Capital Y - Yogi

Yesterday, Mozambique had elections but I’m going to talk about yoga.

In case you’re interested here are some articles about Moz and the recent elections. I’m hardly an expert on the matter. 

The Economist “Boom and Ballot” – At the very end talks about Mozambique’s debt. Did not know about that! 

ABC News - There was some violence yesterday, which is sad, but none of it was near me (Mom).

Mozambique Political Press Bulletin is a small, independent news organization in Mozambique. It provides the clearest, most up-to-date political reporting that I have ever read, ever. Real Journalism is not a myth.

Ok, but more importantly, I’m in the middle of an amazing yoga-thon. Nothing fancy, I just do sun salutations every morning followed by a shoulder stand for however long I can stand it. 

The more I do yoga the more I ask myself, am I a yogi? I’m not really sure what the qualifications are to be one. Yes, I love yoga. I love that it requires all of my attention. I love that it balances me both externally and internally. I love that I can be angry before a yoga class and after I just want to hug everyone. 

Being in Mozambique has strengthened my attachment and challenged my commitment to yoga. It's the best way for me to escape the daily chaos and really be in the moment. Buuuuut, I have some doubts that I qualify as a capital Y- Yogi. It’s not so much things I don’t do, but what I am doing (Yes, I  rephrased this sentence to avoid “do do”).

Here’s a list of things I do that I’m pretty sure yogi’s DON’T do.

1.   Use a timer. Check it every 5 minutes.

2.   Sit in my yoga clothes and look at inspirational quotes to get motivated for about 20 minutes.

3.   Stand in mountain pose. Inhale. Exhale. Check my phone.

4.   Forget what foot I’m supposed to use for the next lunge.

5.   Loose balance in backward bend. Not backward bend on one foot, just simple backward bend.

6.   Adjust my ponytail to the top of my head when I move to floor poses.

7.   Practice in a such a narrow spot that I have to rotate every time I lower my arms.

8.   Stop in the middle of a series to stretch my calves. Tight calves are sooooo annoying.

9.   Sneak glances at my phone. Still no messages.

10.        Day dream about the french fries I’m going to make after this.

11.        Tell myself I have to hold shoulder stand for the duration of whatever song comes on next. I hope it's a short one! 

12.        Text my friend “Did my yoga for today J!” during shavasana. 

13. Google the spelling of "shavasana" 

 As much as I joke, I know that by arriving at my mat everyday I’m actually doing enough. I am also really happy to be at a place where I know enough about yoga and enough about my body so I don’t need a yoga video to keep me going.  Just me and my practice

Well, that and the buddy system.

This totally makes me more yogi, right? 

This photo was not my idea but a big confidence booster. Check out those heels!  

This photo was my idea and an well-needed ego check.  Not quite there. 

Love love yoga

The first and (hopefully) last visit to a Hospital in Mozambique

First, I’m ok. I wasn’t injured or hurt. I did, however, have Dengue fever. The worst symptom was a fever that only lasted 3 days. Things could have been a LOT worse. I’m very grateful for the access to medical care; all things considered Peace Corps does a great job of getting us the help we need.

However, if I never have to step foot into a hospital in this country again, I’ll die a happy person. 

Ok, I feel bad being so negative. The doctors and nurses here are trying their best to comfort and aid the people of Pemba with limited resources, education, and experience.

The hospital at Pemba is a good size. It might be considered small in America, but in Mozambique it’s big and modern. There’s a waiting room and everything! As I walked into the waiting room the first thing I noticed was how clean it was (phew!) and the second is how bare it is. The waiting room has about five chairs for the thirty people that are inside – there’s another 20 outside. There’s no paintings or decoration on the wall, just a muted yellow. I speak to the guy at the window; I tell him I have a consulta con Doctora Suzanna. He seems surprised and says I can go through the doors.

 I walk through and see a bright hallway. To the left are what seem like more waiting rooms, and on the right are patient rooms: six beds each and, just like the waiting rooms, bare. No large machines, no drawers, no counters, no desks. There is one station that has the nurses tools and a trashcan. This is on wheels and moved around when the nurse needs to draw blood. 

After walking down the hall, I realize I don’t know where I’m going. I ask the first nurse I see where I can find Dra. Suzanna. The nurses are mostly male; I only see 1 female nurse while I’m there. They are dressed in white slacks, and a white button down with the same yellow color at the edge of their short sleeves. I’m immediately asked if I have Dra. Suzanna’s number. That’s just how it works I guess. There’s no line, no office. Just, “You got her number?”

I call Dra. Suzanna and she tells me to continue walking down the hall where I find her talking with a patient. She has another nurse grab a chair for me while she finishes. 

As I sit in the hallway watching the nurses walk back and forth, I try and figure out what’s different. In all honesty, it seems to have everything a hospital should. In November, I visited a hospital in a Carapira, Province of Nampula. This hospital was four buildings with the word “Hospital”  written on it. That’s about all that made it an actual hospital. However, Pemba is clean with doctors, nurses, janitors; waiting rooms, beds, and chairs. It looks like a hospital, but there is something that just feels different. After about ten minutes of waiting, I notice how calm everyone is. No one seems to be in a rush. The nurses walk leisurely down the hallway. They pause to great one another, they chat, they move on. The doctors speak with the patients in quiet voices. Family members sit quietly nearby. There’s no loud chatter, no TVs, no beeping machines, no PA system.  No nurses are running to save patients, no doctors shouting medicine dosages and commands. It’s just… quiet.

Eventually, I speak with Dra. Suzanna and get blood drawn for a malaria test. I can’t help but be nervous; I’ve never liked needles. It certainly does not help when the nurses tie that rubber band around my arm and pull on it until my arm is blue. Even with the rubber band pinching me, the nurse had a hard time finding a vein. Hovering over my skin, debating where to poke me. By the time the nurse decides where to stick his medium of torture in my arm, I’m breathing loudly. The nurse asks if I’m afraid.

 Duh. 

He finally pokes me, and I do the one thing I’m not supposed to do, I look. The nurse pulls back the syringe and no blood comes out! Uh… that’s not supposed to happen. I sit there while he digs around under my skin for what seems like FOREVER. As I’m trying to figure out how to say “I’m dizzy” in Portuguese he pulls out the needle and I just lay down on the dirty sheet.

“Precisa descansar?” Do you need to rest?

“Sim. ” Fuck you.

After a few moments, I start to feel better and got to experience a uniquely Mozambican experience. The nurse that just almost killed me begins flirting with me.

“So how long will you be in Mozambique?”

“Two years.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“An English Teacher?”

“Yes.” 

“I want to learn English.”

“That’s nice.”

“Can you teach me?”

“No.”

“Can I come visit you?”

“Nope, my director won’t let me have visitors.”

“Your director is not right. How will you meet people?”

“I can get Malaria.”

At that point he left me alone.

Turns out I didn’t have malaria. I had to have my blood drawn two more times in order to find out I had Dengue fever. As much as I wanted to kill the nurse, the doctor was very kind and explained everything slowly and clearly. Dra. Suzanna wrote out a prescription (on a scratch piece of paper that had test results on the back – No HIPA here!) and I was on my merry way.

Side note: I left the hospital without paying a dime and a generic prescription only cost 5mts or roughly 17 cents.

Love love love