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.

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 

Malaria Madness!

So I missed Malaria Awareness Month (April) but my counterpart for my REDES group wanted to focus on malaria so for our small group of girls it's MALARIA MADNESS time! 

Here's a link to the WHO info graph about Mozambique and malaria. http://www.who.int/malaria/publications/country-profiles/profile_moz_en.pdf?ua=1 

The summary is that there is a ton of misinformation and complacency that leads to lots of people dying from a preventable disease. It's sad and, if you think about it too hard, anger-inducing. 

A little about my REDES group. There are 12 girls between the ages of 10 and 13 and are in third to seventh grade (if they actually go to school). Their primary language is Imakua. All of them speak basic Portuguese, which is just enough to greet people and convince their teachers they know what's going on. They are regular attendees of an after-school program at the mission where we hold the meetings but half of the are Muslim. 

This group is really the only thing that keeps me going. I love getting to know these girls and am really proud of the progress we've made as a group in such a short time. 

Here's a little of what we've been doing :) 

Lesson 1: What is malaria? What are the symptoms? 

I drew pictures of symptoms. Headaches, fever, chills, vomiting, and diarrea are all symptoms of malaria. A rash, itchiness, coughing and a sore throat are NOT symptoms. 

 

 

Before going through what were symptoms, we had the girls guess by placing the pictures in the correct category (Symptoms vs Not symptoms of malaria). Right away we realized that the girls do not know what malaria is. It's so common for people to have malaria that everything was assumed to be a symptom of malaria. That's when Esmenia had the girls do gestures for all of the ones that were symptoms. It was hilarious watching 10 girls imitate diarreaha!! I was impressed (andalso a little jealous) by the idea. 

At the end of the lesson all of the girls were able to list (and mimic) all 5 symptoms from memory. 

Lesson 2: What should you do of you get malaria?

For this one, I came up with 10 steps to do if you have malaria. 

1. Show symptoms. Sentir sintómos.

2. Go to the hospital. Ir a hospital. 

3. Get tested. Faz análise. 

4. Get a positive result. Recebe resulta positiva. 

5. Go to the pharmacy. Ir a farmácia.

6. But medicine. Comprar o medicamento.

7. Take medicine. Tomar o medicamento. 

8. Finish the medicine. Acabar o medicamento. 

9. Rest and drink water. Descansar e

Beber água! 

10. Feel better! Sentir melhor! 

We discussed why each step was important. Especially, immediately going to the doctor, not taking medicine before getting a result, and finishing all the medicine. Again I saw Esménia step up to the plate and clearly, creatively explain everything to the kids. 

The girls were given a step and had to draw out the event. We walked around and encouraged the girls to draw as much detail as possible. The end result was pretty awesome!! 

Finally, we ended the day by assigning the girls a different step (represented by their peer's drawing), mixing them up, and putting themselves back in order. 

Lesson 3: Review! 

The lovely Angela, a health volunteer, told me about a relay race she did with her REDES group and I loved the idea. It involved reading facts about malaria, but how could I do that with my kids? As you may have noticed everything we do is visually based, but I can only take so much drawing!! So, we did a relay race but instead of picking up facts they picked up images. Round one was symptoms and round two was you think you have malaria steps. I spent the whole day drawing miniture versions of the symptoms and steps. The end result was a really fun day and I am really convinced that my girls know their stuff. There are more pictures on Facebook but here's a quick run down. 

1. The girls are splint into two teams of 5. One member of each team must run to a chair that has a pile of symptoms. 

2. They run to the next chair that has two boxes labels "symptoms" or "not symptoms". They choose which box to put the symptom and run back to tag the next team member.

3. The winner is the group that had the most correctly placed symptoms in the shortest  amount of time. 

Round two worked the same way except instead of symptoms there were steps and instead of boxes there was a time line. 

So that's what we've done so far. Next, we'll talk about avoiding the disease.Esménia  also brought up the idea of putting on a play for the other kids at the missionary! 

I'll be sure to keep you updated! 

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