my neighborhood kids.

Kids love playing in my yard. I think they like it as much for my mango trees as they do for the opportunity to play with the neighborhood’s mazungo (the Sena word for branca, white person; this word completely annoys me as I feel its offensive, but here it is completely acceptable to use instead of a name). There are a few groups of kids that come by, and each has there own distinct characteristics.

There is Five (who when he introduced himself said “como (like): one, two, three, four, five; it is one of my favorite English word names, second only to my friend “Give”) who comes by with three little girls. They like to play with Nehru and always tell me when I have ripe fruit on my trees.

There is a group of about eight seven-year old girls who like to come by and see if I will dance with them. They always ask if they can have my hair and tell me the days when I am looking particularly “sheiky.” I see them sometimes on their way to school and they get so excited that I will say hi to them on the street because it makes them look very cool in front of their friends. I also taught these girls how to whistle with grass, a talent that has now become somewhat of my trademark as they clearly told their friends who told their friends, and all of whom have come by to learn how. I never knew the trick my dad taught me when I was little would soon become such a hot commodity.

My next door neighbor has two quiet girls and Nino, a two year old boy. Nino always brings Nehro home when he walks into their yard, and the girls are always joking with him about it. Unlike the other neighborhood children, these girls rarely come to play in my yard, except when there are lots of mangos falling or when they are playing tag. Twice, however, I have gone and helped them have a “picnic” (a word they use) in which they cut coke cans in half, put a little bit of charcoal in the bottom of one have and random leaves and water in the top half and cook them until they are ready to “eat.” This is perhaps one of my favorite Mozambican games as it reminds me of the “stews” I used to make out of dandelions and grass when I was little.

And lastly there are the boys with the tires. These boys were my least favorite group until recently when we reached an understanding. The group consists of about seven boys under the age of seven. As you can imagine, a group of this demographic has the potential to be great playmates, but they also have the potential of being little brats. When I first moved in, the boys would roll up with their three old tires, which they always seem to have and can do some pretty awesome tricks with, I have to admit. They sometimes stack three of them against a tree and use them to climb up and then jump back down into the center. They can also clear the three stacked up if they run and jump (all but one who usually falls and makes everyone laugh). Anyway, they would show up and just stand outside my house chanting “mazungo, mazungo.” I tried to tell them that my name was Naomi, and they seemed to love the fact that calling me mazungo seemed to frustrate me, so they obviously kept doing it. They also did not treat my kitten very nicely, which is common here, but I have no patience for. I eventually just started telling them to go home and that made them laugh even harder. They would leave and then come back and repeat exactly what I had said to them. They were infuriating.

Finally, last week, one of the boys came up to my house by himself. I talked with him about calling me “Tia” instead of “mazungo” and he agreed. Then I taught him how to play rock, scissors, paper and played in the sand with him for a while. The next day, he brought one other friend and we all made faces at each other for about an hour until their moms called them home for dinner. I was finally getting through to them. Little by little more boys would come, call me Tia, and play for a little while at my house. They still like doing things like hitting each other and throwing sand in the littlest ones faces, but I think they were starting to understand when I would tell them that was really not a nice way to play.

I sometimes feel like I have about 15 kids. Sometimes I do not understand how I can possibly be entertaining enough for them to hang around all day long, but for some reason they do. Though I sometimes wish I didn’t have so many little kids around all the time, its pretty nice to have the company, even if the company sometimes throws sand.

the hospital.

Visiting hospitals is something we did during training. We visited two different health centers and compared the services available. We talked about how many people were waiting to be seen and how many resources we would have expected to see were just not available. Both of the health centers we visited were small, local health centers. Granted, these “small health centers” serve hundreds of thousands of Mozambican residents a year, but they are not the big, fancy district hospitals.

Last week I visited Beira’s central hospital. I walked onto a huge campus that overlooks a beach. With four different buildings including an entire maternity ward, I was impressed. To get in, I had to pass through a gate and talk to a guard (well, he really just said hello to me, but in Mozambique, as a white person, that is what most guards to do me when I walk into a buildings, one of the perks). Once inside, however, the fancy aspects of the hospital seemed to disappear.

I was there to visit Adelina. Adelina became sick about two weeks ago and last week took a turn for the worst. Catassefo took her to the hospital last Monday and as she was still in the hospital on Friday and I had decided to visit her. I walked into the main medical building and there was no formal registry of the patients. There were two women sitting at an “information” table who seemed annoyed to have to answer my questions, but told me a person with her symptoms would be on the third floor.

I walked upstairs (despite the fact that it was not visiting hours, another perk of being a well dressed foreigner) and entered the women’s ward. The man standing at the doorway did not know which room Adelina would be in, but he told me I could just walk down the hall until I found her (the idea of patient privacy does not at all exist in this country). I walked down the hallways and peered into rooms full of emaciated women sitting or sleeping on beds close together in the hot hospital. Each room had about six beds and one sink. There was one bathroom in the entire hall and at the end of the hall there was an employee room. After peering into all of the rooms (two of which were labeled “private rooms” but had three beds in each), I did not see Adelina. I went back and asked the man if he by chance could look on a registry for her name and he seemed uninterested. He told me she might be in the building next door.

The next thirty minutes consisted of me walking through most of the buildings of the hospital asking for my friend. Each hospital worker seemed as uninterested in helping me as the last and I finally gave up. I called Adelina’s sister and told her I would be waiting outside when she arrived.

Soon her sister found me and we walked back into the first building and down the same first hallway I had walked down. At the end of the hallway was Adelina. I had not recognized her. She had lost a lot of weight and her arms were extremely boney. Usually a sarcastic and fun person, she could barely talk with us at all. I sat with her for about an hour and she just kept asking me why, if she had not eaten anything in days, was her stomach so big and painful. I had no idea how to respond.

It was one of the hardest hospital visits I have ever made, and I have made quite a few. The doctors were doing nothing her Adelina, she was not receiving fluids or even any medicine. I decided to use my foreigner card one more time and marched up to the doctors’ table and asked why she was not receiving any medication and why her family still did not have any results from any tests. The doctor told me he had done a test a few days ago, but it being Friday, was unsure when he would receive any results. He told me they did not have any more fluids to give her at the time. Frustrated, I went back to her room and rubbed her back. I think she appreciated that I was not afraid to sit with her. I do not know the culture of caring for the sick here, but her brother and sister also appreciated that I sat with her for so long and tried to make her feel better. I just felt like there was not a thing I could do to help, and it was horrible to realize that is the way the system here is.

But that is the way the system here is. This week it affects my friend, but everyday it affects Mozambicans. There are no resources. There are not enough doctors or lab techs or cleaning products. There is no privacy. The walls are not painted bright colors and there are no tvs to watch Jeopardy during the day. There is no call button for when your pain increases because there are no pain meds to make you feel better. I was told to be prepared to realize these things, but it does not make it any easier when you have a sick friend. I have sat for hours wondering whether it is even worth it for her to be in the big, fancy central hospital, or if she should not just be at home, in a private bed, with a fan and clean sheets and her son at her side. And I still don’t know the answer.

first month.

So, I have been at site for over a month now, and it is starting to feel like home.

I recently bought some beautiful capulanas at the market (and I think I made the vendor’s day when I decided to buy seven capulanas) and then I spent an afternoon hand sewing curtains. The curtains look great with the paint I got, and my house is starting to look very much like a home. I am starting to put things up on the walls, and as soon as my friendly carpenter starts moving on his work, I should have a dresser and a nice shelf.

Ghandi never returned, but my neighbors felt terrible about me losing my child and I have helped me adopt a street kitten whom I have named Nero. Nero is adorable, has a little scratch on her nose, and loves when I give her a cup of milk (now to be specific this is reconstituted dehydrated milk, she is really quite laid back about her food). She is not at all vicious, and will probably thrive a lot more in my house than she would have in the wilds of Dondo, but I am still hopeful that I can teach her how to attack cockroaches and to scare away mice.

My neighbors have become my favorite part of my house. I can sit for hours with my neighbor Ana, who will often come over to talk with me about her boyfriend problems or about how she is nervous to move to Maputo for police school. Her mom has informed me that when she leaves, I will be inherited as her daughter. I pointed out that neither of us would be alone, as we will have each other. She laughed and said she would be spending a lot of time with me in my house. My next-door neighbor has a beautiful two-year-old boy named Nino. Nino loves to run around and loves it when I chase him. I think his mom appreciates someone else playing with him and has begun to look after me like an older child. She helps me pick through vegetables from the market, gives me cooking tips, and alerts me when it is about to pour and I should take my laundry inside.

Dondo itself is proving to be a great city to live in. It is big enough that I can always get just about everything I need, and I have already found my favorite cucumber lady, the best deal on eggs, and the cutest bread boy. I have become fast friends with the owner’s of the internet shop. Last time I went in, they called me by name, cleared off a table for me, and brought me a cold Fanta. It was great.

I have been trying to dedicate a few afternoons a week to exploring new parts of the city. I have found an amazing pineapple farm, a soon to be high class hotel, and a lot of fertile farm land. When I go on long bike rides, I always get funny looks (because why would you ride just to ride around aimlessly) but I have found it’s a great way to see the town and its outskirts. I bet the fact that I am not only one of few white people riding around town (there are some American missionaries whom I have met), but I also tend to wear shorts on these rides, both out of comfort (its too hot for pants and wearing a skirt on a bike can get tricky) and to make it seem like I am doing something truly athletic. After my first week with my bike, and my Peace Corps obligatory helmet, one of my co-workers explained that in Mozambique, only true cyclists, who ride for sport, would wear a helmet. Since I have to wear the helmet (not wearing a helmet is one of ten ways you immediately get sent home, along with riding on a motorcycle, being active in political protests, etc), I figured if I paired it with shorts, maybe I could make people think I was training for the Tour de Mozambique. If they stopped to think about it, training for any event on my single speed beach rider would be pretty impressive, but if I don’t have them fooled, at least I have them totally confused.

Work with ASVIMO is starting to become more interesting. With a slow December month because of the holidays, we are finally starting to think about what exactly my role will be within the organization. I am learning to take slower steps in each process of my work here, as everything happens much slower than it would in the states. Most days, I arrive at the office at 8, unlock and open my office door, and sweep the inside. Then I sit around reading various documents until about 9 when other people start showing up. We all sit in the shade and chat until about 10 or 10:30, when someone brings mangos or a coconut and we have a break (from all of our hard morning work). Around 11, we go over something work related as a group. At 12, all the neighborhood kids show up for lunch, I go to say hello to the kids and talk with the great lady who lives next door to ASVIMO (who herself has eight kids and likes to think of herself just like my mom ever since I told her I was the seventh of eight; I never thought being one of eight would be an icebreaker). Around 1 or 2 we all decide it is way to hot to work, and we all go home.

There are obviously days that are different. On “trabalho do campo” (field work) days, I can accompany one of the activistas to the houses of our beneficiaries and talk with them about whether or not they are adhering to their medication, how their nutrition has been lately, and whether or not their kids are registered for school. I am also hoping to start working in the district hospital in Mafambisse (another community, about 30 minutes from Dondo). ASVIMO is starting nutrition workshops at Mafambisse once a week, and I am hoping to use that as an opportunity to work in the hospital in whatever way I can. I am also hoping to start a youth group, which I think I will be able to start in the next month or so.

I am excited for the next few weeks, as I am hoping I will be able to do some exciting work. Katasefo, my counterpart, is excited for me to meet the community, and I think he will be a huge asset in the next few months as I am starting work. Everyone respects him and he knows what is going on in all corners of the city. My other co-workers are also doing well, and excited for me to feel like I am being productive (I think they sense my lack of patience). While I love eating mangos every day, I would rather do so as a celebration of work, rather than yet another thing that must happen before we work.