Remember me?

Nineteen months ago I said good-bye to my friends and family. Today I received my Close-of-Service date. This has sent a minor shock wave throughout the Moz 21 group. I'm sure kayak and travelocity are seeing a spike is searches out of Maputo. I certainly added to that spike.

The date is December 11, 2015. That's at least when I'll officially be an RPCV, not the date I'll be returning to the US. That's still TBD

I've been pretty silent on the blog, so, in light of knowing when I'm leaving, here's a little bit about what I'm currently doing.

Grades are submitted and I'm working through recuperação, the week where students, who haven't learned anything for the past 13 weeks, are expected to learn everything. Magically, they do. In the United States, this is referred to as summer school.

Students using "word brochures" to practice project-based learning 

Planning a Workshop for REDES. This involves something I've always hated: talking to strangers. In portuguese! Calling drivers, hotel owners, school directors. YUCK. But, it also adds a sense of accomplishment to my day.

Still organizing the library. This will be a never ending process.

I'm at the mission every afternoon. Monday - REDES. Tuesday - Grassroots Soccer, Wednesday -Biblioteca Wiwanana (Library of Understanding).

I'm enjoying the routine. But, I feel a familiar pull ...




love love love

We need another word for Learning

Sometimes teachers practice what experts call a “bitch-session.” This is when we sit and talk about the ican’tbelievehesaidthat moments in our day. These conversations are necessary in our profession to prevent burn-out and other deadly diseases.

Here in Mozambique I have daily bitch-sessions. This does not mean I don’t love my job or my students. I understand that we come from different backgrounds and most often these aggravating moments come from a difference in culture.

A very accurate representation of Mozambican teaching. 

However, my job is to train teachers. I have a specific and detailed explanation of what it means for a student to learn and what it means for a teacher to teach. So what happens when culture interferes with the meaning of learning? Is it now my job to teach a new culture? Or do I have to bend my own culturally-defined expectations of what it means to learn?

A couple weeks ago, a colleague and I were deep in a “bitch session” when she told me this story of teaching singular vs. plural.

A student was having the trouble turning singular English words into plural words so K wrote on the board “bola” (ball) and “bolas” (balls). K asked “O que é a differencia entre as letras desses palavras?” (What is the difference between the letters of these words?)

The students response – “Bolas é plural”  (Balls is plural).

Do you see the problem? Do you know the response K was looking for?

For more background information, K teaches English to students that might be English teachers in less that 3 years. They have passed 12^th grade and a lengthy exam to enter into a Teacher Training College. They should be fluent in Portuguese and understand basic rules of English. 

Ok - so back to the question. K was looking for the student to see the structure of the rule, to identify the letter ‘s’ as the difference between “bola” and “bolas” in order to then create the rule “+s makes plural”. The idea was to identify this rule in the speaker’s language then apply it to English.

All literate Americans know this rule. This is what we learned in first grade. K attempted several versions of her question but could not get her students to elaborate further than “Bolas is plural”. Finally, K folded and said “Esse palavra –bola- não tem “s” e esse palavra –bolas- tem “s.” (This word –ball- does not have ‘s’ and this word (balls) has ‘s’.) The student quickly agreed (because it’s obvious).

What is going on here? This is a person that speaks Portuguese fluently. That uses plural and singular on a daily basis. That can identify a singular and plural word (in Portuguese) very easily.  So, why is it that she cannot answer K’s question?

It’s because the student has gone through 12 years (or more) of education without once being asked a comprehension question.

In education circles we have something called “Bloom’s Taxonomy” it might be a triangle or circle or complicated Venn-diagram. But at it’s most basic level it is a classification of learning verbs based on complexity. 

Made by one of my students. 

At the bottom is Knowledge – this refers to verbs that require only regurgitation of facts. Examples are: memorize, say, list, match, remember, repeat.

The next level up is Understanding – this refers to understanding the big idea. Examples are: explain, describe, discuss.

Therefore, K’s student has Knowledge of plural and singular. If you write two words on the board and ask “Which one is plural?” the student will be able to answer ONLY IF this word is on a long list of words the students has memorized.

If you ask the student “Why is this word plural?” she would not be able to respond.

I’ve known for a long time that Mozambicans were trained in copying and regurgitation but, after 16 months at site, now I’m realizing this is how learning is defined.For an army of young Mozambicans, who are entering the workforce,  learning = copying sentences, repeating after the teacher, and paying for answers. There is little concept of teaching Comprehension or Application, and zero understanding of any higher-level thinking. 

I feel like I am living in the real-life version of “Flatland” by Edwin Abbot Abbot. Trying to convince my students there is another dimension to education that they have never witnessed before. But, all they have to go on is blind trust.

Does that make me the Sphere? Someone unable to imagine dimensions beyond what I already know? What am I missing here?

Love love love 

The obligatory Reflection post.

September 25th marked my one-year anniversary in Mozambique. I struggled through two months of training and for the past ten months I have called Pemba, the provincial capital of Cabo Delgado, my home. I figure now is as good of a time as any to reflect.

Reflect on what? I have no idea. I have had no great epiphanies. The “OMG I live in Africa” moments are frequent and random. The most recent one occurred when I was learning how to needle point with my REDES group.

Every time I sit down to write a blog, I know I will fall short of trying to explain Mozambique. You can read all the books, all the blogs and you will have very little idea of what it is like to live in Mozambique. I can explain carting water, but you can’t feel the bucket pushing onto your scalp. I can describe xima, but you won’t feel the grains between your fingers. I can photograph my young neighbor, but you can’t hear her laugh. You can look at maps, but you will never know what it’s like to stand on the sandy street and feel so disconnected from everyone around you.

I cannot explain Mozambique because I don’t even know Mozambique. There is an enormous wall mudded with languages, cultures, and history that I will never be able to scale. I will never be able to accurately communicate my experiences here because I cannot fully explain them to myself.

Before I fall down the endless pit of deconstruction, let me say one thing. I am happy. I know. Strange, right? But this is what Mozambique (or maybe PC in general) does to you. You can discuss extending for a third year or ET-ing (Early Termination) in the same breath and be completely sincere about both options.

For me, at the moment, I am happy. There are several reasons: friends, work…no bills. I have had more vacation in the last 12 months than I did between 2008-2012. However, I think the most important reason is that I don’t expect to save anyone.

I recently saw a post on FB that resonated with me. At the time I was getting frustrated with my work at the school and my secondary projects. Then this gem fell into my lap,

"If you've come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together." Lilla Watson

This was the reminder that I needed. I entered the Peace Corps with a very solid understanding that I was going for myself and no one else. If you are here to change or help others, you will be frustrated 99% of the time. Why?

Because most Mozambicans don't really want our help. And that's totally fair. Not to say what my work, or that of other PCVs, isn't important. But if my sole purpose for being here is to help in a completely altruistic sense of the word, then I am ignoring a lot of what this experience really is.  Being in Mozambique, for me, is about the experience: I'm learning a second (maybe a third) language; I'm cooking food I never new existed; I'm learning about a new culture. Notice those are all benefits for me, not my host country. Mozambique is giving me way more than I will ever be able to give it. As long as I can remember this, I think I'll be ok. 

So, one whole freakin’ year in Mozambique. What is there to reflect on?

Well…

- Training is hell on earth.

- It’s ok to cry.

- Mozambicans peel their oranges with a knife.

- Mozambique is beautiful.

- There’s also a lot of trash.

- Mozambicans will ask you for the shoes on your feet. And they are serious.

- Pemba is hot as balls.

- My family is the most supportive family ever.

- New Years really did happen.

- It is possible to learn a second language, and maybe a third.

- Men are assholes anywhere you go.

- But there are also some incredible men in this world, too.

- Hand-games are universal.

- Friendship is hard work.  

- It’s ok to ask for help. In any language.

- That time I cussed out a chapa driver.

- Want to get to know someone? Cook them food.

- That time a private ride turned into 4 boleias. 

- Friends surprised me for my birthday.

- I actually planned an event that went smoothly.

- I’m a cat person?

- This is my life now. 

love love love 

Age-ism?

At 16, I was in line at the DMV. At 18, I moved out and went to college. At 21, I legally purchased a bottle of wine. At 24, I refused to go out with a 30 year-old because that is just way too old. Age is important. It defines your maturity, your opportunities. It’s how you know you’re on track.

You see where this is going don’t you? Mozambique has clearly challenged my connection between age and… well… its importance.

My first friend at site, Tima starts everyday by cleaning the yard and carting water. She then spends her morning babysitting her 2 year-old and newborn cousins. At eleven, without any adult to coax or bribe her, she gets ready for school. She walks home by herself and immediately takes on her role as permanent babysitter. She starts the fire for dinner and does whatever cleaning that must be done: laundry, sweeping, mopping, etc. Tima is nine-years old.

At nine, I couldn’t even turn the knobs on a washing machine, let alone hand-wash an item of clothing.

My 26^th birthday passed about a month ago. It was this event that got me thinking more about age in Mozambique. I count down the days until my birthday, but here it’s a privilege to know the exact date.Individuals may know what month they were born, but records aren’t kept well enough to know the day. If they do know their birthday, they will most likely lie about it at some stage in their life.

My colleague at another IFP recently told me that entrance into the training colleges is limited to individuals under the age of 25. Because this is a completely ridiculous expectation, everyone lies and ignores the lie. Now, my students’ oddly-young ages make sense.

Even with this new piece of information, Mozambique constantly challenges my perception of what old and young looks like. Life here is difficult, and as a student of mine put it,

"Mozambique ages people." 

 Specifically, woman. I often see (what I would assume are) women over 60 breast-feeding newborns or cutting down trees. Both activities I would not consider possible for women of that certain age.

I’m am forced to re-imagine what 10, 20, and 40 can look like. I’m seeing signs of stress and work connected with youth and energy. I am recognizing children as responsible individuals.  As someone who is constantly told I look younger then my age, it’s refreshing to start associating youth with maturity. (Side note: Being told I look like I’m 16 is not a compliment, or an insult. It’s just annoying and unnecessary.)

That last point is especially important for Mozambique.  With an average life expectancy of 50, both the country itself and the majority of it’s citizens are young. Hopefully, one day the country will be as mature as Tima.

Children raising children. 

Love love love 

One Thousand and Sixty-Six

0 km, Day 1 – I tried to avoid the stares of Mozambicans on their way to the machamba as I stood on the side of the road. Usually the stares make me angry but this morning I shrug in embarrassment. Admittedly, I look like an idiot. Dressed in my best boleia outfit, my hiking pack weighing on me, I’m waving my hand at every passing vehicle. I’m hitching a ride to Montepuez. And I’m embarrassed because it is very easy to pay for a chapa on this road. However, I’m counting on my pale skin and modern clothing to get me a free ride. I didn’t make the rules.

202 km, Day 2 – It’s five in the morning and the decisions of last night are weighing heavily on my soul and eyelids. My ever-supportive travel partner, Salome, is sitting in front of a closed barraca, her head in her hands. We’ve been waiting for two hours for a ride to Balama. The goal is to make it to Lichinga, Provinicia de Niassa by the end of the day. It’s a long and difficult road, and today we are hopeful to join the short list of PCVs to travel it.

300 km, still Day 2 – A crowd of dirty, annoying children have surrounded us. We’re trapped under the only tree on the road out of Balama. During the chapa from Montepuez, I heard several people say the name of our next destination, Marrupa. I was hopeful that we’d quickly find our next ride. But as the sun rose to the middle of the sky, and the hours dragged on, my hope evaporated. Turns out that in the local language, Makua, the word for backpack is marrupa. And my bright red 45L bag was making quite the impression on my fellow travelers.

Not quite 430 km, feels like day 3 but really Day 2 – My travel buddy and I have been on the back of a pick-up truck for the past three hours. The sights are amazing, the conversation limited. Then, we pulled over for a policeman. This is pretty common. Police can pull over people without cause and ask for their ID. I’ve never had any problems but other volunteers have dealt with corruption. Bribing is common. However, all this cop wanted was a short boleia. So, the motorista turns the truck around and we take the cop back to his station. As he steps into the building a fellow passenger says, “This is the guy that stabbed his wife.” Salome and I quickly trade glances. The cop walks out of the station with an older gentleman in handcuffs. He is swiftly picked up and thrown into the back of the trunk. Silently, we continue on our drive. Only a few moments later we stop at the check point where we originally picked up the police officer. Thanks goodness. The outrageousness of sharing a ride with a convicted murder was getting to me. The policeman stands up and hands a butcher’s knife to another passenger, then climbs out. “Don’t let him run away,” He says as he disappears into a small shack on the side of the road. Now, Salome, five other passengers, a wife-murderer, and I are sitting in the back of a pick up truck. That’s when the AK-47 appears in front of me. The policia went to pick up his weapon, in order to guard the man he just left alone. My brain is having difficulty processing the situation. My eyes glance from the knife, now being held loosely in the cops right hand, the gun that is leaning against his left side, and the old man who's simply stares at his hands. The only thing I can think to do is eat a banana.

430 km, no idea what day it is- So the wife-murder detour delayed us for a bit, but the sun is still just barely peaking over the horizon. We’ve arrived at Backpack which means that Lichinga is a measly three hours away. The cobredor has assured my several times that we will make it to Lichinga by the end of the day. “Estamos Juntos!” he said. As the other passengers depart the cobredor calls over Salome and I, and he points out the closest pensão. That’s where we’ll be staying for the night. The dream of making it from Montepuez to Lichinga in one day has died.

1,066 km, Day 3 – The morning passed like a dream. We gathered our things at five and magically received a boleia from two road workers. We enjoyed the mountains and Christmas trees (Chirstmas trees!!) in a heated vehicle with leather seats. By nine am I was enjoying a hug from my friend. Worth it.

* This is the second time I wrote this post. The first was lost in my iphone, itself lost in the Niassa Province.

** There is a bit of a debate on the distance between Pemba and Lichinga. I went with the greater distance because it sounds cooler.