electricity.

The last few weeks have been pretty eventful, but this blog is dedicated to today: the day I got energy!

When I first moved into my cute yellow house (pale yellow with deep red trim, pictures to come), I was told within a few days I should have electricity. That was three weeks ago.

In the past three weeks, I have waited on my landlord who demorar-ed beyond belied and taken matters into my own hands. Last week, I showed up at the electricity agency, asked where the director’s office was, and walked right in. This is a very gouch move, as usually to talk to a chefe, you must go through all the necessary means. I was counting on my clear difference in appearance to get me into his office. I was totally right, and he promised me energy that day.

Of course, that did not happen.

I left the next day to spend Christmas with some friends in Gorongosa (where there is a national park that is closed, but I got to see my first mountains in Mozambique, my heart lit up and I cannot wait to get back), and asked my house-keeper to stay at my house while I was gone. She told me she would wait for the electricity men to come.

I came back to site on Monday only to find (not at all surprisingly) that my prematurely purchased rotating fan was still just sitting collecting dust. This morning, I hopped on my bike and braved the chefe’s office again. He took one look at me, apologized, and told me to go home and someone would be there this morning. Around 1:00 pm, a truck pulled into my yard.

I am now sitting, computer and cell phone charging (the number of batches of cookies I need to make for my neighbors who have graciously charged my phone over the last few weeks will keep me busy until about February), and fan blowing right on my bed.

My bed is, you should know, my favorite place. My first night in my house, I did not have a bed. I put my trusty purple thurmarest on the floor, set up my mosquito net, and was ready to go to sleep after a long day of meeting various important people and repeating my name over and over (Naomi, to Mozambicans is very similar to the word “nome” and people often think I am just saying “name” in response to their asking mine; it gets very tiring). After a few horizontal minutes, I heard the sound that I know all too well from my apartment in DC.

I had a mouse problem.

I grabbed my can of bygone, which I had used before I snuggled onto my thermarest, to kill all of the cockroaches I could find invading my space. I proceeded to spray the area where I heard the mouse (which was all of 5 inches from where my head had beed). The rest of the night was much the same. I sat under my mosquito net, spray can in hand, with my head-lamp on, ready to attack.

The next day my supervisor called me to see how I had slept. I told him about my mouse problem. He apologized, and later that day showed up with the tiniest kitten I have ever seen. Ghandi, as I quickly named her, was so cute. An added bonus, that night I did not hear a single mouse.

I have grown to love Ghandi. The neighbors think I am crazy because I give her baths and cuddle with her. I call her my fliha (daughter) and tell people that I live with my one child, not alone.

Yesterday, however, when I came back from Gorongosa, Ghandi was no where to be found. I asked my neighbors if they had seen her, and no one had. I went to bed, and the next morning my house-keeper told me that on Monday as she was cleaning, she thought Ghandi had wondered out of the house (which she does but has never gone beyond my yard), and my house-keeper thought that since she was so pretty someone probably put her in their pocket. Ghandi was beautiful, tan with bright blue eyes. Like a doting mother I had shown pictures of her to all my friends in Gorongosa.

My housekeeper has offered me one of her kittens (which are white and not cute and older by about nine months) and though I do not want them because there is no replacement for Ghandi (and because I am naively expected the darn thing to show up at my door right now), I do not want my mouse problem to continue.

I suppose I can decide in a few days. I have asked all of the neighborhood kids to keep an eye out for Ghandi, and if they can't find her, no one can. In the meantime, as I mourn and call Ghandi and make kissy noises, attracting even more attention to myself, I plan to spend my vacation getting the rest of my house ready. I want to paint the inside (obnoxious, bright colors) and I want to dig up a good garden in the back.

And tomorrow, I want to buy some appliances. You know the kind, the ones that plug in.

move in day.

I figured moving into a house in Mozambique would be trickier than moving into my last apartment in Boston.

I think, probably, had my mom offered to help move me into Dondo it would still have been smoother than the move into Roxbury.

The process started about two weeks ago. Peace Corps gave us each a big cardboard box, which was ours to fill up in whatever way we felt best. The next day, a Peace Corps car came to each of our houses in Namaacha and picked up said boxes. A few days later, the cars returned to Namaacha to pick up our big bags that would meet us the next day in Namaacha.

Excited about the “Swearing in” ceremony, I went to get my shampoo out of my bag once we were in Maputo. After trying twice to open the zipper, I realized I was fighting a losing fight and borrowed my roommate’s shampoo. The next day, however, I really needed to change out of the hideous capulana dress I wore to swear in (which you should look at pictures of, the dresses are terrible, though mine has become maybe my favorite article of clothing and I refer to it as my moo-moo), so I tried the zipper again. Miraculously, it opened and I was able to pack myself a bag for the next few days. I closed the suitcase thinking I would not have to open it until I was in the comfort of my new home.

But I am a risk taker. Last night, in my hotel in Beira, I decided it would really be nice to change my running socks (yes, Dena, I am back to re-using my running socks, and I am not ashamed – you try washing those things by hand). Upon the first try, the zipper came off the teeth of itself and I knew I was now left with an unopenable, unclosable suitcase. Annoyed I used my dirty socks and went on with my morning. When I came back to my room after breakfast to pack my stuff up and head to Dondo, my suitcase had decided to open. So now I had an over packed, open suitcase.

I have forgotten to mention that at some point in this process, one of my friends, Autumn, decided it would be a good idea to tape up the broken part of the zipper. We were all given red duct tape to close our boxes, and Autumn had been smart enough to rip off a little extra which she kindly shared with me. To give you an appropriate picture, my suitcase now was broken completely with a couple of small pieces of bright red duct tape keeping it together. Having packed my duct tape in my box, I was left with rope (because you should never travel without rope and I don’t). I tied the bright green p-cord around the suitcase and hoped that Gimo, my advisor, was picking me up in a car, not a public chapa.

Luckily, Gimo came in a standard NGO 4-wheel drive vehicle. I was able to slide the suitcase in and just needed it to make it to my house.

When I arrived in Dondo, Gimo said it would be better to go right to the office to take care of a few things. Nervous about an open suitcase holding basically all my possessions in Mozambique (except of course those dirty gym socks), I agreed and hoped whatever we had to do would not take too long.

We pulled up to the office of ASVIMO to about sixty people singing and dancing. I got out of the car and was immediately wrapped in a maroon capulana with pineapples on it and given a matching headscarf. The next two hours consisted of different groups of people presenting dances and theater and songs in my honor. The teenage activistas sang a song about how “Tia Naomi” was now part of their family. It was a beautiful party, and I felt so welcomed. After the presentations, we had a great lunch with all of the members of ASVIMO.

ASVIMO, to clear up for everyone, is the organization with which I will be working for the next two years. Their work focuses on orphans and vulnerable children, widows, and the elderly. ASVIMO works throughout Sofala province in the areas of health, education, income generation, and food security. I will be working with the activistas (community health workers) on nutrition projects and helping to build capacity on monitoring and evaluation of the many programs of ASVIMO. ASVIMO also has a “centro abero” (open center) for the orphans in the area. Hundreds of kids come to the center each day for lunch and also receive professional training and work on income generation projects. I will be working with these kids a lot, and I am so excited. There is also a huge well at the ASVIMO office, and people come throughout Dondo to get water because it is so clean.

Anyway, after lunch, I was anxious to see my house. Gimo told me I couldn’t stay in it tonight because it was cleaned yet. I explained it did not really have to be that clean for me, and it would be fine. I walked in and was just in a bit of shock.

First, about ten lovely women were scrubbing the house from top to bottom. I was so humbled and thanked them for the hard work. Unfortunately, in the process of cleaning, the women had decided to take off the door. A dirty house I can stay in. A house with no door, harder.

My house is totally lovely, but completely empty. In the states, an empty house means cabinets and closets to fill. In Mozambique, an empty house means an empty house. There was not one single surface to put a cup, a key, or a lamp. The owners had apparently gotten bored of painting and stopped after one wall. There is not yet a meter to count electricity, nor are there any light bulbs.

Finally understanding the work I had ahead of me and mentally making a list of necessities (door, bed, locks, table, bowl, knife, etc), I looked around the house and found that I have two huge mango trees and a huge yard that will be great for a garden! I also had two neighborhood goats roaming around, which I intend to quickly train not to eat my garden. I was excited about my house and ready to start buying little things in town, but Gimo insisted I talk with the landlord right away.

The landlord, stereotypically, was very concerned about his money. He informed me that he had worked out with Gimo that I was to pay three months at a time. No one had told me about this agreement and three months rent is basically my entire move-in allowance. Plus I never carried that much cash on me. I gave him one month and told him I would get him the rest the next day (before which I intended to talk to my director to see what I should do). That was not an acceptable plan for this man, and he decided to accompany me to the bank to retrieve the rest of the money. Gimo said it would be fine, I was set to stay in a hotel in Beira again, and we could stop at the bank on our way.

Annoyed, I went to the bank to withdrawal basically every dime I had (quickly vanished my mental pictures of a beautiful, comfortable bed, a stove, and a refrigerator, and I just hoped that my box with my thermarest would be delivered soon and that I could buy a cheap hot water heater). Unfortunately (or possibly fortunately), Barclay’s denied my withdrawal and froze my account. Confused, and it being 5:30, I knocked on the door to the bank. The nice bank teller had no idea what happened, but also had no intention of helping me until the next day. I told my landlord he was out of luck, but he told me to try again.

I went back to the ATM, did a balance inquiry, and found that though the bank had not given me my money, it had deducted the money from the account. Frustrated, and without the language capabilities to handle the situation, I told the landlord he was not getting his money. I then told Gimo I did not know what else I really could do at that point. Gimo, though slow on picking up my frustration, could hear my voice crack, and decided since I now had all of 20 mets to my name (equivalent to about 80 cents), there was no reason for me to return to Beira to try to buy stuff for my house the next day. He put me up in a little hostel in Dondo, and told me not to worry, that it would be worked out. I tried to explain I was not worried just annoyed (still not knowing the word for annoying, I described it like when a little kid pokes you over and over), but he had no clue what I was talking about and I think he actually thought I went completely crazy during the entire bank situation.

Luckily, throughout this entire ordeal, one of my new co-workers, Adelina was with me. Adelina is completely adorable and the perfect person to balance Gimo’s apathy. After Gimo dropped me off with my still broken, duct taped, roped together suitcase at my hotel, Adelina said I could walk with her to her house. She lived in a great house with her four year old son. On our way back to the hostel, she bought me a Fanta and talked to me a little about her life. 22, years old, she is still finishing school and dating a boy who lives in Beira. We bonded about long distance relationships and talked about what she wanted to do when she was done with school. She laughed when I told her I get nervous in big cities and did not believe me when I told her how expensive mangos are in the US.

I think I have my first friend in Dondo.

No home yet. But a house. And a friend.

Nova Vida

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So for the past few weeks, I have been working with three friends: Jess, Emily, and Autumn on putting together a “palestra” (workshop) for Nova Vida, a small community based organization here in Namaacha. For our “Practicum,” each of the health trainees was grouped together and assigned to work with a different Namaacha-based organization.

At our first meeting, about eight members met with us to talk about their organization and its goals. After a lot of talk about their ambitious but well intentioned aspirations (that ranged from buying video recording equipment to holding weekly workshops for community members about agriculture), we were able to understand that Nova Vida is a theater group.

A group of all teenage students, Nova Vida performs community theater on a variety of different social issues including: HIV/AIDS, education (especially for girls), nutrition, and health.

Nova Vida was started a few years ago with money from the National Aids Network of Mozambique. Because of its funding, members of Nova Vida are expected to do home visits to families in Namaacha to discuss issues similar to those highlighted in their theater. In particular, these visits are to ensure people living with HIV/AIDS are taking their ARVs and maintaining a healthy lifestyle.

Unfortunately, home visits are an afterthought for many of the members of Nova Vida, who are much more excited about performing theater at the market on Saturdays than visiting and counseling their sick neighbors. As Eduardo, the group leader said, he is an actor first and an activista (health worker) second.

In Mozambique there is this phenomenon that I imagine will drive me crazy over the next two years, we call it chefe syndrome. The chefe, or the boss, shows how important he is by making you wait for him. The more important the person, the longer you will wait. After many hours of waiting and being stood up twice (after an hour of waiting we gave up each time), my group was able to meet with the head of the group. Eduardo was very patient with our Portuguese and helped us to understand how the group was started and what the members do on a daily basis. When Autumn asked him what he would want to happen if he had a Peace Corps Volunteer working with Nova Vida for two years, Eduardo explained he would want someone to help re-train the people who do home visits. We told him we would be happy to put something together for him, and after some brainstorming, we decided on four different options. Eduardo liked the idea of both a workshop on transmission of HIV and one about adherence to ARVs. Though the two subjects are related, we had to work a while on making them logically go together in one one-hour session.

We were all nervous about having to explain things like drug resistance and sexual networks in Portuguese, but we practiced all day on Tuesday under our lichi tree (the house where we have our health tech sessions has this great lichi tree under which we have most of our classes – it is our inspiration). Nova Vida was supposed to be there at 3:30, and knowing Eduardo, we expected that meant closer to 4:00. At 4:15 we called and he said he was on his way. Pessimistic that anyone was going to show up at all, I set out a couple of chairs. To our surprise, six members of Nova Vida showed up at 4:30. Not only did they show up, they all brought paper and pencils and were really excited to work with us.

After a couple of ice breakers, discussion started and we were really able to engage the group in conversation about information they should be bringing into the homes they visit. We did a true and false game about some of the myths surrounding HIV in Mozambique that really got some discussion going. We also played a game that demonstrates how HIV is spread and the ways to prevent it. The group seemed impressed with the creative ways we taught information and we helped the group learn how to do the games on their own, so they could use the games within the community.

As we went to thank them, Eduardo interrupted me and asked if we wanted to see some of their theater. World AIDS Day is December 1, and they have been practicing their piece to perform in the town square that day. Honored that they would perform for us, we rearranged the room, and watched the group perform. The play (or the parts that I understood, theater is apparently at regular Portuguese speed not “oh you are an American so I will talk extremely slowly and clearly” speed, which is the speech that I best understand) was about a man who is diagnosed with HIV and then not allowed to work at the bar where he works. The people in the bar and the bar-keeper discriminate against the man and eventually leave him all alone.

Discrimination can be a difficult thing to talk about, and we have discussed in our tech sessions about how to address these kinds of issues, and I never thought of theater as a venue. Addressing discrimination against people living with HIV/AIDS is extremely important because home visits can be potentially very stigmatizing. We talked with the group about some of these issues and then celebrated the afternoon with some cookies and lots of pictures.

While we spent a lot of time waiting for Nova Vida, in the end I think the practicum was a total success.

Also, the group asked for us to be “extras” in the play, so on World AIDS Day, you can see me asking for a “refresco” in the bar in the play!

running in Namaacha.

When you run everyday in a town like Namaacha, people notice you. Namaacha has become somewhat accustomed to strange foreigners, like myself, who really love going for a run in the morning despite the muddy road, tremendous heat, and unsympathetic chapa drivers that like to run us off the road.

I have been running nearly everyday since I arrived (there was one day that I woke up and just walking to the latrine resulted in an embarrassing fall and a muddy mess and I decided it was just not worth it to run that day), and I have had some pretty great interactions during these runs. This post is dedicated to the children I high five at 6 am, the lady with the pink spandex, and the bread vendor.

Usually, I am the only person running for fun in the morning. Usually I will see a couple of people running after chapas (public buses about the size of the big, blue, 13 passenger van we had when I was little), but no one is running just to run. Last week, however, I was heading up one of the big hills in my neighborhood, and I saw four women, power walking up the hill. For a second I was displaced back to Roxbury, Massachusetts, where the four women in bright pink spandex, power walking up a hill in the morning, would have been somewhat common place. The barbed wire fence separating me from Swaziland reminded me that I was in fact still in Mozambique. As I got closer to the women, they turned around and giggled after all looking at me. When I passed them, one started running with me. Excited to have a local running partner, I quickly started a conversation with her. Our short-breathed conversation lasted all of five hundred yards when she told me she was going to join her friends again.

Younger kids on their way to school usually join me for short periods during my run, too. They run next to me and don’t speak at all, just smile. The kids that don’t run with me, high five me. Its like I am winning a race, every morning.

Often my “bom dias” are met with confused glances, chapas chicken fight me for space on the road, and the guards at the boarder say ridiculous things about me as a run by. I have grown to love the English that I get to hear on my run. Clearly a foreigner, Mozambicans take the opportunity to use all of the English they know when they see me, sometimes all strewn together into one word: “hellogoodmorninggoodafternoongood-night,” or “howareyouveryfinethankyou.”

I have gotten three marriage proposals during my morning runs. If anyone reading this has run with me and seen how very sweaty and unattractive I get by the end, you know that I should maybe take the suitors up on their proposal. Toward the end of a run on a particularly hot day, a man said, “I must marry you.” To which I replied, in Portuguese, that I couldn’t right now as I had to get home. He responded, in English, “I must marry you. I am a cup full of serious.”

Running has become a blessing to my host mother, who appreciates my willingness to stop by the paderia (bread shop) on my way home. People will like up at the paderia and buy hundreds of loaves of bread to then re-sell in their neighborhood. The first morning I went to get bread for the family, a girl in front of my in line asked how much bread I was buying. When I responded four loaves, she grabbed my hand and walked me to the front of the line. There the bread maker told me if you want less than ten loaves of bread, you don't have to wait. Now, every morning, he jokes with me about how sweaty I get and how strong I must be. I also notice that he always gives me the biggest loaves of bread, which I find both ironic and fitting.

While it isn't Blue Line coffee, running to the paderia makes me feel useful at home and a little more at home.

learning to cook.

Cooking can be tricky if you don’t have a stove.

Add in no running water and no counter space, and things can really get tricky.

I, however, can make beans that are worthy of even the grandmother of my house’s compliments.

My first few days in Namaacha, I let my host mother, Mariana, make my meals for me. She liked to ask me if I knew what a cucumber was or if we ate rice in the US. She was appalled to hear I liked my coffee black (though I should add hear that I am using the word coffee loosely; we only have Nestcafe, which does not even come close to me as counting as a real cup of coffee).

One morning, I asked if I could help her prepare the beans for dinner. Feijoes (beans) is my favorite meal Mariana makes. She is very respectful of my vegetarianism but loves giving me cooked vegetables smothered in oil and served with fried fish and rice; appetizing once or maybe twice a day, a serious stomach ache twice a day for a week. Feijoes, however, is simply red beans, green peppers, tomatoes, and onions. And Mariana makes the best in town.

Mariana agreed to let me help if I got back from school in time. After class, I ran home and sat at the table with her and Helena (Marian’s sister), and prepared the vegetables.

If you have ever cooked with me before, you might know that I have a particularly emotional reaction to cutting onions. My tears were apparently hilarious to Mariana, who saw me crying as I diced the onions and could not stop laughing. I cried my way through the onion and moved on to the tomato.

As an American guest in a Mozambiquan home, I have learned that I do not know how to do a lot of things that I once thought I knew. Mariana is always skeptical when I say I can do something “sozinha” (without help). The first day she doubted I could bathe alone, and when I came out with clean hair, she was totally impressed.

Before last week, I apparently did not know how to cut tomatoes.

When I started cutting the tomato, I began cutting it as I would have at home. Mariana reminded me to peel it first. Never having peeled a tomato, this sent her into yet another fit of laughter until she took another tomato and took the skin off in a seemingly effortless second.

Then, rather than cutting the tomatoes with the other vegetables, we cut them right into the pot. This is one of the best ideas ever. I always hated how after cutting tomatoes my cutting board was all tomato-y. What’s more, you loose all that tomato goodness. If you cut the tomato right into the pot, you get a great little pre-sauce to sauté the onions and peppers in. I was totally impressed.

Maybe I should have let her show me how to bathe.

Anyway, after cutting and sautéing the veggies, I added the soaked beans and sat by the fire with Angelina, Mariana’s 15 year old daughter. I think Dena can attest to the fact that I am pretty good at embarrassing my younger sisters, but only in the nicest ways. I really love introducing people to Angelina as my sister. When they look at me funny, I always ask them if we look alike and she always giggles and runs away.

After I had stirred the beans enough to Angelina’s liking, I served up the beans for myself, Mariana, and Vavo (the grandmother of the house). Vavo does not speak Portuguese, but she did not have to do more than smile after I served her plate for me to know I had succeeded.

Later, Mariana asked me if I had ever cooked before. She was surprised when I said that I loved to cook, but then told me that I could cook beans for her any day.

Finding landmines.

You can train animals to find landmines.

As landmines come in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes, they can be extremely difficult to find. Usually they are made to blend in with the ground, to completely surprise the unfortunate soul who walks upon them.

Millions of active landmines still exist in many post-conflict settings.

Active mines in post-conflict settings pose a great danger to many innocent civilians trying to piece back their homes and families. Many of the mines are small and look like toys; curious children are often the victims of mine explosions because they come across the small, shiny objects and want to know what they do.

During a recent lecture about landmines and the international efforts to find and cease the creation of these tiny death mines, our lecturer, Cameron Macauley, explained the use of dogs in finding landmines. Landmine seeking dogs, like seeing eye dogs, cost about ten thousand dollars to train, are very cute, and are dedicated to their work. When I asked how the trainers could put the dogs in such danger (dogs often die in the line of duty as they cannot see the trip wires that are often connected to anti-personnel mines), Cameron simply said, "they like what they do."

I just could not imagine a cute little mutt risking his life to pick up after some untidy combatants.

The next slide, however, was about training bees to find landmines. It is so cool.

Apparently, you can put the scent of dynamite in bee food. Not only are the bees extremely responsive, it is fairly cost-effective to train bees. Once they have been trained, the bees are released in fields that have been identified as mined. The bees swarm toward the scent of the dynamite and then the de-mining team knows where the mines are located.

I thought this was awesome and, under my breath said, "that is so cool."

My professor turned around, looked at me, and said, "Naomi, bees have rights, too."

I turned red. Monica, my professor, was right. But for some reason, the rights of bees did not cross my mind when I heard you could train them to find remnants of dirty wars.

In the coming months I will be moving to Mozambique. Mozambique's civil war, which ended in the 1990s, left thousands of active landmines throughout the country. Since the war is now over in Mozambique, the only victims of these mines are civilians, mostly children. Though there are efforts in Mozambique, and around the world, to find and disarm landmines, efforts to find and destroy these landmines are slow, as it is an extremely time-intensive and dangerous process. To find out more about landmines, please visit http://www.icbl.org/intro.php.

I don't know if I will train any bees in Mozambique, but if I do, I will not take their rights for granted.