Estou a Pedir uma Boleia

Ok Mom, Dad - I need you to not read this post. I love you and I don't want you to worry about me so, for your own well-being, just don't read this.

Now, for the rest of you, uma boleia is a free ride or hitchhiking. Now in the US this might be associated with kidnappings and serial killers, but here in Mozambique it's associated with air conditioning and leg room. Uma boleia can be a five minute drive to the end of the street or a two hour journey to the capital.

Whichever it is, each time is like a new social experiment. Who will pick me up? Will they be a chatter? Will they ignore me? Will they be Mozambican or foreign? Within five minutes, will they love or hate me?

I won't lie; boleia-ing isn't guaranteed to be a safe form of transportation. In Mozambique travel is always risky. Of course, there are ways to reduce risk. Mom, Dad since I know you're reading this I'll list them here: 

1. Talk with the driver before getting in the car and check for alcohol

2. Always ask where they are going instead of giving your destination

3. Say no thank you if you feel at all uncomfortable

4. (My favorite) If you're in the car and want to get out claim that Estou a fazer xixi! I have to pee! 

So yes, there is a risk but for Volunteers in small villages this is the only option to travel. And for me, when I've walked in 100 degree weather with bags full of rice and potatoes, boleia-ing is a really really nice option. So good in fact, I have not taken chapa since my first week in Pemba. 

I shouldn't give you the wrong idea.

Boleia-ing is not that common. Common among Volunteers? Yes. Common among Mozambicans? No. The fact that a Portuguese couple would take my friend and me on a two hour ride to Nampula - directly to the airport- has a lot to do with my skin color, gender, and nationality.

Should I feel guilty about taking advantage of this unfair benefit? In some ways I do. Especially when chapas - cramped, hot, smelly, and costly- are so readily available to me.

Buuuut…. did I mention the air conditioning and leg room? What are your thoughts? Am I abusing my status by taking boleias? Am I missing out on an opportunity to integrate by not using the chapa?

Can you imagine cramming into a chapa for your daily commute? I haven't actually taken a picture from inside a chapa, but this one that I found at http://www.world-around-us.ca/what-i-love-about-maputo-lisettes-top-ten/ is a perfect representation of every chapa I've ever been in. 

love love love

Asking for Help is Never Easy. Except in Portuguese.

In Portuguese when you ask for help, you don't ask for it directly. For example to ask for a pen one would say Estou a pedir uma caneta this literally translates to I am asking for a pen. I first encountered this estou-a-perdir-ing technique from my host sister, E. When I first met her she never spoke, just stared. After a week, when she saw me in the morning she would put her had out and say Da, meaning give. Then after two weeks (and she really got to know me) it was Estou a pedir caneta, Estou a pedir computador, Estou a pedir papel.

It never bothered me. I liked the attention from E and my other irmãos. When they asked for a pen and paper, we colored for an hour. When they asked for the computer, we took pictures on Photo Booth.

Like this!

I was happy to provide entertainment to my host siblings. My favorite pedir came from my youngest irmão D, "Mana Rayna, estou a pedir o luz para fazer xixi. After a few minutes of silence and a few hand motions, I turned on the bathroom light and D went xixi.

I'm getting a bit off track.

My point is that here in Mozambique asking a friend, neighbor, stranger for help is a common part of life. The American in me is dying of embarrassment and loss of pride to ask my neighbor of only three weeks for help burning my trash (more on that - I promise!). But in Mozambique, where the "unified" government is younger than I am, people have learned to support their neighbors because one day (probably tomorrow) they will also need help. And they're not going to get it from anywhere else.

This cultural norm does have a negative side. When I didn't understand E's way of greeting me, I asked my Portuguese teacher what she meant. With some discomfort, he explained that as a foreigner, I am seen as rich and therefore able to give. Give what? Anything. Everything.

More than once I have been asked for my sandals (Not my Chacos!) and the food in my hand (on it's way to my mouth). The people that ask are not beggars. They are teenagers walking down the street, old women waiting for a chapa, and annoying crianças outside my door. The way they ask is eerie and nonchalant, as if they don't expect or even care if you give them the requested item. This isn't begging, it's testing. It's as if they ask just in case you are willing to give up the shoes on your feet or the food in your mouth.

I've learned to roll my eyes at the random pedir-ing from teenagers, but when it's an older woman asking for food, I pause. How many times has she asked a stranger for help? How many times has she received it? How many times has she given it? Is she really hungry? Or is she just testing me?

Obviously, I'll never know the answer to these questions. I just hope one day I'll be just as comfortable asking the question.

love love love

Pemba: Not the Africa You Were Expecting

Ok, admit it. When I told you I was going to live in Africa for two years, what did you picture? A grass roof hut? Dirt floor? Cooking on a coal fire? Miles away from my closest neighbor?

Honestly, so did I.

In fact, I was looking forward to it. I pictured myself carrying buckets of water on my head, building a fire, and growing my own food. I knew it would be lonely, frustrating and (until I built up the muscles in my neck) painful. But I had this desire to say, "I did it...I lived… I survived… I thrived in Africa."

But that Africa is not Pemba.

I live in a gated community with the faculty of the school. My house has electricity, a fridge, a stove, and sometimes (SOMETIMES) running water. If the water isn't running there is a cistern in our backyard. Next door is the school, and next to that are the student dorms. Across the street is a bank, two corner stores, and a bar. Turn right and you're at the beach. Turn left and you're at the airport. At night I hear cars, music, and the intoxicated shouts of night dwellers. As I type this I can clearly hear Beyonce's "Video Phone" from across the street. During the day the night dwellers are replaced by crianças running from porch to porch. Chapas stop right outside the community entrance and is five minutes away from the city center. There I can find whatever I need, if I'm willing to pay the meticias.

If I was looking for a place where I would become a self-sufficient pioneer, well I would be 

disappointed. 

But I'm not! 

Instead of isolation I've found a lively, international, growing community. More importantly, instead of learning to be self-sufficient, I am learning to rely on my community.

I should also mention that my experience is a unique and chique experience. There are some volunteers who live in a grass roof hut, without electricity, and travel hours to the closest town, but the majority are somewhere in between. No matter where we live, all of us are learning to be a part of a brand new and unique community.

I can't wait to get to know my Pemba!

Love love love 

P.S. 

 A goat being slaughtered in my backyard. Note the spider as big as my face in the top left corner. 

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 

Where am I now?

So this past week has flown by. Last Tuesday, all 51 volunteers loaded up and said good-bye to Namaacha. The town and our families have served us well for the past ten weeks. They taught us how to cook, clean, and kill our dinner. In return we played with the crianças and contributed to their economy. Specifically the bars, bajias (small bean patties that are sold on the side of the road), and black cat (popular brand of peanut butter).

We traveled (almost) directly to the U.S. Ambassador's house for swear-in. The house was three stories, with a pool, and an ocean view. I almost fantasized about living in such a beautiful house some day... but the electric fence and armed guards are not as appealing.

We were checked in to our hotel by 2pm, then had the rest of the afternoon to explore Maputo. I went with a small group of friends to a small cafe that is popular among volunteers, Café do Sol . It took us twice as long to get there because the Chappa first took us to a place called Costo do Sol. We would have realized we were going to the wrong direction if the five of us weren't squished into the front standing room only part of the van. But when we finally made it, I saw a cafe that looked similar to a Panera Bread; it could have been picked out of Birmingham and placed in Maputo.

That night I spent giving hugs and telling people, whom I won't be seeing for another year, things I should have told them much earlier. I am truly lucky and proud to be a part of Mozambique 21 and when I was faced with the prospect of not seeing most of these people for a year, I definitely got teary eyed. I cannot wait to see the amazing things that these people will do.

The next morning, PCVs going to the North and Central flew out of Maputo. Central flew to Chimoio, Maneca and North (that's what group I'm in) flew to Nampula. This is the second time I've been to Nampula and it was just as beautiful as the first. When the plane starts to descend, these strange rock formations seem to pop out of the ground. I'm not sure what they're called; I don't think mountains is the right word because these aren't a gradual rise. The clouds were also perfect for our entrance. You could see these thick white clouds floating mid-air with their shadows covering the ground immediately underneath them. I felt like a giant in a playground; I could run from mountain to mountain, cloud to cloud without touching the ground. 

But in the human world, we had our Supervisor's Conference on Wednesday/Thursday/Friday. Everyone met a representative from their school and we worked together to develop a plan of action to integrate into our community. My roommate Kris, will also be working as an English Teacher at the IFP. We met a fellow professor and neighbor, Pie. He worked closely with the former volunteers and gave us a lot of insight as to what our expectations are and what the school will be like.

Emotionally, there were a lot of up and down moments this week. However, at this point, the night before my trip to Pemba, I'm feeling excited and motivated. Earlier today I saw 10 volunteers leave for their site and start their journey. Now I'm ready for mine.

At US Ambassador to Moçambique's house. 

Flying in to Nampula. I'm sorry this photo doesn't do it justice. 

What is training?

Training, formação, is what attracted me to the Peace Corps. Only ten weeks to learn a language an change the world? Sign me up! …. Seriously, how did I get this far in life?

In reality, formação can be boring, exciting, difficult, joyful, stressful, pointless, overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating.
The usual week begins with two - four hours of language at a classmate's house. Language is completely immersive. Our teachers only speak Portuguese with us and if we ask a question in English they stare at us like we're crazy. Our teachers also happen to be some of the best trained teachers in all of Mozambique, several have studied in South Africa. So, in reality they all speak English fluently. But for 10 weeks they pretend they can't speak a word.

Language is usually followed by two - four hours of Tech training. This is where we tackle topics like "Teaching large classes" (you just do it) and "Gender Differences in Mozambique." (They exist). These are done with the other English trainees. We all live in the same barrio, so we are able to walk. Occasionally we are visited by the Math Trainees. I'd say one of the biggest frustrations of PCT is not being able to get to know all of the trainees. Once you get to Namaacha you train for 10 hours a day with the same people that live in your barrio. The only time we see the Science trainees is during I.F.P. days. On these days everyone gets together at a local training school for teachers for large lectures from Medical, Security, and Core (general PC information). Usually, at the end of these days, I walk home positive that I will end up with AIDS, die in a knife fight. or be sent home for not wearing a seatbelt. Honestly, after working with community organizations of various sizes, I am very impressed with how thorough and organized training has been.

Every week we have two current Volunteers help facilitate training and be available to answer questions. This, by far, has been the most helpful part of PCT. Volunteers are able to give us information, advice, and stories to help shape our vague idea of what our future will be like.

Training (supposedly) finishes at 5:30 everyday. That gives me 2.5 hours to complete homework, relax, and tomar banho before dinner with the family. Not every training experience is the same, and (i've heard) that the family home stay is unique to Mozambique. This has been another facet of training that is irreplaceable. It has NOT been easy adjusting to living with a Mozambique. However, it's hard to argue against home cooked meals and guaranteed playmates. However, however, I will be glad to be at my own place (in less than a week!).

On Saturdays we usually have some sort of activity like painting a mural! These are usually over before noon (the mural was not), giving us plenty of time to walk around the neighborhood and enjoy our time in Namaacha.

So, that's the general outline of training. There's no silver bullet or magic spell to the language. Just when I think I'm improving, I get that blank stare from my host sister. It's a stare that kills any sort of pride or motivation. And just when I think I'll never get it, my Mae asks me to get her the broom and I do it without thinking.

Training moves so quickly, that I can't mull over mistakes or worries. It's a train chugging along on predetermined tracks. Climb aboard.



Love love love.

The Little Things

The last two weeks of training have been spent at Model School. For six days, eighty school age children have woken up before 7am, during their summer vacation, to listen to 51 American butcher Portuguese. What could be the benefit to all of this?

Cookies. What else?

I'm not sure how the students have felt these (quasi) two weeks, but I'm having a blast. Being in front of the classroom finally feels natural. Something has aligned in the universe and it's pointing towards a blackboard. Four other English trainees and I were assigned the ninth grade. We have all taught atleast 3 classes. Ninth grade tends to be smaller then eighth and tenth because there are no national exams for the ninth grade. So I guess my five students really like cookies. I have already become attached to them. I brag about their progress, the jokes they make, and their good behavior. I have one student that speaks fluent English; she's originally from South Africa. I asked her the first day, "Why are you here? Do you have a volunteer for a brother or sister?" " No," she replied, "I just want to learn more."

whoa.

Today was the last day of Model School. We passed back our seven question test, certificates, and more cookies to the students. Then we just got to hang out and chatted with them. Of course, my Portuguese being the way it is, I wasn't able to have the best conversations, but at the same time the students were very patient with me and we were able to talk about Namaacha, America, and where I'll be living in Mozambique. Several students really cared about their grades, even though it has no effect of their actual school grade. There was a genuine interest to learn from every student, no matter the grade they earned.

             Students reviewing their test scores. 

These test have zero affect on their actual school grades. 

Escola Modela 9a Turma A 

I hope this doesn't sound too much like bragging, but I have to mention this. Two of my students (top picture) wrote me the nicest letters! One was from the student mentioned earlier, and another from a lower-level student that I hadn't talked with outside of class. I cannot believe how thoughtful those girls are! It really shows you that you never know where, when, or how you will impact someones life.

Love love love