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 

Movin' On Up.....

Every Monday and Thursday Almasse arrives at 7:00am. He timidly com licensas at the door.

“Good morning Almasse! How are you?!... Ok, today after your done cleaning the quintal, could you ummm…. cart water? Then we also need you to wash some towels and clothes. And, uhhh… if you have enough time… could you, please, burn the lixo? Is that ok? “

I’ve started annoying myself with all of the niceties and uhs and ums.

Almasse is our empregado. I can’t bring myself to use the word maid… but housekeeper doesn’t really explain it either. Empregados in Mozambique do everything. They clean the yard, wash clothes, cart water, cook dinner, babysit, run errands. You get the idea. Word choice aside, what I’m having trouble wrapping my head around is the fact that I have an empregado.

I, me, Rayna, I have a maid, butler, housekeeper. This isn’t right. I am firmly part of the working class. I come from a coupon-cutting, month-to-month, used=new-to-us type of mentality. My family shopped at thrift stores long before it became a hobby for hipsters and we certainly do not pay people to do things we could do ourselves.

Here in Mozambique, I am no longer a working class hero. I am now part of the upper class. PCVs usually don’t like to look at it this way because we are given roughly $250/month as our stipend.  This is a lot less then our Mozambican teacher counterparts. It’s just enough for food, communication, and travel. At the end of the month I’m counting the meticais left until pay day. But, compared to most Mozambicans, I am living the good life. And people who have a good life, have an empregado.

There are a few things I tell myself to feel better about abandoning my blue-collared shirts.

First, I’m providing a job for someone. We met Almasse when he was selling vegetables door-to-door. Little by little, we got to know him. He lives with his mother and nephew. He likes using English phrases like “Excuse me” and “good bye”. Before us, his only source of income was from selling vegetables from his uncle’s machamba.   

Second, there is so much to do! We teach and have secondary projects. To do housework – Mozambican housework- drains my energy and time. Dishes, cooking, sweeping, mopping, washing, washing, washing. EVERYTHING IS DIRTY!! There is no way to keep up with it all. I specifically came to Mozambique to teach. I love what I do and I want to invest my time and energy into planning, preparing and grading. So, why not provide employment to a hardworking individual and focus my energy where it’s needed?

Third, it stimulates the economy! Hmm…well, this might be a repeat of number one. But that just means it’s really important!

So that’s that. I have an empregado.

Something I don't do anymore. 

Love love love 

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 

As requested, photos of Pemba.

Here's the front of the house.

Here's the view of the street. The girl on the corner always over charges me on mangos. 

Side of the house. That's a cashew tree. Delicious. 

Here's the back of the house. 

Our neighbors. :) 

Our dining room. 

Our kitchen. This is where we spend most of our time. 

Our attempt at decorating: photos of family and friends. Down the hallway are the bedrooms (not clean enough to take pictures of today!) and bathroom. 

Living room. The couch is placed between the front and back door, making the perfect wind tunnel. You think about these things in Mozambique. 

Love love love, 

From Pemba