.

The thing is, I am a trooper every day of my life here. The last thing I want is to rough it when I am on vacation. There is no reason for me to be paying money to stay in worse conditions than I have in my little cement Mozambican house. Maybe if I had been in a group, and we had filled the place up, had bonfires, and roamed the beach to all hours of the night. There would have been that whole freshman year of college “the dorms suck but the experience is great” vibe. Romance, however, wasn’t really workin in the huts.

At least the beach was amazing. It basically felt like a deserted island, overrun by little sea crabs… which Iraque of course spent hours chasing.

To top it all off though, Iraque got sick in the middle of the night. Needless to say, we left promply at 5:30 am the next day.

“This is hell baby.”

I’m Gon’ Kill You Bitch!

Baby mama drama. Well, no baby yet, but my roommate has been accused of sleeping with another woman’s man.

It all started when the wife of one of the male teachers at my school called Hortencia to yell at her and ask if Hortencia knows Teacher Morgado.

Apparently one of my students, Osvaldo, told the wife, that Hortencia was gettin down with Teacher Morgado. So, the wife called. Hortencia responded by having a nice stern chat with Osvaldo. He of course denied being the gossiper.

Well then the next thing I know, there is a maybe 5ft tall 16 year old year girl in her school uniform on my porch, in a screaming fight with Hortencia.

“Who is this menina?”
“Morgado’s wife.”

Well shoot.

“You will feel a woman! You’re going to feel a woman little girl!” – Hortencia

And then my irate roommate almost hit the little girl, before Iraque and I coaxed her inside, and Osvaldo drug the menina away by her little pink book bag.

“I have a husband myself. But even still, if this was true, it is normal to sleep with other peoples husbands, so I would just apologize. But it isn’t even true! And she is coming to MY house to insult ME.”– Hortencia, and then she did this “uh” followed by a tongue click thing which is sort of like the Mozambican nu-uh girlfriend sassy snap and head gyration move.

Apparently, in Mozambique, if a person accuses you of something that is not true, you can go to the police. So now, Hortencia has taken this Jerry Springer action to the cops.

Shouldn’t the authorities be spending their time stopping the abundant criminality, and not concern themselves with such petty disputes? Maybe that is why my phones keep getting stolen, the cops are too busy investigating crazy teenage wives and unfaithful husbands.

Its Back

Well, last week was winter… and then, literally overnight, the season changed. And the summer heat is back with a vengeance.

But at least the change in seasons means that:

THE BEACH IS BACK!

Actually, I have decided that September is a delightful month. Hot, sundress wearing, beach going temperatures during the day, and then a light sweater, maybe use a blanket, cool at night.

However, unfortunately, in addition to all this delightfulness:

The bugs are back. I forgot about the bugs. I have gotten more mosquito bites in the last week then all winter. And last night I woke up to a cockroach crawling up my inner thiegh. Iraque had made me watch No Country for Old Men right before bed, so I awoke with a start, sure that the tickling on my leg was a mushroom haircut man coming with a pressure gun to kill me. I was in fact happily surprised by the little roach I found instead. Soon we will have fat white spider bugs the size of my hand scurrying around the place.

The constant sweating is back.

The constant sunscreen slathering is back.

As a result, the zits are back.

The “teacher, you look ugly because you have zits on you face,” and then students proceeding to try to touch the zits on my face before I swiftly smack their hands away, is back.

Oh, and there is one new development. Since I now have the glorious my-sized refrigerator, I am not suffering from tepid beverages. Well, except that now I am not only the community fish keeper, but apparently also the community cold water supplier, so passers-by literally leave me high and dry. But what am I going to do, deny the poor hot sweaty children and teachers water. No. Instead I hide a secret stash of cold beverages in the back left corner of the fridge behind my big bag of lettuce. That way, even if the water runs dry, I have my own seemingly contraband means of beating the heat.

Lagoon Floating and Beyonce Booties

About two weeks ago I finally made it up to Zavala, and got to float my little heart out in the pristine, sparkling, tuorquise, lagoons.

Zavala is about an hour north of Chidenguele on the EN1 – the main/only major highway/paved road that goes up to the north of the country. I had passed Zavala a number of times in a chapa, as I made my way to Inhamabane, but never actually stopped.

Ok, that is a lie, I stopped once when I was making my way home from Vilankulos and ended up hitchhiking with a truckdriver. He stopped in Zavala, bought me juice, and took a shower. But I was too busy trying to avoid being sleezily sexed up to appreciate my surroundings.

There is this moment when you pass through Zavala in a chapa, where everyone, even Mozambicans, just sort of gasp and stare in hushed awe. The town is situated right on the main road, which forms the perfect lookout over the series of lagoons, followed by sand dunes, followed by expanse of Indian Ocean. So you pass through, just happen to glance over your shoulder out the window, and BAM are suddenly dumbfounded by the most beautiful, glowing water, surrounded by white sand and dense palm groves.

Amizava, a timbila (type of music/dance traditional to the region of Mozambique) music festival finally took me the short hop up to Zavala.

I was more excited for the lagoon/beach opportunity than the Mozambican music, but Iraque was into the cultural aspect so I thought I might as well check it out. Well, as it turns out, timbila music is the most entertaining spectacle.

The instruments are basically xylophones made out of wood and gourds of varying sizes for varying tones, but there are just hoards of gourds playing at once. And then there is a group of people, mostly men, from age 7-70 dancing in front of the musicians. But this is not just any dancing. First of all, there are little man skirts and animal skin shields involved. Then, on top of that, the dance basically consists of mesmerizingly intricate pelvic thrusts which would put beyonce to shame, punctuated by a series of jumping/slapping the floor acrobatic moments.

The dancers take their shields, grunt and slap the ground, then shoot up and spring into the air, kicking one leg up like the best of the inny-minny college cheerleaders that you are afraid might somehow manage to kick themselves in the face, and then they sort of flap their arms around in an incredibly rhythmic flying motion.

Audience members come up, dance/thrust around, do the beyonce booty move, and give the dancers money.

There also usually seemed to be one grandma/grandpa dancer that sort of did her/his own thing. Aka shuffled around doing Beyonce booty moves and a series of shoulder/pelvic thrustings. They were sure agile little senior citizens.

I tried to dance a little, just because I was so fascinated by the process. But Iraque started laughing hysterically at me, so I didn’t make it up to the stage. All in all, it was fantastic.

Day two, we watched a little music/dance/pelvic thrusting in the morning, and then headed down to the lagoons. FYI, distance is further than it appears. And is all downhill… which made the return trip a sweaty nightmare.

After about 40 minutes of walking, we arrived at the crystal paradise. But it wasn’t really a paradise up close. I mean, the water was clean and beautiful. But in reality, there was no beach for laying other than this mini-strip about 10 feet wide of wet sand. Also, there were a bunch of Mozambicans around, fetching water and washing their clothes. So they just thought I, in my little bikini, was a big fat crazy pants. Also, I THINK lagoons are salt water, so diseases such as schistosomiasis aren’t rampant in the water, but I am not really sure. So the idea of microscopic animals boring through my skin, bloody poop and future infertility just kept running through my head.

Well, for a variety of reasons, we decided to change locations, and try to make it to this glorious looking patch of sand further along the shore of the lake. Some nice little Mozambican boys gave us some coconuts to eat, showed us the path, and told us it wasn’t too far.

Liars.

We wandered through people’s little farms in the heat of the day FOREVER, and never got there. Eventually, after accidentally stomping some poor mans lettuce patch and bleeding from the leg thanks to some viciously sharp African grass, we decided to head up.

Straight up. The biggest hill of my life.

When we finally reached the top though, the path dumped us right at the beautiful overlook where the festival was centered. So we sat in the shade, watched the acrobatic antics, and drank a much needed diet coke. Ahhh.

All in all, its totally worth stopping to take a few pictures in Zavala at the lookout point. But I found the lagoons more of a pain in the ass then a glorious relaxing float. To be honest, and sort of selfish, I am actually quite relieved. I always felt the slightest pang of jealousy for the volunteer that was stationed in Quissico, because the view is just so darn amazing. But now I know, my site is better, neener neener.

And I probably have matequenha in my foot again or something from the farm trekking.

My So Called Life

I am pretty sure that “My So Called Life” involved Claire Danes recounting her tales of the ever so awkward teenage years. I never actually watched any of those “Party of Five” era shows. I’m not sure where I was, those may have been a few of the many childhood years spent without cable, or I was obsessing over horses and learning to drive pony carts, or I was perhaps living with my family in Israel, but this – as well as the general nerdyness you might be sensing –led to some serious social ostracism when I couldn’t participate in the teeny-bopper 90210 reminiscing.

Anyway, I am not an awkward teenager, but I have been away from the communication realm for a while so here is a little taste of the African soap opera that is my real life… ie whats been a happnin.

A nasty virus took my computer down, along with all programs and files. My CD/DVD drive is also broken… which makes re-installing programs difficult. In other words: no internet. No movies. And only some Portuguese language, Celine Dion, and Lil Wayne music I have managed to scrounge up.

My physical health hasn’t been much better. First, a bug entered my foot and laid an egg sack, which turned into shooting pains throughout my leg. This left me basically wailing through the night when I just so happened to be at Iraque’s family’s house in Xai-Xai. If they doubted my craziness before, my tearful antics surely confirmed it.

Then just days after Iraque so lovingly operated on my foot, and ripped out the egg sack, I quickly fell quite ill with what could really only have been some sort of parasite. I had fevers of 102+ for about 4 days. A combo of ibuprofen, Tylenol, and lying naked with wet towels draped over my body would bring my temperature down for about an hour or two, before swiftly spiking back up. I was pretty sure I had typhoid fever (this is what having medical books does to me. I start looking up my symptoms and assuming I am like a leper or something).

I also pooped blood (which I know is TMI, but it was scary. So I just had to share.) But luckily, five days of Cipro knocked that little bugger right out of my intestine.

Five days in bed was awfully boring without a working DVD drive. I mostly stared at the ants climbing up my wall, and wondered why they stay in such perfect lines.

I also burned my bum with an iron. We had a sewing party, the iron was left plugged in on the floor. One thing led to another, I sat on the floor and BAM. I think I am going to have a scar.

Yesterday I found a dead frog in my lettuce. Normally, even frogless, I bleach my lettuce just to be safe. But I was out of bleach, and really wanted salad, so I just washed the leaves like 7 times and hoped all the dead frog germs magically disappeared.


I recently took the next step in the relationship, and gave my embregada a key to my house. I haven’t told my roommate yet. They don’t get along, but I’m not sure why. Actually, it’s probably because my roommate is not a very friendly person in general. Hopefully my embregada doesn’t steal anything.

Took another home-test, happy to say I am still HIV negative.

Another bout of possible intestinal parasite. Gut-wrenching stomach pains, almost fainting, almost vomiting, Victoria falls out the bum... maybe it had something to do with the dead frog. And unfortunately this happened all while Julia was here for a visit. I wasn’t the best hostess.

I have learned from personal experience that the reason you gain weight in Africa is so you can get sick, lose 5-10 pounds in a week, and not die. Although those were a few glorious days, no worries, I am already gaining it back.

I lost my phone… again. This time it was totally my own damn fault. Beach season is just beginning. So after a fabulous day of sun and sand at the beach here in Chidenguele with Julia, we were making the trek back to my house, luckily hitched a ride with my school director who was on his way back from buying fish. Well, not so luckily, my phone must have fallen out of my pocket or something, because it’s long gone. I might refuse to buy another one. I will send you Iraque’s phone number or something.

I have threatened to fail two different students in two different classes if they ask me to marry them one more time.

Today as I was grilling some fresh fish I realized that for delicious, fresh, wild caught, ocean yummyness fish, I pay less than $1 per pound. Jealous?

Then again, I usually make my purchases from a random man walking past my house with a bucket of fish and a hand-scale. Then I have to de-scale, de-organ, de-fin, de-eyeball, etc before frying/grilling the fish whole. It makes you wonder, how do they even do “boneless-skinless” in America?