Condoms and Christmas

Friday 3am

I’m sitting on my porch with my new capulana yoga bag (with a matching headband), packed with only the essentials for my trip to Monapo, Nampula. I’m on my way to a REDES conference; my first time traveling solo in Mozambique. I’m waiting for the motorista, Javiar, who very kindly offered a boleia when he heard I was leaving. Classess were canceled and I am armed with 60 papers to read on the 8 hour bus ride. I am ready.

Notice the new head band! 

Friday 11am

I arrive in Monapo! The actual bus ride was not very eventful. I traveled on a bus similar to that of a greyhound, just imagine 50 people standing in the aisle. No sleep was had, nor papers graded. I spent most of the time trying to balance on the pleather seats (nylon capris+ pleather seats+ Mozambican roads = a slippery ride). In Namialo, I ran into three other PCVs on the way to the conference and together we boleiad to Monapo. Pretty smooth trip!

Friday 5pm

At dinner I met the rest of the group that arrived for the REDES Training. In total there were 7 PCVs and 4 Mozambicans. All here to learn about how to help young women in Mozambique.

Saturday 8am

So, what the heck is REDES? First, pronounced red-ish, it stands for Rapariga em Desenvolvimento, Educaçao e Saúde/ Girls in Development, Education, and Health. Basically, they are groups of young women that meet in order to help young girls develop positive and healthy futures. There is specific information about sex education and HIV/AIDS prevention that must be taught, but everything else depends on the unique girls that form the group. REDES can be centered around a sports team, creative arts, or a business. Whatever gives the girls positive self-esteem and motivation to attend. I have spoken with some Nuns at a local missionary about working with students that come to their after-school group. To make sure I know what the heck I’m talking about, there was a nice review of sex ed. Yes, there were pictures, condoms and a wooden dildos involved. Honestly, I’ve been to a lot of training – a LOT of training- in my day and this was one of the best. Every topic was informative and necessary. Sessions were energetic and engaging.

I, on the other hand, was not energetic or engaging. The sessions were 100% in Portuguese and that was freaking tiring. I’m a little embarrassed to say it, but I’m actually proud of how well I was able to follow the training. I expected it to be a lot worse. It just required so much attention that to contribute to the discussion was too much. For most sessions I felt as if a glass wall separated me from everyone else. Making the sound travel slowly and slurred. I only understood everything right as we were moving on to the next topic. But, I am not depressed, if anything I am more motivated then ever on improving my Portuguese. My REDES group will be lead in Portuguese, so I better figure it out soon!

Saturday 5pm

While still behind my glass wall, I see a Peace Corps car driving past the window (which, ironically, had no glass in it). There were rumors that Dr. Carlos would show up and give us all flu shots. Gotta love Peace Corps medical benefits because, not only did he come with shots, he brought packages!! The joy of receiving a package is nothing like what I have experienced before. Especially when I was still under the assumption that this package was hidden in the dark, damp cellar of the Maputo Office. I finally received my package that my father sent in December! Even though I knew all the contents of the package, I opened it like a kid on Christmas morning. Myself, and my friends, N, JR, and J all received Christmas packages. I know this is corny but the room was filled with love. Being away from home is hard. Not occasionally, not sometimes, but all the time. Every moment of every day I miss my family. It’s just a hardship that I choose to live with. So, to receive these packages, for a little bit that burden lessens; we’re reminded that we’re not forgotten.  

Sunday 8pm

The training went by quickly, and still blurred by the glass window. I was grouchy all day with a sour throat and runny nose. At lunch time I hurriedly ate in order to get as much of a nap as possible. And, unlike Saturday night, I was not elated by my Christmas package. I awkwardly left the dinner table coughing out some goodbyes and bom viagems to people I would not see again for a long time, and made my way back to J’s house. The plan was to put on my pjs and just relax. I was over Portuguese, and I was over people. Thirty minutes later, everyone showed up at J’s. You can imagine my inner-dialogue, but I ended up having some good conversation (in Portuguese) and listening to music. Finally, people started to leave and I was left with a small group of friends.

And then N said something magical, “Who wants to watch a movie and drink hot chocolate?”

Then J said, “I’ve got popcorn but I always burn it.”

Then I said, “I can make kettle corn.”

Then JR said “I’ve got Frozen.”

And, that is (not exactly, but you get the gist) how Christmas in April became The Best Christmas Ever. 

Monday 4:45am

I’m awoken by S from Namuno standing over me. “Oh shit, that was my alarm that went off.” The day before I had told S that I would get up at 4:30 and to come over whenever she was ready to leave. Oops. I’m not going to chat about the details of the travel, but just know that it was not as smooth as the first trip. I took 3 different chapas and paid 20mts more. I learned that when a child suffers from car sickness they suck on a match and rub black shit in their mouth. I did get peanuts and a banana from two nice women. I returned the favor with suckers that my parents sent from home.

Monday 4:30pm

I got back to Pemba at 3pm. I traded the gossip with K and by 4:30pm I was laying down for a quick nap before grading the papers I never graded.

Tuesday 5:30 am

A text from a friend wakes me up from the nap. It takes three different clocks to convince me that it’s 5:30 am the next day. I contemplate canceling class in order to grade the papers. But no, classes were already canceled last Friday. My students need some English.

Tuesday 8:30

I shuffled my way to class still complaining of a stuffy nose and the figurative burden of ungraded papers. Not wanting to deal with the frustrations of group work, I decided to do a listening activity for the first part of class and tell my students about REDES. I gave candy if they asked me a question. By the end of the day, I was offered help to lead a REDES group with neighborhood kids, asked to start a REDES group at the IFP, and was out of Dum-Dums. 

Not a bad day. 

Love Love Love 

Educaçao - or lack thereof

Nerd Alert! If you know me at all (which of course you do because you’re reading this) you know that I have a tendency to nerd out a bit. So this post will not be about the beaches or beers or festas. It’s going to be about school.

Similar to the United States, Mozambique has twelve grades divided between Primary School (1^st – 7^th grade) and Secondary School (8^th-12^th grade). Primary school is mandatory and free, however families are responsible for buying uniforms, notebooks and pencils. Secondary school is not mandatory and a small fee is required.

The primary school attendance rate for both boys and girls is roughly 77%. After seventh grade this number drops to 22% for girls, and 25% for boys. 

Of the even fewer number that graduate from secondary school, are my students.

My school is an IFP – Instituto Formaçao dos Professores – It’s a Teacher Training Institute. However, it is not a University. To enter the IFP, students need to pass 10^th grade, an entrance exam, and an interview. Several students may graduate from 12^th grade, but it’s not necessary.

Our school is a three year program- the first two years are spent doing general studies plus pedagogical theory and the third is a practicum. At the end of the three years they earn a 10+3 degree. It’s not the equivalent of a high school diploma, but many consider it more important because it is a certificate that makes them eligible to teach primary school.

That’s right, teachers for 1^st- 7^th grade do not have to set foot in a University.

I expected most teachers not to have degrees: class sizes are too big and there aren’t enough qualified teachers to go around. However, I did not expect this to be an accepted government policy.

I think at this point I’m just going to keep my opinion about this policy to myself. I don’t know Mozambique well enough yet. Maybe it is possible to educate an entire country with only a 10^th grade education…

Maybe I am too idealistic…

Love love love

Teacher Rayna 

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.