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 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.