When you are a Peace Corps Volunteer, or any ex-pat living and working in the “developing world,” you take a number of risks. Its a risk when you decide to not brush your teeth with filtered water. Its a risk when you sometimes purposefully miss your malaria prophylaxis. Its a risk when you swim in that fresh water river with your friends when you know it may be ridden with schisto. Its a risk when you eat that salad despite the fact you know that the kitchen probably did not clean the vegetables. Its a risk when you neglect to wear sunscreen on a day you are out doing home visits.
When I was studying at BU, one of my professors, Bill Bicknell, began to talk to us about these risks. I remember him saying that despite all the infections, diseases, ailments, and discomforts we may, and probably will have, our greatest risk was getting into cars.
When I got to Mozambique, that point seemed totally true. Its not just that the roads are bad, but its that the roads are bad, the cars are falling apart, and the drivers are rarely licensed. I have gotten in cars where no one sits in the front seat because the radiator gets so hot you cannot sit down. I have gotten in cars where the doors fall off. I get in cars that are over packed and are left with a blind spot bigger than the road itself. I fly down roads with huge potholes and often get out with bumps on my head because there are no seat belts to hold me in place as I am jostled as much as the goat sitting next to me.
Its a risk I take. Its a risk we all take. And until last week that was all it was. A risk. But it was not real.
Until last week.
When I heard about the accident it was so surreal. I had just boleaed, hitch hiked, from another beach a few days prior exactly like this group of volunteers did. We all do. Many of us prefer open back trucks; they are airy, spacious, and give you a chance for a ride without having to explain who you are for the thousandth time that week. The fact that we all take those rides makes the accident so surreal. So surreal but also so sobering.
The details of the accident are still a bit unclear, but the five volunteers involved apparently realized partway through their ride that this risk was greater than they were comfortable with. After asking the driver to slow down, they finally asked him to stop, but he, like so many Mozambican motoristas did not seem to care at all.
The tire in the truck blew out, scattering the volunteers as the truck flipped. Two volunteers, who had only arrived at site the previous week, sustained too great of injuries, and never made it to the hospital. The other three volunteers were immediately medivaced to South Africa where they received care.
Lena was new to Chibuto. She had a big smile and was willing to poke fun at her subtle Wisconsin accent. You could tell immediately that she was excited to be in Mozambique, to learn and try something new. To see the world.
Alden was opening an education site in Chissano. Her first weekend there she stayed around to help proctor exams, a particularly undesirable job. We all gave her a hard time for already being taken advantage of by her school director. She was just so eager to be a part of her new life in Mozambique.
Derek, Mary, and Mark are still recovering in South Africa. It is unclear if they will return as volunteers, but needless to say they have the support of every Moz Volunteer, past and present.
The other volunteers in the new swear in group have lost two of their sisters. Lena and Alden had only been at site a little over a week. After the ups and downs of training, I remember how close I was to to many of my colleagues, and I cannot imagine how difficult it has been for them to lose two beautiful women as they have.
We are all sobered by the events this month. The risks we take are real risks. They have real consequences. And while the consequences are often steps away, sometimes they are lurking nearby.
My heart goes out to the families and friends of Lena and Alden. Having had the opportunity to meet both of them briefly, I cannot start to express my sympathies but I hope you know you have the support of the entire Peace Corps Mozambique family.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
patience is a virtue, but so is understanding the functions of "right click"
Those of you who know me, know that I am not the most patient person. In high school it used to drive me crazy how long Dena, my younger sister, used to take to shower before school. I do not like waiting around for things to happen, and I am usually busy doing three or four things at once.
In Mozambique, you are lucky if you do three or four things in a week.
Things move much slower here. Its really not a bad thing, but it took some getting used to. When I make a meeting for 10 AM, I am no longer surprised when we don't start until 11:30 or 12. I know see the value in the kibitzing I do in that “waiting time.”
In Mozambique people take time to talk about the weather, how their fields are faring, and gossip about the neighbors. Its considered rude to walk past someone you know and not stop to say hello. And I have grown to love it. Some of my favorite interactions each day happen underneath a shady tree when I run into someone in the road. Then, if that conversation makes me ten minutes late, no one seems to mind. I am learning to appreciate the day for what it is and to stop being in a rush all the time.
Despite what I consider to be great strides in my patience, I still have a long way to go.
The greatest test of my patience so far has been a series of computer classes I started teaching last month.
I teach to two different groups. My REDES girls come in in the afternoons and I teach to a few of the Mozaic team and church members a couple times a week in the mornings.
My favorite Mozaic student was Mama Fatima, who is the wife of one of the Pastors in our network. Fatima is the mother of three beautiful children, the youngest of which is only about six months. I think she just liked that she had the opportunity to get out of the house everyday and do something a little different. She would bring her youngest son, and with him either strapped to her back or propped on her lap, we was content to “type” for hours.
I was able to install a typing program on the computers. The program prompts you to type a word and then times how long it takes you and how accurate you were. Each level adds different letters and characters and becomes a bit more difficult. Fatima would sit and work with this program all morning. One day I looked over her shoulder and realized that she did not care at all how accurate her typing was. She said she liked how it felt to tap the keys. She was sitting for hours typing gibberish. She was doing about 35 words per minute but only had about 2% accuracy. When I explained that she was supposed to try to type the words on the screen, she said that she knew but she liked doing it this way.
To her the class was much more about the prospect of something different every few days than it was about learning computers.
I think its this prospect that really made me excited about teaching computers, despite the test of my patience.
At my first lesson with my REDES girls, I had a short passage I wanted the girls to practice typing, then save in a folder that they create for themselves on the desktop. When Etelvinha, one of my favorite, most dedicated REDES girls, sat down and pushed the start key like a touch screen when I told them to click start, I knew I needed to take a step back.
You take for-granted how much you know about computers. I am anything but tech savvy, but I know how to turn on a computer, to hold and use mouse, and am familiar most of the basic functions of the computer's software.
I was starting at square one with my girls. Etelvinha, Fatima, and Neuzia came in almost everyday before the holidays, other girls did not come in as regularly, but were also excited to have the chance to play on the computer. They were happy to practice using the mouse in a paint program, play solitaire, and try to pass different levels in a typing program. While at times, teaching the difference between a right click and a left click made me want to pull my hair out, and sometimes ended in a mysterious malfunction of the entire machine which I still am unsure how they managed so many times, seeing the girls get better and better at typing was really fun. It was also fun for them to be able to sit down at the computer and open “their” folder, filled with paint documents cluttered with hearts and smilies and long letters that had no punctuation at all (punctuation is at the end of the typing program and we have not quite gotten there yet).
What is exciting about teaching computers to this group of girls is the fact that knowing the basic functions of a computer puts them among a small percentage of Mozambicans who can boast that. Knowing how to create and save documents is a marketable skill that will help these girls find themselves in a position where they can do something other than sell cookies in the market or work hard in the machamba all day.
And that prospect is worth my frustrations when I explain for the tenth time how to shut down the computer.
In Mozambique, you are lucky if you do three or four things in a week.
Things move much slower here. Its really not a bad thing, but it took some getting used to. When I make a meeting for 10 AM, I am no longer surprised when we don't start until 11:30 or 12. I know see the value in the kibitzing I do in that “waiting time.”
In Mozambique people take time to talk about the weather, how their fields are faring, and gossip about the neighbors. Its considered rude to walk past someone you know and not stop to say hello. And I have grown to love it. Some of my favorite interactions each day happen underneath a shady tree when I run into someone in the road. Then, if that conversation makes me ten minutes late, no one seems to mind. I am learning to appreciate the day for what it is and to stop being in a rush all the time.
Despite what I consider to be great strides in my patience, I still have a long way to go.
The greatest test of my patience so far has been a series of computer classes I started teaching last month.
I teach to two different groups. My REDES girls come in in the afternoons and I teach to a few of the Mozaic team and church members a couple times a week in the mornings.
My favorite Mozaic student was Mama Fatima, who is the wife of one of the Pastors in our network. Fatima is the mother of three beautiful children, the youngest of which is only about six months. I think she just liked that she had the opportunity to get out of the house everyday and do something a little different. She would bring her youngest son, and with him either strapped to her back or propped on her lap, we was content to “type” for hours.
I was able to install a typing program on the computers. The program prompts you to type a word and then times how long it takes you and how accurate you were. Each level adds different letters and characters and becomes a bit more difficult. Fatima would sit and work with this program all morning. One day I looked over her shoulder and realized that she did not care at all how accurate her typing was. She said she liked how it felt to tap the keys. She was sitting for hours typing gibberish. She was doing about 35 words per minute but only had about 2% accuracy. When I explained that she was supposed to try to type the words on the screen, she said that she knew but she liked doing it this way.
To her the class was much more about the prospect of something different every few days than it was about learning computers.
I think its this prospect that really made me excited about teaching computers, despite the test of my patience.
At my first lesson with my REDES girls, I had a short passage I wanted the girls to practice typing, then save in a folder that they create for themselves on the desktop. When Etelvinha, one of my favorite, most dedicated REDES girls, sat down and pushed the start key like a touch screen when I told them to click start, I knew I needed to take a step back.
You take for-granted how much you know about computers. I am anything but tech savvy, but I know how to turn on a computer, to hold and use mouse, and am familiar most of the basic functions of the computer's software.
I was starting at square one with my girls. Etelvinha, Fatima, and Neuzia came in almost everyday before the holidays, other girls did not come in as regularly, but were also excited to have the chance to play on the computer. They were happy to practice using the mouse in a paint program, play solitaire, and try to pass different levels in a typing program. While at times, teaching the difference between a right click and a left click made me want to pull my hair out, and sometimes ended in a mysterious malfunction of the entire machine which I still am unsure how they managed so many times, seeing the girls get better and better at typing was really fun. It was also fun for them to be able to sit down at the computer and open “their” folder, filled with paint documents cluttered with hearts and smilies and long letters that had no punctuation at all (punctuation is at the end of the typing program and we have not quite gotten there yet).
What is exciting about teaching computers to this group of girls is the fact that knowing the basic functions of a computer puts them among a small percentage of Mozambicans who can boast that. Knowing how to create and save documents is a marketable skill that will help these girls find themselves in a position where they can do something other than sell cookies in the market or work hard in the machamba all day.
And that prospect is worth my frustrations when I explain for the tenth time how to shut down the computer.
Monday, October 24, 2011
how to run a successful business in Manjacaze.
If you walk into the market in Manjacaze, you might be very impressed. I think Manjacaze has one of the best markets in Gaza, but I also am a bit biased.
The market in Manjacaze has a few things that I really love. First is the fancy “banca” owned by a sassy lady I just call Dona. She also refrains from asking my name and calls me Amiga. Now a fancy banca really means she has a stall with lots of different convenience items. She is my go-to lady for bug spray, toilet paper, dish soap, etc. She also sometimes has great chocolate cookies and quality fruit juice, so if I feel like splurging, there is always a place for that. She also knows when I am baking as its her banca I go to when I need flour and sugar. She especially appreciates when I bring her a cookie the next day.
Another frequent stop I make is at my modista's banca. My modista (dress-maker), Irene, has a hard time keeping to a schedule. If she tells you your dress will be finished by Tuesday, you might get it Thursday or Friday or maybe the following Wednesday. Despite her difficulty sticking to a schedule, she does a very good job, and only laughs a little bit when I ask her to make my hems shorter and to take the ruffles and the sleeves off my sun dress. She works with two other younger women who always have questions about American culture and always promise to make me a very nice dress for when I go home.
The next part of the market could be overwhelming for you if its your first time in a Mozambican market. Stall after stall of similar products at similar prices make it hard to chose which cute little lady you will patronize that day. If someone has given me a good deal once, they become my go-to. I also reward creativity, so if someone reasons with me why I want to buy cabbage instead of green beans or explains that September is the best month to make collard greens, I will probably be convinced. I am also a very loyal customer, and the market ladies know that, so they have begun to try to get my attention when I head straight for my favorite place for lemons. That said, I have had to spread my loyalty around. I now have one lady whose tomatoes I like, another who has good sized garlic, one who I buy eggplant from, etc. The other ladies in the market have started to get a little jealous. When I walk past their stalls they ask why I don't want onions and I just smile. Customer service is everything in the market.
I once asked one of my market friends why they don't go sell their products elsewhere. Certainly, finding a street corner that wasn't full of ladies who were also selling bananas, beans, dried fish, and lettuce would make selling your product easier. The lady responded quite simply, “but my friends are here.”
Much about having a business in Mozambique is about having something to do during the day. Most Mozambicans are subsistence farmers. They often do not have jobs outside of the home, and having a job that gets you to the market everyday is exciting. Its fun to know all the other ladies and no one is really competitive. Prices are the same at every stall and if you don't like the mushy tomatoes from your favorite lady, she will point you to her friend who has less ripe ones.
Last week I organized a financial management and business skills seminar for a few of the church leaders Mozaic works with. We were discussing different business opportunities and, more often than not, people reverted back to businesses with which they were already familiar. I discussed with them about how selling chickens is not a good idea if there are already five other people in the market selling chickens and I was greeted with blank stares.
The non-competitive nature of Mozambicans made businesses training a challenge. We discussed the importance of not giving big discounts or free products to your friends and family and overall the group agreed that it would be impossible to avoid. We discussed having a service that was better than the others available in the community and everyone agreed that it would be better to work with others with that same service and talk about improving their overall efficiency as a co-op.
At the end of the training, I think the group did go home with an idea of the importance of competition and critical thinking about the viability of a given product or service.
But when it comes to them deciding what kind of businesses they want to open, I bet the majority still chose selling tomatoes. And I cant blame them, the tomato ladies are so much fun.
The market in Manjacaze has a few things that I really love. First is the fancy “banca” owned by a sassy lady I just call Dona. She also refrains from asking my name and calls me Amiga. Now a fancy banca really means she has a stall with lots of different convenience items. She is my go-to lady for bug spray, toilet paper, dish soap, etc. She also sometimes has great chocolate cookies and quality fruit juice, so if I feel like splurging, there is always a place for that. She also knows when I am baking as its her banca I go to when I need flour and sugar. She especially appreciates when I bring her a cookie the next day.
Another frequent stop I make is at my modista's banca. My modista (dress-maker), Irene, has a hard time keeping to a schedule. If she tells you your dress will be finished by Tuesday, you might get it Thursday or Friday or maybe the following Wednesday. Despite her difficulty sticking to a schedule, she does a very good job, and only laughs a little bit when I ask her to make my hems shorter and to take the ruffles and the sleeves off my sun dress. She works with two other younger women who always have questions about American culture and always promise to make me a very nice dress for when I go home.
The next part of the market could be overwhelming for you if its your first time in a Mozambican market. Stall after stall of similar products at similar prices make it hard to chose which cute little lady you will patronize that day. If someone has given me a good deal once, they become my go-to. I also reward creativity, so if someone reasons with me why I want to buy cabbage instead of green beans or explains that September is the best month to make collard greens, I will probably be convinced. I am also a very loyal customer, and the market ladies know that, so they have begun to try to get my attention when I head straight for my favorite place for lemons. That said, I have had to spread my loyalty around. I now have one lady whose tomatoes I like, another who has good sized garlic, one who I buy eggplant from, etc. The other ladies in the market have started to get a little jealous. When I walk past their stalls they ask why I don't want onions and I just smile. Customer service is everything in the market.
I once asked one of my market friends why they don't go sell their products elsewhere. Certainly, finding a street corner that wasn't full of ladies who were also selling bananas, beans, dried fish, and lettuce would make selling your product easier. The lady responded quite simply, “but my friends are here.”
Much about having a business in Mozambique is about having something to do during the day. Most Mozambicans are subsistence farmers. They often do not have jobs outside of the home, and having a job that gets you to the market everyday is exciting. Its fun to know all the other ladies and no one is really competitive. Prices are the same at every stall and if you don't like the mushy tomatoes from your favorite lady, she will point you to her friend who has less ripe ones.
Last week I organized a financial management and business skills seminar for a few of the church leaders Mozaic works with. We were discussing different business opportunities and, more often than not, people reverted back to businesses with which they were already familiar. I discussed with them about how selling chickens is not a good idea if there are already five other people in the market selling chickens and I was greeted with blank stares.
The non-competitive nature of Mozambicans made businesses training a challenge. We discussed the importance of not giving big discounts or free products to your friends and family and overall the group agreed that it would be impossible to avoid. We discussed having a service that was better than the others available in the community and everyone agreed that it would be better to work with others with that same service and talk about improving their overall efficiency as a co-op.
At the end of the training, I think the group did go home with an idea of the importance of competition and critical thinking about the viability of a given product or service.
But when it comes to them deciding what kind of businesses they want to open, I bet the majority still chose selling tomatoes. And I cant blame them, the tomato ladies are so much fun.
malaria.
If you are an American living in a Malaria zone, you will probably get Malaria.
And it is not going to be fun.
The biology of it is unfortunate. As Americans, we have not been bitten by those little blood-suckers, the anopheles mosquitoes. Therefore, we do not have the anti-bodies to fight the virus that we might have had we been co-existing with the anopheles our whole lives. Even on prophylaxis, you have a chance of getting it, though it will be a much less severe case than the many who chose not to use prophylaxis.
Now do not be mistaken, people in Malaria zones are not at all immune. Mozambicans get Malaria every year. But when a Mozambican comes down with Malaria, they show up to work and complain about having a bit of a fever, they might even stay home a day. It gets to the point where people can self diagnose, and the pharmacy does not question it when people come in asking for the treatment. I would equate it with people in the US who get bad colds they know as the flu.
Which is what you might think you have at first. Malaria first starts just like the flu.
I convinced myself I had the flu, because it seemed much more manageable than Malaria. But after a day of trying to convince myself (which was tough, I have not had the flu since sophomore year of college and I got the flu shot for the first time in my life this year, me getting the flu this year is highly unlikely), it was clear I did not have the flu.
I took the at home Malaria test. The little test was a pain to take, I was shaking from my fever and could not get my finger steady to get the drop of blood needed to activate the test. Eventually I did, and I sat there above the test like Juno over her pregnancy test. When it came back positive, I was at first in disbelief, but then I looked at the mosquito bites dotting my ankles and called Peace Corps.
The Peace Corps doctor wanted me to get a blood smear at the local hospital to find out my virus count. I asked Gerhard for a ride, since I was clearly unable to walk the 10 minutes to the hospital. He drove me, and I called my doctor friend at the hospital, who told me to come right into his office rather than waiting in the three hour line with everyone else with Malaria. I felt a bit guilty, I should probably wait like all the other sick people, but there are benefits to being friends with those who work at the hospital.
After the test, the doctor was writing me a prescription for Coartem, standard treatment for Malaria in Mozambique, and I asked him if he had ever had Malaria. He just laughed and said of course.
When I explained it was my “first time” he was stunned. I explained there is no Malaria in the US and he said that that must be nice. I thought to myself that yes, it is quite nice.
And it is not going to be fun.
The biology of it is unfortunate. As Americans, we have not been bitten by those little blood-suckers, the anopheles mosquitoes. Therefore, we do not have the anti-bodies to fight the virus that we might have had we been co-existing with the anopheles our whole lives. Even on prophylaxis, you have a chance of getting it, though it will be a much less severe case than the many who chose not to use prophylaxis.
Now do not be mistaken, people in Malaria zones are not at all immune. Mozambicans get Malaria every year. But when a Mozambican comes down with Malaria, they show up to work and complain about having a bit of a fever, they might even stay home a day. It gets to the point where people can self diagnose, and the pharmacy does not question it when people come in asking for the treatment. I would equate it with people in the US who get bad colds they know as the flu.
Which is what you might think you have at first. Malaria first starts just like the flu.
I convinced myself I had the flu, because it seemed much more manageable than Malaria. But after a day of trying to convince myself (which was tough, I have not had the flu since sophomore year of college and I got the flu shot for the first time in my life this year, me getting the flu this year is highly unlikely), it was clear I did not have the flu.
I took the at home Malaria test. The little test was a pain to take, I was shaking from my fever and could not get my finger steady to get the drop of blood needed to activate the test. Eventually I did, and I sat there above the test like Juno over her pregnancy test. When it came back positive, I was at first in disbelief, but then I looked at the mosquito bites dotting my ankles and called Peace Corps.
The Peace Corps doctor wanted me to get a blood smear at the local hospital to find out my virus count. I asked Gerhard for a ride, since I was clearly unable to walk the 10 minutes to the hospital. He drove me, and I called my doctor friend at the hospital, who told me to come right into his office rather than waiting in the three hour line with everyone else with Malaria. I felt a bit guilty, I should probably wait like all the other sick people, but there are benefits to being friends with those who work at the hospital.
After the test, the doctor was writing me a prescription for Coartem, standard treatment for Malaria in Mozambique, and I asked him if he had ever had Malaria. He just laughed and said of course.
When I explained it was my “first time” he was stunned. I explained there is no Malaria in the US and he said that that must be nice. I thought to myself that yes, it is quite nice.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
girls only.
When I was about nine, I remember having conversations with Abbie George that were strictly “Girls Only.” I think sometimes we even had “club meetings” and would not let Devin play with us those days. While he probably thought we were leaving him out, we were excited to have the time to ourselves, not that we did anything particularly scandalous or noteworthy. I also am pretty sure we were not the only ones to separate ourselves from the boys on our block. In fact, I bet if you go to Claire's, in the mall, today you can find all kinds of “girls only” pink and turquoise paraphernalia.
In Mozambique, few girls can boast that they ever had time just to themselves. Once you are old enough to carry a baby, you have one strapped to your back. When you can be trusted not to burn the rice, you spend your afternoons preparing dinner for the family. Girls in Mozambique are usually served second, sit on the floor, and bring the water for the men to wash their hands. Girls are fifty percent less likely to finish secondary school than boys, mostly because their families think they should be home taking care of chores around the house. Even at a young age, many Mozambican girls never get the opportunity to enroll in primary school, the priority is to their brothers. Needless to say, door placards explaining that no one can come in until their girl talk with their best friend is over do not exist.
I think that is why I think REDES (Rapariga em Desevolvimento, Educacao, e Saude) is so important. REDES is an opportunity for school aged girls to have something to call their own. At our meetings, my girls are very silly. Sometimes they drive me completely crazy, but then I just think back to how much energy I had as a fifteen year old girl. My REDES girls love to dance and sing and if you ask them what they want to do when they want to grow up you will get an elaborate picture of their future, complete with a description of their future home, the number of kids they want, and their profession which could be anything from an architect to a doctor to a movie star.
REDES is also an opportunity for girls in Mozambique to do something they normally would probably not get the chance to do. Recently, I helped with a REDES program in Inharime with 120 girls. The program had a bunch of different stations set up around Inharime's soccer field. We had reserved the field with the owner that day and were assured that no one else would be using it that day. Throughout the day, girls had a chance to learn about nutrition and make peanut butter, learn to make little fabric flowers to try to sell, paint a mural about women in sports, play soccer, dance the cha-cha slide, and talk about life in secondary school (half of the girls were secondary school girls and the other half were from primary school).
The program was a huge success. Despite the hot sun, the girls maintained their energy throughout their games of football, their dancing, and their impressive painting of a mural. They were all starting to make new friends and really enjoying the opportunity. But then, around 2 PM, forty boys showed up expecting to play soccer. We explained to the coach that we had the field for the day. After some arguing, he agreed to come back around 4 when our program ended. However, as the negotiations went on, the girls took matters into their own hands.
The forty boys soon found themselves surrounded by 120 energetic, empowered young ladies. The girls started chanting, “NOS QUEREMOS JOGAR! ELE NAO AGUENTA!” (which roughly translates to: We want to play! He won't win!” The boys were stunned. Then a girl stole their soccer ball and started playing with it. That started the girls singing even louder and really confused the boys. Eventually the girls started moving the boys toward the entrance to the stadium. Before long they had successfully run them off the field. The girls threw back the ball and told them not to come back before 4.
They got the picture and left us alone, though they came back a few minutes before 4.
They got that that day the field was “girls only.”
But more important, they girls got it. The girls were proud of their day on the field and no team of boys was going to take that away from them.
And better than a little door placard, now the field's walls are covered with a mural of images of girls playing soccer and girls dancing.
In Mozambique, few girls can boast that they ever had time just to themselves. Once you are old enough to carry a baby, you have one strapped to your back. When you can be trusted not to burn the rice, you spend your afternoons preparing dinner for the family. Girls in Mozambique are usually served second, sit on the floor, and bring the water for the men to wash their hands. Girls are fifty percent less likely to finish secondary school than boys, mostly because their families think they should be home taking care of chores around the house. Even at a young age, many Mozambican girls never get the opportunity to enroll in primary school, the priority is to their brothers. Needless to say, door placards explaining that no one can come in until their girl talk with their best friend is over do not exist.
I think that is why I think REDES (Rapariga em Desevolvimento, Educacao, e Saude) is so important. REDES is an opportunity for school aged girls to have something to call their own. At our meetings, my girls are very silly. Sometimes they drive me completely crazy, but then I just think back to how much energy I had as a fifteen year old girl. My REDES girls love to dance and sing and if you ask them what they want to do when they want to grow up you will get an elaborate picture of their future, complete with a description of their future home, the number of kids they want, and their profession which could be anything from an architect to a doctor to a movie star.
REDES is also an opportunity for girls in Mozambique to do something they normally would probably not get the chance to do. Recently, I helped with a REDES program in Inharime with 120 girls. The program had a bunch of different stations set up around Inharime's soccer field. We had reserved the field with the owner that day and were assured that no one else would be using it that day. Throughout the day, girls had a chance to learn about nutrition and make peanut butter, learn to make little fabric flowers to try to sell, paint a mural about women in sports, play soccer, dance the cha-cha slide, and talk about life in secondary school (half of the girls were secondary school girls and the other half were from primary school).
The program was a huge success. Despite the hot sun, the girls maintained their energy throughout their games of football, their dancing, and their impressive painting of a mural. They were all starting to make new friends and really enjoying the opportunity. But then, around 2 PM, forty boys showed up expecting to play soccer. We explained to the coach that we had the field for the day. After some arguing, he agreed to come back around 4 when our program ended. However, as the negotiations went on, the girls took matters into their own hands.
The forty boys soon found themselves surrounded by 120 energetic, empowered young ladies. The girls started chanting, “NOS QUEREMOS JOGAR! ELE NAO AGUENTA!” (which roughly translates to: We want to play! He won't win!” The boys were stunned. Then a girl stole their soccer ball and started playing with it. That started the girls singing even louder and really confused the boys. Eventually the girls started moving the boys toward the entrance to the stadium. Before long they had successfully run them off the field. The girls threw back the ball and told them not to come back before 4.
They got the picture and left us alone, though they came back a few minutes before 4.
They got that that day the field was “girls only.”
But more important, they girls got it. The girls were proud of their day on the field and no team of boys was going to take that away from them.
And better than a little door placard, now the field's walls are covered with a mural of images of girls playing soccer and girls dancing.
southern hospitality.
I imagine when people talk about “southern hospitality” it means you show up to someone's house, where they have a lovely sun-porch and they offer you sweet tea or lemonade and maybe some home-made cookies. It means gentlemen open doors for ladies. It means there are always clean towels in the bathroom that has little soaps shaped like sea shells.
But I honestly do not know. I come from the Midwest. People there smile at each other and bring cookies to the new neighbors. It is hard to walk into a home that is not warm and welcoming and covered with pictures of smiling children, whose giggling you can always hear playing outside on the calm streets. Its hard to imagine being more hospitable than my neighbors on 58th Street, but somehow, the term was coined, “southern hospitality” and they left Dundee totally out of it.
Maybe southern hospitality refers to southern Mozambique. Doubtful, I know, but on a recent trip out to a rural community in Inhambane, I learned a new degree of hospitality.
I was traveling to Mademo. The small farming community lies about 25 kilometers from a district capital, Panda. Though on a map it is not too far from Manjacaze, the roads are fairly deserted. I left my house at 5 am to catch the first chapa out to Mawaela, a town that was once a bustling train stop, but is now pretty run-down village with a few good shops and a lot of men drinking palm wine. Around 7, the driver decided his truck was full enough and we finally left. At 9, we arrived in Mawaela only to find that the only chapa to Panda left at 8. I sat down on the steps of a closed shop convinced another car would come by soon. The men drinking palm wine just laughed and talked about how disillusioned this mulungo was. Anyway, I after waiting a few hours, the shop opened and the owner insisted I go sit at her house. I declined, explaining if a car came by I really needed to be able to see it. She brought me a chair to sit on and a glass of water. A few hours later she came to tell me lunch was ready. Though I told her I was okay, she insisted and provided me with lunch and the entertainment of her adorable three year old daughter who, though she tried, could not eat pasta in any way but spilling it all down the front of her.
At this point the shop owner told me I should really just stay the night with her and her family, there was no way I was going to get a ride that afternoon. I smiled and told her I was sure some car would have to pass through the town that afternoon (why I was so sure, after 6 hours of not seeing a single car, I am not sure). At exactly that moment, one of the men drinking palm wine, who at this point was not even pretending to walk straight (2 PM) informed me that the Administradora do Distrito, kind of like a County Mayor, was going to be driving through to Panda, but that she never stops for anyone. If I wanted a ride, I needed to go to the administrative building on the other side of the town (two minutes walk). I gathered up my things and plopped myself in front of the door of the white plastered building. Twenty minutes later, the Administradora's car pulled up. She got out, paid me not a minutes worth of attention, got a drink of water, and got back in the car. At that moment, one of the guards I had spoken with asked if I could sit in the back with them. She looked me up and down and agreed, although I cannot say she was thrilled.
I hopped in and traveled the rest of the way to Mawaela. Just before the town, I told the guard to ask the driver to stop. As I got out of the car, the Administradora explained there is an actual town 500 meters up the hill and asked why did I want to get out here in the middle of nowhere. I explained I planned to camp near the river. She laughed and drove away.
As the car pulled off, two women who had been cleaning at the river ran toward me and grabbed my bags. They helped me carry them to the campsite (which for the record, while in the middle of no where was an established campsite) and then told me they would come to check on me soon.
I spent a few hours relaxing at the campsite and then decided to head into town. I arrived at the house of one of my few contacts in the town and Suzana, the mother of the house, greeted me with a warm hug. Apparently the ladies who had helped me with my bags had let her know I was coming and she had just toasted cashews for me. The warm cashews were a huge treat, but they were followed by a great fresh salad, made completely from vegetables from her garden, and coconut rice, a tasty Inhambane treat. After chatting for a while, she, her husband, and their two children all walked me the kilometer back to my campsite. We stopped in a shop first, where I was lucky to buy the one and only roll of toilet paper in the town.
The entire week went somewhat the same. Throughout the week, people I worked with would show off their gardens and not let me leave without a head of cabbage, a bag filled with tomatoes, or lots of fresh green onions. Suzana and her family took me in as a third child and cared for me extremely well.
I think what is important to remember is that in Mademo, people do not have a lot to spare. Right now is a good time of year, there is a lot of food to harvest from the machambas, and few people are going hungry. On the other hand, when Suzana ran out of sugar, she told her son to ask the shop keeper if he wanted a chicken. In return for her chicken, she got three kilograms of sugar. Though she had nothing to spare, she insisted on being my very hospitable host. She was never satisfied to set the table if the tablecloth had not not been washed that morning or if the tea had been made in a blackened kettle.
Its a different degree of hospitality. Cookies and lemonade are one thing, but every meal, especially if putting food on the table is both a challenge and source of pride, is true hospitality. People in Mademo would give you the shirt off their back. And its not that people in Omaha wouldn't, but they might think twice. In Mademo, they would give it to you, and then offer to wash the one you were wearing for you.
But I honestly do not know. I come from the Midwest. People there smile at each other and bring cookies to the new neighbors. It is hard to walk into a home that is not warm and welcoming and covered with pictures of smiling children, whose giggling you can always hear playing outside on the calm streets. Its hard to imagine being more hospitable than my neighbors on 58th Street, but somehow, the term was coined, “southern hospitality” and they left Dundee totally out of it.
Maybe southern hospitality refers to southern Mozambique. Doubtful, I know, but on a recent trip out to a rural community in Inhambane, I learned a new degree of hospitality.
I was traveling to Mademo. The small farming community lies about 25 kilometers from a district capital, Panda. Though on a map it is not too far from Manjacaze, the roads are fairly deserted. I left my house at 5 am to catch the first chapa out to Mawaela, a town that was once a bustling train stop, but is now pretty run-down village with a few good shops and a lot of men drinking palm wine. Around 7, the driver decided his truck was full enough and we finally left. At 9, we arrived in Mawaela only to find that the only chapa to Panda left at 8. I sat down on the steps of a closed shop convinced another car would come by soon. The men drinking palm wine just laughed and talked about how disillusioned this mulungo was. Anyway, I after waiting a few hours, the shop opened and the owner insisted I go sit at her house. I declined, explaining if a car came by I really needed to be able to see it. She brought me a chair to sit on and a glass of water. A few hours later she came to tell me lunch was ready. Though I told her I was okay, she insisted and provided me with lunch and the entertainment of her adorable three year old daughter who, though she tried, could not eat pasta in any way but spilling it all down the front of her.
At this point the shop owner told me I should really just stay the night with her and her family, there was no way I was going to get a ride that afternoon. I smiled and told her I was sure some car would have to pass through the town that afternoon (why I was so sure, after 6 hours of not seeing a single car, I am not sure). At exactly that moment, one of the men drinking palm wine, who at this point was not even pretending to walk straight (2 PM) informed me that the Administradora do Distrito, kind of like a County Mayor, was going to be driving through to Panda, but that she never stops for anyone. If I wanted a ride, I needed to go to the administrative building on the other side of the town (two minutes walk). I gathered up my things and plopped myself in front of the door of the white plastered building. Twenty minutes later, the Administradora's car pulled up. She got out, paid me not a minutes worth of attention, got a drink of water, and got back in the car. At that moment, one of the guards I had spoken with asked if I could sit in the back with them. She looked me up and down and agreed, although I cannot say she was thrilled.
I hopped in and traveled the rest of the way to Mawaela. Just before the town, I told the guard to ask the driver to stop. As I got out of the car, the Administradora explained there is an actual town 500 meters up the hill and asked why did I want to get out here in the middle of nowhere. I explained I planned to camp near the river. She laughed and drove away.
As the car pulled off, two women who had been cleaning at the river ran toward me and grabbed my bags. They helped me carry them to the campsite (which for the record, while in the middle of no where was an established campsite) and then told me they would come to check on me soon.
I spent a few hours relaxing at the campsite and then decided to head into town. I arrived at the house of one of my few contacts in the town and Suzana, the mother of the house, greeted me with a warm hug. Apparently the ladies who had helped me with my bags had let her know I was coming and she had just toasted cashews for me. The warm cashews were a huge treat, but they were followed by a great fresh salad, made completely from vegetables from her garden, and coconut rice, a tasty Inhambane treat. After chatting for a while, she, her husband, and their two children all walked me the kilometer back to my campsite. We stopped in a shop first, where I was lucky to buy the one and only roll of toilet paper in the town.
The entire week went somewhat the same. Throughout the week, people I worked with would show off their gardens and not let me leave without a head of cabbage, a bag filled with tomatoes, or lots of fresh green onions. Suzana and her family took me in as a third child and cared for me extremely well.
I think what is important to remember is that in Mademo, people do not have a lot to spare. Right now is a good time of year, there is a lot of food to harvest from the machambas, and few people are going hungry. On the other hand, when Suzana ran out of sugar, she told her son to ask the shop keeper if he wanted a chicken. In return for her chicken, she got three kilograms of sugar. Though she had nothing to spare, she insisted on being my very hospitable host. She was never satisfied to set the table if the tablecloth had not not been washed that morning or if the tea had been made in a blackened kettle.
Its a different degree of hospitality. Cookies and lemonade are one thing, but every meal, especially if putting food on the table is both a challenge and source of pride, is true hospitality. People in Mademo would give you the shirt off their back. And its not that people in Omaha wouldn't, but they might think twice. In Mademo, they would give it to you, and then offer to wash the one you were wearing for you.
Monday, July 18, 2011
karma.
When I was in seventh grade, I had this Language Arts teacher, Mrs. McLaughlin. Mrs. McLaughlin did not like me. She had her reasons: I was a side talker, an instigator, I rarely was paying attention, and I was a bit of a smart ass. I would have probably not liked me if I was my seventh grade teacher. I want to take this opportunity to apologize to Mrs. McLaughlin and any of the other teachers I gave a hard time throughout school.
The last two weeks I have spent teaching primary school kids nutrition. I have to admit I never thought I would be a teacher, but teaching nutrition is really a lot of fun.
Most of you who are reading this might know that I love ice-breaker games. I like making people do silly things to feel more comforatable around each other. It turns out primary schoolers might like playing games even more than me.
The first school I worked in was in the town of Mademo. If you want to look on a map for Mademo, look for the district of Panda, then find the capital city, also called Panda. About 35 kilometers south east lies Mademo. The small town is situated right on a river, which is probably why people live there. Unfortunately, hippos also live near the river, so many people's crops have been destroyed in the last few months. Despite the river, water is a big challenge for the people of Mademo; many people walk up to five kilometers just to get water. What's more, they have to do this twice a day.
The school I was working at was Mademo's primary school. The school has 450 students in grades one to seven and only eleven teachers. The school also owns the towns only improved water pump, put in by some foreign NGO in the last few years. Water at the school opens many doors for agriculture projects, and the school director is passionate about agriculture, making my work fit well into his vision for the school.
Upon our first meeting, the school director indicated that he wanted each student to have a plant for which they could take ownership. I thought it was a great idea, but told him 450 plants was a lot all at once, but that we could start with one plant per class. He loved the idea and we scheduled a week for me to work with each class separately.
Each lesson started more or less the same. I started with a silly dancing game. I had all the kids stand in a circle and sing a song that translates to “now we will see who can dance the potato!” They loved it. The rest of my week in Mademo, I could not walk past the school without little kids yelling “agora vamos ver!”After the song, we played a game with lions and gazells. The game is a lot like tag. All the lions try to eat the gazelles. The gazelles have to run from one side of the field to the other without being caught, but once they are caught they join the lions' team. Once the kids are sufficiently tired of running and all the gazelles are eaten by lions, we head back into the classroom.
I should describe a bit about the school in Mademo. A government school, the building has recently been renovated. That said, the renovations are not yet finished, and there are not yet windows or doors on the rooms (except for the director's office). Furthermore, in each classroom, there might only be two or three benches, most kids sit on the floor. For whatever reason, in almost all of the classes, girls sit in the front and boys in the back. I joked with the boys about how they just wanted to goof off, but they still did not move to the front.
Anyway, once inside the classroom, we talk about the lions and gazelles game. I use it as a symbol for the body. When the body is healthy, with good food and hygiene and enough sleep (lots of gazelles on once side of the field), it is hard for us to get sick (harder for the lions to catch the gazelles). But when we are not eating well or sleeping well or bathing, it is easy to get sick (when there are less gazelles its easier for the lions to catch them).
I use the game to lead into my nutrition session. We talk about foods the kids like to eat, their food groups, why its important to eat a variety of foods, and what each type of food does for our bodies. Then I focus on one plant, talk about the nutrients it provides, why those nutrients are important, why the plant is important for the community (most of the plants we chose are hearty perennials that do not need much water and grow well in heat and sand), and we close with a discussion of the steps in planting a plant. We talk about manure as a soil additive and I liken it again to our bodies (like people need more than just rice, plants need more than just soil). Usually the kids are very participative and attentive. Some classes are harder than others; for me the first grade was a challenge because they hardly spoke any Portuguese. Since my sessions are very interactive I would wait (in vain) for a response until the teacher would finally help translate to Changana and the kids would all answer in unison.
Planting the plant is one of the best parts of the class. I will ask, “Who wants to help dig the hole?” and all the kids will scream, “Me! Me! Me!” We plant the plant and them I ask them who's plant it is and the class responds whichever grade they are in.
At least the above is what happens with all the classes except the seventh grade. In the seventh grade, the kids made fun of my mistakes in Portuguese, did not want to dance the potato, did not offer to help, and left me wanting to apologize to Mrs. McLaughlin.
But out of nine classes (two first grades and two sixth grades), if only one gave me a hard time, I suppose I should be pretty glad. I couldn't leave mad, anyway, because as soon as I walked out of the seventh grade classroom, I was greeted by third graders chanting, “agora vamos ver, quem danca mazamban!”
I sat down with all the teachers at the end of the week to get some feedback. Mademo's primary school was the first school I had worked with, and I was not sure how the teachers received the program. I joked with all the teachers about the seventh graders and they agreed that since they are the oldest they are always up to something. The seventh grade teacher apologized and said now I know what its like to be him everyday! The teachers all said that they knew the kids enjoyed the class and that they even learned something from my lessons. The female teachers then asked me how I like to cook the plants I had taught, and I talked with them for a while about the many ways to cook chaya.
I left Mademo excited to come back to see the plants after they had grown. I am already planning the second part of the Mademo lesson. I want to teach how to dry the leaves and
I am also strategizing how to deal with a classroom full of seventh grade Naomis.
The last two weeks I have spent teaching primary school kids nutrition. I have to admit I never thought I would be a teacher, but teaching nutrition is really a lot of fun.
Most of you who are reading this might know that I love ice-breaker games. I like making people do silly things to feel more comforatable around each other. It turns out primary schoolers might like playing games even more than me.
The first school I worked in was in the town of Mademo. If you want to look on a map for Mademo, look for the district of Panda, then find the capital city, also called Panda. About 35 kilometers south east lies Mademo. The small town is situated right on a river, which is probably why people live there. Unfortunately, hippos also live near the river, so many people's crops have been destroyed in the last few months. Despite the river, water is a big challenge for the people of Mademo; many people walk up to five kilometers just to get water. What's more, they have to do this twice a day.
The school I was working at was Mademo's primary school. The school has 450 students in grades one to seven and only eleven teachers. The school also owns the towns only improved water pump, put in by some foreign NGO in the last few years. Water at the school opens many doors for agriculture projects, and the school director is passionate about agriculture, making my work fit well into his vision for the school.
Upon our first meeting, the school director indicated that he wanted each student to have a plant for which they could take ownership. I thought it was a great idea, but told him 450 plants was a lot all at once, but that we could start with one plant per class. He loved the idea and we scheduled a week for me to work with each class separately.
Each lesson started more or less the same. I started with a silly dancing game. I had all the kids stand in a circle and sing a song that translates to “now we will see who can dance the potato!” They loved it. The rest of my week in Mademo, I could not walk past the school without little kids yelling “agora vamos ver!”After the song, we played a game with lions and gazells. The game is a lot like tag. All the lions try to eat the gazelles. The gazelles have to run from one side of the field to the other without being caught, but once they are caught they join the lions' team. Once the kids are sufficiently tired of running and all the gazelles are eaten by lions, we head back into the classroom.
I should describe a bit about the school in Mademo. A government school, the building has recently been renovated. That said, the renovations are not yet finished, and there are not yet windows or doors on the rooms (except for the director's office). Furthermore, in each classroom, there might only be two or three benches, most kids sit on the floor. For whatever reason, in almost all of the classes, girls sit in the front and boys in the back. I joked with the boys about how they just wanted to goof off, but they still did not move to the front.
Anyway, once inside the classroom, we talk about the lions and gazelles game. I use it as a symbol for the body. When the body is healthy, with good food and hygiene and enough sleep (lots of gazelles on once side of the field), it is hard for us to get sick (harder for the lions to catch the gazelles). But when we are not eating well or sleeping well or bathing, it is easy to get sick (when there are less gazelles its easier for the lions to catch them).
I use the game to lead into my nutrition session. We talk about foods the kids like to eat, their food groups, why its important to eat a variety of foods, and what each type of food does for our bodies. Then I focus on one plant, talk about the nutrients it provides, why those nutrients are important, why the plant is important for the community (most of the plants we chose are hearty perennials that do not need much water and grow well in heat and sand), and we close with a discussion of the steps in planting a plant. We talk about manure as a soil additive and I liken it again to our bodies (like people need more than just rice, plants need more than just soil). Usually the kids are very participative and attentive. Some classes are harder than others; for me the first grade was a challenge because they hardly spoke any Portuguese. Since my sessions are very interactive I would wait (in vain) for a response until the teacher would finally help translate to Changana and the kids would all answer in unison.
Planting the plant is one of the best parts of the class. I will ask, “Who wants to help dig the hole?” and all the kids will scream, “Me! Me! Me!” We plant the plant and them I ask them who's plant it is and the class responds whichever grade they are in.
At least the above is what happens with all the classes except the seventh grade. In the seventh grade, the kids made fun of my mistakes in Portuguese, did not want to dance the potato, did not offer to help, and left me wanting to apologize to Mrs. McLaughlin.
But out of nine classes (two first grades and two sixth grades), if only one gave me a hard time, I suppose I should be pretty glad. I couldn't leave mad, anyway, because as soon as I walked out of the seventh grade classroom, I was greeted by third graders chanting, “agora vamos ver, quem danca mazamban!”
I sat down with all the teachers at the end of the week to get some feedback. Mademo's primary school was the first school I had worked with, and I was not sure how the teachers received the program. I joked with all the teachers about the seventh graders and they agreed that since they are the oldest they are always up to something. The seventh grade teacher apologized and said now I know what its like to be him everyday! The teachers all said that they knew the kids enjoyed the class and that they even learned something from my lessons. The female teachers then asked me how I like to cook the plants I had taught, and I talked with them for a while about the many ways to cook chaya.
I left Mademo excited to come back to see the plants after they had grown. I am already planning the second part of the Mademo lesson. I want to teach how to dry the leaves and
I am also strategizing how to deal with a classroom full of seventh grade Naomis.
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